Like Fire and Moonlight - Chapter 19: Dark Days

The dim February morning light barely managed to pierce through the heavy canopy curtains of Harry's bed. He turned over, his body aching as if he'd been run over by a hippogriff, but the physical pain was only a distant echo compared to the icy void that had opened in his chest. Every muscle protested, but it was the anguish that pinned him to the rumpled sheets. The previous night had been a blur of harsh words, accusations, and a searing pain that seemed to have taken permanent residence in his gut. The image of Daphne walking away, her stormy blue eyes, her voice thick with hurt... and her final words echoing in his mind like an unforgivable curse: "I will never forgive you for this."

He forced himself out of bed, the cold stone floor under his bare feet a welcome shock, a momentary distraction. The Gryffindor dormitory was eerily silent; the other boys must have already gone downstairs. Harry felt a chill that came from within, one no fire in the Common Room could warm. He recalled the conversation with Sirius on the beach, the veiled warning about regrets and lost loves, about how pride and fear could destroy something good. Had he become, so quickly, one of those sad stories his godfather told with a mixture of melancholy and caution? The irony was cruel.

He knew he had to face the day—his responsibilities as Head Boy wouldn’t disappear just because of his mood. Maybe a bit of routine would help push away the dark thoughts. He dressed mechanically, each movement feeling like a herculean effort. Instead of heading straight to the Great Hall, he diverted to the prefects’ room. Part of him perhaps hoped to find her there, even if it was only to exchange the usual formal greeting that now felt like a relic from a distant past.

Upon entering the room, he found Ron and Hermione already settled at one of the tables, books and scrolls spread out before them. Hermione appeared absorbed in her notes, but Ron, as usual, seemed more interested in the chocolate frog he was unwrapping than the ancient hieroglyphs in his book.

"You look terrible, Harry," Ron commented the moment he saw him, mouth full of chocolate, his usual bluntness undiminished by the situation. He stopped chewing for a moment, looking his friend over more closely. "Seriously, mate. Looks like you didn’t sleep at all. And your hair's worse than usual."

Hermione glanced up, concern tightening her brow. "Ron’s right, Harry. You’re pale. Did something happen last night? I mean, between you and Daphne?" she corrected, remembering he wasn’t alone anymore.

Harry just shook his head, feeling a knot form in his throat. The idea of verbalizing the complete disaster, of admitting the extent of his stupidity, felt overwhelmingly crushing. He sank heavily into the empty chair beside Ron.

"I think... I think Daphne and I broke up," he managed to say, his voice sounding hoarse and distant even to his own ears. Her name came out with difficulty, almost a whisper. He didn’t mention Amelia—the kiss in the hallway, how he’d frozen—the guilt for that was a burden he’d carry alone. It was his responsibility.

Hermione sighed, her concern deepening. She set her quill down. "Oh, Harry... I’m so sorry," she said softly. "Are you sure? Fights happen."

Ron, on the other hand, looked genuinely shocked. "Broke up? But... you guys had barely started! I mean, officially. What the hell happened?"

Harry rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the scratch of stubble. "What happened is... I’m an idiot, Ron. A complete idiot."

Ron exchanged a quick, baffled glance with Hermione, the chocolate frog forgotten in his hand. "An idiot how, Harry? What did you do?"

Harry shook his head, unable to find the words—or maybe, unable to face the shame of speaking them. The image of Amelia kissing him and, worse, Daphne witnessing it all burned in his mind. How could he explain that he, who so valued the loyalty and honesty he'd built with Daphne, had let something like that happen? That he’d frozen, even if just for a moment?

"I just... I messed everything up," he muttered, voice low, almost inaudible. The watch on his wrist, Daphne’s gift, felt like it weighed a ton. "I don’t want to talk about it."

Hermione placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Harry, whatever it is, I’m sure it can be fixed. You two... you really seemed to be doing well." There was genuine sadness in her voice. She’d seen the change in Harry, the lightness Daphne had brought into his life.

"She said she’ll never forgive me," Harry replied, Daphne’s words echoing with painful finality. "And honestly, I don’t know if I blame her."

"But she has to listen to you, at least!" Ron protested, his loyalty to his friend outweighing his initial confusion. "Greengrass can be stubborn, but she’s not unfair. What on earth happened for her to say something like that?"

