V.
Harry & Daphne (July 1814)
Harry should have known. It was his thirteenth proposal to Eloise Bridgerton and the entire time, he couldn’t say that she was listening, but she certainly wasn’t ignoring him like she normally did.
“We could live both in the magical and Muggle world,” he told her, trying to entice her into a marriage with him. “You would never have to leave behind Lord Bridgerton and his family now that he is engaged to a Muggle. I would never ask that of you. I would also never stop you from working in the Ministry of Magic, I—”
“Love me, yes,” Eloise interrupted. “How much do you love me?”
Harry looked at her oddly. They were sitting in Hyde Park, perfectly chaperoned by everyone around them, while having the distinction of being completely alone. “You know I’ve loved you—”
“Since you saw me, yes,” she agreed, casually. “My sister is in a magical coma.”
Harry was well aware of this. Lady Bellatrix Lestrange had had a Black artifact in her possession and had been asking it every day since she turned eighteen, “Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Until that fateful day in 1813, the mirror had always answered, “Bellatrix Lestrange.” The day Daphne Bridgerton turned eighteen, however, the mirror had had a different answer.
When the mirror had answered “Daphne Bridgerton,” Bellatrix, in a rage, had found Daphne at Hogwarts and had cursed her. Daphne had been forced into an enchanted sleep. Unless Daphne was awakened by true love, she would sleep for a hundred years, her beauty fading until she was no longer the most beautiful of them all.
“Has her true love not been found, then?” Harry asked Eloise, knowing the answer. He had seen wizards come and go from the Bridgerton household. There was no longer any hope when a new suitor was chosen, only the usual resignation and disappointment.
“No.” Silence swept between them. “You’ve never met Daphne, though, have you? She was a sixth year when we met.”
Harry blinked. “No, I don’t think I ever met her.”
Eloise’s sharp blue eyes met his. “Then how do you know you’re not her true love?”
“Because I’m your true love,” he answered her, though not as passionately as he would have liked. In truth, Eloise no longer excited him anymore. When he had left Hogwarts, he had vowed that he would win Eloise when she had grown up. He had waited for her and since he had waited, he now pursued her out of sense of Potter obligation. His dad had fallen in love with Lily Evans, his mum, at first sight. He thought that’s what had happened with him and Eloise—but had it been more about the chase than anything, really? Was Eloise just a prize to be won?
Eloise rolled her eyes. “You say I’m your true love. But we don’t know, do we, other than your love at first sight during a Quidditch match when I could have been anyone in the crowd? Who’s to say you didn’t see Daphne in the Ravenclaw stands during that Quidditch match? We are sisters after all.”
Harry looked at Eloise strangely. “That’s preposterous!” Harry knew the mysterious beauty he had seen was Eloise. Or at least he thought so. She had pale pink lips, sharp blue eyes, and she had been sitting next to Miss Astoria Greengrass, who was now Heiress Draco Malfoy. Harry had served as magical escort for Eloise at the wedding.
Eloise was now sitting prettily with her hands folded in her lap. It was a complete contrivance. Eloise was never the perfect society girl. It’s what he admired about her so much. “If you love me,” she stated coolly, “you’ll offer for Daphne.”
Harry was stunned. “If you want me to shove off—”
“I do want you to shove off,” she agreed. “But I also want you to offer for Daphne.” Her blue eyes cut to him. “You’re the most powerful wizard of the age. If anyone can wake her up, it’s you.” She blinked her pretty blue eyes at him. “I won’t beg.”
“I don’t want you to beg,” he refuted. “Still—” he sighed. If this is what she wanted—“Fine.” He stood up. As he was in the Muggle world, he was wearing britches, hose, a waistcoat, a cravat, and a coat. He also had a top hat, which he now put on his head. Picking up his walking stick, he saluted to Eloise instead of bowing to her or kissing her hand. “I have to see a man about a horse.”
“Don’t you mean an Abraxan?” she asked coyly.
“Your brother does have a fine stable,” he agreed, and then he was off.
Cutting through Hyde Park, he made for his carriage and ordered his driver to Bridgerton House in Grosvenor Square. The footman took his accoutrements and Harry introduced himself to the study.
He found both Lord Bridgerton and Benedict there.
“I thought you were out with Eloise,” Benedict greeted, standing and offering Harry his hand.
“I was. I proposed and she had an interesting answer.”
“Oh?” Lord Bridgerton asked, going for his secret stash of firewhiskey. “She did not just turn you down?”
“No,” Harry told the brothers, accepting his glass. He took his seat and saluted them before taking a sip, feeling the fire slip into his stomach. “Eloise told me if I loved her, I would offer for Daphne.”
The room suddenly stilled as if a lethifold had covered it.
