The next morning, the manor didn't wake.
It just existed, suspended, as if the clocks had stopped trying to keep time.
When the Floo activated in the drawing room, the sound cut through the stillness.
Hermione stepped out first, brushing soot from her cloak. Pansy followed, pale and sharp-eyed, holding a bouquet of white aconites that looked too fragile for the air.
Neither spoke at first.
Daphne sat in the corner of the sitting room, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, probably placed there by a house-elf during the night. She hadn't moved from the chair near the window. Her eyes were fixed on the garden, where the rain had turned the world to silver and shadow.
Her nightdress hung loose against her body, fabric slipping from one shoulder. The weight that had once anchored her was gone. Her body felt foreign, too light, too empty.
Her thumb brushed the pale mark where the ring used to be. The skin there looked fragile, like memory made visible.
Hermione came closer.
"They asked me to tell you," she said quietly, "it wasn't your fault."
Daphne didn't answer.
Hermione sat across from her, hands folded tight in her lap.
"The healers said there was a placental malformation. They tried everything. There was nothing anyone could have done."
A pause.
"Oliver almost hexed them when they said you might be at risk too."
Daphne blinked once.
"He shouldn't have."
Hermione's voice softened.
"He didn't care. He just couldn't lose you too."
Behind them, Pansy exhaled, sharp and shaky.
"You scared the hell out of us, Greengrass," she said, trying to sound composed, but her voice betrayed her.
Daphne turned her head slightly.
"It wasn't intentional."
"I know," Pansy whispered, "that's what makes it worse."
Silence settled again, thick and heavy, until Hermione reached into her bag and set a parchment on the table, a healer's report sealed with St. Mungo's crest.
"They confirmed it," she said, "magical exhaustion wasn't the cause. The rupture was spontaneous."
Daphne's hand hovered over the parchment but didn't touch it.
"Could it happen again?"
Hermione hesitated.
"There's no way to know."
"Right," Daphne said softly, "because nothing ever is."
Pansy looked like she wanted to say something but didn't. The air in the room felt dense, full of things that refused to be spoken.
When Hermione stood, she laid a hand on Daphne's shoulder.
"You're allowed to grieve," she murmured.
"I am grieving," Daphne said. "You just can't see it."
When they left, the scent of aconites lingered in the air, faint, sweet, unbearable.
Hermione's voice stayed long after she was gone, echoing softly, the sound of reason trying to mend what couldn't be fixed.
---
That night, the manor was too quiet again.
Daphne lay awake, eyes open in the dark. The air smelled of rain and cold stone. Every breath hurt, though she made no sound.
At first, she thought the noise she heard was the wind, but then came the soft creak of the door.
Oliver stood there, barefoot, hair dishevelled, the faint light from the hall outlining his face.
He didn't speak. Just stood there, watching her, uncertain, maybe afraid to make it worse.
When he finally whispered, his voice was rough.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
She turned her face to the wall.
"I'm not pretending."
A long pause.
He took one step closer, then stopped.
"You can hate me if it helps," he said quietly, "just don't shut me out."
No reply. Only the sound of her breathing, thin and uneven beneath the blanket.
He stayed a moment longer, then nodded to himself, though she couldn't see it.
"Goodnight, Daph."
The door closed softly.
She lay there, eyes open, hand pressed to her chest as if to hold something broken in place.
---
Hours passed.
The rain stopped.
The manor didn't move.
At some point, she got up, drawn by something she couldn't name. The floor was cold under her bare feet as she crossed to the door and opened it.
The corridor was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of an enchanted lantern at the far end. And there, slumped against the wall beside her door, was Oliver.
He was asleep.
Deep, restless sleep.
His head rested against the panelling, one arm over his chest, the other loose at his side. His shirt was creased, his hair a mess. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, his jaw tight, as if his body didn't believe there was peace left to find.
For a long moment, Daphne just stood there, watching him.
The rise and fall of his chest. The twitch of his fingers, as though even in dreams he couldn't stop holding on to something that wasn't there anymore.
He looked breakable, human in a way she'd never seen before.
Her hand brushed the doorframe, uncertain. She didn't wake him. Didn't speak. Just stepped back inside and leaned against the door, eyes open in the dark, listening.
Outside, his breathing was steady, the only sound in a house that had forgotten how to sleep.
---
It became a pattern.
Every night, when the world grew still and the air turned cold, she opened the door.
And every night, he was there, asleep against the wall, head tilted, hands folded loosely over his chest.
He never spoke, never knocked, never asked to come in.
Just slept there, night after night, as if his presence could guard her from something he couldn't name.
Once, she noticed a faint shimmer on the floor, a warming charm that lingered where he slept, fading by morning.
She never mentioned it.
And every night, she opened the door, just to see him.
To make sure he was still breathing.
Then she closed it again, the sound barely audible, careful not to wake him.
Weeks passed like that.
Two ghosts in the same house, separated by a wall and the kind of love that no longer had the strength to speak.