ACT4CH49 - Return To Hogwarts

Harry Potter stood at the edge of the Hogsmeade platform, his black robes swirling faintly in the crisp evening breeze. The soft light of the setting sun painted the cobblestones in hues of amber and red, but the colors felt distant to him, muted by the weight of his thoughts. Hedwig perched on his shoulder, nipping affectionately at his ear. She was his anchor—a small piece of normalcy in a world that had grown far from it.

“You’re sure about this, girl?” Harry murmured to the snowy owl, stroking her feathers. Hedwig hooted softly, her amber eyes seeming to scold him. She flapped her wings lightly, as if to say, Move forward. Don’t be ridiculous.

Ahead, the spires of Hogwarts loomed against the darkening sky. It had been months since Harry last set foot in the castle, yet it felt like an eternity. The simple, naïve boy who had once called it home was gone. In his place stood someone who carried the weight of the Anima, the Gate, and the power of Family Magics bound within him. And now, he was returning—as both a student and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

The station was quiet. The Ministry had ensured that his return would remain unannounced, yet word had a way of traveling quickly. As Harry stepped forward, a few witches and wizards in the village caught sight of him. Murmurs began to ripple through the gathering crowd.

“It’s him!” someone whispered.

“Harry Potter… the Guardian of Scales…”

“Did you see the article? He’s… something else now.”

Harry ignored the murmurs, his stride steady as he passed the throng. He could feel their eyes on him, a mixture of awe and fear. It was the same look he’d seen countless times since Azkaban. People didn’t see Harry Potter anymore; they saw a legend, a myth made flesh.

And myths don’t belong in schools, he thought bitterly. But Hedwig’s soft nudge reminded him that he wasn’t here for himself.

Each step felt heavier than the last as he left the station behind. The path toward the castle, lined with ancient trees and soft patches of grass, seemed unchanged by time. Yet to Harry, it bore the weight of countless memories. Here was where he’d walked with Ron and Hermione, laughing over the latest Quidditch match. Here was where he had gone through numerous life-threatening adventures. Here was where he had found love in Daphne Greengrass and Fleur Delacour. And here was where he now walked alone, a solitary figure cloaked in powers that set him apart from everyone he’d once called his peers.

Hedwig’s wings flared as she launched from his shoulder, soaring ahead and circling in the distance. Her silhouette against the twilight sky was a reminder of simpler times, when her only purpose was to deliver letters and return with treats from the kitchens. Harry envied her simplicity.

The murmurs from the station followed him like echoes. He could still hear the awe and fear in their voices, feel their gazes lingering long after he’d passed. It wasn’t new, not since Azkaban, but it still made his skin crawl. To them, he wasn’t Harry Potter anymore. He was the Guardian of Scales, the Gatekeeper, the boy who wielded powers they couldn’t begin to comprehend. It was a title that came with reverence, but also isolation.

As the path began to rise, Hogwarts finally came into full view, its towering spires and warm lights a beacon against the growing dark. Harry paused, his breath catching in his throat. The castle looked the same, and yet it felt so different. This had been his sanctuary once, a place where he’d learned about magic, friendship, and himself. But now it felt like a stage, one where he’d been thrust into a role he hadn’t asked for.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Daily Prophet Hedwig had delivered earlier that day. The headline blared back at him: "Guardian of Scales: ICW’s Newest Power Player?" Below it was a photograph of himself at the ICW summit, flanked by Amelia Bones and Dumbledore. His expression in the moving image was unreadable, but Harry could still remember the moment clearly. The weight of the delegates’ scrutiny, the questions about Ekrizdis, the demands to understand the power he now controlled—it had been suffocating.

“The Guardian of Scales,” Harry muttered to himself, shaking his head. Morty’s mocking suggestion had become an official title, one the ICW had embraced with open arms. He could almost hear the Snitch’s voice now, dripping with sarcasm: "Told you it’d stick, Potter. No one listens to me, but look at you now. World-famous legend."

Hedwig swooped down and perched on a nearby branch, tilting her head as if to question his hesitation.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Harry said with a sigh, folding the newspaper and tucking it back into his robes. The gates of Hogwarts opened with a low creak as he approached. Beyond them, the grounds stretched wide and welcoming, though they too felt different. He could sense the whispers of magic woven into the air, the ancient wards that had protected the castle for centuries. They recognized him, acknowledged his presence, but there was an edge to their greeting. As if the castle itself wasn’t quite sure what to make of him anymore.

