Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Marquess’s Daughter and the Wrong Script
The first thing that registered was the smell: jasmine, expensive beeswax.
The second thing she felt was the wrongness of her own skin. It was too smooth, too cool, and the limbs felt a fraction longer than they should be. She opened her eyes, expecting the popcorn ceiling of her studio apartment, but instead, she found herself staring at a canopy of silver-spun silk.
The third thing was the weight of the blankets. This was not the polyester duvet from her cramped studio apartment. This was heavy, cool silk that felt like it cost more than her previous life’s entire annual salary.
“My Lady? It is nearly eight. You mustn’t be late for the morning invocation.”
The voice was chirpy and close. She bolted upright, her heart hammering against a ribcage that felt too delicate. Her head spun and she realized that she was not in her room, but in a bed the size of a small condo apartment from New York, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a sprawling, manicured estate where the hedges seemed to prune themselves with silver shears.
“Who...?” she started, but the sound that came out was a melodic, crystalline chime. It was not her voice.
A girl in a crisp, slate-grey uniform curtsied by the bedside. “Tilly, my lady. Did you have a heavy dream? You look as though you’ve seen a Dementor in the rose garden.”
My lady? Dementor? The word Dementor sent a spark of recognition through her fog-filled brain, but it was too hazy to catch. She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting a rug so soft it felt like walking on a cloud. Ignoring the maid’s gasp, she ran toward a full-length, ornate mirror in the corner.
The reflection staring back was a stranger. White-blonde hair that tumbled down her back like a silken waterfall, piercing blue eyes, and a face so aristocratically perfect it looked carved from marble.
“Lady Daphne? Is something wrong with the glass?” Tilly asked, stepping closer with a worried expression. “Shall I call for the Lord Marquess? He is already reviewing the Greengrass estate ledgers.”
Her scrambled brain realized the words that the woman spoke to her.
‘Daphne. Greengrass.’
‘Daphne Greengrass.’
‘Daphne Greengrass.’
The name hit her like a physical blow, snapping the fog of sleep into sharp, terrifying focus. It was not just “Daphne”—a name shared by thousands. It was the combination of three different things.
The blonde hair, the mention of ‘Dementors.’ And last The “Lord Marquess Greengrass.”, emphasis on the surname Greengrass.
A flood of memories—not from this life, but from the books and the thousands of fanfictions she had devoured—surged forward.
Daphne Greengrass. “The Ice Queen,” she whispered, her fingers ghosting over her new, cold cheekbones.
In her old world, Daphne Greengrass was the blank canvas of the Harry Potter fandom. She was the beautiful secondary character who survived the war by being neutral, untouchable, and fiercely intelligent. She was the girl who always ended up with Harry in the stories where he grew a backbone.
‘I’m in the Harry Potter world, she realized, her breath hitching. I’m the girl from the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight.’ Okay. Okay. Okay, I can do this. I know the protocol, I know how it works, Pureblood etiquette, neutral politics, and stay away from the Dark Lord. If I play the Ice Queen, I can navigate the social minefield.’
“No,” she said, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it into a mask of calm. “No, Tilly. I am... fine. Just a momentary lapse.”
She straightened her spine, trying to channel the “Noble Lady” persona she had read about so many times. “Prepare my ensemble. Something appropriate for a daughter of a Noble House. And tell my father I shall join him shortly.”
The maid blinked, looking utterly perplexed and in confusion. “Appropriate, my lady? Noble House? We are dressing for the Marquess’s council today. And your father is anxious about your final enrollment for the Academy.”
Daphne paused, her hand halfway to a velvet ribbon. “The... Marquess? Not just the Head of House?”
“Of course, my lady,” Tilly giggled, though there was a hint of worry in her eyes. “The Greengrass Marquessate hasn’t changed titles in three centuries. Are you quite alright? Perhaps those ‘Soul-Bonding’ theory books you were reading last night have addled your senses?”
Daphne’s stomach did a slow, sickening roll. Marquess? That was not in the books. In the books, they were just “Mr. Greengrass” or “Lord Greengrass” and “ancient and wealthy family. This was a formal peerage; this was a different game altogether. And what did she mean by ‘three centuries’? And what did she mean by ‘three centuries’?
