OrionB15 - A Star Is Born Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Harry woke to the clink of dishes from somewhere beyond the bedroom. For several seconds he remained exactly where he was, head throbbing, half beneath Daphne’s blankets, watching pale morning light spread across the vaguely familiar ceiling while the last pieces of the previous night settled pleasantly into place. The cottage was remarkably quiet compared to his own flat in the heart of Muggle London. The smell of tea, toast, and something lightly floral that he had already begun associating with Daphne drew him out of her room.

He found her in the sitting room, already dressed for the day. Her hair had been restored from the disarray he remembered creating, and she was fastening one of the cuffs of a dark green blouse as though there had not been a considerably less composed version of her tangled around him only a few hours earlier.

Harry leaned against the doorway, still wearing only his trousers. “You’re leaving?”

Daphne glanced at him. “Some people have responsibilities.”

“I have responsibilities,” Harry defended.

“You are standing in my sitting room half dressed at nearly nine in the morning,” Daphne countered, unimpressed.

“I didn’t say I was currently meeting them.”

Her mouth twitched. She finished with the cuff, reached for her tea, and gave him a slow look over the rim of the cup. “You must have a very demanding professional schedule.”

“I’m on a bye week,” Harry offered weakly.

“Then I suppose the nation can rest easily knowing Harry Potter is using it productively.”

Harry crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa beside her. He took the cup from her hand before she could stop him, drank from it, and earned a flat stare.

“As much as I’d rather go back to bed with you,” he said, returning the tea, “I do actually have somewhere to be.”

“That sounded almost convincing.”

“I promised Ron and Hermione I’d go to Hogwarts. Demelza has a match.”

Daphne’s expression softened slightly at that. She knew about the letters, and Harry had told her he wanted to help his former teammate in any way he could.

“She’s Gryffindor’s captain now, right?”

“Yeah. She’s dreaming about the combine. I said I’d watch her play and offer her some pointers.”

“So you are spending your day encouraging an impressionable young witch to pursue a career involving broken bones, newspaper scrutiny, and men shouting at her from the stands,” Daphne said, trying to bring back the light-hearted playfulness in her tone.

“That’s more or less the plan,” Harry said, appreciating the joke from someone who loved Quidditch as much as anyone.

“How noble.”

She set her tea down, but rather than rise, Daphne shifted closer and rested one hand against his bare chest. Her fingers traced a faint bruise near his shoulder from the Falcons match, her touch absent-minded and familiar enough that Harry wondered whether she was trying to make what came next easier.

“I have had fun with you,” she said.

Harry looked down at her. “That sounds ominous.”

“It was meant to sound complimentary.”

“Usually when someone starts with that, they’re about to explain why I should leave.”

“You should leave. You have responsibilities,” Daphne reminded him.

He caught her wrist before she could withdraw her hand. “You know what I mean.”

Daphne held his gaze as some of the dry amusement left her expression.

“I do. And I mean it. I like you, Harry. More than I expected to, which has been deeply inconvenient.”

“This whole experience must have been terrible for you,” Harry teased.

“Awful. You are loud, impulsive, perpetually bruised, and apparently incapable of arriving at a woman’s home without making a public declaration from her doorstep.”

“I knocked.”

“You stood outside calling my name.”

“I did not!” Harry said with a forced laugh.

“You’re right, that was in my head,” Daphne replied, smiling softly as she ran a finger down his chest. “And I especially enjoy getting hot and heavy with you.”

Harry blinked.

Daphne’s smile widened at his expression. “Was that not the proper Muggle terminology?”

“I’m mostly surprised you know it,” Harry said, coloring a little at her words.

“Tracey has many educational qualities,” Daphne said, returning her hands to her lap and offering a nonchalant shrug.

“I’m going to have to thank her,” Harry joked weakly.

“No, you are not.”

Harry laughed, but when Daphne’s hand flattened against his chest again, the quiet beneath the joke remained. “I am not regretting last night,” she said. “Or our last time together. I would like that understood.”

“Understood.”

“But there were already people watching when you came through Puddlemere yesterday. There are always people watching you. Someone may have seen you outside my cottage, and if they did, there is every chance we will both be in the papers before lunch.”

