Chapter 2: Born to be Broken
The house was quiet—too quiet.
Harry stood in the front hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, staring at the peeling wallpaper and the layers of dust that coated nearly every surface. The air was thick with the scent of age and neglect, but underneath that, he could still catch faint traces of memories: the firewhisky Sirius used to drink, the old cologne he wore, the lingering presence of a home that never truly felt like one.
He had avoided this place for too long. After the war, after Ginny, after everything, he had let it sit here, untouched, as if ignoring it would make the memories less painful. But nothing had changed. If anything, leaving it to rot had only let the ghosts of the past settle in deeper. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Might as well start somewhere.
The kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place was just as oppressive as Harry remembered. The long wooden table stretched out before him, scarred and battered from years of use, an unwilling witness to whispered conversations and war plans. The massive fireplace loomed at the end of the room, its grate cold, the soot inside untouched since the last time a fire had burned here. The air was stale, thick with dust and memories that refused to fade.
Harry stood in the doorway, gripping his wand tightly. He had told himself he was ready to do this—to clean, to rebuild, to turn this house into something new. But standing here now, he felt paralyzed.
This was where they had gathered. Where the Order of the Phoenix had sat night after night, speaking in hushed voices, strategizing, arguing. Where Sirius had paced restlessly, a caged dog in a house he despised. Where Molly Weasley had tried to keep some semblance of normalcy, cooking meals and fussing over everyone like a mother desperate to hold her family together. Where he himself had sat, fifteen and angry, feeling like a child at the adults' table, excluded from the war they were fighting in his name.
And it was here, too, where he had learned just how deep the war had cut. Harry swallowed hard as his gaze landed on the far end of the table, near the fireplace. That was where Mrs. Weasley had collapsed into a chair the night Arthur was attacked. He could still hear her muffled sobs, see her shaking hands gripping a cup of tea that had long gone cold. The room had been suffocating with the weight of her grief, of their fear, of the knowledge that none of them were truly safe. He remembered how the silence had stretched, unbearable, until Dumbledore's voice had cut through it, giving orders with quiet authority.
He had felt it then—the helplessness. The sinking realization that he could do nothing. That people he cared about would keep getting hurt, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
His fingers clenched around his wand as the memory twisted into something darker.
Sirius had stood near the doorway that night, hands curled into fists, his face a mask of barely restrained rage. And then, in the days that followed, Sirius had become even more restless, more reckless, grasping at any opportunity to feel useful. Harry hadn't understood it then—not really. He had been too wrapped up in his own misery, his own frustration at being kept in the dark. But now… now he saw it for what it was.
Sirius had known.
He had known he was running out of time.
Harry sucked in a breath, shoving the thought down before it could spiral further. He couldn't afford to do this. Not now.
With a flick of his wand, he started cleaning.
Dust and grime vanished in an instant, peeling back years of neglect. The soot-streaked walls brightened, the cabinets gleamed, and the air lightened just enough for him to breathe a little easier. The chandelier above flickered to life, casting warm, golden light over the room. It all looked… better. Cleaner. But it still didn't feel any less hollow.
He moved to the table, running his fingers over the rough wood. The grain was worn smooth in places, carved with the weight of so many nights spent here. His mind flashed, unbidden, to another memory—this time, a happier one. The twins laughing over some ridiculous prank, Mundungus Fletcher being berated for something or other, Sirius smirking over his drink as he leaned in close to whisper something conspiratorial in Harry's ear.
He had looked so alive then.
Harry's throat tightened. He forced himself to move, to keep working, fixing the chairs, repairing the cracks in the floor, focusing on the rhythm of magic rather than the ache in his chest. But the memories clung to him, refusing to be swept away with the dust.
By the time he finished, the kitchen was transformed. It was cleaner, warmer, almost inviting. But it was still empty. And no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it would never feel like home.
With a quiet sigh, Harry stepped back, staring at his work. The past still lingered here, woven into the very foundation of this place. Maybe it always would. Maybe that was the price of surviving—that the ghosts never truly left. He turned away, jaw tight, and Apparated back to his flat, leaving the silence of the old house behind.
The moment Harry stepped into his flat, the emptiness hit him like a curse.
He hadn't realized how much the weight of Grimmauld Place had settled onto his shoulders until he left it behind—only for a different kind of weight to take its place. At least Grimmauld was full of ghosts, of history. His flat was just empty. Silent. Void of meaning.