An hour later, Daphne found herself cinched into a structured, midnight-blue gown that felt more like a uniform than a dress. She walked down a hallway lined with portraits that didn’t just move; they were arguing about land taxes, magical tariffs and gossips from past.
On the way to meet with her supposed father, she saw many things that shocked her to the core. Through the windows, she saw carriages being pulled by horses with wing span wider than a street; a motor car rolling alongside what looked a like a floating track. She stood still in shock thinking ‘How can a flying horse and flying motor car exist at the same time.’ The only flying motor car she knew was the Ford Antilla which Harry and Ron drove to Hogwarts in their second year. The motor vehicle she saw definitely did not looked a like Ford, and it was not just a single vehicle she saw but many more.
Daphne entered the solar and saw a man with the same striking blonde hair reading a paper that glowed with a faint gold light, on the desk there was an ensemble of ink in various colours; a quill floating just above the ink waiting for it’s master to take hold of; a portrait of the family of four. On closer look she realized that it was her family. She looked at the picture of a young girl with a warm blonde hair and piercing blue eyes and thought ‘So this must be Astoria, huh. Poor girl. She got a huge misfortune of marrying a Malfoy in the books. I’ll save her from that fate this time. I’ll be the best older sister’
“Daphne,” her father said, his quill scratching rhythmically against the paper or was it a parchment. “I’ve received word from the Peverell estate. The Duke will be attending the Academy this term after all. He’s finished his tour of the Continental Courts.”
“The Duke?” she asked, her ‘Ice Queen’ mask—the one she’d spent the last twenty minutes practicing in the mirror—slipping instantly. “You mean... Harry Potter?”
The scratching stopped. Her father looked up, his expression shifting from mild distraction to genuine alarm. “Harry... Potter?”
He tasted the name as if it were a piece of spoiled fruit.
Daphne felt the air in the solar grow heavy, as if the very walls were leaning in to listen to her blunder. Her father, the Marquess, was still staring at her with a mixture of pity and annoyance, his hand lingering on his wand—a polished length of dark cedar that looked more like a scepter than a tool.
“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a high-backed velvet chair. “Clearly, the ‘Ice Queen’ facade you’ve been cultivating is masking a fever. Or perhaps a lapse in your Occlumency.”
Daphne sank into the chair, her mind spinning. Occlumency? She knew that word. It was the art of shielding the mind. In the books, Harry struggled with it. In fanfiction, Daphne was a master of it.
“I... I apologize, Father,” she said, choosing her words with the precision of a tightrope walker. “I have been practicing my mental shields quite late into the night. It seems I’ve blurred the lines between historical research and... current reality.”
The Marquess sighed, his posture relaxing only slightly. “History is one thing, Daphne. Insulting the highest-ranking peer in the British Isles is quite another. The Peverell family hasn’t used the Potter name in public since the Calamity of 1692. To them, ‘Potter’ represents the merchant-class branch of their bloodline before they consolidated the Ducal seats. To call His Grace a ‘Potter’ is to suggest he is a commoner playing at being a King.”
A commoner. Harry Potter, a commoner. Daphne felt like she was reading a book where the pages had been glued in the wrong order.
“Daphne, we are in the solar, not a tavern. Even if you were on intimate terms with His Grace—which you are most certainly not—you would refer to him by his primary title. And where on earth did you dig up the ‘Potter’ name? That hasn’t been the primary Ducal surname since the seventeenth century.”
Daphne felt a bead of sweat prickle at her hairline. “I... I just thought... the Peverells were extinct? The Tale of the Three Brothers? The Cloak, the Stone...”
Her father stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. He walked over to her, placing a cool hand on her forehead.
“You’ve been reading those Gothic children’s tales again. The Peverells are not a fairy tale, Daphne. They are the Sovereigns of the Northern Ley Lines. The Duke is the ward of the Crown. Calling him ‘Harry Potter’ is not only a breach of etiquette; it is practically a slur against his ancestry. If you say that at the Academy, the Peverell Faction will ruin our trade exports before the first semester is over.”
He sighed, his voice softening with concern. “Is this about the ‘Villainess’ rumors? I know the Parkinson girl has been spreading rot about your temperament, but you cannot afford to be this... disoriented.”
Daphne’s heart did a frantic tap-dance. Villainess rumors? Parkinson? “I’m fine, Father,” she lied, her voice an octave higher than usual. “I just... I must have stayed up too late studying. The Duke of Peverell. I understand. I won’t let the name ‘Potter’ cross my lips again.”
