Chapter Text
Mondays
Daphne Greengrass believed in routine.
Routine was predictable.
Predictability was useful.
And useful things rarely disappointed her.
Every Monday evening at precisely seven, she left St. Drunell's through the staff entrance on Marlowe Street, walked three blocks north, crossed at the pedestrian light beside the florist, and entered the Fox & Briar.
There, in the booth furthest from the front windows, Harry Potter would be waiting for her.
Usually.
Tonight, he was late.
Daphne looked at her watch.
7:06.
Her mouth tightened.
The Fox & Briar was neither entirely magical nor entirely Muggle, which was one of the reasons they liked it. The proprietor knew about magic, although most of his customers did not, and possessed the admirable quality of being profoundly uninterested in Harry Potter.
It was quiet without being empty.
Warm without being cramped.
Nobody sang.
Nobody performed karaoke.
And, most importantly, nobody had ever once approached their table and asked Harry whether he remembered them from the Battle of Hogwarts.
Daphne considered it one of London's finer establishments.
She sat with her back against the wall.
That had once been Harry's seat.
It wasn't anymore.
She'd never asked why.
Harry had never explained.
Years ago, she had simply noticed that he was more comfortable facing the room.
So Daphne had begun taking the opposite side.
She had never mentioned that either.
7:07.
Daphne removed her coat.
She had changed before leaving the hospital, replacing her white coat and clinical clothes with a charcoal pencil skirt, black tights and a cream blouse beneath a fitted wool jacket. Her Oxford heels rested neatly beneath the table.
Her hair had been released from the severe knot she wore at work and now fell in pale-blonde waves just past her shoulders.
She checked her watch again.
7:08.
The door opened.
Harry entered.
Daphne's irritation disappeared.
Not visibly.
Daphne Greengrass did not permit emotions to flee across her face like unsupervised children.
But it disappeared nonetheless.
Harry spotted her almost immediately.
His shoulders relaxed.
It was small.
Most people wouldn't have noticed.
Daphne did.
Harry threaded between the tables toward her.
He wore black trousers, boots, and a dark green jumper beneath a battered brown jacket. His Auror robes were nowhere to be seen, although Daphne knew his wand was holstered beneath the jacket at his left side.
There was a faint shadow along his jaw.
His glasses were slightly crooked.
His black hair was—
Well.
His hair was Harry's hair.
Daphne had long since concluded that nothing short of divine intervention could correct it.
He was also, irritatingly, extraordinarily handsome.
Harry had grown into himself after Hogwarts.
He was still lean, but Auror training had broadened his shoulders and added muscle to what had once been the rather thin frame of a boy who had spent too many summers being underfed. He moved differently now as well.
Confidently.
Quietly.
Like someone who knew precisely what his body could do.
Daphne's gaze lingered for perhaps half a second too long.
She immediately despised herself for it.
Harry reached the table.
"Sorry."
"Eight minutes."
He blinked.
"Hello to you too."
"You are eight minutes late."
"Seven."
Daphne raised her wrist.
Harry looked at her watch.
It changed.
7:09.
He sighed.
"Brilliant."
"Nine."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Harry slid into the booth opposite her.
He automatically chose the side facing the entrance.
Daphne pretended not to notice.
Again.
"Work?" she asked.
Harry removed his jacket.
"Work."
"How descriptive."
"It's classified."
"Your inability to complete basic administrative tasks is classified?"
Harry stared at her.
Daphne calmly took a sip of wine.
His mouth twitched.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"The warm, compassionate medical professional I've been looking forward to seeing all day."
"I am extremely compassionate."
"Of course."
"My patients adore me."
"They're frightened of you."
"Fear and respect are frequently confused by unintelligent people."
"That's probably written above the entrance to Slytherin."
"It should be."
Harry smiled.
There it was.
Daphne felt something inside her loosen.
She hated that too.
Not the smile.
Never the smile.
She hated how much power it possessed.
Harry picked up the menu.
He didn't read it.
They had been coming here every Monday for nearly eleven months.
He ordered the same thing almost every week.
Daphne watched him pretend to consider his options.
"You've already decided."
Harry peered over the menu.
"I might try something different."
"You won't."
"I could."
