ACT5CH20 - GODRIC'S HOLLOW

“Daddy! She’s awake!” “Wait. Give her time.” The world returned slowly, like fog burning away under a rising sun. Her first sensation was on

“Daddy! She’s awake!”

“Wait. Give her time.”

The world returned slowly, like fog burning away under a rising sun.

Her first sensation was one of discomfort, which grew to aching when she became more alert.  She opened her hazy eyes, and slowly, it turned to focus. The brilliant white before her turned to be the soft light spilling through the curtains.

Morning had come.

She could instantly tell something was ‘off’ with her body even though she was lethargic from regaining consciousness. Breathing was easier, and with it came a sensation of warmth, a calm, familiar feeling surging through her that she had only felt a few times before. The last thing she remembered was lying down on the floor, and feeling the ritual begin and then…

Then nothing.

What had happened?

Her thoughts faded as she registered something soft and heavy over her. The feeling of hard stone beneath her back was missing too.

Instead she smelt a familiar lavender aroma. The texture beneath her was warm, plushy, soft. 

Familiar.

She was in her room, on her bed.

Turning her head, she found Astoria by her right, hair braided tightly back, as if she’d been too busy to let it fall. Her expression was quiet, watchful in the way only sisters could be. On the other side, her father sat crooked on a stool, fingers interlaced, eyes red. His robes were wrinkled, as if he hadn’t left the room for several hours.

“Dad?” Daphne croaked. Her throat was raw, her voice unused. “Tori?”

“Welcome back, Daphy,” whispered Astoria. Her fingers gripped Daphne’s hand immediately. “You’re okay.”

Normally, she’d have hexed her little sister for that abominable nickname but given the condition, she decided to forgive her.

Her father let out a strangled sound—half sob, half laugh—and collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her other arm like a drowning man clutching driftwood. 

“Merlin, thank the stars. You’re — you’re finally healed.”

“For the record, you scared the shit out of me,” Astoria murmured. “Just thought I’d mention it before you get too proud of your dramatic return.”

Daphne blinked again, the haze thinning.

Then she remembered.

The ritual. The runes. The fire. The rot screaming out of her like a banshee. Her letting out one final breath before passing out on the floor, completely bare — 

Her eyes shot down—panic seizing her.

Astoria, quick as ever, caught the movement and gently tugged the covers higher over Daphne’s chest.

“You’re clothed,” she said with a soft smile. “I dressed you myself, don’t worry.”

“Oh. Right.” Daphne slumped back into the pillows, her heart galloping for no reason. “I just… for a second I thought…”

“You were unclothed and glowing in the middle of a ritual chamber?” Astoria offered. “You were. Believe me, I was there after.”

Daphne’s face flushed.

But the heat passed quickly.

Because something was wrong.

No. Not wrong. Just… different.

She waited for the throb that always followed waking. The sharp reminder that she was still cursed. But the silence was complete. And strange. Like waiting for thunder in a clear sky.

Her fingers flexed under the sheets. Her skin tingled, humming with some inner current. The ache in her limbs—her constant companion—was gone. As was the slow, invisible weight that had lived under her ribs for as long as she could remember. There was no tightness in her gut, no knife waiting to twist during the next cycle. No curse pressing against her spine.

Just warmth.

Flowing. Unbound.

She breathed in—and it felt like the world breathed with her.

The very air shimmered faintly with scent and light, and when she blinked again, she saw the threads—golden, vibrant, alive—dancing at the edge of her vision.

“Oh, there’s also one more thing,” said Astoria, before sharing a grin with her father.

“Happy Birthday!”

Daphne blinked dumbly. Today… was her birthday? Oh right. December 18. Had Harry considered that too in his calculations? 

“I feel…” She stopped, unsure. “...like I’ve been born again.”

“You’ve been reborn,” said Joshua. His voice was thick, and his eyes shone with something that looked like mad joy. “My little girl is healed. Whole. No curse. No malice. No death sentence. And not just alive—Summer lives in you, Daphne. Harry didn’t just cure you. He activated your blood.”

Daphne’s mouth opened. No sound came.

“I saw it,” Astoria said softly, her eyes shining. “The plants on the window right after we brought you here. Summer has truly accepted you. You’re truly the Lady of Greengrass now, Daphy.”

She nodded dumbly. 

She heard it all, of course, but to believe it was another thing.

