The castle was silent, the kind of silence Harry hated. It wasn't peaceful; it was oppressive, the kind that filled his ears and pressed against his chest. It gave too much room for his thoughts to run wild. And tonight, like so many nights before, his thoughts had turned cruel.
He hadn't meant to relive the battle again, but it came to him anyway—unbidden and sharp, like a knife slicing through his mind. He could still hear the screams, feel the heat of spells whipping past, smell the acrid scent of smoke and blood. Faces flashed before him: Fred's grin collapsing into stillness, Tonks' lifeless hand outstretched, Lupin's hollow eyes staring at nothing.
Harry closed his eyes tightly, pressing his palms against them as if that could shut it all out. But the memories didn't care. They crawled under his skin, clung to him like a second layer he couldn't shed.
When he couldn't stand it anymore, he threw on his Invisibility Cloak and left his dormitory. The castle's familiar halls were his refuge and his punishment—a maze of shadows where he could escape the suffocating weight of his mind but never truly outrun it.
Tonight, he had wandered aimlessly for over an hour, his feet carrying him without direction. He didn't care where he went, as long as it wasn't back to the bed where nightmares waited.
As he approached the greenhouses, something stopped him. Light spilled out from the cracks in the door, soft and golden. It was out of place in the dark, an anomaly that shouldn't have been there.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle. For a moment, he considered walking away. But the light was warm, and Harry, despite everything, was drawn to it.
Quietly, he slipped inside.
The greenhouse was alive in a way the rest of the castle wasn't. The air was warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of soil and greenery. Rows of plants stretched out before him, some ordinary, some pulsating with faint magical auras. And at the far end, seated at a workbench bathed in golden light, was Daphne Greengrass.
Harry blinked. Of all the people he might have expected to find, she wasn't one of them. They had barely spoken during their time at Hogwarts, existing in separate spheres that rarely overlapped. And yet, here she was, her pale blonde hair tied back loosely, her face calm but tinged with something unspoken.
He watched her for a moment, unsure why he hesitated. Then he cleared his throat. "You know it's past curfew, right?"
Daphne flinched, her wand snapping up instinctively before she saw him. Her eyes narrowed. "Potter?" she said, her tone sharp and disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"
Harry shrugged, stepping closer. "Couldn't sleep. Saw the light and thought I'd investigate."
She raised an eyebrow, her expression teetering between annoyance and curiosity. "So naturally, you decided to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Typical."
"Better than pacing the castle alone," he said, his voice softer now. His eyes drifted to the plant in front of her, its faintly glowing petals catching his attention. "What's that?"
Daphne followed his gaze, her posture relaxing just slightly. "A Moonlit Orchid," she said. "It's rare. My mum used to grow them."
There was a pause, and for the first time, Harry noticed how tired she looked—dark shadows under her eyes, a slight slump to her shoulders.
"Why now?" he asked gently. "It's not like it's going anywhere."
Daphne hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the workbench. "Some things are easier at night," she said finally. "It's quiet. No one's watching. And some plants…" She gestured to the orchid. "They only bloom in the dark."
Harry nodded slowly, understanding more than he wanted to admit. For a moment, the oppressive silence of the castle felt distant, replaced by the warmth of the greenhouse.
"You're different than I expected," he said after a beat.
Daphne turned to him, her expression unreadable. "And you're exactly what I expected—nosy and persistent."
Despite himself, Harry smiled faintly. "Guilty as charged."
Daphne didn't seem to mind Harry's presence, or if she did, she hid it well. She focused on the Moonlit Orchid, her fingers deftly mixing a fine powder from a small vial into the soil around its base. The plant shimmered faintly, almost as if it responded to her touch.
Harry leaned against the workbench across from her, watching in silence for a few moments. It was strange, seeing her like this—calm, methodical, entirely at ease. It clashed with the cold, composed image of the Slytherin ice queen he'd vaguely remembered from school.
"Do you do this every night?" he asked, breaking the quiet.
Daphne didn't look up. "Only when I can't sleep."
"Which is often?"
Her hands paused, just for a fraction of a second. "What about you?" she countered, her voice carefully neutral. "Wandering the castle in the middle of the night isn't exactly normal behavior."
Harry hesitated, the weight of her question settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. "Normal isn't exactly in the cards for me," he admitted.