"You have ordered steak and chips for nine consecutive Mondays."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"I had the pie."
"Ten Mondays ago."
Harry lowered the menu.
"Do you keep records?"
"I have a functioning memory."
"Disturbing."
"It certainly makes conversations with you challenging."
The waitress arrived.
She smiled at Harry.
Daphne noticed.
She wished she hadn't.
"Usual?"
Harry looked at Daphne.
"Apparently."
The waitress laughed.
Daphne did not.
Harry ordered his steak.
Daphne ordered grilled salmon.
The waitress departed.
Harry watched her go and then looked back at Daphne.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The face."
"This is my face."
"No, your normal face is slightly less murderous."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Harry leaned back.
Daphne watched his eyes move briefly toward the door when it opened.
A couple entered.
Harry's gaze remained there until they were seated.
Then it returned to her.
The movement had lasted perhaps two seconds.
Daphne felt the familiar ache beneath her ribs.
She didn't mention it.
Instead she asked, "How was your first week with Mercer?"
Harry groaned.
"Oh, don't."
"That successful?"
"She's insane."
"You're Harry Potter."
"Exactly. I know insane."
"Fair."
Harry reached for his pint.
"She threw me through a door."
Daphne stopped.
"She what?"
Harry grinned.
"Training."
Daphne stared at him.
"Obviously."
"It was funny."
"Obviously."
"She said I rely too much on my wand."
"You do."
Harry's grin vanished.
"Betrayal."
"Medical opinion."
"You're a doctor, not an Auror."
"I understand human anatomy. I can therefore confirm that being thrown through doors is medically inadvisable."
"It was padded."
"The door?"
"The room."
"That does not improve the sentence."
Harry laughed.
It was a good laugh.
Not the polite one.
Not the small exhalation he gave colleagues when they made jokes he didn't find funny.
A real one.
Daphne looked down at her wine.
"Anyway," Harry continued, "she's good."
Daphne's fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass.
She disliked that reaction.
"Good?"
"Very."
"How glowing."
Harry ignored her tone.
Or perhaps he didn't recognize it.
That possibility was somehow worse.
"American training is different. More aggressive."
"That explains the doors."
"Apparently."
"And she's settling in?"
Harry shrugged.
"Think so. Complains about tea."
Daphne's eyebrows rose.
"Deport her."
"That's what I said."
"And?"
"She told me British tea tastes like something invented because we lost access to coffee."
Daphne stared at him.
Harry nodded solemnly.
"I know."
"Barbaric."
"Absolutely."
"Perhaps I misjudged her."
Harry smiled.
"Thought you might."
Daphne took another sip.
She had met Evalyn Mercer exactly once.
Thirty-seven seconds had been sufficient.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Athletic.
Confident.
American.
Attractive.
Friendly.
Daphne had disliked her immediately.
This was unreasonable.
Daphne knew it was unreasonable.
Knowledge had done absolutely nothing to improve the situation.
"She's funny," Harry added.
Of course she was.
"How fortunate for you."
Harry's eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"That sounded like something."
"Then perhaps your investigative instincts are improving."
"Greengrass."
"Potter."
He studied her.
Daphne met his gaze.
Green.
His eyes had always been striking.
Everyone spoke about them.
Daphne thought most people misunderstood what made them remarkable.
It wasn't the colour.
It was everything behind them.
Harry's eyes rarely stopped moving.
Even while smiling, even while listening, some portion of him remained aware of the room.
Doors.
Windows.
People.
Hands.
Daphne remembered when that hadn't been true.
Or perhaps it had always been true and she'd simply been too young to understand why.
A waiter dropped a tray near the bar.
The crash was sudden.
Harry flinched.
His hand disappeared beneath the table.
Daphne's heart clenched.
One second.
Two.
His hand returned.
He picked up his pint.
"Anyway."
Daphne said nothing.
Harry drank.
She watched his thumb move against the condensation on the glass.
"Harry."
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
He looked at her.
Daphne held his gaze.
Something tired moved through his expression.
Then disappeared.
"That's dirty."
"What is?"
"You know what."
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"You said my name in the voice."
"I possess several voices."
"The doctor voice."
"My doctor voice is considerably more condescending."