Harry glanced toward the front window, suddenly aware of how exposed the little lane beyond it might have been. “I could speak to the Puddlemere Press. I might have a friend who can keep it quiet as a favor.” 

“And tell them what?” Daphne asked carefully.

“To leave you alone,” Harry promised.

Daphne gave him a look that was not unkind. “You continue to believe that Harry Potter asking the press not to discuss something makes them less interested in discussing it.”

“Sometimes I forget they’re idiots.”

“No. You remember. You simply believe they should make an exception when you ask nicely.”

Harry sat back, the warmth of the morning cooling around the edges.

Daphne looked toward the window. “My father does business in this town. Astoria still receives enough attention whenever she so much as looks in Oliver Wood’s direction. I have no desire to become the latest witch being measured for how suitably she stands beside Harry Potter, and I especially have no desire for my family to be dragged through it.”

“I wouldn’t let them—”

“You cannot prevent it.” The interruption was gentle, but absolute.

Harry went quiet.

Daphne turned back toward him. “This isn’t me saying you’ve done something wrong. It’s me telling you what I’m willing to live with.”

“And this isn’t it.”

“No.”

There was no accusation in the word. Somehow, that made it land more cleanly.

She reached for her tea again and added, with studied casualness, “It would probably help if you were seen with someone else.”

Harry stared at her. “That’s your solution?”

“It is a solution,” Daphne countered.

“You want me to find another woman before lunch?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“I did not establish a timetable.”

“How considerate,” Harry offered sarcastically.

Daphne took another sip. “Susan Bones might be suitable.”

Harry nearly choked despite not currently drinking anything. “Susan?”

“She is attractive, respectable, from a good family, and already knows how to survive public attention. You’ve also been photographed with her in public before.”

“She’s also one of Hannah’s closest friends,” Harry grumbled.

Daphne’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Hannah Abbott?”

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. He had never given Daphne the full story, partly because there had never seemed a useful moment to explain that the woman he had once almost begun something with had ended it before anything properly started.

“Hannah and I… we almost had something. My future in the game, however, was going to affect our business. We were never together.”

“I hadn’t realized you were ever seeing her.”

“I wasn’t. Not really.”

“That sounds admirably complicated.”

“It shouldn't have been, but it was.”

Daphne considered that, then nodded as though revising an internal calculation. “Perhaps not Susan, then. It sounds like things may be complicated enough there.”

“They might be,” Harry admitted.

“There must be someone,” Daphne said. “You’re a pro Quidditch player. I assume women just throw themselves at you.”

“I’m touched by your commitment to finding your replacement,” Harry said, doing a poor job of keeping the bitterness from his voice.

Her expression softened once more. “Not a replacement.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, slow enough that for a moment Harry forgot the conversation had already reached its conclusion. Her fingers curled briefly against the back of his neck, and he drew her closer, tasting tea and the fading warmth of the night they had shared. When she pulled away, she remained close enough that her forehead nearly touched his.

“A distraction,” she murmured. “The press has a short attention span. Give them something shinier.”

Harry looked at her. “And what happens to us?”

Daphne was quiet just long enough for Harry to know the answer before she spoke. “We had something good.”

“Past tense?”

“Practical tense.”

“That isn’t a tense.”

“It might be in this world you have found yourself in.”

He wanted to argue. Not because he believed he was in love with her, or because he imagined some grand future waiting between them, but because he had liked this. He had liked her. He liked the way she refused to be impressed by him and how easily they could banter when they were alone. But she had not asked him to convince her. She had told him where the boundary stood.

Harry exhaled. “I did have fun.”

“I know,” Daphne said with a smirk.

“And for the record, I was excellent at getting hot and heavy. Don't even try to deny it.”

“You were enthusiastic,” Daphne offered placatingly.

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” Daphne said, rising from the sofa. “But enthusiasm can sometimes be more fun.”

Harry watched her collect her handbag and move toward the door, perfectly composed once again. At the threshold, she paused. “Try not to ruin the girl’s professional ambitions.”

“Demelza’s?”

