Harry climbed the stairs to his private room, his mind still working over Moody's cryptic words. The conversation by the lake had left him with more questions than answers, and the burden of impending danger pressing against himself felt physically strenuous.
All the help you can get. What did that even mean?
With a sigh, he pushed open the door to his private room but stopped short in the doorway. Daphne was already there, curled up in the armchair by the window with a massive tome balanced on her knees. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass, catching the golden highlights in her blonde hair and casting a warm glow across her face. She was completely absorbed in whatever she was reading, her brow furrowed in concentration as she traced a finger along the ancient text.
Harry found himself lingering there, just watching her. There was something mesmerizing about the way she looked when she was focused—the slight purse of her lips, the way she unconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the elegant curve of her neck as she bent over the book. Even in the midst of everything that was happening, she managed to look serene, almost untouchable.
"Are you going to keep staring, or are you actually going to come in?" Daphne's soft voice cut through his reverie, though she didn't bother looking up from the page.
Harry chuckled, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "How did you know I was staring?"
"I can feel your eyes on me." She finally glanced up, those piercing blue eyes meeting his with an amused glint. "Besides, you've been standing there for nearly a minute. It's rather obvious."
"Maybe I was just admiring the view," Harry said with a grin, moving to his desk and settling into the chair.
"Smooth, Potter." Daphne's lips curved into a small smile before she returned her attention to the book. "Though you might want to work on your subtlety."
Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her profile. "What are you reading?"
"Something you retrieved for me from the Restricted Section," she replied, not taking her eyes off the page. "Very enlightening, actually. But more importantly, how did your chat with Mad-Eye go? It looked rather serious when he led you out of the Great Hall."
Harry's expression sobered as he recalled the conversation. "He doesn't think Karkaroff put my name in the Goblet."
That got Daphne's full attention. She looked up sharply, her blue eyes alert. "Really? That's... unexpected. What's his reasoning?"
"Says Karkaroff's reaction was genuine shock when my name came out. Moody's interrogated enough Death Eaters to know when someone's faking surprise." Harry rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. "He also ruled out Snape—apparently the bat's too loyal to Dumbledore to risk it."
Daphne set the book aside and leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. "If not Karkaroff or Snape, then who? Someone had to have the access and skill to manipulate the Goblet."
"That's what I asked him. His answer wasn't exactly reassuring." Harry met her gaze. "He thinks it's someone connected to Voldemort. Someone who wants me dead and can operate right under Dumbledore's nose."
A chill seemed to settle over the room. Daphne was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. "And you believe him?"
"I do. It makes sense, doesn't it? The timing, the danger, the fact that whoever did this wanted me specifically in mortal peril." Harry's jaw clenched. "Moody thinks there are forces at work beyond a simple school competition."
"What else did he say?"
"That I need to prepare. That I'll need all the help I can get for what's coming." Harry shrugged. "He offered to help, but didn't elaborate on what kind of help he meant."
Daphne frowned. "That's rather vague. Help with what, specifically? Training? Information? Protection?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. The man speaks in riddles half the time." Harry ran a hand through his hair. "But there was something else. When I mentioned my dreams about Voldemort, he didn't seem surprised. If anything, he seemed to expect it."
Daphne's expression sharpened immediately. "Which brings us back to what we were discussing before Moody interrupted." She stood up from the armchair, the heavy tome forgotten on the cushion. "Harry, you can't keep dismissing these dreams as nothing. Not with everything that's happening."
"They're just dreams, Daphne." Harry's voice carried a note of frustration. "Random images, probably brought on by stress or—"
"Bullshit." The profanity from Daphne's lips was unexpected and effective. Harry blinked in surprise as she crossed the room toward him. "You said Voldemort's name in your sleep. Twice. And you mentioned a ring and shadows. That's not random stress dreams, Harry."
She didn't stop until she was standing directly in front of his chair, her blue eyes blazing with determination. "Move your legs."
"What?"
"Move your legs," she repeated, more firmly this time.