"Didn't think that was possible."
"It requires years of training."
Harry smiled faintly.
Daphne let the subject go.
Listening was not always about asking questions.
Sometimes it was about knowing which questions not to ask.
Their food arrived.
For several minutes they ate quietly.
Silence between them had never been uncomfortable.
Daphne liked that.
Most people interpreted silence as a problem requiring correction.
Harry didn't.
He could sit with her for an hour and say nothing.
He had done so before.
Years ago.
A library alcove.
Rain against the windows.
Harry fifteen and exhausted.
Daphne fourteen and pretending she hadn't deliberately chosen the chair beside him.
Neither of them had spoken for forty-three minutes.
She remembered.
Of course she remembered.
Daphne remembered nearly everything involving Harry.
That was becoming inconvenient.
"Your turn," Harry said.
She looked up.
"My turn?"
"Work."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Come on. I just told you Mercer assaulted me with architecture."
"You described approximately three minutes of your week."
"Still counts."
"It does not."
Harry pointed his fork at her.
"Monday rules."
"There are no Monday rules."
"There absolutely are."
"You invented them."
"That's how rules happen."
"That explains a great deal about the Ministry."
Harry snorted.
Daphne cut another piece of salmon.
Harry waited.
She sighed.
"We had a complicated case."
His expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically.
Harry simply became attentive.
That was another thing about him.
When Harry listened, he listened completely.
"How complicated?"
"Twenty-six-year-old woman. Recurrent syncope. Three admissions in six months."
Harry frowned.
"Syncope?"
"Fainting."
"Right."
"Her previous physicians attributed it to anxiety."
Harry's mouth tightened.
Daphne noticed.
Naturally.
"What was it?"
"Long QT syndrome."
Harry stared blankly.
Daphne sighed.
"Electrical abnormality of the heart."
"Oh."
"It can cause dangerous arrhythmias. Potentially fatal."
"And they missed it?"
"Repeatedly."
Harry's fork lowered.
"Because they thought she was anxious?"
"Essentially."
"That's..."
"Yes."
Daphne knew exactly which word he had chosen not to use.
Harry shook his head.
"So what happened?"
"I reviewed her previous ECGs."
"Because you're terrifying."
"Because I'm competent."
"Same thing."
"The abnormality was subtle. Easy to overlook if one assumes the diagnosis before reviewing the evidence."
Harry nodded.
Daphne continued.
"We've started treatment. She's stable."
"Good."
"Yes."
"Family?"
"Mother. Younger brother."
Harry's eyes dropped briefly.
Daphne knew better than to ask why.
"You saved her," he said.
"No."
"Daphne."
"I identified a diagnosis."
"Which saved her."
"That remains to be seen."
Harry looked at her for several seconds.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Potter."
"You're terrible at taking compliments."
Daphne almost laughed.
Almost.
"That is an extraordinary accusation coming from you."
"Different."
"How?"
"It just is."
"Compelling argument."
"I'm an Auror, not a barrister."
"Thank God."
Harry smiled.
Daphne watched him eat.
She shouldn't have enjoyed this as much as she did.
There was nothing remarkable about Monday evenings.
Two friends.
Dinner.
Drinks.
Conversation.
They had attended weddings together.
Funerals.
Christmas dinners.
Birthday parties.
They had spent nights talking until sunrise.
Harry had slept on Daphne's sofa.
Daphne had once spent three consecutive nights at Grimmauld Place after Harry had been injured during training, despite his repeated insistence that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
None of those things felt as intimate as Mondays.
Mondays belonged only to them.
No Ron.
No Hermione.
No Astoria.
No colleagues.
No expectations.
Just Harry.
And Daphne.
She treasured them far more than she would ever admit.
Harry finished half his steak.
"You look tired."
Daphne's eyes narrowed.
"Charming."
"You do."
"And you look as though someone attempted to style your hair using an explosive."
Harry touched it instinctively.
Daphne regretted drawing attention to it because now she was watching his fingers move through the black strands.
Ridiculous.
"Long shift?" he asked.
"Fourteen hours yesterday."
"Daphne."
"Do not."
"You told me twelve was your limit."
"I lied."
"I know."
