The evening had crept in while they finalized their preparations. Harry stood near the fireplace, checking his wand for what felt like the hundredth time. Daphne watched him from across the room, noting the tension in his shoulders.
"You're going to wear a groove in that thing if you keep fiddling with it," she said with a chuckle.
He glanced up with a rueful smile. "Old habit. Always check your equipment before a mission."
Celeste glanced at him from her perch on the arm of the sofa. She'd been unusually subdued this evening, her typical playfulness muted.
Hermione emerged from the room carrying vials of murky Polyjuice Potion. The stuff looked as revolting as Harry remembered from their second year. Thick, bubbling, and an unpleasant greenish brown that seemed to promise an equally unpleasant taste.
"Good thing we managed to swipe it before leaving," Hermione remarked, setting them on the table. "Should last about an hour, maybe a bit more."
"Lovely," Daphne muttered.
"There's one more thing we need to discuss," Hermione said, her tone becoming serious. She looked directly at Harry. "Your parents' graves. Harry, I know this is going to be difficult for you. The first time seeing where they're buried, being in the place where they died. But you need to stay in control."
"I can handle it."
"I'm not saying you can't," Hermione said gently. "I'm saying you need to be prepared for how it might affect you. We can't afford for you to lose focus. If something goes wrong, if you're spotted or attacked, you need to be able to react immediately."
"She's right," Celeste added. "Grief is powerful, Master. It can cloud judgment, slow reflexes. In a dangerous situation, that could get you both killed."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Daphne spoke up before he could. "We'll look out for each other. If I see him starting to lose it, I'll pull him back. And vice versa."
"Thank you," Hermione said, giving her a grateful look. "The other priority is gathering information about the Peverells. Their graves should be in the same cemetery. If we can find out more about the family line, about the Hallows, it might give us the answers Dumbledore probably wanted us to find."
"There's also Bathilda Bagshot," Harry said. "You mentioned her before."
"She's the most respected magical historian in Britain," Hermione confirmed. "Author of A History of Magic. More importantly, she's lived in Godric's Hollow for decades. She knew Dumbledore's family when they lived there. If anyone has information about the Peverells, it's her."
"So we visit her?" Daphne asked.
"If you have time and if the opportunity presents itself safely," Hermione said. "But it's not the primary objective. Gathering what information we can from the graves and the village itself comes first. Visiting Bathilda is secondary."
"Is there anything else we should look for?" Harry asked.
Hermione hesitated for a moment before she said, "The sword. Gryffindor's sword. There's a chance it might be hidden somewhere in the village."
"Why would it be there?" Daphne asked.
"Because Godric Gryffindor founded the village," Hermione explained. "It's named after him. If Dumbledore hid the sword somewhere after he acquired it, Godric's Hollow would be symbolically appropriate."
"That's a lot of maybes," Harry said.
"Not to mention rather obvious when you think about it," Daphne added.
"I know. But you should keep our eyes open regardless. The sword can destroy Horcruxes. We need it."
Harry nodded slowly. "Alright. Anything else?"
"The snow," Daphne said suddenly. "It's been snowing heavily. We'll leave footprints everywhere we go."
The others stared at her. Harry's eyes widened. "Bloody hell. I didn't even think of that."
"Neither did I," Hermione admitted, looking impressed. "Good catch, Daphne. Can you do something about it?"
"There's a charm," Daphne said. "Not commonly known, but my father taught it to me. It erases tracks as you make them. Snow, mud, sand, whatever. Useful for sneaking around undetected."
"Perfect," Harry said. "One less thing to worry about."
They spent a few more minutes going over contingencies and backup plans. If they were spotted or attacked, Harry and Daphne would disapparate immediately to a predetermined safe location before returning to the manor. They wouldn't attempt to fight unless absolutely necessary. Stealth and speed were the priorities.
Finally, there was nothing left to prepare. The moment had arrived.
Harry picked up one of the vials. Daphne took the other. They looked at each other, then at the disgusting liquid in their hands.
"Cheers," Harry said dryly.
"To a successful excursion," Daphne replied.