“Benedict,” Lord Bridgerton ordered sternly, “go get Mama.”
Benedict looked between them with his sharp blue eyes, nodded, kicked back his firewhiskey, shivered from the taste, and then left them alone.
“She actually said that?” Lord Bridgerton checked. “Sometimes I thank the old gods that I found Miss Swan and not someone as contrary as Eloise.”
“Still going to tell her about magic?”
“My entire family are wizards. Our children could be wizards. I am honor bound to tell her,” Lord Bridgerton said solemnly, looking into his glass. “I breed Abraxans down at Aubrey Hall. I only hope that such a pure and honest girl can forgive me for keeping it from her.”
“The Statute of Secrecy is a hard thing,” Harry agreed.
There was a movement at the door, and the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton entered, a vision in the family colors of ice blue.
“Ah, Mama,” Lord Bridgerton greeted. “Lord Black proposed to Eloise—”
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, clearly misreading the situation.
“—and Eloise answered that if he loved her, he would offer for Daphne.” Lord Bridgerton gave his mother a look.
Her face suddenly went ashen. “She did not,” she stated coldly. At the silence that met her statement, she suddenly swore, “Merlin!” under her breath before composing herself. “You have a mind to listen to Eloise, then, Lord Black?”
Harry considered his glass as if it held all the answers of life. “What are the specifications of this curse?” he asked carefully. He knew all about the mirror. It was a Black artifact after all, but the enchantment was a different story.
Lord Bridgerton actually blushed. “You know how difficult it is for wizards to conceive, especially during their first year.”
“Yes, my parents were blessed in that regard,” Harry agreed. His parents had most likely conceived on their wedding night, which was considered a blessing from Mother Magic herself. The fact that the Bridgertons, a pureblood wizard and a pureblood Squib, had conceived and had eight children was fantastical. It should have been impossible.
“Daphne,” Lord Bridgerton continued carefully, “must conceive on her wedding night for the curse to be broken as true love, and true love only—”
“—conceives on the wedding night,” Harry agreed. Then he stopped and looked between Lord Bridgerton and the Dowager Viscountess. “How many wedding nights has Daphne had?”
Lord Bridgerton looked away.
The Dowager Viscountess came around and took the other seat in front of the desk. “Twenty-seven. We choose carefully. We use the Old Rites and then annul the marriages with the Wizengamut on the basis of the union being non-consensual on Daphne’s part.” She swallowed delicately. “We always follow the Old Rites, to make the initial marriage legal. Our plan, if the conception happens, is to follow the Rite of the Pomegranate so that Daphne can remember her wedding.”
“Fuck,” Harry swore into the back of his hand. “You can’t approve of doing this to your daughter.”
“What else can we do?” Lord Bridgerton asked desperately. “Wait a hundred years for her to wake up and for all of our lives to have gone by? We don’t know if she will age. She might still be a young woman while her little brothers and sisters will be over a century old!”
Harry could understand the problem. Still, the cure to the enchantment seemed barbaric.
“If I do this,” he said into the room, “and it doesn’t work, I am gone. I can’t—with Daphne—and then marry Eloise. I can’t have one sister and then the other.”
The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton reached out to him and touched his wrist. “We do not ask this of you, Lord Black.”
“No, but Eloise asks this of me and this will be my final act of devotion to her. If I can wake up Daphne, as Eloise believes I can because I am the Defeater of the Dark Lord—” he spit out the words and then sighed. “When do we do this?”
“When do you want to do this?” Lord Bridgerton asked instead. “We have to cast some spells on you to make sure you’re entirely healthy and able to sire children. Then we’ll bathe Daphne in rose water…” His voice trailed off. “Mama will either sit inside the room or just outside. We’ll know within three hours if she’s conceived.”
Harry hummed. “Now’s as good as any time.”
Nodding, the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton stood and exited the room.
“I hope you will not be a stranger,” Lord Bridgerton said to him. “We have got used to you. If you cannot be a husband to Eloise, hopefully we can still meet at the club.”
“You will always be welcome at Grimmauld Place,” Harry assured him. He took another sip of his firewhiskey. There was a knock on the door and Benedict entered,
“Er, the spells.”
Harry subjected himself to several spells that would not be unusual before a wizarding marriage. He had to prove he wasn’t carrying any diseases, that he was healthy, that he was able to sire a child, that he in fact had magic. If he were a pureblood, he’d have to prove his status as a pureblood, but that was not necessary as he was a known half-blood.
“Have Daphne’s other suitors been purebloods?”
“Yes,” Benedict answered, having reclaimed his chair and drink. “Your status in the wizarding world is so great, however.”
“Hardy har,” Harry teased, laughing. “My mother was actually a pureblood.”
Both Benedict and Lord Bridgerton looked up at him in astonishment.
