Chapter 32
A Promise Given
……
Chapter Thirty-Two
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the house settling and the ticking of a clock that felt more like a countdown than comfort. Sunlight streamed weakly through the window, fractured by the pane and casting lines across the floor like bars.
He stared at the letter Daphne had sent the day before, guilt gnawing at him for what had happened on New Years Eve that he had ended up in hospital instead of with her. Her handwriting, neat and even, felt like something from another world. A gentler world. He hadn’t opened it again since the first read. He couldn’t. Not when it felt like he didn’t deserve that kind of softness right now.
The image kept looping in his mind—curses flying, his shield flaring to life as he held Hermione behind him. She had covered him too. Then that killing curse, it shouldn’t have got that far, they shouldn’t have been in that position! His mind raged at himself.
She almost died!
Because of him.
He’d hesitated. Gone for a damn disarming spell like some schoolboy still pretending they were in a Dueling Club. What the hell had he been thinking? He knew better. Moody had drilled it into him. Remus had taught him faster, sharper responses. Sirius had been training him hard, as had Dumbledore and what did he do with it? Try to disarm one psychopathic murderer.
When it came down to it, he’d still fought like he was trying to win points for Gryffindor. And Hermione had very nearly paid the price for that.
“I’m not ready,” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. “I’m still not ready.” Will I ever be ready? The weight of expectation weighed heavy on him. The prophecy demanded one kill the other, and as it stood it read as Harry’s death sentence.
And worse, he wasn’t even sure what “ready” meant anymore. The training hadn’t prepared him for one critical impact of combat. Not for the surge of panic. The paralyzing fear. The way everything had gone sideways the second real violence entered the picture.
Then came the memory—the one that had been haunting him every time he closed his eyes.
Nott.
One heartbeat, Nott was there—smirking, wand raised, the tip glowing with something twisted and hungry—and the next—
It wasn’t cast with intent. No calculation. No practiced form. Just a raw, wordless roar of instinct. Panic and fury, funnelled through his wand like lightning.
Then came the noise.
The wet sound of rupture. The sickening crack of bones bursting apart. The explosion of blood and smoke and something that had once been human.
There was nothing left of Nott’s torso. Just torn cloth, shattered ribs, the grotesque bloom of flesh where a man used to be. A stain on the ground and in Harry's memory.
It haunted him. Not the act itself—but how easy it had been for his spell to rip another person to pieces. He was there and then he wasn’t. The images came back in waves, seizing him at night and twisting his sleep into horror. He’d wake breathless, sweating, as they stared at him.
Dumbledore, eyes hollow with disappointment. Sirius, silent, stepping back like Harry had grown into something dangerous. Ron, voice low, guarded—“I always knew there was something in you...”
And Daphne—gods, Daphne—with a look he couldn’t bear. Not fear. Not sorrow.
Revulsion.
She didn’t speak in the dreams. She just looked at him like he’d become everything he was fighting against.
Sometimes, he tried to scream back—to explain, to justify—but the words never came. Only blood did. Filling his mouth. Drowning his breath. When he did manage to sleep, it wasn’t rest. It was a punishment.
And no matter how many times he told himself it had been to save Hermione… the disquiet remained. Because the truth was, he didn’t just kill Nott.
He obliterated him.
And something inside Harry had cracked open with that spell—and he wasn’t sure it had closed since.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach turned.
He saw it again. Flashing in rapid succession.
The way Nott’s upper torso had come apart, as if a force had torn him open mid-motion. The look on his face— nothing, there was no time. The wet slap of what hit the floor. Blood on the wall. Smoke rising from still-burning robes. The smell. Merlin, the smell.
Harry lurched off the bed and staggered to the window, throwing it open and sucking in the freezing air as if that could push the memory out.
This wasn’t like Qurriel, nore the basilisk the former essentially killed himself the latter was a beast. No this was different.
This was just him.
His power. His wand. His choice.
“You did it to save her to save yourself,” he told himself, again. “You had no choice. He was going to kill her. He would’ve killed her.”
But even that didn’t land the way it used to. It didn’t erase the blood. It didn’t silence the flashbacks.
And the worst part? That small, quiet voice that asked: What if it happens again?
It will.
What if next time it’s worse?
Most likely.
What if next time it’s someone he doesn’t mean to kill?
Harry turned back to the room, his hand trembling slightly as he closed the window. The shadows had shifted, climbing the walls now. He was still here. Still breathing. But something inside him had shifted too—and he wasn’t sure if it was something he could ever undo.
