Morning didn't arrive so much as appear.
The manor stirred, curtains opening on their own, a still fire starting in the grate. A house-elf placed a tray on the low table and slipped away.
Daphne sat by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup she didn't drink from. She hadn't left that chair since dawn.
The sound of footsteps broke the hush.
Pansy entered without knocking, the click of her boots cutting through the quiet. She smelled like rain and perfume, sharp, elegant, impossible to ignore.
"Well," she said, tossing her cloak over the arm of a chair. "You look terrible."
Daphne turned her head slowly. "Good morning to you too."
Pansy sighed, already tired of her own bluntness. "You need to see someone, Daph. A Mind Healer. Anyone, really. Preferably before you start talking to the furniture."
"No."
"Then I'll make the appointment for you."
"You'll waste your time."
"I'm very good at wasting time," Pansy said dryly, crossing her legs. "Especially on people who pretend they don't need help."
Daphne's gaze drifted back to the garden. The willow stood motionless in the fog.
"You came all this way to insult me?"
"I came because you won't answer letters," Pansy shot back. "And because someone has to tell you what's happening outside this mausoleum."
The fire cracked once. Silence hung between them.
Pansy leaned forward. "He's falling apart, you know."
Daphne didn't move.
"Wood," Pansy clarified. "He got himself kicked out of a match last week. Threw a Bludger charm at a referee. Lucky he wasn't arrested. Reporters are circling."
Daphne's hands tightened on her cup.
"Let them circle."
"That's what I said," Pansy muttered, then sighed again. "But he's a wreck, and you're a ghost. Between the two of you, someone has to come back to life first."
Daphne's voice came quiet, detached. "I didn't ask you to come here and fix us."
"I know. You never ask for anything." Pansy's tone softened. "That's the problem."
Silence again.
Then Pansy said quietly, "I fought with Longbottom again."
Daphne looked at her, finally. "You fight with him every week."
"Yes, but this time he started it."
Daphne's eyebrow lifted, a small flicker of the woman she used to be. "I find that hard to believe."
"He called me unreasonable," Pansy said, indignant. "Over a greenhouse bench. A bench. Who does that?"
"You?"
Pansy scowled. "I hate you."
"You came to see me."
"I know," she said after a beat, her voice softer. "You're still my best friend, unfortunately."
Something flickered in Daphne's eyes, not warmth, but awareness.
Pansy took it as a win and stood, smoothing her cloak.
"By the way, your sister wrote to me," she said.
That caught Daphne's attention. "Astoria?"
"Yes. The spoiled one. She's… busy."
Daphne frowned. "Busy?"
"Parties. London. Muggles. Some club with lights and ridiculous drinks. She says it's freeing. I say it's idiotic."
Daphne's lips curved faintly. "She always liked attention."
"Liked? She's thriving on it." Pansy rolled her eyes. "Last week she sent me a photograph of herself in sequins and red lipstick, dancing on a table. Said she's 'reinventing herself.' I told her she was an embarrassment to Slytherin."
"She probably thanked you for the compliment."
"She did," Pansy admitted, with a sigh. "She's not miserable, just… directionless. No idea who she's supposed to be without a last name to hide behind. A disaster in heels."
Daphne's jaw softened a little, something close to fondness in her eyes.
"She'll figure it out," she said. "She always lands on her feet."
"Usually in someone else's bed."
"Pansy."
"What? You're thinking it too."
Daphne sighed, but the sound wasn't sharp this time, it was weary, human.
Pansy smiled faintly, catching it. "There you are. I knew you hadn't turned completely to stone."
She pulled a folded parchment from her cloak and placed it on the table.
"Mind Healer. Tomorrow at three. If you don't go, I'll send her here."
"Blackmail?"
"Motivation."
Daphne didn't pick it up, but she didn't tear it either.
"That's progress," Pansy muttered. She hesitated at the door. "And Daph…"
"What?"
"You don't have to be brave with me. I already know what brave looks like, and it isn't this."
For a long second, Daphne just looked at her. Then she gave the smallest nod.
