Entry Two
Prompt: The Lies of Dark Magic

what we became in winter
​

I. The Unlikely Invitation
He first met Daphne at the end of fourth year. “It’s true?” she questioned, stepping beside him. “He has returned?”

Harry looked up from where he stood on the hospital wing steps. Students hurried past with their trunks, most avoiding his eyes. Daphne Greengrass wasn’t. She was looking directly at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” he said.

She nodded. “I thought so.” Her voice was quiet. “Some of us have been preparing.”

“Preparing for what?”

But she was already walking away, rejoining the stream of students heading for the carriages. Slytherins were weird.

* * *​

The second time he saw her was on the train ride back to Hogwarts. Ginny and him had been struggling down the corridor with their trunks and owl cages, peering through glass-panelled doors into already full compartments as they passed, when the door behind them opened.

“Potter.”

Daphne Greengrass was leaning out of the compartment, a book in one hand and her wand in the other. Her famed ringlets, pale and long, had been cut, and now twisted in waves above her shoulders.

“The rest of the compartments are full,” she said. “My sister and I found the last one. You are welcome to join us.” Her eyes flickered to Ginny. “You too, Weasley.”

“Er… hi Greengrass,” said Harry. “We… uh… wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I thought you would be a disturbance.”

“Well…” He turned to Ginny who shrugged in the ‘don’t ask me’ way.

Turning back to Greengrass, Harry couldn’t help noticing that a lot of people from nearby compartments were staring at him with great interest and that a few were even pressed up against the windows. He remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered whether the people now staring believed the stories.

“I guess we can join yo—”

“Perfect,” she said, and with a swish and flick, Harry’s trunk rose and floated to the luggage rack, before she disappeared back into the compartment. Harry noted Greengrass didn’t help with Ginny’s trunk.

They looked at each other quite dazed before Ginny’s face split into a rather devious smile. “Maybe she likes you,” she mouthed before erupting into giggles, and dragging her trunk into the compartment.

Harry stood in the hallway for several seconds, not understanding what had just happened.

“You coming, Potter?” called out Greengrass.

Shaking his head, he entered.

The compartment was spacious. A younger girl with blonde hair looked up from her book. Her eyes were the same pale colour as Daphne’s, but she had braided her hair messily.

“Hello!” she said brightly, bouncing in her seat. “I’m Astoria. You’re Harry Potter! I’ve wanted to meet you properly.”

“Er... hello,” said Harry, taken aback.

“This is brilliant,” Astoria said, talking fast. “I told Daphne you might sit with us. Most third years never get to talk to famous people. Well, except when they’re being hexed by them, but that doesn’t really count as talking, does it?”

“I don’t hex third years,” Harry said, confused.

“Oh, I know that,” said Astoria quickly. “I just meant famous people in general. Not that I know any other famous people. Do you know any other famous people? Besides yourself, I mean?”

Ginny snorted with laughter.

“Astoria,” said Daphne.

“Right, sorry.” Astoria grinned sheepishly. “I talk too much when I’m nervous. Daphne says you were right about You-Know-Who coming back. Daddy said you would be.”

Ginny shot Harry a meaningful look.

“Did he?” said Harry, more interested now.

“Our father has been preparing for this possibility for some time,” Daphne said, not looking up from her book. “He doesn’t share the ministry’s optimism.”

“Oh yes,” said Astoria, nodding. “He’s been saying it for ages. ‘Mark my words,’ he always says, ‘that business with You-Know-Who isn’t finished.’ And then when you said he was back, Daddy said, ‘I told you so’ about fifty times at breakfast.”

Harry found himself almost smiling despite his confusion.

The countryside flew past them in a blur of green fields and blue sky. Astoria chattered happily about Quidditch and her excitement about starting her third year, while Daphne made occasional observations that made Ginny laugh.

About an hour in, the compartment door slid open. Ron and Hermione appeared.

“There you are,” said Hermione, out of breath. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. The whole train’s packed and—” She stopped, taking in the Greengrass sisters.

“Oh,” said Ron. “Er... hello.”

“Hello,” said Daphne.

“Hullo!” said Astoria, waving. “I’m Astoria. You must be Ron and Hermione. Harry’s told us about you.”

“Has he?” said Hermione weakly.

“Well, not really,” admitted Astoria. “But I know who you are, anyway. You’re the clever one and the one who plays chess, right?”

Ron looked pleased despite himself. “Yeah, that’s... yeah.”

“Brilliant,” said Astoria. “Do you want to sit with us? There’s loads of room.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged uncertain glances before settling into the remaining seats.

“So,” said Ron after a moment of awkward silence. “Er... how was your summer?”

“Wonderful!” said Astoria. “We went to France, and I got to practise my French. And we saw three Quidditch matches. Do you follow Quidditch?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, perking up. “Support anyone in particular?”

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Astoria proudly.

Ron’s face lit up. “Really? They’re my team too!”

“Are they? Oh, that’s fantastic!” Astoria bounced. “Daphne thinks I’m mad for supporting them, but I think they’ve got character.”

“That’s exactly what I say!” said Ron, grinning.

Harry watched this exchange with growing amazement. He’d never seen a Slytherin and Gryffindor bond over anything, let alone the Chudley Cannons.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Daphne said quietly, her pale eyes moving between Ron and Astoria. “How quickly house prejudices disappear when people actually talk to each other.”

“See?” Astoria beamed. “I told you not everyone thinks we’re horrible.”

“One friend is hardly a representative sample,” Daphne said with mild amusement, but Harry caught something approving in her tone.

“It’s a start though,” Astoria said, then looked around the compartment. “It’s nice, just talking normally.”

Hermione shifted. “Well, it’s not like we go around hating Slytherins for no reason.”

“Don’t you?” Daphne asked, setting down her book. Her voice was curious rather than confrontational. “When was the last time any of you sat with Slytherins? Or we with you?” She gestured around the compartment. “This only happened because the train was full.”

“That’s different,” Ginny said, though she sounded uncertain.

“Is it?” Daphne tilted her head. “I find it curious how easily we fall into the patterns our houses expect of us.”

“Come off it,” Ron said, though not unkindly. “Slytherins started it. You lot are always hexing first years and calling people Mudbloods—”

“And Gryffindors never retaliate?” Astoria’s eyes flashed, but she was smiling. “Your brothers made my best friend cry when they enchanted the dungeon stairs. Made all our shoes squeak insults with every step! Everyone was laughing, and we couldn’t get rid of it. We were only first years!”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He remembered that prank. He’d laughed along with everyone else.

Ginny’s face had gone pink. “That’s was Fred and George. They didn’t mean—”

“Of course they meant it,” Daphne said matter-of-factly. “Just as the Slytherins who hex Gryffindors mean it. The question is whether we’re going to keep playing the same game our parents played.”

“But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?” Astoria said, warming to her subject. “We’re supposed to hate each other because of our house colours. Seems rather stupid when there are real things to worry about.”

“Astoria has strong opinions about inter-house unity,” Daphne said with a small smile.

“Well, don’t you think it’s silly?” Astoria pressed. “Especially now that — well, you know.” Her voice dropped. “Now that he’s back?”

The compartment went quiet. Even the countryside rushing past the windows seemed to hush.

“The real war isn’t between houses,” Daphne said. “It’s between those who would preserve our world and those who would destroy it. Everything else is just distractions.”

Before anyone could respond, the compartment door slammed open. Draco Malfoy appeared, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his cold grey eyes moving from Harry to the Greengrass sisters. “What have we here, Daphne?”

“Hello, Draco,” said Daphne mildly.

“I hardly expected to find you entertaining Potter and his friends,” said Malfoy, his lip curling.

“We’re sharing a compartment,” said Daphne reasonably. “The train was full.”

“Surely you could find somewhere else to sit,” sneered Malfoy. “Somewhere without blood traitors and attention-seeking liars.”

“Could we?” said Daphne thoughtfully. “Where would you suggest? Your compartment was full when we passed it.”

Malfoy’s face darkened. “That’s not the point—”

“Isn’t it?” said Daphne. “You’re suggesting we should have kept looking for somewhere to sit, presumably standing in the corridor for the entire journey, rather than accept a perfectly reasonable solution?”

“It’s not reasonable to associate with—”

“With our fellow students?” Daphne interrupted. “Draco, we’re all going to the same school. We’ll be eating in the same Great Hall, attending the same classes. It’s more practical to be civil.”

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth several times. He was staring at Daphne with obvious confusion.

“Your father won’t like this,” he said.

“My father values practical thinking above pointless prejudice,” said Daphne calmly. “Perhaps yours does as well.”

There was a long, tense silence.

“This isn’t over, Potter,” Malfoy said, though his heart didn’t seem to be in it. He was still staring at Daphne.

After they left, Ron let out a low whistle. “Blimey. I’ve never seen anyone handle Malfoy like that.”

“Draco means well,” Astoria said charitably. “He just doesn’t think things through very carefully.”

“He thinks exactly what his father tells him to think,” Daphne corrected, though not unkindly. “Unfortunately, that’s going to become a liability very soon.”

Harry stared at Daphne. She’d just defended them against Malfoy, talked about practical thinking over prejudice, and seemed to understand the coming war better than most adults he knew. Who was she?

The rest of the journey passed more pleasantly than Harry could have imagined. Astoria kept up a steady stream of chatter while Daphne made occasional observations that kept everyone laughing and thinking in equal measure.

As the train slowed, students started moving about the corridor.

“We should go,” said Hermione, standing up. “Ron and I have prefect duties. We need to help the first years off the train.”

“See you at the carriages,” said Ron.

Harry, Ginny, and the Greengrass sisters changed into their school robes and gathered their belongings as the Hogwarts Express came to a stop. The platform was its usual chaos.

“First years this way!” Harry could hear a voice calling, though he couldn’t see Hagrid anywhere in the crowd.

“Everyone else to the carriages!” shouted a prefect.

Harry followed the crowd toward the horseless carriages, but stopped short when he saw what was pulling them. The creatures were skeletal and winged, with blank white eyes and an air of menace about them.

“What are those?” he said, pointing.

Several students turned to look at him strangely.

“What are what?” said Ginny, following his gaze.

“Those... those things pulling the carriages.”

“There’s nothing there, Harry,” said Ginny. She sounded concerned.

A chill ran down Harry’s spine. He was going mad. He had to be.

“They’re called Thestrals,” said a quiet voice beside him.

Harry turned to see Daphne watching him.

“Thestrals?” he repeated.

“Winged skeletal horses,” she said matter-of-factly. “They’re only visible to people who have witnessed death.”

Harry stared at her. “You can see them too?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “My mother died when I was eight. I held her hand when it happened.”

Ron and Hermione appeared at Harry’s shoulder.

“Everything alright?” asked Hermione.

“Harry can see the Thestrals,” said Daphne.

“The what?” said Ron.

“The creatures pulling the carriages,” Daphne explained. “Most people can’t see them. They’re not well liked.”

She looked thoughtfully at one of the creatures as it pawed the ground.

“There’s power in witnessing death,” she continued quietly. “It changes you. Opens your eyes to things others can’t see. Some wizards consider that a form of strength.”

Something cold settled in Harry’s stomach. “Strength?”

“The ability to see truth that others miss,” Daphne said, climbing into an empty carriage. “To understand realities that most people prefer to ignore.”

One of the Thestrals turned its white, pupilless eyes toward them and snorted softly.

“They’re quite harmless,” she said, “Rather beautiful, in their way.”

With a faint smile, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after her sister. Not altogether reassured, Harry followed her.

II. The Year Begins
Harry’s mood hadn’t improved by lunch. If anything, the morning’s Potions class had left him more frustrated than before. Snape had been particularly vicious, taking points from Gryffindor for Harry’s “heavy-handed stirring” and “sloppy technique.” His hand still ached from last night’s detention—the words “I must not tell lies” carved into his skin were finally beginning to fade, but the memory of Umbridge’s blood quill lingered.

“Oh, shut up, the pair of you,” said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. “Can’t you give it a rest?” said Harry. “You’re always having a go at each other, it’s driving me mad.” And abandoning his shepherd’s pie, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there.

He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a time, past the many students hurrying towards lunch. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione’s shocked faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought, why can’t they give it a rest… bickering all the time… it’s enough to drive anyone up the wall…

“Potter.”

“What do you want, Greengrass?”

She raised her eyebrow. “I figured you would want to burn off some steam. You’re wound tighter than a Whomping Willow.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“It’s not far from here.” She started to walk away from the North Tower before pausing. She threw her blonde hair over her shoulder as she looked back at him, “Come on.”

“What is?”

“A place my father told me about years ago. Somewhere you can let off steam without consequences. No detentions.”

Harry found himself following her up the staircase, past the many portraits, including Sir Cadogan with his drawn sword. They climbed to the third floor, past corridors Harry rarely visited, until Daphne stopped at what appeared to be a dead end.

“Here,” she said, running her hand along the stone wall.

“There’s nothing here.”

