The dormitory was unusually quiet for a Friday night. A faint violet light from the phone in Daphne Greengrass's hands flickered across her face, throwing pale reflections against the canopy of her bed. The broadcast had just ended. The last frame—Oliver standing in a storm of stars, his phoenix blazing above him—still glowed on the screen.
She hadn't moved since it faded to black.
Outside the window, the towers of Hogwarts shimmered under moonlight, calm and unknowing, as if nothing monumental had just happened. But inside Daphne's chest, the world was still ringing.
The lyrics looped in her head, refusing to fade.
"You don't know how it feels to be alone…"
The words stung like a curse.
She mouthed them once, lips trembling. "You were singing to me," she whispered, voice barely audible. "To all of us."
Her roommates had gone down to the common room the moment the performance started, joining the other Slytherins crowding around the large enchanted mirror that projected the show from the pitch. Daphne had stayed behind, pretending disinterest, but curiosity—or guilt—had made her open her phone and watch alone. Now she wished she hadn't.
She could still see the look on his face when he sang those lines: open, honest, raw. It wasn't anger that radiated from him—it was hurt, disappointment, and something worse. Forgiveness.
It was unbearable.
Daphne set the phone on her lap and pressed both palms to her eyes. She saw flashes of memory, little humiliations she'd never cared to think about before.
Oliver smiling at her the first week of term, trying to start a conversation in the common room.
She'd brushed him off with a curt, "You should sit with your own kind."
The laughter that followed—from Pansy, Theo, even her own lips—had sounded triumphant at the time. Now it echoed hollowly in her ears.
Then there was the potions class incident, when Oliver had singed his sleeve in a burst of sparks. She'd smirked. Everyone had. "Maybe he should invent a potion for basic competence." The memory made her stomach twist.
A choked laugh escaped her, bitter and cracked. "Merlin, I'm awful."
The phone buzzed suddenly, and she jumped. The glowing name across the screen read Astoria.
She hesitated. Her thumb hovered over Decline, but the guilt pushed her toward Accept.
"Hey," she said, trying to sound normal.
Astoria's voice burst through immediately—bright, breathless.
"Daph! Did you see it? The boy on the phone—Oliver! That light, that phoenix! Everyone's talking about it! Half my dorm's crying! You have to tell me what he's like—he's in your House, isn't he?"
Daphne froze. The question struck like a Bludger to the ribs. Her throat went dry.
"Y-yeah," she managed after a second. "He's… he's in Slytherin."
"That's amazing! Are you friends?" Astoria asked, innocent curiosity shining through. "You must be, right? Everyone says he's nice."
The air seemed to drain from the room.
Daphne stared down at her knees, at the faint shimmer of starlight still reflected on the phone screen. Her mouth opened, but no words came. The truth was unbearable to speak.
Her silence stretched too long.
Astoria's cheerful tone wavered. "Daph? Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Daphne said quickly, forcing a weak laugh. "No, I just—classes, you know. I'm tired. Stress." She bit her lip hard, hoping her voice wouldn't crack. "I'm happy for him, though. Really."
"Oh. Okay." Astoria hesitated, still sounding puzzled. "You should rest then. I just wanted to share it with you. You'd have loved it."
"Yeah," Daphne whispered. "I did."
She ended the call before Astoria could hear the quiver in her voice.
The room was silent again, except for the faint hum of the magic in the phone. Daphne's shoulders shook once, then again, until she gave in completely. Tears slipped down her cheeks, darkening the fabric of her green blanket. She buried her face in her hands and cried—the quiet, broken kind of crying that didn't echo, only trembled.
"He was kind," she whispered to no one. "And I—Merlin, I helped them laugh at him."
The guilt pressed harder with every heartbeat. She'd convinced herself back then that it hadn't mattered. Oliver was strange, yes, but harmless. She'd only gone along with the teasing to keep her friends. That was the Slytherin way, wasn't it? To stay aligned, to survive.