His jaw clenched. He needed to wash this day off of him.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. The scalding heat burned against his skin, but he didn't care. He let it hit him full force, his hands pressing against the tile as he hung his head, trying to drown in the sensation.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape the voice in his head.
"You aren't worth it."
Ginny's words sliced into him, sharper than any blade.
"You're not the person I thought you were."
His hands curled into fists. His breath came heavy, uneven.
She had looked at him like he was a stranger. Like she hadn't fought beside him. Like she hadn't known exactly what he had sacrificed.
Like she hadn't loved him.
But maybe she hadn't. Not really.
Maybe she had loved the idea of him—the boy who had survived, the hero, the one who could make her childhood fantasies come true. But not the reality. Not the man left behind after the war, shattered and struggling to breathe under the weight of everything he had lost.
"You aren't worth it."
The words echoed over and over again, a cruel, relentless reminder. He gritted his teeth, his nails digging into his palms.
She was supposed to be the one person who wouldn't turn on him. She was supposed to understand. And yet, she had looked him in the eye and tore him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell he already knew he was.
Anger burned in his veins, hot and suffocating. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to let the frustration explode out of him in a way that made sense.
But instead, he just stood there, the water scalding his skin, his breaths ragged, his throat tight.
And then—
"Harry, you're okay."
The words weren't his own. They slipped into his mind, gentle, steady.
A different voice. A softer one.
Daphne.
"You've been through hell, but you're still here."
The tension in his chest cracked just the slightest bit. His fingers uncurled. His breathing slowed.
Then—citrus and coffee.
For a fleeting second, he swore he could smell it. The same scent that had lingered in her flat. Bright yet grounding. Sharp yet warm.
"I see you, Harry. The real you."
His jaw loosened.
"You're not as much of a lost cause as you think."
His shoulders dropped, the anger in his veins cooling just slightly.
"You deserve more than to just exist, you know."
His breath hitched.
No one had ever said that to him before.
And then—"Besides, I happen to enjoy your company."
That… That was new.
He ran a hand down his face, the water streaming over him.
Daphne had been there last night. When the nightmares had come, when he had been lost in the dark, she had been the one to pull him back.
She had seen him at his worst and hadn't looked at him like he was broken.
She hadn't run.
"I want to see you again, Harry."
She hadn't just stayed. She wanted more.
The thought settled something inside him.
The water began to cool, but Harry didn't feel the chill.
For the first time since the war, the anger, the loneliness, the nightmares didn't consume him whole.
That night, as he crawled into bed, he expected the usual ghosts to haunt him. The screams, the blood, the endless cycle of loss.
But there was nothing.
Only quiet.
Only warmth.
And the faintest hint of citrus and coffee.
Harry woke up feeling… good. And that was strange.
For once, sleep had not been an enemy. His body felt rested, his mind lighter than it had in weeks, months, maybe even years. It was so unfamiliar that for a moment, he didn't trust it. He sat up slowly, waiting for the weight of nightmares to slam back into him—but they didn't come.
The flat was quiet, the morning light filtering in through the windows, and he let himself enjoy the moment. His fingers ghosted over his skin, half-expecting to still feel the phantom bruises left behind by dreams, but they weren't there. The ache was internal, dull but not overwhelming. He felt… capable. Like maybe he could do this after all.
By the time he was standing in the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place, he had convinced himself that today would be different. The house would not win.
He started with the dust, the easiest part. A few flicks of his wand and years of grime lifted from the furniture, the floors, the heavy drapes that had been drawn shut since the war. The room was bathed in hazy light, dust swirling in the air, and for a moment, it was just a space. Just another room that needed work.
But then the memories started.
At first, they were manageable.
He could still hear Sirius complaining about this room, cursing his family's taste in dark tapestries and elaborate silver fixtures. Bloody mausoleum, that's what it is, Harry. Might as well set the whole thing on fire. Harry had laughed then, watching his godfather down half a bottle of Firewhisky, his smile loose and easy, but now the memory felt jagged, incomplete.