“During the war, Dad and Sirius—the late Lord Black—pranked my mum into going to The Wicked Stepmother.” The Wicked Stepmother was a purebloods only club that measured dark magic six generations back at a minimum. All of the Bridgertons, excepting Lord Bridgerton and the Dowager Viscountess because they were Squibs and therefore didn’t have wands, were members. “She went, put her wand into the cone, and got a card.” He took a long drink from his glass. “I don’t think she ever knew why or, rather, who her actual parents were. I found her card when I was going through my parents’ things.”
Benedict blinked. He set his glass down and then ordered, “Up!”
Harry blinked at him.
“Up!” he ordered again.
Harry got up and stood in the center of the room as Benedict pointed his wand at him “Revelo Sanguis!” The wand glowed blue. Benedict exchanged a look with Lord Bridgerton. He then pointed the wand again at Harry and spoke “Revelo Sanguis Premium!” It glowed yellow.
“By the old gods,” Lord Bridgerton swore. “Seven generations back.”
Harry shrugged. “Told you.” He reclaimed his seat nonchalantly, not paying attention to the two brothers who were staring at him.
“Well,” Benedict decided, putting his wand into his boot. “Eloise may have been right about this.”
“Eloise doesn’t know,” Harry muttered into his drink, Lord Bridgerton giving him a strange look.
They didn’t have much longer to wait. The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton arrived half an hour later, telling them that Daphne was ready. Harry disappeared with her, moving toward the main staircase up to the private rooms.
“Would you like me inside with you or outside the door?” she asked delicately as they ascended up to the second floor.
“Outside, thank you,” Harry requested. “I’d rather not have my potential goodmother watching me.”
“I would never watch,” she promised. “However, I take your point.”
Harry was led to double doors and the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton smiled at him.
“You have our everlasting thanks and gratitude,” she told him. “Your bride awaits.”
He suddenly grimaced. “She’s not in a wedding dress, is she?”
“No,” the Dowager Viscountess told him carefully. “She’s in a nightdress. My daughter, Lord Black, is very beautiful.”
“I have no doubt,” he agreed before taking a breath and entering the bedchamber.
The room was beautiful, elegant, delicate. He stepped into the hush which wasn’t dissimilar to a grave. Everything was perfectly in place. Her gowns were all hanging in the closet. Daphne’s brushes and combs were out on the vanity. A book was placed on the bedside table as if she would claim it that night. However, there, off to the left, dominating the room, was a bed, petals of pink and blue and purple covering the bedspread. Harry took it in carefully.
Daphne was lying atop the covers, the petals surrounding her, dressed in a beautiful nightgown of white silk and lace. Her brown-gold hair, so unlike the rest of her family, was falling past her shoulders, and her hands were placed folded over her stomach.
Harry looked at her face, wondering if he would recognize her from Hogwarts, but she was a stranger to him.
She was slighter than Eloise, but with those same pale pink lips that he had wanted to kiss for over two years now but had never had the chance.
Could he steal a kiss from Daphne or would that be too much of an imposition?
The firewhiskey had relaxed him, fortunately, and Harry was glad to see that he wouldn’t need a spell to perform.
He sat down on the divan at the end of the bed and took off his boots and hose. Considering, he looked over his shoulder at the sleeping Daphne. As expected, she hadn’t moved. She looked so peaceful even though he knew she was stuck in purgatory.
Harry turned forward and began to undo his cravat. He heard a rustle. When he turned, the petals had fallen off of the bed, creeping over the bedside table and over the book. An enchantment was certainly at work.
His coat in a deep blue came off next, followed by his waistcoat.
Standing only in shirtsleeves and britches, he approached the bed and stood over his sleeping bride. He leaned down and kissed her once, her lips soft as petals. A breeze whisked about them and the petals of pink and blue and purple stirred, falling to the floor. Harry moved over Daphne and promised himself he would not think of Eloise.
Daphne was soft if stiff and he ran his fingers through her hair, brushing away the petals that felt like parchment under his fingertips, wondering if he could possibly break this enchantment. It was quick. It was perfunctory. He said the magical words of the Old Rites, making Daphne his wife. He didn’t kiss Daphne again. He shivered and fell to the side, his green gaze blinking up at the canopy above him. It was the same ice blue of the Bridgerton family colors.
Harry wasn’t entirely certain how long he lay there beside Daphne. He was aware of the petals whistling against his cheek, but he did not move.
As such, Harry wasn’t aware at first that Daphne had rolled over into his arms until he was holding her. He looked over at her and saw a soft expression on her face, one paper petal of blue caught in her hair.
Daphne’s small hand reached out and grabbed his shirt, and he blinked.
Quickly putting himself away, Harry shouted, “Lady Bridgerton!”