“If you know where to look.” She pressed a particular stone, and a section of the wall swung inward, revealing a narrow passage. “Father showed me this during my first year. Said every pureblood family has their secrets in this castle.”

They squeezed through the opening into a circular room that looked like it had been forgotten for decades. Light filtered through a grimy window. The room was filled with broken furniture, tarnished mirrors, old cauldrons, and what appeared to be centuries of discarded belongings.

“This is your idea of stress relief?” Harry asked, looking around at the mess.

“Watch.” Daphne pulled out her wand and pointed it at a nearby three-legged stool. “Reducto!”

A broken statue of a young woman shattered into a million pieces.

“Look,” she commanded. Harry did.

The shattered pieces had started vibrating, wiggling, piecing back together. The tip of a nail became a long white finger, then a hand.

“The whole room does this. It doesn’t matter what spell you use, or how much damage you cause, anything in this room will return to its original state the next day.”

While interesting, Harry didn’t see the point.

“You can let your anger out here, instead of at your friends at lunch, with no worries of destroying anything permanently.”

“Try it.”

He took out his wand, and with some encouraging, cast the blasting curse at the corner desk. It shattered magnificently.

Daphne grabbed a book. “Hit it,” she said and tossed it at him. The curse sent torn papers wafting towards the ground. She threw back her head and laughed, and Harry couldn’t help but join in.

They spent the rest of the lunch hour casting spells and laughing.

“Better?” Daphne asked as they prepared to leave.

“Much,” Harry admitted. His hands had stopped shaking, and the constant tension in his shoulders had eased. “I haven’t felt this calm since...”

“Since before Umbridge became High Inquisitor?”

Harry nodded grimly. “She’s making everyone miserable. Even the teachers look terrified.”

“Then don’t give her what she wants,” Daphne said simply. “She feeds on anger and defiance. Starve her of it.”

* * *​

An hour later, Professor Umbridge’s classroom was suffocating as always, but Harry found himself settling into his seat with unusual composure. Around him, other students whispered nervously about the new Educational Decrees posted that morning.

“Today we’ll be examining a particularly relevant topic,” Umbridge announced, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Turn to page 126—Recognising Dark Magic and Its Practitioners.”

Harry opened his textbook, noting how Umbridge’s eyes lingered on him. She’d been watching him more closely since his outburst last week, clearly expecting another explosion.

“Mr. Potter,” she said with false pleasantness. “Since you’ve had such strong opinions about defensive preparation, perhaps you’d enlighten us by reading the opening passage.”

Harry met her gaze steadily—a far cry from his usual glare. “Of course, Professor.”

He began reading: “Dark Magic differs fundamentally from conventional spellwork in both effect and experience. Where standard magic requires skill and intent, Dark Magic creates dependency. Practitioners report an immediate euphoric rush far exceeding normal magical satisfaction—a sensation so intense it becomes psychologically addictive.

“The practitioner begins rationalising increased usage: claiming superior effectiveness, dismissing ethical concerns, insisting they maintain control. Physical symptoms follow—trembling hands when unable to practise, loss of appetite, disrupted sleep. Most tellingly, they become secretive about their activities, unable to share their practices with those who might express concern.”

Umbridge’s smile widened. “And the recommended response to such individuals?”

“Contact the Auror Office immediately,” Harry read. “Do not attempt confrontation, as Dark Magic practitioners often lose the ability to distinguish between a proportional response and excessive cruelty.”

She paused, her toad-like eyes studying him with obvious anticipation. “And do you have any... personal thoughts on what you’ve just read? Any opinions about the dangers described?”

Harry recognised the trap. She was trying to provoke him, waiting for him to make some comment about how the Ministry’s own methods were more dangerous than any Dark Magic. A week ago, he would have taken the bait.

“No, Professor,” he said evenly. “The text seems quite clear.”

Umbridge’s smile faltered slightly. She’d clearly been expecting an outburst, something to justify another evening with her blood quill.

“I see,” she said, a note of disappointment creeping into her honeyed voice. “Well then, class will continue with silent reading. Pages 127 through 135.”

As the class settled into uncomfortable silence, Harry reflected on how well Daphne’s advice had worked.The simple act of destroying a few old chairs had left him more centred than he had in weeks. Perhaps he should ask Daphne if he could go to the room on his own sometime—get ahead of his anger before it built up to explosive levels.

* * *​

The following Saturday, Harry found himself seeking out Daphne in the library. Her advice about handling Umbridge had worked better than he could have imagined—he hadn’t had a single detention since their session in the room.

“Potter,” she said, looking up from her Potions essay with mild surprise.

“I wanted to thank you,” Harry said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “What you showed me helped. I managed to keep my mouth shut in Umbridge’s class all week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Daphne closed her book and studied his face. “Though you still look tense. The room is still there if you need it.”

“Actually,” Harry said, “I was hoping we could go now? I know it sounds stupid, but I felt more centred after that session than I had in months.”

Daphne’s lips curved upwards. “It’s not stupid at all. Come on.”

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the forgotten room. Some of Harry’s tension immediately eased as he cast Reducto at a broken wardrobe, watching it explode with satisfaction.

“Nice aim,” Daphne said, obliterating a three-legged stool. “Though you might want to put more shoulder into it.”

“More shoulder?” Harry raised an eyebrow and cast again, this time with an exaggerated wind-up that made Daphne snort with laughter.

“Better. Very dramatic.” She grinned and pointed her wand at a dusty mirror. “Confringo!”

The mirror exploded in a shower of sparks, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Show off.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Daphne lined up three broken chairs in a row. “Watch this—Reducto, Diffindo, Confringo!” Each spell hit in rapid succession, creating a spectacular chain reaction that left them both ducking flying debris.

“Merlin’s beard, Greengrass!” Harry was laughing so hard he could barely hold his wand. “Are you trying to destroy everything in here at once?”

“Just having a bit of fun,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your turn—see if you can top that.”

Harry grinned and took aim at a pile of old cauldrons. “Right then. Bombarda!“

The explosion was so loud they both jumped, then burst into uncontrollable laughter as bits of metal rained down around them.

“Okay, you win,” Daphne gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank Merlin this room is soundproof or the whole school would have heard that!”

They continued for another ten minutes, each trying to outdo the other with increasingly ridiculous destruction until Daphne collapsed dramatically onto the recently reformed couch, breathing hard.

“Alright, I surrender,” she panted, throwing an arm over her eyes. “You’ve officially worn me out, Potter.”

Harry dropped down beside her, equally winded but grinning. “That was brilliant. I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”

“Would you like some tea?” Daphne asked, still catching her breath. “I find it helps with the post-destruction comedown.”

“Post-destruction comedown?” Harry looked at her incredulously. “Is that a real thing?”

“Absolutely. Very serious magical condition.” She sat up and reached into her bag with mock solemnity, then pulled out the cat-shaped teapot. “Only remedy is proper tea service.”

Harry blinked as she produced two delicate cups. “You carry that around?”

Daphne raised one eyebrow as she began pouring. “I like tea. And cats.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly, accepting his cup. “Of course you do.”

The tea was warm and soothing, and Harry sank back into the cushions, still grinning from their impromptu destruction contest.

“So,” Harry said, glancing around at the reforming furniture, “do you do this often? The whole stress relief thing?”

“Often enough,” Daphne replied, curling up with her tea. “Father always said magic should be enjoyable, not just functional.”

“Smart man. My relatives think magic is something that should be locked away and never mentioned.”

“Muggles?”

“Unfortunately.” Harry took another sip. “What about your family? Are they as practical as you?”

Daphne’s smile turned wry. “That’s one way to put it. They believe in being prepared for anything.”

“Hence the tea service?”

“Hence the tea service.”

They sat in comfortable quiet for a moment, watching the items in the room continue to repair themselves.

“So,” she said eventually, “what’s it like? Being the Gryffindor Golden Boy?”

Harry sipped his tea. “Tiring.”

“Everyone expects you to be brave and noble all the time?”

He glanced at her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh, it is. No one trusts brave people. They’re too unpredictable. Either they get themselves killed, or they do something spectacular and ruin everyone’s plans.”

“That’s comforting.”

Daphne smiled. “I aim to please.”

He stared into his cup. “What about you? What’s it like being a Slytherin?”

Her expression sharpened, though not unkindly. “Like playing chess with people who pretend they’re not on the board.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head. “So is that what this is?”

“What?”

“You, bringing me here. Teaching me—whatever this is. Is it part of some grand Slytherin plot?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she placed her cup down with quiet care and met his eyes.

“You are the Boy-Who-Lived. The Dark Lord’s enemy. If anyone knows anything useful about him, it’s you.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “So this is for information.”

“Partly,” she said, without flinching. “But also because I think you’re interesting.”

He let out a disbelieving breath. “Interesting.”

“You are. People talk about you like you’re a symbol, a headline. But symbols don’t talk back,” she said, returning to her seat. “They don’t drink tea or get detention or scowl when you poke at them.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And you want to… what, get behind the headline?”

She gave a small shrug. “I’m curious.”

Harry went quiet. The warmth of the tea had faded, leaving a strange hollowness in his chest.

“What do you think would surprise people most about you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. The truth scraped against the back of his throat.

“That I don’t feel like I’m winning anything,” he said at last. “Most days I’m just… trying not to drown.”

Daphne didn’t speak. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her had stilled.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

And to his surprise, he did.

III. Therapy Through Destruction
It had been two weeks since their first real conversation, and Harry found himself looking forward to their twice-weekly sessions more than he cared to admit. Wednesdays and Saturdays had become the highlights of his schedule—the only times when he could actually breathe.

“You’re getting better at this,” Daphne observed as Harry obliterated a particularly stubborn wardrobe. “Maybe you just needed an outlet that wasn’t your friends’ faces.”

“Hey, I haven’t yelled at Ron and Hermione in over a week.”

“Progress.” Daphne settled onto their usual couch after their session, pulling out her cat teapot as always. But this time, she also retrieved a slim, leather-bound book from her bag.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, accepting his cup of tea and nodding toward the book.

“Something I’ve had for a while,” Daphne said, setting it beside her. “My father gave it to me during second year when I was having trouble with stress management. I’ve been thinking about trying some of the more advanced techniques.”

Harry glanced at the cover: Therapy Through Destruction: Advanced Techniques for Emotional Regulation Through Controlled Magic.

“Sounds sophisticated.”

“It is. Much more complex than basic destruction spells.” Daphne opened it to a marked page, studying the diagrams. “Would you mind if I practiced a few techniques from it today? I’ve been working up the courage to try this particular one.”

“Why do you need courage for a stress relief spell?” Harry asked, curious.

“Because it’s more intense. More personal.” Daphne closed the book and looked at him. “The spells in here don’t just destroy things—they’re designed to process specific emotions. Transform them into something constructive.”

Harry leaned forward, intrigued. “How?”

“Watch.” Daphne stood and positioned herself in front of a rotting wardrobe, opening the book to reference the wand movements. “This one is called the Despair Release. It’s for processing feelings of helplessness.”

She raised her wand with careful precision. “Dolorem.”

What happened next was unlike anything Harry had seen before. The wardrobe didn’t just explode—it seemed to fold inward on itself, the wood groaning and creaking as it twisted into impossible shapes before dissolving into fine ash. But more than the visual spectacle, Harry could sense something different about the magic itself. It was heavier, more substantial, more purposeful than their usual spells.

And Daphne’s reaction was remarkable. After casting regular destruction spells, she looked satisfied. After this one, she looked genuinely peaceful, more centred than Harry had ever seen her.

“That was incredible,” Harry breathed. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Much better.” Daphne returned to the couch, visibly more relaxed. “It’s like the spell processed what was bothering me instead of just venting it.”

“Can I see that book?” Harry asked.

Daphne handed it over without hesitation. Harry spent the next several minutes absorbed in the text, reading about emotional regulation theory and advanced therapeutic techniques. The spells were more complex than anything they learned in class, but the underlying principles made perfect sense.

“This is brilliant,” Harry said finally. “Much more sophisticated than just blasting things apart randomly.”

“I thought you might find it interesting,” Daphne said, pleased by his enthusiasm. “There are dozens of different techniques, each designed for specific types of stress or emotional blockages.”

Harry continued reading, already imagining how these spells might help with the constant pressure he experienced, the anger that seemed to build no matter how many regular destruction spells he cast.

“Would you be willing to teach me some of these?” he asked.

Daphne studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you need to be careful with the intent. This isn’t like casting Reducto—you have to really mean it.”

She stood and moved beside him, opening the book to show the wand movement. “See this pattern? It’s more complex than what we usually do. And the incantation is Dolorem, but you have to focus on what’s making you feel powerless.”

Harry positioned himself in front of a broken desk, studying the diagram. “So not just being angry at Umbridge, but...”

“But the helplessness underneath it,” Daphne finished. “The feeling that you can’t protect the people you care about. The frustration of being dismissed when you’re trying to warn everyone.”

Harry raised his wand, thinking about what she’d said. About watching first years cower in the halls. About the Ministry’s wilful blindness. About the weight of knowing something terrible was coming and being unable to make anyone listen.

