Chapter 8: A Simple Question

The moment Cho stepped into his path, Harry hesitated.

She was smiling, bright and hopeful, her hair shining under the enchanted ceiling's gentle snowfall. For a split second, he felt the familiar sting of awkwardness — the fumbling weight of teenage confusion — and the slow tightening of a trap he hadn't meant to walk into.

"Could I talk to you for a second?" she repeated, her voice soft, the Hall's noise dulling around them.

Harry nodded stiffly and let her lead him to the side, near one of the vast stone pillars. His heart thudded uneasily, already knowing this wasn't where he needed to be.

"I was wondering," Cho said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, "if you had a date yet. For the Ball."

She looked so nervous. So open.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I... not yet," he admitted.

Her face lit up in hope, but he cut in quickly, voice firmer than he felt. "I'm sorry, Cho. I already—" He faltered, hating the half-lie, hating the sharp flicker of hurt in her eyes. "I already promised I'd go with someone else."

It wasn't technically true. Not yet. But it would be.

Because it had to be.

Because it had always been her.


The castle seemed heavier that night, the corridors narrower and darker as Harry made his way to the seventh floor. Every step felt deliberate, every breath thick in his chest.

The door to their hidden room opened under his hand like it had been waiting.

Inside, Daphne was curled in one of the oversized armchairs, a book abandoned on her lap. She didn't look up immediately, though he knew she had heard him enter.

For a long moment, Harry stood there, unsure. The distance between them — physical, emotional — stretched taut.

Finally, she spoke, flipping a page carelessly. "Finished with your fan club?"

Her voice was light, sharp. It cut deeper than any hex.

Harry moved closer, frowning. "I didn't—"

"You don't have to explain," she said, snapping the book shut. "It's none of my business who you spend your time with."

"That's not—" He broke off, fists clenching helplessly at his sides. "That's not what I want."

Daphne lifted her gaze then, her green eyes cool and guarded. "Then what do you want, Harry?"

Silence swallowed the room whole.

He took a shaky breath, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn't see.

"I want you," he said.

The words fell heavy, raw, painfully real.

Daphne's lips parted slightly, but she didn't move. She watched him, waiting, demanding more.

"Not because I need someone," Harry forced out, stepping closer, his voice low and rough. "Not because it's convenient, or because you're here. You could be on the other side of the bloody planet and it would still be you."

Still, she didn't speak.

Still, she waited.

And Harry, stubborn and aching, gave her everything he had.

"You're the only one who knows me," he said, voice breaking around the truth. "The real me. Not the Boy-Who-Lived. Not the stupid tournament champion. Just... me."

Finally, Daphne stood, closing the small space between them.

For a moment, they just looked at each other — two soldiers trapped in a war too big for them, two hearts battered and bruised but still beating, still fighting.

Then she reached up, almost hesitantly, and touched his cheek.

"You took your time, Potter," she murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He caught her hand, turning his face into her palm.

"I'm here now," he said.

It was a promise.


The Yule Ball was a blur.

Harry didn't remember what he said to McGonagall when he officially entered Daphne's name as his date. He didn't remember what Ron shouted when he found out, or Hermione's sly, knowing smile.

He remembered Daphne.

The way she looked in deep green silk, her hair loose around her shoulders, a tiny silver dragon coiled at her throat.

The way her fingers curled lightly around his arm as they entered the Great Hall together, ignoring the stares, the whispers.

The way her eyes met his during the first dance — steady, sure — grounding him in the sea of glitter and gold and noise.

They danced, clumsy at first, then smoother, finding a rhythm that belonged to them alone.

They didn't need the music.

They had each other.


Later, much later, when the Ball was winding down and the world blurred with fatigue and magic, Harry led her silently back to their sanctuary.

In the Room of Requirement, the walls shifted to soft candlelight, a slow, lilting melody drifting through the air.

They danced again, barefoot on the warm wooden floor, with no one to see them but the stars painted across the ceiling.

Harry pressed his forehead to hers, holding her close, feeling the slow, steady beat of her heart against his.

"This is real, right?" he whispered.

Daphne smiled against his jaw, a fierce, aching thing.

"As real as it gets, Potter."

He closed his eyes, breathing her in, memorizing the way it felt to be whole.

For the first time in his life, Harry didn't feel like he was waiting for the world to fall apart.

For the first time, he simply was.