“And he prefers his Ducal title in formal settings, Daphne. His Grace will be highest-ranking student at Hogwarts this year. It would be… prudent for a Marquess’ daughter to ensure our house aligned with his.”
“I understand,” she murmured. “It won’t happen again. You mentioned... the Academy. And my ‘Debut’?”
“Don’t play the ingenue, Daphne. It does not suit you,” he said, pulling a heavy, vellum scroll from a silver tube on his desk. He unrolled it, and the ink shimmered with a faint, violet light. “You are seventeen. You have reached the age of majority. You are no longer a child being tutored in the manor; you are a Lady of House Greengrass entering the Hogwarts Professional Academy of Magicks and Governance.”
He tapped a line on the scroll.
“You will be expected to choose a Faction within the first fortnight. Normally, I would expect you to join the Emerald Accord, as we always have. But with the Duke of Peverell attending...” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. “There are rumors that he intends to revive the Shadow-Cloak Faction. If he does, and if you can secure a position as one of his primary associates—or better yet, his betrothed—the Greengrass influence would be unshakable.”
Daphne swallowed hard. This was exactly like those Villainess stories. The “Father” character was already plotting to sell her off for political gain, and she was expected to “target” the main lead.
“And if I fail?” she asked quietly.
The Marquess’s expression turned wintry. “The Parkinson family is already whispering to the Count of Bulstrode that your ‘Ice Queen’ persona is a cover for magical instability. If you fail to make a splash at the Debut Ball, or worse, if you offend the Duke, they will move to have our trade monopolies revoked. In this world, Daphne, a noblewoman without a Faction or a Contract is merely a liability.”
He stood up, the meeting clearly over, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
She left the room, biting on her fingernails; an old habit of hers which she developed when she gets anxious. She had seven days to learn the history of the world she was inhabiting.
Daphne decided to spend the next seven days buried in the Greengrass Great Library. If she was going to survive this, she needed to stop thinking like a fanfiction reader and start thinking like a political operative.
The books were not the dusty, whimsical tomes she expected. They were leather-bound ledgers of power, genealogy, and magical warfare.
Daphne pulled a massive, iron-bound volume titled The Sovereignty of the Blood: Three Centuries of Dominion toward her. As she flipped through the enchanted vellum pages, the text did not just sit there; it projected flickering, golden illusions of historical battles and architectural shifts like the a TV show or a movie.
I. The Turning Point: The Great Ascendance (1692)
In the world she remembered from the books, 1692 was a year of fear—the year the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was signed to hide magic from a torch-bearing mundane world.
But in this Universe, the “High Houses” chose violence.
Faced with the Salem Witch Trials in the Americas and the rising fervors of the Inquisition in Europe, the Great Families—led by the Blacks, the Peverells, and the Bones and the Malfoys—realized that hiding was a death sentence. They formed the Grand Council of Warlocks and issued the Sovereignty Manifesto.
Instead of fleeing, magical battalions descended upon the witch-hunters. In a single night, the leaders of the anti-magic movements across Europe were “neutralized” by High Sorcery.
The Magickal Sovereignty Act: The Grand Council forced the mundane monarchs to sign a treaty. Wizards would not hide; they would govern. The “Mundane” Parliament was allowed to keep managing “small affairs” (roads, basic trade), but the Grand Council of Warlocks held veto power over everything.
The Result: Magic became the ultimate status symbol. If you had it, you were a citizen. If you did not, you were a “Subject.”
Daphne stared at a genealogical chart that made her head ache. In her “meta-knowledge,” the Peverell name had faded into obscurity, leaving only the Potters behind. Here, the story was far more brutal.
II. The Peverell-Potter Schism & The Napoleonic Magickal Wars
The Ancestral Split: In the 12th century, the Peverell line split. The elder branch stayed focused on “High Necromancy and Void Arts,” keeping the Peverell name. A younger son, Linfred of Stinchcombe, grew obsessed with the “lower arts” of potion-making and trade. His descendants became the Potters.
The Merchant Slur: For centuries, the Potters were successful merchants. They were wealthy, yes, but they worked. To the High Nobility, manual labour or running a shop—even a magical one—was beneath their dignity. The Potters were eventually “stripped” of their noble aspirations by a Peverell Duke who found their commercial success “distastefully common.”
The Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815): This was where the Peverells secured their god-like status. Napoleon was not just a general; he was a powerful Warlock seeking to upend the British Peerage. The Duke of Peverell at the time led the “Black Vanguard,” using ancient Void Magic to annihilate the French magical fleet.
Current Status: The “Potter” branch is considered to be dead, disgraced line of “potion-peddlers.” The current Harry is the Duke of Peverell, the direct heir to the elder, warrior-aristocrat bloodline. Calling him a “Potter” implies he is a mere shopkeeper’s son.
III. The Industrialization of Magic: The “New” World
Because magic was never hidden, it was integrated into the Industrial Revolution. This created a world that looks like a high-fantasy version of the Victorian era, but with the efficiency of the 21st century.
The Aether-Rail: These are not the steam trains. They are sleek, silver carriages that hover inches above runic rails, propelled by captured atmospheric electricity (Aether). It connects London to the Hogwarts Academy in under an hour.
The Mirror-Net: Communication is not done by owls, that does not mean that owls do not exist, owls are commonly used as pets or familiars. The elite use Hand-Mirrors linked to a central “Runic Array.” It is essentially a magical internet. You can send “Glimmers” (text messages) or hold “Visage-Calls” (FaceTime).
Alchemy-Factories: The Malfoys and Parkinsons made their current billions here. Instead of traditional manufacturing, they use “Mass Transmutation Circles.” Raw iron is fed in, and finished enchanted blades or luxury goods come out. This created a massive class of “Factory Warlocks” and relegated non-magical people to the role of “Maintenance Subjects.”
IV. The “Hogwarts Professional Academy” (Age 17–23)
Hogwarts was no longer a school for children. After the Sovereignty Act, the Council realized that 11-year-olds were too young to handle the “State-Level Magic” required to run an empire.
Early Education: Children are tutored at home by private Governesses and Elves.
The Academy: At 17, when a witch or wizard reaches their “Magickal Maturity,” they enter the Academy. It is a mix of a War College, a Law School, and a Royal Court.
The Factions: There are no “Houses.” You are not sorted by a hat; you are sorted by Politics.
The Emerald Accord: The Traditionalists (mostly Marquess and Earl families).
The Iron Sceptre: Those focused on military and industrial expansion.
The Shadow-Cloak: A defunct, legendary faction once led by the Peverells, rumoured to focus on the “Forbidden Arts” of governance and life-extension.
As Daphne closed the final book, she found another notebook next to the social etiquette guide. It was her own handwriting—the original Daphne’s.
Daphne flipped through the vellum pages, her skin crawling as she read the handwriting of the woman whose life she had stolen. The “original” Daphne did not just have high standards; she had a psychological dossier on every noble child in the British Isles.
June 12th: “Draco Malfoy is a loud, gilded bore. His father may be a Duke, but the Malfoys have the souls of shopkeepers. All he talks about is the ‘efficiency’ of their new Alchemy-Factories in Wiltshire. He showed me his new Mirror-Net device; encrusted in diamonds, of course. Vulgar. He behaves as if having the most gold makes him the leader of the peerage. He forgets that while a Malfoy makes the gold, a Greengrass maintains the land. If he tries to corner me at the Debut Ball to talk about ‘investment portfolios’ again, I shall have Tilly ‘accidentally’ spill Dragon-Tonic on his bespoke silk robes.”
‘Great. I have already insulted the son of a Duke. And apparently, Draco is a tech-bro in this world. This is going to be a nightmare.’
July 3rd: “Passed the Earl of Shanty—I mean, Weasley—at the Hogsmeade Transit Station today. They were actually using the Public Aether-Rail carriage. The stench of poverty and copper was overwhelming. How that family maintains a seat on the Grand Council is a mystery of the Dark Arts. One of the twins had the audacity to wink at me. A Greengrass does not even acknowledge the existence of a man who cannot afford his own private Shadow-Coach. If they are at the Academy this year, I shall ensure the Emerald Accord ignores them into non-existence.”
‘Wait, Ron and the twins are Earls? Even impoverished ones? And I have apparently been treating them like radioactive waste. I need to fix that before they decide to prank me into the next century.’
