Daphne walked into St. Mungo's with a purpose. The halls bustled with Healers and patients, the familiar scent of antiseptic potions and brewed remedies thick in the air. Normally, this place gave her a sense of stability, of control.
Today, it felt wrong to be here.
Her feet carried her through the corridors toward the administrative office, where she knocked twice before stepping inside.
Healer Montgomery, her supervisor, glanced up from his desk. "Greengrass. What can I do for you?"
"I need to take some time off," she said without preamble. "A month, at least."
Montgomery raised a graying brow. "A month? That's a first. I don't think you've even taken a day off since you started."
Daphne folded her arms. "I have more than enough leave saved up."
"That's not the issue. You're one of our best. I just—" He studied her for a long moment. "Are you alright?"
The question caught her off guard.
Was she?
"Yes," she said, a little too quickly. Then, after a pause, she added, "I just need to help someone."
Montgomery's sharp gaze softened. He didn't press for details. "You've earned it," he said finally, pulling out the necessary forms. "Fill these out, and you're free until you say otherwise."
Relief coursed through her as she took the paperwork. "Thank you."
She completed the forms quickly and handed them back before making her way out of the hospital. The second she stepped onto the busy streets of London, she exhaled, as if she had been holding her breath since waking up that morning.
Now she could focus on what really mattered.
Daphne moved through the market with efficiency, picking up everything Harry would need. Nutrient-rich foods. Herbal teas to help with stress and sleep. Potions that could ease the tension in his muscles.
Her mind moved clinically at first—treating this like any other patient she had cared for. But then, without thinking, she found herself reaching for other things. The specific blend of tea she had given him the night before. A fresh loaf of warm bread that smelled exactly like the kind that had been on their lunch table. A few sweets she had once heard him mention in passing.
And then—
Daphne stopped, staring at the shelf in front of her.
Why did she grab that?
She looked down at the ingredients in her basket. She had just bought everything needed to make treacle tart.
Harry's favorite.
Her grip tightened on the basket's handle. She hadn't intended to buy it. She had just—done it. Something settled deep in her chest, something quiet but certain.
She shook off the thought and continued shopping, now more aware of how much she had unconsciously been thinking about him. Not just in a clinical, Healer way. But in a way that made her want to make things easier for him. Comfortable for him. It wasn't just about making sure he ate or rested—it was about making sure he felt safe.
Because he deserved that.
When Daphne returned to her flat, she set the bags down and moved quietly to check on Harry. He was still asleep, curled on his side, his face turned toward the pillow. The sight made something tighten in her throat. This wasn't just a nap. This was exhaustion. The kind that came from years of fighting battles alone. She backed away, letting him rest, and turned toward the kitchen.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly as she pulled out the ingredients, rolling up her sleeves. Cooking had always been a steady thing in her life, something she could control. And right now, after everything Harry had been through, after everything he had told her—
She wanted to give him something warm. Something that felt like home.
Even if he didn't realize it, even if she hadn't realized it until now—
She cared for him.
And she wasn't going to let him go through this alone.
Harry woke slowly.
For the first time in years, there was no immediate rush of panic. No cold sweat, no lingering echoes of nightmares clawing at the edges of his mind. Just the soft warmth of a bed that wasn't his, the distant crackle of a magical fireplace, and the scent of something rich and savory drifting through the air.
He blinked, disoriented for a moment before everything came back to him.
Daphne.
Last night. The way she had found him, how she had held him. How, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he hadn't had to bear his pain alone.
Harry sat up slowly, reaching for his glasses. As soon as they settled on his nose, he spotted the small folded note on the nightstand.
Harry,
I had a few errands to run this morning but should be back around 2. Take your time waking up—there's tea in the kitchen if you want it. No rush. Just rest.
—Daphne
She had come back. She hadn't left him. That realization sent something twisting deep in his chest, unfamiliar and raw. He glanced at the clock—it was just past two. She was already back.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he hesitated. A flicker of unease tightened his chest.
People don't just do things for me.