They drank simultaneously. The potion tasted exactly as horrible as it looked. Like overcooked cabbage mixed with bogey flavored sweets and a hint of something that might have been rotten eggs. Daphne's stomach lurched in protest.
Then the transformation began.
It felt like her entire body was melting and reforming. Her bones shifted, her skin rippled, her hair grew and changed texture. She doubled over, gripping the edge of the table for support. Across from her, Harry was undergoing the same agonizing metamorphosis.
When it finally stopped, Daphne straightened slowly and looked down at herself. Her hands were older, the skin more weathered. She could feel that her face had changed shape, and her body had filled out in different ways. She touched her hair and found it longer, grayer.
"Well," said a voice that was Harry's from a body that definitely wasn't his, "that's always unpleasant."
Daphne looked up to see a man in his mid-fifties standing where Harry had been. Pleasant features, graying brown hair, and a slight paunch that showed comfortable middle age. He looked entirely unremarkable, which was exactly the point.
"How do I look?" Daphne asked.
"Like someone's aunt," Celeste said, circling her critically. "Which is perfect. You're meant to be forgettable."
"Charming," Daphne muttered.
Hermione handed them both heavy winter cloaks. "It's cold out there. These will help you blend in and keep warm."
Harry shrugged his on, then checked his wand was secure in his sleeve. Daphne did the same, making sure her own wand was easily accessible but hidden from casual view.
"Remember the plan," Hermione said. "In and out. Don't take unnecessary risks."
"We won't," Harry promised.
"And Harry," Hermione added softly, stepping close to him. "Be careful. I know this is going to be hard. But you can do this."
"I know," he said quietly.
Celeste moved forward and adjusted Harry's cloak, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from it. "Come back safe, Master. Both of you."
"We will," Daphne heard herself say.
Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and held it ready in one hand. Then he extended his other hand toward Daphne. She stared at it for a moment. This was it. They were really doing this. Going into dangerous territory, walking through a village likely under surveillance, visiting graves and gathering information that could get them killed if they were caught.
She took his hand firmly. His grip was warm and solid.
"Don't come out from under the cloak unless absolutely necessary," Hermione reminded them. "Even with the disguises, it's better if no one sees you at all."
"Got it," Harry said.
"Good luck," Hermione said.
"Kick ass and don't die," Celeste added with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Harry took her in his arms and kissed her gently, feeling her desperation and reassuring her the best he could. He did the same with Hermione. Finally, he pulled away and went back to Daphne who smiled at him.
He squeezed Daphne's hand once, twice, three times. Then the world compressed around them. The familiar sensation of apparition seized hold of her body and yanked. Darkness, pressure, and the feeling of being forced through a too small space enveloped them.
They emerged in a narrow lane between houses on what must be the outskirts of Godric's Hollow. Snow was falling steadily, fat flakes drifting down from a dark sky. The air was crisp and cold, biting at Daphne's exposed face. Street lamps cast pools of yellow light at intervals, but the lane itself was mostly shadowed.
Harry quickly surveyed their surroundings. No one was visible. The houses nearby were quiet, curtains drawn against the winter night. Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed.
"Christmas Eve," Harry murmured. "People will be inside with their families."
"Good for us," Daphne said quietly. "Less chance of being seen."
"You'll need to stay close under the cloak," Harry said, moving toward her. "It's big enough for two, but we'll have to keep close together."
Daphne nodded and stepped closer to him. Immediately she became aware of his presence in ways that made her shiver slightly. The warmth of his body, the faint scent of him that the Polyjuice couldn't completely disguise, and the solid bulk of him as he moved into position beside her.
Focus, she told herself firmly. This isn't the time.
Harry draped the cloak over both of them. It fell around them like liquid shadow, concealing them completely from sight. His arm came around her waist, pulling her firmly against his front, and Daphne's breath hitched slightly. One hand held the cloak in place while his other arm wrapped around her middle, his palm resting flat against her stomach.
"Ready?" he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.
She suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. "Ready."
They began to move, walking slowly and carefully down the lane. The snow crunched softly beneath their feet, but the charm Daphne had cast before they left was working. Behind them, their footprints vanished almost as quickly as they were made, erased by magic as though they'd never existed.
