Time held me green and dying/Though I sang in my chains like the sea. - Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill

In death, everyone finally understands. When his marble mausoleum has been spared of company, when Godric's Hollow is empty of life once again, the book is published. It's by an author whose name no one can quite remember, whose importance is negligible because her magnum opus commands attention. A select interview lasting five months, the pages of prose held together with secret letters, hidden photographs, and beautiful moments in forgotten time. It is only in death that everyone realizes why Harry Potter—the Wizarding Savior—had died alone at 12 Grimmauld Place, surrounded by an archaic conclave of postscript goodbyes.

There was a woman he once knew, a woman with glimmering aureate hair and arctic ice blue eyes. She was Aurelius and Trajan and every other great queen. She was Dante and Swift and beautifully gauzed poetry—always Thomas, never anything else. He had met her aboard the Hogwarts Express, sitting alone in a compartment that she generously allowed him to share. She had not been abrasive in her joy nor had she been intrusive with her curiosity—they had conversed as easily as words could be said, the amiable comfort of two eleven year olds as pure and happy as Arcadia.

She was a Slytherin and he was a Gryffindor. Harry isn't particularly surprised at that—Daphne Greengrass was far too cunning to not have been in the house of opportunity. She would not have flourished anywhere else. If not for her, his occasional letter might have been found by someone else (Malfoy) and he'd be mocked until time fell. But Daphne is discreet and her words are cool and humorous and so wonderfully eloquent.

I wonder if you'll ever get sick of playing with intrigue, she writes during their Third Year, you are, after all, supposed to mean a great many things to a great many people but is it selfish of me to think otherwise? When I say 'otherwise' I mean it in the most innocuous of terms—when can you slip away from Snape's scowl and escort a girl to Hogsmeade? And perhaps after you've enraptured the entire Ministry with your Lockhart worthy tales you might convince them to give our little village a prettier sounding name. Hogsmeade. I do feel like a Yorkshire farmer when I write that.

These letters grow in size and weight; some of them are filled with nonsensical banter that will only make sense to the two of them. Some are genuine excerpts of the heart that Harry places on parchment, with Daphne responding in kind. They fit in ways the Gryffindor hadn't thought possible—where Hermione would prod, Daphne would wait. Where Ginny would blunder, Daphne would mend. She is the Slytherin ice princess but towards Harry, she's the companion every child needs when the sky is black and the moon is missing.

Their correspondence starts not because Daphne yearns for Harry Potter or anything as cliched as that.

Harry writes to her for the first time during their Second Year, after the whole Heir to Slytherin business: he needs information. She, in turn, responds because this is contingency presenting itself in the most favorable of terms—a debt owed by the Boy-Who-Lived is as stunning a revelation as any.

So their missives begin because the Gryffindor seeker needed aid and the Slytherin princess was too shrewd to let such an opportunity slip by.

During their Third Year, Daphne began to visit the Astronomy Tower out of necessity—the dungeons were perfectly heated during winter but she was a Greengrass. The beautiful moorish gardens she'd grown accustomed to at home were not available to her during the school year—but the fresh evening air could be. Thus, she climbed to the very top of the granite stone tower—and, lo and behold: there sat Harry Potter himself.

Had she been any other girl, she'd have used this opportunity to charm him, to sway his interest. But that is not Daphne Greengrass. She may be fascinated by this magnanimously brave lion's son—but she'd never stoop so low. Proud and elegant, she approaches him until her standing form is only two feet away from his seated posture.

"You're looking terribly somber tonight." She voices prettily, voice diamond-like in its cordial control.

He turns around swiftly, a seeker's reflexes, and Daphne wonders—ever so briefly—if this is an intrusion. After all, they'd only interacted through letters and amiable hallway greetings since their meeting on the Hogwarts Express two years ago. There is absolutely no reason why he couldn't banish her from his sight or choose to sever their written sodality.

She is well versed in societal expectations and decides to keep her words close, not speaking until he spoke in return.

Harry numbly gestures for her to sit beside him though the choice is entirely Daphne's. She obliges out of curiosity and silence ensues.

The December is cool as they continue their wordless repartee until her ice blue eyes catch a glimpse of something ever small and bright. "Look towards my right." Daphne commands lightly, refusing to let up until Harry wearily raises his head. "Do you see it? That topaz hued star?"

"Er—yeah." He squints, emerald eyes narrowing. "Yeah I do." He's not enthusiastic but she's piqued his interest.

"The Beta Hydri. Brightest star in the Hydrus constellation." She finishes, voice precise and calm. "Nicolas Louis de Lacaille named them though I do wish he'd have given them names more worthy of their stature. Beta Hydri. It sounds rather pitiable doesn't it?"

Whatever his woes, Harry manages a weak smile. "Pitiable." He repeats. "When can you see the Dog Star?"

"Not until July."

Harry's face hardens. "July."

