A/N: Hope everyone had a great holiday! Mine was positively swell. Thanks to Tincat for the beta-work.

For clarity's sake, any time I have flashbacks with multiple short sentences from many different, anonymous speakers, I'll center them. When I have bits of dialogue from identified speakers, it'll be aligned to the right side.

In this chapter, Ron tries to understand about Daphne, Daphne learns something new about Harry, and the three of them share a special night (not in that way . . . ;0)


Chapter 6: Flora M. Auditor

"So, Ron. Tell me what's on your mind."

They were at it again. For the third time, in three weeks, it was all about him.

In their first session three weeks ago, the not-quite seventeen-year-old had walked into Emotional Healer Flora M. Auditor's office. Ron had sat and listened to her go on and on for the first 10 minutes. There was something about "confidentiality," "licensed Emotional Healer," "feelings," and other girly shit like that.

It had already been such a long day! Ron and his parents had spent some time with a regular Healer — one who specialized in magical head trauma—who had dispensed his own advice regarding the sensory stuff:

("Well, it seems the Dr. Ubbly's is working just fine on the actual scars, but maybe it's simply not strong enough for the onslaught of thoughts or severing the senses. We'd need to add in a specific regimen combining the unction with Dr. Northrop's Neural Quick-Calm Balm. We should try the balm for the next four weeks. Should you need more, we'll do another physical scan and, if necessary, supplement Healer Cameron's Sense-Control Salve. . . .")

Ron and his family had been told that magical injuries, ones involving brains and neurological systems, were among the slowest to treat and recover. The ointments that Ron's two Healers had prescribed allowed gradual recovery that wouldn't shock Ron's physiology. Twice weekly meetings with the Healers for the next month and through the first month of school would not only monitor Ron's progress but would give the Healers more information about what his body needed and didn't need.

So, for the last two weeks, there were daily applications of sour-smelling balms and salves and oils. It was slow going, retraining his sensory systems to not start overloading themselves and creating sensations that didn't exist in the physical world.

Such was the procedure when it came to injuries affecting the brain and neurological systems.

Ron had thought, and certainly continued to think, it was a whole lot of waffle for his neurological system.

(I mean, I'm no Hermione . . .)

Ron had noticed a decrease in the nightmares he experienced. By the third week of treatment, instead of every other night, the nightmares were now coming to him maybe a couple of times a week . . .

But, when they did come they were just as awful as ever. At times, the nightmares he had come to associate with the brains started mixing and mingling with images of his own creation.

Dolohov striking down Hermione. . . . Ron was frozen

Harry screaming. . . . Ron was petrified.

Hermione unconscious. . . . Hermione not breathing. . . . Ron was dead

Neville, Luna, Daphne . . . Ginny . . . bleeding . . . dying . . . already dead.

There were even times when his dreams didn't involve attacks, or blood or death. Rather, they were more simple concerns.

The other night, for example . . .

Ron had dreamt that Hermione was flying with Harry on Buckbeak, while Ron, dressed like Filch, chased after them on a school broom. His family kept chucking household objects at him and saying they loved him. He remembered the last thing he heard Hermione say to him right before he woke up.

"Ron, there's just no room for you. Stay there and catch the Quaffle. Harry and I have a meeting with Dumbledore!"

Ron was in a truly foul mood for the rest of the day.

He found himself preoccupied with his dreams, particularly the ones involving Hermione in some way, shape or form.

What if he never got over his touching issues?

What if he couldn't stop browbeating himself about what happened with the Ministry?

What if he couldn't stop feeling like an utter reject, a complete failure, when standing next to either her or Harry?

What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif . . .

(Makes my bloody head hurt!)

Ron had to wonder whether she would stay with him no matter what. She was Hermione after all — brilliant, beautiful, intense, courageous . . .

She'd make any bloke happy. . . .

Ron had approached his first session with Healer Auditor with nerves, nearly pulling apart the already-weak hem of his robes. The first time he had called her Healer Auditor, she just smiled pleasantly, eyes dancing over her thin, rectangular spectacles, and told him . . .