Then came Remus and Tonks. They had stood by the fireplace once, their hands clasped so tightly, like they could anchor each other to the world. Tonks had still been glowing with the news of her pregnancy, and Remus… he had been terrified. Harry had been angry with him that night, but now all he could remember was the way Remus had looked at her—like he never believed he deserved her, like he was trying to memorize every inch of her in case he lost her.
And he had.
Harry swallowed hard and turned his focus back to the room. He started fixing what he could. The cracked wood along the bookshelves. The tarnished silver. The damn tapestry. But it was too much like putting broken things back together. The house wanted him to remember.
His gaze drifted to the spot near the corner where Kreacher used to sit, muttering to himself about filthy half-bloods, about unworthy masters, about how Regulus would have hated all of them. Harry had changed that, hadn't he? Given Kreacher a new purpose. Made him proud. But that was also where Dobby had stood, wild-eyed and frantic, always so excited to see him.
"Such a beautiful place, to be with friends."
The weight of those words Dobby's last words, pressed against Harry's ribs like something sharp. He turned away, blinking fast, his throat tightening.
The house was relentless.
Because the last memory was waiting for him like a trap.
He hadn't meant to touch it.
It had just been there, sitting in the dim light of the drawing room, covered in dust like everything else in this house. His fingers barely grazed the polished wood as he walked past, but that was all it took.
The memory slammed into him like a Bludger to the chest.
Ginny had sat there. Right there on the bench, her fingers ghosting over the keys, not really playing, just pressing down at random, filling the heavy silence between them. It had been weeks after the war, after the funerals, after all the whispered condolences and hollow reassurances.
"You should take me away from here," she had murmured.
"Where?" he had asked.
"Anywhere." Her voice had been quiet, almost fragile. "Just somewhere that isn't this."
He had wanted to. Merlin, he had wanted to. But he hadn't. And in the end, it hadn't mattered, because she had left anyway.
"You're not the person I fell in love with anymore. This isn't worth it, you're not worth it."
The words struck like a curse.
Harry's breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully, and suddenly—he couldn't stand it.
Before he even knew what he was doing, his magic lashed out.
The air around him cracked like a thunderclap, raw energy pulsing outward in a violent wave. He didn't even need his wand.
The piano detonated.
Wood, ivory, and steel exploded in every direction, shards slicing through the air, embedding into the walls, the ceiling, the floor. A fine mist of dust and splinters filled the room, settling like ash after an inferno.
Harry stood in the wreckage, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. His magic still hummed around him, crackling with the force of his emotions, uncontrolled, unchecked.
And then—nothing.
The house was silent.
The piano was gone. Completely. Reduced to nothing more than ruins and debris.
Harry stared at the destruction, his hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides. His vision blurred. His throat felt tight. His head was pounding.
"How do you expect me to love you? You don't even try anymore. We never do anything."
"Fuck this." He muttered. Turning in his heel he Apparated back to his flat.
After Apparating back to his flat, Harry could feel it—the weight. It pressed down on him harder than ever before. The wreckage of the piano, the explosive anger he had never really let himself feel until that moment, Ginny's words… the suffocating memories of the war. They all merged into one, a crushing force threatening to swallow him whole.
The flat, despite being his own space, suddenly felt like a cage. He couldn't breathe. He needed to get away. Without thinking, Harry grabbed his coat and shoved his hands into the pockets, leaving the flat without a second thought. The door clicked shut behind him, and for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like he was being pulled in every direction by his responsibilities or by the weight of his past.
He just… walked.
London's busy streets were bustling with life, but Harry felt like he was in a different world, one that had nothing to do with him. People rushed past him, their lives a blur of motion, their laughter a hollow echo in his ears. For all the people in the city, Harry felt more alone than ever.
As he walked, his thoughts kept drifting back to the house. Ginny. The memories. His anger.
He didn't know where he was going, or how far he'd walk, but he needed the physical act of moving—something to pull him out of the spiraling storm in his mind. His legs burned from the unthinking pace, his heart thudding in his chest as if it too was trying to outrun the weight of everything that had happened.
His steps were quick, too quick. Almost desperate. The shops, the people, the noise—it all faded into a blur.
It wasn't long before he found himself standing in front of a park, its wide expanse of grass offering a momentary sense of quiet, a reprieve from the chaos of the city.
