Like Fire and Moonlight - Chapter 20: Truths in Candles and Sheets of Paper

The morning after his public confrontation with Amelia did not bring Harry the relief he had hoped for. The fleeting satisfaction of having put an end to that farce was quickly swallowed by the persistent shadow of Daphne's absence. Every corridor in Hogwarts, every shared classroom, every meal in the Great Hall was a painful reminder of what he had lost. The hallways that once seemed to echo with their conspiratorial laughter now felt empty, amplifying the silence between him and Daphne. The knot in his stomach, once a constant companion of guilt, was now mingled with a growing anguish, an unsettling feeling that the story was far from over. Sirius's words echoed in his mind with an almost ghostly insistence: “Fight for it... Be smart.”

But how could he be smart when Daphne barely looked his way, her once sparkling, challenging blue eyes now veiled with a coldness that cut deeper than any curse? How could he fight for something when the other person built impenetrable walls with every failed attempt at connection, every unspoken word weighing tons between them?

Harry spent the following days in a state of tense alertness, his mind trapped in a vicious cycle, replaying every detail from Slughorn’s party night—the kiss in the hallway that seemed to seal his fate, the kiss between him and Amelia, the fight in the dungeon corridors.

There were missing pieces to that night’s puzzle, he felt it—gaps that his memory stubbornly refused to fill. The way Amelia had appeared in the hallway, so calculatedly convenient, how Nott had “casually” been there, ready to offer a supposedly friendly shoulder to Daphne... it couldn’t all be an unfortunate coincidence. His intuition screamed that something darker, more deliberate, lurked beneath the surface of that disaster.

With a sigh that was a mix of hesitation and a new urgency burning in his chest, Harry rose from the worn armchair in the Common Room. It was past midnight. The soft snores of Ron and Neville, coming from the boys' dormitory, were the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence of the Gryffindor Tower. He climbed the spiral staircase, the steps creaking lightly beneath his feet. In his trunk, beneath a pile of Quidditch robes and crumpled spellbooks, his fingers finally brushed against the familiar touch of the old, seemingly blank parchment.

Back in the relative safety of his bed, with the crimson velvet curtains of the four-poster drawn tightly for the privacy he so desperately needed, he spread the map over his knees. The tip of his wand brushed the worn surface. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” As if answering an ancient call, fine lines of ink began to spread across the parchment, like dark veins coming to life, weaving the intricate and familiar labyrinth of Hogwarts Castle. Tiny dots labeled with names moved lazily, most of them clustered in their respective dormitories—small beacons of sleeping life.

His first instinct, an almost painful compulsion, was to look for her. His green eyes scanned the map anxiously, ignoring the wandering dots of ghosts floating through the halls and the names of teachers doing their night patrols. Finally, he found her: Daphne Greengrass. The small black dot bearing her name sat motionless within the confines of the Slytherin Common Room. Probably sleeping, he thought, with a pang of sadness and a longing that surprised him with its intensity. There was no way to approach her there—not without risking a direct confrontation with half of Slytherin House, which would certainly do nothing to improve his already precarious situation.

He sighed, frustration mixing with resignation. The map, which had so often offered him solutions and secret paths, now only served to confirm the physical and emotional distance that had grown between them. His eyes continued to wander over the parchment, a resigned sadness beginning to settle when something—a nearly insignificant detail—caught his attention. A pair of names, moving in suspicious proximity, nearly pressed together in an area of the seventh floor he knew all too well—the corridor leading to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and, not coincidentally, to the hidden entrance of the Room of Requirement.

Amelia Baxter. And just a few millimeters from her on the map, moving in a synchronicity that could not be accidental, Theodore Nott.

Harry frowned, his body suddenly tense. What the hell were those two doing together, so late at night, in a practically deserted corridor known for harboring secrets? An uneasy feeling—a chill down his spine—began forming in his stomach, a mix of the intuition that had so often saved him from trouble and a cold, newly awakened anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The vivid memory of Amelia kissing him, her face so close, and the almost theatrical appearance of Nott offering false comfort to Daphne moments after their fight in the dungeons... the pieces were starting to fit together in a twisted, nauseating way.

Something was very wrong here. He needed to find out what.

An impulse, fueled by a growing suspicion and a visceral need to protect Daphne—even if, at the moment, she would rather hex him than accept his protection—took hold of him with overwhelming force. He couldn’t just ignore it; he couldn’t simply go back to sleep and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. If Nott and Amelia were plotting something, and if that plot somehow involved Daphne—directly or indirectly—he had to find out. He owed her that, even if she never knew.

“Mischief managed,” Harry murmured, his voice hoarse in the silent dormitory, tapping the map with the tip of his wand. The ink lines obediently retreated, leaving the parchment blank once more—a secret kept. He folded the map carefully, feeling the worn texture of the paper beneath his fingers, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his robes along with his wand.