Right then, the sword of Gryffindor materialized at his waist, sending a welcoming hum through his body.

Hagrid’s hut stood in the distance, smoke curling from its chimney. Harry’s chest tightened at the sight. Hagrid had always been a constant, one of the first people to show him kindness in the wizarding world. Yet even Hagrid wouldn’t look at him the same now.

The castle doors loomed ahead, their massive frame illuminated by torches. Harry took a deep breath and stepped inside. The entrance hall was as grand as ever, its marble staircase gleaming in the light. But the echoes of his footsteps felt too loud, too intrusive. He couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, despite the countless times he’d walked these halls before.

A sudden noise broke the silence—a rush of footsteps and a familiar voice calling out. “Harry!”

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, and before Harry could even brace himself, Daphne Greengrass appeared, her robes a blur of movement. Her blue eyes locked onto his, and in an instant, she was rushing toward him. Without a word, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly. Harry staggered slightly but caught her, his tension melting away under the weight of her embrace.

"You’re here," Daphne whispered, her voice trembling with relief. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still gripping his arms. "I was starting to think..."

"I’m here," Harry said softly, cutting her off. "Sorry to make you worry."

Daphne’s gaze roamed over his face, searching, her expression shifting between relief and concern. "You look... different," she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Older. But it suits you.”

Harry managed a lopsided grin. “Glad you like it.”

Now that he noted it, she looked as she always did—poised, elegant, with that effortless grace that seemed to make everyone else look like they were trying too hard. But there was something different about her, something that tugged at his attention like a spell gone slightly awry.

He squinted, and there it was: a faint hum of vitality, like she’d stolen the essence of Spring and was wearing it as perfume. Summer’s fire burned at her core, flickering warmly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. It was alive, bright, and it wasn’t there before.

Well, Harry thought dryly. Either she’s been sipping Summer cocktails, or someone’s been messing with my wardstone.

His eyes narrowed as he caught the shadowy tendrils still clinging to her—a ghost of the blood curse, feeble now, like a grumpy old ghoul too stubborn to fully fade. He could almost hear it muttering, ‘Back in my day, curses had staying power.’

If Daphne noticed his scrutiny, she didn’t show it. Instead, she met his gaze with a knowing smirk, her expression a perfect mix of amusement and challenge. It was the look that always said, Go on, Potter. Try to figure me out.

He arched a brow at her, a silent conversation passing between them. Did you use it? his look seemed to ask.

Her smile widened, but she didn’t answer. Not that he expected her to. Daphne Greengrass was the queen of just enough information to drive you mad.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll bite. What did you do?”

The fire of Summer burning in her was a good thing—brilliant, even. But his mind raced. If she’d tapped into the wardstone, what had pushed her to do it? Daphne wasn’t the reckless type. Bold? Yes. Cunning? Absolutely. But reckless? Not unless she felt she had no choice.

Whatever had happened, she seemed stronger now, healthier. That ember of Summer magic was keeping the curse at bay, holding it back like a particularly stubborn bouncer at the gates of her soul.

He made a mental note to ask her about it later. Maybe over tea. Or possibly while fending off her pointed questions about why his hair always looked like he’d been wrestling a hippogriff. For now, he let it slide, as he caught a glimpse of movement. Ron stood at the edge of the hall, his hands shoved into his pockets. His face broke into a wide grin as he walked over. “Blimey, mate. You’ve got a knack for dramatic entrances, don’t you?”

Harry chuckled. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise, would it?”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder, his grin never wavering. “Glad you’re back. Things wouldn’t be the same without you, Harry.”

The Great Hall was alive with the ambient hum of voices, a blend of excitement and whispers that surged like waves against the ancient stone walls. Students filled the tables, their heads turning occasionally toward the staff table, where the most tantalizing rumors of the evening took root. Harry Potter, newly returned to Hogwarts, was seated among the professors, his presence a lightning rod for speculation.