"Unless you intend to reiterate this entire conversation to me in an attempt to foster my leaving, then you're doing a splendid job." The tone is not harsh or uncompromising but firm and softly amused.

The dark haired Gryffindor flushes. "I don't meant to be rude." He finally says. "But I was alone up here for a reason."

"And yet you invited me to sit down."

"It wouldn't be very polite to tell you to leave now would it?"

"Since when has a Gryffindor ever bothered with courtesy?"

The expression he attempts is false indignation but he only succeeds in suppressing his laughter for a few moments more. Silence, their ever present guardian, follows suit but Daphne doesn't think she minds. For all intents and purposes, she's felt better than she has in days, away from the Slytherin Common Room and free from the bustle of Hogwarts students—save one.

A quiet, calm twenty or so more minutes pass before Daphne adjusts the collar of her blouse. It's nearly three AM.

Before she can get up to go—

"I met my godfather last week." Harry says, voice so paper thin that his words are almost swallowed by the darkness.

Daphne looks at him. "Oh?"

He nods. "Sirius Black. I don't think anyone was right in their assessment of him."

She suppresses a snort. "Judgements on human character are rarely accurate."

His emerald eyes are difficult to read and his mouth is downturned but Harry's gaze falls from the sky and onto her—the story flows from his lips, fragmented and jarring.

Daphne listens.

From then on, there's a shift between the two. They'd always been confidants but now they're friends—companions in both voice and letter. Once a week they would slip away to the Astronomy Tower, the night air soothing, as they talked about a wide range of things—from delicate to blithe. It's Daphne who listens to his unspoken anguish in the midst of the Triwizard Tournament, when Ron's volatile camaraderie falls short and when Hermione's preoccupation with fixing becomes too much. She is there, a calming, cool balm of stability and truth. An aegis of platitude and gentility—his modern Aceso.

It's why Harry mentions the D.A. to her next year, why he subtly inquires if she'd be willing to join. He would vouch for her to every witch or wizard that dared question her presence there.

Daphne is touched but her smile is the giveaway.

"You mean more to me than rank or file, Potter." She says evenly, the regularity of her tone as sharp and delicate as peppermint. "And you already know my answer."

He does. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking at this too beautiful Slytherin with something neither of them can quite place—or admit.

"I'll still protect you."

"Why? Because I'm incapable of saving myself?" She asks lightly, a thin smile on her lips.

"Not at all." Harry sighs. "You're good, Daphne. Better than half the student population here. But you know what's coming—you're too smart not to."

She nods. "We can't all be redeemed as instantaneously as you might hope."

Harry doesn't bother with a response. Doesn't even look at her when he sits down, hands pressing against the cold granite with such force that even the slightest move might tear through his calloused skin. She sits down next to him, just as he'd hoped, her arm against his shoulder. Gently, almost imperceptibly, her head leans against his chest and Harry releases his grip on the stone to hold her close.

"What you do is up to you." He says softly. "But you'll always have my respect, Daphne."

She hums—whether in agreement or amusement, Harry can't tell. "That's a lovely consolation." She murmurs (and despite the snark, there's truth in her words).

Harry, erstwhile, pauses. Looking out against the wide expanse of evening and night, he can't help but wonder if…the Boy-Who-Lived looks down at Daphne, the Slytherin princess who'd never put on any airs.

"Daphne?"

"Hm?"

Something in him can't bring those fated words to surface, is afraid to give voice to everything this is, so instead he asks,

"Do you know occlumency by any chance?"

I'll tell her later, Harry resolves. When we're in a time of happiness, away from all this grief, he vows silently, I'll tell her.

Daphne then shifts, her silky hair brushing against the inside of Harry's arm as she looks up at him, cheek pressed against his chest. "What a thing to wonder," she smiles, "of course I do."

He hesitates. Then, "would you mind teaching me? Professor Snape's my official instructor but his methods are…not very beneficial and can sometimes be quite painful."

"Oh-ho, so you expect me to go easy on you just because I don't hate you?"

Harry grins, a feeling akin to happiness rushing through him at the sight of Daphne's stern, amused glare. "Course not," he returns, feeling quite cheeky. "I expect you to go easy on me cause I'm the Wizarding Savior. I'll be an action figure one day."

Daphne bursts out laughing at that statement, despite not knowing what an action figure is but—Harry's smile, dopey and enthused, gets to her. She looks at him again, shaking her head. "Well then Potter, we'll start now."

Harry blinks. "Now?"

"Now. If you want to become someone worthy of groupies and autographs, we've got a lot of work to do."

And so they begin.

Sixth Year comes as a blur of emerald, intrigue, and beautiful goodbyes. Daphne knows—before Harry does—that he's not coming back next year. When they sit atop the tower and look at the stars, Harry confesses his wish: that they could be at Hogwarts during the summer. When it's July and the air is hot and they could look out and see the Canis Major and Daphne could point out the Sirius star. She chuckles and shakes her head, admiring the soft glow of the Orion constellation. It's on the tip of her tongue to invite Harry to Prásino Castle, her childhood home, but she refrains when he looks down at her again.

