Master of Death, Lover of Witches - 26 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.

Chapter 26

~ Daphne Greengrass ~

The drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was not a place that Daphne Greengrass ever expected to sit inside. Outside, the London winter clawed against the heavy, multi-layered wards, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with the quiet comforts of a world apart. The air carried the scent of old parchment, old magic, freshly brewed black tea, and the faint, lingering trace of warming charms that Narcissa had meticulously woven into the ancient stonework.On a velvet settee near the flickering hearth sat Daphne Greengrass.Usually, Daphne was the very picture of pureblood poise—a witch whose default expression at Hogwarts had been a cool, untouchable haughtiness that had earned her the title of the "Ice Queen" of Slytherin. But today, the mask was gone, shattered by ten days of unspeakable torment in the dungeons of Nott Castle. Her skin was a translucent, fragile shade of porcelain, her high cheekbones sitting too sharply against her hollowed cheeks. A faint, persistent tremor shook her pale hands as she held her teacup, her fingers gripping the delicate china as if it were the only solid thing keeping her anchored to the earth.Sitting opposite her, draped in sweeping, emerald-green silk robes that pooled elegantly around her feet, was Narcissa Black. She sat with the effortless grace of a true noble wife, her silver-blonde hair pinned up in a style that exposed the proud, unblemished line of her neck.She took a slow, appreciative sip of her tea, set the cup down with a soft, definitive click against the silver tray, and looked directly into Daphne's pale blue eyes."What exactly do you know about covens, Heiress Greengrass?"The question hung in the air of the drawing room, a delicate but incredibly heavy hook.Daphne, who had been staring blankly into the amber depths of her tea, blinked. The brain that had kept her alive through extensive torture seemed to stumble over the word."Huh?"It was a rare, genuine slip of her carefully cultivated mask. She was caught entirely off-guard, vulnerable in a way she absolutely hated; her mouth slightly parted in a look of pure confusion.Narcissa did not smirk.