His heart was pounding faster now, an urgent and determined rhythm, no longer just from the sadness of being apart from Daphne, but from the adrenaline of the investigation ahead—the hunt that was about to begin. He moved quietly to his trunk, the squeak of the hinges sounding far too loud in the silence. There, beneath a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, lay the Invisibility Cloak. The silvery, fluid fabric seemed to ripple in his hands as he pulled it out, light as a shadow, cool to the touch. He threw it over his shoulders, feeling the familiar, comforting tingle of the magic wrapping around him, rendering him invisible to the world—a ghost in the corridors of his own past.

Gliding out of the dormitory like a wisp of air, Harry moved with the skill of someone who knew every creak of every stair, every treacherous shadow of Gryffindor Tower. The Hogwarts corridors, even at that hour of the night when the castle should have been submerged in the deepest sleep, were never entirely safe. Filch and his demonic cat, Mrs. Norris, could be lurking in any dark corner, sniffing out trouble, and the ghosts had the irritating, inconvenient habit of appearing at the most inopportune moments, their translucent forms gliding through walls and revealing unwanted secrets.

He consulted the map in his mind once more, plotting the quickest and most discreet route to the seventh floor—the floor of secrets and hidden rooms. He avoided the main staircases, which groaned under the weight of centuries, opting for secret passages and shortcuts the Marauders had so meticulously mapped out years ago—precious inheritances from a time of rebellion and exploration that now served a far more urgent and somber purpose.

With every floor he climbed, with every silent flight of stairs he conquered, the tension in his shoulders grew heavier, the anticipation becoming almost palpable. What if it was just an unfortunate coincidence? What if Nott and Amelia were simply... talking, like any other students breaking curfew? But Harry’s intuition—that stubborn, often accurate inner voice that had so many times warned him of imminent danger—was screaming in his ears that there was more. Much more.

~HP~

Finally, he reached the seventh-floor corridor. The place was immersed in an almost tangible silence, broken only by the distant echo of his own muffled footsteps. The tapestries on the walls seemed to watch him with their embroidered, time-faded eyes, silent witnesses to countless whispered secrets over the centuries. The tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy was just a few meters away, the troll in its perpetual, clumsy dance with the wizards—a comically absurd scene that starkly contrasted with the tension Harry felt growing in his chest. He knew the entrance to the Room of Requirement was somewhere nearby, a refuge for those who truly needed it, but the glowing dots on the map indicated that Nott and Amelia had chosen a less magical, yet equally discreet, hideout: one of the abandoned classrooms further down the hall.

He moved forward with the caution of a hunter, his feet sliding over the cold, worn stones, breath held, every sense on high alert. The muffled sound of voices reached his ears, an indistinct murmur at first, but growing clearer as he drew closer, confirming his darkest suspicions. They were there. And he was about to uncover the depth of the betrayal he suspected.

The classroom door was ajar—a tiny gap, but enough. A flickering, yellowish light escaped through it, casting a trembling line on the dark corridor floor like a hesitant invitation into the unknown. Harry approached, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum, a frantic rhythm echoing the urgency of his mission. He pressed his eye against the cold, rough wood of the door, the narrow opening revealing the scene inside.

The interior was a portrait of abandonment: overturned, dusty desks, cobwebs hanging from corners like forgotten shrouds, and the air heavy with the smell of mold and old secrets. A few hastily conjured candles floated lazily in the air, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that twisted on the walls, giving a nearly theatrical air to the clandestine meeting. Amelia Baxter was leaning against one of the desks, arms crossed with a triumphant air, a satisfied, feline smile on her lips. Theodore Nott stood a few steps away, gesturing with one hand as he spoke, his voice low but laced with such palpable contempt that Harry’s stomach twisted.

“Did you see Potter’s face today?” Amelia was saying, her voice dripping with cruel pleasure, a malicious satisfaction Harry never imagined she possessed. “He really believed I was devastated after that little scene in the hallway. So predictable. Pathetic.”

Nott let out a short laugh—a dry, humorless sound that seemed to echo off the bare walls of the room. “He’s always been easy to manipulate. A sentimental Gryffindor, blinded by his own fabricated nobility. But the important thing is that it worked perfectly. Greengrass won’t want to look him in the face for a long time. The path is clear for me.”

The confirmation of the trap hit Harry like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him. So that was it. A cold performance, a cruel and calculated manipulation orchestrated to separate him from Daphne. Rage began to boil in his blood—a cold, controlled fury, unlike his usual Gryffindor impulses. He forced himself to keep listening, to swallow the poison; he needed every detail, no matter how painful.