She had trained herself in the Greengrass craft from the moment she was capable enough to learn how to read and write. Practicing with the staves. Casting runes. Every rite. Every lesson. Learning and imbibing the philosophy of Summer, all in hope that she’d be able to manifest it within her before the curse took her life away.

Daphne trembled.

For the first time in her life, her body wasn’t a prison.

As if to confirm her suspicion, the adenium on the window sill suddenly shook and bloomed.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked suddenly. “I need to see him.”

Astoria glanced at Joshua, then back at her sister. “He left with Dobby. Told us he had something to do, and would be back soon.”

Daphne’s heart skipped.

Had something happened? Honestly, she felt a bit lost. Her entire life had been one giant racetrack where she wanted to achieve as much as possible before her untimely end came. And now that she was healed, and had an entire life ahead of her, she didn’t know what the future lay ahead.

Was Harry still going to marry her? Yes. There was no doubt about it. He wouldn't have put this much effort to liberate her from the curse if all he wanted was to save her and then ditch her afterwards. But Fleur Delacour had told her how Harry would probably try to walk away, once he found Daphne’s cure.

Surely that wasn’t about to happen. Would it? He wouldn’t start disliking her because she now had the power to use Summer, would he?

Suddenly, Daphne realised that she didn’t want to find the answer to that question.

It wouldn’t matter, she decided furiously. Even if he tried to push her away for her own safety or some such nonsense, she’d go after him. She owed him her life, and he already had her love.

Moving the sheets off her, ignoring Astoria’s efforts, she attempted to stand up. After two failed attempts and near-slipping, she managed to stand by herself.Even though she was exhausted, she could confidently say that she felt more fresh than she ever felt with the curse. 

It was like finding out that she had a second heart pumping blood faster or something, one she hadn’t known had existed.

So this was what having a normal body felt like…

“I’m going to wash up. Please don’t mind me.”

Her father and sister watched her make her way to the bathroom before she closed the door.

“She’s handling this better than expected,” said Joshua. “My daughter is strong.”

“She has to be,” said Astoria. “Really, Boy-Who-Lived, Warlock, Unspeakable, Gatekeeper and now Healer? Harry’s really setting the bar high you know. Why did Daphy have to go and get such a kickass fiance?”

Joshua laughed. “Not for long. Now that she’s healed, we can get started with the marriage. I’m just expecting the entire issue with the Wizengamot to get sorted.”

“But Dad, isn’t the Wizengamot broken? You told me that those geezers will damn the world if it means soothing their egos. Until they agree to make peace, there’s no hope at all.”

“True, but they are dealing with Amelia Bones here. And she’s as stubborn and crazy as your brother-in-law.”

Astoria arched an eyebrow. “What did she do?”

“Like you said — no hope at all. But some people just can't take that as an answer.”

....

....

My dear boy,

I considered starting this letter with apologies — but I have learned, rather painfully, that apologies are best made in person. I hope you will allow me that chance soon.

I am writing to you now not as the representative of the Wizengamot, nor the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Just an old man that has failed a child he views like a grandson, and wants some closure.

The world is reeling, Harry. From the truth, from the shape of what magic has become, and from the shape of the man you have become within it. You have done what I could not. You have faced rot at its root and bled yourself to cleanse it. I heard what you are about to do for Miss Greengrass, and sincerely pray you succeed in your endeavours.

Harry, you told me that you would compromise where possible, and where it isn’t, you would deny it, even if the entire world stood against you.

So you did. 

But Harry, the world needs you to continue. Now, more than ever. For that, I request that you meet me at Godric’s Hollow, today, around five in the evening, in the house of my ancestors. I recall you have never visited your parent’s cottage. Or their graves. Another mistake I made over the years.

If you permit, Minister Bones and Babajide Akingbade — Voice of the Opposition at the ICW, will be there to meet you.

No witnesses. No transcripts. No factional agendas. Just a conversation, and a proposal to work together for the betterment of everyone. Bring a guest along if you wish. If you are unable to make it today, kindly send the response back with Fawkes.

I will be waiting.

— Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

P.S. Babajide prefers a horrid concoction over our tea. I’d advise you to deny it. Or you can bring your own, if you’ve developed a preference.

Harry folded the letter and put it away. He stood for a moment in the morning light at the edge of the Grove, watching the sky deepen from silver to gold.

Fawkes sat perched on a tree branch, his feathers catching the sun in ripples of flame.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Harry said quietly. “Not sure about the guest part yet.”

The phoenix trilled, a single, rising note that felt like sunrise turned into sound.