She took the lead with the effortless confidence of a woman who had spent her entire life navigating the highest tiers of magical society. She didn't treat the word "coven" like a dark, forbidden secret to be whispered in the shadows of Knockturn Alley; instead, she began to explain the complex magical mechanics of the arrangement in historical terms."Do not let the sanitization of our culture by the Ministry cloud your understanding, child," Narcissa said, her voice a smooth, captivating purr. "The term has been bastardized, reduced to a ghost story used to frighten Muggleborns and children. But in the Old Ways—the raw, deep magic that existed long before the Ministry decided to sanitize wizarding culture—a coven was the ultimate expression of magical stability."She leaned forward slightly, her grey eyes reflecting the dancing orange flames of the hearth. "Think of it as a tree, Daphne. The Lord of the House is the anchor, the grounding trunk that runs deep into the earth, drawing up the primal magic of his ancestry. The witches bound to him are the branches. They are not his servants, nor are they, his property; they are living, breathing extensions of his core, amplifying and sharing his power. They draw from his vast reserves to boost their own magical power, while their unique magical signatures filter and stabilize his. It is a symbiotic relationship of the highest order."Narcissa spoke with a matter-of-fact certainty, entirely without a single trace of moralizing or shame. To her, this wasn't a question of ethics or modern societal norms; it was simply a matter of how power flowed.Andromeda Tonks picked up the thread, introducing the legal reality of the situation with a neutrality that was welcomed by Daphne, since Harry had not introduced Andromeda as his mistress. As the former Black sister who had spent years studying the laws of their world and was well-versed in archaic as well modern wizarding laws, she knew the intricate legal frameworks of the old families better than anyone in the room. She sat in a high-backed armchair, her dark, warm eyes fixed on Daphne, a thick, ancient scroll of parchment resting on the small table beside her."The history is one thing, Daphne," Andromeda said, her voice steady and carrying the weight of a seasoned legal mind. "But the law is another. According to the ancient, binding marriage contract forged generations ago between the House of Black and the House of Greengrass, you are legally bound to this house. The contract has existed for a while, but it had not been activated due to the protection of your family manor and Harry not having taken up his lordships. I believe the magic of the contract was activated the moment your family’s manor fell and you were left with no male protector of your bloodline."She didn't try to sell the idea. She didn't dress it up in flowery language. She simply stated the facts as they existed on the parchment. "Under the Old Magic, the contract is valid, ancient, and legally binding. If it were invoked, the Lord Black would have absolute, legal dominion over your estate, your future, and your person."Andromeda paused, her gaze shifting briefly toward the man standing quietly near the tall, arched window."But then," Andromeda delivered the twist with a faint, dry smirk, "we have the unique nature of our current Lord. Harry has explicitly chosen not to invoke it."Harry Potter spoke up then, stepping out of the shadows of the velvet drapes.He didn't look like the legendary "Boy-Who-Lived" the papers loved to write about, nor did he carry himself with the grandiose, pompous posturing Daphne might have expected from a wizard of his status, but then again, she had spent enough time during their school years to know he was not like Malfoy and the rest of his ilk. He was dressed in a simple, dark wool sweater and charcoal trousers, his messy black hair sticking up in its usual, rebellious fashion. But there was a hard, quiet confidence radiating from his frame that was missing from the boy last year, a physical presence that had been forged in the fires of his recent, brutal victories."Look," Harry said, meeting her gaze with steady, unblinking green eyes. "You’ve had your choices stripped away this entire year. You've been chained to a wall, tortured, and treated like a trophy because some purist bastard thought he had the right to own you. I’m not adding another leash. I didn't save you from Nott Castle just to throw you into another cage."He walked over, stopping a few feet from her settee, his posture relaxed but carrying the absolute authority of a Lord. "You can stay here under my protection for as long as you need to heal. The wards of this house are impenetrable, and the Death Eaters cannot touch you here. And that contract?" He pointed a calloused finger toward the ancient scroll beside Andromeda. "It will sit in a drawer, collecting dust, unless you decide, of your own free, uncoerced will, to say yes to what we are offering."Daphne did not cry. She did not offer sweet, weeping gratitude. She was a Slytherin, a survivor who had just crawled out of a literal hell because someone had tried to force her submission. Her response was not to capitulate, but to interrogate the people trying to sell the offer.She sat up straighter, her spine going rigid as she forced her trembling hands to settle. Her pale blue eyes narrowed, her mind working behind the cool, icy facade of her mask."What exactly does this magical bond do to a witch's autonomy?" she asked sharply, looking directly for the catch, the fine print that would bind her in a different kind of chains. "Does it override my mind? Does it make me a slave to your desires, Potter?"Narcissa answered without blinking, her tone smooth and completely reassuring. "It deepens the resonance between your magical cores, Daphne. It creates a bridge through which your magic can flow and heal. But it does not override your mind, nor does it alter your will. Look around this room. Look at us. We are still entirely ourselves. I left Lucius; I made my own choices to defect from the Dark Lord's shadow because I refused to watch my son be consumed. The bond did not force my hand; it simply gives me the strength to back my choices."Daphne’s gaze shifted from Narcissa, tracking slowly across the room until her eyes locked squarely onto Harry."And what does he get out of it?" Daphne asked, her voice sharp and calculating. "A wizard of your power doesn't offer sanctuary and legal protection to a broken girl out of the goodness of his heart. What is the benefit for the Lord Black?"Harry didn't dress his answer up in noble lies. He met her sharp gaze with a tired, honest sincerity."A stabilized core," Harry answered bluntly. "Ever since I got rid of a parasite in my body, my magic has been running entirely too hot without a place to dissipate. The battles give me an outlet, but I am striving for peace, not a war-torn state. The coven acts as a stabilizer. By binding our cores, my excess magic flows into you, helping you heal and strengthen your own core, while your magic filters and regulates mine. And on a practical level? I need a household that actually functions as a cohesive, lethal unit while there is a war raging outside. I need people I can trust implicitly. If I'm going to face Voldemort, I can't be worrying about knives in my back.""What do I get?"It was a blunt question, the kind of inquiry that made Andromeda offer a small, highly impressed smirk. The Ice Queen was indeed still alive beneath the trauma.Narcissa answered first, pointing out the immediate, physical benefits with a practical elegance. "Protection, resources, and a sanctuary where you can heal in peace. But more than that, Daphne, you get the passive magical healing that comes from close proximity to Harry’s immense, stabilized core."Narcissa paused, her grey eyes dropping to Daphne’s hands. "Take a look at your hands, child. Your physical tremors have already lessened significantly since you arrived in this house. The magic of his core is already working to mend your damaged nervous system, even without a formal bond."Daphne looked down.