Harry’s entrance had been met with stunned silence, a lull in the usual chaos of the dinner hour. Now, whispers rippled through the student body like wildfire. Some glanced at him with awe; others darted wary, skeptical looks. He’d grown accustomed to it, the twin-edged sword of reverence and fear. Hedwig, perched just outside one of the high windows, had refused to leave him entirely but granted him enough space to re-enter his old world without the overt display of her silent guardianship.

Harry’s gaze shifted to the staff table, where familiar faces greeted him with smiles and nods—McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout. But then, his eyes landed on Fleur, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

She was seated with an effortless grace, her posture regal yet relaxed. The faint glow of the enchanted ceiling above seemed to dim in comparison to the aura she radiated. It wasn’t just beauty—though Fleur had always been breathtaking—it was something deeper, more primal. Her magic seemed to hum in the air around her, subtle but undeniable, like the tension of a drawn bowstring. She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, and Harry’s breath caught.

Her eyes were brighter than he remembered, a striking silver-blue that seemed to pierce through him, as if she could see every secret he carried. There was power in that gaze, but also control—a predator deliberately choosing not to pounce. For all her poise and warmth, there was something undeniably feral about her now, a sharp edge to her presence that made his magic instinctively coil and tense, not in fear, but in recognition.

The Anima.

It hit him then, like a sudden drop in altitude. During the unleashing of the Anima, Fleur must have been affected—changed. The raw, chaotic energy he had released had seeped into everything, reshaping the world’s magical equilibrium. He had suspected as much when he’d heard of the sudden surges of magic among magical creatures, but seeing Fleur now made it undeniable. She wasn’t just more powerful—she was more.

Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, as if she could read his thoughts. She inclined her head slightly in greeting, and Harry felt a flicker of warmth chase away the lingering tension in his chest. But even that smile carried an edge, the playful tease of someone who knew she was dangerous and relished keeping it just under the surface.

“Mate,” Ron muttered. “Don’t take it otherwise, but your girl looks hotter than ever.”

Harry didn’t respond, still watching as Fleur’s attention shifted back to her surroundings, the moment between them fading. She reached for her goblet, her movements fluid and precise, her fingers brushing the rim with a deliberate gentleness that belied the sheer power radiating from her.

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. Fleur had always been formidable, but this was something else entirely. The Anima’s touch had elevated her magic, reshaped it into something vast and unknowable. Her veela heritage, once tempered and refined, now felt closer to the surface, barely restrained. It was like standing in the eye of a storm—calm, yet surrounded by untamed chaos.

And yet, she seemed utterly in control. Harry wondered if it was a veneer, a mask she wore, or if Fleur Delacour had simply adapted to her new reality faster than anyone else. Whatever the case, she was undeniably changed, and it stirred something inside him—both admiration and a sliver of wariness.

As the applause for his return began to settle, Harry found himself walking toward the staff table, his path feeling oddly deliberate. His eyes met Fleur’s once more as he reached her side.

“Fleur,” he greeted, his voice steady but softer than he intended. “It’s good to see you.”

Her smile widened slightly, the sharpness in her gaze softening, but only just. “And you, 'Arry,” she replied, her French accent carrying a richness that made the words feel more layered. “I am glad you are… here. Ze castle feels more... balanced with you in it.”

The way she said it made his brow furrow slightly. Balanced? He wanted to ask what she meant, but there was something about the way her eyes held him that made him pause. It wasn’t the time.

“You look... well,” Harry said carefully, trying to find the right words without stumbling. “Different. In a good way.”

Fleur tilted her head, a hint of amusement dancing in her expression. “You notice ze change, no?” she asked, her voice lilting, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath the playful tone. “I feel it too. More power, yes, but also… more instincts. Like ze allure inside me is... louder. You would understand, non?”

Harry hesitated. “I suppose I would.”

The tension between them was palpable, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was more like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, both thrilling and humbling. Harry knew he wasn’t the only one who had been marked by the events at Azkaban and the Anima’s release, but Fleur’s transformation was a stark reminder of how far-reaching its effects truly were.

As the murmurs of students continued behind him, and the occasional giggle reached his ears about his supposed betrothal to Fleur, Harry felt a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, concern, and a deep sense of responsibility. The Anima had changed the world, and Fleur was a living testament to that change.

But beneath it all, one thought stood out, clear and unshakable.

If Fleur could thrive in the wake of such chaos, then perhaps the world had a chance after all.