"Then why mention it?"
"Because I'm annoying."
"Finally, an accurate diagnosis."
Harry smiled.
Then his expression softened.
"You need sleep."
"I sleep."
"Four hours isn't sleep."
"How would you know?"
Harry froze.
Barely.
But Daphne saw it.
There.
A crack.
She hated herself immediately.
His eyes moved away.
Daphne set down her fork.
"Harry."
"Mm?"
"I didn't mean—"
"I know."
She watched him.
He rubbed his thumb along the side of his glass again.
Daphne reached across the table.
Her fingers touched his forearm.
It was an instinctive gesture.
Small.
Barely anything.
Harry looked down.
Daphne almost withdrew.
Almost.
Instead she left her hand there.
Warm skin beneath the cuff of his jumper.
Harry's shoulders eased.
"Four hours isn't enough for either of us," she said quietly.
He looked at her.
There was no joke this time.
"No."
Daphne's thumb moved once against his sleeve.
"Are they worse?"
Harry knew what she meant.
He looked toward the window.
Rain had begun streaking the glass.
"A bit."
Daphne waited.
Harry swallowed.
"Last week."
She didn't ask what happened last week.
He would tell her if he wanted.
Eventually he did.
"Raid."
Her hand remained on his arm.
"Bad?"
"No."
Harry paused.
"Not really."
Daphne waited.
He sighed.
"That's the stupid part."
"It isn't."
"You don't know what I'm going to say."
"I know you."
His eyes flicked back to hers.
Daphne immediately became conscious of her hand.
Still there.
She didn't move it.
Harry looked down at the table.
"Nothing happened."
"All right."
"We went into a house. Suspected cursed objects. Smuggling."
Daphne nodded.
"Empty."
Another pause.
"Mostly."
She waited.
"There was a cupboard under the stairs."
Daphne stopped breathing.
Harry gave a tiny laugh.
There was no humor in it.
"Bit cliché, isn't it?"
"Harry."
"Twenty-one years old and apparently defeated by carpentry."
"Don't."
His jaw tightened.
Daphne's voice softened without becoming warm.
"Do not do that."
"Do what?"
"Make yourself the joke before anyone else can."
Harry stared at her.
Daphne's fingers tightened around his arm.
"You're very good at it," she said.
He looked away.
"Years of practice."
"I know."
That landed.
She saw it.
His face changed.
For one awful moment Harry looked younger.
Not twenty-one.
Eleven.
Small.
Thin.
A boy with broken glasses wearing clothes that didn't fit.
Daphne hated people she had never met.
She had hated Vernon Dursley for years.
Petunia Dursley even more.
Harry breathed out slowly.
"I couldn't move."
Daphne said nothing.
"Maybe three seconds."
She waited.
"Felt longer."
Her thumb moved gently against his sleeve.
"Mercer noticed."
There it was.
Daphne felt something sharp and unpleasant twist inside her.
She ignored it.
"What did she do?"
"Nothing."
Daphne looked at him.
Harry smiled faintly.
"Exactly."
Daphne understood.
"Good."
"Yeah."
"Did she ask?"
"Later."
"And?"
"Told her I was fine."
"Naturally."
"She called me a liar."
Daphne's eyebrows rose.
"Perhaps I do like her."
Harry laughed quietly.
Daphne felt absurdly pleased with herself.
"What did you tell her?"
"That she was very perceptive."
"And then?"
"Changed the subject."
"Naturally."
Harry's eyes settled on Daphne's hand.
She followed his gaze.
For some reason, withdrawing now felt more conspicuous than leaving it there.
So Daphne did something worse.
She slid her hand down.
Her fingertips passed over his wrist.
Then settled over his hand.
Harry became very still.
So did Daphne.
This was…
Fine.
Friends touched.
Hermione touched Harry constantly.
Ron occasionally hugged him when sufficiently intoxicated.
Daphne could hold Harry's hand.
It meant nothing.
It meant absolutely nothing.
Her pulse disagreed.
Harry turned his hand slightly beneath hers.
Not enough to hold it.
Enough that their palms met.
Daphne's heart performed something medically irresponsible.
She ignored it.
"You don't have to tell me you're fine," she said.