Harry shrugged, feeling the weight of his friends’ stares. He knew they wanted to help, but the shame was a knot in his throat. "I made a mistake. A stupid mistake." He couldn’t elaborate. Telling them about Amelia would make it seem even worse, more premeditated than it had been. It would make him seem like the kind of guy Sirius had warned him never to become.

Realizing Harry wasn’t going to open up further, Hermione sighed and withdrew her hand. "Well, if you change your mind and want to talk, or if you need help... I don’t know, kidnapping Greengrass so she’ll listen," she tried a small smile, "we’re here."

Ron nodded vigorously. "Yeah, and I’m good at creating distractions, if you need one."

Their attempt at humor drew a faint smile from Harry, though it did nothing to ease the pain in his chest. "Thanks, guys." He stood and exited through the portrait hole.

Hermione watched him leave, deep worry etching her brow. Ron just shook his head, turning his attention back to the chocolate frog, though his previous enthusiasm was gone. Both knew Harry was hurting, and the helplessness of not being able to help him directly was almost as frustrating as the situation itself.

~HP~

Breakfast in the Great Hall was silent torture. Every laugh and cheerful conversation felt like an affront to his miserable state. Harry barely touched his food—even the smell of bacon made him nauseous.

He saw Daphne at the Slytherin table. She maintained her impeccable posture, but Harry noticed an unusual stiffness in her shoulders, a tension he recognized. She was talking with Tracey, but her blue eyes seemed distant.

Daphne didn’t look at him even once. Not even a fleeting glance toward the Gryffindor table, and that alone made his heart ache. Harry tried to eat some porridge, but it tasted like cardboard—like ashes in his mouth.

Later that same day, with anguish eating him alive, he saw her near the library, her long blonde hair contrasting with the dark covers of the books on the shelves. It was now or never. He took a deep breath, the air feeling as heavy as lead in his lungs.

“Daphne,” he called, his voice lower and more hesitant than he had intended.

She stopped, her shoulders tensing before she slowly turned around. Her blue eyes, which had once gleamed with defiance and a newfound curiosity when looking at him, were now as cold as the Black Lake in midwinter—a storm contained within their depths.

“Can we talk?” he asked, taking a hesitant step forward, the distance between them feeling like a chasm.

“We have nothing to talk about, Potter.” The use of his last name hit like a slap, a cruel reminder of the distance he himself had created. She turned with icy precision and entered the library, the sound of the door closing echoing down the hallway like a final sentence, leaving him standing there, heart sinking even further, hope draining away.

The rejection hurt—a dull ache that added to his guilt—but not as much as what happened in the Charms corridor two classes later. Harry was walking with his head down, shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of his mistakes, when a smaller, equally blonde figure abruptly stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

Astoria Greengrass stared him down, her eyes identical to her sister’s—blue and piercing—but sparkling with a protective fury Harry recognized immediately. She didn’t have Daphne’s imposing height, but her anger seemed to fill the entire corridor.

“What did you do to my sister?” she hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained rage, each syllable dripping with accusation.

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. What explanation could he possibly give? What justification was there for the pain reflected in the younger Greengrass’s eyes?

Before Harry could string together a response—or even think about defending himself—Astoria’s wand was in her hand, raised with fierce determination. “Furnunculus!”

Green, painful boils began sprouting across his hands and arms, a burning itch spreading over his skin. He didn’t retaliate. He didn’t even try to defend himself. There was no point. The physical pain was, in a way, a welcome distraction from the agony in his chest—a tangible punishment for his stupidity. He simply looked at her, guilt etched into every line of his face, accepting the attack as penance.

“I... I’m sorry, Astoria,” he murmured, his voice cracking, the sincerity in his apology not meant for her alone, but for everyone he had hurt.

Astoria stared at him a moment longer, perhaps surprised by his passivity, by his resigned acceptance of the spell. The fury in her eyes didn’t fade, but she slowly lowered her wand before turning away with an angry huff, leaving Harry alone with his new, painful wounds.

Ron and Hermione found him a few minutes later, leaning against the corridor wall, futilely trying to cover the boils now spreading visibly with the sleeves of his uniform.

“Harry! What happened to you?” Hermione exclaimed, her eyes wide with concern at the state of his hands and arms.