He crossed the street and made his way into the park, the crisp air biting at his face. The trees stood bare, their skeletal branches stretching high into the sky. The ground beneath his shoes was cold and hard, and Harry couldn't remember the last time he had felt so… numb. Every part of him ached—physically, emotionally. He had always fought to keep his feelings locked away, to keep his head above water, but the floodgates had opened, and now the pain surged with no way of stopping it.
As he reached the middle of the park, Harry stopped to sit on a bench, staring at the ground beneath him. His heart twisted in his chest. He thought about Sirius, about Dobby, about Fred, Tonks, Remus. He thought about the faces that would never come back, the ones he had failed to protect. And then, Ginny's words.
"You're not worth it. I don't love you."
The words sliced through him again, sharper than ever. He wanted to scream, to shout it all out, but the only sound that came was a broken, ragged breath. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white, his eyes squeezed shut as a bitter laugh escaped his throat.
What the hell was wrong with him? Was he just birn to be broken by this world?
The anger swelled again, just under the surface. The fury at the world, at himself, at everyone who had left him. It was all so damn unfair.
And yet, he couldn't escape it.
The sound of his own thoughts, the repetitive echoes of "I'm not enough", "I couldn't protect them", "I'm alone"—it was drowning him.
"It should have been you that died. They didn't deserve it… but you. You deserve it."
As he sat there, the cold air stinging his skin, Harry felt the weight of it all bear down on him. He couldn't run from it, couldn't escape it. This pain would always follow him, always trying to drown him.
Harry sat hunched over on the park bench, elbows on his knees, hood pulled low over his face. His hands covered his features, fingers digging into his temples as if he could press back the memories threatening to swallow him whole. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tight with grief he couldn't escape.
The world around him felt distant—muted. The cold air bit at his exposed hands, but he barely noticed. The ache inside him was worse, far worse than anything the wind could do. The city moved around him, cars rolling down the street, people laughing somewhere in the distance, but it all felt wrong. How could the world keep moving when he was stuck here, drowning? He tried to silence the voices in his head. Not worth it, Harry. You were never worth it. Ginny's voice, sharp and cutting, slithered through his thoughts, stabbing deep into wounds that had never fully healed. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help.
He was unraveling.
He barely registered the sound of footsteps approaching. Slow, hesitant. Someone was near, but he didn't look up. Maybe they'd just pass by.
Then, the footsteps stopped.
A beat of silence.
Then a voice, soft and uncertain. "Hey… are you alright?"
Harry tensed but didn't move. He kept his head down, his hood shielding his face. His hands remained clenched together, knuckles white as he tried to hold himself together. He couldn't do this—couldn't deal with another person seeing him like this.
The voice hesitated. He could almost hear them debating whether to stay or walk away. Then, gently, they lowered themselves onto the bench beside him. They didn't push. They didn't pry. Just sat there, a quiet presence beside him. Something about that made Harry's throat tighten. He had no strength left to brush them off, no energy to pretend he was fine. He could feel their gaze on him, studying him, trying to read the pieces of his brokenness.
After a moment, there was a quiet rustling, and then—a tissue appeared in his peripheral vision, offered without a word.
"You don't have to talk," the voice said, softer this time. "Just… take this."
Harry hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides. He swallowed thickly, then slowly—hesitantly—reached up and took it. Their fingers barely brushed, but the warmth of the touch sent a jolt through him. Something about it was… familiar.
His breath hitched slightly, his grip tightening around the tissue.
The stranger didn't move away. If anything, they leaned in just slightly, their presence warm beside him. A gentle, comforting touch landed on his back—not intrusive, just there. Just offering.
Something inside him cracked.
A choked sound escaped him, and suddenly, the floodgates burst.
His shoulders trembled as the sobs came, silent at first, then stronger. His hands covered his face, body curling inward as if trying to make himself smaller, as if trying to hold in all the grief that had been waiting for release.
But there was no stopping it now.
Everything came rushing out—the war, the loss, the guilt, the betrayal, the loneliness. The crushing weight of everything he'd carried for so long, spilling out in heaving sobs.
And the stranger didn't leave.
They didn't say anything, didn't ask him to explain. They simply shifted closer, their arm resting lightly against his, their hand still warm against his back. The quiet comfort of their presence kept him from completely falling apart.
After what felt like an eternity, his sobs slowed. His breathing was ragged, his chest aching from the force of it all. He felt raw, exposed, drained beyond measure.