Dumbledore rose from his seat, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with the sort of warmth that demanded attention. The hall quieted almost instantly.

“Good evening to all,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly over the long tables. “I am pleased to welcome our students after the recent harrowing events. And, of course, I’d like to extend a particularly special welcome to our dear Defence Against The Dark Arts professor.”

Every eye turned toward Harry, who fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under the weight of their stares.

“As you all know,” Dumbledore continued, “Harry Potter had gladly taken up the mantle of Defence professor to aid the wardbreakers to locate the curse that has been hampering the education quality at our institution for decades. The gambit paid off, and in the process, Hogwarts gained an excellent Defence instructor, one I would be very much disappointed to see go. As a result, Professor Potter will be continuing his role for the foreseeable future.”

A smattering of applause followed, but it was uneven, punctuated by hesitant claps and the occasional cough. Harry’s reputation clearly preceded him, and not all were eager to embrace it.

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Harry, his expression both gentle and piercing. “Harry,” he said quietly, though the words carried, “welcome back. Hogwarts has missed you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry replied, his voice steady but subdued. He felt Fleur’s hand briefly touch his arm, a silent reassurance.

As the headmaster resumed his seat, the atmosphere shifted. The quiet buzz of conversation returned, though now it was peppered with furtive glances toward the staff table. Harry’s attention, however, drifted to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione sat near the edge, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She avoided looking at him, her posture stiff and withdrawn.

Harry had expected this. Hermione had been reluctant to face him since his return, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. The weight of her actions—her role under Umbridge’s manipulation, the influence of the diadem, her misguided decisions—hung over her like a cloud. Dumbledore had granted her a second chance, but the shadow of guilt was one she would have to dispel herself.

Daphne, by contrast, had no such reservations. She rose from her seat at the Slytherin table, her movements graceful yet determined. Ignoring the stares of her housemates and the whispers that erupted as she crossed the hall, she made her way directly to the staff table.

“Harry,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise like a clear bell. Her expression was a mixture of relief and determination. Before he could respond, she wrapped her arms around him in a firm embrace.

The hall went silent again, the spectacle too riveting to ignore. Daphne pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his shoulders as she looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Welcome home,” she said simply, her voice steady.

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat but managed a small smile. “Thanks, Daphne.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his in a fleeting kiss that sent a fresh wave of whispers rippling through the hall. For a moment, Harry could forget the weight of his title, the burden of his powers. Here, in her presence, he felt anchored.

“I’ll see you after dinner,” she said, her tone softer now, meant for him alone. Then, with the poise and confidence befitting her station, she returned to the Slytherin table, ignoring the gawking stares of her peers.

Harry exhaled slowly, his focus returning to the staff table. Fleur gave him a knowing look, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “For a Slytherin, she ‘as got… ‘ow do you say it? Spunk?”

“You’ve no idea,” Harry replied, his voice tinged with gratitude.

He could feel their stares, an unrelenting wave of curiosity, awe, and uncertainty. His fingers twitched at his side, and he resisted the urge to fidget. Hedwig, perched just outside the enchanted windows, let out a soft hoot, as if sensing his discomfort. He wished he could share her simplicity—a desire to fly and nothing more.

Then, at the Gryffindor table, a young first-year stood up. Her robes were slightly too big for her, and her face was round with innocence, but her determination was unmistakable. She began clapping, her small hands breaking the heavy silence.

One by one, others followed. Susan Bones stood up, followed by Hannah and Sue Li, and then Padma Patil, and her sister from the Gryffindor table rose. The rest of the Ravenclaws stood, then the rest of the Hufflepuffs, their applause hesitant at first, as if unsure whether they were permitted to celebrate this moment. But the sound grew, echoing louder and louder as more students joined in, their reluctance melting into enthusiasm.

At the Slytherin table, the response was slower, more reserved. A few older students exchanged skeptical glances, but even they seemed unable to resist the swell of emotion sweeping through the room. A tall fifth-year Slytherin, perhaps emboldened by Daphne’s earlier gesture, finally rose to his feet and clapped twice, sharp and deliberate. The other Slytherins followed suit, some more grudgingly than others.

Soon, every table had risen, the applause turning into a standing ovation. The sound rolled through the hall like thunder, a wave of unity and reverence that left Harry momentarily stunned.