There was a knock at the door—firm, not tentative, but not exactly urgent either.
“Yeah?” he called, already knowing who it would be.
The door opened, and Sirius stepped in. He looked tired. Not physically, but in the way someone did when they’d spent the last few days watching someone else unravel and didn’t know how to stop it. Guilt passed through Harry that he was the cause of someone else's fears.
For a second, it looked like he might say something—his lips parted, his brow furrowed with that familiar mix of concern and restraint—but the words didn’t come. Instead, he swallowed and said, “There’s someone downstairs. Waiting in the living room.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Who?”
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. But he did allow a small smile to form on his lips as he stepped out of the room and held open the door. “You’ll want to see her. She certainly wants to see you.”
Daphne.
Harry froze for just a second—her name lingering in his mind like a held breath, a flutter of something uncertain and desperately needed. He turned from the window, his legs stiff, unsure if he was more afraid of facing her or more desperate to. Maybe both. Maybe, in some strange way, he was terrified of the relief she might bring him, of letting himself feel something other than loathing, pity or fear again.
He left the room and skirted past Sirius, who smiled knowingly, offering a glance that Harry couldn't read but felt anyway. Sirius was already moving down the hallway, heading toward his own room, as Harry made his way toward the stairs. The house was unusually quiet, the air heavier than usual, as if everything was holding its breath.
Every step on the new flooring felt like it was pulling him further from safety, like he was walking into something he hadn’t prepared for—not a battle, but something far more vulnerable, more exposed than he’d ever been. His heart was thudding in his chest, but his feet moved on their own accord.
The scent of chamomile and something faintly floral—her scent—hit him before he saw her. The room seemed to shift, the familiar space of the living room suddenly feeling foreign, unfamiliar. And then she was there, standing by the fireplace, her figure framed by the dim light of the room. Like a beacon in the dark.
Daphne didn’t speak at first—just stood there, still, her gaze sweeping over him like she was searching for something she couldn’t find. Her eyes softened, but there was hesitation, a guarded kind of uncertainty. Maybe she was worried he wouldn’t want to see her, maybe she was questioning if she was welcome.
Her gaze took in every detail: the pallor of his face, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the way he was standing, the way he felt like a stranger to himself. Harry knew the look. He had seen it in the mirror more times than he cared to count, a version of himself he didn’t know how to fix, would it ever?
Then—something in her broke. The walls she’d been holding up came down, and in three quick steps, she was crossing the room and wrapping her arms around him, fierce and trembling, as if she was afraid to let go.
Harry froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard by how much he needed this. The warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart against his chest—this was the connection he had been craving, and for a moment, he let himself sink into it, let her hold him like the world outside didn’t exist. He let her pull him out of the darkness, even if it was only for a second. His own arms took her in, he buried his head into her shoulder.
“I was so worried,” Daphne whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “When Sirius and Lupin came alone… something was off. Then the minutes kept ticking by, and I felt something was wrong. Then we heard about the attack, and I thought—Merlin, Harry, I thought—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. The lie slid off his tongue as easily as it always did, the same way he had been telling people that he was fine for as long as he could remember. He was starting to hate the word.
Fine.
Choice.
But Daphne wasn’t buying it. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes her own pale blue eyes were glassy, her hands coming up to rest gently on his cheek and over his chest. She looked at him like she could see right through the lies, through the cracks he kept trying to hide.
“You don’t need to lie to me, Harry,” she said softly. Her touch was soothing, warm, and he felt it in every part of him—like he had been frozen for so long and someone had just given him permission to thaw.
The truth of it was, he didn’t want to lie to her. But the words, the real words, were lodged somewhere deep inside him, caught in his throat, and he couldn’t get them out. The weight of the violence he’d been forced to commit, the fear, the nightmares that hadn’t left him since the attack—it was too much. He couldn’t drag her into that world. Sirius yes, Remus yes, Daphne? Spare her he tried to reason with himself.
His chest tightened, a sick feeling bubbling in his stomach, like it was all going to spill out and drown him. He wanted to feel something. Something real. Something to make him remember that there was more to his life in the magical world than this constant fight to survive. But every time he reached for it, the darkness that haunted him clung to his skin like a curse.
Reducto!
Blood.
Bone.
Death.
“Harry?” Daphne spoke again, this time more urgently. Her hands on him, her voice pulling him back to the present, to her. “Talk to me.”