Daphne looked up then, her sharp blue eyes meeting his. She didn't say anything, but her gaze was piercing, as though she could see straight through him.
"That's a convenient way to dodge the question," she said finally.
Harry sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Fine. I don't sleep much either. Happy?"
"Not particularly," she replied, but there was no malice in her tone.
The room fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of the greenhouse's magical wards. Harry's eyes drifted over the rows of plants, their subtle glow casting long shadows across the room.
"You ever feel like…" He trailed off, unsure if he should even say it aloud.
"Feel like what?" Daphne prompted, her tone softer now.
"Like the war's still happening. Even when it's quiet. Even when everyone says it's over."
Her expression shifted, the faintest flicker of something crossing her face. "Yes," she said quietly.
Harry wasn't sure why her answer surprised him. Maybe because she'd always seemed so composed, so untouchable. But there was something raw in her voice now, something that made him feel a little less alone.
"You lost people too," he said, though it wasn't a question.
Daphne nodded, her gaze falling to the orchid. "My father. And others. But he's the one I think about most."
Harry swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Daphne's eyes snapped back to him, sharp and unreadable. "Don't apologize," she said firmly. "You didn't kill him."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Harry wasn't sure he believed her. But before he could say anything else, Daphne stood, brushing her hands off and turning toward the rows of plants.
"Why are you really here, Potter?" she asked, her back to him. "What do you want?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I just wanted to know I wasn't the only one who feels… like this."
She glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression softening ever so slightly. "Well," she said, "now you know."
Harry watched as she moved toward another workbench, her movements deliberate and precise. For the first time in a long time, the oppressive weight in his chest didn't feel quite so heavy.
"Mind if I stay a while?" he asked.
Daphne didn't answer right away. She fiddled with a cluster of small, silver-leafed plants, her fingers brushing against the delicate stems. Finally, she nodded.
"Just don't touch anything," she said, her tone almost teasing.
Harry smiled faintly. "I'll do my best."
The next night, Harry found himself back in the greenhouse. He didn't plan it, didn't even realize where his feet were taking him until he was standing in the doorway again, the soft glow of magical plants spilling into the corridor. Inside, Daphne was there, just as he'd expected, tending to a new row of herbs.
She glanced up at him, unsurprised. "Didn't think you'd be back," she said.
Harry stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. "Neither did I."
She raised an eyebrow, but there was no edge to it. "Well, since you're here, make yourself useful."
"Useful?"
Daphne held up a pair of gloves and gestured to a tray of oddly writhing roots. "Those need repotting. Carefully, unless you want to spend the next hour pulling stingers out of your hands."
Harry hesitated, then took the gloves, slipping them on. "Bossy," he muttered, but there was a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Daphne smirked. "You're the one who keeps showing up. I might as well put you to work."
They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the occasional soft clink of tools. It was oddly soothing, Harry thought.
"Why this?" he asked after a while, gesturing to the rows of plants.
Daphne looked up, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"
"This. The greenhouse, the plants. You could be anywhere, doing anything. Why this?"
She set down her trowel, leaning against the workbench. For a moment, she didn't answer, her gaze distant.
"Because it's quiet," she said finally. "Because it doesn't expect anything from me. And because it reminds me that not everything has to be about loss."
Harry studied her, the words settling heavily between them. He wanted to say something, but no words felt right.
"And you?" she asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "Why are you here? Really?"
Harry hesitated, his hands stilling over the pot in front of him. "I told you. I can't sleep."
Daphne's eyes narrowed slightly, as if she didn't entirely believe him. "It's more than that."
He sighed, leaning back against the table. "Maybe I just… don't know what to do with myself. Everyone keeps saying I should be happy, that I should be moving on. But I can't seem to figure out how."
Daphne nodded slowly, as if she understood. "It's not about moving on," she said quietly. "It's about figuring out how to live with it."
Her words struck something deep inside him, something he hadn't been able to put into words himself.
"How do you do it?" he asked.
She looked away, her fingers brushing absently against the leaves of a nearby plant. "You don't have a choice," she said. "You just… keep going."
They fell silent again, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between them. Harry returned to the plants, his hands working mechanically.
"You're not half bad at this," Daphne said after a while, her tone lighter.