Harry looked at her.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
A faint smile.
"Probably not."
"You can simply say you don't want to talk."
"I don't want to talk."
Daphne stared at him.
Harry's smile grew.
"You're intolerable."
"You literally gave me permission."
"I rescind it."
"Too late."
Her fingers tightened around his.
Harry squeezed back.
Once.
Then they released each other.
Daphne returned her hand to her side of the table.
She immediately missed him.
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
Harry resumed eating.
"So."
"So?"
"You called me Harry."
Daphne's stomach dropped.
"I frequently call you Harry."
"Not when you're annoyed."
"I'm not annoyed."
"You're always annoyed."
"Primarily when speaking to you."
"Exactly."
She narrowed her eyes.
Harry grinned.
There was more life in his face now.
Good.
That was what mattered.
Not the hand.
Not his palm against hers.
Not the fact she could still feel the warmth of him against her fingers.
Harry was better.
That was sufficient.
It had to be.
They finished dinner.
Harry ordered another pint.
Daphne ordered tea.
He looked offended.
"Tea?"
"I work tomorrow."
"So do I."
"Yes, but people's lives depend upon my judgment."
Harry stared at her.
Daphne took a deliberate sip.
"That was cruel."
"Accurate."
"I'm literally an Auror."
"Which continues to concern me."
Harry shook his head.
"Do your patients know you're like this?"
"They pay specifically for this."
"This is why private medicine terrifies me."
Daphne smiled.
Small.
Real.
Harry noticed.
He always noticed.
"There."
Her smile vanished.
"What?"
"You smiled."
"I do that."
"Not often."
"I smile frequently."
"You sort of..." Harry gestured vaguely at his own face. "Move your mouth."
Daphne stared at him.
"That is anatomically how smiling works."
"No, Hermione smiles. Ginny smiles. Luna smiles. You look like you're considering whether the person speaking is worth poisoning."
"Usually I am."
Harry laughed.
Daphne looked at him over the rim of her cup.
His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.
His hair was still a disaster.
There was a small scar near his chin she didn't remember from Hogwarts.
Auror training, probably.
Another along the side of his neck.
Tiny things.
Evidence of a life continuing.
Daphne's gaze moved to his lightning scar.
She rarely noticed it anymore.
That surprised her sometimes.
To the world, the scar was Harry Potter.
To Daphne it was simply part of Harry's face.
Like his glasses.
His crooked smile.
The small line between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.
The way his left cheek dimpled slightly when he was genuinely amused.
The shadows beneath his eyes.
The cracks around the edges.
She loved those too.
Perhaps especially those.
Not because she wanted him damaged.
God, no.
Daphne would have given nearly anything to remove some of the things Harry carried.
But she loved the person who had emerged despite them.
His kindness fascinated her.
Daphne understood bravery.
Bravery was frequently stupidity with favorable publicity.
But kindness?
Harry had been given remarkably little of it and somehow produced an endless supply.
She could never quite understand that.
Perhaps that was why she had fallen in love with him.
Or perhaps it had been the library.
Or fourth year.
Or fifth.
Or the night before the Battle of Hogwarts.
There were too many possibilities.
Harry caught her staring.
"What?"
Daphne didn't blink.
"Your hair."
He sighed.
"Again?"
"It's particularly offensive tonight."
"I showered."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't praise."
Harry ran his hand through it.
He made it worse.
Daphne physically winced.
"Oh, for God's sake."
"What?"
"Come here."
"I'm already here."
"Closer."
Harry looked suspicious.
"Why?"
"Because apparently no one taught you basic grooming."
"I'm capable of grooming."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
Harry leaned forward.
Daphne reached across the table.
Her fingers entered his hair.
Everything inside her stopped.
Harry did too.
Daphne had intended to flatten it.
That was all.
A simple correction.
But his hair was softer than expected.
Thick.
Warm from his skin.
Her fingertips brushed his forehead.
Harry's eyes lifted to hers.
Daphne suddenly became aware of the distance between them.
Very little.
His face was perhaps eighteen inches away.
Green eyes.
Crooked glasses.
That tiny scar at his chin.
Daphne's fingers moved slowly through his fringe.
Harry didn't move.