“Dolorem!”

The spell erupted from his wand with startling intensity. The desk didn’t just break—it seemed to fold in on itself, the wood groaning as it twisted into impossible shapes before dissolving into ash. But more than the destruction, Harry sensed something shift inside him. The constant knot of tension in his chest loosened, and for the first time in weeks, he could breathe properly.

“Merlin,” he gasped, staring at the pile of ash. “That was...”

“Different?” Daphne asked, watching him carefully.

“Amazing. Like it actually fixed something instead of just breaking it.” Harry said. “How is it so much better?”

“Because it processes the emotion instead of just venting it,” Daphne explained, settling back onto the couch. “The spell transforms the energy into something constructive.”

Harry joined her, still marvelling at how clear his head was. “Could you teach me more of these?”

“Are you sure? These aren’t standard spells.”

“Please,” Harry said, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “I haven’t felt this settled in months.”

Daphne smiled and opened the book wider. “Well, since you took to it so naturally...”

* * *​

Over the following weeks, their twice-weekly sessions transformed into something Harry had never experienced before. Daphne guided him through increasingly sophisticated techniques from the book—Languor, which slowly drained objects while processing exhaustion; Fracture, which found precise weaknesses while helping identify core problems; Corrode, which dissolved things from within while breaking down layers of resentment.

“You’re progressing remarkably fast,” Daphne said during their Wednesday session in mid-October, watching Harry cast Fracture with barely any effort. “Most of these spells took me weeks to master.”

“They just feel natural,” Harry said, examining the cleanly split chair. “Like they’re drawing on something I already understand.”

“The book explains that some wizards have an instinctive affinity for certain magic,” Daphne said thoughtfully. “It’s quite rare.”

Harry was studying the book when a spell in the middle section caught his attention. The diagram was more complex than anything they’d attempted, and the description mentioned processing “deep trauma and powerless rage.”

“What about this one?” he asked, pointing to the page. “Languor?”

“Ah.” Daphne’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ve mastered that one, actually. Took me nearly three months to get it right, though. It’s demanding—requires channelling very deep emotions.”

“Could I see you cast it?” Harry asked, curious. “I’d like to understand how the more advanced techniques work.”

Daphne positioned herself in front of an ornate chair, raising her wand with practiced confidence.

“Languor.”

The magic that erupted was unlike anything Harry had seen before. Deep red light struck the chair, and immediately the wood began to writhe and contort in patterns that seemed almost alive. There was terrible beauty in the destruction, like watching a storm reshape reality itself. Daphne’s control was flawless, every movement of the magic deliberate and precise.

Harry found himself stepping forward, mesmerised. He could sense the spell’s power calling to something deep inside him.

“That was incredible,” he breathed. “The control you have—it was like watching art.”

“Three months of practice,” Daphne said with satisfaction, looking more centred after the casting. “It’s one of the most sophisticated techniques in the book.”

“Could I try?” Harry asked without thinking.

Daphne looked surprised. “Potter, that took me months to work up to. The emotional control required is extraordinary.”

“But I’d like to try,” Harry pressed, unable to explain the pull he felt toward the spell. “I can feel there’s something I need to process that the simpler techniques aren’t quite reaching.”

After a long moment, Daphne nodded. “Very well. But you must be extremely careful. This spell draws on profound pain—real trauma, not just daily frustrations.”

Harry positioned himself in front of another chair, thinking about the deepest sources of his rage. The Dursleys’ years of cruelty. Watching Cedric die while he stood helpless. The weight of expectations crushing him from all sides. The fundamental unfairness of his entire existence.

“Languor!”

The spell burst from his wand in a torrent of crimson light. When it struck the chair, Harry experienced a connection unlike anything he’d ever known—as if the magic was reaching into his very soul and transforming years of accumulated pain into something magnificent. The destruction was flawless, controlled, beautiful.

When the light faded and only twisted remains were left, Harry stood transfixed, breathing hard and more alive than he had been in months.

“Merlin,” Daphne whispered.

Harry turned to her, still glowing with the aftermath of the spell. “What?”

“That was...” She shook her head in apparent amazement. “Potter, that level of control, the way the magic moved through you... I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Really?” A flush of pride warmed Harry from head to toe.

“Really. You have an instinctive understanding of this type of magic that’s extraordinary.” She looked at him with something approaching awe. “You’re going to be a very powerful wizard, Potter. More powerful than I think even you realise.”

As they prepared to leave, Familiar anticipation for their next session filled Harry, but stronger now. These spells were giving him something he’d never had before—real power, real control over the chaos of his life.

He was becoming who he was meant to be.

* * *​

Over the following weeks, their meetings became the highlight of Harry’s schedule. Every few days, when the familiar tension built in his chest, he would find Daphne and they would slip away to their forgotten room.

“You seem different,” Hermione said one morning in late October, studying Harry over her porridge. “Calmer.”

“Do I?” Harry asked, though he knew she was right. The constant tension that had been his companion since the start of term had eased considerably. He no longer felt like he might explode at any moment.

“You haven’t had a single detention with Umbridge in weeks,” Ron pointed out. “That’s got to be some kind of record.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve been keeping my mouth shut in her class.”

“But why?” Hermione pressed. “That’s not like you. Usually you can’t help yourself when someone’s being unreasonable.”

Because I have somewhere else to channel my anger, Harry thought, but he couldn’t say that. “Maybe I’m just tired of getting my hand carved up.”

“We know you’ve been meeting with Daphne more often,” Ron said. “The stress relief sessions, right? You said she knows about You-Know-Who, believes you about his return.”

“It’s good that someone in Slytherin is on the right side,” Hermione added. “But twice a week seems like quite a lot.”

The tone in Hermione’s voice—like she was questioning his judgment—made his jaw clench. They didn’t understand what he was dealing with. How could he explain that their sessions were the only thing keeping him sane? How could he explain that their sessions had become far more than simple stress relief?

His sessions with Daphne had become the highlight of his week. They’d worked their way methodically through Therapy Through Destruction, and Harry mastered spells that left him breathless with their intensity. There was Vinculum, which bound objects together before tearing them apart in spectacular fashion. Sanguine, which caused things to bleed a red substance before dissolving. Torquere, which twisted objects into impossible shapes before they crumbled to dust.

“Where do you keep disappearing to anyway?” Ron asked suddenly. “I mean, we know you meet with Daphne, but you’ve been gone for hours at a time lately.”

Heat rose in Harry’s cheeks. “Just the stress relief sessions. They’ve been really helpful.”

“Maybe we could join you sometime?” Hermione suggested. “I’d be interested to see what kind of techniques she’s teaching.”

Harry hesitated. The room was Daphne’s secret, and he couldn’t just bring people without asking. “I... I’d have to ask her first. It’s her place, after all.”

Which was how, a few days later, after getting Daphne’s somewhat reluctant permission, Harry found himself leading his best friends through the hidden passage to the forgotten room.

“This is brilliant,” Ron said, looking around at the junk-filled space. “How did you find this place?”

“Daphne showed me,” Harry said, just as the girl in question emerged from behind a pile of furniture, followed by Astoria.

“Potter,” Daphne greeted, then smiled at his friends. “Granger. Weasley. Good to see you again.” She gestured to her sister. “I thought Astoria might like to join us today as well.”

“Hello again!” Astoria said brightly, though Harry noticed she looked paler than she had on the train. “This is exciting. I’ve never done proper destructive magic before.”

“Hello, Astoria,” Hermione said warmly. “Thank you for letting us join. Harry says you’ve been helping him with stress management.”

“Stress relief through controlled destruction,” Daphne corrected. “It’s quite therapeutic. Would you like to try?”

For the next hour, Harry watched as Daphne led them through basic destruction spells—Reducto, Diffindo, various fire charms. Nothing from the book, he noticed.

Ron picked up the spells immediately, grinning as he blasted apart an old chair. “This is brilliant! Much better than Umbridge’s theory lessons.”

Hermione was more cautious but effective, her precise wand movements creating clean, controlled destruction.

But when Astoria tried the same spells, something was clearly wrong. Her first Reducto barely cracked the surface of her target, and the effort left her breathing hard.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Astoria said quickly, though Harry could see sweat beading on her forehead. “Just haven’t practiced much lately.”

She tried Diffindo next, but the cutting charm barely scratched the old trunk she was aiming at. Her wand hand trembled with the effort, and she had to sit down on a pile of cushions.

“Maybe you should rest,” Daphne suggested gently, though Harry caught something protective in her tone.

“I’m just tired,” Astoria said with a weak smile. “You all keep going. I’ll watch.”

Ron, oblivious to the undercurrents, continued blasting targets with enthusiasm. But Harry found himself glancing at Astoria throughout the session, noting how she seemed to fade into the background, how her usual bright chatter was subdued

“This is actually quite useful,” Hermione admitted after obliterating a moth-eaten chair. “I can see how it would help with frustration.”

“It’s like having a proper outlet,” Ron agreed. “Better than punching walls.”

As they prepared to leave, Harry lingered behind with Daphne while Astoria gathered her things slowly.

“You didn’t use any of the spells from your book,” he observed quietly.

“Of course not,” Daphne said matter-of-factly. “They wouldn’t be able to master those spells as quickly as you do, Harry. The advanced techniques require a particular... aptitude. This was supposed to relieve stress, not cause it by making them feel inadequate.”

A warm flush of pride at being singled out as exceptional spread through Harry, but his eyes drifted to Astoria, who was still sitting on the cushions, looking exhausted.

“Well,” Hermione said as they walked back to Gryffindor Tower, “I can see why you’ve been calmer. That was surprisingly cathartic.”

“And Greengrass seems alright,” Ron added. “For a Slytherin. Her sister’s nice too, though she seemed a bit off today.”

“She’s quite brilliant,” Harry said, then immediately wished he hadn’t when both his friends gave him knowing looks.

“Right,” Hermione said with a small smile. “Brilliant.”

* * *​

The DA had been meeting for several weeks when Harry made a decision.

“Would you be interested in joining something?” he asked quietly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Joining what?”

“A study group. For Defense. We’re practicing what they won’t teach us in class.”

Daphne studied his face for a long moment. “And you want Slytherins involved?”

“I want people who understand that Voldemort is back,” Harry said simply. “People who want to actually learn to defend themselves.”

Harry pulled out one of Hermione’s enchanted coins, holding it out to her. “This will let you know when and where we’re meeting. It’s completely secure.”

Daphne looked at the coin for a long moment, then shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, confused. “You said yourself that Voldemort is back. This is what you were talking about on the train—working together instead of maintaining house prejudices.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Daphne said quietly, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

“How is it complicated? You believe he’s back, you want to learn to defend yourself—”

“Harry,” Daphne interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t understand my family’s position.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Daphne was quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with how much to say. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

“My father has been approached by the Dark Lord’s followers in the past,” she said carefully. “Multiple times, over the years. He’s never joined them—he thinks their pureblood rhetoric is nonsense—but he’s never actively opposed them either.”

Something cold settled in Harry’s stomach. “He’s stayed neutral.”

“Yes. And it’s kept our family safe.” Daphne’s voice was strained. “But this time... Father doesn’t think neutrality will be an option. The Dark Lord is demanding more open support from pureblood families. Active participation.”

“Then work with Dumbledore,” Harry said immediately. “Join the Order, or—”

“We can’t.” Daphne hesitated, then seemed to deflate slightly. “Astoria is ill. Seriously ill. A family curse—a blood malediction that gets worse over time. Father refuses to do anything that might make her a target for revenge.”

Harry thought back to the session with Ron and Hermione, how pale and exhausted Astoria had looked after casting just a few simple spells. “That’s why she struggled so much with the magic.”

“She’s getting weaker,” Daphne said quietly. “The curse... it’s progressive. Father is trying everything he can to help her, but he won’t risk making the wrong choice.”

“But if Voldemort wins—”

“If the Dark Lord wins and we’re on the wrong side, our entire family dies,” Daphne said. “If he loses, and we backed him, we’ll be imprisoned or worse. Father needs to know which way the war is really going before he commits to either side.”

Harry stared at her. “That’s why he wanted you to get information from me.”

Daphne looked away, her cheeks flushing. “Father... he wanted information. About you, about what you knew, about what was really happening. Information is power, Harry. He needed to understand the situation before deciding which way to lean.”

Something cold settled in Harry’s stomach. “So this was all just—”

“No,” Daphne said quickly, meeting his eyes again. “It started that way, I won’t lie to you. But Harry...” She paused, seeming to struggle with her words. “Spending time with you, getting to know who you really are instead of just the legend... it changed things.”

“Changed things how?”

“I’ve been telling Father that you might be worth backing,” she said quietly. “When the time comes, when he has to choose a side... you’re not just the Boy-Who-Lived. You’re someone who could win this war.”

Harry stared at her, not sure how to feel about any of this.

“I understand if you’re angry,” Daphne continued. “I know I should have told you sooner about Father’s original instructions. But Harry, what we have now—our sessions, our conversations—that’s real. That’s not about gathering information anymore.”