And then, in the stillness, he caught a scent—subtle but unmistakable.
Citrus and coffee.
Harry's breath stilled.
Slowly, as if moving through a dream, he let his hands fall from his face. His head lifted just enough for his hood to shift back slightly, and when he finally turned to see who had been sitting beside him all this time—
His breath caught.
Her face was softened with concern, her eyes full of warmth and something else—something unspoken. She wasn't looking at him with pity or discomfort. Just understanding. Just her.
Harry inhaled sharply, blinking away the last of his tears as his mind scrambled to catch up. Of all the people in the world to find him like this…
Daphne.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no words came.
She offered a small, sad smile, reaching up without hesitation to brush away the tear tracks on his cheek.
"Harry," she murmured, her voice steady, unwavering. "You're okay."
Harry couldn't breathe.
Daphne was here.
The realization slammed into him, an almost physical force that left him reeling. His mind was sluggish, unable to process the sheer impossibility of it. Out of everyone in the world—out of the thousands of people who could have passed him by on this cold London evening—it was her.
And she wasn't leaving. She wasn't turning away from the wreckage of him. She wasn't pretending she hadn't seen. Daphne had stopped, had sat down beside him, had offered him comfort. And now, now that he had looked up—now that she had seen him for exactly what he was—she didn't pull back.
She didn't hesitate.
Instead, she opened her arms.
And Harry broke.
The dam inside him shattered, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, he moved. He leaned forward, into her, his body acting on instinct, seeking something he hadn't even known he needed.
Daphne met him without hesitation.
She pulled him in, wrapping herself around him with a quiet strength that stole the breath from his lungs. It wasn't hesitant or unsure—it was fierce, a silent promise that she was here, that she saw him, and she wasn't going to let him fall apart alone.
And Harry melted.
His forehead dropped against her shoulder, his fingers gripping the fabric of her coat like a lifeline. His body shook with the force of everything crashing down at once, and still—still—she held him.
Daphne's hand came up, slipping into his hair, fingers threading through the messy strands with slow, careful strokes. A grounding touch. Reassuring. Steady.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
She smelled like citrus and coffee. Like warmth. Like something safe.
Daphne didn't speak.
She didn't tell him to stop. She didn't say it's okay or it'll get better—because it wasn't, and it wouldn't. She didn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurances.
She just stayed.
Harry sank into her hold, letting himself be held.
He had spent his entire life carrying everything—grief, duty, expectations. The weight of the world, of the people he had lost, of the war he had fought.
But right now, in this moment, Daphne Greengrass was carrying him.
And when he finally pulled back, his breathing still uneven, his hands still trembling—he met her gaze.
And there, in the depths of her sharp blue eyes, he saw it.
She cared.
They sat in silence for a long time.
The weight of the moment settled between them, heavy but no longer suffocating. The world around them continued on—London's streets still buzzed with life, the occasional car passing by, the distant sound of laughter floating through the air—but for Harry, everything felt still.
Daphne hadn't let go. She hadn't moved away, hadn't shifted uncomfortably, hadn't tried to end this. Her arm remained loosely draped around him, her presence grounding, her warmth easing the raw edges of his grief.
Eventually, her voice came, soft but certain.
"Are you ready to go home?"
Home.
The word struck something deep within him.
Because he wasn't. Not really. The thought of going back to his flat—alone, to sit in the suffocating silence, with nothing but his own mind as company—made his stomach twist.
His breath hitched, and for the first time since she'd found him, Daphne squeezed his hand.
Noticing his hesitation, she shifted beside him, angling herself to look at him properly. "Come with me."
Harry blinked, confused.
Daphne met his gaze, her expression unreadable but steady. "You're not ready to be alone yet."
She wasn't asking.
She was telling him.
And Merlin help him, he didn't have it in him to argue.
He nodded, slow and uncertain. That was all it took. Without another word, Daphne stood and pulled him with her.
Daphne's flat was warm.
Not just in temperature but in feeling. It smelled of citrus and coffee, just like she did, and something about it made Harry's muscles loosen ever so slightly. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its golden glow casting flickering shadows across the cozy living space.
It was the kind of warmth that made Harry feel as though he had stepped into another world. A world where he didn't have to fight to exist. He stood awkwardly in the entryway, still covered in dust and grime from Grimmauld Place, feeling completely out of place in her space.