Neither spoke.
She pushed a stubborn section sideways.
It immediately fell back.
Daphne frowned.
"Hopeless."
Harry's voice was quieter.
"Told you."
"You did not."
"Thought it."
"Your thoughts are generally unreliable."
Her fingers brushed his scar.
Not the lightning scar.
A tiny pale line near his temple.
Harry's breathing changed.
Daphne froze.
Too much.
She withdrew her hand.
Harry sat back.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Daphne picked up her tea.
Perfectly composed.
Absolutely unaffected.
Her hand trembled slightly.
She placed the cup down.
Harry looked toward the bar.
Daphne could see the color rising faintly along his neck.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"So," Harry said.
His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat.
Daphne almost smiled.
"Yes?"
"Monday."
"Astute."
"Next Monday."
Daphne looked at him.
"Presumably."
"I might be late."
Her expression cooled.
"Why?"
"Mercer and I are scheduled until seven."
Of course.
Mercer.
Daphne's pleasant mood died a swift and undignified death.
"I see."
Harry tilted his head.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The thing."
"There is no thing."
"There's definitely a thing."
Daphne gathered her coat.
Harry watched her.
"Do you dislike Evalyn?"
"No."
Too fast.
Harry's eyebrows rose.
Daphne despised his eyebrows.
"I have met the woman once."
"Exactly."
"I possess no opinion."
"You have opinions about people you've never met."
"Frequently."
"Last month you called my department head an intellectually deficient walrus."
"He deserved it."
"You've never met him."
"I've read his memoranda."
Harry laughed.
Daphne stood.
Harry stood with her.
He was taller than her even in heels.
Not enormously.
Enough.
She hated that she noticed.
They walked toward the door.
Harry automatically moved slightly behind her when a group entered.
His eyes swept them.
Daphne saw.
She always saw.
Outside, London was wet and shining beneath streetlights.
Rain fell lightly.
Harry opened his umbrella.
Daphne stepped beneath it.
They began walking toward the Underground.
Their shoulders touched.
Harry held the umbrella more over Daphne than himself.
Naturally.
His right shoulder was getting wet.
Daphne reached up and pushed the umbrella toward him.
"You're getting soaked."
"I'm fine."
"There are those words again."
"It's rain."
"Rain famously causes wetness."
"I'll survive."
"Your continued survival despite your best efforts remains statistically remarkable."
Harry smiled.
Daphne slipped her arm through his.
She told herself it was because the pavement was slick.
She was wearing heels.
It was sensible.
Harry looked down at her arm.
Then at Daphne.
She raised one eyebrow.
"Problem?"
"No."
"Good."
They continued.
His arm was warm.
Daphne moved slightly closer.
Harry adjusted the umbrella.
For several minutes they simply walked.
London moved around them.
Cars.
Rain.
Footsteps.
Distant laughter.
Harry was quiet.
Not bad quiet.
Daphne knew the difference.
"You really like it?" he asked eventually.
"Medicine?"
"Yeah."
Daphne considered.
"Yes."
Harry smiled.
"Good."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"Because you should."
Daphne looked ahead.
"Should what?"
"Like your life."
Something inside her hurt.
Harry said things like that sometimes.
Small things.
Careless things.
Things that revealed far more than he intended.
Daphne tightened her arm around his.
"You should as well."
Harry was silent.
Rain tapped against the umbrella.
"I'm working on it."
Daphne looked at him.
He didn't look back.
His profile was illuminated beneath a streetlamp.
Strong jaw.
Untidy hair.
Glasses dotted with rain.
Handsome.
Tired.
Trying.
Daphne loved him so fiercely in that moment that it frightened her.
She looked away.
"Good."
Harry glanced down.
"Good?"
"Yes."
"That's all?"
Daphne allowed the corner of her mouth to rise.
"That's all."
Harry laughed.
Their Underground entrance appeared ahead.
Monday ending.
Daphne hated Mondays ending.
At the stairs, they stopped.
Harry lived north.
Daphne south.
Their ritual always ended here.
"Next week," Harry said.
"Seven."
"Seven-ish."
"Seven."
"Mercer—"
"Seven-oh-five."
Harry grinned.
"Generous."
