A Star Is Born Chapter 24 (Patreon)

Chapter 24

The return to the locker room didn't bring soaring speeches or wild celebrations. There were smiles, pats on the back, and more than a few jokes at the Falcons' expense, but no one had deluded themselves into believing they had accomplished anything extraordinary. They had defended their home pitch, exactly as they were expected to do.

Coach Deverell offered his congratulations without lingering on them. The Falcons had been beaten soundly, but the season was still young, and the league had a way of humbling anyone who celebrated too loudly. There would be plenty of time to enjoy the victory on the club's scheduled bye week, but after that came Caerphilly—a younger, faster side that would demand every ounce of the momentum Puddlemere had just reclaimed.

The coach dismissed the team with little more than a reminder to rest their bodies and enjoy the week away from organized training. There would still be individual workouts, broom maintenance, and film to review, but for the first time since Harry had arrived in Puddlemere, he was thankful to have a short break.

The brief press conference passed almost exactly as Harry expected. Most of the questions centered around his performance against Blaze De Larrea, whether Puddlemere had finally found its footing after Montrose, and if the club believed it could challenge for the Championship. Harry answered carefully, making certain to praise the Falcons, credit his teammates, and remind anyone listening that one victory did not define a season.

Only when Coach Deverell finally declared the conference over did Harry feel the tension fully leave his shoulders. Beyond the security doors, in the quieter reception area reserved for players' families and invited guests, familiar faces had already begun to gather.

Ron was halfway through animatedly recreating Harry's final dive with sweeping arm movements while Hermione patiently corrected whatever details he inevitably exaggerated. Several members of the Weasley family lingered nearby. Molly already looked as though she intended to feed half the Puddlemere roster before the evening was over. Harry smiled through it all, but already had his mind set on his evening plans.

His eyes searched, and beyond his gathered group, standing with an easy sort of patience that suggested she had no intention of rushing him… Daphne waited.

Harry offered the witch a small smile from across the room. She returned it with an easy one of her own before politely inclining her head toward Hermione, who had been watching Harry with growing curiosity. The brief exchange was enough. Hermione followed Harry's line of sight, looked toward Daphne, then back to him, one eyebrow slowly climbing her forehead.

Trying not to attract the attention of the players and families milling around them, Hermione stepped closer. There was already a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Harry," she asked quietly, "why is Daphne Greengrass standing over there looking like she's waiting for you?"

Harry scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck. There wasn't much point pretending otherwise. "Because she is."

Hermione blinked.

"I'm taking her to dinner," Harry added.

For perhaps the first time all afternoon, Hermione seemed genuinely caught off guard. Her eyes widened, and before she could gather her thoughts, Ron turned sharply at the mention of Daphne's name.

"You're taking who to dinner?"

"Daphne Greengrass."

Ron followed Harry's gaze until he spotted the blonde witch waiting patiently across the room. She wasn't trying to hurry Harry along or interrupt his conversation. She simply stood with her hands folded comfortably in front of her, content to wait until he was finished speaking with his friends.

Ron slowly looked back. "Mate..." he began carefully, "she's pretty, I'll give you that, but she doesn't exactly run in our crowd."

Harry raised an eyebrow. Ron lowered his voice another notch. "Her best friend just spent the last week trying to bury you in the Daily Prophet."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "I know."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Harry shrugged. "What's Tracey going to write?" he asked with a quiet laugh. "Harry Potter won a Quidditch match and took Daphne Greengrass to dinner? Doesn't exactly sound like front-page news."

Hermione laughed softly, though she quickly shook her head. "I somehow doubt Tracey Davis needs much encouragement."

"Probably not," Harry admitted. "Fortunately, I'm having dinner with Daphne, not Tracey."

The answer earned a reluctant grin from Ron. He still looked unconvinced, but there wasn't much more to say. Harry had fought dark wizards, survived Voldemort, and willingly stepped into Quidditch stadiums filled with eighty thousand screaming supporters. A first date with a former Slytherin hardly ranked among his more dangerous decisions.

Harry smiled at the pair, grateful they had made the trip to Puddlemere once again. "Thanks for coming today. It really meant a lot."

Ron nodded. "Wouldn't have missed it."

"I'll see you both next weekend," Harry continued. "We will watch Demelza's match together."

Hermione's smile returned.

"We'll hold you to that."