Daphne, however, didn't give him time to dwell.
"Shower," she said simply, already turning towards a nearby door. "You're a mess."
Harry hesitated.
Daphne glanced back at him. "You'll feel better," she added, voice softer now. "Trust me."
And for some reason—maybe because she had already seen him at his worst, maybe because she hadn't turned away—he did.
The hot water burned away the filth from his skin, but it did nothing to quiet the storm inside him. He stood there for a long time, eyes closed, hands braced against the cool tile, letting the water pound against his back. As he breathed in the steam, something familiar ghosted through his senses—citrus and coffee. It wrapped around him, an unexpected balm against the ache in his chest, and his shoulders slowly relaxed.
When he finally stepped out, a fresh set of clothes was waiting for him. Soft. Comfortable. Clearly transfigured, but perfect nonetheless.
Something warm sat on the table beside the couch when he re-entered the living room—tea, steaming gently in a mug, the scent unfamiliar but oddly soothing.
Daphne sat curled up on one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, waiting. The firelight cast a soft glow against her features, making her look almost otherworldly.
Without thinking, he sat beside her.
Not far. Not distant. Just there.
She handed him the tea without a word, and he took it with quiet gratitude.
The first sip settled something deep in his chest. Slowly, carefully, his body uncoiled, sinking further into the couch, the warmth of the tea spreading through him. He hadn't realized how much he needed it—not just the tea, but this. The quiet. The comfort. Not being alone. Minutes passed, neither of them speaking. And then, without meaning to, without deciding to, the words just… started spilling out.
He didn't know why. Maybe because Daphne had given him nothing but patience, maybe because she hadn't asked, maybe because the weight of everything had finally become too much to hold on his own.
"I used to sleep in a cupboard," he said suddenly, his voice hoarse.
Daphne's breath hitched, but she didn't say anything.
Harry kept going, his fingers tightening around the mug. "At the Dursleys'. That was my room. A tiny space under the stairs. No light. No warmth. Just—just a mattress on the floor. If I was lucky."
Daphne's knuckles whitened around her own mug, but she still said nothing.
"They hated me," Harry continued, his voice almost distant, as if he was telling someone else's story. "My aunt and uncle. They told me I was a freak. That my parents were drunks who got themselves killed in a car crash. They made sure I knew I wasn't wanted." He let out a bitter laugh, but it was empty. "I believed them for a long time."
Daphne inhaled sharply, but it was only when she whispered, "Harry…" that he finally looked at her.
She wasn't pitying him.
She hurt for him.
Something tight in his chest loosened.
So he kept going.
He talked about Hogwarts. About the basilisk, the Dementors, the Triwizard Tournament. About watching Cedric die, about seeing Voldemort return. About Sirius, about how he had barely gotten a moment with the only family he had left before it was ripped away from him. He talked about the war. The pain. The losses. The fear.
And he talked about Ginny.
About how her words had sliced into him deeper than any blade. About how she had looked at him with such disdain, such disgust, and how it had felt like dying all over again. He told her everything, every last detail of his life. And when he was done, silence filled the space between them.
The fire crackled softly.
Harry kept his gaze down, staring at the tea in his hands as if it held the answers to everything. He didn't know what he expected—maybe for her to finally pull away, to tell him he was too much.
But Daphne did none of those things.
She shifted closer.
And then, in a movement so soft it nearly shattered him, she reached out and held him. Not just a simple touch, not just a reassuring pat—she held him. Harry melted into her, his soul laid bare, and she didn't turn away.
She accepted him, broken pieces and all.
For the first time in a long, long time, he wasn't standing alone in the wreckage of his own pain.
He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against her shoulder.
Daphne squeezed him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here, Harry."
And Merlin help him, he believed her.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Eventually, Daphne murmured, "We should get some sleep Harry. It's late."
Harry tensed, and Daphne noticed. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, her own filled with nothing but understanding.
"You don't have to be alone," she said.
And he didn't know why, but something inside him broke at that.
He followed her when she stood.
She led him to her room, pulling back the blankets, giving him the choice.
And for once…
Harry let himself choose comfort.
As he laid down, as Daphne settled beside him, as her steady presence surrounded him, something deep in his chest eased.
For the first time in what felt like forever—
Harry fell into a deep dreamless sleep.