ACT4CH50 - Reparations

Daphne’s heart pounded with a familiar blend of exasperation and concern as she trailed behind Harry. Before them, the stone entrance to the Chamber of Secrets loomed like a dark promise of peril. Every echo of his footsteps against the ancient stones only deepened the pit of worry in her stomach. She tried to steady herself, but her rapid, sharp breaths betrayed the storm of irritation roiling inside her. Her wand tapped a staccato beat against her thigh—a silent metronome marking the cadence of her discontent.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, she asked, her tone clipped and laced with exasperation, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Harry’s sheepish smile was there, though it did nothing to soften the hard set of his features. “I have to,” he replied, as if the weight of his decisions were as natural as the echo in the chamber.

Daphne arched an eyebrow and felt a surge of indignation. Of course you do, she thought bitterly, why bother with mundane things like spending time with your fiancée? The one who hardly ever sees the real you anymore? It had only been two weeks since his return, but every moment apart felt like a lifetime lost.

“H–Daphne…” Harry began, halting mid-step as if he sensed the impending storm in her words.

“No,” she snapped, closing the distance between them with determined strides. Folding her arms, she raised her wand—not in threat, but in insistence—as if daring him to dismiss her concerns. “The first thing you do after finally returning to Hogwarts—after surviving Azkaban, facing down Ekrizdis, and practically reshaping the laws of magic—is to charge headlong into this dungeon of nightmares? Don’t you even pause to breathe? To talk to me?”

Even as he tried to explain, she cut him off, her hand rising as if to silence his protest. Her voice, thick with both anger and sorrow, resonated with the truth she couldn’t ignore: “Don’t even try. You’ve done enough for three lifetimes, Harry. And now, instead of letting me drag you into a normal evening—one where we can discuss something other than existential doom—you’re here.”

A heavy sigh escaped him as he raked a hand through his hair. “The Vault… it’s not just about me. It’s tied to everything now. It’s in disarray after Azkaban, and if I don’t fix it…” His words trailed off into a grimace. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what happens if it collapses.”

For a moment, softness flickered in her eyes, though her lips remained tight. “I get it,” she murmured, her tone lowering. “You have responsibilities—bigger ones than anyone should ever carry. But Harry, you’re not invincible.” Deep inside, the thought pounded at her like a warning bell. I can’t lose you, she silently pleaded, not again. “The fact that you’re still alive, let alone intact, is a magical mystery in itself.”

He shrugged with a wry grin. “I’ll just chalk it up to dumb luck, then. The mess is almost over, so there’s no point in worrying.”

No amount of humor could dispel the dread rising within her. “No point? Harry, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” she chided, the words spilling out in a mixture of concern and incredulity. “Your eyes are glowing, your skin shimmers like a siren’s, and your magic—your magic is an eldritch abomination. And your shadow… it practically has a mind of its own.”

She knew that beneath his deflection lay the scars of battles too terrible to recount lightly. In her mind, she ran over the litany of horrors: trapped in a ritual circle, forced raw magic that could incinerate a person, duels with dementors and Death Eaters, channeling opposing energies that defied comprehension—and then, a direct blast from the Anima itself. Is there anything you haven’t suffered through these past two weeks? she demanded, her inner voice echoing the bitterness and sorrow in her tone.

Harry swallowed hard. For a heartbeat, she caught the glimmer of guilt in his eyes, and it stung more than any rebuke could. As she gripped the front of his shirt in both hands, her touch was equal parts anchorage and desperate insistence. “I’m… sorry?” he managed, his voice small against the roar of her worry.

“No,” she replied firmly, though her heart ached with empathy. “That’s just it, Harry. You shouldn’t be sorry. You’re too broken for apologies. You’ve sacrificed too much for everyone’s benefit.” Even as she spoke, her mind churned through the litany of misdeeds and misfortunes: Voldemort and his minions placing that cursed Circle over St. Mungo’s, a Death Eater—juicing you up as you sent Neville off—Dawlish, that self-centered wretch, Ekrizdis capturing the DMLE, and the Ministry hiding him for centuries. Fudge’s incompetence was legendary, and Umbridge... the mere thought made her skin crawl. It’s maddening how you shoulder everything alone, she thought, her words spilling forth, “As far as I’m concerned, the only thing you’re guilty of is trying to solve every problem by yourself.”

When Harry met her gaze, a flicker of remorse mingled with steely resolve in his eyes. “I know. But I can’t just let this go. Not when I can do something about it,” he said softly, as if the weight of his conviction was too much to bear.