"That was good thinking," Harry whispered as they walked. "About the footprints. Hermione or I didn't even think about it."
"You're not Slytherin enough," Daphne teased softly, keeping her voice low. "We're trained from birth to think about covering our tracks."
She felt rather than saw his smile. "Fair point. Remind me to keep you around for the devious planning."
"As opposed to what? The reckless Gryffindor charging in?"
"Something like that."
Despite the tension of their situation, Daphne found herself relaxing slightly into the banter. It helped. Made this feel less terrifying and more like something they could actually accomplish.
They emerged from the lane onto a main street. Godric's Hollow stretched before them, a picturesque village that looked like something from a Christmas card. Stone cottages with snow covered roofs, decorated windows glowing with warm light, wreaths hanging on doors. It was beautiful and peaceful and utterly normal.
"There's the square," Harry whispered, nodding toward an open area ahead. "The war memorial should be there."
They moved forward carefully, Harry's arm keeping her tucked securely against him. Daphne was hyperaware of every point of contact between them. His hand splayed over her stomach, his chest pressed against her back, and his breath stirring her hair. It was distracting in ways she really couldn't afford right now.
As they walked, she pointed out various details she recognized. "That building there, with the peaked roof? That's typical of wizard built structures from the fifteenth century. See how the angles don't quite match up normally? Confundus charms built into the architecture to keep Muggles from noticing odd things."
"I never would have spotted that," Harry admitted.
"And those markings on that doorframe," she continued, indicating a house they passed. "Protection runes. Old ones. This village has been magical for a very long time."
"How old?"
"Centuries at least. Probably since Gryffindor founded it."
They continued through the village, speaking in whispers, their conversation helping to ease the tension while keeping them alert. Daphne found herself oddly comfortable despite the danger and the intimate way they were pressed together. Harry was a solid, reassuring presence at her back.
As they approached the square, Harry's grip on her tightened slightly.
"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly.
"Fine. Why?"
"Because we're getting close," she reminded him gently. "To your parents' graves. To where they died. That's not nothing, Harry."
His hand flexed against her stomach. For a moment he didn't respond, and she wondered if she'd overstepped. Then he said, very quietly, "I don't know what I'm going to feel when I see them. The graves, I mean. I've never been there. Never said goodbye properly."
Daphne found his hand with hers where it rested on her stomach. She squeezed gently, offering what comfort she could. "You don't have to be strong about this. Not with me. I understand what it's like to lose family, remember?"
"I know," he said. His voice was rough with suppressed emotion. "I just need to stay focused. Can't afford to fall apart in the middle of enemy territory."
"You won't fall apart," Daphne said firmly. "And if you start to, I'll be there to pull you back. That's what partners do."
He squeezed her hand in return. "Thank you."
They resumed walking, his arm returning to her waist. The square opened up before them, and there in the center stood the war memorial. From a distance it looked like an obelisk, but as they drew closer, something happened.
The stone shifted. The memorial transformed before their eyes, revealing what it truly was. Not an obelisk but three figures. A man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind face, a baby in her arms. The Potters. Harry's family, immortalized in stone, a tribute to the sacrifice they'd made.
Harry stopped walking. Daphne felt his entire body go rigid against her.
"It's them," he breathed. "My parents. And me."
"It's beautiful," Daphne said softly. "A fitting memorial."
Harry's breathing had changed. She could feel the tension radiating through him, the barely controlled emotion in his body. His hand at her waist trembled slightly.
"They look happy," he said. His voice cracked on the last word. "In the statue. They look happy."
"They were," Daphne said gently. "From everything I've ever heard, your parents were deeply in love. They adored you. That love is why you're still alive."
"And why they're dead."
"No." Daphne turned in his arms so she could face him, even though neither could see the other properly under the cloak. "He's why they're dead. Don't ever blame yourself for what he did."
Harry didn't respond, but she felt him nod slightly. They stood there in silence for a long moment, the snow falling around them, the stone family frozen in their moment of happiness.