But now the whole world was celebrating him. The same boy she'd looked down on had become the spark of something bigger than anyone could have imagined. And she had been one of the people who made his first months here miserable.
A sob tore free before she could swallow it down.
From the window, the reflection of her own tear-streaked face stared back at her—proud Greengrass features, hair immaculate even now, eyes rimmed with red. She hated the sight.
"All my friends are toxic," she murmured, remembering the lyric. "So am I."
She rose unsteadily from the bed and crossed to the window. The view outside looked unreal, the Black Lake glimmering faintly with reflected starlight. Somewhere out there, under the same sky, Oliver was still probably surrounded by crowds, smiling that nervous, shy smile that had once made her roll her eyes.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. "You deserved better than us."
The phone chimed softly with a notification from the global broadcast replay link. It offered a single glowing word: Replay?
Daphne's finger trembled above it. She wanted to hear the song again—to punish herself with every lyric—but she couldn't bear it. Instead, she closed the phone and held it to her chest.
It hurt too much because it was true.
Every word of it.
She sat back down on her bed, numb, staring at the folded blanket across her lap.
The Greengrass crest embroidered into its corner gleamed faintly—silver serpent on dark green. The symbol of her family's pride. Her shield. Her excuse.
"Maybe being a Greengrass isn't supposed to mean being heartless," she whispered.
A long silence followed. For the first time, she couldn't think of what her mother or father would say to that. They'd taught her etiquette, restraint, how to hold power through distance. But they'd never taught her what to do with regret.
Daphne picked up her quill and parchment from the bedside table. Her hands shook as she uncorked the ink bottle. She didn't know exactly what she meant to write—maybe nothing at all—but the words came anyway, hesitant and uneven.
Oliver,
I don't expect forgiveness. I just need to say I'm sorry. For everything—
She paused. The quill hovered mid-stroke as another tear blurred the ink.
She couldn't even finish the sentence.
Her breath hitched; she forced the quill down again.
—for how I treated you when you deserved kindness. — D.
She stared at the letter, then folded it carefully and pressed it flat between her palms. The paper felt fragile, like it could crumble if she held it too tightly.
"I'll give it to you when you come back," she whispered. "If I can look you in the eyes."
Outside, the faint sound of laughter echoed from the Slytherin common room—her housemates celebrating the win they'd all just watched. Pansy's shrill voice carried through the stone hallway: "Did you see his face when he caught the Snitch? Our House finally has someone worth bragging about!"
Daphne winced. The others would celebrate Oliver now, of course. Slytherins always backed success, even if they'd mocked it yesterday. She used to think that was clever. Now it just felt ugly.
She tucked the note into her journal and slid it under her pillow. For a while she sat motionless, listening to the muffled cheers fade into the dungeon's low hum. Then she exhaled, long and shaky, and whispered to the empty room, "Next time, I'll be better."
She turned off the lamp beside her bed. The darkness settled softly around her, broken only by the faint glow of the phone screen still lying on the blanket.
On it, frozen mid-frame, Oliver's face glowed with light—eyes closed, mouth open mid-song, hair catching the shimmer of his phoenix's fire. The light made it look almost like he was surrounded by the stars again.
Daphne reached out and brushed her fingers against the image. "You really are something else, aren't you?" she whispered.
And for the first time in years, Daphne Greengrass prayed—not for status, not for success, but for the courage to apologize and mean it.
Sleep didn't come.
Daphne lay on her back and watched the embroidered vines on her canopy swim in and out of focus. The dormitory had settled into that peculiar dungeon silence — the low sigh of water through rock, the occasional creak of old magic breathing. One by one, her roommates drifted in. Pansy and Millicent whispered and giggled as they changed; Tracey arrived last, pausing at Daphne's curtains before deciding against conversation.
The green lamp above the wardrobe guttered out. Only the dim silver of moonlight spilled across the rug.
Daphne turned on her side, her hand finding the folded note she'd tucked beneath her pillow. The paper's edge pressed against her fingertip — sharp, real, grounding. She told herself that tomorrow would be different, that she could make it different.