“Whichever girl the newspapers assign you next. I'll trust you not to go through my things. Feel free to clean yourself up here before heading to the match.”

Then she was gone. Harry remained on the sofa for another moment, staring at the closed door before looking toward the bedroom and the clothes he had left scattered across its floor. He did not feel heartbroken. He did not even feel particularly surprised.

He was only disappointed that something enjoyable had ended precisely when he had begun to forget the sting of leaving Hannah behind.

Half an hour later, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and carrying the faint scent of Daphne’s perfume with him, Harry arrived outside the gates of Hogwarts to discover that discretion had already become a lost cause.

.o.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said as Harry approached the Hogwarts gates. “I can’t tell whether you had the night of your life or the disappointment of the century.”

Harry stopped in front of them, one hand still buried in the pocket of his coat. He had showered, changed, and made a genuine effort to look as though he had slept for more than a few hours. Apparently, the effort had failed. “Good morning to you too.”

Hermione studied him for only a moment before reaching the inevitable conclusion. “You didn't stay home last night, did you?”

Harry glanced at Ron, who smirked. “You’ve got a very guilty face.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You Flooed home because I told you that you had drunk too much to Apparate, but you didn’t go to bed, did you? You went back out. And judging by the perfume, you spent the night with someone. Can I assume it was at least Daphne instead of some random fangirl?”

“When you say it like that, it makes me sound irresponsible.”

“It was irresponsible,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry accepted that with a small sigh. “Fair.”

Hermione appeared momentarily disarmed by the lack of resistance. She had probably prepared several more arguments during the wait. “You could at least have left a note. What if we had come to check on you this morning? We would have been really worried if you had not been home.”

“How do you know I didn't?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Did you?” Hermione asked.

“Well… no,” Harry said sheepishly.

Ron looked between them, clapping his hands. “Excellent. We’ve established that Harry did something stupid. I was worried we might go an entire morning without doing that.”

Hermione gave him a look, but the matter was allowed to rest. Harry was relieved. She was right from a strictly sensible point of view—and Hermione usually was—but he was nineteen years old, financially independent, and employed in a profession where men tried to knock him unconscious several times a month. He could survive one poor late-night decision without a formal hearing. Most importantly, he did not regret going.

The three of them passed through the open gates and started toward the castle. The morning had begun cool and clear, with thin sunlight spreading across the grounds and mist still lingering over the far edge of the lake. Hogwarts rose ahead of them in the same impossible collection of towers, windows, and mismatched stone Harry remembered, though returning no longer produced the sharp ache it once had. The castle was not home anymore, but it remained the place where most of the important parts of his life had begun.

Ron glanced sideways at him. “Well?”

“Well what?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Night of your life or disappointment of the century?”

“Bit of both.”

Ron nodded as though pleased with his original diagnosis. “I knew it.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “What happened?”

“Nothing dramatic. Daphne doesn’t want the attention,” Harry said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Because someone might have seen you?”

Harry nodded. “She thinks there’s a good chance we’ll be in the papers today. Her father does business in Puddlemere. Astoria already attracts enough attention because she does, in fact, fangirl over Wood, and Daphne doesn’t want her family turned into a public spectacle.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Hermione said.

“It is.”

Ron watched him for another few steps. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I liked her. I still do. She had fun. I had fun. She just doesn’t want whatever comes with being seen with me.” Turning to face Hermione now, Harry added, “I know this has not been my best look, but you have to admit it hasn't been completely my fault. Susan wasn't ready after the war, I was interfering with Hannah's business, and now Daphne doesn't want the publicity. I promise I'm not trying to jump from woman to woman, despite what you may think.”

Hermione held her hands up defensively. “I never insinuated such a thing, Harry. I just worry about you.”

Harry released the breath he had been holding and sighed. “Don't be. I'm disappointed, not heartbroken.”

Hermione put a comforting arm around his shoulder as they continued towards the castle. Harry was grateful she spared him any further chastisement. He just wanted to enjoy a game of Quidditch today. Maybe do a little mentoring for an old friend.

Ron, however, did not seem completely ready to let the topic drop. “Shame.”