"Oh no Ron! It's Flora, please. I think in here we can dispense with the formalities!"

She looked like she was in her mid-30's, plump, with that same matronly body that his mum had. She wore faded robes with large, tapestry-looking flowers on them. And she smiled an awful lot. Not in an unpleasant way. . . . She seemed a cheerful sort.

And she always wanted him to talk . . .

"So, Ron. What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, can you make me stop having these nightmares?" Healer Auditor shook her head.

"Ron, I listen to you. You talk to me, and I listen. Time to time, I might have something I can add, but this is your time to talk about anything you want." She gestured with an open palm toward him.

Ron coughed uncomfortably. "Thing is, I don't really talk about stuff." He moved his head around; his neck and back felt, suddenly, uncomfortably tight. "Hermione might disagree with that, though. She thinks I talk loads," he grinned. "Talk too much, in fact."

"Who's Hermione? Your girlfriend?" Ron gave a small smile.

"Er, well, sorta. We're close, and, well — she's there for me. I'm there for her. It's kinda complicated right now, because of all this stuff," he gestured to his head. And before he knew it, they spent the entire hour talking about Hermione, a bit about Harry, and school. . . .

That first session seemed okay, but they didn't get to the meat of Ron's issues: his nightmares. The second session, Flora had brought in some Wheezes and chocolate frogs to give to Ron . . .

"Oh Heavens no!" Flora exclaimed when she saw the horrified look on Ron's face. "I know they're your brothers, but I didn't tell them who I was or mention you." She leaned forward, patting the tip of her nose with her right index finger. "Told them the stuff was for my son! I've got loads more at home. So anyone who crosses me—" she winked at Ron and sat back, "had better watch their backsides." She crossed her arms and Ron couldn't help chuckling at her.

"Which one's your favorite?" Flora asked him. That got Ron talking about his favorite treats, the twins and, of course, the rest of his family.. . .

Now Ron sat in the office, thinking about what he wanted to talk about today. Thing was, as much as he wanted to fix what was going on with his brain, every time he started to talk about it, his tongue froze.

He couldn't bring himself to say anything about the violent imagery that assaulted him.

He could barely tell Harry or Hermione about what he kept seeing, his own memories or not.

Flora seemed nice enough; well, she smiled a lot. But this was too . . . new for Ron. He didn't want to talk about this stuff to anyone.

Why the hell should he talk about any of it with a perfect stranger?

"Your parents had mentioned that you have a houseguest. Friend of yours from school?"

Ron gave a loud snort.

(Oh! If only you knew Flora!)

"Not a friend, eh?"

"She's a Slytherin." Ron spoke as if the matter was finished.

"And?"

Ron's brow creased. "She's a Slytherin. I'm a Gryffindor. We don't mix well."

Flora raised her eyebrows. "So why is she staying with you?"

Ron shrugged. "Dumbledore said it'd be better if she stayed with us, I s'pose. Mum's sort of in the business of picking up strays . . ." Flora cocked her eyebrow and a small hint of a grin appeared on her face. Ron continued talking. "Well, y'know Harry's story, right? She's unofficially made him a Weasley. And Dumbledore reckoned Daphne needed something like a family too." Ron frowned and sneered. "Daphne puts up a struggle 'bout it, though. Says she doesn't need anyone, or anything, blah, blah, blah. Mum says it's because she didn't have boundaries or something like that, growing up."

"Are her parents not around?"

"Nope. She lost 'em young, like Harry. But not like Harry. Harry's not a greasy, angry — can you call a girl a 'git'? Because she's definitely a git! Don't get me wrong, or anything. Harry can be . . . erm, Harry on overdrive at times. He has a 'saving-people' thing, has anger issues, and can be sullen and moody. It's up to me to pull him out of it."

Flora nodded, considering this.

"Well, Ron. I guess you could look at maybe why Harry's the way he is and why Daphne's the way she is."

Ron just mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "—don't wanna know why," and kicked at his chair.

"Hm. But didn't she fight with you? Wasn't she a part of your defense club?" Ron nodded, still kicking at his chair. Flora continued to talk. "Doesn't sound like she's that bad. Do you get along with her yourself?"