His whole life, kindness had come with strings. The Dursleys had only ever fed him when it benefited them. The Wizarding World had only cared when he was their savior. Ginny… Ginny had loved the idea of him. But Daphne?
What did she want?
That thought sat uncomfortably in his mind as he made his way toward the kitchen.
The scent of simmering stew and fresh bread filled the air as Harry stood in the doorway of Daphne's kitchen, feeling more like an intruder than a guest. The golden glow from the magical fireplace cast soft shadows across the room, making everything feel… warm. Safe.
Daphne was at the counter, hands dusted with flour as she finished shaping what looked like bread dough. She glanced over her shoulder when she noticed him.
"Oh, you're up." Her voice was light, welcoming, as if she hadn't just witnessed him completely break apart the night before.
Harry nodded, feeling unsteady. "Yeah."
Daphne wiped her hands on a cloth and turned fully to face him. "I left some tea for you. It should still be warm."
He hesitated, shifting his weight slightly. His eyes flickered to the pot on the stove, then to the table where a small treacle tart sat cooling. She had done all of this—for him.
"You didn't have to do all this," he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Daphne gave a small, knowing smile. "I know."
Her simple response threw him off, like she had already considered the argument and dismissed it before he even spoke.
Still, something inside him twisted, and he forced himself to say, "Why?"
Daphne frowned slightly, confused. "Why what?"
"Why are you doing this?" The words left him before he could stop them. "What do you want?"
The softness in her expression faltered for just a second. Not in offense—no, she looked more… surprised. Like she hadn't expected him to ask, but maybe she should have.
She set the cloth down, studying him. "What do you mean?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "People don't just… do things for me. Not unless they want something." He forced a short laugh that had no real humor. "The Dursleys made that clear. And at Hogwarts… well, everyone wanted me to be their hero. Even after the war, it's the same thing—people being nice because of what I did, or because of who I am."
Daphne was silent, watching him intently, her healer's gaze seeing right through the cracks in his words.
Harry swallowed hard and continued. "Ginny…" He trailed off, jaw tightening before he forced himself to finish. "She was always looking at me like I was some grand prize she won. But it was never just me she wanted. It was the Chosen One, the hero, the person everyone else saw." He exhaled sharply. "That's how it's always been."
Daphne didn't say anything at first, and for a moment, he regretted speaking at all. But then—
"I don't want anything, Harry." Her voice was soft, but there was a quiet strength in it.
His eyes snapped up to hers, startled by the certainty in her words.
She took a step closer, closing the space between them just enough so he felt her presence without it being overwhelming. "I'm not here because of what you did, or because of who the world thinks you are. I don't need anything from you." Her voice was gentle, unwavering. "I'm here because I care about you, Harry."
Harry stared at her, his chest tightening.
Daphne held his gaze, and for a moment, it felt like she was grounding him. She wasn't trying to comfort him with empty reassurances or meaningless platitudes. She was simply there.
"I won't walk away from you," she said softly. "And I'll stay by your side as long as you want me there."
Something inside Harry cracked.
He had no words—none that could possibly convey the storm of emotions rising in his chest. He looked away, staring at the table instead. He wasn't used to this. Didn't know how to accept it.
Daphne must have sensed his struggle, because after a moment, she turned back toward the counter, giving him space. "Come sit," she said, her voice light again. "Dinner's almost ready."
He hesitated, then finally walked forward, lowering himself into a chair at the small kitchen table.
A quiet moment passed before Daphne placed a bowl of stew in front of him, followed by a piece of freshly baked bread. The smell alone was enough to make his stomach clench with hunger, but he couldn't quite bring himself to start eating yet.
Instead, he watched as Daphne set her own bowl down and took a seat across from him. She met his eyes and gave him a small, almost teasing smile. "You are going to eat, right?"
Harry blinked, then let out a breath that was dangerously close to a laugh. It was a small thing, but it loosened something in his chest.
He picked up the spoon. "Yeah. I am."