Harry complied, confused, and Daphne immediately settled herself in his lap, making herself comfortable with her back against his chest and her legs draped over the arm of the chair. The intimate position caught him off guard, and he felt his breath hitch slightly as her familiar scent—something floral that never failed to send his pulse racing—surrounded him.
"Daphne, what are you—"
"Making you listen to me properly." She twisted slightly to look at him, her face serious despite their close proximity. "You have a tendency to deflect when you're uncomfortable, and this is too important for deflection."
Her hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his skin. The touch was gentle, and Harry found himself leaning into it despite his earlier protests.
"Harry, I'm worried about you," she said softly. "These dreams, the Tournament, Moody's warnings about Voldemort—it's all connected, isn't it? And you're trying to handle it all on your own."
The concern in her voice made something in his chest tighten. He'd spent so long dealing with dangerous situations alone that accepting help—accepting that someone genuinely cared about his wellbeing—still felt foreign.
"I don't want you to worry," he murmured, his arms coming up to encircle her waist. "You have enough on your plate without adding my problems to the mix."
"My problems?" Daphne's eyebrows rose. "Harry, your problems are my problems. That's what this is." She gestured between them. "We're in this together, remember? No more going it alone."
The sincerity in her voice broke through his defenses. Harry sighed, resting his forehead against her shoulder. "The dream this morning... it wasn't like the others. It felt real. Too real."
"Tell me about it." Her fingers found their way into his hair, stroking gently. "All of it."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. The dream had been vivid and disturbing, and part of him wanted to keep it locked away. But Daphne was right—he couldn't keep handling everything alone.
"It was Voldemort, and he seemed terrifying. Not the ugly bastard I saw on the back of Quirrell's head." Harry's voice was quiet, almost distant. "He was in a burning cottage with an old man. Torturing him."
Daphne's hand stilled in his hair. "Who was the old man?"
"Horace Slughorn. Moody confirmed he was the Potions professor here before Snape. Killed during the war." Harry lifted his head to meet her gaze. "But in the dream, I saw how he died. Voldemort used him for some kind of ritual."
"What kind of ritual?"
Harry's jaw clenched as he recalled the horrific details. "Something involving a book—a grimoire bound in what looked like human skin. Voldemort called it the Grimoire of Eternal Shadow. He said the ritual required significant sacrifice, pain, death... and someone who once held power over him."
Daphne's face had gone pale. "He used his former professor as a sacrifice."
"It was methodical. Calculated. Voldemort chanted in some ancient language, and Slughorn's blood started floating upward, drawn to the book. His very life force was being drained away." Harry's voice grew hoarse. "And there was a ring—a simple gold band with a stone that seemed to absorb darkness. When Voldemort put it on after the ritual, it glowed unnaturally."
"A ring," Daphne repeated, her analytical mind clearly working. "You mentioned a ring before Moody interrupted us."
"In my sleep, you said."
"Yes." She was quiet for a moment, processing the information. "Harry, this doesn't sound like a normal dream. The level of detail, the specific names and objects... it's too coherent, too complete."
Harry had been afraid she'd say that. "You think it's connected to my scar somehow."
"I think your scar has always connected you to Voldemort in ways we don't fully understand. Remember what happened during your first year with Quirrell? Or how you could sense when he was near?" Daphne's fingers resumed their gentle stroking through his hair. "What if these dreams aren't dreams at all? What if they're memories?"
"Memories of things that happened before I was born?"
"Or memories he's accessing now. Think about it, Harry—if Voldemort is truly back, if he's planning something involving this Tournament, wouldn't he be thinking about past victories? Past sources of power?" Daphne's eyes were bright as she went about her deduction. "This grimoire, this ritual, this ring—what if they're not just random elements of a dream? What if they're pieces of a larger puzzle?"
"You think he's planning to use whatever power he gained from that ritual?"
"I think he's planning something that requires the kind of power he acquired through dark rituals. And if your dreams—memories—are any indication, he's willing to sacrifice anyone to get what he wants." Daphne's voice was grim. "And I feel especially you."
Harry's brows furrowed as he considered this. If Daphne was right, if these dreams were actually glimpses into Voldemort's mind or memories, then the Tournament wasn't just about putting him in danger—it was about putting him in a specific position for a specific purpose.
