A/N: I own nothing. Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for the input. Rated T for very strong language.

Chapter 24: The Uncaring Snake

"Where's Daphne been?" Ron asked the others. They looked down at the Slytherin table, the part closest to the doors to the Great Hall. For all of last week, they had noticed that Daphne Greengrass hadn't been down to dinner.

In fact, Ron realized, Daphne hadn't been down to many of the breakfasts or lunches either.

The only time they'd seen Daphne was during classes, and she seemed diminished and invisible. There were no sarcastic little comments anymore, or even her trademark smirk.

Instead, there was simply nothing.

"D'you think she's, like, sad about something?" Ron pressed his friends.

Hermione's brow furrowed, as she thought of what could possibly be wrong with their Slytherin friend.

"Well, she might be depressed. Daphne's always had very volatile emotions, and maybe something happened—"

Ron didn't hear Hermione finish her thought. He had just spotted Michael Corner entering the Great Hall. Michael apparently was thinking along similar lines as Ron, because as he saw the red-head approach, he asked him, "Have you seen Daphne?" at the exact same time as Ron asked him the same question. Both boys chuckled a bit.

"Honestly, Weas- . . . I mean, Ron, I haven't really seen her for about a week except for classes. It seems like she's been avoiding me. I've sent her messages, owls, even tried kidnapping her after classes — and she runs off, not saying anything at all! Hell, I tried waylaying Bulstrode and asked her for her help. She just looked at me like I was hippogriff dung. Not sure if it's me or—"

Ron shrugged. "With Daphne, you never know. She's can be a bit testy, Corner—"

"Michael. Call me Michael," he responded, a bit overly assertive for Ron's liking.

"Er, fine. Michael. You two were getting along all right?"

Ron watched as Michael's face fluttered between a frown and a slight smile. "Well, I thought so. I dunno . . . maybe I scared her off or something. Look, I'll let you know if she comes and finds me or anything."

Ron nodded with finality and turned. He stopped as something seized him . . . a sort of protective, big-brother emotional response to this git that had once dated Ginny and was now looking to sink his meat hooks into Daphne.

"Michael, do you like her?'

Michael turned and looked at him with a cautious expression. "I do. Why's it your business?"

Ron chewed on his bottom lip for a few moments before speaking.

"Daphne's my friend — hell, I think of her as a sister. So does my family. Things went bad with you and Ginny, and I didn't give you my threatening 'big brother' speech back then, so I'm giving it to you now. Do you really like her?"

Ron watched, with great satisfaction, as Michael Corner gulped nervously. "Ron," the other boy started shakily, "I really like her a lot. You might not believe it, but I do. I've learned from my mistakes in, er . . ." Michael looked at Ron guardedly. "There's just something about Daphne, I dunno . . . she's different. She says what's on her mind. She's funny as hell and smart and totally crazy about music, especially Muggle music which is odd, given she's from Slytherin . . ." Michael trailed off as he watched Ron snicker. The Gryffindor patted him on the upper arm.

"You've also caught her habit of speaking in run-on sentences." Ron nodded and turned his eyes to the ground with a small smile. "All right, I believe you. You like her, you really like her." Ron turned around to walk back to the Gryffindor table. "If you see her first, tell her to come find Harry, Hermione and me. I'll tell her to talk to you if I see her, okay?"

Michael nodded in agreement.

She looked out the window nearest her bed. She was supposed to meet up with Colin Creevey after dinner so they could check on her insurance policy and their new source of income. Daphne closed her eyes, wrapping her arms tighter around her legs, which were pressed firmly up against her Weasley-jumpered chest.

Over the last week, Daphne's brain had been playing snippets of the conversation between Professor Snape and Dumbledore in her head. She could feel their words and their voices assaulting her brain like a cursed Bludger.

("I know, Severus . . . I know all too well who this sounds like . . .")

(Voldemort.)

("Surely, you didn't think Miss Greengrass could become another Dark Lord—")

(The answer to that is of course he did.)

