The final notes of the waltz drifted into silence, and the grand hall returned to its glittering hum. Couples began to disperse—some toward the warmth of the common rooms, others seeking quiet corners in the castle's many nooks and alcoves.
James and Fleur stepped off the dance floor, side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly against the marble.
For the first time in a long while, Fleur Delacour looked truly… content.
Not simply poised. Not admired. Happy.
Her arm curled lightly around James', her eyes watching him—not with flirtation, but curiosity.
"You know," she said softly, as they climbed a lesser-known spiral staircase, "most boys cannot hold a conversation with me for more than two minutes. Either they stammer like fools… or just stare."
James glanced at her, his tone light but honest. "Perhaps they're trying to memorize you. Like a painting."
Fleur smiled, a real one. Not the polite veil she wore at Beauxbatons. "And you?"
"I prefer movement," James replied. "Still life doesn't interest me."
She laughed—soft, musical. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
James smirked. "Depends who's asking."
They turned a final corner, pushing open a half-hidden wooden door that led to one of Hogwarts' forgotten rooftops—an open stone terrace bathed in pale moonlight, high above the towers, with sweeping views of the Forbidden Forest and lake. Snow dusted the ledges. The wind whispered.
But the moment they stepped through the arch, they stopped short.
Someone else was already there.
A girl stood near the balustrade, shoulders shaking, arms hugging herself. Her head was down, hair falling like curtains of silver-blonde across her face. Her dress robes were wrinkled. Her makeup was smudged.
It was Daphne Greengrass.
Her quiet sobs had gone unnoticed until now, but hearing the creak of the door, she spun slightly, startled.
Her eyes—bloodshot and defensive—met theirs.
"Give me a minute," Daphne said quickly, wiping her cheeks. Her voice cracked, brittle as glass. "I'll be out of your way."
Fleur straightened, awkwardly taking a step back. "Oh—no, we were just… passing through. We'll go, sorry—"
But James didn't move.
He was still, eyes narrowed slightly .
Something wasn't right.
He knew Daphne.
Not personally. Not deeply.
But he remembered her from what he knew—his meta knowledge, the version of her often overlooked. Reserved, sharp, composed. The kind of girl who wouldn't cry in public unless something had shattered her.
This wasn't heartbreak over a date gone wrong.
This was deeper.
And something inside James clicked—like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place.
A theory took shape in his mind, dark and unfinished.
Fleur touched his arm lightly, sensing his stillness. "James?"
He turned toward her, gently taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I need to end our evening here."
Her brow furrowed, not angry—just confused. "Why?"
He nodded toward Daphne. "She's… a friend. I think she needs someone right now. And I can't ignore it."
Fleur's lips parted as if to protest, but stopped herself. She looked between him and Daphne.
The moonlight danced across her features as her gaze softened with understanding.
"Of course," she said finally, though her voice held a reluctant note. "You are… not what I expected, James Dawson."
Before turning away, she leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.
"Bonne nuit, mon loup solitaire," she whispered. Goodnight, my lone wolf.
Then she glided away, her silhouette fading into the staircase shadows.
James stood there a moment longer, listening to the silence settle again.
Then he walked across the rooftop toward Daphne, slow and deliberate.
She didn't look up.
James didn't speak immediately. Instead, he removed his coat and draped it gently around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind.
She flinched slightly at the touch—then slowly turned to face him.
"You don't have to pretend to care," she murmured. "I'm not your problem."
James crouched down so their eyes were level.
"I'm not pretending," he said.
She stared at him, searching his face for a crack, a hidden smirk, some angle.
But found none.
She tilted her chin, voice laced with sarcasm.
"So, what's your angle, Dawson? You barely speak to anyone these days, and now here you are—concerned for me?"
James hands rested in his coat pockets, and his gaze held hers—steady, unreadable.
"Don't flatter yourself," he said . "We don't have that kind of bond. But you're one of the few in this castle I respect."
Daphne blinked. That wasn't the answer she expected.