“So what is it about?” Harry asked.

“It’s about making sure you’re strong enough to survive what’s coming,” Daphne said simply. “And maybe... maybe it’s about making sure I am too.”

Harry pocketed the coin, finally understanding something important about Daphne Greengrass. She wasn’t just helping him for curiosity—she was caught between family duty and personal conviction, trying to navigate an impossible situation. Just like he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About Astoria. About your father’s position.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Daphne said with a small, sad smile. “Just be ready for what’s coming. All of us need to be stronger than we are.”

IV. Fracture
By November, Harry’s mastery of the spells in Daphne’s book had progressed beyond even her expectations. It was during one of their sessions that he first taught her something instead of the other way around.

“Try moving your wand in a spiral instead of straight down,” Harry suggested as Daphne struggled with Putrefy, a spell that caused organic matter to decay rapidly. “Feel the rot spreading outward.”

Daphne followed his advice, and the dead plant she was targeting began to decompose in perfect, widening circles.

“Extraordinary,” she breathed. “You have such an intuitive understanding of these spells, Potter. It’s like you were born for this kind of magic.”

Harry felt a flush of pride that seemed to spread through his entire body. When Daphne looked at him like that—with admiration, with something that might be awe—he felt more valued than he had in years.

“There’s one more spell I want to try,” Harry said, flipping to a page near the back of the book. “Torquere. For processing feelings of powerlessness.”

“That’s quite advanced,” Daphne warned. “Are you certain you’re ready?”

Harry was already raising his wand toward a large trunk. The spell that erupted was magnificent—crimson light that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy. The trunk didn’t just break; it seemed to writhe in agony before splitting apart in a shower of splinters.

“Perfect,” Daphne said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”

* * *​

The Quidditch match against Slytherin had been brutal. Malfoy’s taunts about Harry’s parents, about Weasley poverty, about everything that mattered to Harry, had been relentless. But Harry had kept his temper, focused on the game, even as rage built in his chest.

It was only after they’d won, after he was walking off the pitch, that Malfoy made his final, unforgivable comment about his mother.

Harry spun around, wand already in his hand, the incantation on his lips. “Tor—”

“Harry, no!” Angelina Johnson slammed into him, knocking his wand aside just as the spell began to form. The red light sputtered and died.

Malfoy had gone white as parchment, his eyes fixed on Harry’s wand.

“What were you doing?” Angelina demanded, but Harry barely heard her. He was staring at his wand, at how close he’d come to...

Umbridge’s whistle cut through his thoughts. Somehow, she’d seen enough to ban him from Quidditch, even though no spell had actually been cast. As Harry handed over his Firebolt, he caught Malfoy’s eye. The Slytherin was still pale, still watching him with something that looked like fear.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. The rage from the match still simmered under his skin, and his usual outlets—homework, talking to friends—felt completely inadequate. Only one thing would help.

He slipped out of Gryffindor Tower and made his way to the forgotten room.

“Torquere!” he snarled at a pile of old books, watching with satisfaction as they writhed and tore themselves apart. “Putrefy! Languor!”

Spell after spell erupted from his wand, each one providing momentary relief before the anger built again. He was so absorbed in the destruction that he didn’t hear the passage open.

“Potter.”

Harry spun around, wand raised, to find Daphne standing in the doorway. Her pale eyes took in the devastation around him—the smoking remains of furniture, the ash-covered floor, the manic energy still crackling around his wand.

“You came here alone,” she said, stepping into the room.

“I needed...” Harry lowered his wand, suddenly feeling foolish. “I needed to let off steam.”

“After the Quidditch match.” It wasn’t a question. “You nearly used Torquere on Malfoy.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “How did you—”

“Draco told Astoria. He was terrified, Potter. He recognised the spell.”

The blood drained from Harry’s face. “I didn’t mean to. I just... I was so angry, and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

Daphne moved closer, her expression serious. “You need to understand something about these spells, Potter. They’re designed for therapy, yes, but they’re also incredibly powerful. If you’d completed that cast on Malfoy...”

“What would have happened?” Harry asked quietly.

“I don’t know exactly,” Daphne said, and Harry caught something in her voice that might have been a lie. “They’re not designed for use on people. But it couldn’t have been good. You need to learn control, Potter. These spells can take over if you let them.”

“I can control them,” Harry said quickly.

“Can you?” Daphne stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume. “You came here in the middle of the night because you couldn’t stand the feeling of not casting them. That’s not control, Potter. That’s dependency.”

The word hit Harry like a physical blow. “I’m not dependent on anything.”

“Then why are you here instead of in your dormitory?”

Harry had no answer for that.

Daphne’s expression softened. “I’m not judging you, Potter. These spells are powerful, and power is addictive. But you have to be careful. You have to stay in control.”

* * *​

As November turned to December, Harry found that Daphne’s warning weighed on his mind, but not in the way she’d intended. Instead of making him more cautious, it made him more aware of how much he craved their sessions.

He began to notice things. How he looked forward to Tuesday and Friday evenings with an intensity that bordered on obsession. How ordinary magic—the spells they learned in class, even the advanced techniques he taught the DA—was dull and lifeless compared to what he did with Daphne. How he caught himself thinking about Languor and Torquere during boring History of Magic lectures.

Most surprisingly, he realised one day that he hadn’t thought about Cho Chang in weeks. The crush that had consumed him for months had simply... evaporated. When she smiled at him in the corridors, he felt nothing but mild politeness. When she’d tried to catch his eye during the last DA meeting, he’d been more interested in planning his next session with Daphne.

It was during one of their December sessions, as he watched Daphne’s face light up with delight at a particularly spectacular destruction, that Harry realised his feelings had shifted. The way she looked at him when he mastered a difficult spell, the way she listened so intently when he talked about his experiences, the way she made him powerful and understood—it was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

When had he started looking forward to seeing her smile more than casting the spells themselves?

“Harry seems different lately,” he overheard Hermione saying to Ron one evening. “More distant.”

“He’s been weird since he started hanging around with Greengrass,” Ron replied. “I mean, she seems nice enough, but...”

“But what?”

“I dunno. Sometimes when he comes back from those sessions, he looks... I can’t describe it. Like he’s been somewhere we can’t follow.”

Harry had pretended not to hear, but the conversation bothered him more than he cared to admit. Were his friends suspicious? Could they tell that something had changed?

The thought made him defensive and, oddly, protective of what he shared with Daphne. Their sessions were sacred somehow, too important to be questioned or interfered with.

It was this protective feeling that led to his suggestion in mid-December, just before the Christmas holidays.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry said to Daphne as they cleaned up after a particularly satisfying session. “Maybe we should share some of these techniques with the DA. Everyone’s been so stressed about the war, about Umbridge. They could use some therapeutic release.”

The change in Daphne was immediate and startling. Her face went pale, and she dropped the book she’d been holding.

“No,” she said sharply. “Absolutely not.”

Harry blinked, taken aback by her vehemence. “Why not? You said yourself these spells are therapeutic—”

“These are ours, Potter.” Daphne’s voice was intense, almost panicked. “These sessions, these spells, what we share here—it’s private. Personal. You can’t just... give that to other people.”

“But if it could help them—”

“It won’t help them.” Daphne stepped closer, her pale eyes fierce. “They won’t understand. They’ll ask questions, want to know where the spells come from, why they feel so different. Do you want to explain that to Granger? To Weasley?”

A flutter of unease passed through Harry.“What’s there to explain? They’re therapeutic spells.”

“Are they just spells?” Daphne’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Harry, these sessions... they’re not just about magic anymore. At least, not for me.”

Harry’s heart began to race. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” Daphne looked down, her cheeks flushing pink. “I mean that somewhere along the way, this stopped being about getting information from you. It stopped being about the spells, or therapy, or any of that.”

She looked up at him, and Harry saw vulnerability in her pale eyes that he’d never seen before.

“I care about you, Harry. More than I should, probably. More than I ever intended to.” Her voice was soft, almost fragile. “What we have here, what we share—it’s ours. It’s special. And I don’t want to share you with anyone else.”

Harry’s breath caught. The girl he’d been thinking about constantly, the one whose approval meant more to him than anyone else’s, was telling him she cared about him. That she didn’t want to share him.

“Daphne...” he said quietly.

“I know it’s selfish,” she continued, stepping even closer. “But these sessions, this room, this magic—it’s where I get to have you all to myself. Where you’re not the Boy-Who-Lived or the DA leader or Hermione and Ron’s best friend. You’re just... Harry. And I’m not ready to give that up.”

The way she said his name, the look in her eyes, the warmth radiating from her—Harry’s resolve crumbled.

“I don’t want to share this either,” he admitted, the words coming out in a rush. “I don’t want to share you.”

Daphne’s smile was radiant, and she reached up to touch his cheek gently. “Then don’t.”

Harry leaned into her touch, his heart threatening to burst.“I won’t tell the DA anything.”

“Promise me,” she whispered.

“I promise.”

She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and Harry felt like he was flying without a broomstick.

“This is ours,” she said softly. “Just ours.”

As they prepared to leave for the Christmas holidays, Harry felt like he was walking on air. Daphne cared about him. She wanted to keep their sessions private because they were special, because she didn’t want to share him. The thought made him feel more valued than he had in years.

That night, as he lay in bed replaying every moment of their conversation, every word she’d said, Contentment Harry hadn’t experienced in months settled over him.

He was just drifting off to sleep when the vision hit him.

Corridors. Stone corridors, cold and dark. He was moving, slithering, hungry for something... someone. A man, alone, walking toward him in the darkness. The taste of anticipation, of violence about to unfold.

The man turned, and Harry saw his face—

Arthur Weasley.

The strike was swift and brutal. Fangs sinking deep, venom flowing, the man collapsing with a scream of agony—

Harry woke with a gasp, his scar burning like fire, Ron’s terrified voice echoing in his ears.

* * *​

Harry sat at the kitchen table, staring at his untouched cup of tea as pale winter light filtered through the grimy windows. He’d been awake since three in the morning, unable to shake the restless energy that had been building for days. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cup, though whether from exhaustion or something else, he couldn’t say.

It had been two weeks since the attack on Mr. Weasley. Two weeks of nightmares about snakes and corridors, of everyone watching him like he might be possessed. The worst part wasn’t the fear—it was how sometimes, in those dark moments between sleeping and waking, he found himself missing the connection. Missing that sense of power and certainty.

He looked terrible and he knew it—pale, hollow-eyed, like he’d caught some lingering winter illness. Mrs. Weasley kept trying to force food on him, but nothing seemed appealing anymore. Everything was muted. Dull.

“You’re up early.”

Harry looked up to find Sirius in the doorway, his dark hair dishevelled from sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry said.

Sirius settled into the chair across from him. “You haven’t been sleeping much at all lately.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Sirius leaned forward. “Harry, you look like you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Mrs. Weasley is worried sick, and frankly, so am I.”

A familiar spike of irritation shot through Harry, one all too common lately. “I said I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you actually felt fine?” Sirius pressed gently.

The question hit closer to home than Harry wanted to admit. When had he last felt truly good? Really good, not just the absence of feeling bad? He couldn’t remember. Not since… Hogwarts.

“Look,” Harry said, shifting in his chair, “maybe I’d feel better if I could actually do something. If I could practise magic, work on my spells—”

“Harry, we’ve been over this—”

“I know, I know,” Harry cut him off, his voice rising. “The trace.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “But sitting here doing nothing is driving me mad. Do you have any idea what it’s like? Feeling like there’s all this energy building up inside you with nowhere to go?”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment, his grey eyes searching Harry’s face. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I do.”

Guilt stabbed at Harry. Of course Sirius understood—he’d been imprisoned in this house for months. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Sirius said gently. “But we both have to find ways to cope that don’t make things worse.”

Before Harry could respond, footsteps echoed on the stairs. Ron and Hermione appeared in the doorway, both looking considerably more cheerful than Harry felt.

“We were just talking about your girlfriend,” Ron said with a grin, settling into a chair. “You must be getting excited to see her when you go back.”

Heat rose in Harry’s cheeks. “She’s not my—”

“Oh, come off it,” Hermione said, sitting down with her tea. “You told us about the kiss, Harry.”

Sirius perked up with interest. “Kiss? When were you planning to tell your godfather about this mysterious girlfriend?”

“Daphne Greengrass,” Hermione supplied before Harry could answer. “She’s in Slytherin, in our year.”

Sirius went very still. All the warmth drained from his face.

“Greengrass.” The name came out flat, careful.

“Yeah, so what?” Harry said.

“Harry...” Sirius looked at Ron and Hermione, then back at him. “The Greengrass family doesn’t just date people. They don’t form casual attachments. If their heir is involved with you, it’s because they’ve made a calculation.”

“A calculation?” Harry’s voice was getting louder. “She’s not some political tool, she’s—”

“She’s the future head of one of the most dangerous families in wizarding Britain,” Sirius cut him off. “The Greengrasses have survived every war, every purge, every political shift for five centuries. You know how? By never choosing sides until they know who’s going to win.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “But that’s good, right? If they’re choosing Harry’s side?”