"Don't sound so surprised," Harry replied, smirking.
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
As they worked side by side in the dim glow of the greenhouse, Daphne broke the silence. "You know, I heard you wanted to be an Auror."
Harry paused, his hands hovering over the wriggling root he'd been trying to settle into fresh soil. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I did."
Daphne tilted her head, her curiosity evident. "Then why aren't you taking a NEWT in Herbology? It's a requirement for the Auror program."
Harry went back to his task, his jaw tightening slightly. For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, without looking at her, he said quietly, "Because I'm done with the fighting."
The weight of his words filled the space between them. Daphne straightened, studying him. "Done?" she repeated softly, her voice almost drowned out by the rustling plants.
Harry nodded, still not meeting her eyes. "All of it. The training, the missions, the battles. It's… it's not who I want to be anymore."
Daphne leaned against the table, folding her arms. "And who do you want to be, then?"
He finally looked up, his green eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with the answer. "Someone who doesn't have to keep looking over his shoulder," he said finally. "Someone who gets to live his life without always waiting for the next fight."
She nodded slowly, the sharp edges of her usual demeanor softening. "Fair enough," she said. "But you know, plants can be stubborn too. I wouldn't call this a completely fight-free zone."
A small smile tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth. "I think I can handle a few stubborn plants."
Daphne smirked, handing him another root to pot. "We'll see about that when you've finished them."
As the hours passed, the greenhouse grew quieter, the hum of nocturnal insects outside lulling them into a companionable rhythm. Harry leaned back, stretching his arms with a groan. "I think I've repotted enough plants to last me a lifetime."
Daphne glanced at the neatly organized row of pots and raised an eyebrow. "Not bad for a first-timer. Maybe there's hope for you yet, Potter."
He chuckled, brushing dirt off his hands. "Glad to know I've passed your test, Greengrass."
She smiled faintly but didn't reply, her attention drifting toward the window. The moonlight spilled in, casting silvery patterns across the floor. Harry followed her gaze, the serene glow contrasting sharply with the turmoil that always seemed to linger in his chest.
"You don't sleep much either, do you?" he asked, his voice softer now.
Daphne's fingers stilled on the table, her expression guarded. "No," she admitted. "Not lately."
Harry hesitated before asking, "Bad dreams?"
She shrugged, but the movement was tense. "Something like that."
He nodded, understanding without needing to pry further. "I get it," he said quietly. "I… I see them sometimes. The ones who didn't make it. Fred, Lupin, Tonks… even people I barely knew."
Daphne looked at him, her usual coolness replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable. "And you think it's your fault," she said, not as a question but as a fact.
Harry didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned his elbows on the table, staring at his hands. "It's hard not to. I was the one who led them into it. The one they followed."
"They made their choices," Daphne said firmly. "You didn't force them."
"I know," Harry murmured. "But it doesn't stop it from feeling like… like if I'd just been better, smarter, maybe they'd still be here."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken regrets. Then Daphne surprised him by reaching out, brushing a stray bit of dirt off his sleeve. "You carry too much, Potter. More than you should."
He glanced at her, startled by the gesture. "It's not exactly something I can just put down."
"Maybe not," she said, her tone lighter now, "but you don't have to carry it alone. You're not the only one who remembers."
Harry looked at her for a long moment, her words sinking in. There was a steadiness to her, an unexpected strength that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to bear it all by himself.
"Thanks," he said finally, his voice almost a whisper.
Daphne shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Don't mention it. Besides," she added with a teasing glint in her eye, "if you keep coming back here to help, I might even start to like having you around."
Harry laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in his chest. "Careful, Greengrass. I might hold you to that."
The moonlight slanted through the windows as Harry walked through the darkened halls of Hogwarts, his footsteps muffled by the ancient stone beneath him. His body was weary from the lack of sleep, the weight of too many restless nights, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was off. He had spent the last few days in a haze—his mind never fully present, always drifting back to the memories, to the people he had lost. But the greenhouse, with its calm and quiet, had been a small relief. It had been a place where he could breathe without the ghosts of the past crowding him.
He had to see her again.
His thoughts, muddled and tired, kept returning to Daphne. She had been the only one who seemed to understand, even without words. Something about the way she listened, the way she didn't judge or push him to be something he wasn't, had kept him coming back. Maybe, he thought, he just needed someone who didn't see him as the hero, someone who could simply let him exist.