“It is,” Harry admitted, eying his friend cautiously.

“Did she at least say you were brilliant?” Ron asked teasingly.

Harry gave him a flat look. “She said I was enthusiastic.”

Ron’s laugh burst across the quiet grounds, startling several birds from a nearby tree. Hermione pressed her lips together, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. 

“I’m never telling either of you anything again,” Harry muttered, stepping out of Hermione's embrace.

“I didn’t ask you for details,” Ron said. “You just volunteered it.”

Harry increased his pace, leaving them to hurry after him. They had not encountered many students yet. It was Saturday morning, and most of the castle seemed to be moving slower than usual. A few figures crossed between the greenhouses and the main doors, while others drifted down the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch. The match did not begin for some time, but House scarves and broom-shaped banners had already started appearing among the small groups.

The first student to properly notice them was a young Ravenclaw coming up the path with an armful of books. She glanced up at Hermione, looked toward Ron, and then saw Harry.

The books slipped from her hands. Harry stopped automatically. “You all right?”

The girl stared at him. A roll of parchment continued down the path between them. Hermione bent to retrieve it.

“I—yes. Sorry. Yes.”

She accepted the parchment without looking away from Harry, then turned sharply and hurried toward the castle. She managed perhaps twenty feet before breaking into a run.

Ron watched her go. “That seemed normal.”

“She’s probably late,” Harry said.

“She dropped everything when she saw you,” Ron pointed out.

“Maybe she suddenly remembered,” Harry offered weakly.

“Remembered what?” Ron asked incredulously.

“That she was late.”

Ron looked toward Hermione. “He’s got very good at this.”

“At what?” Harry asked, feeling insulted.

“Pretending people aren’t staring at you.”

Harry did not need to turn around to know the Ravenclaw had already found someone to tell. A distant voice carried from behind them, followed by another. When they reached the broad path curving around the greenhouses, two Hufflepuffs emerged from between the buildings, saw them, and stopped dead.

One of them pointed. The other slapped his hand down.

“I don't think the pointing was necessary,” Hermione said quietly.

“He might’ve thought his mate might miss Harry,” Ron joked.

Word of their arrival spread ahead of them with startling speed. Students turned and whispered to their friends, conversations broke apart, and more than one person changed direction entirely. Harry had been recognized at Hogwarts plenty of times, but this felt different.

---

Harry spotted at least a few students wearing small blue-and-gold Quidditch pins beside their House crests. It seemed enough Hogwarts alumni were now playing for Puddlemere to attract a new fan base. Surveying the area, he even spotted a few students wearing replicas of the robes he wore during matches. 

These students were not only looking at the Boy Who Lived anymore. They were looking at Puddlemere United’s Seeker.

Of course, Harry was not alone in their attention. A group of third-year Gryffindors became equally animated when they recognized Ron and Hermione. Their names rippled outward with Harry’s, carrying pieces of the war with them—Gringotts, the Ministry, the Battle of Hogwarts, the three friends who had disappeared together and returned at the centre of everything.

“Blimey,” Ron murmured. “Have we always caused this much trouble just by walking?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “You were usually just too busy causing other trouble to notice.”

One student finally gathered enough courage to approach. He could not have been older than thirteen and wore a Puddlemere badge large enough to cover half the Gryffindor crest on his robes. “Mr Potter?”

Harry slowed. “Harry’s fine.”

The boy’s eyes widened, as though this were somehow more astonishing than Harry’s presence. “Are you here for the match?”

“That’s the plan,” Harry said with a grin.

“Are you playing?” the boy asked, astonished by the thought.

“I don't think that would be very fair since I am on a professional team now, even if I would love to,” Harry joked.

Disappointment flashed over the boy’s face before excitement replaced it. “Are you scouting?”

Ron lifted the notebook he had brought. “He isn’t.”

The boy finally noticed Ron properly, then Hermione, and seemed to lose the ability to decide which famous person he ought to be speaking to.

Harry rescued him. “I trust that since you’re wearing Gryffindor colors, you’re supporting my friend Demelza today, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered animatedly. “Captain Robbins is going to lead us to another Cup this year.”