(" . . . All the hope I had lost when Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort. . .")

(Tom became Voldemort.)

(And what about me? Who do I become now?)

Daphne thought back to her conversation with the Headmaster at the Burrow that summer. His voice had been so filled with regret, with the sorrowful sounds of loss and hurt that his most vague statements seemed to have been filled with a far deeper meaning.

("Daphne, when I first met you in Miss Proctor's home, you reminded me of a boy that I used to know a long, long time before you were born . . .")

(Well, now you know, don't you? He thought you were the second coming of Voldemort!)

(You yourself said there was a very good reason that you were sorted into Slytherin.)

Daphne put her head on her knees. She thought through her decisions over the last two years since Cedric Diggory died, motivated by an infatuation with a boy who understood a thing or two about growing up without a proper family. But, was that all? Did this mere crush on Harry Potter push her to join the DA, to fight in the Ministry?

(Sure, what else could it have been, Little Miss Mini-Riddle)

Daphne swallowed the bile threatening to push out of her throat, bile that contaminated her, filled her like all the other shit and swill that she was made of.

(Like Voldemort . . .)

(Like Riddle . . .)

(Like a Slytherin.)

She had hoped by wearing the cozy Weasley jumper, something so comfortable and warm would make her feel better, more human, less dirty. She had wrapped herself in it for days, wearing it under a tightly closed cloak to class and whenever she would venture out of the dorm room for various needs and sustenance. She had lived on the streets every once in a while when she had been in foster care; she was used to it. She could live like that here, at Hogwarts, where she could merely sneak food and drink and drift off to class like she was a ghost, and not care and not think and not feel--

(Michael . . .)

(So what?)

Her eyes drifted to her desk, at the pile of notes, some of which were in Michael Corner's slanted, masculine handwriting, and other letters that were in Ron's, Harry's and Hermione's as well. Daphne's chin trembled as she felt the corner of them. Each of Michael's notes asked her to see him, to meet him in a classroom, at some time, on some day. He had pulled her away during the one Arithmancy lesson she had managed to make it to last week. He had asked her what was wrong, why wasn't she talking to him, and implored her to go see Madam Pomfrey. Daphne had wordlessly nodded and walked away. She could hear him calling out behind her, but she didn't turn around.

He would eventually get tired and move on.

Hermione's, Ron's and Harry's notes all said similar things. Hermione had told her that she really must see Madam Pomfrey, especially if she was missing classes. Ron had wanted to make sure she was all right, and that he wanted to meet her down in the kitchens for a snack. Harry--

(Why the fuck would he want to hang out . . . be with . . . someone like you? Knowing who you remind people of?)

She tugged at her jumper, and immediately, the memories of her first Weasley family Christmas came back to her: Ron smacking her playfully on the head with her gift, his parents dancing to her music, Ron's teasing from Fred and George, Harry apologizing for the remnants of his own prejudices . . .

But he was right.

They — all of them — had been right all along.

To hate her.

To see her and be suspicious.

To ignore her.

To distrust her.

She was nothing but an evil, blackmailing, lying little slag.

Sex and blackmail and bribery . . . that was all she could do.

Well, not all.

Three days ago, she had sat behind a piece of blank parchment, swirling her wand about in circles, trying to create a Dual-Dialogue Charm with which to communicate with Draco Malfoy. After the fifth . . . the eighth . . . the twentieth failed attempt to make her hand assign a symbol for Malfoy's name, she'd shoved her parchment and quill far away from her and looked at it like it was the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen.

Two days ago, she had made her second trip to the Owlery, with a note in her handwriting asking Malfoy to meet her in the Slytherin common room that evening.

(I mean, why not follow in your Dark Lord's footsteps?)

(You were always an impulsive little bitch.)

She'd been able to skulk and hide enough to avoid the clusters of students milling around between classes, the occasional appearance of teachers and prefects telling students to stop dawdling and go to class, or the library, or wherever students went to spend their free hours.