With one last wave, Harry turned away from his oldest friends and crossed the room toward Daphne, who greeted him with the same calm smile she'd been wearing since he'd spotted her waiting.

"Ready?" she asked.

Harry realized, with a little surprise, that after everything the past two weeks had thrown at him… he was.

The roar of the crowd had faded behind them, replaced by the quieter sounds of Puddlemere settling into the evening. The streets were still alive, but no longer frantic. Families drifted toward home carrying miniature broomsticks and bags of sweets. Wizards stood outside pubs reliving Harry's catch with animated gestures, while somewhere farther down the lane someone had already begun singing the Puddlemere club song far louder than they should have.

Harry and Daphne walked side by side without speaking for several moments. For the first time in nearly two weeks, Harry realized he wasn't thinking about Quidditch. Not the loss. Not the next opponent. Not tomorrow's headlines. Just...walking.

A little boy suddenly broke free from his parents and sprinted toward Harry. "Mister Potter!"

The boy held out a battered toy broom. "My mum says I'm not supposed to bother you...but could you sign this anyway?"

Harry crouched to one knee. "Your mum's going to be terribly disappointed you didn’t listen, then."

The boy giggled as Harry signed the tiny broom handle. When he stood again, the parents apologized profusely. Harry waved it away. "No apology necessary."

As they disappeared down the street, the little boy immediately mounted the toy broom and began flying crooked circles around his father while proudly announcing to anyone willing to listen that Harry Potter had signed his broom.

Harry laughed.

"You've made his year," Daphne observed.

"I think he made mine."

She smiled. "I think that's the first completely honest thing you've said since I met you."

Harry looked over. "What does that mean?"

"I imagine you've had to become rather good at pretending all of this doesn't bother you."

Harry glanced sideways. "Pretending what doesn't bother me?"

Daphne gestured casually toward the bustling streets surrounding them. "The cheering. The photographs. The press." She watched another pair of supporters wave enthusiastically as Harry smiled and returned the greeting. "You act as though it's something you simply tolerate."

Harry chuckled. "The press," he admitted, "I could happily do without. I've never had much luck with them." He smiled crookedly. "Your old friend Tracey seems particularly determined to make my life interesting."

Daphne's expression softened into something almost amused. "You're right. You've become her favorite target."

She looked ahead, carefully avoiding Harry's eyes for a moment. "I suspect she'd think I'd lost my mind if she knew we were walking to dinner together."

Harry laughed. "So this is some elaborate journalistic sting?"

She rolled her eyes. "I hardly think Tracey would trust me with undercover work."

"No?" Harry questioned.

"No," she agreed, a mischievous smile crossing her face.

"Besides... I'd wager this evening will never reach the front page. She may spare you simply because I'm involved."

Harry grinned. "After tonight, I'll pay you by the hour to keep her away."

"You couldn't afford me, Potter," Daphne countered. The answer came so effortlessly that Harry couldn't help laughing.

For a few moments they simply continued walking together through the evening crowds. Harry found himself studying her from the corner of his eye. She hadn't defended Tracey. She hadn't apologized for her. She'd simply... acknowledged reality. It wasn't at all the answer he'd expected. Almost as though she'd sensed where his thoughts had wandered, Daphne spoke again, "People are complicated."

Harry looked over.

"I suspect," she continued quietly, "of all people... you'd understand that."

The words lingered between them. Harry frowned thoughtfully, feeling they carried far more meaning than the lively streets around them suggested.

Before he could answer, a shopkeeper leaned halfway out of his doorway. "Brilliant catch today, Potter!"

Harry instinctively smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. Another family waved. Then an elderly witch. Then two boys wearing replica Puddlemere robes nearly collided trying to catch his attention. Harry laughed and acknowledged each of them before continuing down the street.

It wasn't until they had walked another twenty yards that he realized Daphne hadn't spoken again. He glanced toward her. "Alright," he said. "I'll bite."

She looked back innocently, leaving Harry a little exasperated when he asked, "What did you mean?"

Daphne smiled. "I think that's a conversation better suited for dinner." She tilted her head toward a narrow side street Harry hadn't noticed before. "And preferably somewhere with a decent drink."

He followed her without hesitation. "I take it you already have somewhere in mind?"

"I do."

"I thought your father always took you to the same places."

"He does."

"So where are we going?"

"Somewhere he never would."