With a resigned sigh that carried both exasperation and fierce love, Daphne threw her hands up. “Fine,” she said. “Be a hero. But don’t think for a second you’re doing this alone.” Every word dripped with the certainty that she would not be sidelined—not when his life, and their future, were at stake.

“Daphne…” Harry began, but she was already cutting him off. Pointing her wand squarely at him, she declared, “No. You’re not leaving me out of this. If you’re determined to risk your neck the moment you’re back, I’m coming along. I’ll make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” In that moment, her command was less a threat than a vow—a promise forged in love and tempered by fear.

A reluctant chuckle escaped him. “You’re impossible,” he remarked.

“And you’re infuriating,” she shot back, though a teasing lilt softened her words. Beneath the irritation lay an affection that no danger could diminish. “But I suppose that’s why this works.”

When Harry reached out and squeezed her hand, the warmth of his genuine smile seeped into her very bones. 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Daphne’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t thank me yet. You still owe me a lot of groveling later.”

Harry merely grinned, and with Daphne at his side, he turned to face the serpentine stone entrance. As he began to hiss a command in Parseltongue—a language as ancient and twisting as the passage itself—the massive doors groaned and shifted, revealing a descending pathway into the Lair.

Every step into that echoing corridor sent a shiver through Daphne. The slick, sinuous walls reflected the feeble torchlight from Harry’s wand, casting long, flickering shadows that danced over carved serpents, their stone eyes frozen in eternal vigilance. The air grew colder and damper, and a faint, eerie green glow bathed the space as an almost imperceptible hum of ancient magic pulsed beneath each footfall. Clutching her wand a little tighter, she pressed forward, every sense alert to the danger that lurked in the dark.

Breaking the silence, Daphne couldn’t resist a quip. “You know, most fiancés would opt for dinner and wine and sex after a long separation—not spelunking into cursed vaults.”

Harry smirked without looking back. “You knew what you were getting into.”

A dry smile tugged at her lips as she replied, “I know normal isn’t exactly what I signed up for with you.” Though her words were light, inside she wrestled with the absurdity of their perilous lives—a life where danger and dark magic were the norm. “But still, I never pictured my evenings spent in a tunnel reeking of mildew and despair.”

“To be fair,” Harry quipped, “the mildew was here long before me.”

Daphne laughed softly, even as her mind catalogued every oddity of this adventure. “Right, so why the scenic route? You could’ve taken the eastern corridor—it’s faster. Or is there some mystical, gatekeeping-level reason for dragging me through these damp, echoing halls?”

He sighed and shook his head. “It’s not about the route.”

“Right,” she agreed with a widening grin. “Because Harry Potter, Guardian of Scales and Master of Three Family Magics, always chooses his paths wisely.”

“Let’s just say it felt… fitting. Symbolic, even.”

“Symbolic,” she repeated, biting back a laugh. “You mean melodramatic.”

“Call it what you want. I thought you liked drama.”

“Oh, I do,” Daphne replied breezily as she stepped over an uneven stone. “But it’s funnier when you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

Their banter softened the oppressive silence until Daphne’s curiosity, mingled with her ever-present wariness, prompted another question. “Speaking of dramatic, where’s Hecate? I half expected your oversized, three-headed snake to slither down here with us, bickering all the way.”

A chuckle from Harry brought back memories of past escapades. “She’s otherwise occupied.”

“Occupied?” Daphne arched an eyebrow, her tone shifting to amused incredulity. “With what? Eating a basilisk for breakfast?”

“Close,” Harry said, his humor lightening the moment. “I left her in charge of the Azkaban Gate.”

For a long, suspended moment, Daphne stared at him as if he’d sprouted another head. “You… what?”

“She’s guarding the Gate,” he repeated, as though it were the most natural arrangement in the world. “I made some changes to her—ensured she’s safe from magical attacks and, well, appropriately intimidating.”

Daphne shook her head slowly, a teasing smile tugging at her lips despite the absurdity of it all. “Harry Potter,” she drawled, half in wonder and half in reproach, “you’ve placed a massive, deadly serpent in charge of a magical stronghold. Do you realize what you’re doing?”

“Uh… guarding a critical location?” he offered lamely.

“No,” she smirked. “You’re mimicking Salazar Slytherin.”

Harry groaned, running a hand through his messy hair, and for a moment, Daphne allowed herself a brief flash of exasperated fondness.