Harry smiled faintly. Then it faded, the weight of another question settling on his brow. He looked down at the damp garden path.

“Fawkes,” he said. “I have a question.”

Fawkes tilted his head.

Harry extended a hand, palm down. “Grow.”

The grass near his feet surged upward in a rush of green. Shoots thickened into stems. Leaves spread. A small patch of earth erupted into an untamed burst of Summer.

“That… shouldn’t have happened,” he said slowly, looking up at the phoenix. “Should it?”

Fawkes watched in silence.

“Daphne’s the Lady of Greengrass. The rightful Vessel,” Harry went on. “Summer is hers. That was the whole point. I was just the medium — the channel. Binding, I understand. Death, sure. Those are mine. But Summer…?”

He held up both hands. “I shouldn’t still have this.”

Fawkes hopped down onto the low stone step and met Harry’s eyes. For a moment, Harry wondered if phoenixes were capable of Legilimency, and if he should just tell her any Legilimency would be neutered by Death, when he felt it.

No intrusion. No magic. Just a deep, unsettling stillness — like being looked at by something that knew the shape of your soul.

And then—

A memory flickered before his eyes.

—his fist slamming into Ekrizdis’s face. The thestral roaring overhead. The jaguar folding into him in a burst of purple light. Runes locking mid-air. A thousand threads binding him to the Eternum. “Guess it’s about time I showed the world what sort of god I want to be.”— 

That moment. The moment of Permanence.

Death, the constant of all things, imbued into a construct. Into him.

He had taken that absolute — the one truth that never bent — and made it more. Fixed it. Bound it. Preserved it.

So why had Fawkes shown him that? Unless —

Unless the Permanence hadn’t stopped at Death?

“HARRY!”

He turned.

Daphne was sprinting toward him, barefoot in the grass, her eyes bright and brilliant. Before he could speak, she wrapped herself around him, arms tight, breath shaky.

Fawkes let out a pleased trill, and before Harry could do anything, the phoenix spread his wings, took to the sky in a single beat, and vanished into flame.

Damnit, Harry thought. Dumbledore was clearly imprinting his annoying habits on Fawkes. Shaking his head, he slowly wrapped his hands around Daphne.

They stood that way for a long time, Daphne clinging to him like he was the only anchor in the world. She wouldn’t let go.

“Daphne—”

She sniffed.

“Uh, you can relax a bit!”

“No!” She mumbled, pushing herself closer.

“I can’t feel my ribs.”

“Don’t care.”

She pulled back only slightly, long enough for him to take in the change.

She was radiant.

Not just healthy — alive. Her skin pulsed with a golden undertone, like she carried her own light beneath it. There was no trace of the curse. No rot. No pain.

Just Summer. Clear and unbound.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, blushing.

“I’ve never seen you stand like that,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

“Not a bit,” she murmured. “All because of you.”

She touched his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “You did it. You saved me. Like you said you would.”

He didn’t tell her how close it had come to failing. How fragile her soul had become in that final moment, how fine the line had been between purging the curse and ripping her spirit apart.

If not for the flood of Summer, and the training she had devoted her life to, it might have shattered her completely. It wasn’t just the bloodline that saved her. It was the fact that she was ready.

The adenium on the nearby window bloomed suddenly, as if in agreement.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, and embraced him in a deep hug.

He smiled, tired, and for a moment, almost allowed himself to believe that they might finally be safe. 

Or were they?

“Professor Dumbledore sent me a letter.”

Daphne lifted her head. “A letter? That’s… formal, I guess.”

“Broke the Wizengamot. All but declared war. Formality is somewhat expected, I guess.”

“What does he want?”

“To meet,” said Harry, exhaling, as he pulled out the letter and handed it to her. 

Daphne went through the contents quickly and looked back at him. “I’m going with you.”

“I never told you I’d go.”

“If you didn’t intend to go, you wouldn’t have shown me this letter.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected her to catch that. Then again, this was Daphne, and if anyone could read the subtext where he was concerned, it was her.

“Dad said that Akingbade was the prime candidate to overthrow Dumbledore at the ICW. If both of them, and the Minister, are there, they aren’t inviting you for tea.”

“I’m quite sure tea will be served,” Harry quipped. “Dumbledore hates whatever swill Akingbade offers everybody.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. This is politics, and I’ll go with you. You need someone that can speak in their language, and has proven to stand beside you in the worst of it.”

Harry had nothing to refute against that. He had gone out of his way to keep Daphne away from the mess — the dark, winding madness he called his life — because he’d believed she couldn’t handle it.