The warmth of the stew settled in Harry's stomach, filling a hollow he hadn't even realized was there. He had eaten quickly at first, unable to help himself, before slowing down to truly savor the flavors. It was rich, hearty—comforting in a way that food rarely was for him.
"This is…" he paused, swallowing another bite of the tender meat and perfectly seasoned broth, "…the best thing I've eaten in a long time."
Daphne, still sipping from her spoon, quirked an eyebrow. "That's not exactly high praise, considering you told me about your year on the run."
Harry let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "No, I mean it. This is really good."
Daphne smiled but didn't say anything—just took another bite.
They ate in easy silence for a while before Daphne, always the healer, gently steered the conversation. "How did you sleep?"
Harry hesitated, staring at his half-empty bowl. He considered lying, but something about the way she was looking at him—the quiet concern in her eyes, the genuine interest—made him decide against it.
"Better than I have in years," he admitted. "It's… strange. I still feel numb. Still tired. But for the first time, I don't feel like I spent the whole night fighting something."
Daphne nodded, absorbing his words. "That's good," she said softly. "It'll take time. But I'm glad you got some real rest."
Harry didn't know how to respond to that—how to accept someone simply caring—so he changed the subject. "What about you?" he asked, setting his spoon down. "Hogwarts, I mean. When I was gone. What was it like?"
Daphne tensed, just for a second. If he hadn't been watching closely, he might've missed it. But the way her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon, the flicker of something dark that passed over her features—he saw it.
She exhaled slowly, choosing her words. "It was… terrible."
Harry didn't interrupt, sensing there was more.
"I lost count of how many times I was disciplined for refusing to follow orders," she continued. Her voice was even, but he could hear the weight behind it. "The Carrows wanted obedience. I wasn't willing to give it."
She hesitated, as if deciding whether to say the next part. But then she met Harry's eyes, and something in her gaze told him she wasn't going to hide from this. Not from him.
"They wanted me to use Crucio on a first-year," she said, her voice quieter now. "I refused."
Harry's grip tightened on his spoon.
Daphne glanced down at her hands, as if seeing something that wasn't there. "So they decided to show me what defiance gets you." She didn't elaborate, but she didn't have to. The way she said it—the weight behind those words—Harry knew.
His stomach twisted. Anger, grief, helplessness—all of it coiled inside him, dark and seething. "They tortured you?" His voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn't care.
Daphne gave a small, humorless smile. "The Carrows loved the idea of pain. They wanted to make examples out of people. I got to experience that firsthand."
Harry clenched his fists beneath the table. He could see it—Daphne, strong and defiant, standing her ground even as they hurt her. He hated it. The thought of her—Daphne—suffering like that made something inside him burn.
"How," he asked, his voice thick with emotion, "could anyone do that to you?"
Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his words.
Harry didn't stop. "You're—you're kind, and brilliant, and strong, and beautiful—" The word slipped out before he could think to stop it, but it was true. It was true. How could anyone look at her and choose to hurt her?
Daphne's eyes widened slightly, and for the first time since he had known her, she blushed.
But instead of looking away, she did something that completely unraveled him. She smiled—soft and knowing, like she had been waiting for this moment.
And then, before he could dwell on his own words, she simply said, "That's the same question I wonder about you, Harry."
Harry stared at her, thrown.
Daphne tilted her head slightly, and though her voice was gentle, there was no mistaking the truth in her words. "How could anyone look at you—someone who's selfless, and strong, and good—and hurt you the way they did?"
His throat tightened, and he couldn't look away.
Daphne's lips quirked just slightly, and she added, "Except I'd use 'handsome' instead of 'beautiful.'"
Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was too much emotion in his chest for it to fully form.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other.
Neither of them spoke, but in that quiet, something settled between them—something unspoken, but deeply understood.
Neither of them deserved the pain they had endured. But sitting here, across from each other, sharing something real.
The remnants of dinner sat between them—empty plates, half-drunk cups of tea, the comforting scent of spices still lingering in the air. The fire crackled softly, its glow painting warm shadows across the walls.