(Like plotting the betrayal of their best friends to the closest Death Eater connection in school!)

She had scurried quickly toward the Owlery as soon as she got outside, ducking behind stone walls or other surfaces and trees and rocks so she wouldn't be seen. Daphne had arrived, numb and cold, and she felt her arm rise up, signaling to the nearest available school owl.

A medium-sized tawny owl had swooped down to the perch in front of her. Daphne had given it a quick pat, and read over her note, again, for the hundredth time . . .

"D.M.--meet me at half-past twelve o'clock in our common room. Information about H.P."

The parchment the words were written on was so wrinkled, so creased with the numerous times Daphne had touched it and read it. Each time, her heart had raced, and she'd stopped breathing and her stomach had churned desperately.

(So this is the way we betray our friends, huh Greengrass?)

The owl had hooted, and the sound had startled her. She had dropped the parchment, and it had fallen to the floor, which was encrusted with thousands of bird droppings.

Shaking, she had picked it up . . . and she had seen the jumper she was wearing.

Daphne had clutched at her head as images of red hair and blue eyes — hating her, helping her, angry with her, laughing with her — sped through her mind with all the force of a giant running into a mountain.

(What would he think?)

(What would he do? Ron would never betray them.)

(Ron would hate anyone that did what you're about to do, Greengrass.)

He would tell his family not to have anything to do with her anymore, and Harry and Hermione would reject her too.

They would turn their backs on her, never having anything to do with her again.

Daphne had been as certain of that as the Chudley Cannons finishing at the bottom of the Quidditch standings.

At that moment, Daphne knew that she couldn't handle that; she couldn't handle losing the only real friends she had made at Hogwarts.

Ron, Harry and Hermione still wanted to be there for her. They wanted to talk to her. They were worried about her . . . even when she was avoiding them . . . even when she did not want their friendship, except. . . .

Except that she did.

She wanted their friendship desperately.

Because it meant she was wanted. She belonged.

Daphne had Incendioed the note, and walked out of the Owlery. She'd found a spot on the grass, and slid down the stone wall, sitting for ages and ages and feeling the dampness of the grass soak through her skirt and knickers. . . .

Returning to her immediate present, Daphne shuffled to the edge of her bed and allowed her bare feet to touch the floor. Clasping the cloak close to her body and sliding her feet into her trainers, she started to make her way toward the Room of Requirement to meet Colin Creevey.

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione started, nervously wringing his hands. She, along with Harry and Ron, had gone up to the Hospital Wing after dinner, to talk about their "Daphne Dilemma".

"She's our friend, and it seems like she's having some problems. We're not sure what to do, except to let you know."

Pomfrey sighed. "I'll see what I can do, Miss Granger. You're not the first to ask about her."

The trio looked at each other. "Michael Corner?" they asked in unison.

Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. "Well, him, and Mr. Zabini and Miss Weasley were asking about her as well. Of course, Mr. Zabini," Pomfrey rolled her eyes, "was a bit testier asking me for my help." She got up from her desk. "I can tell you no one gets help from me that insults the quality of care you students receive at Hogwarts." Pomfrey gave them all stern looks, and then relaxed. "I will see what I can do, you three, but if she doesn't want to talk about it, I cannot force her. She's of age in our world, and if she is depressed and needs someone to talk to, she has to be ready to talk about it. The only thing that you can do is let her know that you'll be there for her, and that she does have friends."

Harry looked over at Ron, whose eyes drifted toward the floor. Harry nodded at Pomfrey, and the three of them walked out of the Hospital Wing.

As soon as they emerged out of the doors, Ron made for the closest exit out to the Hogwarts' ground.

"Ron?" Hermione asked him urgently. Ron's long legs had allowed him quite the head start.

"Owlery." It was all he said. He spoke in his "stubborn Ron" voice that brokered no argument or debate.

"Ron, we've already tried—"

"We'll try again."

"Ron," Hermione halted in front of him. "Maybe we should simply try a more direct approach with Daphne."

Ron furrowed his brow. "What d'you mean?"