“You have to admit, Theo, my timing was impeccable,” Amelia continued, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear with an affected gesture. “Getting her to walk into the hallway right at the moment of the kiss... it was a masterpiece of timing. The look on her face... priceless.”

“Greengrass is proud—almost as much as she is beautiful,” Nott agreed, a dark, possessive gleam in his eyes. “She’ll never forgive him for such a public humiliation. And I was there, of course, the loyal friend, ready to offer a shoulder, to pick up the pieces.” He smiled—a predatory gesture that made Harry’s skin crawl. “She was so shaken, so consumed by anger and pain, she didn’t even notice how vulnerable she was to my... influence.”

Harry clenched his fists beneath the cloak, his nails digging painfully into his palms. The urge to storm into the room, to wipe that smug smile off Nott’s face with his own fists, was nearly overwhelming. But he held back. He needed to understand the full extent of the betrayal.

“And your performance as the concerned, misunderstood friend was convincing,” Amelia said, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer to Nott with a slow, calculated walk, her hips swaying slightly—a silent invitation. “You almost convinced me that you actually cared about her suffering, that you weren’t just waiting for your chance.”

Nott shrugged, a smug smile spreading across his pale, angular face. “Oh, I care, dear Amelia. I care very much about having her for myself, as it always should have been. Potter was just an inconvenience, an irritating, childish obstacle in my way. And you,” he extended a hand, tracing her jawline with a finger, the touch lingering and intimate, “were the perfect tool—and I must say, a very willing one—to remove him.”

Amelia laughed, leaning into his touch, her eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “Tool? How unflattering, Theo. I thought we had a partnership.”

“Efficient, then,” he corrected, his dark eyes shining as he drew even closer, his voice now a conspiratorial whisper. “And you got your revenge against Potter for rejecting you, for choosing the ‘Ice Queen’ over you, didn’t you? In the end, we both win.”

“Especially us,” Amelia whispered back, her voice husky with desire, and then—to Harry’s growing horror and revulsion—she pulled Nott by his Slytherin tie and kissed him. It wasn’t a hesitant or stolen kiss but a hungry, possessive, almost desperate one that left no doubt about the nature of their relationship, about the web of lies they had woven together.

Harry felt his stomach turn, bitter bile rising in his throat. So that was it. It wasn’t just a strategic alliance to separate him from Daphne—it was a sordid affair built on secrets, betrayals, and mutual cruelty. The way they spoke, the scorn with which they referred to him and Daphne, the calculated intimacy in their touches—it was obvious this had been going on for some time, a poison spreading beneath the surface of life at Hogwarts.

Nott pulled away from Amelia after a moment, his lips still damp, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Now,” he said, his voice low and filled with chilling confidence, “I just need to make sure Greengrass keeps believing Potter is the sole villain in this story. A few more days of ‘comfort,’ a few well-placed words about Gryffindor arrogance and instability, and she’ll be exactly where I want her. With me.”

Amelia ran her fingers through his hair, a lazy smile on her lips. “And Potter? Do you think he’ll just accept it? He didn’t strike me as the type to give up easily, especially after the scene he made today.”

“Potter’s a sentimental and predictable Gryffindor,” Nott sneered with a dismissive wave. “He’ll drown in guilt like a lost puppy. And even if he tries to explain, who will Greengrass believe? The ‘hero’ who humiliated her publicly in front of everyone, or me—the loyal, understanding friend who was there for her in her moment of ‘pain’?”

Each word was a dagger to Harry’s chest, each revelation a fresh wound. Their presumption, their cold, calculated cruelty... he had never imagined Amelia capable of such duplicity, nor Nott so venomous, so willing to exploit Daphne’s pain for his own gain. The fury in his chest now burned like a furnace, mixed with a sharp, deep pain for Daphne, who was being deceived and manipulated so vilely. He needed to act, but Sirius’s warning to be “smart” echoed in his mind. Storming the room now, confronting them, would only confirm the image of the “impulsive Gryffindor” that Nott had so conveniently painted. He needed irrefutable proof or a way to expose them with no room for doubt.

He pressed his lips together, his jaw clenched with the force of contained emotion. The urgency to intervene, to shout the truth, was almost unbearable, but reason—cold and sharp as an ice blade—held him back. Nott was right about one thing: he, Harry Potter, was a sentimental Gryffindor. But sentimental didn’t mean stupid.

Amelia laughed again—a sound that now struck Harry like the grating screech of nails on a chalkboard, cutting through the tension. “And what are we going to do about little Astoria? She looked pretty annoyed when she hexed Potter in the hallway. It won’t be long before she starts putting the pieces together if Daphne keeps moping around and suffering like this.”

