A Path Beyond Survival: Chapter 19 - Ghosts and Parties

The Great Hall was more alive than ever.

Pumpkins floated in an arch over the tables, casting a flickering orange glow on smiling faces. Enchanted bats flew through the golden beams of the chandeliers, and bewitched sweets danced on enchanted trays, drifting from table to table. A ghostly orchestra played in the corner, its ethereal notes echoing like sweet whispers on Halloween night.

Harry barely noticed.

Sitting among the Gryffindor Quidditch players, he forced a smile as Seamus told — for the third time — how he’d almost been caught trying to fool Madam Rosmerta with a fake mustache. Dean laughed loudly, nearly choking on a jellybean that exploded with fireflies when bitten, and even Angelina looked relaxed, leaning against the table with a satisfied expression.

Harry laughed along, but his eyes wandered.

At the Hufflepuff table, he saw Hannah and Susan chatting animatedly, their faces lit by colorful spells cast by some overenthusiastic student. Susan looked his way and gave him a genuine, almost radiant smile. Harry smiled back at her.

Further ahead, at the Slytherin table, Blaise gestured with excitement, and Tracey Davis listened laughing, with that mocking air that seemed immune to any weight of the world. And then, Daphne. Sitting a bit apart, she wasn’t laughing. Her eyes were on the table, fingers spinning an empty goblet with the meticulous precision of someone who prefers silence to forced company.

Harry looked away, fists unconsciously clenched.

“Hungry or mad at the pudding, Potter?” Alicia asked, nudging him with her elbow.

“Huh? Oh… nothing. Just… tired.”

“You? Tired? We’re the ones who chased flying candy all over the village!” said Fred, appearing out of nowhere with a crooked witch’s hat on his head. “You stayed here with the ghosts and the good food. Now that’s real Halloween.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, trying to laugh. “It was… peaceful.”

But it wasn’t.

Staying at the castle while everyone else headed excitedly to Hogsmeade was like silently reliving every moment he’d spent locked in the cupboard under the stairs. The only difference now was that the locks had taken the shape of rules. And he no longer knew if it was for safety or punishment.

At least the conversation with Lupin had been uplifting — it had made the whole day truly worth it. And that made all the difference — even if he still wished he were with his friends.

The chatter continued around him, but he stayed quiet. In front of him, the feast sparkled, but he barely touched the food. The sound of the party felt distant — like he was underwater, hearing echoes of a world he could no longer reach.

Neville, sitting beside him, turned with a hesitant smile.

“You should’ve seen the shop windows in Hogsmeade, Harry. Honeydukes… wow, it looked like a candy castle. And Zonko’s… they had these smoke bombs that make you sound like a duck!”

Harry smiled. Truly, this time.

Neville was one of the few who didn’t treat him with pity or judgment — only with that simple kindness that comes from someone who knows what it’s like to feel out of place.

“Thanks for telling me,” Harry said, sincerely.

Neville blinked, surprised by the response. “Of course. I wish you could’ve gone. But, well… there’s cool stuff here too, right?”

Harry nodded. And for the first time that night, he looked around with intent.

Hogsmeade still echoed in laughter and sweets, but here, in the hall full of light, floating pumpkins, and crisscrossed stories spoken in cheerful voices, he realized something: there was still a place for him, even if he didn’t always feel it.

A seat at the table. A spot on the team. A smile from someone who expected nothing in return.

The past was still a ghost, yes — but he wasn’t alone.

He allowed himself a real laugh when Fred dropped an exploding jellybean into Percy’s goblet, sending pink juice spraying everywhere. He laughed until his shoulders relaxed. Laughed until the lights in the hall felt less harsh, and the sound of the party no longer seemed like a distant world.

The night went on. And even with his friends far away, even with Daphne’s absence a noticeable one, Harry let himself, just for a moment, be a thirteen-year-old boy at a Halloween party.

And that, on that night, was all he needed.

~HP~

Harry was leaning against the base of the main staircase, arms crossed, staring at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy with a distant expression. The castle’s silence was beginning to swallow the last echoes of the feast. Inside, Fred was still fooling around with flaming jellybeans, but most students were already heading up to their dormitories, full of laughter, sweets, and stories.

He liked that time of night. When the noise faded behind, but the day still felt alive in memory.

He heard light footsteps behind him. He recognized them before even turning around.

“I knew I’d find you here,” said Daphne, stopping beside him as if she’d always belonged there.

Harry smiled, without looking directly. “You have a knack for that.”