Finally, Harry said, "We should keep moving. The graveyard is behind the church."
"Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
They walked on, passing the memorial and heading toward the church that loomed ahead. As they drew closer, Daphne could hear singing. Faint but clear, voices raised in Christmas carols. The church was full of people celebrating the holiday, warm and safe inside while Harry and Daphne crept through the snow outside.
They found the kissing gate that led into the graveyard and passed through it carefully. The moment they did, memories assailed Daphne. Christmas at Greengrass Manor. Her mother singing carols while decorating the tree. Her father reading The Night Before Christmas to her and Astoria by the fire. The smell of gingerbread and pine, the warmth of family gathered together. They were not what the supremacists would call blood traitors by any means, but they did not discriminate when it came to celebrations either.
It was all gone now. All destroyed.
She felt Harry's arm tighten around her and realized he must be experiencing similar memories. Christmas with his parents that he couldn't remember, celebrations at Hogwarts and with the Weasleys that had now ended in betrayal and pain after what Ron had done. This should have been a happy time. Instead, they were sneaking through graveyards, hunting for clues about legendary objects while war raged around them.
"I used to love Christmas," Harry said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.
"Me too," Daphne whispered.
They moved deeper into the graveyard. Old headstones rose from the snow, marking the resting places of generations of witches and wizards. Daphne noted the names as they passed. Abbott, an old family line. Bones, another old line. Prewett, who she knew were related to the Weasleys through their mother.
Then they came upon a section that made them both pause. The name Dumbledore was carved on several stones. Harry crouched down, pulling Daphne with him, to read the inscriptions more clearly.
"His mother and sister," Harry murmured. "Kendra and Ariana. I didn't know they were buried here."
"Dumbledore grew up in Godric's Hollow," Daphne said. "Before he became famous. Before everything went wrong with Grindelwald."
"He never talked about his family," Harry said. There was something bitter in his tone. "Never told me about any of this. Just kept his secrets until it was too late."
Daphne understood his anger. Dumbledore had mentored Harry, guided him, but he'd also manipulated and withheld information. Whatever his reasons, it had left Harry feeling somewhat betrayed and adrift as this war wore on.
They moved on, searching through the graves methodically. The snow made it difficult to read some of the older stones, but they persisted. Time passed slowly, marked by the distant chiming of church bells and the continued singing of carols.
Finally, Daphne spotted it. A grave set slightly apart from the others, weathered with age but still clearly legible. "Harry," she whispered. "Here."
They approached the grave together. The name carved into the stone was Ignotus Peverell. Below it, dates that marked a life lived centuries ago. And there, carved into the stone itself, was the symbol. The vertical line, the circle, the triangle. The mark of the Deathly Hallows.
"It's real," Harry breathed. "The grave is real. Ignotus Peverell was real."
"Which means the others probably were too," Daphne said. "The three brothers from the story. They actually existed."
Harry knelt down, pulling Daphne with him, and brushed snow from the grave marker. They examined it closely, looking for any other clues or hidden information. But there was nothing beyond the name, the dates, and the symbol.
"Maybe there's something buried with him," Harry said with dark humor. "The cloak, one would think. Though I suppose I've already got that."
"We're not desecrating the grave of your possible ancestor," Daphne said firmly. "Even if there was something useful in there, which I doubt."
"I know," Harry sighed. "Just frustrated. We came all this way and there's nothing here but confirmation of what we already suspected."
"At least we have confirmation now, not mere suspicions. We can talk to Bathilda Bagshot," Daphne reminded him. "She might know more about the Peverells. But right now, we should do what we actually came here for."
Harry looked at her. Even through the Polyjuice transformation, even under the invisibility cloak, she could sense his apprehension.
"Your parents," she said gently. "Let's go pay our respects."
"Yes," Harry said quietly. "Yes. Let's do that."
They rose and began moving deeper into the graveyard. The snow was getting heavier, the wind picking up slightly. Daphne cast the charm to erase their footprints again, just to be safe.
After several minutes of searching, they found it. A section of graves, all bearing the name Potter. Harry's family, stretching back generations.
