The light was the first thing she felt.
Too bright.
It burned behind her eyelids, sharp and relentless.
Then came the smell, antiseptic and metal, the kind that no charm could hide.
Potions. Hospitals always smelled like this.
Her throat ached. She tried to swallow, and the movement pulled at her ribs.
A faint hum filled the room, magic, constant and low, like air caught inside glass.
She turned her head, just a little, and pain flickered down her neck.
And then she remembered.
Her hand moved before her mind did.
Down, over the blanket.
Pressing against her stomach.
Flat.
The air left her. Her palm stayed there, searching for something that wasn't there anymore.
Nothing. No warmth. No life.
The ceiling above her was white, blinding white, and the curtains glowed blue where the wards pulsed softly.
Outside them, she heard footsteps. A voice. A door closing.
And then Oliver.
He was slumped in a chair beside the bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His hair stuck up in all directions, his face looked grey. His eyes, red and hollow, stayed fixed on her hand resting over her stomach.
"Daph…"
His voice cracked halfway through her name.
He stood, slow, like every movement hurt.
"I'm so sorry, Princess."
The words barely reached her.
He reached out, and she flinched.
"Don't."
Her voice came out small, rough, unfamiliar.
"Daph…"
"Go away."
He froze.
She turned her face toward the wall. The white curtain blurred at the edges of her vision.
"I said go away."
He didn't move.
Her jaw locked. Her chest felt too tight to hold anything else.
"Fucking go away!"
The words tore out of her, raw and sharp.
The room went still.
The door opened behind him.
A Healer's voice, calm and careful. "Mr Wood…"
Footsteps came closer. "Maybe it's best if you step outside for a moment."
He didn't answer. Just stood there, staring at her.
She didn't look back.
"Mr Wood," the Healer said again, firmer.
He blinked. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came.
He turned and walked to the door.
When it closed behind him, the air in the room changed, wider, emptier.
Daphne stayed still, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then the sound came, not a scream, not a sob, something caught in between.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it didn't stop.
The next cry ripped through her, shaking her body, rattling the bed frame.
The Healer moved closer, whispering something she couldn't hear.
Daphne didn't listen.
She only heard herself.
The sound she'd been holding since the bath.
The sound that wouldn't stop now that it had escaped.
The sound of something leaving her for good.
The Healer whispered another spell. The air thickened.
The bed tilted. The world narrowed to light and breath.
The last thing she saw before the dark took her was Oliver, still by the door, frozen, as if leaving might kill him too.
---
Morning came without colour.
She didn't remember sleeping, just waking to light and the ache behind her eyes.
The room was still. The hum of the charms was gone.
Somewhere down the corridor, someone was crying, soft, steady, like a metronome.
The smell of sterile air clung to her skin. Even breathing felt wrong.
The sheets smelled faintly of lavender. A green pulse charm blinked beside her, keeping a rhythm she didn't want to hear.
The door opened quietly. Voices, low, careful.
Hermione stepped in first, her hair tied back, eyes tired.
Behind her came Pansy, no perfume, no heels, just black clothes and a hand clutching a small bag.
Neither spoke.
Daphne sat up, eyes on the far wall, expression empty.
"Hey," Hermione said softly.
No answer.
Pansy set the bag on the table. "We brought some things. Clothes. A few charms for home."
Still nothing.
Hermione sighed, picking up the folded robes from the chair. "Let's get you dressed, alright?"
Daphne didn't move.
She could hear them talking, but it reached her too slowly, like sound underwater.
Hermione sat beside her, careful. "You'll feel better once we leave this place."
Still no reaction.
Pansy's voice shook a little. "Wood's outside. He hasn't left since last night."
A pause. "He didn't even take his boots off."
The name floated between them, unanswered.
Hermione took Daphne's hand. Cold fingers met colder skin.
"You don't have to talk. Just let us help."
Daphne blinked once. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
They dressed her in silence.
The fabric slid over her arms. Her movements were slow, automatic. She didn't resist. She didn't help.
Hermione fastened the clasp at her throat. Her hands shook.
Pansy smoothed the sleeve, the hem. The sound of the buckle snapping closed felt too loud.
When they were done, Hermione brushed a strand of hair from Daphne's face. "There," she whispered. "All set."
Daphne looked down at her hands resting in her lap. They didn't feel like hers.
"They're waiting," Hermione said quietly. "You can go whenever you're ready."
Daphne nodded once. It didn't mean anything.
Pansy tried to smile. "We'll be right here, love."
Daphne turned her head toward the window. The sky outside was flat, pale, endless.
The world was still moving. She wasn't.
When she stood, she didn't stumble. She didn't cry.
She just moved, slow, steady, quiet.
The corridor smelled of fear and disinfectant.
She walked through it like her body belonged to someone else.
Hermione opened the door.
Pansy's hand brushed her arm, light and quick.
Daphne didn't look back. She couldn't.
She stepped out of St. Mungo's like someone following a script she didn't remember writing.
Each step sounded far away, echoing down a corridor that refused to end.
Behind her, the air stayed still, like the world itself was holding its breath.