That answer alone made Harry grin as the woman walked ahead, taking the lead. Daphne led him away from the busy high street and into one of Puddlemere's older lanes, where the buildings leaned together so closely they almost blocked out the evening sky. At the very end stood a broad-shouldered wizard whose arms looked better suited to swinging a Beater's bat than welcoming diners. Daphne approached him with complete confidence. "Table for two, please."

The wizard regarded them silently before giving a single nod. Without a word, he tapped his wand against what appeared to be an ordinary brick wall. The stone rippled. One brick folded inward. Then another. Within seconds the entire wall unfolded like the petals of a flower, revealing a warmly lit dining hall hidden beyond. The rich aroma of roasted meat, fresh bread, and butter drifted into the alley as laughter and lively conversation spilled out to greet them.

Harry blinked. “I've played here for nearly two months...and I had absolutely no idea this existed."

Daphne's smile widened. "That's rather the point."

As they stepped inside, the warmth of the restaurant washed over them. The sounds of lively conversation replaced the bustle of the streets outside, while enchanted lanterns hanging from heavy timber beams cast a soft amber glow over polished oak tables. A witch carrying a platter stacked with steaming shepherd's pie threaded effortlessly through the crowded dining room, exchanging greetings with half the patrons as she passed.

Harry quickly realized nearly every table was occupied. Whatever this place was, it certainly wasn't a secret to the locals. Near the entrance, an older witch with silver-streaked hair looked up from the host stand and immediately smiled.

"Miss Greengrass... Mr. Potter." Her eyes lit up knowingly. "Table for two?"

"Please," Daphne replied.

The hostess retrieved two menus before leading them deeper into the restaurant. Rather than stopping among the bustling center tables, she guided them toward a quieter alcove tucked beneath one of the building's exposed stone arches. The table sat beside a broad window enchanted to show the banks of a nearby lake. Harry pulled Daphne's chair out without thinking.

"Thank you," she said, taking her seat with an appreciative smile.

Only after Harry settled opposite her did he notice how different this felt from the packed pubs and noisy post-match celebrations he had grown accustomed to over the last two months. The conversations around them blended into a comfortable murmur, loud enough to remind him the restaurant was alive, but quiet enough that no one seemed interested in interrupting them. For the first time all evening, nobody called his name. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody congratulated him on catching the Snitch.

A young waitress appeared almost immediately, parchment tucked beneath one arm. "Can I start either of you with something to drink?"

Daphne didn't even glance at the menu. "The blackberry mead, please."

The waitress smiled. "Excellent choice."

Only then did she turn toward Harry, and for just a heartbeat her practiced smile faltered in recognition. "Oh..."

She recovered almost immediately, though a faint blush had already crept into her cheeks. "I'm sorry... congratulations on the match today, Mr. Potter."

Harry offered an easy smile. "Thank you."

"You really gave poor De Larrea a difficult afternoon."

"I think he returned the favor."

The waitress laughed a little harder than the comment probably deserved before quickly composing herself. "And for you?"

Harry looked down at the drinks list for perhaps two seconds before giving up with a sheepish grin. "I have absolutely no idea what's good."

Daphne laughed. "That's because you've spent the last two months eating with professional athletes."

Harry couldn't exactly argue with that. Daphne looked back toward the waitress. "If he's willing to trust my judgment..."

Harry raised both hands in surrender. "I've already let you choose the restaurant. I may as well commit."

The waitress smiled again, though this time her attention lingered on Harry for perhaps a second longer than necessary. "Two blackberry meads it is."

She tucked the parchment beneath her arm, her smile lingering on Harry for another moment. “Enjoy your evening.”

Only after she'd disappeared into the crowd did Harry glance after her. "She seems nice."

Daphne looked up from unfolding her napkin. "She certainly thought you were."

Harry frowned. "What?"

Daphne smiled into the candlelight. "Nothing."

Harry studied her for another moment before deciding it probably wasn't worth asking.

For a comfortable stretch of silence, they simply sat across from one another, the warm glow of the candle between them dancing across polished oak and catching the gold woven into Daphne's blonde hair. She met his eyes without hesitation.

One heartbeat. Then another.

Only then did the faintest hint of pink find her cheeks. She seemed to catch herself almost immediately, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear before lowering her eyes to the menu resting on the table. Harry found himself smiling. Ron had been right. She was pretty. Beautiful, even.

"Keep staring, Potter," Daphne said without looking up. "You're going to give a girl ideas."