She tried to breathe evenly — slow in, hold, slow out — the way Madam Pomfrey had once taught them after a series of bad flying accidents. But Oliver's voice, echoing through memory, broke the rhythm again and again.
You don't know how it feels to be alone.
She pressed her face into the pillow. "I helped make sure you were," she whispered to no one.
When she couldn't lie still any longer, Daphne slipped out of bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, forcing her awake. She pulled on a long cardigan and eased open the curtains. Her roommates' breathing rose and fell, unaware.
The Slytherin common room was nearly empty. Embers blinked in the fireplace, throwing copper scales across the serpent-patterned tiles. Someone had abandoned a half-eaten treacle tart on the card table. The enchanted window looked out into the lake, where weeds drifted and a flash of something scaled flickered past.
She hugged herself, unsure what she was doing down here until a soft pop made her flinch.
"Hot cocoa?" a small voice offered.
Daphne blinked at the house-elf standing beside a tray. His eyes shone like lamps.
"I—yes, please," she managed.
The elf poured carefully and handed her the cup with both hands, smiling so wide it nearly split his face. "Miss Daphne is up late. Lots of students are up late after the boy's show."
The boy. Even the elves were calling Oliver that. It stung in a tender, guilty way. "You watched?"
"Yes, miss. All the elves watched on the kitchen mirror. We liked when he sang with the blue bird." He tilted his head, imitating Nyx's curious bob.
Daphne surprised herself by smiling faintly. "Nyx," she said softly.
"Nyx," the elf repeated reverently. "Pretty name."
The cocoa was too sweet, but it warmed her hands. "Thank you."
"Peaty, miss," he said when she asked his name. Then, blushing pink, he vanished with a small pop.
Alone again, Daphne walked to the enchanted window. The water pressed darkly against the glass; a few silver minnows scribbled past. She rested her forehead against the cold pane. Her mother's old lessons floated up — A Greengrass never unravels in public.
She had always obeyed that rule. Tonight it felt like a chain.
Her phone buzzed on a nearby table. A message from Tori bloomed on the screen:
Did you go outside? The stars look brighter after that song. Promise you'll look?
Daphne's throat tightened. She typed back:
I'm looking. They do. Sleep, Tori.
Astoria's reply came at once, as if she'd been waiting, fingers poised.
Night, Daph. Be kind to yourself. You're my favorite person.
The message nearly broke her. She blinked away the sting in her eyes, tucked the phone into her cardigan pocket beside the folded note, and slipped through the arched passage toward the stair that led up, up, out of the dungeons.
The castle's hush wrapped around her. Torches flickered low; shadows breathed. She moved without thinking, her slippers whispering against stone. It took a long time to climb to the entrance hall, longer still to push open the great oak doors.
The night air met her like cool glass — clean, sharp, real. Hogwarts spread before her, a dark silhouette against the starlit sky. The Black Lake lay perfectly still, mirroring the moon. Beyond it, the forest stood solemn and black. Above everything, the stars burned in uncountable patience.
Daphne stepped out onto the steps and sat, drawing her knees to her chest. The night hummed with the distant sound of water and wind. The stars didn't feel like destiny tonight; they simply existed, steady and bright, asking nothing of her.
She imagined the place where Oliver's stadium had become a swirl of living light, where his voice had stretched across the world and somehow reached even here. For a moment, she could almost feel that echo again — awe and regret tangled into something strangely peaceful.
Maybe Tori's right, she thought. Maybe the stars really are brighter when you finally look up.
She stayed until her fingers numbed and the moon began to dip behind the towers. The guilt hadn't vanished, but it had changed shape — no longer a wound, more like a weight she could carry without breaking.
When at last she stood, the castle loomed warm and familiar again. The oak door creaked softly as she pushed it open and stepped back into the glow of torchlight.
She turned once to look behind her. The night spread quiet and deep, and for the first time in a long while, Daphne Greengrass whispered into it, "I'll make it right."
Then she closed the door and let the hush of Hogwarts swallow the words whole