Ron scowled. “Looks like someone used you for target practice with nasty hexes.”

“Astoria,” he explained simply, his voice tired.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head, but her expression softened with a mix of exasperation and compassion. “Oh, Harry... you shouldn’t have let her do this. You need to defend yourself!”

She grabbed his arm, ignoring his weak protests, and dragged him toward the hospital wing. “Honestly, sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good.”

Ron followed them, muttering about “Slytherins and their overprotective sisters, always causing trouble,” and “at least it wasn’t a Rabidcurt.”

Madam Pomfrey, as always, was both efficient and stern. She treated the boils with a foul-smelling potion that made Harry’s eyes water, but not before giving him a thorough scolding about getting into corridor fights and the importance of “resolving youthful disagreements with words, not with spells that leave green marks.” Harry merely nodded, accepting the reprimand in silence, knowing full well that, once again, the blame was entirely his own.

~HP~

The following weekend, Hogsmeade felt like the only possible refuge. The atmosphere at Hogwarts was suffocating; every corridor seemed to whisper about his failure, every glance from a classmate seemed loaded with judgment or pity. Harry needed air, distance, and, more than anything, advice that didn’t come wrapped in Hermione’s caution or Ron’s clumsy attempts to cheer him up. He had sent an owl to Sirius the night before, an almost desperate plea for a perspective only his godfather could offer.

He found him at the Hog’s Head, as arranged. The pub had its usual gloomy air, smelling of dust and something indefinably goat-like, but it was discreet, far from the curious eyes at the Three Broomsticks. Sirius was already waiting at a table in the darkest corner, a half-smile on his lips that did little to hide the concern in his gray eyes. The butterbeer Harry ordered went down warm but did nothing to dissolve the lump in his throat or the cold in his stomach.

He told him everything. The night of the argument, the stupid, thoughtless kiss with Amelia, Daphne witnessing it, her cutting words, the rejection in the library, even Astoria’s furious hex. Sirius listened in silence, the smile gradually fading, replaced by a more serious expression as he spun his own glass of mead between his fingers.

“So,” Sirius finally started, his voice rough, once Harry fell silent, the whole story hanging heavily between them like Aberforth’s pipe smoke. “You really managed to screw it all up, didn’t you, kid?”

Harry only nodded, unable to meet his godfather’s gaze, eyes fixed on the amber, frothy liquid in his glass. Shame consumed him.

“She saw you kissing someone else, Harry. That’s... well, that’s hard for any girl to forgive, no matter the context,” Sirius said, more serious now. He sighed, the sound heavy in the pub’s thick air. “And coming from you, after everything you two built... I can imagine how much that cut.” He spun his glass again. “I told you about Marlene, about how pride and fear made me lose her. You’ve got feelings for this Greengrass girl, don’t you? Real feelings, I mean—not just that ‘Golden Boy’ thing or the curiosity about the ‘Ice Queen.’”

“I... I think I do, Sirius. More than I ever expected,” Harry confessed, his voice thick, finally raising his eyes to meet his godfather’s. The raw sincerity in his voice seemed to surprise even himself. “She’s... different. With her, I don’t have to be ‘Perfect Potter’ or the Gryffindor Captain, or even the idiot who always gets into trouble. I can just be... Harry. And she too... she showed me a side of herself no one else sees, a side that’s smart, sarcastically funny in a way I love, and even... vulnerable.” The memory of her smile, of those moments of shared understanding, tightened his chest.

Sirius sighed, a mix of understanding and perhaps a hint of his own lingering melancholy. “Then you need to decide, Harry. Are you going to let her wounded pride—and your own guilt—destroy something that, judging by that rare light in those green eyes of yours, seems genuinely good? Or are you going to fight for it?” He leaned forward, his gray eyes locking onto Harry’s with penetrating intensity. “Daphne said she’d never forgive you. Harsh words, no doubt, said in the heat of anger and pain. But words can be just that, Harry, if you prove otherwise with actions. So what are you going to do about it? Are you just going to accept defeat and spend the rest of your life sulking like a grumpy old man telling ‘what if’ stories?” Sirius paused, letting the question hang. “Or are you going to swallow your pride, face her fury, and show that stubborn Slytherin girl that what you two had—what you still have—is worth the effort, the fight, and the humility of a real apology?”

