Chloe watched Harry quietly.
He was wearing a jacket that didn’t suit the weather, and he showed no sign of taking it off.
Her gaze settled on his left arm for a few seconds, giving nothing away.
The pumpkin juice in his cup was still steaming.
Harry sipped it slowly, then looked up and met her eyes.
Beautiful eyes.
Chloe thought.
Like green gemstones veiled in mist.
“What would you like to try today?” she asked with a smile.
“Coloring, or the sandtray?”
“Sandtray?” Harry frowned, curious.
“You place small figurines in sand and create your own little world.”
Chloe worked quietly at the edge of the coffee table, sliding out the wooden panels one by one until the whole surface had expanded.
She moved the vase, the tissues, and the large bottle of pumpkin juice onto the side panels, thoughtfully leaving a clear spot where Harry could set his cup.
Then she opened the tabletop itself, revealing the sand underneath.
Harry noticed smooth little pebbles buried among the grains.
“Or you can just explore — feel it out.” Chloe looked at him, her voice gentle.
“Want to try? The texture is really nice.”
Harry pressed his lips together, then slowly reached out.
Just as she’d said, the sand was soft and warm, not rough at all.
He scooped up a small handful and let it go, watching it sift down through his fingers.
Chloe dipped her hand in too, gently digging out the buried pebbles.
The stones were smooth and bright, and they caught Harry’s attention.
He started searching through the sand himself.
“This is my first time playing with sand.” Harry laughed, a little surprised.
“It’s even more fun than it looked in books.”
“I never played with it before university either, not until I went to the University of Sussex, it’s very close to Brighton Beach. I loved going to the seaside, feeling the sand and the water.”
“Why?” Harry couldn’t help asking.
“It makes you feel…” Chloe tilted her head, thinking.
“Happy. And the scenery is beautiful. If you ever get time off, you should take your family and bring the children there.”
“My family?” Harry paused.
“Mm-hmm.” Chloe nodded lightly.
“We all had dinner together last Friday evening.”
Harry’s hand went still.
He hesitated.
“We… we aren’t family. They’re Ron Weasley’s family. I’m just… just Ron’s friend, so I get invited over a lot, to visit and eat… Molly Weasley is very kind. She always looks after me.”
“The truth is…” Harry tightened his grip instinctively around the pebble he’d just dug from the sand.
“I don’t know if Hermione Granger mentioned it to you… I have no family left. Only Teddy Lupin, my godson.”
Every word was like a heavy stone he’d forced down his throat, then dragged back out.
Chloe quietly stilled her hands and looked at him with warm, steady attention.
“You do have family, Harry.”
Harry looked up and met her amber eyes.
They were steady and certain, like she was stating something that could never be changed.
“They are your family. Family isn’t bound by blood. People become family because they love each other.”
“Like you and Teddy Lupin. You love each other.”
“And them — the people you call your friend’s family — they love you. Not because you’re Ron Weasley’s friend. Because you are you. That’s why they love you.”
Harry’s eyes burned all at once, and the clear amber before him slowly blurred.
“That’s not how it is.”
Even though he wanted to believe her, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing back.
“It’s not… I don’t deserve to be their family…”
“Why?” Chloe asked, with genuine curiosity.
The guilt he’d been suppressing for so long erupted like a volcano.
“Because… I got Fred killed… you must know who he is… I got him killed… I killed one of their own…”
Tears spilled from his eyes.
His voice broke with them.
How shameful.
Harry gripped the pebble.
He was crying.
Weak, pathetic crying.
He didn’t cry often.
From childhood he had known that crying only brought harsher contempt and scolding.
Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley would stare at him with irritation, and he would never be like Dudley Dursley, who could get anything through tantrums and tears.
Under those looks of disgust and contempt, he had come to feel that tears were a symbol of weakness and helplessness.
He didn’t know how Chloe was looking at him right now.
Would she think him shameless?
That he had gotten their child killed, yet gone right on accepting their kindness without a second thought.
Would she think him a hypocrite?
That he was the one who’d caused it all, yet here he was, crying.
“He was not killed by you.” Chloe said it with almost no hesitation.
“It was me… whatever ultimately killed him, I was the source…”
Harry’s voice came out strained, full of pain.
He kept his eyes down, unable to look at her.
“Miss Granger told me it was a war fought overseas. Was that a war you started?”
Harry gave the faintest shake of his head.
“Then — did you want this war to happen?”
“Of course not!”
“So Fred joined the fight entirely to protect you?”
Harry went silent.