Those eyes, shining and sad, causes Daphne to swallow her words whole. She knows better—knows that he'll say yes and want to uphold the promise but she also knows he can't. Daphne is many things—conniving, opportunistic, and oftentimes cold—but she's not a thief. To steal away his smiles only for Harry to be confronted with war...that is something she will not do.

They begin writing letters to each other again during their Sixth Year. Daphne writes on monogramed vellum in beautiful dark blue ink. Harry replies on hastily procured parchment, scribbled on with emerald quill. It's a joke between the two of them, to see who could reply the fastest. They'll never admit it's also to ensure that the letters never stop coming.

When Harry returns during their Seventh Year, Daphne notices that he's aged—not physically perhaps, but his eyes are weary and his smile is gone and—

"Daphne." He whispers her name like a prayer, soft and forgotten, when he sees her in the Room of Requirement along with the other D.A. members.

She gives him a small smile but Harry only looks into her arctic blue eyes, mesmerized. "Harry...I'm very glad to see you." She returns, hoping that he won't pity her for what she's done. She's always been stubborn and her pride always had far too much room in her heart.

Daphne joined the D.A. during the eleventh hour and it was only thanks to Neville Longbottom that she wasn't outright rejected upon first glance.

She joined this makeshift army for a number of reasons—shame at seeing how her proud, pureblood lineage has devolved; guilt at the growing toll of human life; hope that maybe, if she played her cards right, she could see Harry Potter's glimmering emerald eyes before the fight commenced.

He looks at her again, expressionless, and Daphne returns his gaze as steadily and gently as the winter breeze. The corner of his mouth twitches up and it's not quite a smile but close enough.

He turns away to face the rest of the students—soldiers—and speaks to them with the fire and passion of a hero ready for battle.

Daphne can only watch, mesmerized.

She fights alongside Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, and Seamus Finnigan outside the carnage that was the Hogwarts quidditch pitch. She moves inward, closer to the castle, spells flying left and right, the grime, dirt, and blood of the fallen seeping into her robes. The sky is an orange inferno, soaked with vermillion red.

Daphne's nearly hit by Bellatrix Lestrange's crucio, one she barely manages to avoid.

But all pretense and expectation of survival fall from Daphne's mind when she sees a black robed Death Eater making his way towards Harry. That dopey Gryffindor with an easy smile and beautiful laugh and the biggest of hearts and—without thinking, her feet move on their own accord.

Daphne falls backward, memorizing that hauntingly familiar shade of green once again—her last witness in life.

Fittingly, it is Harry who finds her body after the fall of Voldemort. Everyone expected the True Hero to be inside the Great Hall, resting on his laurels, but here Harry is, helping medics and healers collect the bodies of the dead. He keeps quiet that other intention, one he refuses to voice out of fear and despair. He both wants to see her and forget her but—

There she is.

Harry kneels down (collapses), his bandaged hands coming to gently brush away her golden hair, moving it so the blood does not stain her pale skin. Her beautiful, beautiful ice blue eyes—that lovely winter arctic—are open but the color is faded. She is looking at the sky and Harry feels the weight of what could have been and I miss you and you never let me tell you…

He claims the body himself and takes her home. If Daphne had borne witness to this scene, she would have laughed. Harry always kept his promises—even the ones that were never said aloud.

He arrives at Prásino Castle in Athens with her body in a shining, splendid walnut-and-gold embossed coffin. There is a wake and a funeral and Harry stays for both. And, despite the great wealth of the Greengrass family, Harry pays for Daphne's snowy marble pillar, engraved with runes and images of bleeding hearts and blooming violets.

At the pointed top there are a series of almost invisible silver dots—Canis Major—because Harry, in a rare moment of selfish grief, wanted to watch the stars with her.

He places a bouquet of irises and manna ash flowers atop the coffin and that is the last known record of Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass.

But here and now, long in his own rest, Harry Potter confesses. Confesses to a nameless author the meaning of this one woman who had gold in her hair and winter in her smiles. How long after her death he could still not find another person who could make him feel so at ease, so at peace, the way she did.

The book is published well and fine after the Wizarding Savior's final request is made. His ashes are sprinkled beside that white marble pillar outside Athens during the hottest month in July, when the glimmering Sirius star could be seen proud and shining in the midnight sky.

That is when the world learns.

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated!

Swift: referring to Irish satirist and author Jonathan Swift, a man of great wit, intellect, and conviction.

Thomas: refers to Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, author of the famous Do not go gentle into that good night poem.

Aceso: Greek goddess of healing.

- Also, and idk why, but I've always imagined Daphne to come from an aristocratic Anglo-Grecian family which is why I've chosen Athens to be her childhood home. Prásino means 'green' in Greek.