“It’s called observation,” she replied, in that dry tone she used when pretending not to care. “And intuition. And maybe a bit of stubbornness too.”

He laughed.

Her hair was loose, her eyes still held traces of the party’s glow — but the night’s weariness softened her features. They both leaned against the same wall, as if that place were an old hideout just for the two of them.

“So?” she began, turning her head slightly. “Survived the sweetest and loudest night at Hogwarts?”

“With minor injuries. And a few exploding frog candies up my sleeve in case I need to defend myself.”

She laughed — genuinely.

“Got too bored?”

“Not really,” he replied, eyes fixed ahead. “I read the book you gave me — or tried to, at least. Talked to Lupin too.”

She nodded, saying nothing — she knew that meant something to him.

“And you?” Harry asked, turning to her now. “How was the expedition?”

Daphne made a comical grimace. “Tracey nearly got banned from Honeydukes for trying to steal a sugar sculpture shaped like a dragon. Blaise bought a hat that sings on its own — and off-key, mind you — said it’s a gift for his mum. And I… bought this.”

She reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out a small golden box. “Moon Dust. For tea.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that glow in the dark?”

“It does. And gives you a stomachache if you overdo it. But it’s pretty. It reminded me of you.”

He laughed. “I glow in the dark and cause stomachaches?”

“You know what I meant, Potter.”

A comfortable silence followed, like synchronized breathing. Daphne toyed with the lid of the box, spinning it between her fingers.

“I was sad today,” she said suddenly, without drama. “At breakfast. That you weren’t going.”

Harry looked at her. Her tone was simple, like someone stating a truth without expecting anything in return.

“So was I,” he replied. “But I think… I needed to stay. Alone for a bit.”

“I get it,” Daphne murmured. “But next time, don’t stay away too long. You’re missed.”

They looked at each other. There was no confession, no tension. Just a real connection, raw, beautiful in its simplicity.

“Wanna head up?” she asked, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Or are you planning to sleep here like a hallway suit of armor?”

“Only if the tapestry snores first.”

“Merlin… you’ve been spending too much time with the twins.”

They started walking together, side by side. And in the silence between steps, something light hung in the air — a quiet understanding that didn’t need to be named or forced. It was already there, growing slowly, the right way.

They walked slowly, in no rush to get anywhere. Daphne kept her hands in the pockets of her cloak, and Harry walked with his shoulders a little looser than usual — the kind of posture he only had when he was truly at peace. Or at least, close to it.

“So… what did Lupin say?” she asked, turning her face slightly without breaking stride.

Harry thought for a second before answering.

“That I’m stubborn. And that it might actually be a virtue — if I stop using it only against myself.”

Daphne made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and agreement.

“He’s right. And more polite than I would’ve been.”

“Oh, I know. You would’ve called me an idiot in the first sentence.”

“Or the second. I have standards.”

Harry laughed. That was what he liked about her — the directness, the well-placed sarcasm, but also the way she saw through him without needing explanations. As if to say: it’s okay, I see what you’re not saying.

“But seriously,” she continued, her voice a bit softer now, “you seem better than you did this morning.”

“Maybe it’s the bat pudding. Or your intuition’s getting good.”

“Both,” she replied quickly. “But mostly me.”

A portrait huffed as they passed, muttering something about “modern students laughing too loudly.” They kept walking like they hadn’t heard a thing.

“You seem calmer too,” said Harry, glancing sideways. “You were... different this morning.”

Daphne hesitated for a second. Then answered simply:

“It’s strange, you know? You get used to seeing someone in certain places. And when that someone isn’t there... the day feels wrong.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, feeling the light weight of her words. Simple, but hit right where it mattered.

“It felt wrong to me too,” he murmured. “Even though I tried to pretend otherwise.”

Daphne stopped beside the tapestry of a drunken knight and turned to him, crossing her arms.

“And you always try, don’t you? Pretend.”

Harry looked into her eyes. “You do too.”

She gave a small smirk, as if caught in the act — but didn’t deny it.

“Sometimes it’s just easier than explaining everything,” she said at last. “Explaining is exhausting.”

“And listening too,” Harry added. “Especially when people think they already know what you’re going to say.”

“Or what you’re supposed to feel,” she added, as if they were finishing each other’s thoughts.

They stood there for a moment, in silence.

Harry wanted to say more. To say he’d missed her that day, that seeing the Slytherin table without her sharp gaze made the Hall feel even stranger. But he didn’t. Not yet.