Ron's eyebrows threatened to jump right off his face when Flora voiced this question. He slid down his chair, his arms crossed in front of him.

(That's probably what Muggles call a 'loaded question'.)

"Well, we didn't at all, at first," Ron said, remembering that DA meeting. As soon as Daphne Greengrass, all short, dark and scowly, had made her appearance, the Hog's Head was in complete uproar. . . .

"The bloody hell?"

"Great Hufflepuff's Arse!—I don't think so!"

"Fan-fucking-tastic! We've been discovered!"

"Spying for Malfoy, eh?"

Harry had shushed everyone and pulled Daphne outside. Hermione ran over to join them. After a few moments — moments that felt like the longest in Ron's life — they came back inside.

"Alright. This is Daphne. Er, she's in Slytherin, but you all probably knew that already. Me and Hermione," ("Hermione and I" Hermione corrected him. Harry just glared at her.) "We, um, invited Daphne to the meeting today. I've known her since the start of this term. Hermione's known her since third year. She doesn't like Umbridge either. So that should settle it, right?" Harry scanned the faces of the other potential members.

Ron was livid. He raised his hand violently in the air.

"Harry!"

"Later, Ron." Harry spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Bloody NOT later." Ron stood up and went to speak to Harry directly, out of earshot of everyone else — no need in undermining him before the their meetings started in earnest.

"Harry, she's in Slytherin!" Harry looked thoroughly put out, but did Ron care? Hell no!

"Yeah, that point was made, Ron."

"This is what they do, y'know? Get you to trust them, then they bite you in the neck with their long, poisonous fangs!" Harry stumbled and bumbled through his'proof' that Daphne could actually be trusted.

"Hermione might've vouched for her . . . a little . . . er—" Harry couldn't stop stuttering through his justification — which pretty much placed everything on Hermione's bushy head.

It wasn't a convincing argument. . . . Hell, Harry couldn't even manage a convincing tone.

"Hermione vouched for Daphne?" Ron asked severely. Harry nodded.

"So you're just going to let her be a part of this, no questions asked?"

"Ron, maybe we should give her a shot?"

"Not sure I can on this, mate." Ron remembered saying, darkly. . . .

"So, Hermione had told me she'd actually been studying with Daphne, not like all the time or anything, but occasionally. And that Daphne had said she was really affected by Cedric Diggory's death."

"Did she know him?"

Ron shook his head. "No. It's weird, though. She didn't know him, like him, or think much about him. She saw his body, though. And it seemed to shake her up pretty bad." Ron stared at Flora's feet. "She's still affected by it, to be honest."

"Do you have an opinion of her now?"

Ron, still looking at his doctor's feet, shrugged. "Dunno. I mean, we let her come with us — well, it was more like let her come with us or beat me and Harry up. And, girl's tough — tougher than her twitchy, greasy self would seem." Ron's brow creased in contemplation. "She also said she 'approved' of me."

"Really? When did she tell you this?"

"Well, when she came to stay with us. About a week into our summer vacation." Ron frowned. "She had to take three days — three whole bloody days — to tell me!" Ron focused on the floor, shoulders shaking as he gave a small snort. "She did say she was wrong about me," he mumbled.

However, he then remembered what happened a little over two weeks ago.

"But she called You-Know-Who a dark lord!" Ron huffed, frustrated beyond all rational belief. "A bloody dark lord! If that doesn't mean she's harboring delusions of Death Eater grandeur and that she's soaked up all that nasty Slytherin rot, I don't know what else would."

Perched precariously on the edge of his chair, Ron let loose with his arms, throwing them wide open, pouring every last bit of frustration that he felt for the whole stupid affair out into the room.

Flora simply nodded. Ron's brow creased deeply.

(Doesn't she get it?)

"She's the closest I've come to actually being nice to a Slytherin. But how can you befriend any of those . . . they don't actually know what being friends means, y'know? All they know is money, who's pureblood and who's not, and the quickest way to get the Dark Mark tattooed right onto their arms. The whole reason someone gets sorted into Slytherin is because they want power, they're ambitious, and they only look out for themselves. That means they'll change sides, for or against you, quicker than a snake can flick its tongue out at a rat."