They reached a massive circular door to the Sunken Vault, where serpentine carvings glistened in the dim light. The emerald eyes of those stone serpents seemed to follow their every move. Harry paused, running his fingers reverently over the intricate runes etched into the metal. Daphne’s heart pounded—not just from the anticipation of danger, but from the wonder of being part of this living, breathing history of magic.

“Does it ever feel like this place resents you?” she asked softly, her voice nearly lost amid the hum of magic.

“Constantly,” Harry admitted. “But I’m its Warden. It doesn’t have much of a choice.”

In a sibilant murmur of Parseltongue, he issued another command. To Daphne’s eyes, the carved serpents unwound as the door creaked open, unveiling a swirling vortex of shimmering energy that beckoned them inward. Despite the ominous display, she couldn’t help but mutter, “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” tightening her grip on her wand.

Harry stepped through first, the air around him crackling with static energy. For a heartbeat, Daphne hesitated—every instinct screaming caution—before following, determination overtaking her doubt.

Inside, the Sunken Vault was a vision of chaos incarnate. Where once resided a sanctum of eerie grandeur—with silver and gold runes dancing in perfect rhythm—the magic now lay shattered. Jagged, cracked walls replaced flowing serpentine patterns, and towering shelves that had once cradled tomes of immense power now teetered dangerously. Overhead, an enchanted dome—an artificial sky that once bathed the Vault in serene luminescence—pulsed with erratic flashes of red and violet lightning, as if the very magic itself had rebelled.

Scattered books and crystalline tablets littered the floor, their pages fluttering in the turbulent eddies of raw energy that sent an unearthly chill racing down her spine. Daphne took a careful step back, her knuckles whitening around her wand. “Harry,” she whispered, a blend of disbelief and awe in her tone, “what… what happened here?”

Harry’s green eyes swept over the devastation. “Azkaban,” he replied simply. “When the Anima ruptured, it didn’t just affect the Gate—it spilled into every nexus in our world. When it surged, this was the result.”

Daphne’s gaze narrowed as she absorbed the chaotic swirl of magical energy. “Every… Harry James Potter, are you saying this place has some kind of containment circle? Like at Azkaban?” she pressed, her voice trembling between curiosity and dread.

“Not exactly,” he said, gesturing toward the massive Miraculum Operarius etched into the floor. “It’s what lets me, uh, every Warden, really, to access the Anima.”

“Salazar Slytherin left an opening to the Anima under the School?” she asked, her tone laced with incredulity even as she marveled at the complexity of it all.

“Of course not!” Harry scoffed. “He set protections in place. And also, it’s the one at Azkaban that was a replica—only on a grander scale.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Daphne snapped, her retort as biting as it was affectionate. “That man was worse than a bloody Gryffindor.”

For a moment, Harry looked like he wanted to say something, but then he thought otherwise. 

“Never meet your heroes,” He said at last. “Keeps the illusion intact.”

Truly, if Salazar Slytherin, the supposed epitome of self-preservation, caution and planning was like this, just how ghastly was Godric Gryffindor? Harry probably knew, but Daphne decided she was better off not knowing.

“When Ekrizdis unleashed the Anima, the protections here got overwhelmed. And now, if I don’t fix it, things could get much worse.”

Daphne crossed her arms. “How do you plan to fix this?” she asked, her voice steady despite the worry that churned in her stomach, as he stooped to pick up a fallen tome, its pages alive with shifting runes and diagrams.

“The containment chamber is bleeding off excess magical energy. I just have to identify the tear and repair it. Hopefully, I’ll be able to seal it in time.”

“In time…” Daphne frowned. “And if it’s already too late?”

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Harry offered a wry attempt at reassurance that did little to ease her mounting anxiety. “Whatever happened here, that golem already did whatever it could. I’m just… cleaning up, I guess.”

Glancing at the roiling eddies of magic, Daphne’s protective instinct surged. “Harry, are you sure you should do this alone? Maybe Professor Dumbledore—” she began, worry threading her voice.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Daphne Greengrass holds Dumbledore in such high esteem,” he interrupted with a teasing lilt.

Daphne’s scowl deepened, though it softened almost instantly into the affectionate exasperation that defined their every exchange. “It happens when Albus Dumbledore saves your life. Or, I suppose, keeps you alive until your fiancée sends you a wardstone to keep you from dying from that curse squeezing your life out.”