It was true. The persistent, violent shaking that had plagued her fingers since the Cruciatus torture had subsided to a faint, occasional twitch.Andromeda added the final, devastating legal shield. "As a contracted ward of the House of Black, the Ministry of Magic cannot touch you. The Muggleborn Registration Commission has no legal authority to arrest you, and the Death Eaters have no legal claim to your estate. But more importantly, Daphne..."Andromeda leaned forward, her voice dropping to a soft, heavy tone. "If you accept the contract, your younger sister, Astoria, would immediately fall under the same blanket of absolute, impenetrable protection. The House of Black would assume responsibility for her safety, her education, and her health."That was the blow that landed.Daphne’s icy composure cracked. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as she thought of her sweet, bubbly younger sister, who was currently hiding in the dark, terrified and running out of the expensive potions required to keep her blood curse at bay. To secure Astoria's safety... she would have crawled back into the Nott dungeons if it meant her sister was safe.She swallowed the hard lump of emotion in her throat, her gaze snapping back to Harry."And if I say no?" Daphne asked him directly, her voice trembling slightly."Then nothing changes," Harry replied easily, his expression relaxed. "You stay here. You heal. My elves will look after you, and Apolline will continue to brew your potions. And when you are strong enough, when the war is over, you can walk out of that front door with your sister, and this contract will go right back into the drawer to collect dust until a future generation decides to tie the knot. I won't hold it against you, and I won't demand a single Galleon for your stay."Daphne stared at him, her mind struggling to find the deception, the hidden angle. But there was nothing in his green eyes but a tired, honest sincerity."You mean that?" she whispered."Yes," Harry said."Then why offer it at all?" Daphne demanded, her defensive walls throwing up one final, desperate barrier. "Why go through the trouble of rescuing me, offering me your magic, and giving me your protection, if you're just going to let me walk away without gaining anything in return?"Harry quietened. He looked at her, his emerald eyes holding a deep, soft understanding of the choices that had been stolen from her."Because if you stay, Daphne," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, comforting rumble, "I'd rather you stay because you chose to. Not because you had nowhere else to go. I want partners, not prisoners."The words struck a chord deep within her soul. The defensive wall didn't completely crumble, but a massive, jagged crack appeared in her icy facade. She looked down at her lap, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns of her silk pyjamas."I need time," Daphne said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I need time to process... all of this. To think about what my family would want, and what I want.""Take all the time you need," Harry nodded, accepting her terms without a single shred of pressure. "Nobody is rushing you."As the meeting dispersed, the women slowly filtering out of the drawing room to leave the healing girl to her thoughts, Daphne caught Harry near the heavy double doors."Do you even know what potion ingredients Astoria needs?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying a trace of her usual, challenging Slytherin scepticism.Without a single word, Harry reached into the pocket of his sweater. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it to her.Daphne unfolded the paper with trembling fingers. Written in a neat, elegant script—clearly Narcissa’s hand, but signed with the bold, heavy signature of the Lord Black—was a complete list of every rare, expensive ingredient required to brew the blood-malediction restorative. Beside each item was a neat checkmark, indicating that the supply had already been sourced and secured from Narcissa’s private networks.Daphne stared at the paper, her breath catching. She looked up from the list, her pale blue eyes searching his face, seeing the ruthless warrior who had slaughtered her enemies, and the gentle protector who had secured her sister’s life before she had even asked."You’re not what I expected, Potter," she whispered.Harry offered her a small, dry, and incredibly confident smile. "Harry."This time, she couldn't help but flash a warm smile at him.

"Harry."

~ Voldemort ~The transition from the warmth of Malfoy Manor to the brutal, freezing winds of the Austrian Alps was a sharp, freezing shock to the senses.The dark, jagged silhouette of Nurmengard Castle rose out of the snow-covered crags of the mountainside like a black fang clawing at the bruised, twilight sky. The wind howled through the deep ravines, carrying with it a driving blizzard that threatened to freeze the blood of any mortal who dared to trespass upon these forbidden peaks.But Lord Voldemort was not a mortal creature.He glided through the ancient, towering stone corridors of the fortress, his pitch-black robes billowing behind him like a cloud of smoke, completely untouched by the freezing cold. The interrogation of Gregorovitch was already behind him—a bloody, satisfactory memory of extracted secrets and broken bones. The wand-maker had sung his song, revealing that a young, golden-haired thief had stolen the legendary wand from his workshop decades ago.And Voldemort knew exactly who that thief was after dismantling the old wandmaker's mind.The ancient, heavy wards of Nurmengard, designed half a century ago by the most brilliant minds of the International Confederation of Wizards to keep the world's most dangerous dark wizard, the one who commissioned its creation, securely locked in, did not recognize anything human in Voldemort's serpentine essence. His magic was too dark, too empty, too closely aligned with the primal forces of death itself.

The wards simply let him pass, rippling around his form like a cold draught. There was no need for him to kill a guard and hijack his wand to fool the wards. He reached the highest tower, stopping before a heavy, iron-bound door covered in rusted executioner's runes. With a lazy flick of his yew wand, the locks shattered with a sharp metallic screech, and the door swung open.Voldemort stepped into the cell.The man he was here to see was waiting for him, after all, it was not like he could be anywhere else.