Daphne set down her cup, watching Harry carefully. He had eaten well, even complimented her cooking, but the tension in his shoulders never fully disappeared.
She hesitated for only a moment before asking, "Harry… what happened last night?"
Harry's grip on his tea tightened slightly. He exhaled through his nose, staring at the table as if it might have the answer for him. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "Or maybe I do, and I just don't want to say it out loud."
Daphne didn't push. She just waited.
He let out a slow breath and started again. "I think it's been building for a long time. The war, the expectations, the guilt… losing Sirius, losing Remus, losing everyone—" He shook his head. "It's like I never had time to stop and feel any of it. Because the world kept moving forward, and I had to move with it."
Daphne's chest ached, but she remained quiet, letting him speak.
"For years, it's felt like I've been carrying something too heavy," Harry continued. "And no matter how strong I try to be, it never gets lighter. Last night, it just…" He exhaled. "It crushed me."
Daphne's hands curled slightly on the table, but she said nothing, letting him continue.
"I was cleaning Grimmauld Place," he said, rubbing his fingers together absently. "Trying to make it feel less like a tomb. But it's him, it's them, it's everything. Every room is haunted." He swallowed hard. "I thought I could handle it, but I just— I couldn't breathe in there anymore. And when I left, I didn't know where to go. I just kept walking."
He finally looked up at her then, green eyes raw with vulnerability. "And then you found me."
Daphne held his gaze, her own eyes steady. Slowly, deliberately, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
Harry stiffened slightly at the touch—not in rejection, but in the way of someone who wasn't used to being offered comfort. But he didn't pull away.
She squeezed his hand gently. "You don't have to bear it alone."
Harry's fingers twitched beneath hers.
They sat in silence before Daphne spoke again, her voice soft. "You said you were cleaning Grimmauld Place."
He nodded.
"Do you… want any help?"
Harry blinked, clearly not expecting that. "You want to help me clean that place?"
Daphne shrugged. "Why not?"
"It's a lot of work," he warned.
"I've handled worse," she teased lightly.
Harry huffed a small laugh, but his expression turned serious again. "Why?"
Daphne tilted her head, considering. "Because I don't think you should have to do it alone. And because I want to."
Harry searched her face, looking for pity, obligation—anything that would make this feel like another debt he owed. But all he found was sincerity.
Harry searched her face, looking for pity, obligation—anything that would make this feel like another debt he owed. But all he found was sincerity.
For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't carrying the weight all by himself.
A silence settled between them, not awkward, but heavy with the emotions left unspoken.
Then, out of nowhere, Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Harry hesitated, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "I, uh… also kind of blew up a piano last night."
Daphne blinked. "You what?"
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "It startled me."
She just stared at him, unimpressed. "It startled you?"
"Well," Harry admitted, "startled, overwhelmed, emotionally devastated… take your pick."
Daphne exhaled, shaking her head. "Only you, Potter." But there was no judgment in her voice—just quiet amusement, fond even.
The warmth of it settled something inside Harry.
Then, after a moment, she tilted her head slightly, watching him carefully. "You know you don't have to do this alone, right?"
He swallowed. "Yeah."
"Harry," she pressed gently. "I want to help you."
He met her eyes again, and there it was—something steady, unwavering.
Harry had spent his whole life being needed for what he could do. But this? This was different. She didn't need anything from him. She just… wanted to be there. For him.
Something inside him cracked, just a little.
"Okay," he murmured. "Yeah. I'd—I'd like that."
Daphne stretched as she stood from the table, her movements slow and fluid. "Alright, Potter. Get dressed. We're going to clean up that house of yours."
Harry blinked, still feeling the weight of their conversation. "Wait—right now?"
"Yes, right now," she said with a smirk, already heading toward her bedroom. "Your clothes are in the bathroom. Chop chop."
Harry let out a half-hearted groan but pushed himself up from his seat, running a hand through his messy hair as he made his way to the bathroom.
As he reached the door, he glanced to the side—and promptly forgot how to function.