Harry stiffened at her words. “Daphne—”

“Relax,” she murmured, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “It’s over. I’m fine now. That wardstone from Minister Bones saved me—without it, I’d be a goner.” Her tone was gentle, yet underpinned with the hard-earned resolve of someone who had seen too much loss to take chances lightly.

He placed a soft hand on her lips, a silent promise to silence her worries. Daphne’s heart warmed at the gesture. “You’ll protect me. I know. And you did—even when you were away.”

“But it’s not enough,” said Harry tersely. “I was sloppy. I should have just sent you the wardstone earlier. If the Minister hadn’t decided to show up, you’d be… you’d be…”

Daphne smiled and pulled him against her bosom. “Don’t worry. I know you will. My Harry is strong.”

Yes, strong. That was the word she’d use to describe him, though not in the conventional sense. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t powerful. In fact, the number of people that could stand up against him in the entirety of Wizarding Britain could be counted in one hand and have fingers left over.

Harry was reckless, childish and downright irrational at times, and despite all his power, his inexperience could lead him to suffer defeat at the hands of a more experienced opponent. And he had. But that didn’t stop him from getting involved anyways.

For Sirius. For her. For Delacour. For those he cared about.

It wasn’t dedication. From the time she had spent around him, she knew that Harry was a twisted, high-functioning sociopath with his goals in the right place. He didn’t care what others thought about what he did. He didn’t care much about what he did either. But still, the conviction he put into achieving his goals was something to behold. The measures he went through to ensure that he got what he wanted was unreal.

Everyone recognized that at this point.

The Boy-Who-Lived. The Warlock. The Defence Professor. The Gatekeeper. The Guardian of Scales. The world had already attached multiple monikers on him, and it looked like it didn’t intend to stop anytime soon. People like Fudge probably thought of that as power and accolades, but Daphne knew better.

For Harry Potter, it was just one more added weight after another.

It made him scared. Scared of making the wrong decisions. Scared of having everyone’s lives in his hands. Sacred that everything was depending on him. The more power, the more  authority he was being given, the more the thread of blundering terrified him.

And especially after what happened…

“Let’s get to work,” said Harry suddenly. “The Vault isn’t going to fix itself.”

“Got a plan?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was winging it?”

“Absolutely,” Daphne deadpanned, arms folded as she met his eyes with equal parts challenge and concern. “But I’m hoping you’re not.”

“I am.”

“I hate you.”

Harry laughed, and whipped his wand out. It was the Elder Wand. Her father had told her how the wand had vanished from Dumbledore’s grasp when he was attempting to save her. That it had ended up with Harry only proved that their theories were correct.

On the other hand, Harry had resolved to never use the wand. Hell, he had practically demanded that Dumbledore must never give him the wand. For him to use it only emphasized the degree of danger and desperation he must have been in.

“How are you going to do it?” She asked, suppressing the urge to grab and hug the life out of him. “Architectural charms are sixth-year material.”

“I’m a professor, Miss Greengrass,” he said in mock indignation.

“And pants at standard charms,” she shot back.

“Touche,” he said. “Luckily, I have a way out.”

He raised the wand, and began entire sequences of runes in mid-air.

Runes? Again?

Working with runes was a curious art. Being descended from the Scandinavian sorcerers, the Greengrass line had runecraft in their blood, much like their distant relatives, the Bones. Daphne had enough experience with having runes blow up on her face to know just how tricky and dangerous it was to work with them, compared to sophisticated, modern spellcraft. Runes weren’t just symbols, they were commands woven into the fabric of reality. Ancient functions embedded in the universe’s code, waiting to be called upon. Spells could force magic to bend, but runes? Runes negotiated with the world, pushing against its boundaries, reshaping it bit by bit. Every rune had a meaning, but it also had weight—a presence that demanded respect.

It wasn’t enough to trace the lines perfectly. Intent mattered. Precision mattered. Each rune had layers of meaning, shifting and twisting depending on how it was used and what it was combined with. Laguz, the rune for water and flow, was simple on its own. But paired with Isa — stillness and protection, it could become an entire list of things: A stasis field holding the flow within; a preservation system; a lock, or a relay system. Or, if one wasn’t careful, it could become a silly trapping ward that would explode violently the moment it attempted to withstand the mounting pressure of the ley line energy.

She exhaled slowly, watching him steady his wand above the broken enchantments. His magic flowed in carefully, a thin thread of power that carried his intent, his will, into the rune. 

The rune flared to life beneath his touch, its lines glowing softly as the Vault began to respond.