Flora sat in her chair, chewing on the earpiece of her glasses.

"Do you think there's anything that she can do that might earn your trust, Ron? Or that any Slytherin could do?"

Exhaling and bending his long back so his elbows rested on his knees, Ron looked to his right and to his left in a most dramatic fashion.

He shrugged.

"Dunno. Besides stop being themselves?"

"Could you stop being Ron?"

The question reminded Ron oddly of his dad's speech a few weeks ago.

"No. Of course not. I'll be Ron, forever and ever. For better or worse." He snorted, bent over and looking at his arms as they rested, propped on his knees. He rubbed the nail of his thumb with the pads of his fingers.

"Is it a bad thing to be ambitious, to want power, to put yourself first?" Flora asked him, crossing her thickly-clothed, slightly chubby legs.

"Maybe it's not absolutely, necessarily a bad thing, I s'pose. In tiny, miniscule amounts."

"Have you ever wanted something so bad, you'd do anything to get it?"

Ron thought through this for a second. He remembered standing in front of that blasted mirror in his first year — the one that almost sucked Harry in. He had seen himself as Hogwarts' Head Boy, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. In the mirror that had shown him his deepest desires, Ron had been popular, handsome. . .

Clearly, he wanted all of those honours, all of the glory that came with being the cream of the crop.

And what about his feud with Harry in fourth year? He had been jealous of Harry's entry as a champion. But, that wasn't him going after something actively. That was just him, Ron, being a jealous git. Because, once again, Harry got the attention and Ron was shunted aside. Hell, he even thought Harry had done it on purpose, and it made Ron feel like utter shit. He remembered his attitude -- loud, brash and cocky -- when he was picked to be Harry's thing he'd miss the most during the second Triwizard Tournament task. It was probably the closest he'd ever come to showing Slytherin-type behavior, the way he sought to grab the spotlight, to show everyone he mattered . . .

(Wait! Could my friendship with Harry be my chance to grab the spotlight?)

It happened every once in a while, when people finally remembered who he was and talked about him in the hallways, or gave him appraising looks as he walked down the Hogwarts corridors with Harry and Hermione. And he'd swallowed it up. He liked — really, truly liked — being the 'impressive one', for a change.

And what about trying out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team? He'd worked hard for that, and didn't quit even when he was rubbish. He should have given the spot up to someone better, more talented . . .

But he practiced and practiced, and . . . wait, didn't he bloody win the damn cup for Gryffindor?

And to do that, he had needed ambition, drive, a bit of cunning too? He had wanted to be Gryffindor's Keeper, to be good at it, and to enjoy the bragging rights that came with that. He had liked the acknowledgement when he had received his prefect's badge partly because, for just one second — only one — Ron reveled in the fact that he had finally beaten Harry at something.

Maybe he was just the tiniest bit Slytherin himself. And if he possessed some of the qualities of someone sorted into Slytherin, maybe a Slytherin such as Daphne possessed some of the traits that characterize a Gryffindor, or any of the other houses.

Maybe — just maybe — not all Slytherins were in training to follow You-Know-Who. Maybe some of them were like Daphne. Maybe they would choose to fight with them, if or when the time came.

Maybe . . . Hermione had been right, after all.


"Potter! Weasley! Shut it down!"

Daphne yelled toward the heavens, shielding her eyes toward the sun. Harry and Ginny had been at this for hours. As soon as they'd got up, with Ron spending the day who knew where, the two Gryffindors had bolted outdoors, Harry on his Firebolt, Ginny on her brother's Cleansweep, although Daphne highly doubted Ginny had asked Ron for permission.

It was already lunch. Daphne had been holed up with Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, sweating and slaving away while those two were gallivanting around playing some stupid game Daphne never had any interest in . . .

(That little Weasley slag must be tripping all over herself trying to get Potter's attention!)

Daphne snorted.