August 2nd: “Pansy Parkinson is a leech. She clings to the Malfoy name because her own Viscountcy is crumbling under bad debt. She tried to imply that my ‘Ice Queen’ reputation is just a mask for a lack of magical talent. I simply looked at her tea and turned it into liquid lead while she was holding the cup. The look of terror on her face was almost as refreshing as the jasmine. She is a pawn, nothing more. Millicent Bulstrode, on the other hand, is a blunt instrument. Useful for intimidation, but she has the social grace of a mountain troll. I will keep her close only until she outlives her utility.”
‘I turned her tea into lead? I don’t even know how to hold a wand properly yet! Original Daphne was a literal sociopath.’
August 20th: “The rumours are confirmed. The Duke of Peverell—the True Heir—is returning from his tour of the French Courts. The entire Debutante circle is salivating. They think because he has been away, he will be easy to manipulate. Fools. He is a Peverell; his blood is literal Void. I have spent three years perfecting my Occlumency specifically to catch his eye. I will not be like those simpering idiots who throw themselves at him. I will be his equal. I will be the Duchess of Peverell, and together we will remind the Grand Council why our ancestors once ruled with iron and shadow. If any girl—even Astoria—gets in my way, I will ruin them.”
‘Wait, even her own sister? I’m supposed to be ‘The Villainess’ who tries to marry the Duke by any means necessary. I’m literally in a ‘Reincarnated as the Antagonist’ anime, but with wands and political assassinations.’
September 1st: “The Nott heir tried to send me a ‘Glimmer’ on the Mirror-Net last night. It was a poem. It was atrocious. Theodore thinks because he reads Ancient Runes, he is deep. He is a puddle. Most of the boys at the Academy are either obsessed with War-Magic or their own reflections. None of them understand that power is not about how hard you can hit; it is about whose neck you have your heel on during a gala dinner.”
‘I need burn this diary. If anyone else reads this, I won’t be just socially executed, I would be legally dead.’
“Oh, you absolute idiot,” Daphne whispered, closing the diary.
Daphne sat back, her heart racing. She realized that the “Ice Queen” persona was not just a fanfiction trope, here it was a weapon. And everyone at the Academy was going to be expecting the girl who turns tea into lead and threatens the livelihoods of Viscounts.
“So, I wasn’t just cold,” she whispered. “I was a power-hungry social assassin. And now I’m going into a room with these people, and I don’t even know how to use the Mirror-Net.”
Daphne was still staring at the charred corner of the diary, contemplating whether to toss the whole thing into the enchanted fireplace, when the heavy oak doors of the library swung open. There was no polite rap of knuckles, no announcement from a servant.
Just a whirlwind of daffodil-yellow silk and the scent of sweet citrus.
“Daphne! Tilly said you’ve been buried in here for a week. If you read one more book on ‘The Socio-Economic Impact of Transmutation,’ I’m going to have the house elves hide your reading glasses!”
Daphne looked up, her “Ice Queen” mask slipping before she could even summon it. Standing there was Astoria.
In the books, Astoria was a tragic figure, cursed and quiet, married to Draco Malfoy and died before seeing her son grow up. In the fanfictions she read, Astoria was a still a child who had blood malediction, in some she attended Hogwarts, in some she was in St Mungos, but she was portrayed as a very bright child, exact opposite of the ‘Ice Queen Daphne.’
In this world’s reality? She was a sunbeam in a house made of marble and shadow. Her hair was a warmer blonde than Daphne’s, tied back with a messy velvet ribbon, and her face was lit up with a grin that seemed entirely too joyful for a Marquess’s daughter.
“Astoria,” Daphne breathed, her heart twinging. She looked at the girl and then down at the diary entry she’d just read: ‘If even Astoria gets in my way, I will ruin her.’
The sheer cruelty of it made the “new” Daphne feel a surge of protective nausea.
“Oh, don’t give me that look!” Astoria chirped, bouncing across the room and throwing herself onto the edge of the mahogany desk, completely ignoring the ‘Dignity of a Noble’ rules. “The ‘I’m-Too-Important-To-Smile’ look. Save that for Pansy Parkinson. She actually believes that you’re made of literal ice.”
Astoria reached out and squeezed Daphne’s hand. Her palms were warm, grounded, and very real. “Are you nervous? About the Academy? And... him?”
Daphne blinked. “Him?”
