Daphne Greengrass

A flutter of dark wings against the twilight sky signaled the return of Umbra, a raven bound to the shadows as much as it was bound to its mistress, Daphne Greengrass. The Greengrass heiress stood still, watching as her familiar emerged from the evening haze, its violet eyes sharp and unblinking as it circled once before settling on her shoulder. The raven was no ordinary bird—its lineage, like hers, was steeped in magic, giving it the ability to slip between shadows and worlds, bound to her by the old blood that ran through her veins.

Together, they traveled, slipping into the embrace of twilight as they left Diagon Alley behind, heading toward a place just as ancient as their legacy: Greengrass Manor. The stately home rose out of the landscape like a silent sentinel, its dark stone walls and wrought-iron accents a testament to the Greengrass family's old, resilient magic. Surrounded by expansive gardens and enchanted forests, Greengrass Manor was a sanctuary as much as it was a fortress. The grounds, though lush with rare blooms and carefully tended paths, held an undercurrent of melancholy—a reflection of the curse that loomed over their bloodline.

As they arrived, Daphne leapt gracefully from Umbra's back, her footsteps muffled by the damp grass as she landed. The moment her feet touched the ground, a violent wave of magic rippled out from her, a manifestation of her anger and grief. The flowers closest to her withered instantly, petals falling to the ground like ashes. The surrounding plants recoiled, their leaves wilting as if recoiling from the force of her fury.

"The cursed family… how can they still live?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it trembled with the weight of a pain that had been carried down through generations. The Peverells—ancient, powerful, and damned—had cursed her family, binding them to a legacy of suffering and loss. And now, here was the last of them, alive and seemingly unaware of the destruction his bloodline had sown.

Her expression softened briefly, replaced by a look of pain and resolve. Her hatred wasn't truly directed at the boy himself, this stranger with those intense, mismatched eyes and an aura of unmistakable power. The anger she felt stemmed from something deeper, something beyond him entirely.

No, her fury was reserved for the curse bound to his bloodline, the weight of a family legacy that had stolen lives and happiness from her own. It was a curse that plagued House Greengrass, draining life from one Greengrass child every three generations—a cruel toll that no one had yet found a way to break. Now, that curse was poised to claim the life of her younger sister, the last family she had left in this world, her light and purpose.

As Daphne paused on the quiet, empty path leading to the manor, she touched the ring on her finger, feeling the weight of the Lady Ring of Le Fay. This ancient heirloom, bestowed upon her when she awakened her Fae heritage, marked her as a true descendant of Morgan le Fay. The ring had a peculiar, cursed enchantment: it burned with a searing heat whenever a Peverell was near, a physical reminder of the twisted fate linking their bloodlines. That same ring had flared in warning back in the bank when she collided with him.

She hadn't even known his name. All she knew was that he bore the cursed bloodline that had shadowed her family for centuries, and that alone made him a threat to everything she held dear. She still felt the burn on her skin, as if the ring itself recoiled from his presence, and it filled her with both dread and determination.

A murmur escaped her lips, barely audible even to herself, but it carried the weight of her fear, her hope, and her fierce resolve. "If there's any way… if this curse can be broken…" She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the ring, seeking a kind of strength in its cold metal. "I'll do whatever it takes. Even if it means…"

Her words trailed off as her thoughts drifted back to the moment in Gringotts, to the brief glimpse of the stranger's intense, mismatched eyes. There had been something haunting about him, something familiar yet foreign—a power that both intrigued and unsettled her. She hadn't expected to feel anything beyond hatred. But now… now a flicker of doubt gnawed at her, a whisper that there could be more to him than just the bloodline she despised.

"Even if it means facing him." Her gaze hardened, her voice a low, fierce vow to herself.

Umbra let out a soft, understanding croak, sensing the intensity of her emotions. As she stroked the raven's inky feathers, her mind raced through the grim history of her family's curse. The Greengrass bloodline, bound to tragedy by a curse forged in ancient times, is tied to the Peverells by a dark ritual lost to memory. Every attempt to break it, every spell and ritual she had uncovered in her studies, had failed. Her family had exhausted the resources of the family, consulted every forbidden tome, and sought guidance from healers, seers, and sages. All of them had delivered the same hopeless verdict: the curse was unbreakable, woven with intent so dark and powerful that no magic had yet found a way to sever it.

"I shouldn't need him," she whispered fiercely, her voice wavering as though trying to convince herself. "I've done fine without his kind… I can find another way."

But even as she spoke, a small, insistent voice in the back of her mind questioned her conviction. Could she really unravel the curse on her own? Was she willing to risk her sister's life simply to avoid confronting this stranger, this last Peverell?

"Umbra," she began softly, looking into the raven's violet eyes as though seeking an answer in the depths of its gaze, "if it comes to it… if he is the only way…"

The raven tilted its head, an almost knowing glint in its eyes, as if it sensed the conflict within her heart. Daphne's fingers brushed over the ring once more, feeling its cold, biting reminder of her heritage and her purpose. Perhaps, she thought, fate had placed him in her path for a reason, even if that reason tore at her pride and defied every resentment she held.

He doesn't know. He has no idea of the damage his bloodline has caused. The thought both comforted and frustrated her. If he were truly ignorant, what use would he be to her? Yet something told her that he carried power, a strength he might not fully understand.

"One day, perhaps," she murmured, the words barely more than a whisper to herself, "I'll have to face him. And if he can help…" Her voice trailed off, leaving her next thought unspoken: if he can help, then maybe—just maybe—I'll be able to save her.

Her mind returned to the image of his eyes, to the unsettling feeling that lingered after their brief encounter. She couldn't shake it, couldn't ignore the sense that she was on the brink of something monumental, something that might shatter or redeem her family's fate.

With a final, resolute glance toward the manor, she turned and made her way back into the shadows, her heart both steeling and softening in a silent, unspoken battle against itself. Whatever the future held, she would face it—alone if necessary, but open to the possibility that this stranger, this last Peverell, might be the key to breaking the curse that bound her family's fate.