"Hey, DAFFY!" Harry yelled, giggling as Ginny swooped over to him. She was trying to wrestle with what Daphne suspected was a piece of metal charmed to flitter around like the snitch.

"Can it with the nickname, Potter! You don't want to see me angry!"

"Oh, because you're a right ray of sunshine, G'?" Ginny smirked as she touched down from her broom. The girl had decided to throw in her two cents, much to Daphne's chagrin.

Ginny. The Weasel bird. Runt. Rabbit. Mouse. Bunny . . .

(Get it? Weasel, mouse, rabbit, bunny . . . )

Daphne ran through a series of seemingly appropriate descriptions for the girl.

(Don't think Weasley would appreciate it if I ran around calling his sister a slag! Ooh! Runt . . . Piglet!)

Smiling sneakily to herself, Daphne led Piglet and Potter to join the rest of them for lunch.

"So," the youngest Weasley said, turning toward Daphne, addressing her, "not a fan of Quidditch, eh?"

'Only when Slytherin kicks everyones' behinds. Other than that, I couldn't be less bothered by it." Daphne dismissively waved her hand.

"Aw, 'G. That's a shame. Quidditch is fun!"

"Perhaps if you're a broom-riding thrill seeker. Personally, I prefer it if things stay attached to the ground."

"Like walking. Sitting on the couch, eh?" Harry jogged to walk in-step with Daphne. "More your speed, huh Daf'?"

Glaring at him, which belied her smug glee at Harry's full attention upon her, Daphne could only respond, "I find mental pursuits, done in the quiet of one's home, to be much more fulfilling. Plus," Daphne said with a note of decisiveness "less risk of breaking one's arse."

Harry shook his head.

" Nothing's better than flying! One of the first things I learned as a wizard. When you're up there," Harry pointed at the sky, a look of pure contentment crossing his face, "it's just you. Nothing else. No dark wizards, no evil Voldemort. No death. Just you." He turned back to Daphne, eyes shining a brilliant green. "Greatest feeling in the world. I'll take you up one day. The Firebolt rides like a dream." Harry nudged her with his arm, and bolted toward the door. Daphne watched him run into the house.

"I'm really surprised."

Daphne turned toward a wistful-sounding Piglet. (Er . . . Ginny.) "Why?"

Ginny had a small smile on her face. "Well, last summer, he was just, well, so pissed off. With good reason, mind," Ginny added after a moment.

"He'd just witnessed Cedric being murdered and Voldemort coming back to life! Who wouldn't be angry?" Daphne spoke indignantly on Harry's behalf. Ginny shook her head.

"I was scared, to be quite honest, about Harry coming here. After Sirius, well, I expected him to be really far gone. Now," Ginny gestured toward her home, "he's doing much better than I expected. He's dealing well with Sirius' death."

"Can I ask something?" Daphne asked a bit aggressively. She brought her hands to her hips in hard fists. "Why in the world is everyone so up and sad about this Black fellow? He was a serial killer, wasn't he?"

Daphne watched Ginny rub her forehead and shift her eyes downward. "Well, Sirius was actually innocent."

Daphne could only stare at her, shock displayed clearly on her face.

"He was . . . innocent? Wait," Daphne walked around Ginny as she thought through things she remembered from last year at the Department of Mysteries.

"Were Potter and Black related?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, but Sirius was Harry's godfather. He and Lupin were the only two friends of Harry's dad that were still alive. Now, it's just Lupin. I think Harry had been planning to live with Sirius once he could get out of the Dursley's house."

Daphne nodded. "Black and Potter were close, weren't they?" Ginny gave her a lopsided grin.

"Yeah. Mum reckoned Sirius saw a lot of James in Harry. Treated him like his father. On more than one occasion, Sirius wanted Harry to do something reckless." Ginny chuckled. "Mum nearly had kittens over Sirius' attitude towards Harry."

"What did you think about him?"

"I liked Sirius. He could be a riot at times." Ginny's face fell. "But there were times he seemed so, so—"

"Er, serious?"

