Chapter Text
It was a grey Monday morning at Hogwarts no different than ordinary. Ordinary for a magical castle that is. However in Harry’s opinion it felt like the air was thick enough to choke on. The atmosphere pressed against his temples.
His scar was particularly bad this morning. It wasn't the usual searing poker of Voldemort’s rage, this was worse. This was a low buzzing that sat behind his eyes.
Harry stared at his plate. The fried egg looked right back at him. He felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut.
"You're doing it again," Ron said. His voice was muffled by the sausage in his mouth.
Harry blinked, forcing the world back into focus. "Doing what?"
"Zoning out," Ron said, tearing a piece of toast. "You’re losing focus on your magic Harry. You’re making the marmalade shake. It’s unsettling the Firsties."
Harry looked at the jar of orange preserve, it was indeed trembling. He placed his hand flat on the table to ground himself.
"Sorry, it’s loud in here."
"It’s breakfast," Ron pointed out, chewing with his mouth half open. "It’s always loud. Though, I reckon it’s louder than usual here.”
Harry rubbed his eyes, digging the heels of his hands into his sockets. "I just need a distraction Ron. How about a coma? I could take some Draught of living death, get some peace and quiet for a bit."
"Bit dramatic," Ron mused. He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "We could start a food fight? I reckon if I hit Goyle with a sausage between the eyes, he might retaliate against the Ravenclaws since they’re closest."
"Too messy," Harry muttered. "McGonagall would skin us if she found out."
"We could see if we can charm the suits of armour to do the waltz?" Ron suggested. "Fred and George sent me the spell work. They said it’ll cause 'maximum disturbance with minimal damage'."
"Yeah but they’ve already done it themselves," Harry said, "third year. Remember?"
"Right. Right." Ron dropped the chair leg back to the floor with a thud. "Okay. How about this, we find out what happens if you feed a Pygmy Puff pure caffeine."
"Ginny would murder you in your sleep," Harry said, cracking a tired smile.
"True. She’s terrifying," Ron agreed.
"Tell me about it," Harry murmured, looking away.
His gaze drifted across the Hall, sliding over the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, landing on the Slytherin table.
It was darker over there. The light seemed to die before it hit the wooden dining table. And in the centre of that darkness sat Daphne Greengrass.
Harry stopped still.
She was a pillar of stillness. While Pansy Parkinson was screeching something at Malfoy, and Crabbe was inhaling his breakfast, Daphne was focused.
She was expertly peeling a green apple by hand.
Harry watched. She held a small silver knife. It was not one of the standard dining knives, but something sharper. She slowly stripped the skin from the fruit in long unbroken ribbons. He couldn’t look away.
Her fingers were long, manicured to a deadly point, moving with a fluid grace. The knife bit into the flesh of the fruit, releasing a fine mist of juice.
Slice.
Pause…
Slice.
Pause…
"You're staring," Ron said, his voice dropping an octave. He followed Harry’s gaze. "Blimey. Greengrass?"
"She’s quiet," Harry whispered. It sounded like a confession.
"She’s way out of your league mate," Ron snorted, leaning in. "The Ice Queen, huh. I heard a rumour that she hasn't spoken a word since first year. Reckon she thinks she’s too good to even speak to us mortals. Or maybe her tongue is frozen to the roof of her mouth."
Harry didn't answer. It was hypnotic. She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been brought to life.
"I bet you ten Galleons she’s not even a real witch," Ron whispered, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I bet she’s a construct. Like a Golem. If you flick her, she’ll just chime. Nobody looks that perfect."
Harry felt a sudden, perverse urge to find out. The buzzing in his head was reaching a crescendo. He needed to break out of this cycle of nothingness.
"You think?" Harry asked.
"I double-dare you," Ron said, already sounding slightly giddy. "Go over there. Ask her out. If she says yes, you get the glory of dating the prettiest girl in school. If she hexes you, well, at least we won't be bored anymore."
"Okay," Harry said.
Ron almost choked on his pumpkin juice. "Wait, I was joking. Harry, she’s a snake. She’s practically royalty in the dungeon."