Harry rested an elbow casually on the table. "Maybe that was my intention."

A quiet laugh escaped her. "I don't think you're that smooth..." She finally looked back up. "...yet."

Harry couldn't help laughing with her. "Fair enough."

The waitress returned carrying two tall glasses of blackberry mead, carefully placing them in front of each of them before producing her quill once more. "Have we decided?"

Daphne closed her menu without even looking at Harry. "The shepherd's pie for him."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Confident."

"I've seen you play Quidditch."

"I'm not sure what that has to do with shepherd's pie."

"It means you've probably burned enough calories today to feed a small dragon."

Harry laughed. "Hard to argue with that."

She smiled, though her expression softened ever so slightly. "And after the other night..."

Harry immediately knew she was talking about the drinking after Montrose.

"...something hearty probably wouldn't hurt."

There wasn't an ounce of judgment in her voice. Just quiet concern. Harry closed his own menu. "I'll trust your recommendation."

"And for yourself, Miss Greengrass?"

"The roast pheasant, please."

The waitress scribbled the order onto her parchment, her eyes drifting back toward Harry one last time. "I'll have those right out."

Harry smiled politely. "Thank you."

The waitress returned the smile before disappearing into the lively dining room. Only after she'd gone did Harry finally reach for his drink. "So..." He lifted the glass slightly. "You said people were complicated."

Across the candlelight, Daphne mirrored the gesture with her own glass. "I did."

"I think I’d like that explanation now,” Harry said. “If you are up to it.”

The conversation they'd postponed on the walk over was finally waiting for them, but Daphne acted as if she were in no rush to have it, instead saying, “First a toast. No serious conversation should ever precede a toast.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” Harry admitted. “But I like it.” Raising his glass, he asked, “What are we drinking to?”

“Puddlemere,” Daphne said, raising her glass. “Not just to United, but the city itself. To Puddlemere.”

“Very well,” Harry said with a smile. “To Puddlemere.”

The two clinked their glasses together, and Harry took a long drink. The mead was sweeter than he expected, the blackberry hitting first before giving way to a pleasant warmth as he swallowed. Across the table, Daphne watched him expectantly, looking immensely satisfied when his eyebrows rose in approval.

“This is really good,” Harry admitted.

“I’m glad you approve.” Daphne leaned comfortably back in her chair, her painted fingernails resting lazily against the stem of her glass. She took another small sip before raising an eyebrow at him. “Now, I believe we were discussing my rather profound observation that people are complicated.”

Harry set his glass down, immediately earning a laugh from the witch across from him.

“It’s not that serious, Harry. You’re allowed to keep drinking.”

“You made it sound serious.”

“I said people were complicated. I didn’t announce another Dark Lord.”

Harry chuckled and reached for his glass again. “Alright, then. Explain away.”

Daphne's eyes narrowed playfully. “If you’d actually like to hear it.”

She was teasing him now. Harry couldn't quite explain why, but he liked it. There was something easy about trading remarks with her, especially because Daphne never seemed desperate to win the exchange. She would prod him, wait for his answer, and look perfectly content whether he returned the favor or not.

“If you aren’t too busy,” Harry replied.

“Not at all.”

Her smile widened briefly before settling into something more thoughtful. Daphne rolled the stem of her glass slowly between her fingers, considering how she wanted to begin.

“I’m going to start with something you probably won’t agree with.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds promising.”

“It gets worse.” A hint of amusement returned to her face. “I’m going to ask you not to interrupt me until I explain why.”

“That depends entirely on how terrible the first part is.”

“Potter.”

“Greengrass.”

Daphne fought a smile and failed. “Can I have your word?”

There was seriousness beneath the playful expression now, enough that Harry realized she genuinely cared about what she was about to say. He still couldn't quite read her. Perhaps that was part of what he was enjoying. Most people had become remarkably predictable around him. They either loved him, hated him, or wanted something from him. Daphne Greengrass remained pleasantly difficult to categorize.

Harry lifted his glass again and settled comfortably into his chair. “You have it.”

Daphne studied him for another moment, seemingly deciding whether she believed him. Then she began, “I’ll start with something you probably don’t know about Tracey, although it became fairly public knowledge during the war. Tracey is Muggle-born.”

Harry blinked. For several seconds, his brain seemed to simply reject the information. “Wait, what?”

“You promised not to interrupt.”

“You paused.”