Ginny chortled and rolled her eyes. She snapped her fingers and smiled at Daphne. "Yup! That's it. Harry loved him, though. I'm just glad he's doing well."

"You like Potter, don't you?" Daphne was suddenly seized by an encompassing need to know, right at that moment, where Ginny stood with Potter.

Ginny looked completely taken aback. "I've got a boyfriend."

"Means nothing." Daphne waved her hand glibly at Ginny. (Piglet, Greengrass!)

"Oh, right — isn't it, er, Delbert, or . . . Doug, or Dicky or something."

Piglet's nose crinkled up in noticeable repugnance at the names Daphne threw out.

"Er, it's actually Dean."

"Like Dean, then?"

Piglet nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah! Dean's wonderful. Brilliant artist., too. Dead funny." She smiled broadly.

(She seems happy.)

(Too happy.)

Daphne stared at the back of Piglet-Ginny's head as she skipped towards the door. She could read between the girl's overly enthusiastic reaction to her brilliantly artistic, wonderful, hilarious Dean. Daphne's eyes narrowed into dark, little daggers.

(That's the same damn tone I use when telling people, "Oh, yeah! Everything's going great. No problems. More tea?" Bloody lying bint!)

Daphne's internal musings were broken as she stepped through the door into the loud kitchen. Everyone, including Ron, who had just came back from…wherever it was he got to these days, crowded into the tiny space, making sandwiches while laughing all the while.


"Whoa! Easy on the milk . . . that's fine." Ron held his hand up, stopping Daphne from continuing to pour the creamy, warm, white liquid into his bowl. She complied.

This was the fourth — no, wait, fifth . . . or maybe the sixth (oh! I've lost count!) — non-consecutive night since Daphne told Ron about Cedric. Daphne found she had some company in her insomnia. Ron would come traipsing down the stairs at about midnight. He never told her why he couldn't sleep; he just sat down at the table, behind a bowl filled with day-old white bread. Daphne would automatically pour the warm milk on top of the bread, and they would sit, eating and tossing quips or teasing each other and dumping the occasional spoonful of sugar to sweeten their comforting meal.

This was the second night in a row that Ron had met her downstairs. He'd been acting rather, well . . . odd, that day towards her. Ron kept glancing shiftily at her, like he was waiting for her do something, anything, at that moment.

He also wasn't actively taking the piss out of her, as was his normal method of operating. He spoke to her, a bit cautiously, if anything.

Eating his warm bread and milk, Ron kept looking up at her, squirming in his seat. Tired of his fidgety behavior, Daphne sighed.

"Something on your mind, Weasley? You've been acting like I put a goldfish down your pants."

Ron put down his spoon.

"Have you ever been tempted to join, er, them? Y'know, before Cedric died?"

"I thought we were past this, Weasley." She was already getting angry, and she didn't say very nice things to people when she got angry. "I apologized to you, and everyone here, about that!"

"No, wait." Ron held up his hands. "It's, well, kinda more than that. I honestly want to know. Were you tempted to join them over the last few years?"

"Well, it never really became an issue until after Cedric's death, did it? That's when Voldemort came back—"

"Okay, sure. But do you think," Ron sat forward, finger tapping the table with each word, "if you didn't know what you know now: Cedric, the DA, the Ministry. What would you have done?"

"How can I answer that? If I hadn't actually seen his body?"

"Yeah?"

Daphne pondered his question. It was valid. If she hadn't been sitting where she had been during the final task, any higher up, she wouldn't have been one of the first few onto to ground level.

And then what? Would she have been less likely to join up with Potter and the DA? Much less the fight at the Ministry.

Daphne cleared her throat.

"I don't know if I can answer that without you hating me." She spoke frankly to him, wanting to meet his eyes but unable to do so. She sensed him lean back in him chair.

She chanced a quick glimpse up at Ron. He was rubbing his face with his right hand.

It was a slightly positive sign that he wasn't leaping away from the table.

"What about actually joining the Death Eaters?" he asked. "Would you have done that now, if they asked you? Had you never did any of the things you did last year?"