"Thank you."
Pansy's smile was tight but real. "Don't make me regret it."
She left before Daphne could answer.
---
The house fell still again. The fire shifted, the clock ticked. Outside, the fog had begun to lift, thin streaks of light bleeding through the grey.
An owl tapped the window near noon. She opened it. The owl dropped the Daily Prophet on the sill, pecked at her fingers, and flew off into the clouds. She didn't mean to look, but she saw his name anyway.
FROM GOLDEN KEEPER TO LOSING STREAK, IS OLIVER WOOD UNRAVELLING?
by Rita Skeeter
The moving photograph showed Oliver on the sideline, rain in his hair, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. Another frame caught him shouting at a referee. The ink shimmered with Skeeter's charm.
Sources inside the training camp whisper that domestic tensions are affecting the coach's judgement. Once a symbol of discipline, Wood now appears volatile, barely holding it together.
A smaller frame showed the two of them in a Ministry corridor months ago. The caption glittered cruelly,
Arranged harmony or public façade?
Daphne's hands tightened around the paper until the edge cut her skin.
Her breath came shallow, then deeper, sharper.
Not grief this time.
Anger.
Clean. Hot. Alive.
She read another paragraph.
Those close to the couple claim Lady Greengrass has been absent from public events since a mysterious incident earlier this winter…
That was enough.
Her wand was in her hand before she'd thought about it.
"Incendio," she whispered.
Flame caught at the corner, then swept through column and ink and photograph. The paper curled inward, burning fast. Smoke rose, grey and bitter.
Daphne stood very still, eyes on the fire until there was nothing left.
The sound of it, the hiss, the soft collapse, filled the room.
For the first time in weeks, she felt her heart beating fast enough to notice.
She turned toward the window. The fog was thinning now. The willow bent in the wind. For a moment, she thought she could smell rain.
---
Later that day, she found Astoria's letter in the desk drawer. She hadn't answered it. She unfolded the page, the paper smelled faintly of perfume and champagne.
Daph,
London is wild. You should see it. Muggles drink pink alcohol and dance to terrible music but somehow it works. There's a club that glows purple at night… I'm going again tonight. Don't worry, I'm fine. You'd hate it here. Everyone's too loud and no one knows who anyone is. It's freeing. Love, A.
Daphne read it twice. She didn't smile, but her chest didn't feel as hollow.
She folded the letter carefully, slid it back into the drawer, and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Astoria wasn't broken. Just spoiled, reckless, lost in noise.
And maybe that was better than silence.
---
Evening fell heavy and wet.
Rain streaked the windows, and the manor exhaled softly, like the walls themselves were remembering how to breathe.
Daphne lit the lamps one by one. She wasn't sure why. Maybe to feel the space respond.
The fire burned low when she noticed the parchment on the table, Pansy's appointment note.
She traced the seal with her thumb.
Didn't tear it. Didn't hide it either.
Just left it there, under the cup.
The house was still.
Too still.
Her hand moved to the door before her mind did.
The corridor outside was dim, the air cool.
Empty.
No sound. No slow breathing.
The place where he'd slept for weeks, gone.
She should have closed the door. She didn't.
Something faint shimmered near the floorboards, a small warming charm, recent, still pulsing softly in the air. He hadn't stayed. But he'd left the heat.
Her fingers hovered above the charm but didn't touch it.
She turned back to the room, leaving the door half-open.
On the table lay another copy of the Prophet. Someone had delivered it while she was inside.
She didn't read it. She carried it to the fire and dropped it whole into the flames.
Paper curled. Ink hissed.
The smell filled the air, sharp, clean, final.
She stood there, the light flickering across her face.
Her pulse steadied again.
She was still angry. But it didn't burn. It anchored.
She sat down, shoulders squared, back straight. The first time she'd sat like herself in days.
She breathed, in, out, the sound quiet but alive.
Outside, the willow moved again. Not much. Enough.
"Tomorrow," she said under her breath.
Not a promise.
A direction.