“Did you have coffee today?” she asked suddenly.

Harry blinked, confused. “Coffee? Yeah. At dinner. Why?”

“Because you get that contemplative air after coffee. A bit more thoughtful, a bit more... intense.”

“Intense?”

“Yeah,” she said, not blinking. “Like a storm cloud. Charming, but ready to explode at any moment.”

Harry snorted. “You have very specific descriptions.”

“That’s why I’m good at Potions.”

“That’s why you intrigue me,” he said, without thinking.

Daphne stopped.

She looked at him for a second — not surprised, but focused. Like she was measuring the exact weight of what had been said.

“Good to know,” she replied, with a faint smile. “Because you intrigue me too. Even when you try to be predictable.”

Harry smiled back. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel the urge to run from himself.

The staircase ahead shifted with a loud crack.

“Better run before it changes again,” said Daphne, already starting to climb. “Or we’ll end up in Ravenclaw dorms, and I’m not in the mood for elvish poetry tonight.”

Harry followed with a smile. He felt lighter — not because the pain had passed.

But because, finally, he wasn’t carrying everything alone.

The staircase creaked as it turned, taking them to the landing where the hallways began to split. One spiraled upward toward the towers — lit by tall torches and arched windows. The other, narrower and quieter, descended into the castle’s depths, where the air was damper and the shadows seemed to have a life of their own.

They stopped there, like people who know the conversation’s time was almost up.

“Time to head for our respective dungeons,” said Daphne, adjusting her cloak with mock resignation.

Harry looked at her, smiling faintly. “You guys say that like you don’t love living in the basement.”

“We do,” she replied seriously. “But only when there aren’t first-years screaming because they saw their own nose’s reflection in a dark mirror.”

Harry let out a soft laugh.

“And you? Off to the skies now?” she asked, gesturing with her chin toward the tower. “Hope you’ve got stamina. What is it, a hundred steps?”

“A hundred and three. But who’s counting?”

“You are. You definitely count.”

He shrugged, theatrically. “That’s how I survive. Counting. Steps, days, trustworthy people...”

She raised an eyebrow.

“How many trustworthy people?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Few. But the number went up today.”

Daphne held his gaze a second longer than necessary. Then looked away, giving him a light shove with her shoulder.

“Careful not to trip on your own thoughts up there, Potter.”

“You too. Don’t get lost in the shadows and end up sleeping in the Potions classroom cauldron.”

“Better than sleeping with you snoring in the dorm.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You did last night.”

“You spying on me now?”

She smiled, turning down the right-hand corridor.

“Good night, Harry.”

“Good night, Daphne.”

She took a few steps, then looked over her shoulder.

“And if you dream about Blaise’s off-key hat... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Harry stood there for a moment, watching her disappear into the corridor, the torchlight dimming behind her as if the castle itself understood the scene. He drew a deep breath and began climbing the stairs.

One hundred and three steps, as always.

But this time, each one felt a little lighter.

~HP~

Harry climbed the stairs slowly, still with a slight smile on his lips.
 The conversation with Daphne echoed in his mind like a cushioning charm. It wasn’t just what they had said — it was what they hadn’t needed to say. That natural ease between them, the quiet humor, the silent understanding. It was comforting in a way that was hard to explain.

But as he neared the seventh floor, something changed.

The corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower was… too crowded.
 Agitated voices, hurried footsteps, students in pajamas and cloaks thrown over their shoulders gathered around the hallway where the Fat Lady’s portrait should be. Some whispered. Others gestured in panic. And no one seemed able to get inside.

Harry quickened his pace, instinctively placing a hand on the wand beneath his cloak.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, pushing past a group of terrified second-years. “What’s going on?”

No one answered — or maybe they hadn’t heard. It was only when he reached the portrait wall that he saw Neville, pale-faced and wide-eyed, appear between two students.

“Harry!” he called out, his voice louder than usual. “Did you see… did you see it?”

“See what?” Harry asked, now feeling the air grow cold around him.

Neville stepped aside. And Harry saw.

The Fat Lady’s portrait wasn’t there.

Or rather — the frame was still on the wall, but torn from top to bottom. The wooden borders hung like exposed bones, and scraps of shredded canvas fluttered in the draft. The Fat Lady’s face was completely gone. It was as if someone had ripped her presence out of the world.

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.

“They said she was attacked,” Neville whispered. “She ran away. Disappeared from inside the painting.”

“By who?”

Neville hesitated.

“Sirius Black.”