Daphne sat still. This was another realm of consideration altogether. It was a huge leap from Swiss-like neutral territory to getting the Dark Mark. She'd like to think of herself as still willing to put it all on the line for Potter and his gang . . . but had one thing gone differently, she wasn't sure she'd be here at this table, sharing a bowl of bread and milk with Weasley.

"Although I would love to tell you I would've rejected them outright, kicked them all in the bollocks, and joined forces with you lot automatically, realistically, I think, that perhaps, I might have not done anything."

Ron nodded, expressing neither satisfaction nor displeasure at her comment. Daphne spoke again. "There seems to be one of two types of Slytherins, Ron. One type adheres to the 'not me' policy. They stick their head in the sand, ostrich-like, and wait stuff out. See who'll win out in the end. To Slytherin House's credit, they seem to make up most of the students in the house." Daphne folded her fingers together in front of her; the pads of the fingers on her left hand worried and smoothed the nails on her right.

"The second type picks a side, and you can bet it's not to fight with you." She looked at him, head lowered, eyes peeking up at Ron's face. He nodded, staring around her head at some nameless thing. "It's very extreme, and it'd been building all throughout last year with Umbridge in control. Many Slytherins followed her because she wasn't Dumbledore. She'd seemed to be the one with the power of the Ministry behind her and, therefore, she would've been the one with the most control over the Headmaster and matters at Hogwarts. Of course, they gravitated to that." Daphne gave a great sarcastic grunt.

"Why'd you hate her so much?"

"She reminded me of a caseworker that I had had. She looked like a cow, smelled like a cat, and dressed like hound vomit." Ron laughed, as did Daphne. "So her little attitude with us didn't quite have the same hypnotic effect on me as it did my housemates. And I really couldn't abide by her 'No Defensive Practice' decree."

"She was a stupid cow."

"The worst!" They continued chuckling together softly.

Daphne spoke again. "Potter intrigued me, y'know? All the way back into our first year. I couldn't help hearing things about him while I was waiting on the platform, while we were on the train, while we were waiting to be sorted. He was Harry bloody Potter, The Chosen One . . . The Boy-Who-Lived . . . But he looked, well, runty."

Ron chortled.

"Hey! That's my mate there!"

"What? It's true." Daphne sat up, fingers tented on her chest. "I don't make things up. Harry was this twiggy little thing," she squiggled her pinky finger. "But I rather liked that about him. He looked normal. All that notoriety and fame didn't seem to touch him. And I kept hearing from that point on that Potter was desperate for fame and so on. But I just couldn't see it. He seemed, well, decent."

Daphne sat back and folded her arms. "Even if has questionable taste in friends . . ." and smirked at Ron's gaping mouth.

She rather fancied he looked like a fish.

"Wait, are you actually taking the piss?"

"Just might be, Weasley. I just might be."

"Wha'salldisden . . ." This newest voice caused both Daphne and Ron to jump. They watched as Harry stretched and yawned while speaking nearly unintelligibly.

"Daphne was explaining to me what a bad Slytherin is and what a neutral Slytherin is," Ron stopped and gestured toward her. "If she hadn't fought with us last year, she reckons she would probably not be a bad one."

"Bad one meaning—"

"I wouldn't be getting any, er, tattoos, any time soon." Daphne responded, somewhat subdued.

"Ah! Gotcha." Harry yawned again. "So, whachoo eatin' this late?"

Ron got up to put his now empty bowl in the sink. "Daf' concoction—"

"Shut it, Weasley!" But Daphne noted her voice had a teasing, slightly jovial, quality to it.

"White bread, warm milk, sugar apparently. S'posed to help you sleep."

"Does it work?"

"Well, I'm going to bed, so . . ." Ron walked toward the stairs. He shrugged. "I guess it does. See you two in the morning." The redhead gave a great yawn, scratched his behind, and jogged up the stairs.

Daphne thought he would wake the entire house. Ron was not known for being light-footed.

Harry brought a bowl full of bread and milk to the table, taking Ron's seat. "I'll give this stuff a shot then. It couldn't hurt, could it? You didn't spike it with anything?"