He blinked, trying to process what he was seeing and hearing. The applause wasn’t just for the Guardian of Scales, or the vanquisher of Ekrizdis, or the wielder of ancient magics. This was for Harry Potter—the boy who had faced impossible odds time and again and had come home.

Fleur leaned toward him, her voice soft but amused. “Quite ze reception, non?”

Harry gave her a faint, self-conscious smile. “It’s… a bit much, isn’t it?”

She raised an elegant brow. “Non, it is just right.”

Daphne, who had settled back at the Slytherin table, looked over her shoulder at him, her expression brimming with pride. Her applause was slower, more deliberate, but no less heartfelt. Their eyes met across the hall, and in that moment, Harry felt something tighten in his chest—a reminder of why he had returned at all.

When the applause began to wane, Harry raised a hand, hesitant but firm. Slowly, the hall quieted, the students taking their seats, though their eyes remained fixed on him. He cleared his throat, glancing at Dumbledore, who gave him an encouraging nod.

“Thank you,” Harry said, his voice carrying over the hall with surprising steadiness. “I, uh… I wasn’t expecting that.”

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, breaking some of the tension.

“It’s good to be back,” he continued. “Hogwarts has always been home to me, even when the world outside felt… impossible.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the tables, catching glimpses of faces young and old. “I hope, in some way, I can help make it feel like home for all of you, too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was thoughtful, charged with a mutual understanding. Harry gave a slight nod and stepped back, allowing Dumbledore to take the lead once more.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Hermione glancing his way. Their eyes met briefly before she looked away, her shoulders hunching as though bracing for a blow. Harry’s chest tightened. He would need to speak with her, but now wasn’t the time.

Dinner continued, the atmosphere gradually returning to normal—or as normal as it could be with Harry Potter seated at the staff table. As the students began to file out, heading toward their common rooms, Harry rose from his seat.

Dumbledore caught his eye and gestured for him to stay. The two lingered as the hall emptied, the hum of voices fading into silence. Harry trailed behind the headmaster as they moved toward the fireplace near the staff table. The soft glow of the flames cast flickering shadows across Dumbledore's lined face.

“You’ve made an impact tonight,” Dumbledore said, his voice warm but measured.

Harry scoffed lightly. “I sat at the table. Hardly earth-shattering.”

Dumbledore turned to him, his blue eyes sharp beneath the half-moon spectacles. “Your presence alone, Harry, carries weight now. Every step you take is no longer just yours. You walk with history at your heels.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. “More pressure. Just what I need.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pressure, yes. But you also carry the power to shape that history—something not many can claim.”

Harry leaned against the mantelpiece, his gaze dropping to the flames. “And what if I don’t want to shape history? What if I just want to… exist?”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and contemplative.

“You’ve earned that desire,” Dumbledore admitted after a moment. “But the world doesn’t often grant such respite to those it deems necessary.”

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what about Hermione? She can barely look at me. I thought you said she’d have to repeat a year.”

“Alas,” said Dumbledore. “That only proves that the best of us have to eat our words. Miss Granger has had a most harrowing experience from Madam Umbridge’s Imperius curse and repeated obliviation attempts. It is impossible to say just how much of her actions were based on her own reasoning, and how much the effect of that woman’s manipulations. Besides, she is repentful of her actions. In that light, I believe giving her a second chance is worth it.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened, the lines of his face deepening with understanding. “Miss Granger bears her own burden, Harry. Guilt, confusion, the sting of betrayal—self-inflicted or otherwise. She needs time to reconcile with herself before she can truly face you.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked, his voice edged with frustration. “Wait for her to feel better? Ignore everything that happened?”

“Speak with her when she’s ready,” Dumbledore advised gently. “Your forgiveness may be the balm she needs most, but it cannot be forced. Speaking of, I’m certain you have heard about Nicholas’s decision?”

Harry nodded.

“I’m not privy to the terms of your apprenticeship with Nicholas, but I know Nicholas. He has stayed a recluse over the last several centuries, despite the world-shaking events that took place every century. In fact, his closest involvement was his protection of Paris from Grindelwald’s attack, but even that carried ulterior motives, I’m afraid.”