"So what do I do?" Harry asked quietly.
"You prepare. You train. You learn everything you can about what you're up against." Daphne's hand cupped his face again, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. "And you let the people who care about you help."
Harry leaned into her touch, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ease. "You know, a few months ago I would've laughed at this, but now, I feel I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Lucky for you, you won't have to find out." Daphne's smile was soft but determined, her heart soaring at his words. To think that they'd gotten so close in such a short span that they trusted each other with life and death… She shook her head to get her mind back to their discussion. "We'll figure this out together, Harry. Whatever Voldemort is planning, whatever this Tournament is really about, we'll be ready for it."
Harry nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude for the woman in his arms. She was brilliant, fearless, and completely committed to helping him navigate the dangerous waters ahead. He didn't deserve her—didn't deserve anyone willing to stand by him in the face of such danger—but he was grateful beyond words that she was there.
"Can I ask you something?" Harry said after a moment.
"Of course."
"The books you've been asking me to get from the Restricted Section. The ones about rituals and what most people would consider dark magic." Harry studied her face carefully. "Why do you need them?"
Daphne's expression immediately shuttered, her body tensing in his arms. "It's nothing important. Just academic curiosity."
"Daphne." Harry's voice was gentle but firm. "After everything we just discussed, after you telling me I can't handle things alone, don't you think you should take your own advice?"
She looked away, her jaw set in a stubborn line. "It's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
Harry could see the walls going up, the careful composure Daphne used to protect herself sliding back into place. But he'd learned to read her tells over the months they'd been together—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she couldn't quite meet his eyes, the careful neutrality of her expression that meant she was hiding something painful.
"Hey." He tilted her chin up gently, forcing her to look at him. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?"
Daphne's composure cracked slightly, a flash of vulnerability breaking through her mask. "It's not... it's not something I talk about."
"You don't have to talk about anything you're not ready to share," Harry said softly. "But I'm here if you want to. No judgment, no expectations. Just... here."
For a long moment, Daphne said nothing. She studied his face as if looking for something—doubt, perhaps, or the kind of morbid curiosity that drove most people to pry into others' pain. But Harry's expression remained open and patient, his green eyes warm with genuine concern.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's about my sister Astoria."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Your sister?"
Daphne nodded, her fingers twisting together in her lap. "She's... she never came to Hogwarts. She should have, two years ago, but she couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Blood curse." The words came out flat, clinical, as if removing emotion from them could make them hurt less. "It activated when she hit puberty. One day she was a normal girl excited about her Hogwarts letter, and the next... she was in a coma."
Harry felt his heart clench. "Daphne..."
"The healers at St. Mungo's tried everything. Every treatment, every experimental procedure, every consultation with specialists." Daphne's voice was getting quieter, more strained. "Nothing worked. They told us there was nothing more they could do. That we should... prepare for the inevitable."
Harry's arms tightened around her, pulling her closer. "I'm so sorry."
"She's been in that bed for two years, Harry. Two years of my parents sitting by her side, hoping for some sign that she's still there. Two years of watching them age a decade, of seeing the hope die in their eyes a little more each day." Daphne's composure was cracking now, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "Two years of feeling completely helpless."
"That's why you're researching blood rituals," Harry said quietly, understanding dawning.
Daphne nodded. "I overheard two of her healers talking during one of my visits. They were discussing her case, and one of them mentioned that there might be... alternative treatments. Blood rituals, specifically. But they said such practices were illegal, and even if they weren't, they didn't have the knowledge or experience to attempt them."
"So you decided to find that knowledge yourself."
"Someone has to." Daphne's voice carried a fierce determination despite the tears.
Harry could hear the frustration and pain in her voice, could see how this burden had been eating at her. "But you're willing to consider it."
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to save my sister." Daphne met his gaze directly, her blue eyes blazing with intensity. "I don't care if it's dark magic or blood rituals or anything else the Ministry classifies as forbidden. Astoria is dying, and if there's even a chance that something in those books could help her, then I have to try."