"So many," Harry murmured. "I didn't know there were so many."
They were arranged in family groups, husbands and wives buried together, children nearby. The dates told stories of lives long lived and lives cut tragically short. Daphne scanned the names, her knowledge of wizarding genealogy and the arrangement of graves allowing her to piece together the family tree.
"That one," she said, pointing. "Charlus and Dorea Potter. She was born a Black. They died in the late seventies. They might have been your grandparents, or perhaps a great uncle and aunt."
"Black?" Harry said. "As in Sirius?"
"Distant relation," Daphne confirmed. "The Blacks married into many prominent families. Dorea was probably from a branch of the family tree that didn't follow the blood purity obsession."
They moved through the Potter graves slowly. Daphne did her best to explain who each person might have been to Harry based on the dates and names. It was strange, piecing together his family history in a graveyard, but she could see how much it meant to him. These were his people, his blood, and he'd never known any of them.
"Have you noticed something?" Harry asked suddenly. "The Potter family graves. They're close to Ignotus Peverell's."
Daphne realized he was right. The distance between the Peverell grave and the earliest Potter graves was minimal. "That can't be coincidence. If the Potters descended from the Peverells, they'd want to be buried near their ancestor."
"So it's true," Harry said. "I'm actually descended from one of the three brothers. From the one who got the cloak."
"The wise brother," Daphne said, before she added quietly, "The one who lived."
She felt Harry glance at her but he didn't say anything.
They continued forward, and finally they reached the newest graves in the Potter section. Two white marble headstones, side by side, the inscriptions still clear and sharp. James Potter and Lily Potter.
Harry stopped moving. Daphne felt him go completely still behind her.
"Harry?" she said softly.
"It's them," he whispered. "My parents."
They stood there in silence. Daphne didn't know what to say, what comfort she could possibly offer. This was Harry's moment, his grief, and she was just there to support him through it.
Finally, Harry moved forward. He knelt in the snow before his parents' graves, pulling Daphne down with him. She could see the inscriptions now, could read the words carved into the marble.
James Potter. Born 27 March 1960. Died 31 October 1981. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Lily Potter. Born 30 January 1960. Died 31 October 1981. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
"They were so young," Harry said. His voice was thick with emotion. "Twenty-one. They were only twenty-one."
Daphne stayed silent.
"That's not right," Harry said. "That's not how it's supposed to work."
Daphne took his hand and squeezed. She didn't trust herself to speak. What could she say? That it wasn't fair? He knew that. That they'd died protecting him? He knew that too. That they'd loved him? He knew, but knowing didn't make the absence any easier.
"I barely remember them," Harry continued, his voice breaking. "Just fragments. My mum's voice. My dad's laugh. The feeling of being safe. But that's all. I don't remember their faces except from pictures. Don't remember conversations or moments. Just feelings."
"They loved you," Daphne said. "You can tell from the memorial, from everything people have said about them. You were their world, Harry."
"And I got them killed."
"No," Daphne said fiercely. She turned to face him, even though the cloak made it awkward. "No, Harry. He killed them. The same monster whose bitch killed my family, who's destroyed so many lives. Your parents chose to stand between you and him. They made that choice out of love. Don't diminish their sacrifice by blaming yourself."
Harry's hand tightened on hers. "I just wish I could have known them. Really known them. Heard their stories, learned from them, had them in my life."
"I know," Daphne whispered. "I know exactly how you feel. I'd give anything to have one more conversation with my parents. To tell them I love them. To hear their voices again."
They knelt there together in the snow, two people bound by loss and rage and a determination to make things right. The grief was overwhelming, but sharing it somehow made it bearable. Daphne had spent weeks drowning in her pain alone. Having someone who understood, who was going through the same thing, it helped in ways she hadn't expected.
"Thank you," Harry said finally. "For being here. For understanding."
"You did the same for me," Daphne said. "You saved my life. Gave me purpose again. This is the least I can do."
She hesitated, but then she made a decision. Pulling out her wand, she whispered a spell. Pink roses began to appear on both graves, blooming impossibly in the winter cold. They were beautiful and vibrant against the white snow and gray marble, a splash of color and life in the midst of death.