Sirius chuckled, but there was no humour in it. “That’s the problem. It means they think Harry’s going to win. And they only back winners who can give them what they want.”

“Which is what?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Power. Real power.” Sirius’s grey eyes were fixed on Harry. “My family was dark, Harry. We were proud of it, open about it. But even the Blacks were careful around the Greengrasses. There were always rumours... things they were willing to do that even we wouldn’t touch.”

Harry temper flared. “So what, I’m supposed to stay away from her because of family gossip?”

“You’re supposed to ask yourself why she chose you,” Sirius said sharply. “Because I guarantee you, Harry, it wasn’t random.”

“Maybe she actually cares about me!” Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. “Maybe not everything is some grand conspiracy!”

“Harry, calm down—” Hermione started.

“No!” Harry was practically shouting now. “I’m tired of everyone acting like I can’t make my own choices! Like every good thing in my life has to be suspicious!”

“That’s not what we’re saying—” Ron tried.

“Isn’t it?” Harry whirled on them. “I finally have someone who doesn’t treat me like the Boy-Who-Lived, who actually understands what I’m dealing with, and all you can do is find reasons why it’s wrong!”

“Harry,” Sirius said, standing slowly, “I’m not trying to hurt you. But if the Greengrasses are moving now, after staying neutral for so long...”

“Then what?” Harry snarled.

“Then they’ve seen something that made them believe you’re going to win this war. And they want to make sure they’re on the right side when you do.” Sirius’s voice was grim. “The question is: what did they see in you that convinced them?”

“I’m going upstairs,” Harry said abruptly, turning toward the door.

“Harry, wait—” Sirius called.

But Harry was already gone, taking the stairs two at a time and slamming his bedroom door behind him. He threw himself on his bed, his mind racing.

Two more days. Two more days until he could see Daphne again, until he could get back to their secret room that made everything clear. For a moment, Harry thought the holiday couldn’t get any worse… but then Snape asked to see him about something called Occlumency.

V. Plans
Harry had never been so relieved to be back at Hogwarts. The moment he’d stepped off the Hogwarts Express that Sunday evening, some of the tension had left his shoulders. Daphne was here. The room was here. Soon, everything would be normal again.

Twenty minutes after dinner, Harry was practically running through the hidden passage to their room, his hands shaking with anticipation. But when he squeezed through the entrance, he stopped short.

The room looked like a battlefield.

Targets lay in smouldering ruins, ash covered nearly every surface, and the air still hummed with residual magic. In the centre of it all stood Daphne, her usually perfect hair dishevelled, her face flushed, pointing her wand at a large armoire.

“Mors Mortis!” she snarled.

Harry had never seen that spell before, but its effects were devastating. The armoire didn’t just break but seemed to die, wood turning grey and brittle before crumbling to dust that scattered like funeral ash.

“Daphne?” Harry called.

She spun around, her pale eyes wild for a moment before focusing on him. “Harry.” Her voice was breathless, desperate. “You’re back.”

“How long have you been here?” Harry asked, taking in the surrounding destruction.

“I... I don’t know,” Daphne admitted, lowering her wand with what looked like considerable effort. A few hours, I think. Time seems strange when you’re practicing.”

Harry understood. The room, the spells, the perfect release they provided—it was easy to lose yourself in it all.

“I missed you,” he said, pulling out his wand. “I missed this.”

“Torquere!” he cast at the nearest target, and the familiar rush flooded through him. God, how had he survived two weeks without this feeling?

“Languor!” Daphne cast alongside him, and they fell into their old rhythm, spell after spell erupting from their wands as weeks of pent-up need found release.

When they stopped, both breathing hard and covered in sweat, Harry was truly alive for the first time since Christmas.

“Feel better?” Daphne asked, sinking onto their usual pile of cushions.

“God, yes,” Harry said, joining her. “I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

“The time away was that difficult?”

“It was horrible,” Harry admitted. “I couldn’t think about anything else. My hands were shaking, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Everyone kept staring at me like I was ill.”

Daphne reached out and took his hand. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Harry experienced a rush of relief that he wasn’t alone in his need. “At least we’re back together now.”

“Yes,” Daphne said, but there was something in her voice that made Harry look at her more closely. “Harry, what happened over the holidays? You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Harry told her everything—the attack on Mr. Weasley, the fear that he might be possessed, the growing suspicion from his friends and family. But most importantly, he told her about Snape.

“Occlumency,” Daphne breathed when he finished. “Oh, Harry.”

“You know what it is?”

“It’s the art of closing your mind to outside intrusion,” she said, and Harry could hear the carefully controlled panic in her voice. “But Harry, do you know how it’s taught?”

“Dumbledore mentioned something about clearing your mind...”

“It requires someone to look into your thoughts using Legilimency,” Daphne said, her grip on his hand tightening. “Professor Snape will see your memories, your experiences. Harry, if he sees me, if he sees us together...”

Harry frowned. “What’s wrong with him seeing us together?”

“You don’t understand,” Daphne said, and now she looked genuinely terrified. “In Slytherin, everyone believes Professor Snape reports to the Dark Lord. If he sees that I’ve been helping you, teaching you things, caring about you... my family will be in danger.”

The blood drained from Harry’s face as he understood. If Voldemort learned Daphne had been helping Harry Potter, that she’d been anything other than hostile toward his greatest enemy...

“He could kill you,” Harry whispered.

“Or worse,” Daphne said. “Harry, I need you to promise me something. Whatever happens in those lessons, whatever Professor Snape tries to see, you cannot let him find out about us. About any of this.”

“How do I stop him?” Harry asked desperately.

“You learn to control your mind,” Daphne said. “But Harry, I have an idea. I’m going to write to my father tonight. He knows about these things—about mental magic, about protection. He might be able to help us.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” Daphne said, leaning forward to kiss him. “We’re in this together, remember? We’ll figure it out.”

As they prepared to leave, Harry experienced a mixture of dread and determination. The lessons with Snape would be dangerous, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to Daphne. He’d learn to protect his mind, to keep their secrets safe.

He just hoped it would be enough.

* * *​

The first few Occlumency lessons were torture, but not in the way Harry had expected.

Snape seemed more interested in Harry’s childhood than his recent experiences, forcing him to relive moments with the Dursleys, early memories of Hogwarts, confrontations with Quirrell and the Basilisk. Harry struggled to empty his mind as instructed, but found it nearly impossible.

“Again,” Snape would say after each failed attempt. “Legilimens!”

And Harry’s mind would be invaded once more, his most private moments laid bare for Snape’s inspection.

True to her word, Daphne had written to her father immediately after Harry’s return. By late January, packages began arriving with books on advanced mental magic and detailed instructions on Occlumency techniques.

“Father says the key is emotional control,” Daphne explained as they practiced in their room. “Complete emptiness of feeling. He’s sent us some exercises to try.”

They began practicing Legilimency and Occlumency on each other, and Harry discovered he had a natural talent for mental magic. Where Daphne excelled at building mental barriers, Harry found he could slip into her thoughts with surprising ease.

“You’re getting quite good at this,” Daphne said after Harry successfully read her surface thoughts. “Try looking deeper.”

“Legilimens,” Harry said, and suddenly he was seeing Daphne’s memories: her first glimpse of him on the train, her father’s instructions about gathering information, her growing genuine feelings for him.

“Excellent,” Daphne said when he withdrew. “Now let me try on you. Remember, empty your mind completely.”

* * *​

It was during their fourth Occlumency lesson with Snape, in early February, that things unravelled.

Snape had just pulled out of Harry’s mind after viewing a humiliating memory of Dudley’s gang chasing him up a tree. As the connection broke, Harry’s mind touched on the memory of their last session, casting Mors Mortis, the perfect crystalline calm that had followed, the incredible sense of power and control.

For just a moment, Snape caught the edge of that memory. Not the spell itself, but the emotion that followed it: euphoria so intense it was almost transcendent, satisfaction so deep it seemed to reach his very soul.

Snape’s black eyes narrowed as he stared at Harry, who was still breathing hard from the intensity of the experience.

“There was something else,” Snape said slowly. “Just now, when I withdrew. A feeling of... unusual satisfaction. Intense pleasure.”

Harry’s heart pounded. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me, Potter.” Snape stepped closer, his dark eyes boring into Harry’s. “What have you been doing that brings you such... remarkable euphoria?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, but sweat was breaking out on his forehead.

“Legilimens!”

This time, Snape pushed harder, deeper, clearly searching for whatever had caught his attention. Harry’s mental defences crumbled under the assault, and in desperation, he reached for the techniques Daphne had taught him. The memory of perfect calm, of complete emotional control, of the emptiness that followed their spells.

The intrusion stopped.

Snape pulled back, looking surprised. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Harry asked, though he knew exactly what had happened.

“You blocked me. For a moment, your mind became impenetrable.”

From that night forward, Harry’s routine changed completely. Every evening before his Occlumency lessons, he would visit the room and practice the spells until he achieved that perfect state of emotional numbness. Sometimes Daphne was there, and they would cast together, their magic feeding off each other’s energy. Other times he went alone, working through increasingly advanced techniques.

Daphne had been teaching him new spells from deeper in the book—Dolor Infinitus, which caused objects to experience what could only be described as existential agony before dissolution; Animam Rumpere, which seemed to tear at the very essence of whatever it struck; and Mors Mortis, the spell he’d seen her use that first night back, which brought a kind of magical death to inanimate objects.

“You’re mastering these faster than I ever did,” Daphne said one evening in late February, watching him cast Animam Rumpere. “It’s like you were born for this kind of magic.”

“They feel natural,” Harry said, and it was true. The spells felt more natural than breathing, more essential than his heartbeat.

His lessons with Snape improved dramatically, though not without cost. The professor grew increasingly suspicious as Harry’s mental defences strengthened, pushing harder and deeper in each session.

“You’re learning faster than I expected,” Snape said during one lesson in early March, his black eyes glittering dangerously. “Perhaps we should explore some more... recent memories.”

That was when Harry knew his time was running out.

“He’s getting too close,” Harry told Daphne that night as they practiced in their room. “He knows I’m hiding something, and he’s determined to find out what.”

“We need to do something,” Daphne agreed, her face pale with worry. “If he discovers us...”

They tried everything they could think of. Daphne began orchestrating interruptions: having Astoria burst into Snape’s office with urgent questions, arranging for Umbridge to schedule conflicting meetings, even causing minor emergencies that required Snape’s immediate attention. But the professor was persistent, always rescheduling their sessions.

In mid-February, Hermione had approached him with an idea about an interview with The Quibbler, and Harry had agreed. The article, when published, vindicated everything he’d been saying about Voldemort’s return. For a brief moment, he was triumphant.

“This is brilliant,” Daphne said, reading the article aloud in their room. “‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, says our brave correspondent, in an exclusive interview with Harry Potter.’ Finally, people are listening.”

“I don’t want fame,” Harry said, practicing wand movements for Dolor Infinitus. “I just want people to know the truth.”

“Same thing, sometimes.” Daphne set down the magazine and moved to stand behind him, her hands covering his on his wand. “Try it with more feeling. Remember what you want to destroy.”

The spell that erupted was beautiful, causing the practice target to writhe in apparent agony before dissolving into nothing. Harry leaned back against Daphne’s warmth, perfectly content.

“I love you,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Daphne’s hands stilled on his. “Harry...”

“I do,” he said, turning in her arms to face her. “I love you. I love this. I love what we have together.”

For a moment, something flickered across Daphne’s face—surprise, calculation, something that might have been guilt. But then she was kissing him, and Harry forgot everything else.

“I love you too,” she whispered against his lips.

But their happiness was short-lived. As March progressed, everything unravelled. The DA was discovered, Umbridge became Headmistress after Dumbledore fled, and Harry’s friends were suffering in detention while he was powerless to help them.

“Everything’s falling apart,” Harry said one night, casting spell after spell with manic intensity. “Torquere! Mors Mortis! Animam Rumpere!”

“Harry, you need to calm down,” Daphne said, watching him with growing concern.

“I can’t!” Harry spun to face her, his eyes wild. “Don’t you understand? Snape is getting closer to discovering us every day. My friends are suffering because of me. Dumbledore’s gone. The only thing that makes sense anymore is this—” He gestured wildly at the destroyed targets around them.

That night, after Harry had exhausted himself with casting, they made their final plan.

“We have to end the lessons,” Daphne said. “Whatever it takes. If Snape discovers our connection, my family is dead.”

“But how?” Harry asked.

“Make him refuse to continue,” Daphne said. “Push back. Make him realise that continuing the lessons is more dangerous for him than stopping them.”

“What if he forces me to continue?”

“Then you remind him of his position,” Daphne said. “Snape walks a very fine line between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. He can’t afford to have his methods questioned.”

Three days later, Harry put their plan into action.

The lesson had been going badly from the start. Snape was pushing deeper than ever before, clearly searching for whatever secret Harry was hiding. Harry could sense his mental defences cracking under the assault, could sense Snape getting closer to memories of the room, of Daphne, of the spells they practiced together.