The raw emotion in her voice made Harry's chest tighten. He could see now why she'd been so secretive about her research, why she couldn't ask anyone else to help her retrieve those books. It wasn't just the sensitive nature of the material—it was deeply personal, wrapped up in family loyalty and desperate love and the kind of guilt that came from being the healthy sibling while watching the other suffer.
"It must have been hard," Harry said softly, "carrying this alone."
"I couldn't ask anyone else to get those books for me. How could I explain why I needed them without revealing..." Daphne trailed off, her voice breaking slightly. "And what if someone reported me? What if the administration decided I was a danger to other students? I couldn't risk being expelled, not when Astoria needs me to find a solution."
Harry felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it nearly overwhelmed him. This brilliant, fierce woman had been shouldering an impossible burden in complete isolation, all while maintaining her perfect composure in public and helping him with his own problems.
"You're not alone anymore," he said firmly. "Whatever you need, whatever research has to be done, I'll help you. We'll find a way to save her."
Daphne's eyes widened in surprise. "Harry, you don't understand what you're offering. This isn't just theoretical research—if we find something that might work, I'll have to actually attempt it. That means performing illegal blood magic, potentially putting both of us at risk."
"I don't care."
"You could be expelled. Arrested. Your entire future—"
"I don't care," Harry repeated, more forcefully this time. "Daphne, you've been there for me through everything. Did you really think I wouldn't be there for you when you need me?"
Tears were streaming down Daphne's face now, her careful composure completely shattered. "I never expected... I thought I'd have to handle this on my own."
"Never again," Harry said firmly, his hands coming up to cup her face and brush away her tears with his thumbs. "You're not alone in this, Daphne. We'll figure it out together."
The vulnerability in her expression was almost heartbreaking. For once, the composed, analytical Daphne Greengrass was gone, replaced by a frightened sister desperate to save the person she loved most. Harry could see the weight of responsibility she'd been carrying, the fear and guilt and determination all wrapped up together.
"I love you," she whispered, the words carrying the depth of everything she couldn't say—her gratitude, her relief, her trust in him with her most precious secret.
"I love you too," Harry whispered, and then he was kissing her, pouring all of his feelings into the contact.
The kiss was soft at first, gentle and reassuring, but it quickly deepened as two years of emotion and the intensity of their confessions overwhelmed them both. Daphne's hands fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and Harry responded by tilting his head to change the angle, his tongue sliding against hers.
There was something desperate in the way they kissed, as if they were trying to communicate everything they couldn't put into words. Harry could taste the salt of her tears, could feel the trembling in her body as she pressed against him. His hands moved from her face to tangle in her hair, holding her close as she shifted in his lap to face him more fully.
"Harry," she breathed against his lips, and the sound of his name sent heat racing through his veins.
His hands found the hem of her blouse, fingers dancing along the edge of the fabric before slipping underneath to trace patterns on the warm skin of her back. Daphne gasped softly, arching into his touch, and Harry felt his control slipping.
She was beautiful—had always been beautiful—but there was something about seeing her vulnerable, seeing her trust him with her deepest fears and secrets, that made her even more breathtaking. The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the gold in her hair, and her blue eyes were bright with unshed tears and desire.
"You're incredible," Harry murmured, his lips trailing along her jaw to find the sensitive spot just below her ear. "So strong, so brilliant, so..."
His words trailed off into a groan as Daphne's hands found their way under his shirt, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle across his chest and stomach. The contact sent electricity racing through his body, and he could feel her smile against his neck.
"So what?" she teased, her voice husky.
"Perfect," Harry finished, capturing her lips again in a kiss that was hungrier than before.
Daphne responded with equal fervor, her hands exploring the planes of his torso while his fingers worked at the buttons of her blouse. There was an urgency to their movements now, a need to be closer, to feel more, to lose themselves in each other after the emotional intensity of their confessions.
When Harry finally got her blouse open and pushed it off her shoulders, he pulled back to look at her. Daphne sat in his lap wearing only a pale blue bra and skirt, her hair mussed from his hands, her lips swollen from their kisses. She was gorgeous, and the way she was looking at him—with love and trust and desire—made his heart race.