“The Duke! Duke Peverell!” Astoria squealed, her eyes sparkling with vicarious excitement. “The whole Mirror-Net is buzzing. They say he has brought back a carriage made of actual midnight from the French Courts. Mother says you have the best chance of any girl in the Peerage, but I told her you don’t need a ‘chance.’ You’re Daphne Greengrass! You’ll just look at him, and he’ll probably forget how to cast a basic Lumos.”
Daphne felt a lump in her throat. This girl clearly worshipped her. She did not see the ‘social assassin’ as the society saw her; she saw a brilliant, powerful older sister.
Astoria,” Daphne said, her voice softer than she intended. “What if I... what if I do not want to ‘target’ the Duke? What if I just want to survive the semester without turning anyone’s tea into lead?”
Astoria paused, her head tilting like a confused puppy. Then, she let out a peal of melodic laughter. “Turning tea into lead? Oh, Daphne, that was one time, and honestly, Pansy deserved it for what she said about your emeralds. But if you don’t want the Duke... does that mean I can have him in two years when I enroll?”
Astoria winked, then immediately shook her head like a golden retriever. “Kidding! He sounds far too brooding for me. I want someone who likes Quidditch and doesn’t talk about ‘The Void’ every five minutes.”
‘She definitely gives golden retriever vibes.’ Daphne thought with a smile.
Astoria hopped off the desk and began twirling around the library, her yellow dress flaring out. “But seriously, Daph. You’ve been so... so… intense lately. Ever since you hit seventeen. It’s like you’re carrying the whole Marquessate on your shoulders. Just promise me you’ll have fun? Go to the balls, wear the pretty dresses, and maybe—just maybe—try not to scare the boys too much?”
Daphne watched her, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth for the first time. “I’ll try, Tori. I promise.”
“Good!” Astoria skipped back over and planted a quick, messy kiss on Daphne’s cheek—an act of pure rebellion against their father’s etiquette. “Now, come on. Tilly is losing her mind trying to pack your ‘Shadow-Wear’ for the train. She says you told her you wanted ‘something practical,’ and she thinks you’ve been cursed with a Confundus Charm.”
As Astoria dragged her toward the door, Daphne took one last look at the library. She realized she had one person in this world who actually loved her. If she was going to play the Villainess, she was not doing it for power or for a Duke.
She was doing it to make sure this girl never had to deal with the version of Daphne Greengrass who wrote that diary.
As she reached the grand foyer, Daphne’s eyes drifted to the portrait above the mantle. It showed a woman with the same striking silver-blonde hair as hers, but her expression was not cold. She was laughing, her hand resting affectionately on the Marquess’s shoulder. This was Lady Eleanor Greengrass, the Marchioness.
"I still can't believe Mother had to miss my departure," Daphne said, a genuine pang of loneliness hitting her. Even if she did not "know" this woman yet, the warmth in the portrait made her feel safe.
Alistair stopped, his expression softening instantly. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Daphne’s ear with a paternal tenderness that caught her off guard.
"She was heartbroken, believe me," he said, his voice warm and thick with affection. "But the Alpine Summit in Geneva couldn't be moved. Your mother is the only one the Italian Duchies will listen to when it comes to the Neutrality Pact. She sent a 'Glimmer' this morning, she has already bought you a set of enchanted Venetian silks for your Debut Ball. She says they change colour based on the wearer’s spell-casting."
He gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze.
"In a way, it’s a blessing she isn't here to fuss over your hemlines, or you’d never make the train. But she will be back for the Mid-Autumn Parent’s Visitation. She told me to tell you that she’s already bragging to the other Delegates about her brilliant daughter taking the Academy by storm."
"She... she is?" Daphne whispered.
"Always," her father replied with a proud smile. "Now, off you go. Astoria is already trying to convince the house-elves to smuggle extra sweets into your trunk. Go keep your sister in line, and remember your mother and I love you more than any title or Faction standing."
Daphne felt a lump in her throat. In the "script" she knew, noble parents were supposed to be distant and demanding. But here, she had a father who looked at her with pure pride and a mother who was busy being a continental diplomat while shopping for her daughter’s happiness.
As she stepped toward the ‘carriage’, the weight of the Greengrass name felt different. It was not just a shield; it was a legacy of love. And she was going to have to work twice as hard to make sure this "new" Daphne did not lose it all.