Daphne stood near her wardrobe, her back to him, wearing nothing but a long, oversized shirt that just barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. The fabric clung slightly as she shifted, giving him a teasing glimpse of her smooth, toned legs. The sight sent a bolt of heat through his veins, and for a moment, his brain completely shut down.
He stood frozen in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame, eyes locked on her. She moved with effortless grace, completely unhurried, stretching one arm up to push her hair back while the hem of her shirt lifted ever so slightly.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
And then—Daphne tilted her head just enough to see him from the corner of her eye. She didn't turn fully, didn't call him out. Instead, a small, knowing smile curled on her lips, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.
Harry felt heat rush to his face, but he still couldn't move. His body refused to cooperate, caught between the overwhelming urge to look away and the equally strong urge to keep watching.
It wasn't until Daphne finally spoke, her voice soft and teasing, that he managed to snap out of it.
"Something wrong, Potter?"
Harry nearly choked. He stumbled back into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him, his heart pounding.
Bloody hell.
He exhaled sharply, bracing his hands against the sink. He needed to get a grip. This was Daphne—Daphne Greengrass—and he was standing there gaping at her like a complete fool.
After taking an extra moment to pull himself together (with limited success), he changed into the comfortable clothes she had left for him.
When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, he found Daphne waiting by the door, leaning casually against the frame.
Only now, she was fully dressed—but somehow, that didn't help.
Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun, a few soft strands framing her face, and she wore an old long-sleeve T-shirt that hugged her curves in all the right ways. But it was her jeans that really did him in—Merlin's beard, those jeans—perfectly fitted, accentuating every inch of her long legs and the curve of her hips.
Harry felt his brain short-circuit again.
Daphne caught his lingering stare and smirked. "Need help pulling your jaw off the floor, Potter?"
He coughed, quickly schooling his expression. "Nope. All good. Totally fine."
Daphne arched a delicate brow, her lips twitching. "Mmm-hmm."
The amusement in her voice only made it worse.
Before she could say anything else—before he could do something stupid like keep staring—Harry strode forward, grabbed her hand, and pulled her close.
"Alright, let's go before you get any more ideas," he muttered, his voice lower than he intended.
Daphne's smirk deepened, her eyes gleaming with something dangerous. She stepped in just a fraction closer, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of her scent—jasmine and something warm, something purely her.
"And what if I already have ideas?" she murmured.
Harry's breath hitched.
For a single, charged second, they stood there, inches apart, tension crackling like a live wire between them.
Then, before he could do something reckless—like close that distance—he tightened his grip on her hand and Apparated them straight to 12 Grimmauld Place.
The moment they landed in the entryway of 12 Grimmauld Place, the weight of the house settled around them. Shadows stretched across the wooden floors, and the air still carried the scent of dust and old magic. The house hadn't changed much, but something about it felt different with Daphne standing beside him.
She let go of his arm, stepping forward as her sharp blue eyes swept over the place. She exhaled, rolling up her sleeves. "Alright, where do we start?"
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Well… probably in the drawing room, what's left of the piano needs to be picked up."
Daphne turned to him, her eyes jumping from his lips to his eyes. "You mentioned that. "
He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Got a bit… carried away."
Daphne arched a brow before striding down the hall and pushing open the drawing room doors. The sight of the destruction made her pause. The grand piano—or what was left of it—lay in scattered pieces across the room. Wood splintered, strings coiled in broken tension, and shards of ivory littered the floor.
Daphne let out a low whistle, stepping carefully around the wreckage. "When you said you lost your temper, I didn't think you meant total annihilation."
Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Yeah, well… it had it coming."
Daphne glanced over her shoulder, giving him a bemused look. "What exactly did it do to you?"
He hesitated before exhaling. "It reminded me of another thing I failed at… and then I just—" He gestured vaguely at the wreckage. "Lost it."
Something shifted in Daphne's expression. The teasing glint softened, replaced by something gentler. "You don't let yourself feel very often, do you?"
Harry looked away. "Not much point, is there?"
Daphne studied him for a long moment before shaking her head. "Come on," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's clean this up."