And yet… she had followed him anyway.

She had trained her whole life to carry a power she might never live to use. She had walked beside him into the Sunken Vault. Into the whispers and rot and shadowed halls. She had stood by him when everyone else stood against him. And in the end, she had lain down naked in a circle of blood and flame, trusting him to destroy the curse or kill her trying.

And the world had answered.

Summer had chosen her. Not gifted — claimed. 

For a moment, Harry contemplated relinquishing Summer completely, but held off. That greater threats loomed, that the Dwellers in Darkness were still coming, that someone had to carry the burden until an heir was found. Someone who knew suffering. Someone who wouldn’t misuse it.

He told himself he was unworthy. He had no claim to this power, and never wanted it. 

And that was why he held on. After all, no one should have to bear this burden unless they proved they understood suffering.

Wait, that sounded like — 

He sounded as if only those that had understood, had gone through the suffering like he had were worthy of power. All the while telling himself that he too, wasn’t worthy of it.

But then, who was?

And what would be the parameters to judge them on? 

Was that it? Was that why he had stuck to Ron and Hermione all these years? Because they had followed him through Hell? And even then, he still kept the worst of it back.

Away from them, so that he could face it himself.

Why? 

Because he didn’t believe anyone else could bear it.

Because he didn’t believe he could bear losing them.

Because somewhere deep inside, he had decided that if there was suffering to be done, he would do it alone.

I’m not worthy, Harry thought. That’s the lie I build everything on. But it’s also the truth I use to justify keeping it. Because if I hate power, then surely I’m the safest one to hold it. Right?

And round and round it went.

He claimed he didn’t want it. But he made sure no one else could take it from him. Wasn’t that what he had done with the Gate? With the Elder Wand? With… Binding and now Summer?

He said he sought to relinquish it. But he only did so after shaping it into something that still answered him.

It’s not vanity, he wanted to say. It’s fear. Responsibility. Necessity.

But it was also Control.

Control wrapped in guilt. In love. In grief.

A perfect circle.

And Harry — for all his brilliance, his recklessness, his conviction — could not see where it ended.

Not yet.

....

....

The path into Godric’s Hollow twisted like something out of a dream half-remembered — too clean, too still, too rooted in myth. The village seemed tucked into the earth itself, as though the land had grown houses instead of trees. Cobblestone lanes curled gently through rows of moss-slick stone cottages, their windows aglow with hearthfire even in the soft light of dawn.

Chimneys whispered smoke into the winter air. The scent of peat, pine, and fresh bread hung like a memory you couldn’t quite place.

Harry stood at the village’s edge, cloak drawn around him, heart tight in a way even he couldn’t describe. His hand found Daphne’s — warm and steady — and held it as though to tether himself.

She said nothing, letting him breathe.

It looked, at first glance, like a smaller, older Hogsmeade. Less magic on display, perhaps, but more in the bones. Less glitter, more gravity.

And above it all, nestled like a crown jewel on a wooded rise, stood the hillock.

“After Voldemort fell back in 1981, a lot of people flocked in here,” said Daphne. “It’s a lot like Hogsmeade, only, no tourists allowed. Or nosy reporters. The Ministry of Magic has banned that.”

“Why?”

“More tourists mean more commercial business. That would disturb the peace of the woods, and Godric’s griffins might take offence.”

Harry took a double take. “Griffins?”

“Why yes,” said Daphne, grinning. “This is the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor. There’s an old shrine dedicated to him at the top. Legend says that he enchanted the woods for his griffins. They are the true owners of this land. Everybody here is on lease.”

Harry blinked. “I guess you learn something new every day.”

“There’s a natural protective field around this place. Makes people feel safe. Maybe that’s why your parents chose this place to hide? And look, Voldemort came to find them, and he fell here. No wonder half the people here think you’re some reincarnation of Godric Gryffindor.”

Harry blinked. “You — you can’t be serious.”

Daphne’s eyes had this amused gleam in them. “Oh I don’t know, Harry. I mean, you did pull the sword out of the Hat and use it to kill Slytherin’s monster. And just recently, you used the blade to defeat Ekrizdis, and helped Minister Bones to fight Voldemort.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort…

— But found no words.

Daphne grinned. “You should come here on Halloween. They hold a Harry Potter festival here, celebrating Voldemort’s defeat. With what happened at Azkaban, I think they’d probably add that date next year.”