“I killed someone,” he whispered. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the gasp, for the distance, the revulsion that would inevitably come. But none of that came. No gasp. No cold withdrawal of her touch. Instead, when his eyes met hers, he found only pity, understanding, and comfort.
“It was said that three Death Eaters were killed during the attack,” she said gently, her thumb brushing his right cheekbone. “What would you say about the Aurors who killed the other two?” Her voice was soft, but steady, never wavering in the calm she radiated.
“That they did their duty, that—” Harry faltered, the words feeling too heavy to get out. He couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t make sense of it himself.
“So what is different about you?” she asked again, her eyes never leaving his. Her hand moved to his shoulder, the one Lucius had struck, and the sharp pain that seared through him as she touched it made him hiss, his breath catching.
Her hand shot back as though burned, her face twisting with guilt. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” Harry muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
“That didn’t sound like nothing, Harry.” Her tone wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t demanding. It was just... quiet. Sure. As if she had already decided she wouldn’t let him hide behind half-truths anymore.
Harry looked away, the weight of her words pressing on him harder than he wanted to admit. He felt the flush rising in his cheeks, embarrassed that she could see through him so easily. He noticed her eyes flicker toward the door that led to the hallway for a moment, and then back to him.
“Sirius is giving us some privacy, and Remus is out with Dumbledore at the moment,” he explained, the words coming out a little quicker than he intended. She nodded in acknowledgment, and then, without another word, went over to close the door quietly, cutting off any chance of interruption.
“May I see it?” she asked, her voice soft but insistent.
“My shoulder?” he asked, unsure he’d heard her correctly.
“Yes.” Her gaze was steady, calm, but there was an unspoken urgency in her request.
“Er... well,” he began, his face going bright red. “I’d have to take off my top, and, well, you’ve not seen me without one... and... well, you know,” he stammered out, his words tripping over each other. He suddenly felt younger, more awkward, like he was back in Hogwarts, fumbling through all the social missteps he’d avoided until now.
Thankfully, Daphne’s eyes went wide, and a blush crept up her neck as the realization of what he meant hit her.
“Oh, erm... yes, that would be a new... step, wouldn’t it?” she chuckled breathlessly, her own voice a little more strained than usual. The awkwardness hung in the air, but it softened the moment.
“Yeah, it would,” Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling more like the insecure teenager they all still were, deep down. He shifted on his feet, unsure whether he should stand there, crack a joke, or hide in embarrassment.
“But could I still see it?” she asked again, her voice gentle but persistent, without a hint of teasing now. She seemed to have crossed some invisible line, from hesitation to concern, and her gaze remained unwavering. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course. I wouldn’t want to push...”
He laughed, a little too loudly, the first real laugh he’d had since the ambush.
“No, but there are differences between you and I,” he replied quickly, catching himself too late. He noticed the slight offended look flash across her face and wanted to pinch his wounded shoulder for being so stupid. “Not that I wouldn’t want to see you with—oh God, I’m just going to shut up,” he mumbled, pursing his lips, ignoring the smirk she tried to suppress, though a blush still colored her cheeks.
Harry hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding a little faster than it should, before he finally nodded. “Alright,” he said quietly, and carefully pulled his black t-shirt from the bottom and up over his head, feeling the weight of his own vulnerability settle in his chest.
As the fabric shifted, revealing the wound, the cold air met his skin and sent a shiver down his spine. The scar was angry, a jagged line of raised flesh that stretched from his shoulder down to the top of his arm, and partially across his right pectoral—a cruel reminder of the battle he’d fought. But he didn’t hide it. Not now. Not from her.
She stepped closer, her eyes locked on the wound, and to her credit, she didn’t look anywhere else. Daphne’s fingers hovered over the scar for a moment, before she let them gently trace the jagged line without touching, her movements almost reverent. Her eyes never left the wound, as though she could understand it, or at least feel some of the pain that had caused it.
“You could’ve lost your arm,” she whispered, looking up at him with a softness that nearly broke him.
“But I didn’t,” he replied gently.
“No,” was all she said, but the look on her face spoke volumes. Seeing the scar on him shattered any illusion that he wasn’t part of this war—that he wasn’t forever changed. That he wasn’t still vulnerable. She stepped closer, her body pressing softly against his as she snaked her arms around his neck. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, inviting him to share in the affection she had no hesitation in giving. He had no objections.
The kiss was slow at first, tentative, like both of them were testing the waters. Harry felt the softness of her lips against his, a warmth that was comforting, yet electrifying. Her hands rested lightly on his waist, fingers curling gently, but there was a faint tremor there, a sign that perhaps she, too, was feeling the weight of the moment.