They worked side by side, their movements easy but purposeful. Every so often, their shoulders brushed as they moved through the debris, and each time, Harry felt a flicker of something he couldn't quite place.
Daphne wasn't just methodical—she was efficient. With a flick of her wand, she vanished the smaller splinters and carefully levitated the heavier pieces into a pile. "You know," she said as she worked, "I've seen a lot of magical outbursts, but this? This is something else."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Impressed?"
"Maybe a little." She shot him a sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
The warmth in her voice sent something curling in his chest, but he shoved it aside.
Once the last of the debris was cleared, Daphne dusted off her hands. "Alright, what's next?"
Harry hesitated. "The bedrooms," he said finally. "They… need a lot of work."
As they climbed the stairs, the air inside 12 Grimmauld Place grew heavier, thick with dust and the ghosts of the past. Harry ran a hand along the bannister, his fingers tracing grooves worn smooth by time.
Daphne walked beside him, quiet but observant. "You haven't been staying here," she said, more statement than question.
Harry exhaled through his nose. "No."
She glanced at him, waiting.
"The memories," he admitted. "They're… too much."
Daphne didn't press, but the way her gaze lingered told him she understood.
They reached the landing, and Harry pushed open a door at the end of the hall—Sirius's old bedroom. The air inside was stale, undisturbed for years. Dust clung to every surface, the once-dark walls now faded with time.
Daphne stepped inside, taking in the posters of Muggle motorcycles, Gryffindor banners, and the occasional rebellious charm scrawled into the wood of the bedpost. "This was definitely Sirius's," she murmured, trailing her fingers over an old, overturned bottle of Firewhisky on the nightstand.
Harry swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Yeah."
They fell into an easy rhythm—Harry sorting through Sirius's old belongings, Daphne clearing out the dust and cobwebs with swift flicks of her wand. Every now and then, she'd pause to examine something—a battered leather jacket, a charmed lighter that still sparked when flicked—but she never pried.
Harry caught her smiling as she found a stack of Muggle magazines tucked beneath the bed. "I can't believe your godfather had a collection of these."
Harry peered over her shoulder and snorted. The title "Easy Riders" was printed in bold on the cover. "Yeah… that tracks."
Daphne laughed softly, shaking her head before setting them aside.
After an hour of dusting, vanishing old bottles, and carefully placing Sirius's things into neat piles, Daphne moved to the bookshelf. "He really kept everything, didn't he?" she mused, running a hand along the spines of old books and parchment.
Harry hummed in agreement, distracted by a box of trinkets near the bed. But then—
"Harry," Daphne's voice was softer this time, more careful.
He turned, and she was holding something in her hands. A worn, leather-bound journal, the initials S.O.B. etched faintly into the cover.
Harry's breath hitched.
"It was tucked away," Daphne said gently, stepping closer. "I think this was his."
For a moment, Harry didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it from her. The leather was rough beneath his fingertips, the edges frayed from years of handling. He flipped open the cover, and there it was—Sirius's unmistakable scrawl.
His chest tightened.
Daphne touched his arm, grounding him. "Do you want to sit and look through it?" she asked.
Harry hesitated. The weight of it—the past, the memories—pressed against him. But then he looked at Daphne, at the quiet patience in her eyes, and the suffocating grip on his chest loosened just a little.
He nodded. "Yeah… Let's sit."
Daphne guided him to the bed, and together, they opened the past.
As they settled onto the bed, Harry hesitated for only a moment before flipping open the journal. The pages were filled with Sirius's familiar scrawl, words packed tightly together in hurried excitement or drawn out in thoughtful musings. He started reading silently at first, his eyes scanning over memories frozen in ink.
Daphne sat beside him, her presence warm and steady. She didn't say anything, simply reached out and rubbed slow, comforting circles on his back. It was grounding, something to focus on amid the rush of emotions clawing at his chest.
Minutes passed in silence before Harry finally found his voice.