"Only a touch of Beautifying Potion. You are a bit speccy."

"Hey!" Harry ruffled his own hair. "Nothing's wrong with my look. I'm . . ."

"Geeky? Twig-like? Rather wee?"

Harry snorted and chuckled. "Maybe we are rubbing off on you, after all Daphne."

"Oi! No more of that talk. That just sounds obscene."

Harry just smiled and shook his head and dug into his bowl of bread and warm milk.

"This is, um . . . different."

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, Potter."

"No, I mean, where did you learn this?"

Daphne tapped her fingers on the counter. "Miss Proctor — Elvira — would make this for us. When we had problems sleeping. I guess it's comfort food."

"Doesn't sound like Miss Proctor was all that bad. Was it nice there, then?" Harry asked, as he swallowed a mouthful of bread.

"Oh, she hates me, Elvira does." Daphne mumbled, more to the chipped blue porcelain bowl that contained her late-night snack. "She makes me do things." Her nose crumpled up her face, and she drew her lip up to reveal sneering teeth.

"What things?'

"Chores, for one!" Daphne's hands flew up, practically knocking her spoon out of her bowl. "Scrub floors, toilets. When I'm actually back for the holidays, she said I had to be home by six on weeknights and nine on weekends. And she always makes little comments about my schoolbooks, my wand, my cloaks. And she forces me to go to the store with her. And she makes me work around the house as well like a bloody house elf — with no pay! I mean, really!" Daphne crossed her arms and pouted. Harry, to his credit, had been able to stifle his growing laughter, until Daphne pushed out her lips.

Then he just lost it.

"Seriously, Daphne? I lived in a broom cupboard under the stairs for eleven blasted years!" Harry clutched at his sides. "Did she ever tell you you're worthless? Call your mum or dad 'abominations'?" He made quotation signs with his fingers. "I actually think I win this round."

Daphne did not let up on her glare. She let Harry laugh it all off.

When he finally gained control of himself, with great deep breaths, Harry asked Daphne, "What's going on with you and Ron?"

She dropped her spoon.

"Seriously, Potter? Really?" The boy is thicker than she thought. "Okay, Potter. One, the red hair . . . it's just eww! Two," she held up fingers to match, "simply put, 'giraffe that mated with sloth' is not my type. Three, he and I loathe each other."

"Is that why he's been coming down here at night? To sit around with someone he loathes?"

"He's with Granger—"

"I'm definitely not saying he likes you like that." Harry held his hands up. "But, I don't think he loathes you, Daphne. Not like, well . . ."

"You mean like he used to loathe me, right?"

"Er," Harry shrugged and nodded. "Ron's pretty set about things—"

"No, really? He always struck me as one of the more flexible, less judgy blokes."

"Ron's laid back, Daphne. About everyday things. About problems and stuff like that. Ask Ron to do his homework, and he'll pull out his chess set and tell you he's got plenty of time, no worries, no stress. Believe me, he does it all the time with Hermione."

Daphne rather believed it.

"When it comes to what he believes, what he feels, Ron can be—"

"Difficult? Pig-headed? Obstinate?"

"Um, well . . ."

"Easier to tell Voldemort you two should get together and talk out your differences?"

"I said difficult, not impossible." Harry smiled — truly, genuinely smiled — at Daphne. "All I'm saying is that I sort of see some changes between you and Ron. Maybe for the better . . ."

"Well, what about you Pot-um, I mean, Harry? Do you think differently of me?"

Harry scratched his chin and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Well, compared to our first meeting—"

"You kept yelling the whole bloody time!"

"I was angry then—"

"Still, man. For a twitchy little thing, you scared the shit out of me." Harry just smirked.

"Well, I was going through a rough patch." Daphne looked at him, contemplating what to say while she nodded.

"I understand." Daphne swallowed and looked at the table. "It's one day at a time with us, isn't it?" She looked back up at Harry, whose lopsided grin flitted across his face faster than leprechaun gold.

"One day at a time. That works on a lot of levels with us, Daphne." Harry looked away, smiling and nodding. "A lot of levels."