“Good answer.”

The boy grinned. Someone called his name from farther down the path, and he hurried away, immediately surrounded by several friends demanding to know what Harry had said.

That encounter apparently gave everyone else permission. By the time they reached the stands overlooking the Quidditch grounds, a loose crowd had gathered around them. Harry signed a few scraps of parchment, a match programme, and one Puddlemere scarf. Ron was asked about the chess match during the hunt for the Philosopher’s Stone by a boy who looked personally offended when Ron admitted he could not remember every move. Hermione fielded a breathless question about whether she had truly kept Rita Skeeter inside a jar and refused to answer it despite Ron’s enthusiastic encouragement.

Harry could see the pitch beyond the students surrounding them. The stands were beginning to fill faster now, word of their arrival apparently pulling people from the castle well ahead of the match. Banners were being unfurled across the railings. A few professors had emerged from the grounds entrance to investigate the commotion, though most looked more entertained than concerned.

At the centre of them stood Professor McGonagall. She waited with her hands folded over the head of her walking stick, her expression composed except for the faintest trace of satisfaction around her mouth. Unlike everyone else, she showed no surprise whatsoever.

“Mr Potter,” she said once they finally reached her. “Mr Weasley. Miss Granger.”

“Professor,” Harry greeted warmly.

“I am pleased to see that all three of you remain capable of arriving somewhere without destroying the entrance.”

Ron looked toward the intact stadium gates. “Morning’s still young. These look like they could use a fresh remodel.”

McGonagall’s mouth tightened. “I was speaking primarily to Mr Potter.”

“That seems unfair,” Harry exclaimed.

“Experience suggests otherwise,” McGonagall deadpanned.

Hermione hugged her before the exchange could continue. McGonagall tolerated the embrace for a dignified second before returning it, then greeted Ron and Harry with considerably briefer affection.

“You knew we were coming?” Hermione asked.

“I did receive a notification from Mr Potter that the three of you would be attending. It was unnecessary, however, because Miss Robbins had already informed me that Mr Potter had accepted her invitation. I had therefore assumed the three of you would be in attendance together.”

Harry glanced toward the growing crowd. “Looks like it was a pretty well-kept secret until we arrived.”

“Miss Robbins requested discretion.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

McGonagall looked past him at the students filling the path and the stands. “I believe she wished to avoid precisely this.”

Ron surveyed the excitement. “She may have underestimated Harry.”

“Most people do,” Hermione said.

“Some of us learn, I assure you, Ms. Granger. We have beefed up security for today's match just in case. I am well aware of the trouble you three can unwittingly bring,” McGonagall replied.

Harry and Ron immediately protested this while Hermione sighed wistfully. Down by the players' entrance, Harry spotted the Gryffindor team arriving and drew his focus away from the indignant group.

It was the scarlet robes Harry saw first, followed by several students carrying brooms and equipment onto the grass. The players slowed almost immediately when they noticed the unusual number of people gathering near the entrance. One pointed toward Harry. Another nearly walked into a crate of practice Quaffles in surprise.

Then Demelza stepped through the doorway. She spotted him at once. For a heartbeat, the commotion surrounding Harry seemed to disappear. Demelza stood apart from her team with her broom in hand, looking incredibly composed and ready for the match ahead. Despite being the only student who knew Harry and his friends were coming today, her face broke into a delighted smile. Whatever composure she had brought onto the pitch vanished as she shoved her broom into the hands of the nearest startled teammate before breaking away from the group. She crossed the grass at a hurried walk that became something very close to a run by the time McGonagall led Harry, Ron, and Hermione to the stadium entrance.

Demelza reached Harry near the boundary line and threw her arms around him. Harry laughed in surprise but returned the embrace, briefly lifted from the morning’s strangeness by something comfortably familiar. Demelza had been one of his Chasers, one of the younger players he had tried to guide through his chaotic year as Gryffindor captain. He remembered shouting instructions at her during practice, watching her and Ginny tear through opposing defences, and wondering how Wood had ever managed to keep an entire team pointed in the same direction.