"You're staring again," she said softly, but there was no teasing in her voice this time. Instead, there was something almost shy, as if his intense gaze was making her self-conscious.
"Can you blame me?" Harry's hands skimmed up her sides, thumbs brushing along the edge of her bra. "You're beautiful, Daphne. So beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes."
Color flooded her cheeks at the compliment, and she leaned forward to kiss him again, this time with a tenderness that made his chest ache. Her hands framed his face as their lips moved together, slow and deep and full of emotion.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Daphne rested her forehead against his. "I never thought I'd find someone who would understand," she whispered. "Someone who wouldn't judge me for being willing to cross lines to save the people I love."
"I'd cross any line for you," Harry replied without hesitation. "Any line, any boundary, anything. Whatever it takes to help you save Astoria, we'll do it."
The promise seemed to break something loose in Daphne, and she kissed him again with a passion that bordered on desperate. Her hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his chest, pulling at his shirt until he helped her remove it completely. The feeling of skin against skin was intoxicating, and Harry found himself getting lost in the sensation of her body pressed against his.
His hands roamed her back, tracing the delicate line of her spine, while her lips found his neck and began trailing kisses along his throat. Each touch sent fire racing through his veins, and he could feel his control hanging by a thread.
"Daphne," he groaned, his hands tangling in her hair as she found a particularly sensitive spot just above his collarbone.
She lifted her head to look at him, her blue eyes dark with desire. "I need you," she whispered, the words carrying layers of meaning—physical need, emotional need, the desperate desire for connection after feeling alone for so long.
Harry understood completely. He needed her too—needed her strength, her intelligence, her unwavering loyalty. Needed the way she saw him not as the Boy Who Lived or the Tournament champion, but simply as Harry. Needed the way she trusted him with her secrets and her fears and her body.
"I'm here," he murmured, his hands cupping her face gently. "I'm not going anywhere."
And then they were kissing again, hands exploring and hearts racing as they lost themselves in each other. The world outside the room ceased to exist—there was no Tournament, no Voldemort, no blood curses or impossible choices. There was only this moment, this connection, this perfect understanding between two people who had found something precious in each other.
Harry's hands found the clasp of Daphne's bra, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the delicate hooks. The fabric gave way, and Daphne didn't pull back, her own hands busy with the button of his trousers, her movements quick but not frantic. Her fingers fumbled for a moment, then succeeded, the zipper sliding down with a soft rasp that seemed loud in the quiet room.
"You're a bit clumsy right now," Harry teased, his voice low and rough with emotion.
Daphne's lips curved into a soft smile, her hands sliding up his chest to feel the warmth of his skin. "I'm literally shaking here, Harry. I want this. I want you now, more than I've ever wanted you before."
Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor of vulnerability beneath it, a raw honesty that made his heart clench.
He kissed her again, slow and deep, tasting the faint sweetness of her lip balm and the salt of her skin. Her hands roamed his back, nails grazing lightly, sending shivers down his spine.
As she pushed his trousers down his legs, Harry lifted her, his arms strong and sure, stepping out of his trousers and carrying her to the bed as if she weighed nothing. Daphne's arms looped around his neck, her lips brushing his ear. "I love you," she whispered again, her breath warm against his skin, and those three words sent a rush of heat through him, like a fire igniting in his chest.
"I love you too," he murmured, laying her gently on the mattress, the sheets cool against her back. He followed her down, his body hovering over hers, one hand braced beside her head. "More than you know."
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden patterns across their skin. Daphne reached up, her fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the faint scars from battles he'd never talk about. "You're wonderful," she said, her voice catching. "You know that, right?"
Harry let out a low laugh. "Me? Have you seen yourself?" His hand slid down her side, fingers brushing the curve of her waist, her hip, memorizing every inch. Her skin was soft, warm, and he couldn't stop touching her, couldn't stop wanting to be closer.
Daphne pulled him down, her lips finding his again, the kiss hungrier this time. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned against her mouth. "Keep doing that, and I'm not gonna last," he teased, his voice rough but playful.
"Then don't," she shot back, her eyes glinting with mischief. But there was love there too, a depth that made his breath catch. She arched up, pressing herself against him, and the feel of her body—her curves and her soft tits pressing against his harder chest—sent a jolt of need through him.