Sirius’s words stayed with Harry as he made his way back to the castle that afternoon. The cold seemed less biting, replaced by a hesitant flame of determination beginning to warm the emptiness in his chest. He looked at the approaching towers of Hogwarts, the place he called home—the place where he had found and maybe, just maybe, hadn’t entirely lost Daphne Greengrass. He didn’t know exactly how, nor whether she would even listen, but he had to try. He owed it to himself. And, he realized with painful clarity, he owed it to her too.

~HP~

The next day, Harry’s determination still burned—a stubborn ember against the cold wind of uncertainty. He walked down the main corridor toward the Great Hall for lunch, his shoulders a bit straighter, his head held high. It wasn’t arrogance, but the resolve of someone who had made a decision and was ready to face the consequences. That’s when a familiar voice, sweet but now sending a chill down his spine, called out to him.

“Harry!”

He stopped, turning slowly. Amelia was walking toward him, a rehearsed smile on her lips, her Ravenclaw blue-trimmed robes immaculate. Some passing students slowed, curiosity shining in their eyes. The drama between the Head Boy, Head Girl, and Amelia was the talk of the school.

“Amelia,” he replied, his voice firm, devoid of the casual tone she might have expected.

She stopped a few steps from him, her smile faltering slightly at the coldness in his green eyes. “I wanted to talk about... about what happened.” Her tone was low, intimate, as if they were sharing a secret.

Harry stared at her, and for the first time since the incident, he didn’t feel the stabbing guilt consuming him, but instead, a sharp clarity. “There’s nothing to talk about, Amelia.”

Her smile vanished completely, replaced by an expression of disbelief. “What do you mean? Harry, I know things with Greengrass are bad, but...”

“But nothing,” he cut her off, his voice louder than intended, drawing even more stares. Students stopped, whispering. “What happened between me and Daphne is none of your business. And what happened between us,” he emphasized, “was a mistake. A mistake that you provoked.”

Amelia stepped back, her face paling. “Me? But you didn’t push me away! You...”

“I froze, Amelia! And you took advantage of that!” The anger, contained for so long, finally began to spill over. “You knew I was confused, you knew I had something with Daphne, and yet you forced the situation. You wanted to cause trouble—and you succeeded.”

Tears welled in Amelia’s eyes. “I didn’t... I just thought maybe we...”

“There is no ‘we’, Amelia!” Harry said, each word falling like a stone. “I made that clear to you before, but you refused to listen. I was with Daphne. I want to be with Daphne. What you did was low and manipulative.” He took a deep breath, his voice still laced with icy fury. “Stay away from me. And stay away from her.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the shocked murmurs of the students around them. Amelia stared at him, the tears now streaming freely down her face, her makeup beginning to smear. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. With a stifled sob, she turned and ran in the opposite direction, vanishing into the crowd that quickly parted for her.

Harry stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He felt everyone’s eyes on him—judging, curious, shocked. He knew that scene would be the talk of Hogwarts for weeks. But, for the first time in days, the knot in his stomach seemed to loosen just a little. He had been harsh—maybe even cruel—but it had to be done. For him. And, most importantly, for Daphne.

He turned and continued toward the Great Hall, ignoring the stares. There was a battle ahead—one far more difficult than dealing with Amelia. And he needed to be ready.

When he entered the Great Hall, most of the eyes that had been dissecting him now carried a new kind of respect—or maybe just shock. He spotted Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and headed over, sitting down with a sigh he couldn’t quite suppress.

Ron let out a low whistle, his eyes wide. “Mate, I heard the rumors, but seeing Amelia crying like that... what the hell did you say to her?”

Hermione, however, had a small, almost imperceptible smile on her lips as she sipped her pumpkin juice. “I think he finally said what needed to be said, Ron.” She turned to Harry, her expression softening. “It was harsh, Harry, but I think you did the right thing. You needed to put an end to it—for yourself and... for Daphne.”

Harry gave a small, tired smile. “I just... needed to make it clear. To her. And to myself.” He knew the road to winning Daphne back would be long and hard, but that small act of resolve—that public declaration of his feelings, even if indirect—felt like a necessary first step. Painful, but essential.