Work Text:
It’s the sleeves that give her away as a Death Eater, Harry noticed, distractedly chewing the end of his quill as he pondered over the Potions, long sleeves and every so often grabbing at her arm, where a mark would be, inked in her skin. It’s the way she’s more demure, passive, skin pale and ashen. She looks like a guilty-stricken woman in a painting, but Harry knew it was nothing but a farce she was putting up.
What really gives away, though, it’s Daphne’s eyes, glinting in an amused manner at Draco, leaning in too close to taunt him - a spark of jealousy makes his magic flare up, even though Harry has no reason for it, pretending to not see the amused, too fast glance she gives him before going back to Draco -, words Harry doesn’t need to hear to know the sickeningly sweet tone, sing-sung and mocking. He knew those eyes, those gestures and expressions: he saw them in Bellatrix Lestrange every time she appeared in his visions of Voldemort.
He was just drawn to Daphne, a moth to a flame, and Merlin, he had never desired so much to burn in her fire.
Maybe that’s why he went after her while she practiced - Harry could see the spellfire late at night from his window, shining greens and dangerous reds -, spell after spell illuminating the night sky like terrible fallen stars. Summoning his broom and the courage only a fool would have, Harry went to meet her, on the Quidditch grounds where Daphne practiced, the girl making light of her own design.
When he stepped out, it was after a moment of contemplation, watching as she - white nightgown with sheer lace covering her arms and, subsequently, the Dark Mark on her arm shining with a light sheen of sweat - tore down created dirt golems one after another. Daphne noticed his presence (sensed, more like it), and turned, twirling her wand, the chilly night hair whipping her black hair around her head like a grief-stricken lion shaking its mane. In her blue eyes, madness danced.
“Hello there, Potter.” She drawled, a dangerous smile etched on her face. Another wand twirl, lazy yet dangerous. “Here to learn something useful?”
“I don’t know, Greengrass.” Harry mused, abandoning his broom, setting it aside. He picked his wand as well, not holding it menacingly, but Daphne was fast on her heels and approached him rather too quickly, wand underneath his chin, the pointy bit digging into his flesh.
“Be serious. What do you get from learning from me? I mean, I’m pretty sure professor Dumbledore wouldn’t like you using Dark Arts.” Daphne smirked, and Harry smiled kindly at her. Her wand dug itself deeper into his face; soon enough it would break it.
“Who said I cared about what professor Dumbledore wants?” Harry replied, in kind, and she looked at him, cocking her head. “This - you, if I’m more specific - is more interesting.”
Daphne took her wand out of his face, crossing her arms, tapping her fingers over the Dark Mark.
“You do know I’m being taught by Bellatrix Lestrange, yes?”
“Doesn’t that just mean you got a good repertoire of spells, then? I remember her being quite the good duelist.”
She smiled, crazy and wide eyed. Harry seemed to have hit a good spot with her, he realized, blinking quickly.
“Get in position, Potter. Let’s see how good you really are, and how much is just rumors.” Harry complied to her order, and the two started throwing spells - hers more unpredictable than his, obviously, glinting and shrieking like mad.
Harry thought it rather interesting, really. Maybe something like that could help him win more, although - by the way Daphne smiled, wild and mad - he wasn’t sure for which side he should fight anymore.
Perhaps he should just defect both of them and create his own side; he could already see in Daphne his own Bellatrix.
The thought distracted him long enough to allow a cutting spell to pass by him, scratching his face and drawing blood; Daphne stopped as Harry let go of his wand.
“Well, I can see a good foundation, but you need more of a sharp edge. You’re too soft.” A shark’s grin took Daphne’s face. “Good thing I can remedy that.”
Or maybe the contrary; he could be the Bellatrix to her Voldemort. Harry wouldn’t mind serving her; she’d be a Dark Lady to be reckoned with.
“I’ll be in your care, then.” He replied, and her grin persisted. Yes, perhaps like that, he’d become a force of dark, but not the known one: no, his own brand of darkness, all centered on the wild creature in front of him.
Daphne offered him a mock bow, rising the edges of her nightgown slightly.
“It’ll be my pleasure, Potter.” She said, looking at him through her eyelashes, and Harry had to bite back a shiver.