He kissed her neck, trailing his lips down to her collarbone, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Daphne's breath hitched, her fingers tightening in his hair. "Harry," she murmured, her voice a mix of plea and encouragement. He lingered there, his lips brushing over the pulse point at her throat, feeling it race under his touch.
"You're so warm," he said, his voice muffled against her skin. His hand slid lower, finding the edge of her knickers, and he paused, looking up at her. "Ready?"
She nodded, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with trust. "More than ready." Her voice was soft but certain, and she lifted her hips slightly, helping him slide the fabric down.
Harry kicked off his boxers, the last barrier between them gone, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Daphne's hair fanned out on the pillow, meshing wonderfully with the white sheets, her eyes locked on his. "You're staring," she said, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her blush deepened.
"Can't help it," he replied, his voice thick. "You're… everything." He leaned down, kissing her again, slower this time, savoring the way her lips parted for him, the way her hands roamed his back, pulling him closer.
Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, and the sensation was overwhelming—her warmth, her softness, the way she moved with him. Daphne's hands slid down his sides, her touch light, and she whispered, "I want to feel you, Harry. All of you."
He groaned, the sound low in his throat, and shifted, guiding himself carefully. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice tight with restraint. He wanted this to be different from previous times, wanted this to be perfect for her, wanted her to feel as safe and loved as she made him feel.
"I will," she promised, her hands framing his face. "But it's you. It's us."
When he moved, it was slow, careful, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Daphne's breath caught as he entered her, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, but then she smiled, her hands tightening on his shoulders. "Keep going," she whispered, her voice soft but sure.
They found a rhythm, slow at first, each movement gentle, like they were learning each other all over again. Daphne's hands roamed his back, her nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. "You feel so good," she murmured, her voice breathy, her lips brushing his jaw.
"You have no idea," he managed, his voice strained. Every touch, every sound she made, drove him closer to the edge, but he held back, wanting to prolong this, to make it last. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer, and he groaned, burying his face in her neck.
"Harry," she said again, her voice breaking on his name, and the sound sent a shiver through him. He lifted his head, meeting her gaze, and the love in her eyes—the absolute trust—nearly undid him.
"I'm here," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I've got you." He kissed her, deep and desperate, pouring everything he felt into it. Her hands slid into his hair again, tugging harder this time, and he couldn't help the low moan that escaped him.
They moved together, the rhythm building, and the room filled with the soft sounds of their breathing and their whispers.
"I love you," Daphne said again, her voice trembling now, and Harry felt the words like a physical touch, wrapping around his heart.
"I love you too," he replied, his voice breaking. He could feel her tightening around him, her breath coming faster, and he reached between them, his touch gentle on her clit as he began rubbing gently.
"Let go, Daphne," he whispered. "I'm right here."
She did, her body arching beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders as she gasped his name. The sight of her, the sound of her, pushed him over the edge, and he followed, his own release crashing through him like a wave. For a moment, there was nothing but her—her warmth, her scent, the way she held him like he was her anchor.
They stayed like that, tangled together, their breathing slowing as the world came back into focus. The afternoon light still filtered through the curtains, softer now, and warm on their skin. Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
Daphne smiled, her eyes half-lidded but bright. "More than okay," she said, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "That was… perfect."
He chuckled, the sound soft and warm. "Yeah. It was." He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, their bodies still pressed together. Her head rested on his chest, and he ran his fingers through her hair, the strands soft against his skin.
"We're gonna be okay, right?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady. "No matter what comes next?"
Harry tightened his arms around her, his heart full of love for this brilliant young woman who had captured it in such a short amount of time. "Yeah," he said, his voice firm. "We've got this. Together."
As they lay there, wrapped in each other, Harry couldn't help but think that despite all the darkness surrounding them—blood curses, dark rituals, tournaments, and Dark Lords—he had found something beautiful. Something worth fighting for. Something worth any sacrifice. And from the way Daphne looked at him, her eyes filled with love and trust and absolute faith, he knew she felt the same way.
TBC.
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