Nott gave a condescending smile, arrogance dripping from every word. “Astoria is a child, Amelia. Easily influenced. A bit of attention, a few sweet words about how I’m ‘deeply concerned’ for her sister, and she’ll go back to believing in fairy tales and charming princes. Besides,” he added, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing malice, “Daphne’s pain—her vulnerability—only makes her more... receptive to my comfort. It’s just a matter of time before she realizes who’s really been there for her.”

Harry felt his blood boil. The way Nott spoke of Daphne, as if she were an object to be won through deceit and manipulation, was repulsive and intolerable. He thought of Astoria, of the protective fury in her eyes when she confronted him. She might be sharper, more perceptive than Nott arrogantly assumed.

As Nott and Amelia locked into yet another kiss, sealing their profane alliance, Harry backed away from the door’s crack, his heart heavy with the torrent of information he had just gathered. He needed to get out of there before he lost control, before the rage consumed him and drove him to make a mistake. Every fiber of his being wanted to crush them, confront them, shout the truth for the entire castle to hear—but he knew, with painful clarity, that he needed to be smarter, more strategic.

With silent steps, still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, he retreated from the abandoned classroom, his mind already working at high speed, formulating a plan, a strategy to expose the farce. The truth was a powerful weapon—perhaps the only one he had at that moment—and he was determined to wield it. For Daphne. And, yes, for himself too.

~HP~

Upon returning to the safety of Gryffindor Tower, Harry slipped off the Invisibility Cloak, the silvery fabric sliding from his shoulders as the reality of what he had just witnessed hit him with full force, like a blast of freezing wind. The adrenaline from spying, which had kept him alert and focused, was starting to fade, giving way to a cold, calculated fury and a sharp, searing pain for Daphne.

He paced back and forth in front of the unlit fireplace in the Common Room, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His mind replayed, over and over, every venomous word, every false smile, every calculated touch between Nott and Amelia. The image of them, entwined in the shadows of the abandoned classroom, kissing with a hunger that revealed their profane alliance, was burned into his eyelids.

Daphne didn’t deserve this. No one deserved to be a pawn in such a cruel game, to be manipulated so vilely—especially by someone like Nott, who disguised himself as a friend while exploiting her vulnerability. And Amelia… Amelia, with her feline smile and thirst for revenge, seemed to take a sick pleasure in other people’s pain. The memory of Daphne’s wounded gaze, of her voice breaking with hurt as she uttered those final words—“I will never forgive you for this”—now gained a new and terrible context. She wasn’t forgiving him for a betrayal that, for the most part, wasn’t even his. He had been a piece in their game, an instrument to hurt Daphne and satisfy Nott and Amelia’s selfish desires.

He stopped abruptly, staring at the embers still glowing faintly in the fireplace—tiny points of light in the darkness, like the truths he now carried. The rage was a consuming fire, a primal urge to crush, to destroy. But Sirius’s words, spoken with the bitter wisdom of experience, echoed in his mind: “Fight for it... Be smart.” Storming into the room and punching Nott—no matter how tempting, no matter how loudly his Gryffindor blood cried out for direct confrontation—would solve nothing. It would only make him look like the impulsive, sentimental Gryffindor that Nott had so conveniently described.

He needed a plan. A smart, careful plan. He needed irrefutable proof—or at the very least, a way to make Daphne listen to the truth without immediately shutting him out, without the walls she had built growing even higher.

He thought of Ron and Hermione. They had to know. Hermione, with her logical mind and her ability to see through deception, could help him craft a strategy, find the flaws in Nott and Amelia’s plan. Ron, with his unwavering loyalty, with his readiness to face any danger alongside his friends, would back him no matter how insane or risky the plan was. They were his family, his safe harbor.

But before even sharing the burden of that discovery with his best friends, there was someone else—a crucial piece that Nott, in his arrogance, had underestimated. Astoria. Nott had dismissed her, calling her a child, easily swayed. But Harry had seen the fury in her eyes when she hexed him—a fury born of a fierce, protective loyalty to her sister. If Astoria knew the truth about Nott, about how he was manipulating Daphne’s pain, using it as a stepping stone for his own selfish ends… she wouldn’t stand idly by. She would be a powerful ally—perhaps the only one capable of breaking through Daphne’s wall of hurt.

A new determination, cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, formed in his chest. Nott and Amelia had staged a farce, played with feelings, underestimated the strength of bonds they couldn’t comprehend. It was time for Harry Potter, with the help of some unexpected allies, to set the stage for the truth. And the first person he needed to talk to, surprisingly, wasn’t Daphne—it was the younger Greengrass. Finding a way to alert her, to give her the pieces of the puzzle, to turn her protective anger into a weapon against the real villains of this story, would be the first and most crucial step.

The rage still burned within him, a constant flame—but now it was directed, focused, transformed into fuel for action. He would make Nott and Amelia bitterly regret the day they decided to play with fire.