"Respect? How so?"
James shrugged lightly, turning his eyes to the horizon. The moonlight cast silver outlines on his cheekbones, making him look older than he was—worn and knowing.
"Because you think past the present. You've got ambition. You work for your future. I've seen you in the library, struggling, but still there. That matters more than raw talent."
She looked away, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"But I'm nowhere near your level. Or Hermione's. Or even Draco's."
James scoffed under his breath, pushing off the railing and turning to face her properly. His body was relaxed, but there was edge to his tone now.
"And you never will be—if you compare yourself like that."
He raised a finger as he ticked off his points.
"Draco? He's borderline obsessed with making his family proud. That pressure fuels him. Combine that with private tutors, of course he's third."
Another tick.
"Hermione? She's brilliant, yes—but she's also obsessive. She eats textbooks for breakfast and panics if she gets a 98 instead of a 100. You can't beat someone like that unless you're wired the same way."
Daphne's eyes narrowed. Her pride stung, but his honesty was strangely grounding.
"What about you, then?" she asked, folding her arms.
"You came out above her in most of the practical exams."
James gave her a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I'm exceptional."
James speak ," so what's this , sobbing because you didn't top in studies . "
She lowered her head again, her voice a whisper.
"It did play a part. Not making the top three."
James studied her posture—shoulders hunched, arms folded across her chest, trying to shrink into herself. He sighed softly .
"Well," he said after a pause, "not really my business. But before I leave, I'll say this—"
He pointed a finger toward her, not unkindly.
"You might not find someone else who'd stop and listen. You're not Harry Potter. No headlines for your pain. So when someone offers a hand, don't swat it away."
He rose to his feet, brushing the snow off his trousers.
"Whatever it is you're afraid of… it'll come true all the same if you don't act."
He turned to leave.
But before he could take two steps, a hand caught his wrist.
Daphne's grip was tentative. Fragile.
He stopped. Looked down.
Her voice was softer now, stripped of sarcasm.
"Would you really help me?"
James glanced back at her—then gently lowered himself to sit beside her.
"Sure," he said. "How hard could it be?"
She gave a half-laugh, but it was hollow. Then she pulled the coat tighter around her and stared out over the moonlit grounds.
"My marriage is being arranged," she said finally.
James raised an eyebrow. "Alright."
"The problem is… I don't want to go through with it."
James' voice came without hesitation.
"Then don't."
She gave him a withering look.
"It's not that simple. My father's arranging it. It's a duty. I'm a Greengrass. It's expected."
James leaned back on his hands, his posture loose, yet his voice sharp.
"Like I said. Then don't. Just tell him no."
Daphne looked away again, fingers tightening in her lap.
"It doesn't work like that. Not in noble houses. I have responsibilities. Obligations. Traditions."
James turned his head toward her, his voice quieter now. More deliberate.
"A duty forced on you by someone else is a burden, Daphne. Remember that. You don't owe your father your life."
"He's my father," she said, almost pleading.
"I don't want him to bow his head in shame because of me."
James was silent for a moment. Then he looked at her more closely.
"So what do you want to do? You've got a plan, I assume?"
She nodded slowly.
"We had a deal. If I place well year—top three in the rankings—he said I could have time. A chance to choose my own match from the noble families. Someone I can tolerate."
James tilted his head, the puzzle finally coming together.
"So that's why you're pushing so hard. Why the tears."
Daphne nodded. "Yes."
He clicked his tongue, then nodded once.
"Alright. I'll help you."
Her eyes widened.
"You will?"
"Sure," James said casually. "I can tutor you. Help with practicals. Review strategies. I can be ruthless, but you'll learn."
She gave a breathy laugh, still unsure if he was serious.
But he wasn't smiling.
Then, gently but firmly, he added:
"Still, I stand by what I said. This shouldn't be settled in textbooks. You need to talk to your father. Lay down your terms. This is your life, not his."
Daphne swallowed hard.
The wind shifted across the rooftop, brushing their robes .