"I am renowned for it."
"I'll tell everyone."
"I'll deny it."
Harry stepped backward.
"Night, Daph."
Daphne's heart stumbled.
He rarely called her that.
She wished he would stop.
She wished he would say it again.
"Goodnight, Harry."
He turned.
Three steps.
Daphne watched.
She shouldn't.
She always did.
Harry stopped.
Turned back.
"Daphne?"
"Yes?"
His expression was softer now.
"Thanks."
She knew what he meant.
Not dinner.
Not the pub.
Not his hair.
The cupboard.
Her hand on his.
Not asking.
Listening.
Daphne held his gaze.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know."
"Then don't."
Harry smiled.
"Night."
He disappeared down the stairs.
Daphne remained beneath the awning.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then she released a breath.
Her hand still remembered his hair.
Her palm still remembered his.
Daphne looked down at her fingers as though they had personally betrayed her.
"This is becoming ridiculous," she murmured.
A passing woman glanced at her.
Daphne gave her a look.
The woman hurried away.
Good.
Daphne started toward her own platform.
She had known Harry Potter for nearly a decade.
She knew when he was lying.
She knew when he was frightened.
She knew when his jokes were genuine and when they were armour.
She knew how he took his tea.
She knew that he hated hospitals despite visiting her at one with embarrassing frequency.
She knew he preferred thunderstorms when he was indoors and hated them when he was outside.
She knew that he slept badly around certain anniversaries.
She knew he still occasionally woke reaching for a wand.
She knew he liked treacle tart but considered admitting this predictable.
She knew he secretly enjoyed Muggle detective novels.
She knew the exact expression he made before doing something catastrophically heroic.
She knew that when Harry Potter said I'm fine, there were at least seven different possible meanings.
Daphne knew him.
Perhaps that was the problem.
Because knowing Harry had never made loving him easier.
It had only made stopping impossible.
And now there was Evalyn Mercer.
Daphne descended the stairs.
She told herself Mercer was irrelevant.
Harry had female friends.
Harry was allowed female friends.
Harry was allowed whatever life he wanted.
Daphne wanted him happy.
That was the truth.
Even if happiness eventually meant someone else.
She reached the platform.
The thought made her feel physically ill.
Daphne stared blankly at the tracks.
"Oh, grow up."
Nobody answered.
A train approached.
Wind swept through the tunnel, lifting her blonde hair around her face.
Daphne stepped aboard.
She found a seat beside the window and crossed her legs neatly.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Composed.
Elegant.
Cold.
The same Daphne Greengrass everyone knew.
She lifted one hand.
Her fingers still smelled faintly of Harry's shampoo.
Daphne closed her eyes.
Hopeless.
Completely, humiliatingly hopeless.
And somewhere north of London, Harry Potter was probably walking home without the slightest idea that the woman who had just spent an evening insulting his hair had been in love with him for years.
That, Daphne decided, was probably for the best.
Probably.
Her phone vibrated.
Daphne opened her eyes.
Harry
She stared at the name for half a second before opening the message.
Made it home. You?
Daphne looked around the Underground carriage.
Then typed.
Unlike you, Potter, I am capable of travelling through London without incident.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
So that's a no.
Daphne rolled her eyes.
On the train.
Good.
She waited.
Another message appeared.
Thanks again.
Daphne's expression softened.
She typed:
Sleep tonight.
The reply took longer.
I'll try.
Daphne stared at those words.
Not I will.
Not I'm fine.
I'll try.
From Harry, that was honesty.
Daphne's thumb hovered over the screen.
There were dozens of things she could say.
Call me if you can't.
You can stay at mine.
You're not alone.
I worry about you.
I love you.
Instead:
See that you do. I have no intention of wasting Monday evenings listening to you complain about exhaustion you inflict upon yourself.
The reply came immediately.
There she is.
Daphne smiled despite herself.
Another message.
Night, Daph.
She stared at it.
Her train moved beneath London.
People sat around her, entirely unaware that Daphne Greengrass's heart was attempting to embarrass her.
She finally typed:
Goodnight, Harry.
Daphne locked her phone.
She leaned her head against the cool window.
And smiled.
Just a little.
Because there was always next Monday.