"Good," Harry said, standing up. The bench scraped loudly against the stone floor, a harsh, grinding sound that made heads turn. "Things have been too quiet around here this year anyway."
He walked over.
The journey from the Gryffindor table to the Slytherin table felt like crossing a battlefield, but instead of spells, he was dodging social landmines. The noise of the Hall receded, dampened by the rushing of blood in his ears.
As he crossed the invisible boundary line between the houses, the temperature seemed to drop. The Slytherin table went quiet. Their heads swivelled to follow him as he walked by.
Draco Malfoy looked up, a sneer forming on his pale face instinctually. "Potter? Got lost have you? The mudblood tables that direction."
Harry ignored him. He didn't have the patience for Malfoy’s usual petty quips. He only had eyes for the girl who hadn't stopped cutting her apple.
He stopped in front of her.
Up close, she was even more terrifying. Her skin was flawless, lacking the pores and imperfections of a normal human being. She smelled of something cold and expensive, winter air and crushed lilies.
She didn't look up. She sliced another cube of apple, the knife clinking softly against the porcelain plate.
Harry stood there, feeling out of place. He opened his mouth. His throat was suddenly very dry.
"Greengrass," he said.
The knife stopped, the blade resting against the fruit.
Slowly, she raised her head.
Her eyes were blue, he noticed. Up close they looked empty. Beautifully empty. There was no malice, no curiosity, not even recognition.
The silence that radiated off her was heavy. It pushed against Harry’s chest. For the first time all morning, the buzzing in his scar dampened, muffled by the weight of her presence.
"Potter," she acknowledged. Her voice was soft, melodic, but oddly monotonous.
Harry swallowed. He could feel the eyes of the entire Hall on his back. Ron was probably watching through his fingers. Malfoy looked ready to draw his wand.
"I was wondering," Harry started, and then his brain short-circuited. What was he doing? He was Harry Potter. He was the Chosen One. He was currently sweating in front of a girl who looked like she didn’t care what he had to say. "I was wondering if... if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade… With me… On Saturday."
The silence stretched. It pulled tight.
Daphne blinked.
Harry watched her pupils dilate, just a fraction. He saw her grip on the knife tighten until her knuckles turned the colour of bone.
She’s terrified, Harry realized with a jolt.
Daphne’s eyes darted to her left, just for a millisecond. Harry followed the gaze. Astoria Greengrass was sitting three seats down. Astoria didn't look up from her porridge, but her right hand tapped her wrist twice.
Daphne took a breath.
She looked back at Harry. Her face once again a mask of haughty indifference. She placed the knife down on the table, aligning it perfectly parallel to her fork.
"I accept your solicitation for courtship, Potter," she said.
Harry blinked. "I... what?"
"I accept," she repeated, the rhythm of her retort slightly off. "Your solicitation. For courtship. It is... acceptable to me."
She picked up a slice of apple, put it in her mouth, and chewed.
The Great Hall had gone deathly silent. A fork clattered onto a plate somewhere at the Ravenclaw table. Malfoy’s mouth was hanging open.
Harry stood there, processing what he’d just heard. Solicitation for courtship. Who talked like that? It sounded like she was agreeing to a business merger, or perhaps the purchase of a purebred abraxan.
But as he looked at her, he saw it again, the tiny bead of sweat tracking down her temple. The slight tremor in her hand that was holding the knife.
"Right," Harry said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Cool. Acceptable. I'll see you Saturday then. In the entrance hall."
Daphne didn't look at him. She was focused entirely on the apple. "Do not be tardy," she murmured.
Harry nodded, feeling a strange lightness in his limbs. "Wouldn't dream of leaving you waiting."
He turned and walked back to the Gryffindor table. The buzzing in his head was back, but now it was manageable.
He slid onto the bench next to Ron.
Ron was staring at him with a mixture of awe and pity. "You’re alive," he whispered. "I thought she was going to turn you into a newt."
"She said yes," Harry said, grabbing a piece of toast. His stomach had finally decided to wake up.
"I heard," Ron said, shaking his head. “Solicitation for courtship? Harry, mate, I think you just accidentally signed a magical contract or something. You're probably betrothed now. You'll have to wear robes made of velvet and name your firstborn Scorpius."