"For your parents," Daphne said softly. "They should have flowers. Even in winter. Especially in winter."
Harry stared at the roses for a long moment. Then, moving slowly, he released her hand and reached up to cup her face. She could feel his touch even through the Polyjuice transformation. Warm and gentle and full of gratitude.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. It was a small gesture, intimate without being romantic. A moment of connection, of shared grief and understanding.
Daphne felt tears prick her eyes. She'd been trying so hard to be strong, to support him, but his simple gesture of appreciation broke something loose inside her. She reached up and covered his hand with hers where it rested against her cheek.
They stayed like that for several heartbeats, their foreheads pressed together and their breathing in sync. Then Harry pulled back slowly.
"We should go," he said quietly.
"Do you want to see the house?" Daphne asked hesitantly. "Where you lived? It's not far."
Harry was silent for a moment, thinking it over. Finally, he nodded. "Yes. I should see it. I need to see it."
They rose together, the cloak still draped over them. Daphne's legs had gone slightly numb from kneeling in the snow, but she ignored the discomfort. They made their way back through the graveyard, passing the Potter family graves, the Dumbledore section, and the countless other names marking lives lived and lost.
As they emerged from the kissing gate, Daphne said, "The house is common knowledge among magical folk. Everyone knows where the Potters lived. It's become something of a landmark, a memorial."
They walked through the village, following streets that Harry seemed to navigate on instinct. Maybe some part of him remembered, or maybe the house just drew him. Either way, they found it quickly.
From a distance, it looked like nothing special. Just another cottage in a row of cottages. But as they drew closer, the Muggle repelling charms failed to take hold. The true nature of the property revealed itself.
The house was ruined. One wall had been blown apart, the roof caved in. The structure remained standing through some combination of magic, but it was clearly uninhabitable. It stood frozen in time on the night that had changed everything.
But what struck Daphne most was the writing. Covering every remaining surface, messages had been scrawled in dozens of languages. Tributes to the Potters. Expressions of grief and solidarity. Promises that they wouldn't be forgotten.
"People come here," Harry said, his voice filled with wonder. "After all these years, people still come here to remember them."
"Your parents were heroes," Daphne said. "They stood against him when so many others fell or fled. People remember that. Honor it."
The gate was broken, hanging on one hinge. Harry pushed it open and they moved up the overgrown path toward the house. Snow covered everything, blanketing every surface in white.
"We shouldn't go in," Daphne said softly. "The structure could be unstable. One wrong step and it might collapse."
"I know," Harry said. But he was already moving toward the gaping hole where the front door had been. "Just for a moment. I need to see."
Daphne sighed but didn't argue. She understood. This was his family home, the place where he'd spent the first year of his life. The place where his parents had died protecting him. Of course he needed to see it.
They stepped carefully through the doorway. The interior was worse than the exterior. Furniture lay smashed and overturned. Walls had crumbled. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and debris.
But there were also signs of life. Of the family who had lived here. A child's toy lay in one corner, a stuffed dragon that must have been Harry's. Photographs hung crookedly on walls, the glass cracked but the images still visible. Pictures of James and Lily laughing, holding baby Harry, celebrating their life together.
"This is where it happened," Harry said. He was looking up at a particular section of destroyed wall. "Upstairs. In my nursery. That's where my mum died."
Daphne moved closer to him. "She stood between you and him. Wouldn't move, wouldn't step aside, even though he offered her a chance to live. She chose you."
"I know the story," Harry said. His voice was hollow. "Everyone knows the story. The Boy Who Lived. The mother's sacrifice. The love that saved me. But being here, seeing this place, it makes it real in a way it never was before."
"You were one year old," Daphne said firmly. "A baby. There was nothing you could have done to save them. Nothing you should have been expected to do. They were the adults. They made their choices. And those choices meant you got to live."
"But look at what was taken," Harry said, gesturing around them. "This house. This life. They should have watched me grow up. Should have been there for my first words, my first steps, my first day of school. They should have taught me about magic, about the wizarding world. Instead I got the Dursleys. Got locked in a cupboard and treated like a freak."