"Gellert Grindelwald," Voldemort hissed, making the man look up at his visitor. The former master of Europe was a ruin of a man. He sat upright on a thin, filthy cot in the corner of the damp stone cell, looking like a skeletal spectre of his former glory. His body was frail, his skin pale and translucent, clinging tightly to his bones. His clothes were nothing but tattered, grey rags that offered no protection against the freezing alpine wind whistling through the barred window.But his eyes—one dark, one a piercing, cloudy white—were unnervingly, terrifyingly bright. He did not flinch as the Dark Lord of Britain stepped into his prison. He simply stared directly at the door, a faint, mocking smile playing on his thin lips."I have been expecting you," the old man rasped.His voice was a dry, hollow rattle, like dry leaves scraping across a tombstone, but it carried the calm, absolute resignation of a seer who had watched the equations of the world and knew that this confrontation would eventually balance itself out.Voldemort glided closer, his scarlet eyes burning in the dim light of the cell. Two Dark Lords, representing two entirely different, bloody philosophies of absolute power, faced each other in the damp cold. One sought the subjugation of the world through political revolution and the "Greater Good"; the other sought absolute, personal immortality through the mutilation of his own soul."You know why I am here, Gellert," Voldemort whispered, his voice high, clear, and cold as ice. "You know what I seek."Grindelwald let out a soft, dry chuckle that quickly devolved into a hacking cough. He leaned his head back against the damp stone wall, his gaze never wavering from Voldemort's snake-like features."You want the wand," Grindelwald said simply. "The Wand of Destiny. The Elder Wand. You think that by holding the weapon of the first brother, you can finally defeat the boy who refuses to die.""I do not think, Gellert. I know," Voldemort sneered, his nostrils flaring. "The wand belongs to me, as is its destiny. Tell me who holds its mastery now, and I may afford you a quick, merciful end."Grindelwald didn't play coy.

He didn't try to barter for his life or beg for mercy. He looked at Voldemort with a profound, mocking pity that made the Dark Lord's magic spike with irritation."Albus Dumbledore," Grindelwald said, the name leaving his lips with a soft, reverent warmth. "He won its allegiance from me in the summer of 1945. It lies with him, wherever his body has been laid."Voldemort’s scarlet eyes flared with a sudden, triumphant fire. A cruel smirk twisted his lipless mouth.

The location was his. The greatest weapon in the world was within his reach, buried in the dirt with the old fool who had tried to thwart him.But as Voldemort turned to leave, Grindelwald’s raspy voice stopped him."You think the snatching of the wood will give you the power, Tom?" Grindelwald asked, a mocking, toothless smile spreading across his face. "The Elder Wand is not a common toy. It does not obey a thief simply because he is strong enough to defile a grave. It obeys the one who has earned its allegiance. Brute force will give you the instrument, but you will never earn its loyalty."Voldemort dismissed the warning with a cold, arrogant sneer. "Dumbledore is dead. His order is scattered. There is no one left to challenge my claim."Grindelwald’s smile widened, becoming a terrifying, hollow rictus. "Yes, Albus is dead. I lost to him, and I knew him better than anyone alive. But tell me, Tom... do you know who defeated him in the end?"Voldemort remained silent, his grip on his yew wand tightening."Neither do I," Grindelwald whispered, his voice carrying a prophetic, chilling weight. "The mastery of the wand has shifted, and that uncertainty... that single, dangling thread of fate is what should keep you awake at night."Voldemort stared at the old man, his mind working behind his crimson eyes.He had the location of the wand, yes. But he was too cautious, too intelligent to strike without a perfect hand. He had been thwarted by Harry Potter twice now—once in the graveyard, and once in the ruined cottage of Godric's Hollow, where his precious Nagini had been burned to ash.

He could not afford another mistake.He looked at the ruin of Grindelwald. The man was frail in body, a skeletal wreck who could barely stand. But his mind... his mind was still a towering fortress, teeming with decades of unmatched dark lore, high magic, and strategic genius that had nearly conquered the entire magical world.An elegant, terrible solution presented itself to Voldemort’s mind.He would not kill this man. He would not leave him here to rot.Grindelwald would not be an ally—he was too proud, too independent to ever serve another.

But he could be a puppet.

A mind of that calibre, a strategic genius of high magic, completely shackled to Voldemort's own iron will, acting as his silent, invisible advisor in the coming campaign. He had lost Bellatrix, Avery and Nott. He was sure to lose more as the war raged on and the boy stood between him and his destiny. 

He needed a general. Voldemort raised his yew wand, the tip glowing with a pale, sickly green light.Grindelwald did not flinch. Whether out of courage, or a deep, tired craving for an end to his fifty years of isolation, he simply watched the wand rise, his cloudy white eye reflecting the dark magic.A cruel, thin smile touched Voldemort’s lipless mouth."Imperio," he whispered.The golden light of the Unforgivable Curse flooded the damp stone cell, wrapping around Grindelwald's frail form like a nest of glowing serpents. The old man’s eyes glazed over, the fire in his gaze slowly dying out, replaced by the blank, hollow emptiness of absolute, unquestioning submission.Voldemort looked at his new puppet, a cold, triumphant hiss escaping his throat.The game was changing. And Harry Potter would find that the Dark Lord was no longer playing alone.

Author's Note

Getting closer to the end. Stakes are rising. Stay tuned to see how our hero responds.