“Dartmoor?” Daphne’s eyes sparkled.
“Home of the faeries?”
Harry grinned.
“Not for a very, very long time. And what we’re here for is far less likely to drive us mad, so don’t worry.”
“That’s very reassuring, Mister Harry…” She looked around again.
“It is very pretty, though.”
“Well, we’re going deeper in. Have you ever side-along Apparated before?”
Daphne nodded.
She didn’t even bother acting shocked that a boy their age could Apparate.
Normal rules simply didn’t seem to apply to Harry.
The fact that they were here alone was proof enough of that—her parents had barely let her out of their sight her entire life.
Harry offered his arm.
She took it, and the familiar squeezing sensation enveloped them.
Crack!
They appeared atop another hill.
Daphne quickly looked around.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a landscape of grass and carefully arranged stones.
Large circles and smaller squares formed what looked like an ancient blueprint etched into the earth.
“That is Grimspound,” Harry replied.
“It’s an ancient Bronze Age settlement. Both Muggles and magicals lived here—probably druids or Viking rune-smiths, though it’s hard to say for certain. It was named after Grim, the god of war—or Odin, as he’s better known today. Muggles raised cattle while the magicals bred unicorns.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“If we walk down, we can explore it properly. It’s a really fascinating place.”
Harry shifted his arm slightly.
Daphne realized she was still holding onto it and quickly let go, her face flushing bright red.
It had felt far too natural.
Five minutes later, Daphne was darting excitedly from one ruined hut to another, thoroughly enjoying the squelching sound her boots made in the boggy ground. You are reading on NovelPing, the official source.
“I don’t suppose there are still unicorns around here, are there?” she called over to Harry, who was perched atop a stone pillar—the remains of an old gateway.
“Afraid not,” he called back.
“The only herd left in England is in Cumbria.”
She froze.
“Where I live?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean I’ve lived near a unicorn herd my whole life and never knew it?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Damn,” she whispered.
“You alright?” Harry walked over to her.
“Sorry, Harry. I just realized how little of the world I’ve actually seen. I was raised in Greengrass Manor. I’ve visited other Ancient and Noble houses and Diagon Alley, but that’s about it. Until now, ‘outside’ for me meant the garden. But this…” She gestured at the vast, wild moorland.
“This is so much more.”
Harry smiled warmly.
“Want to see even more?”
“Yes!”
Several hours of hiking later, Daphne found herself standing before a gate leading into a dense woodland, breathless but exhilarated.
She had never felt so alive.
“And this place is?” she asked.
“Yarner Wood. The Muggles run a bird-nesting program here, so there are quite a few different species.”
“Then let’s go!” Daphne grabbed his hand and pulled him forward enthusiastically.
Soon they were surrounded by the cheerful songs of birds.
“It’s winter, so there aren’t as many as in other seasons, but it’s still nice, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is,” she replied softly.
The tranquility of the forest wrapped around them like a comforting blanket.
“We’ve still got a bit farther to go—come on.” This time, Harry took her hand.
Three hours later, Daphne was utterly exhausted.
It felt like they had walked across half the forest.
She had cooed over countless bird boxes and pointed excitedly at every bird she spotted.
Harry, however, seemed distracted.
“You okay?” she asked, sinking onto a convenient rock to catch her breath.
Her legs, thighs, and backside were burning.
“Yeah. I just didn’t find what I was looking for.”
“What were you looking for?”
“I’m searching for a particular bird species. It’s part of a little side project of mine. I’ll tell you more about it later. For now, we should probably head back.”
“Okay.” She paused, looking into his striking green eyes.
“Thank you for bringing me here, Harry.”
“Hey, no problem. We’re friends, right?”
She smiled.
Hearing him say it felt surprisingly nice.
“Yeah… friends.”
≤○≥
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, entered the ancient chamber to find a cluster of witches and wizards huddled around one of the seats.
With the instincts of a seasoned politician, he drifted toward the center of attention.
“Good morning, Jeffery. Good morning, Richardson—Cliff—Abbott.”
The wizard addressed as Jeffery turned.
“Good morning, Albus. Have you seen this?”
“No, I don’t think—” Dumbledore’s words died as his gaze fell upon the crest adorning the back and arms of the chair.
“Ah… that. Oh dear.”
“Albus,” Richardson said, “surely this is some kind of mistake—or a joke.”
“I’m afraid not. The Wizengamot chamber is governed by the Albion family magics. There is no way to deceive it. To do so would require tampering with the ancient enchantments woven by Merlin himself.”
“Well then,” another wizard interjected, “who is it? After all this time?”