Demelza released him after a moment, apparently remembering that her teammates, half the stands, and Professor McGonagall were all watching. A faint flush rose into her cheeks, though her smile did not diminish. “You really came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know.” She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I knew you would. It’s just different seeing you actually standing here.”

Harry glanced at the students pressing against the railings and the growing collection of Gryffindors openly watching from across the pitch.

“I’m beginning to think we should’ve met somewhere quieter,” Harry joked.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Demelza said quickly. “Only Professor McGonagall knew.”

“You did ask for discretion,” McGonagall confirmed.

Demelza looked toward the crowded stands with a small frown. “That worked out brilliantly.”

“It lasted about five minutes from the time Mr Potter was seen walking across the grounds,” McGonagall said. “Under the circumstances, I consider that a respectable achievement.”

Demelza laughed and turned toward Hermione, greeting her with another warm hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Hermione said. “Congratulations on the captaincy. It’s very well deserved.”

“Thank you!” Demelza exclaimed, looking quite pleased by the compliment.

Demelza looked to Ron next and prepared to embrace him as well, though her eyes dropped almost immediately to the narrow notebook tucked beneath his arm. “You brought notes?”

Ron glanced down at it as if surprised to find it there. “I bring notes everywhere.”

“No, you don’t,” Hermione said.

Demelza looked between them. “Are you scouting?”

“I’m watching the match,” Ron said.

“With a self-inking quill?” Demelza asked suspiciously. 

“It saves time,” Ron joked.

“That means yes,” Harry told her.

A flicker of nerves passed across Demelza’s face, though she recovered quickly enough to give Ron a narrow, evaluating look of her own. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You should pretend I’m not here,” Ron said.

“You arrived with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Everyone in the castle knows you’re here.”

“Fair point.”

Demelza turned back to Harry, and the smile returned with such immediate warmth that Harry caught something admiring beneath it—the lingering respect of a younger player who had once listened for his instructions above the wind and still found it slightly unbelievable that he had made time for her.

“And you?” she asked. “Are you scouting too?”

“No,” Harry said simply.

“You didn’t bring notes?” Demelza questioned, surprised.

“I won’t need them,” Harry promised.

Her eyebrows rose. “That confident in your memory?”

“That confident I’ll know what I saw.”

The answer made her straighten slightly. She had invited Harry because she trusted him, but perhaps until that moment she had not fully considered what it would mean to have a professional player watching every choice she made.

Harry softened it with a smile. “I came to watch you play, Demelza. That’s all.”

“That isn’t exactly comforting.”

“It isn’t supposed to be.”

She laughed, though some nervous energy remained beneath it. One of the Gryffindor Chasers called her name from across the pitch. Demelza glanced back and found her abandoned broom still being held by a teammate who looked somewhere between impressed that her captain had hugged Harry Potter and annoyed that she was stuck holding two broomsticks.

“I should go. We need to get ready.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll be here.”

Demelza took two steps away before turning back. “You’ll stay afterward?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll tell me what you really think?”

“Every bit of it.”

Her expression settled—not quite into confidence yet, but into determination. “Good.”

She hurried back across the grass, reclaimed her broom with an apologetic smile, and immediately found herself surrounded by teammates demanding to know what Harry Potter had said to her.

Harry watched her disappear among the scarlet robes.

Ron pulled the notebook from beneath his arm. “She seems happy to see you.”

“She used to be one of my Chasers.”

“Yes,” Ron said. “I remember.”

There was enough in his tone to make Harry glance sideways at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Hermione shook her head before Ron could elaborate. “Leave her alone. Harry was her captain, and she looks up to him.”

Harry looked back toward the Gryffindor team. Demelza had retrieved the Quaffle and was gesturing for her Chasers to gather near the centre of the field. The delighted seventeen-year-old who had rushed across the pitch to hug him was already being replaced by Captain Robbins.

At least, Harry thought she was. He intended to find out. The stands continued filling above them, students pressing eagerly against the railings for a better look at the three unexpected visitors. Harry barely noticed. For most of his life, he had returned to Hogwarts because the castle needed something from him.

Today, he had come to just watch one of his friends play Quidditch.