Daphne's eyes widened at that. That wasn't something she'd known previously about him. Her heart went out to him.
"Harry," Daphne whispered. "It's not fair. None of it is fair."
"He took everything from me," Harry continued, his voice rising with anger now. "My parents, my childhood, my innocence. He's taken friends, mentors, any chance at a normal life. And he's still out there. Still killing, still destroying, still taking away everything good in this world."
"But we're going to stop him," Daphne said. She moved to stand directly in front of Harry, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him even through the winter cloaks. "We're going to find his Horcruxes. We're going to destroy them. And then we're going to end him. Permanently. That's what we're working toward. That's why we're here."
Harry closed his eyes, trying to even his breath out.
"You're right," he said as he opened his eyes, looking much calmer. His hands came up to grip her shoulders. "You're right. We will stop him. We have to."
They stood there for a moment, anger and determination flowing between them. Then Daphne became aware of several things simultaneously.
First, the Invisibility Cloak had fallen away at some point. They were standing fully visible in the ruins of Harry's childhood home.
Second, the Polyjuice Potion had worn off. They were themselves again, no longer disguised.
Third, they were standing very close together. Close enough that she could see the gold flecks in Harry's green eyes, could feel each breath he took, and could sense the tightly leashed power in his body.
"Harry," she said softly. "The cloak."
"I know," he murmured. But he didn't move away.
"The Polyjuice."
"I know."
"We should go. This is dangerous. We're exposed."
"I know." His hands were still on her shoulders. His gaze had dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes. "Daphne."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For coming with me. For the flowers on their graves. For being here."
"You're welcome," she whispered.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her face, cupping her cheeks gently. Daphne's breath caught. She knew she should pull away, should remind them both that this wasn't the time or place. But she couldn't seem to make herself move.
"You've been through the same pain," Harry said quietly. "Lost your family the same way I lost mine. You understand in a way no one else does."
"I do," Daphne agreed. Her own hands had come up to rest against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady. "We're the same, you and I. Broken in the same places."
"Maybe we can help each other heal," Harry suggested. His thumbs brushed across her cheekbones, a gentle caress that sent shivers down her spine.
"Maybe," Daphne breathed.
They were leaning closer now, drawn together by shared loss and understanding and something else. Something that had been building since she'd first woken in his home. Attraction. Desire. Need.
A faint shimmer of magic caught Daphne's attention. She looked up, her eyes widening. Above them, materializing out of nothing, was a sprig of mistletoe. The traditional Christmas plant, hanging in the air by magic alone.
"Is that..." Harry trailed off, following her gaze.
"Mistletoe," Daphne confirmed. Her voice had gone slightly breathless. "It's Christmas Eve. The magic of the season. It must have manifested here, in this place where your parents loved each other."
Harry looked back at her. His green eyes were intense, filled with emotions she couldn't quite name. "Mistletoe has rules," he said quietly.
"It does," Daphne agreed. Her heart was racing now. "Traditional rules."
"We're standing under it."
"We are."
Neither of them moved for a long moment. Daphne could feel the tension crackling between them like electricity. This was a line. Once they crossed it, there would be no going back. Everything would change.
But maybe change was what they both needed.
Harry's hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. Daphne's hands fisted in his robes. They leaned in together, moving slowly, giving each other time to pull away if they wanted.
Neither of them wanted to.
Their lips met softly at first. A tentative kiss, testing and exploring. But the moment their mouths touched, something ignited. The kiss deepened, became urgent and hungry. All the emotion of the evening, all the grief and rage and need, poured into that kiss.
Daphne's arms wrapped around Harry's neck as she pressed closer. His arms circled her waist, pulling her tight against him. They kissed desperately, passionately, like they were trying to pour all their pain and longing into the connection between them.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Harry rested his forehead against hers again, his eyes closed.
"That was..." he started.
"Yes," Daphne agreed, not needing him to finish the sentence.
There were no words needed. Not anymore.
They were in a place of death and memory, but also, perhaps, a place where something new had begun.
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