At first Harry was afraid the room was soundproof (and he had left his wand with his boots, stupidly), but then the doors carefully opened and he heard the Dowager Viscountess ask, “Is all well?”
“Come in here!” he called.
He heard the soft pad of slippers and then her face appeared.
Lady Bridgerton looked over them and then she gasped, her hands coming up to her mouth. “She sleeps? It is a natural sleep?”
“I think so. I don’t wish to wake her.” He reached out carefully and ran his fingers through her hair. Daphne sighed and snuggled closer.
Tears began to form in Lady Bridgerton’s eyes. “By the old gods,” she whispered. “I will just wait—” she pointed behind herself to a chair that was pushed against the wall.
Harry nodded and lay his head back down on the pillow as the Dowager Viscountess retreated to the chair. He lay there, holding his wife close. There was a small clock on the bedside table and well over an hour passed before Daphne’s eyes fluttered open and she looked at him in shock.
“Black?” Daphne asked. She looked around her at the room and then sat up. “What are you doing in my bedchamber? What are all these—flowers?”
“Oh darling,” the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton soothed, as she came forward. “You were cursed into a hundred year’s sleep. Lord Black broke the curse.”
“I—pardon?” Daphne asked, her hand on her head. Looking back at Harry, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “You broke the curse—in my bedchamber?”
“Only your true love could break it,” the Dowager Viscountess explained, drawing her daughter’s attention toward her. “We have been searching for your true love for well over a year.—Your true love had to make you his wife. You were asleep, darling, so,” the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton blushed, “the Old Rites had to be used.”
Daphne blushed and glanced at Harry. “I could have told you who my true love was. Why did you not read my diary?”
“You have a diary, my love?” the Dowager Viscountess asked.
Harry, however, wasn’t stuck on the diary. He was perplexed at how Daphne knew he was her true love. At Hogwarts he was running around chasing Eloise, Daphne’s younger sister. He had never laid eyes on Daphne, as far as he could tell.
“I think,” Harry interrupted, “Daphne’s diary should remain private, even if it might have proved useful.” He took a deep breath, his hand pressed against the bed, the feel of paper between his fingers. “I should like a moment with my wife before the Bridgerton family descends.”
“Of course,” the Dowager Viscountess agreed. Standing, she told them, “We’ll prepare the Rite of Pomegranate so you can partake in your own wedding ceremony, dear. Unless you feel that is unnecessary.”
Daphne turned to her mother. “On the morrow, perhaps. I feel quite overwhelmed.”
Harry and Daphne waited until the Dowager Viscountess left, still partially wrapped around each other, and then they were left alone.
“Old Rites?” Daphne checked, turning back to Harry. “Whyever did you do it? I thought you fancied Eloise.”
He cleared his throat. “I think I chased her just because I was so used to the chase. I proposed today, as I always do, and instead of refusing, she told me if I loved her, I would try for you.”
Daphne’s face crumpled. “You feel pity for me.”
“I do not feel pity for you,” Harry asserted, reaching for her hand and entwining their fingers. “I do not know you, Daphne. I don’t think I saw you before today. I don’t want to be strangers with my wife.”
“You mean for the marriage to stand, then?” she asked, completely serious. She was dressed in a silk nightdress, her hair flowing down her shoulders, while he was in his shirtsleeves and britches—and she asked him that.
“I’ve been having these dreams since about a year after I left Hogwarts,” he told her. “I dream of a field of paper flowers.” He looked down at the bed and Daphne likewise looked around them, running her fingers through the blue and purple petals. “They’re rolled like roses,” Harry explained. “Pink—blue—purple. They’re quite astounding. They’ve always been covering a casket. I’ve been trying to look inside it, desperately trying to clear off those horrible flowers. I think—I think you were in that casket. I found the same flowers here in your bedchamber. I think my magic has been trying to tell me you were in an enchanted sleep since April 1913. That was your eighteenth birthday, wasn’t it?
“Yes,” she whispered, “April 11th.”
Harry nodded. “I don’t remember the exact night the dreams began. I didn’t recognize the dream as recurring until May or June.” He looked up into her sharp blue eyes. “How did you know I was your true love?”
“Oh, Black—”
“Harrigan,” he corrected.
“Harrigan,” she amended with a small smile. “I have been in love with you since my fifth year when my bag broke and you helped me pick up my books and parchment. You were in a hurry, but you stopped and helped me.—and I was lost.” She gave him a shy smile. “I was heartbroken when you noticed Eloise the next year and not me.—and she never wanted you.”
“No,” Harry agreed, knowing deep down it was true. “She never did.”
He leaned forward carefully, giving Daphne the choice. She smiled and tilted her head to the side and kissed him in true love’s kiss.