Finally, as Snape pressed against a well-guarded memory, Harry had enough.

He opened his eyes, stood up abruptly, and walked toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going, Potter?” Snape’s voice was dangerous.

Harry turned back to face him, and for a moment, something cold and calculating flickered in his green eyes.

“I’m done,” Harry said. “These lessons are over.”

“You do not get to decide when—”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Harry interrupted, his voice still eerily calm. “Tell Umbridge that I’m refusing to attend the Occlumency lessons you’re giving me to protect my mind from Voldemort? Explain to the Ministry why you’re forcing the Boy Who Lived to submit to Legilimency against his will?”

Snape went very still. “You would not dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Harry stepped closer, and Snape could see something in those green eyes that made his blood run cold. “You’ve been trying to break into my mind for months, Professor. Looking for secrets, for weaknesses, for things you can use against me. But what happens when people ask why? What happens when they wonder what you might have planted there instead of just looking?”

The threat was clear, and they both knew it. In the current political climate, with Snape’s past as a Death Eater and his precarious position between two masters, even suggesting misconduct could destroy him.

“You do not know what you’re playing with, Potter,” Snape said quietly, but there was something like fear in his black eyes.

“Don’t I?” Harry asked, and the coldness in his voice was absolute. “I think I understand more than you realise.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other across the office. Finally, Snape spoke.

“Get out of my sight,” he said. “And do not return.”

Harry smiled—a expression devoid of warmth or humour. “Thank you, Professor. It’s been... educational.”

As Harry left Snape’s office, he felt a surge of triumph unlike anything he’d experienced before. He’d won. He’d protected Daphne, ended the threat to their secret, and shown Snape exactly who had the real power in their relationship.

It was only later, as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, that he realised what Snape had seen in his eyes during those final moments. The same cold calculation, the same willingness to threaten and manipulate, the same casual cruelty that marked every Death Eater Snape had ever known.

But by then, Harry no longer cared what anyone thought they saw in him. He had Daphne, he had their magic, and he had the power to protect what mattered to him.

Nothing else was important.

VI. Truth and Lies
The high from defeating Snape had lasted exactly three days.

Harry sat in their room, watching Daphne arrange new targets with her usual precision. They’d been celebrating their victory over the Occlumency lessons, revelling in the fact that they’d outmanoeuvred one of the most dangerous wizards at Hogwarts. But tonight, something was different. There was a tension in Daphne’s movements, a purposefulness that made Harry’s stomach clench with unease.

“Animam Rumpere,” Harry cast at a broken chair, watching it dissolve with the familiar rush of satisfaction. The spell was as natural as breathing now, as essential as his heartbeat.

“Very good,” Daphne said, but her voice was distracted. She was studying him with an intensity that reminded him uncomfortably of the way Snape used to look at him during Occlumency.

“Is everything all right?” Harry asked, lowering his wand.

“Harry,” Daphne said suddenly, turning to face him. “You know that eventually, the Dark Lord will reveal himself.”

“Yes,” Harry said carefully. Something in her tone made him wary.

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“He will come after you, as he has in the past. But this time will be different.” Daphne stepped closer, her pale eyes fierce. “It won’t be just you. He will go after all those you care about.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine. “Are you worried that he will find out about us?”

“No—well, yes—but that’s not what I mean.” Daphne shook her head impatiently. “What are you going to do if he does come after me? After Granger or the Weasleys? What are you willing to do to stop him?”

“Why are you asking this?” Harry asked, though he had a growing suspicion he didn’t want to voice.

“You are good at Defence Against the Dark Arts. The best at Hogwarts,” Daphne said, beginning to pace. “But this is the Dark Lord we’re talking about. Our OWL spells will mean nothing against him.”

She stopped pacing and looked directly at him. “I can get you other spells. Other ways to strengthen you.”

There was a pause. The words hung in the air between them like a curse waiting to be cast.

Harry stared at her, something cold settling in his stomach. “What kind of spells?”

“Real ones,” Daphne said, her voice intense. “Powerful ones. The kind that can stop someone like Voldemort.”

“No,” Harry said immediately, taking a step back. “I won’t stoop to that level.”

“You won’t win wars with Tickling Charms, Harry,” Daphne said, her voice hard. “This isn’t some school duelling club. Voldemort uses the darkest magic imaginable, and you think you can defeat him with what? Disarming Spells? Stunners?”

“I’ll find another way,” Harry said desperately.

“With what? The same curses and jinxes we use in Defence class?” Daphne’s voice was sharp with frustration. “Every hex you’ve ever cast, every jinx, every curse, they’re all technically Dark Magic, Harry. Anything designed to harm another person crosses that line. So why is it suddenly wrong to use more advanced versions of the same thing?”

“That’s different,” Harry protested, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.

“Is it?” Daphne pressed. “What makes a Stinging Hex acceptable but a more powerful curse unthinkable? They both cause pain. They both harm your opponent. The only difference is effectiveness.”

“I will not become like him,” Harry said, backing toward the passage.

“Then you’re going to lose,” Daphne called after him. “And everyone you care about is going to die because you were too noble to do what was necessary.”

Harry squeezed through the passage, her words echoing behind him. But it wasn’t just her words that bothered him but the way she’d said them. As if she knew more than she was letting on. As if there were things about their training that she hadn’t told him.

He pushed the thought away. Daphne was frustrated, that was all. She was worried about the coming war, about what Voldemort might do. She didn’t really mean what she was saying.

Did she?

* * *​

Harry found Ron and Hermione in the common room the next evening, hunched over their Defence Against the Dark Arts essays. He’d spent the entire day thinking about Daphne’s words, unable to shake the question she’d raised.

“Hermione,” he said, settling into a chair across from them with what he hoped was casual interest. “Is it true that all the jinxes and curses we use are considered a type of Dark Magic?”

Hermione looked up from her parchment, her quill hovering over an ink blot. “Oh, that’s a very interesting debate,” she said, immediately perking up at the academic question. “Several magical theorists believe that anything we use against another person is considered dark magic by definition. The intent to harm, even temporarily, crosses a fundamental line.”

“But others disagree?” Harry pressed, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yes, there’s another school of thought that argues intention and proportionality matter more than the technical classification,” Hermione said, settling into lecture mode. “Low-level jinxes and curses are generally considered acceptable because they’re easy to counter, easy to cast, and don’t rely heavily on negative emotions.”

“It’s because they aren’t addictive,” Ron added suddenly, looking up from his own essay.

Harry’s blood turned to ice. “Addictive?”

“Real Dark Magic leaves traces,” Ron explained, setting down his quill. “Both in the real world, with results being harder to heal, and with your emotions. As a curse breaker, Bill often has to deal with old dark magic, and after Ginny… well… our parents wanted us to be sure of the signs.”

“What signs?” Harry asked, his mouth dry.

“Well, there’s the obvious stuff first,” Ron said, counting on his fingers. “Mood swings, irritability when you can’t practice. Bill says dark magic creates dependency—you start needing it more and more just to feel normal.”

Harry’s hands trembled under the table.

“Then there are the physical signs,” Ron continued. “Shaking hands, trouble sleeping, loss of appetite. And the mental ones are the worst: you think dark magic is the only real solution to problems. Everything else feels insufficient.”

“But the most telling sign,” Ron said, his voice dropping, “is that you isolate yourself. You can’t share what you’re doing with people who care about you, because deep down, you know they’d be horrified. So you make excuses, avoid questions, and spend more and more time alone.”

Harry was going to be sick. Every word Ron said struck like a physical blow, each symptom matching perfectly with his own behaviour over the past months.

“Bill says the worst part is that dark magic makes you feel powerful and in control, even while it’s controlling you,” Ron finished. “It convinces you that you’re becoming stronger, when really you’re just becoming dependent.”

“That’s fascinating,” Hermione said, though she was looking at Harry with growing concern. “I hadn’t realised there was such clear research on the psychological effects.”

“Are you all right, Harry?” Ron asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Harry lied, standing up abruptly. “Just... I think I need to do some research for an essay. I’ll see you later.”

Harry made his way to the library with a sense of growing dread, Ron’s words echoing in his mind. The symptoms he’d described matched Harry’s own experience so perfectly it couldn’t be coincidence.

He had to know for sure.

The library was quieter than usual, with only a few students scattered among the tables. Harry made his way to the card catalog, his hands shaking as he searched for the book that had become such a central part of his life.

Therapy Through Destruction: Advanced Techniques for Emotional Regulation Through Controlled Magic.

His heart sank as he found the entry. Next to the title was a location code he’d didn’t want to see: RESTRICTED.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, approaching Madam Pince’s desk with what he hoped was casual interest. “I was looking for some books on therapeutic magic and stress relief techniques. I found this title in the catalog, but it seems to be in the Restricted Section. I wanted to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake.”

Madam Pince looked up sharply, her hawklike eyes focusing on him with immediate suspicion. “Which book?”

“Therapy Through Destruction: Advanced Techniques for Emotional Regulation Through Controlled Magic,” Harry said, the words like ash in his mouth.

Madam Pince’s expression shifted from suspicion to something approaching alarm. She set down her quill and studied Harry’s face intently.

“Mr. Potter,” she said slowly, “that book has not been misplaced. It is exactly where it belongs.”

“But the title suggests it’s about therapeutic techniques,” Harry pressed, though his heart was already sinking. “Surely that’s not restricted material.”

“Ah,” Madam Pince said, and there was something almost pitiful in her voice. “You see, Mr. Potter, many Dark Magic books are named similarly. No dark wizard would ever be seen carrying ‘101 Illegal Dark Spells’ or ‘A Beginner’s Guide to the Unforgivables.’”

Harry’s world tilted around him. “Dark Magic?”

“The first lie that dark magic tells,” Madam Pince continued, her voice taking on the tone of someone delivering a well-practiced warning, “is that it’s something else entirely. Therapeutic magic. Advanced defensive techniques. Emotional regulation. Whatever sounds most appealing to the potential practitioner.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The book you mentioned is one of the most insidious texts in our collection. It presents genuinely dangerous dark magic as beneficial therapy, complete with fabricated research and testimonials. It’s designed to recruit new practitioners by making them believe they’re learning something helpful rather than harmful.”

Harry’s vision blurred at the edges. “I... I see.”

“Have you been exposed to this book, Mr. Potter?” Madam Pince asked, her voice sharp with concern. “Because if you have, you need to seek help immediately. The longer someone practices the techniques described in that text, the harder it becomes to break free from their influence.”

“No,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “No, I was just looking for some actual therapy books. For stress relief. I had no idea that one was... what it was. I certainly don’t want it now.”

Madam Pince studied his face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I’m glad to hear that. Let me recommend some legitimate texts on magical stress relief and emotional regulation.” She pulled out several books from behind her desk. “These are all perfectly safe and have been properly researched by qualified healers.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, accepting the books with hands that shook. “I appreciate the warning about the other one.”

“Of course. We can’t be too careful when it comes to dark magic, Mr. Potter. It has a way of presenting itself as exactly what we think we need.”

Harry nodded and walked away from the desk, the legitimate therapy books clutched in his hands like a lifeline. But his mind was reeling with the horrible truth that Madam Pince had just confirmed.

He’d been practicing Dark Magic for months. Real, dangerous, addictive Dark Magic. And the worst part wasn’t even that he’d been tricked into it—it was that deep down, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known. He’d recognised what those spells really were. He’d just been too dependent on them, too desperate for the relief they provided, to let himself acknowledge the truth.

The only question now was what he was going to do about it.

Harry spent the rest of the day in a haze of horror and self-recrimination. Every memory from the past months took on a sinister new meaning. The way Daphne had introduced the spells so carefully, so gradually. The way she’d always had excuses for why they felt different from normal magic. The way she’d deflected his questions and changed the subject whenever he got too curious.

She’d known. She’d known exactly what she was teaching him, and she’d let him believe it was something else entirely.

By evening, Harry’s shock had crystallised into rage. The angrier he got, the more he wanted to cast those spells. Even now, thinking about confronting Daphne, his fingers itched for his wand. He wanted to show her exactly what she’d turned him into. Hell, part of him wanted to curse her for what she’d done to him.

He made his way to the room, his jaw clenched and his hands shaking with a mixture of fury and the familiar craving. When he squeezed through the passage, he found Daphne arranging targets as if nothing had changed.

“Harry,” she said, looking up with a smile that now seemed false and calculating. “I was wondering when you’d—”

“You lied to me,” Harry said, his voice deadly quiet. His wand hand was trembling with the urge to cast Languor, to make her experience even a fraction of the pain she’d caused him.

Daphne went still. “What?”

“You lied to me about everything. The book, the spells, what we were really doing.” Harry stepped into the room, his green eyes blazing with fury. “It’s all Dark Magic. Real, dangerous, addictive Dark Magic.”

For a moment, something flickered across Daphne’s face: surprise, guilt, calculation, before her mask slipped back into place.

“Harry, let me explain—”

“Explain what?” Harry’s voice was rising now, and he could sense the dark magic thrumming under his skin, begging to be released. “How you tricked me into becoming what I swore I’d never be? How you turned me into an addict? How you made me into a Dark Wizard?”