Daphne’s touch was careful at first, as though she was giving him the space to pull away if he wanted to. But Harry didn’t want to pull away. His hands moved instinctively to her waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of her shirt, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. It was an anchor, grounding him in something real, something separate from the chaos of everything that had happened.
Then, she shifted closer, her body pressing into his with a slight urgency, as though the kiss was a way to close the distance between them that had grown too large over the past few months. Her lips parted just slightly, and Harry responded, leaning in to deepen the kiss, allowing the connection to become something more. Her mouth was soft but insistent, her kiss hungry for something they both hadn’t realized they needed.
Her hands moved, tracing his shoulders, fingers gliding over the muscle that had been hardened by battle and training. His breath caught as her hand slid up to his neck, threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss was no longer hesitant, but fluid, natural—two people sharing something that couldn’t be said in words.
Daphne’s other hand drifted lower, sliding down his unblemished arm It was a gentle touch, but one that spoke of care, of understanding.
Harry shuddered at the delicate way her fingers moved over his skin, like she was mapping the contours of him. The world outside seemed to blur, the only thing left was the feeling of her lips against his, the warmth of her touch, and the pulse of life beneath his skin that had been stilled by so much darkness.
The kiss deepened as Daphne grew bolder, her lips moving with more urgency, the connection between them growing stronger. Her hands began to move with more intention, gliding through his hair with a delicate, yet possessive touch, urging him closer. The feel of her fingers in his hair sent a wave of heat through him, a comfort he didn’t know he needed.
He hand moved lower, her fingers gliding across the slight swell of his chest. The contact was light but deliberate, sending a rush of warmth through him. Harry’s breath caught, his heart racing as her touch continued its path, her fingers brushing over the firm line of his stomach. He couldn’t help the sharp inhale that followed, the sensation overwhelming him in the best possible way.
As her hand lingered on his stomach, Harry felt his control slip away, the pressure of her kiss intensifying in response. His lips parted slightly in surprise, and Daphne took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, coaxing him to follow her lead. He responded instinctively, his hand resting at the small of her back, pulling her closer, his body reacting in ways he couldn’t have anticipated.
Then, as her fingers danced along his skin, his head tilted, his lips trailing down her neck almost without thought. His breath hitched as he kissed the tender skin just below her ear, feeling the faint pulse of her heartbeat under his lips. The sound that escaped her—soft, a gentle gasp—was perhaps the most beautiful thing Harry had ever heard. It sent a wave of heat rushing through him, his blood pulsing in time with her breath.
For a brief moment, everything else in the world faded away. There was no war, no fear, no impending battle—just the two of them, suspended in a moment of pure, raw connection.
But then, the Floo flared to life behind them with a sudden, dramatic crack, and Tonks stumbled through.
“Oh, hi—oh MERLIN, my eyes!” Tonks exclaimed, her voice a mix of shock and mischief, immediately pulling them both back to reality.
Tonks’s interruption hung in the air, and Harry and Daphne leapt apart, with Harry quickly yanking his shirt over his head. His heart was still racing, the warmth of Daphne’s touch lingering on his skin, a stark contrast to the sudden return of the real world.
“Merlin, Tonks,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy hair, trying to regain some composure. “Couldn’t you have called ahead?”
Tonks, still blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the sight before her, grinned and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t expect to walk into a scene like that. You two were, uh, busy.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a hint of sympathy in her eyes when she noticed Harry’s discomfort.
Daphne, her breath still uneven from the kiss, her lips bruised, cleared her throat, her face flushed.
Tonks looked between them, her knowing smile softening into something warmer. “Your secret’s safe with me, though Sirius and Remus definitely know there’s something going on with you two,” she said, chuckling as she walked past them, ruffling Harry’s hair.
As she left the room, the sound of her footsteps grew fainter, and then they heard an almighty crash.
“I’m alright!” came Tonks’ voice from upstairs.
Harry and Daphne exchanged glances, and despite the lingering awkwardness, both broke into fits of giggles.
……
Yes Harry is young, yes he isn’t getting over ripping someone in half overnight. Yes he hates himself a little right now, and yes despite everything he is worried people will turn away from him. Given his first 11 years this is pretty consistent for someone who was deprived of love for that long.
Back to Hogwarts, ramping up the ancient magic training and the source of the corrupted magic mentioned, the Greengrass Curse will be hunted down some more as well.
Hope you enjoyed.