“At least one of us is getting entertained from all this,” Harry grumbled.

Daphne chortled. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

They passed through the cobbled streets, down two lanes. And then he saw it. 

The cottage.

It sat like a ghost waiting to be remembered. Twisted timbers framed what was once a proud two-storey home. Part of the roof had caved in — jagged black beams clawed skyward like bones. The door had been ripped off its hinges and was lying on the grass, now a plate for wild flowers to grow on. 

The garden, somehow, was still green, slightly overgrown but not quite wild. As though someone had tended it carefully until very recently.

Someone had cleared the path. Someone had washed the stone steps.

Someone had placed fresh lilies by the gate.

And just beyond it stood the memorial.

A polished marble monolith, etched with a simple engraving:

In memory of James and Lily Potter
Who gave their lives so that others might live.
And for their son, the Boy Who Lived.

Below it, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. 

“They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” said Daphne, indignant. But Harry beamed at her. “It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did.”

Harry stared at the house.

At the place where it all began.

“I used to imagine it,” he said softly. “What it would be like. What they were like. The rooms. The noise. The smell. Mum humming something stupid in the kitchen. Dad swearing under his breath while trying to fix a leaking tap.”

Daphne didn’t speak. She knew this wasn’t hers to answer.

“Sirius told me that he’d bring me here on Christmas, you know. Originally, the idea was to go there for my birthday, but things went differently. And after that, it was just one thing after another. I think — I think I was just trying to keep myself from coming here, afraid of what I’d find.”

He exhaled and stared in front.

“Just a ruin.”

“No,” she replied, gently. “It’s still home. And it's still standing. Just like you.”

Harry stayed silent.

“Maybe we can rebuild this place?” She offered. “It is your home. Your parent’s home. It’s where you were born.”

Her words brought a bitter feeling in his throat. “I’m… not good with homes, Daphne. This was my first home, and Voldemort destroyed it to get to me. My father and Sirius had an apartment overlooking Diagon Alley, and even that got demolished. The Black townhouse was a home, but only because that was where Sirius lived. Now that he's gone, it doesn’t feel like home either.”

“What about Potter manor?”

A vision of a wide, shallow basin came to mind. Harry had once visited the place with Fleur back during the Summer, when she was still working as his liaison to Gringotts. The manor that had once stood proud on the edge of Glengowan Ridge had been cratered. All he had found was scorched stone, twisted metal, and the stink of old curses baked into the very earth.

As if burning it wasn’t enough, it had to be scrubbed clean from history.

“There is nothing left,” said Harry slowly. “Constructing the manor would drain my fortune, and I thought it was a bad idea. But I’ve asked the goblins to repair my apartment. Once that is done, maybe start working on the Black Townhouse and make it habitable. I don’t want Sirius to think that I’ve been sloppy when he comes back.”

Daphne looked like she wanted to say something, but held herself back.

“You there! Don’t you step past that gate!” snapped a scratchy voice from behind. “This is sacred ground, not some bloody museum!”

Harry blinked and turned around. The stranger — a woman wrapped in about four layers of shawls — was old. Older than Dumbledore.  

“Uh, I was just —”

“I know,” she cut in firmly, tottering closer with a cane. “Everyone comes to peek eventually. Whispering and gawking like it’s a fairy tale, and dirtying the board with their little etchings. Well, believe it. That’s the place it happened and they died in there, boy!”

For whatever reason, that brought out a chuckle out of him.

“I know,” he said. “They were my parents.”

The woman froze. For a moment, her whole body seemed to deflate., and then her mouth opened slightly in a small, surprised Oh.

“You… Merlin’s knees,” she stepped closer, squinting up at his face. Her eyes shimmered. “You look just like James. With Lily’s eyes. Stars above… Harry Potter. Come back home at last.”

“You — uh, knew my parents?” 

Half of her lips twisted into a smile. “Knew them, I did. You were playing in my house that evening, before Lily took you home,,” she whispered. “I remember… the night the lights shattered. We all felt it. The air screamed. I ran down the lane, but by the time I got here…” Her voice faltered.

Daphne stepped beside Harry. “Could we go in, then? Oh, I’m Daphne Greengrass.”

“Greengrass,” murmured the crone. “Euphemia’s — no,” She gave Daphne a closer look. “You look so much like Camilla. Know her, lass?”

“You knew my grandmother?” Daphne asked, surprised.

“‘Was my student,” said the crone. “Name’s Bathilda, dearie. Bathilda Bagshot.”