“I was taking a drink.”

“You paused dramatically.”

Daphne fought a smile as she raised her glass again. “And now you’re interrupting dramatically.”

Harry wanted to protest, but she had him there. He gestured for her to continue and took another drink instead.

“As I was saying, Tracey was one of very few Muggle-borns sorted into Slytherin. You can probably imagine that it came with certain expectations.”

Harry could imagine considerably worse than expectations.

“At first, she resisted them,” Daphne continued. “Those were the days when Blaise Zabini, Tracey, and I were thick as thieves. For our first few years, we had this wonderfully childish idea that the three of us could create some sort of blockade inside Slytherin. Nobody in our year would be bullied over their blood if we could help it.”

Harry stared at her. He had attended Hogwarts with Daphne Greengrass for six years and couldn't remember knowing any of this. Daphne seemed to read that realization on his face. “You didn’t spend much time wondering about what happened in the Slytherin common room, Potter.”

Harry conceded the point with a tilt of his glass. “What changed?”

This time Daphne really did pause. The playfulness slipped from her expression as she traced one painted fingernail slowly around the rim of her glass. “Everything.”

The single word carried more weight than Harry expected. “While most of Hogwarts was debating whether the Dark Lord had actually returned, Slytherin House already knew. Some of our classmates had parents who were terrified. Others had parents who were celebrating. A few disappeared for weekends and returned knowing things fifteen-year-olds had no business knowing.” Daphne's eyes dropped briefly toward her drink. “For Tracey, it meant that the insults she'd spent years ignoring weren't schoolyard cruelty anymore. Suddenly the people obsessed with her blood had fathers wearing masks.”

Harry's amusement had disappeared entirely.

“Tracey changed very quickly after that. Almost overnight, from what I remember. She stopped challenging people when they called you a liar. Then she started agreeing with them. Eventually, she became better at attacking you than most of the people who actually hated you.”

Daphne took another sip. “And something unexpected happened. They liked her.”

His brow furrowed.

“The older Slytherins who had spent years treating her like an inconvenience suddenly laughed at her jokes. They invited her places. They repeated the things she said. Every time Tracey mocked you, Dumbledore, Granger, or anyone else standing against the Dark Lord, she became a little less Muggle-born and a little more Slytherin in their eyes.”

Harry's jaw tightened, but he kept his promise.

“At first, I think it was survival,” Daphne said. “Then I think she discovered she liked being accepted. Eventually, I'm not sure Tracey herself knew where one ended and the other began.”

That Harry understood more than he wanted to.

“When the Muggle-Born Registration Commission was created, Tracey registered almost immediately.”

Harry nearly interrupted again. Nearly.

The question escaped him anyway. “She volunteered?”

Daphne gave him a pointed look.

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly.

“Yes. She volunteered.” Daphne's voice had lost almost all of its earlier humor. “By then she had spent years building relationships with exactly the sort of people who would have questioned why she hadn't. Registering publicly reinforced the person she'd created. Tracey Davis wasn't frightened of the Ministry. She wasn't hiding. She was cooperating.”

“That’s insane.”

“It kept her alive.”

Harry went silent. Daphne didn't offer the statement as a defense. There was no pride in her voice, nor any suggestion that survival made everything Tracey had done acceptable. It was simply the truth as she understood it.

“She became very good at gossip during those years,” Daphne continued. “Who was dating whom. Whose parents supported which faction. Who had disappeared. Who had been caught saying something they shouldn't. Information became currency in Slytherin, and Tracey learned how to spend it.”

“And after the war?”

“She already had a talent, a reputation, and a great many contacts.” Daphne shrugged slightly. “The Daily Prophet needed writers, particularly with Rita Skeeter no longer dominating every scandal worth printing. Tracey knew how to find stories people wanted to read, and more importantly, she knew how to make people angry enough to keep reading them.”

Harry stared into his mead.

“So she survived the war by becoming a gossip.”

Daphne considered the description. “Not exactly.”

Her answer made Harry look up.

“I think she survived by becoming whatever the people around her needed her to be,” Daphne said. “The gossip came later.”

“And now?”

Daphne's expression softened, though Harry couldn't tell whether it was sadness or affection. “Now I think she's spent so long being Tracey Davis that she's forgotten which parts started as an act.”

For the first time since Daphne had begun explaining, Harry understood what she'd meant outside.

People were complicated.