And yet, the man’s reactions had been practically flamboyant, Harry mused. Offering to buy the basilisk directly. Offering an apprenticeship. Attempting to involve him with the Cabal. Posing resistance at the ICW Summit as part of the French delegation. And now this…

“The fact that Nicholas is volunteering to show up at Hogwarts is peculiar,” said Dumbledore. “Either the recent events have driven him paranoid to the point of carelessness, or overconfident to the point of being wasteful with his assets. Either will lead to nothing but headaches.”

“I doubt he will cause immediate trouble,” said Harry softly. “I have what he wants, whereas what he has has drastically lost its value in my eyes. Stirring the pot any further hurts his chances, not mine. Same goes for the ICW, I suppose. If not, Minister Bones would likely be preparing for another war that would make fighting Voldemort look like pocket change.”

Holding off a potential uncontrollable cataclysm with another uncontrollable cataclysm. A risky gambit, and one that Harry would never have considered or attempted so frivolously.

Voldemort was always a factor, but given his defeat at Minister Bones’s hands, and the immense loss to his army, it would be quite some time before they rose to become a serious threat. Harry could use the window in between to further study the Anima and find a way to bring his godfather back. 

The only unknown variables in the equation were Invocator Schulz and the Cabal. 

“Professor, are you not worried about what he might discover? What he might try to do with it?”

Dumbledore’s eyes met his, steady and unyielding. “There is always risk, Harry. In trust, in collaboration, in forging connections. But there is also opportunity. Nicholas has much to teach, and perhaps, much to learn from you as well. I believe the exchange will prove invaluable—if you allow it to be.”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. His thoughts churned, the weight of his responsibilities and the uncertainty of the future pressing down on him. Finally, he looked up, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ll give it a chance. But if he crosses a line…”

Dumbledore nodded, his expression one of quiet approval. “If he crosses a line, Harry, you will have the support of this school—and myself.”

Harry decided not to say that if Nicholas actually crossed a line, there might not even be a Hogwarts to begin with. The ancient alchemist had probably forgotten more things about the Sunken Vault than Harry even knew.

The fire crackled between them, the silence stretching into something almost companionable. Harry’s thoughts drifted to the months ahead, the challenges he would face not just as a professor, but as a figure caught in the crosshairs of history, politics, and power.

Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence, his tone lightening. “Now, shall we retire for the evening? The castle may not have changed much, but it has an uncanny way of finding new ways to surprise us.”

Before Harry could respond, a voice called from the shadows near the entrance. “Professor Potter?”

Harry turned to see Daphne standing there, her gaze steady but questioning. She stepped closer, her presence bringing a warmth that pushed back the lingering chill of the hall.

Dumbledore straightened, his gaze flitting between the two of them. “I believe I’ll leave you both to talk,” he said with a knowing smile. “The castle has a way of arranging such moments.”

With a swish of his robes, the headmaster was gone, leaving Harry and Daphne alone by the fire.

Daphne regarded him for a moment, her lips curving into a small smile. “I couldn’t let you leave without saying something.”

Harry tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “And here I thought you’d gotten all your words in at dinner.”

She shrugged, her expression teasing but tinged with sincerity. “Can you blame me? The great Harry Potter, back at Hogwarts, causing a scene—how could I resist?”

Harry chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “You always did know how to make an entrance.”

“And you always did know how to brood,” she shot back, stepping closer. Her tone softened. “Are you all right?”

Harry hesitated, the weight of the day pressing against him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Feels like I’m being pulled in every direction, expected to be everything to everyone. It’s… a lot.”

Daphne reached out, her hand brushing his. “Nothing new then.”

Both of them stared at each other for a long second, before their lips twisted, and a tiny snort escaped Harry’s lips. Then hers. The next moment, they were clutching their bellies and laughing heartily.

Her words hung in the air, grounding him in a way that nothing else had. He met her gaze, the flickering firelight reflecting in her eyes. For the first time that evening, he allowed himself to exhale fully, the weight on his chest easing slightly.

“Thanks, Daphne,” he said quietly. “I mean it.”

She squeezed his hand briefly before stepping back. “Don’t mention it. But if you really feel the need, you can always take me to your room and show me how apologetic you are.”

He grinned at her salacious look, before his expression fell. “I just have one tiny thing to take care of before that.”

Daphne sighed in defeat. “Of course you do.”