"It was... strange," Harry admitted, biting into the toast. "She talks like she’s reading out of an etiquette handbook."
"She talks like a magical mirror whose enchantments are fading," Ron corrected. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"That I have a date?"
"No," Ron said. "It means we have to figure out what a 'solicitation for courtship' actually involves before Saturday. Because if you turn up with a box of chocolates and she’s expecting a blood oath in front of her family totem, you’re in trouble."
Harry looked back at Daphne one last time. She was wiping her fingers on a napkin, one by one, seemingly having finished her apple.
It was the most boring thing he had ever seen.
"I'll risk it," Harry said. "Pass the marmalade."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of whispers. The news that Harry Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, had successfully asked out The Ice Queen had travelled faster than a pixie on speed. By the time Harry reached Potions, the rumours had mutated.
She cast an Imperius on him, whispered a Hufflepuff.
He’s trying to infiltrate the Death Eaters through her, hissed a Ravenclaw.
They’re secretly married and have a child hidden in the Chamber of Secrets, theorized Lavender Brown. Never one to say something sensible.
Harry ignored them all. Slughorn was going on about the properties of Valerian roots, his voice a sleepy drone.
Usually, this class was a nightmare for Harry. The precision required, the subtle chopping, the timing. It all stressed him out… but not today. This morning he found himself falling into a rhythm.
Slice. Pause. Slice. Pause.
He mimicked the motion he had seen at breakfast. He focused on the Valerian roots in front of him. He pressed the silver blade against the shrivelled skin. He didn't hack at it. He didn't rush. He just applied pressure and let the blade do the work.
The juice ran out. The root split perfectly.
Harry exhaled. He almost felt peaceful.
He looked across the room. Daphne was working at her cauldron three rows over. She was wearing protective dragon-hide gloves. Her movements were stiff, jerky. She was frowning at her textbook.
She held a vial of wormwood essence. The instructions on the board clearly said two drops.
Daphne stared at the vial. She looked at the cauldron and back at the vial again.
She looked panicked. Like when she was waiting for his response earlier.
Then, with a decisive movement, she dumped the entire contents of the vial into the potion.
Boom.
A cloud of purple smoke erupted from her cauldron, smelling of singed hair and rotten eggs. The mixture hissed, bubbled up over the rim, and began to eat through the solid pewter of the cauldron base.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" Slughorn cried, bustling over, waving his wand to vanish the corrosive sludge. "Miss Greengrass! A bit enthusiastic with the wormwood, were we?"
Daphne stood amidst the purple smoke. Her hair was slightly frizzled. Her face was blank, but her eyes were wide.
The class giggled. Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Useless," he muttered.
Harry watched her. He expected her to apologize, or to explain, or to maybe get angry. That’s what he would do.
Instead, Daphne straightened her spine. She looked at the dissolved remains of her cauldron, then at Slughorn. She took a breath, tapped her wrist against her side and spoke.
"The instructions were... ambiguous," she declared. Her voice was high, haughty, and completely unconvincing. "The volatility of the ingredients was... unexpected."
"It says two drops in bold letters, Daphne," Pansy Parkinson sneered from the next table.
Daphne turned slowly to Pansy. "Literacy is subjective," she said.
The class went silent. Literacy is subjective?
And yet, Daphne said it with such aristocratic confidence that Pansy actually looked considering. Pansy opened her mouth, closed it, and frowned, as if wondering if she had missed something.
Daphne used the confusion to turn back to her desk, banishing the remainder of the mess that Slughorn had missed with a stiff wave of her wand.
Harry ducked his head to hide his grin. He felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the humid dungeon air.
Saturday might be fun after all.
"Mr. Weasley," Slughorn said, moving on to Ron’s cauldron, which was currently emitting a mournful whistling sound. "Whatever have you done to this?"
"I think I made it sentient, Professor," Ron said miserably. "It’s been trying to sing for the last five minutes."
Harry tuned them out. He went back to his roots. He sliced it again.
Slice. Pause.
Saturday couldn't come fast enough.