“I thought you knew!” Daphne said desperately.

“KNEW?” Harry shouted. The urge to curse her was almost overwhelming now. “Torquere was right there on his lips, begging to be cast. “How could I have known when you lied about every single thing?”

“It’s not like I ever hid what I was doing,” Daphne shot back, her own composure cracking. “You asked me to teach you the first spell. You begged me to show you more advanced techniques. I never forced you to do anything!”

“You told me it was therapy!” Harry snarled, his wand now in his hand though he couldn’t remember drawing it. “You said it was for emotional regulation! You made me think I was getting better, not worse!”

“And it did help you,” Daphne said, desperation creeping into her voice. “You were calmer, more focused, more powerful—”

“More addicted,” Harry cut her off. “More isolated. More dependent on magic that was slowly destroying me from the inside out.” His wand was pointed at her now, and he could see the spell forming in his mind, red light and screaming wood and perfect, satisfying destruction—

“You don’t understand,” Daphne said, reaching toward him. “I was trying to prepare you for what’s coming. I was trying to make you strong enough to survive—”

“By turning me into the enemy?” Harry jerked his wand away before he did something he couldn’t take back. “By making me just like Voldemort?”

“You’re nothing like him,” Daphne said fiercely. “You’re better than him. Stronger. With the right training, you could—”

“I could what? Become the next Dark Lord?” Harry’s laugh was bitter. “Is that what this was all about? Finding yourself a more palatable replacement for Voldemort?”

“That’s not—” Daphne started, but Harry was already backing toward the passage.

“We’re done,” he said coldly, forcing himself to lower his wand. “Whatever this was, whatever you thought you were doing, it’s over.”

“Harry, please—”

“Don’t,” Harry cut her off. “Don’t say another word. I never want to see you again.”

He squeezed through the passage, leaving Daphne alone in the room with the wreckage of their relationship and the terrible truth of what she’d done.

As he walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt something breaking inside his chest. Not just his heart—though that was shattered too—but something deeper. The person he’d thought he was, the person he’d believed himself to be, was gone. In his place was someone he barely recognised: a Dark Wizard who’d been too blind to see what he was becoming until it was too late.

The worst part was how much he’d wanted to curse her. How the anger had made every dark spell he’d ever learned seem necessary, justified, right. Even now, he could sense the magic humming under his skin, waiting for the next opportunity to be released.

VII. Aftermath
The withdrawal was like dying inch by inch.

Harry sat in the abandoned classroom he’d found on the seventh floor, pointing his wand at a stack of broken chairs with hands that shook so badly he could barely hold his focus. It had been three weeks since his confrontation with Daphne, three weeks since he’d sworn off the dark magic that had consumed his life for months.

Three weeks of hell.

“Reducto,” he whispered, and the chair exploded into splinters. But the rush that followed was empty, like trying to quench thirst with air. His hands shook harder as he moved to the next target.

“Confringo.” Another explosion, another meaningless burst of destruction. Harry sank to his knees, his whole body trembling with need. This wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

He’d tried everything. The legitimate therapy books Madam Pince had recommended were full of breathing exercises and meditation techniques that seemed like jokes compared to what he was used to. Think calming thoughts. Visualise peace. How could they understand what it was like to crave magic that was like liquid lightning in your veins?

The physical symptoms were the worst. Harry had lost weight, his appetite completely gone except for the gnawing hunger for spells he refused to feed. Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by cold sweats and dreams of crimson light. His hands shook constantly now, and he’d taken to keeping them in his pockets so his friends wouldn’t notice.

Not that they seemed to. With OWL exams approaching, everyone was too stressed and exhausted to pay attention to Harry’s careful performance of normalcy. He’d got good at smiling at the right moments, laughing when expected, nodding along to conversations while his mind screamed for relief.

“You seem much better,” Hermione had said just yesterday, looking pleased. “More like your old self.”

If she only knew that her “old” Harry was like a stranger wearing his skin.

The dreams were coming back too.At first it had been once a week, flashes of the dark corridor in the Department of Mysteries, doors stretching endlessly in both directions. But as May progressed, they came more frequently. Every few days, then every other night, then almost constantly.

Harry knew what was happening. Without the dark magic to empty his mind, his Occlumency skills were crumbling. The perfect emotional void that had protected him from Snape, from Voldemort’s intrusions, was gone. In its place was raw vulnerability, a mind full of pain and need that Voldemort could pierce like tissue paper.

Professor McGonagall had called him in for career advice, and Harry had sat through the entire meeting thinking about Languor while she discussed Auror training. Hagrid had been forced to leave after Grawp’s rampage through the grounds, and Harry had nodded sympathetically while imagining what Animam Rumpere would do to the giant. Even during his Defence OWL, demonstrating a Patronus for the examiner, Harry’s mind had drifted to Torquere.

The worst part was that he knew exactly what would make it all stop. One spell. Just one casting of the magic he craved, and the shaking would cease, the emptiness would be filled, the dreams would fade back to nothing. He could sense the knowledge of those spells burning in his mind like brands, waiting to be used.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d seen what that magic had turned him into, experienced the addiction wrap around his soul like chains. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how empty everything was without it, he wouldn’t go back to being Daphne’s creature.

Even if it killed him.

* * *​

The vision came during the History of Magic OWL, hitting Harry like a physical blow as his head dropped onto the parchment. Sirius, alone in a room of prophecies, writhing under Voldemort’s wand. Without his Occlumency training, without the mental barriers that dark magic had built, the vision tore through his defences like paper. When he jerked awake, screaming, his hands were shaking worse than ever.

Everything that followed was inevitable—Umbridge’s trap, Hermione’s desperate gambit with the centaurs, the flight to London on skeletal wings while Harry’s withdrawal symptoms spiked with every mile. His magic was sluggish, wrong, like trying to fight with a broken wand.

The Department of Mysteries was a trap. The moment Harry touched the prophecy, Death Eaters emerged from the shadows, and what followed was a nightmare. His friends fought bravely while Harry forced himself to cast Stunners that barely slowed their attackers. Languor, his mind whispered as Ginny fell. Animam Rumpere, it suggested as Ron’s face went slack. Torquere, it offered as Hermione crumpled. Harry ignored it all, watching his friends bleed because he refused to use the magic that could save them.

Then the Order arrived, and for one shining moment, Harry thought he’d been right about everything.

“Get away from my godson!” Sirius burst through the doors, his face alight with fierce joy, engaging Bellatrix with the confident magic Harry had never learned to use. Adult wizards filled the chamber—Lupin, Tonks, Moody, Kingsley—real fighters with real spells that made the Death Eaters stumble backward.

Harry experienced a surge of vindication so pure it made him dizzy. This was how it was supposed to work. Good people fighting with good magic. No compromises, no moral grey areas, no terrible choices. He’d been right to resist the whispers in his head, right to force himself to stay noble, right to—

“Come on, you can do better than that!” Sirius called out to Bellatrix, deflecting her curses with casual grace, laughing like this was the greatest game in the world.

Harry had never loved his godfather more. This was what strength looked like—confident, joyful, untainted by darkness. This was what Harry could become if he just stayed strong, stayed good, stayed—

“Nice one, James!” Sirius shouted, ducking another curse with that reckless grin.

The second jet of red light hit him square in the chest.

Harry watched his godfather’s face change from triumph to surprise to nothing at all. Watched him fall backward, slowly, gracefully, through the ancient veil that separated the living from the dead.

Every hope, every justification, every moment of vindication—it all crumbled to ash in an instant. The noble path had led here. To this. To Sirius falling through the veil because Harry had been too weak, too good, too afraid to use the magic that could have ended this before it began.

Harry tore free from Lupin’s grip and chased Bellatrix through the Ministry corridors, his magic suddenly flowing freely for the first time in months. When he cornered her in the atrium, there was only one thought in his mind.

“Crucio!”

The curse erupted from his throat like a dam bursting. Months of withdrawal, months of denying his magic what it craved, all of it poured into that single word. Bellatrix’s scream was beautiful. Her convulsing body was art. The spell was like coming home after years in exile, like every nerve in his body singing in perfect harmony.

The withdrawal symptoms vanished instantly. His hands stopped shaking. The constant ache in his chest disappeared. For the first time in months, Harry was truly alive.

He didn’t even notice he lifted the curse until Bellatrix sat up, blood trickling from her mouth. But instead of fear in her dark eyes, there was recognition. Respect.

“Well, well,” she gasped. “Little Potter has some real bite after all. That was impressive. Most can barely make me stumble with that curse. You mean it.”

Harry raised his wand again, and this time Bellatrix’s eyes widened with genuine interest rather than mockery.

“Oh, you want to play properly now?” she purred, getting to her feet with predatory grace. “Let’s see what other tricks the baby knows.”

The duel that followed was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced. This wasn’t careful Hogwarts magic but raw, primal, destructive. Bellatrix threw curses that made the air scream, and Harry responded with spells he barely remembered learning, magic that was as natural as breathing.

“Dolor Infinitus!” Harry snarled, the spell leaving a smoking crater where Bellatrix had been standing.

“Lovely!” she shrieked, cackling with delight. “Where did a little Gryffindor learn that?”

They danced around the atrium, both lost in the terrible joy of unleashing their full magical potential. Harry was more alive than he had in months, every spell a perfect release of the power he’d been denying himself. This was what he’d been missing, what he’d been craving.

That’s when Voldemort materialised at the far end of the atrium.

The Dark Lord’s red eyes moved between them, taking in the destruction, the wild look in Harry’s face, the way magic still crackled around his wand. When he spoke, there was something different in his voice—not mockery, but something that might have been respect.

“Most illuminating,” Voldemort said softly. “Tell me, Harry Potter—how does it feel to embrace what you truly are?”

Before Harry could respond, Dumbledore appeared, and the duel that followed shook the very foundations of the Ministry. When it ended with Voldemort’s attempt to possess Harry, something remarkable happened. The perfect emotional void that came after casting dark magic held firm. Voldemort’s possession failed completely, his consciousness sliding off Harry’s mental defences like water off stone.

“Interesting,” the Dark Lord hissed before disappearing in black smoke. “You have learned much since our last meeting, Harry Potter. Perhaps more than your precious headmaster intended.”

As Ministry officials arrived and chaos erupted around them, Harry stood perfectly still in the centre of the destroyed atrium, his wand steady in his hand, more complete than he had in months. The boy who had entered the Ministry that night was gone forever.

In his place stood someone else entirely.

* * *​

The room looked exactly as he’d left it months ago. Targets arranged in precise rows, the leather-bound book sitting on its makeshift table, ash still dusting the stone floor like memories of destruction. But everything was different now.

Daphne was there.

She stood with her back to him, wand raised toward a practice target, crimson light dancing around her fingers. She’d never stopped, Harry realised. While he’d been suffering through withdrawal, while he’d been forcing himself to be noble, she’d been here, practicing, perfecting, becoming everything he’d refused to be.

She turned when she heard him enter, and her pale eyes took in his appearance: the steady hands, the controlled posture, the careful emptiness in his expression.

“I heard about Sirius,” she said quietly, lowering her wand. “I’m sorry.”

“You were right,” Harry said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “About everything.”

Daphne set down her wand and stepped closer, her expression carefully neutral. “Harry—”

“I thought that if I was noble, if I was good, it would protect me and everyone I loved,” Harry continued, his words coming out steady and measured. “But it was a lie. You were right that it would get everyone I love killed.”

“Oh, Harry,” Daphne said softly, and there was something that might have been genuine regret in her voice. “I didn’t want you to learn it this way. I never wanted Sirius to—”

“But you knew it would happen eventually,” Harry said, not accusingly, just stating a fact. “You knew that being noble would cost me everything in the end.”

Daphne was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I knew.”

Harry paced around the room, his movements controlled and deliberate. “Dumbledore told me about a prophecy,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “Made before I was born. ‘Neither can live while the other survives.’ Either Voldemort kills me, or I kill him.”

“A prophecy,” Daphne repeated.

“Dumbledore thinks the power Voldemort knows not is love,” Harry continued. “He believes that as long as I trust in love, everything will work out. That love will save me, save everyone.” Harry paused beside one of the targets, touching its scorched surface. “He’s wrong.”

“Love is what made me weak,” Harry said simply. “Love is what made me hesitate when I should have acted. Love is what got Sirius killed.” He turned to face her. “Dumbledore could never understand that. He thinks love is the answer to everything, but sometimes love requires you to do terrible things.”

Harry’s voice took on a different quality, still calm, but with an underlying certainty that hadn’t been there before. “It’s ironic, really. Dumbledore wanted to make me into a weapon, someone capable of defeating Voldemort. But he couldn’t do it because of love. He wanted me to have friends, to be happy, to care about people. He thought that would make me stronger, but it only made me hesitant.”

“And now?” Daphne asked quietly.

“Now I understand,” Harry said, stepping closer to her. “His love made me weak, as he didn’t do what needed to be done. I will not have that weakness. Love is what will drive me to do whatever it takes to save them. Even if it damns me in the process.”