He knew the answer was no.
Fred’s death wasn’t something so narrow.
Fred had joined the fight not only to protect his family, but more than that, to resist Voldemort, to stand against the darkness.
Harry didn’t answer, but Chloe already knew.
She held out a tissue, making light contact with his hand first, and when his fist loosened slightly, she placed it steadily into his palm.
“So you are not a killer. You did not get him killed.” Chloe said it with certainty.
“Your family has never once believed that you killed him.”
“Harry… you are simply someone who was dragged into a war. You don’t have to carry those sins. The one who started the war killed them, not you.”
“Not me?” Harry felt the logic in what she was saying.
But the shackle that had wound itself around his heart for so long couldn’t be shed so easily.
“Not you.” Chloe repeated it, firm.
“But I… I can’t control myself.”
Harry felt like he was calling out for help.
“I really can’t control my own thoughts…”
He was in so much pain.
His heart was being devoured alive by guilt.
Could she save him?
“Allow those thoughts to come. But know, in yourself, that they are wrong. You should not be blamed.”
Chloe looked at him, her voice slowly gaining weight, as if she could press her words over all the dark ones underneath.
“You are allowed to grieve for those lives. But don’t torture yourself with your own kindness. Sometimes we carry a sense of responsibility, but don’t take on blame that isn’t yours.”
Tears were still falling.
He said nothing.
His breathing grew more and more ragged.
“If you’re willing, you can hold my hand. I want you to know that I’m here.” Chloe reached out carefully, concern in her eyes, her voice still steady.
“It’s all right to blame yourself right now. It’s all right not to be able to control those thoughts. That’s why I’m here. I’ll tell you again and again, you should not carry those things.”
Harry’s hand trembled, still clutching the tissue and the pebble from the sandtray.
The tissue fell to the floor.
His hand found hers and held on.
His hand was very cold.
Chloe took in Harry’s state and held on without hesitation, quietly raising her own body temperature and letting the warmth pass to him without a word.
“I got you.” Soft.
Steady.
“I got you, Harry.”
“Sorry.” When Harry finally managed to steady his breathing and stop his tears, he pulled his hand back in a rush, flustered and embarrassed, and grabbed a few tissues to wipe his face.
“I didn’t mean to lose control like that and cry…”
“You really are very polite, Harry.” Chloe shook her head with a smile.
“I don’t think you should apologize, if anything, I should be thanking you.”
“Thanking me for what?” Harry looked at her, lost.
“For being willing to let your emotions out in front of me. That’s a form of trust and affirmation.” Chloe refilled his cup with pumpkin juice.
“I’m genuinely moved by it, because you haven’t let me become someone who collects a consultation fee and does absolutely nothing.”
Harry blinked slowly.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“You’re welcome.”
Chloe’s smile widened.
Then she looked at him seriously.
“And tears are allowed. They’re a very good way to release pressure.”
Harry frowned.
He thought of something Vernon Dursley had once said: Tears are weakness.
“Are they?” Harry noticed that Chloe looked genuinely surprised.
“Uh… that’s what my… uncle told me.” Harry explained quickly, not wanting her to think he was pushing back, especially after she had just comforted him with such patience.
Then a flicker of annoyance crossed his mind, because he had apparently left Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley out of his family entirely just now.
He felt no guilt about that.
But he was afraid Chloe might think he had been lying.
Chloe, though, didn’t seem curious or confused.
She simply frowned, a trace of displeasure in it.
“Then his views on tears are genuinely very narrow-minded.”
“He always prided himself on being a tough guy.” Harry shrugged.
“He’s wrong. Tears are not weakness. They can mean compassion. They can mean pain. They can mean joy, or excitement… or they can mean nothing at all, just a moment when your eyes decide to get your attention, and then coax your tears to come and kiss your cheeks.”
Harry went still, staring at her.
Chloe gave him a small smile, then walked to the side table and took out a clean towel.
She picked up the kettle by the fireplace and poured some hot water into a basin.
“You can press this over your eyes.” She handed the warm damp towel to Harry.
Harry took it and looked at it for a moment.
“I find some of the things you say really interesting. And… I didn’t know any of them before.”
He took off his glasses and pressed the towel over each eye in turn.
Chloe’s face blurred before him.
He could only make out the lines of her features and that lovely pale gold hair.
“But…” Harry hesitated, then said honestly, “I do feel a lot lighter after crying.”
He looked toward where she was sitting.
He thought she was probably smiling right now.
➤ Next: Matchmaking
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