But as he reached the greenhouse door that night, his heart sank. The warm glow of the lanterns inside was absent. No flickering light from the window, no rustling of plants or soft hum of her voice. The greenhouse was dark and quiet, like the rest of the castle, but more lonely.
Harry hesitated for a moment, hand resting on the door. He hadn't seen her since the night before. Had something happened? Was she just taking a break?
The thought of not finding her there, not hearing her dry wit or seeing her smile, made his chest tighten in a way he couldn't quite explain.
He pushed the door open.
The interior was empty. The plants were left untouched, the tables devoid of the usual tools she had been using the night before. The air felt still, as if waiting for something that wasn't coming.
He walked inside, his footsteps echoing softly. "Daphne?" His voice was quieter than he intended, the sound of his name almost too fragile in the empty space.
No answer.
His gaze swept across the room, landing on the table where they had been working the night before. The half-finished pots, the empty flower pots, the scattered dirt—it all looked as though she'd left in a hurry.
Harry walked over to the workbench, running his fingers over a few leaves that were starting to wilt. The silence seemed heavier tonight, pressing down on him in a way that made him feel more isolated than he had in weeks.
"Where are you?" Harry muttered to himself, though he wasn't sure if he was asking the empty room or something deeper.
He had come here expecting, hoping, to find her—someone, anyone, to talk to. But the emptiness wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket, and for the first time in a while, he felt utterly alone again.
He stood there for a moment, his eyes locked on the dark corners of the greenhouse, the silence stretching out endlessly. He couldn't stay here forever. Daphne wouldn't be coming back tonight.
With a final glance at the empty room, Harry let out a slow breath, turning to leave. He couldn't help but wonder—was it just another one of those fleeting moments where they shared a rare connection? Was he just grasping at something that wasn't meant to last?
Or was something else happening?
As he closed the door behind him, the hollow emptiness in his chest seemed to echo louder than ever.
The castle was quieter than usual after Charms, as students trickled out of the classroom, chattering among themselves. Harry, still feeling the weight of last night's empty greenhouse, couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. His thoughts had been consumed by the absence of Daphne, and his mind kept wandering back to the unspoken connection they had shared. He hadn't seen her at all today, and the unease that settled in his gut only grew.
He didn't know what compelled him, but as he stepped into the corridor, his eyes scanned the sea of students, hoping for a glimpse of her. It wasn't like her to be missing, to vanish without a trace. Maybe she was avoiding him. Maybe something had happened that he didn't understand.
Then he saw her.
She was standing near the end of the corridor, her back turned to him as she adjusted her robes. Her long blonde hair fell in soft waves down her back, and for a moment, Harry was caught off guard by the sight of her, the weight of his thoughts making him forget how simply breathtaking she could be.
But he couldn't ignore the knot in his stomach any longer.
With a purposeful stride, Harry walked toward her. His steps were firm, but his heart was pounding—anxiety mixing with frustration. He didn't know what he wanted to say, only that he needed answers.
"Daphne," he called, his voice cutting through the low hum of students' voices.
She froze, her body stiffening as she turned slowly to face him. Her expression was unreadable, a practiced mask that didn't give away anything. Harry didn't know if she was surprised to see him or if she had been expecting this confrontation all along.
"Harry," she said, her voice a bit too casual, as if she hadn't been avoiding him at all.
"You disappeared last night," Harry said, his tone more intense than he meant. "Where did you go?"
Daphne's eyes flickered with something—guilt, maybe, or frustration. Harry couldn't quite place it. She shifted her weight, crossing her arms over her chest, an action that felt more like a barrier than a casual gesture.
"I had some things to take care of," she replied, her voice steady but distant.
He didn't buy it. "You left the greenhouse, Daphne. I looked for you. I waited."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, and Harry could see the conflict in her eyes. She wasn't hiding it well, but she was trying. Harry felt a mix of irritation and concern, each emotion feeding off the other.
"You're upset," she said finally, her words clipped, almost defensive.
"Of course, I'm upset," Harry replied, his frustration spilling out. "You've been helping me, and then you just—" He stopped himself, realizing he was getting too worked up, too fast. "Why won't you talk to me? What's going on?"