He reached out and touched her face gently. “I will do what Dumbledore couldn’t. I’ll become the weapon he was too afraid to create. Not despite my love for my friends, but because of it.”

“Harry,” Daphne whispered, her voice barely audible.

“I’ll do anything,” Harry said, pulling her into an embrace. “Whatever it takes to kill Voldemort. Whatever it takes to protect them. I understand now why you tried to teach me, why you brought me here, why you waited.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “You knew love would drive me to this choice eventually.”

As he held her, something settled into place inside his chest—not peace, exactly, but purpose. The boy who had believed that being good was enough was gone. In his place stood someone who understood that sometimes love required you to sacrifice everything, including your own soul.

“There’s so much more I can teach you,” Daphne whispered against his hair, and Harry felt something that might have been his last vestige of innocence finally, quietly, die.

 

Spoiler

What the hell, Daphne with ringlets? That's a new one.

Honestly, at first, I was going to say: Daphne and Astoria seem too reasonable. It's not quite so smug as it could have been, but it rings more than a little hollow. Harry can't really do more than sputter while Daphne presents him, calmly and eloquently, with the answers to every question he's got. It was like a bunch of awful fanfics.

But no. That's intentional, obviously, and you did it absolutely brilliantly. It works so well. I have nothing but praise. The attempts to warn him off by others around him, the realization that he's addicted and there's no way back except the slow clawing back of sobriety, and then the crumbling and relapsing anyway. Genuinely fantastic stuff.

I've only got two minor quibbles. The fact that everything went along the rails of canon anyway is a bit of a letdown, even if I understand that changing the course of action significantly there would've probably been pretty confusing for readers. The final speech was maybe a bit too theatrical to sound natural, but you've absolutely earned the stage to show off on.
5/5.

 

Spoiler

Thanks so much for writing! Nice story to sink one’s teeth into, plenty to chew and digest.


You build suspense, you scatter clues that get picked up later, there’s personal drama, good amount of characters, writing flows well.


The part when Harry realizes what’s happened is my favourite part. I particularly enjoyed the scene when Ron goes through the symptoms of having become dependent on dark magic and then the exchange with Madam Pince. Approve that you have Harry understand what’s happening himself rather than someone else telling him.


The use of the prompt is excellent and a very interesting idea in general. Could see some real-world parallels with things that may not be good for anyone being branded as therapy by unscrupulous people looking to make money or recruiting people into cults.


I like that the fic is dialogue heavy, I personally find fics like that easier to read. Lengthwise I’d say pretty good, I don’t think there are any scenes I’d cut more than some adverbs and adjectives out of. All but one part of the fic flows very naturally to me and is well-crafted.


I’m not a fan of the beginning chapters. Daphne is very Mary Sue and the others a bit awkward on the train. To me Daphne remained very underdeveloped as a character, as a main I would have liked to find out more about her. If she had more of a personality there would be more of a chance that she turns out to be a good’un as well. Would add an element of suspense. As a counterexample, I think you do a great job with Astoria. She immediately has a voice and personality and an interesting backstory for the reader to try and decipher (although, did you actually resolve that? Maybe I missed it.)


From my perspective, it was wrong to try and keep the characters akin to their canon selves. Why do Harry and co take to Daphne in the train carriage? She tells them both sides are equally bad and they go yeah maybe you’re right? I ended up feeling like there was a chunk of the story missing. Has Harry been love-potioned, has he fallen tits over arse in love from the get-go, or was there something mutual there to start building a friendship on? Why would he trust this stranger he’s spoken to once like this? Go into a room alone with her and let her teach him therapy, because he just can’t wait to open up about all of his fears and issues to a random Slytherin? I think you’re absolutely right that Harry can be tricked, and love certainly could do it. But then either show him falling in love or show the scene wherein he starts trusting her like this. I think one way to do it could be to utilize Ginny. She’s there at the beginning like she’ll be part of the character gallery, but then just isn’t mentioned again. And/or drive more of a wedge between Ron+Hermione and Harry.


“Dumbledore mentioned something about clearing your mind...” I think you mean Snape (or potentially Sirius) here, unless you’ve changed a major part of the reason why Harry is feeling so unheard and unnoticed in fifth year? And if indeed you have changed it and Dumbledore with his legilimency skills and general trivia knowledge of the wizarding world has spoken to Harry around Christmas, then I’d think Harry’s ascent to dark lord therapist gets stopped at this stage.

Speaking of canon versus not, I have a bone to pick with you about the Harry and Sirius scene at Christmas. I don’t really see Sirius leaving it where he does? He’d get to the bottom of it or involve others to help, unless there was a genuine falling out of some kind, but that too feels a bit convoluted, he's already shown he’ll risk his health and indeed life to protect Harry. Maybe if Harry used one of his new spells on Sirius in anger and he ended up in a coma or something? Take him out of the Christmas scene completely (DA mission maybe) and have someone else tell Harry about the darkest of the dark magical family. I dunno, maybe I need more suspension of disbelief. To conclude it is difficult to radically change the hero of the story’s path if everyone around him is kept their canon-ish selves. (Also, the movie thing of Sirius calling Harry James as he dies sets my teeth on edge, even if it works for your story. Pet peeve more than genuine criticism, sorry).

“Harry discovered he had a natural talent for mental magic.” Seems I’m not done with canon, sorry… I would have thought he struggles immensely throughout the learning process when mental focus Is required (occlumency, patronus charm and accio being the main examples). But maybe this change was part of the magical touch a la Daphne?

Anyway, my verdict is beginning bad, middle good, ending great, use of prompt superb, characters ok.

 

Spoiler

I've quoted these bellow before I realized where the story was going and they pissed me off

Once I got past these, I've realized they dont have anything to do with the story. Unfortunately, I think the most of the words, especially from Daphne, serve the same. I wouldn't exactly call it all bloat, but certainly pause until we get to monologues that give up the so called lie of the dark magic. This is very well written, but most of it is pause clawing its way towards the prompt. There's so much of Daphne but there's very little actually building her character. The length works towards the anticipation but while it does that superbly, it should also build supporting characters.

The big part of this is superb writing, if we can get past Harry's stumbling at beginning and errs and uhms and (...). I think this works so much better if we get much stronger characters. I think if Harry, somewhere in the middle, actually realises what is going on, and subtly says fuck it, it give so much.

But still, very well written. Kudos.

{/spoilers]

 

Spoiler

Very interesting. I think the start is a bit weak - feels a little rushed, particularly in the context of a basically canon-compliant fic (and also, I won't lie, I momentarily forgot the prompt and was reading it as more of a classic Haphne thing, but that's on me rather than you/the fic). While we're on the negative side of things, I realise that part of the point of the story is that we don't really know Daphne, but it does still feel a bit underdeveloped on that front - more actual focus on that might have benefited the fic, but with a deadline and (I think?) a wordcount, I appreciate there's only so much you can do. I'd also say that even in the context of Harry's most isolated year, there's a questionable lack of push back from Ron, Hermione et al.

Once the ball really starts rolling though, I got on board with it a lot more. That slow realisation, the attempt to drop it and the relapse, the pushback on "dark magic isn't that bad" fanon - I really like it, and the ending is genuinely pretty affecting. Good stuff.

4/5

 

Spoiler

Rating: 4/5

"What we became in winter" is a disturbing exploration of how someone becomes the villain of their own story, succeeding through psychological authenticity rather than shock value. While it has significant structural problems, it delivers a genuinely unsettling portrait of corruption that feels earned rather than forced.

The story's greatest strength lies in its understanding of addiction psychology. Harry's progression from initial relief ("I haven't felt this calm since...") to escalating need ("I couldn't think about anything else. My hands were shaking") to eventual rationalization feels accurate. When Ron unknowingly describes dark magic addiction symptoms that match Harry's exact experience, it's genuinely chilling because both Harry and the reader recognize the truth immediately.

The manipulation tactics feel authentic too. Daphne doesn't reveal herself as cartoonishly evil but works methodically, introducing concepts gradually through the fake therapy book—a clever device that mirrors how real predatory ideologies wrap dangerous ideas in appealing language. Her deflection "I thought you knew!" when confronted perfectly captures how abusers shift responsibility.

But the story's biggest weakness is Daphne herself. Despite being the co-protagonist, she never develops beyond her role as sophisticated manipulator. Compare her to Astoria, who immediately springs to life—bouncing in her seat, chattering about Quidditch, defending the Chudley Cannons with genuine enthusiasm. Astoria feels like a real thirteen-year-old in just a few scenes. Daphne, supposedly Harry's love interest and the story's second main character, feels like a plot function wearing a person's name.

This is particularly damaging because Daphne carries enormous thematic weight as the seductive face of corruption. When she claims "I love you too" or insists their relationship became real, it rings somewhat hollow because we've never saw deep into her personality and who she actually is. The author needed to show us her genuine fears about Astoria's illness, her frustration with family politics, moments where she drops the mask—anything to make her feel like an actual person rather than just Harry's tempter.

This characterization problem compounds the story's structural issues. The first quarter drags precisely because it's all elaborate setup without real character development. We get extensive scenes of train conversations and destruction sessions, but they don't deepen our understanding of either protagonist as people. It's just staging for the dark magic reveal, which makes the early sections feel like an extended prologue.

The contrast with the second half is stark. Once Harry's addiction takes hold, every scene crackles with tension because we're watching genuine psychological deterioration. His withdrawal symptoms, his confrontation with Daphne, his final transformation—it all works because it's driven by authentic human emotions rather than plot mechanics.

The supporting cast suffers from similar problems. Ron and Hermione exist purely to deliver exposition about dark magic addiction—they might as well be walking textbooks. Hermione's "fascinating" response to Ron's clinical description of dependency symptoms is laughably artificial. These are Harry's best friends, yet they notice nothing about his deteriorating condition for months. Even Sirius functions more as a plot device, his warnings about the Greengrass family feeling like heavy-handed foreshadowing rather than genuine concern.

Despite these flaws, the story succeeds where it matters most. Harry's final transformation feels inevitable rather than forced because each step follows logically from his psychological state. His use of Crucio on Bellatrix isn't a sudden character break but the result of months of conditioning combined with devastating loss. The moment when Voldemort treats him with newfound respect—"Most illuminating"—is genuinely horrifying because we understand exactly what Harry has become.

The addiction metaphor works brilliantly throughout the second half. Harry's rationalization of his final choice—"Love is what made me weak... Now I understand"—is perfectly in character for someone who's been systematically groomed and just experienced devastating trauma. The psychological authenticity elevates what could have been a simple corruption story into something genuinely disturbing.

The writing itself is solid, with particularly effective dialogue once the story finds its footing. The author handles the addiction metaphor with more sophistication than most published fiction on the subject, avoiding both romanticization and oversimplification.

This is ambitious dark fiction that mostly earns its darkness through psychological realism. While it stumbles with characterization and pacing in its first half, it delivers a powerful exploration of how good people can be led astray through isolation, manipulation, and trauma. The story would be significantly stronger with a more developed Daphne and better character work throughout, but it succeeds as a disturbing meditation on the nature of corruption—not as sudden transformation, but as a series of small compromises that seem reasonable at the time.

 

Spoiler

The middle and end of I made me nauseous. Enter the Greengrass sisters, played by Fanfiction Hermiones with triple the preaching!
The competent writing before just hurts by heightening my expectations.

A much much dulled version might be acceptable between close friends, but not strangers. I did take a moment to verify the prompt here.

The start of II had me at a loss.

It doesn't connect to I. Something lost in editing? Perhaps follows canon to that point, because that paragraph feels familiar? Needs a little telegraphing.

I like Daphne selling dark magic as therapy, even if it does firmly establish this as an AU system of magic. Very sneaky and very corrosive — a "bad" Slytherin with a "good" ideology. Having it take place immediately after Umbridge getting him to recite what dark magic is adds to the irony.

I expected Hermione and Ron to catch on earlier, because the first "I must not tell lies" session happens after quite a bit of baiting iirc, and to interrogate Harry in IV, after he nearly curses Malfoy.

You tantalized us with a course correction at the end of IV. Sirius, being from the Blacks, would surely recognize and help. If only he would notice! There are a lot of books in the Black library. If only one of the books were picked up. Serves to heighten the tragedy of Harry's fall?

I know the focus of the story ought to be on the prompt, but for such a long story, I'd expect Harry-Daphne to have lighter moments to heighten the darker ones, but if that preachiness at the start was just a façade to get close to Harry...

This strains belief. This should be a natural correcting point — Voldemort is a master of the Dark Arts and Harry couldn't keep out Snape.
Dumbledore should instantly know what Harry has been mastering. This ought to be where the lies of dark magic is revealed in full.

I can't find fault with established character voices (Harry, Snape)

This story takes a bunch of common tropes and executes them well. All of the scenes have a tinge of familiarity.

A good entry, but the downers: Greengrasses at the start, descent into darkness and success of the Greengrass longcon, doesn't make it for me.