It didn't make him like Tracey Davis. It certainly didn't make him forgive her, and he doubted he would be rushing to defend the woman the next time her name appeared beneath some scathing headline in the Daily Prophet. Still, the woman behind the byline had become considerably harder to hate in the simple, uncomplicated way he had five minutes earlier.

Harry took another drink, letting the sweetness of the blackberry linger before asking, “And you're still friends with her.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Daphne's eyebrow rose as though the answer should have been obvious.

“It’s not me she’s targeting.”

Harry stared at her for half a second before genuine laughter escaped him. After everything she had just told him—survival, blood status, war, the complicated morality of a childhood friendship—that was apparently where Daphne Greengrass drew her conclusion.

“Fair enough.” Harry shook his head, still laughing. “Are you absolutely certain we can’t discuss prices on keeping you around? Starting to sound like a worthwhile investment.”

“I already told you, Potter. You can’t afford me.” Daphne lifted her glass and took a long drink, looking immensely pleased with herself over the rim.

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep asking.”

“I’m a professional athlete now.”

“How impressive.”

“I make good money.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You haven't even heard my offer.”

Daphne slowly lowered her glass. “Very well. What are you offering?”

Harry hadn't expected to get that far. That realization must have shown on his face because Daphne's composed expression cracked, a laugh escaping her before she could stop it.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You aren't that smooth yet.”

Harry grinned. “Give me time.”

“Oh, I'm fascinated to see the progress.”

Before Harry could decide whether that was an invitation or another insult, the waitress returned to their table. Her eyes immediately fell upon Harry's nearly empty glass. “Another, Mr. Potter?”

Harry glanced toward Daphne, whose glass was in much the same condition. “Two, please.”

“Of course.” The waitress collected the empty glasses, giving Harry another warm smile. “Anything else I can get you?”

Harry shook his head. “I think we're alright.”

“Just let me know.”

Her smile lingered for a heartbeat before she disappeared toward the bar. Harry turned back toward Daphne and found the blonde witch watching him with a peculiar little smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn't nothing.”

Daphne rested her chin lightly against one hand. “I was merely wondering how much of your new salary you intend to spend buying drinks for women.”

Harry blinked. “You're the only woman I'm buying one for.”

“Tonight.” There was enough amusement in her voice that Harry knew better than to take the bait seriously.

“Well, if they're all as expensive as you apparently are, I'll have to limit myself.”

“Smart man.”

Their second round arrived a moment later, and Harry lifted his fresh glass toward her. “To complicated people.”

Daphne considered the toast before raising her own. “And expensive women.”

Harry laughed as their glasses clinked together. “I think I prefer complicated people.”

“I imagine you do.”

The food arrived shortly afterward, filling the table with the rich smell of gravy, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread. Harry looked down at the shepherd's pie Daphne had ordered for him and then across at the witch responsible for choosing nearly everything about his evening so far.

“So,” he said, picking up his fork, “you've chosen the restaurant, my drink, and my dinner.”

Daphne smiled sweetly. “You're welcome.”

“I was going to say you're rather controlling.”

“And yet you've enjoyed every decision I've made.”

Harry opened his mouth, considered the mead, the food, and the woman sitting across from him, then reluctantly nodded. “That is becoming an inconvenient argument to make.”

Daphne's smile widened. “Get used to it, Potter.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

The answer came easily enough that Daphne actually colored. It was subtle, barely visible in the warm candlelight, but Harry caught it before she recovered and reached casually for her glass.

“Promises,” she returned.

Before Harry could decide whether he wanted to press his advantage, a young family hesitantly approached their table. Their son couldn't have been much older than seven, dressed in Puddlemere blue with a miniature broom tucked beneath one arm. His parents apologized for interrupting, but the boy was already staring at Harry with such wide-eyed excitement that there was never any chance Harry was going to turn him away.

Harry signed the boy's cloak, asked whether he played Quidditch, and solemnly advised him that Keepers were far more trustworthy than Seekers when the boy announced his preferred position. The comment earned a laugh from his parents and an indignant protest from the child before Harry wished them a good evening and watched them disappear back into the crowded restaurant.

When he turned around, Daphne was watching him.

“What?”

She rested her glass against the table. “I think I underestimated how much you enjoy this part of your job.”

Harry shrugged. “It's part of the job. I'm still getting used to it.”

“I don't think that's true.”

Harry frowned. “No?”