"James is getting married tomorrow. I should probably be asleep by now, but who can sleep knowing the idiot is about to tie himself to someone forever? Merlin help Lily—she has no idea what she's getting into. I still can't believe she agreed to it. But the truth is, she's probably the best thing that ever happened to him. She keeps him in check. Makes him better. I've never seen him happier."
Harry's voice wavered slightly, but he kept going.
"The stag is nervous. He'll never admit it, but I can tell. He thinks he's going to mess everything up. But between you and me, I think Lily is just as bad as him. They're both a wreck. I had to physically separate them at the rehearsal dinner because they were panicking at each other. Bloody ridiculous."
A wet chuckle escaped Harry's throat before he continued.
"Tomorrow, I stand beside my brother and watch him marry the love of his life. And I couldn't be prouder."
Harry swallowed thickly and turned the page, and that's when he saw it.
Tucked between the sheets of parchment was a magical photograph, the edges worn and slightly crinkled. The magical photograph in Sirius's journal wasn't just one image—it shifted, capturing different moments from James and Lily's wedding day.
At first, it showed Sirius standing proudly beside James, both grinning like idiots in their dress robes. Then, it flickered, changing to a shot of James and Lily dancing, her eyes locked on his with pure love. Another flicker, and now it was Sirius, James and Lilly standing together laughing and smiling.
Harry traced his fingers over the picture, his vision blurring with tears. The weight of everything—his parents, Sirius, the life that was stolen from him—crashed over him. A choked sound escaped his throat, and he quickly wiped at his eyes.
Daphne didn't hesitate. She shifted closer, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand rubbing slow circles on his back. "They would be so proud of you, Harry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "For everything you've done, for the man you're becoming. And for trying to live—really live."
Harry turned to her, something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. His throat was too tight to speak, but Daphne understood. She always did.
They held each other's stare, the air between them growing heavy, charged with something unspoken. Slowly, deliberately, they leaned in. Neither of them rushed—this was a choice, not an accident. A quiet moment of understanding, of wanting.As their lips met, it was like a spark igniting a fire—slow at first, tentative, as if they were both afraid the moment might shatter if they moved too quickly. But as soon as they gave in, everything else melted away.
Harry felt it first—the rush of warmth that spread from where Daphne's lips pressed against his, a tingling sensation that wasn't just physical. It was magic. His magic. Hers. Twisting, curling, intertwining in a way he had never experienced before.
And with it came something even more powerful.
Harry felt her.
Not just the softness of her touch or the way she pressed closer, but her emotions, raw and unguarded, bleeding into his own through the magic that swirled around them. He felt her care—deep, unwavering, something that had settled into her without her realizing it. He felt the way she saw him, not as the Chosen One, not as a hero, but as Harry. Just Harry.
But Daphne felt him, too.
She felt the storm of emotions within him—grief, pain, the scars that ran so deep they were woven into his very being. But underneath all of that, she felt something else, something that sent a shiver down her spine.
Hope.
Harry hoped for this. He wanted this. Her.
And that realization sent a jolt through her, like a lightning strike. She gasped softly against his lips, and Harry responded instantly, deepening the kiss, his fingers threading into her hair as if she might disappear if he let go.
Fireworks erupted behind his closed eyelids, but it wasn't just that—it was magic, theirs, colliding and blending like they had always been meant to.
Daphne's hand slid to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to ground herself, her heart pounding wildly in sync with his. She could feel everything—his longing, his need to hold on to this, to her. And she wanted to give him that, to be that for him.
When they finally pulled away, their breathing was uneven, their foreheads resting together. The magic still hummed in the air between them, lingering, reluctant to let go.
Harry swallowed hard, his fingers still curled in her hair. He wasn't sure he could form words, wasn't sure he wanted to break whatever spell had just wrapped around them.
Daphne's lips parted, her breath warm against his. She didn't move away. She didn't want to.
After a long moment, she whispered, her voice slightly shaky, "That… was not what I expected when we started cleaning."
Harry let out a breathless chuckle, his thumb absently tracing over her cheek. "Yeah. Me neither."
But neither of them regretted it. Not one bit.