Daphne's gaze softened for a fleeting moment, but she quickly masked it with a blank expression. She took a slow breath, her eyes not quite meeting his.
"It's not what you think, Harry," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just—I can't do this. I can't keep pretending like everything's okay."
Harry frowned, stepping closer. "Pretending like what's okay?"
Daphne hesitated, looking around the corridor as if she could escape without actually saying the words. But there was no escape. She was cornered now, and Harry wasn't going to let this go.
"The war is over, Harry," she said softly, finally meeting his eyes. "We all think we can just move on, but we can't. We can't erase the past. You… You've been through so much, and I don't think I can help you forget it."
The vulnerability in her voice hit Harry like a physical blow. It wasn't what he had expected, and it didn't make any sense at first. She was always so composed, so guarded. But now she was opening up in a way he hadn't seen before.
"I don't want to forget," Harry said, his voice softer now. "I just don't want to be alone anymore."
Daphne's eyes softened, and for the first time, Harry saw the weight she was carrying in her gaze. He didn't know what had happened to her—what had made her so distant, so unreachable—but he knew, more than anything, that he didn't want to lose whatever bond they had started to form.
She looked away for a moment, as if considering something. Then, with a soft sigh, she uncrossed her arms and looked back at him.
"I'm not sure I'm the one you need, Harry," she admitted quietly, her voice shaking just slightly.
Harry's heart sank, but he pushed the feeling aside. "I'm not asking for you to fix everything. I just… I don't want to be alone with it all."
Daphne's eyes flickered, and for a brief moment, Harry could swear he saw a flicker of something tender in her expression. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that guarded exterior once more.
"Maybe we both just need time," she said softly.
Harry nodded, the tightness in his chest not easing but not quite suffocating him either. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was something.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice low. "Maybe."
And with that, they stood there in the empty corridor, the tension between them neither resolved nor ignored, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like there was a possibility of something more.
The months after the battle were long and grueling for Harry, but with time, things began to shift. He'd spent countless nights at the Greenhouse, wandering the familiar paths of the Hogwarts grounds, seeking solace in the silence and the rustling of leaves. The war was over, and yet, the weight of the past clung to him like a second skin, one he couldn't quite shake.
As the year drew to a close, Harry found himself standing alone in the center of the greenhouse, surrounded by life, growth, and the soft, calming fragrance of herbs. There were no more ghosts of the past here—no shadows that whispered of battles lost or friends fallen. It was just him and the plants, the living things that could heal without words.
He didn't see Daphne again after the final days at Hogwarts. She had made the decision to leave Britain, to start over, to find peace in a world that had taken so much from her. Harry couldn't blame her. In a way, he envied her for having the strength to leave, to walk away from everything they'd both survived.
But as the last of her letters slipped into his hands, he understood. She was finding her own way, and Harry needed to do the same. There was no closure. There didn't need to be. They had both learned enough in the silence to know that healing didn't require an answer—it just needed time. Daphne was off to start her own life, one that was free from the heavy shadows of the past.
Harry, on the other hand, stayed in Britain. He had found a little cottage by the bay, a place that felt as though it had always been waiting for him. He hadn't planned for it; he didn't need to. It was small, quiet, and offered him everything he needed: peace, isolation, and the sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore.
The greenhouse was his retreat now, the place where he could finally breathe without the pressure of expectation or the ghosts of those who had fought and fallen. He tended to the plants with a calm he'd never thought possible, the soil under his fingers grounding him. In those moments, he could finally sleep at night, the dreams no longer plagued by the horrors of his past.
It wasn't easy, not at first. But slowly, the garden began to bloom in ways he never imagined. Every leaf, every flower, was a small victory. Every time he looked out the window and saw the sun setting over the bay, the weight of his past seemed a little lighter. It was here, alone with the plants and the sound of the ocean, that he found the peace he had been searching for all along.
Somewhere in the distance, a voice from the past whispered, but Harry didn't seek it out. He didn't need to. He had done enough fighting. For once, he could just live.
The year ended, the days grew longer, and Harry learned what it meant to truly heal. As the seasons changed and the sun warmed the bay, he knew that the quiet life he had built for himself—here, in the greenhouse—was the place he had been meant to find all along.
The nightmares faded and he could finally rest.