“No.” Daphne smiled gently. “I think you enjoy it.”

Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but the denial never came. He thought about the little girl outside the stadium that morning. Rex wearing his number. The supporters reaching over the railing as he flew past. The boy who had just walked away clutching his signed cloak like Harry had given him something priceless. There had been a time when hearing his name shouted across a room had made Harry want to find the nearest exit. Today, he had smiled nearly every time.

“Maybe I do,” he admitted.

Daphne seemed pleased by the honesty. “There's nothing wrong with that.”

Harry studied her. “It sounded like there was a second half to that sentence.”

“There might be.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’m not sure you can,” Daphne replied cheekily.

Harry laughed, but Daphne's expression softened.

“I just hope you don't lose yourself in it.”

That quieted him. She wasn't accusing him of anything. There was no warning in her voice, no judgment. If anything, she sounded almost reluctant to say it.

Harry leaned back slightly. “You think I will?”

“No.” Daphne considered him for a moment. “I think you're surrounded by enough people who won't let you. Wood certainly won't. Your friends seem incapable of treating you like anyone important.”

Harry laughed. “Ron especially.”

“Then keep them close.” Her smile returned. “Because I rather like the person sitting across from me. I'd hate to meet him again in six months and discover Puddlemere's Chosen One has become insufferable.”

“I'll try to remain tolerable.”

“For my sake?”

Harry held her gaze. “Among other reasons.”

This time Daphne didn't look away.

.o.

Dinner carried on long after their food arrived. The serious conversation disappeared beneath easier ones, and Harry found himself learning about Daphne's life after Hogwarts, her family, and just how exhausting she found Astoria's obsession with Oliver Wood. Daphne, in turn, seemed endlessly entertained by Harry's stories about his short time as a professional, particularly those involving Conner and Jason.

By the time they finally stepped back through the hidden entrance, Puddlemere had quieted considerably.

The celebration following the victory had begun retreating into pubs and homes, leaving the damp streets mostly empty beneath the glow of enchanted lamps. A thin drizzle had returned while they ate, though it was little more than mist, settling against Harry's hair as the two began walking.

“You know,” Harry said, glancing toward her, “this is becoming something of a habit.”

Daphne looked up at the rain. “Walking through Puddlemere in miserable weather?”

“Walking you home.”

“Is that what you're doing?”

Harry hesitated. Daphne's smile immediately told him he'd walked directly into whatever trap she'd prepared. “I never said I was going home.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “No? I don’t suspect you're the type of witch to attend an after-party at the Puddle Jumper, though, and it's the only thing farther down this way.”

“No. I suppose I am not.”

They continued a few more steps, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they walked. Harry could still hear distant celebrations somewhere behind them, but out here there were no cameras, no reporters, and no children asking for autographs. Just Daphne. She slipped her hand into his. The gesture was so casual Harry almost missed the significance of it. He looked down at their joined hands and then toward her.

Daphne kept her eyes forward. “Don't make it strange, Potter.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

Harry squeezed her hand lightly. “Maybe I like this too.”

“That,” Daphne said, finally looking at him, “I'm willing to believe.”

Harry wasn't entirely certain when they stopped walking. One moment they were moving beneath the enchanted streetlamps, and the next Daphne had turned toward him, close enough that he could see tiny beads of rain caught in her blonde hair. The teasing smile she'd worn through most of dinner had faded into something quieter.

Harry leaned toward her.

Daphne met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, almost questioning, before the uncertainty disappeared and she moved closer. When they finally separated, neither went particularly far.

Daphne looked past him toward where her cottage was. “So.”

Harry smiled. “So?”

“My place is closer than yours.”

It took Harry only a second. “You've been planning that line, haven't you?”

“Most of dinner.” Harry laughed, and Daphne caught his hand again.

“Come on, Potter.”

Together they disappeared down the quiet Puddlemere street, leaving the stadium lights glowing in the distance behind them as they entered the cottage Harry had never seen before.

(A/N) Just a fun little literary side note break down. Among all the sex, sports, and stardom, what I have really highlighted and moved in this story is how different people process grief. Harry hides his well, but as you may have seen throughout the story he has demonstrated some alarming tendencies. Tracey Davis even sold herself out practically to appease a group of people who couldn’t care less about her. Now she is so caught up in the role, her younger self likely wouldn’t even recognize the woman she has become…just something to think about going forward. See you all next week!