Hermione looked over to Harry, who shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea what Hermione was thinking. "Let's go get Harry's Map," she finally said.

"You look awful," Colin Creevey said. "Have you even washed up today, Greengrass?"

Daphne grunted and shrugged. She'd preferred to say as few words as possible.

"Everything all right? I think Harry, Ron and Hermione've been worried about you. I know Ginny's been also."

Daphne snorted; Colin thought she'd want to know that people were concerned about her, when in reality it was the absolute last thing she'd want to hear. "You ready, Creevey?"

"Er, sure." Colin's voice sounded like he was anything but; he followed her into the seventh floor room just opposite of the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry.

They walked into the room, now a vast hall filled to the brim with object that students over the years needed to hide from teachers, headmasters, other students, and so forth. They passed by a set of cabinets that looked broken, they passed by broken broom, objects covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like blood, and passed by . . .

Daphne halted and looked down. The only thing she saw was a bust of an ugly old warlock . . .

(Maybe Binns knows him personally?)

. . . And a tarnished tiara attached to a dingy wig.

Daphne stared at the tiara, concentrating on it as if it was the only thing in the room. There was something about it, but it looked like nothing more than the crappy costume jewelry that she used to get from the CPS-sponsored gift drives when she was younger . . . .

"Daphne?" Daphne heard Colin Creevey's voice vaguely in the distance. "We should check on our things, Daphne. This is the first time we've been able to get into this room since December."

Daphne heard Colin speaking to her, and nodded vaguely. Tearing her eyes reluctantly away from the tiara, she followed Colin to the furthest corner in the back of the room to check on their "photography collection."

"Looks like they haven't been touched," Colin offered. He looked at Daphne. "We've been here for almost ten minutes, and not one snappy comment? Seriously, you are Daphne Greengrass, right?"

Daphne shrugged.

(Isn't that the million Galleon question, Creevey?)

"Okay," Colin said, stuffing the photographs back into their box, placing the objects that they used as protection and location marks. "You're not Daphne. You're some mopey, depressed Slytherin girl and you're making me sad. Now," Colin said with determination, "you want to tell me what's got you so miserable."

"Fuck off, Creevey," came the response. But it was flat and emotionless and all potential spite had been removed.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong. I don't like it when my business partner looks like they're gonna off themselves . . ." Colin blanched as he looked at Daphne's face, which fell as he spoke. "Godric, Daphne, y-you're n-not thinking that are you?"

Daphne threw a "Go to hell" look at him. Colin threw his hands up in the air.

"Okay, that's a relief," Colin said, letting a breath out. "I still want to know what's going on. You've never had second thoughts about this stuff," he gestured to where they had just put the photographs away. "Are you having second thoughts about this whole thing now?"

"I'm a Slytherin, Creevey. This is how we roll, okay?" Daphne said. She could hear the sound of defeat in her voice. "Let's get out of here. We saw the photos. They're okay. Let's just get back before people know we're gone."

With that, she turned on the balls of her feet and started for the door. Daphne could hear Colin trailing her with his quick, little feet shuffling to keep up with her purposeful, graceless steps.

Right before they left the room, Daphne couldn't help chance one more glance toward the direction of the crusty, rusty tiara, and wondering what the hell that object was all about--

"Hey! Daphne! Er . . . Colin? What're you two doing here?"

Daphne groaned internally as she heard the all-too-familiar sound of Ron Weasley's voice. She turned and saw the ruddy, panting faces of the three sixth year Gryffindors running to catch up with her. Colin Creevey and her had just seen the door to the Room of Requirement close and disappear behind them.

"Hey Ron, Hermione. Harry! Good to see you," Colin said enthusiastically. Daphne practically smacked him on the head; she didn't have the patience to deal with his "Harry Potter man-crush". She turned back to glower at the other Gryffindors.

"What the hell business is it of yours?" Daphne mumbled darkly. She winced as she saw the concern on their faces . . . the concern on Ron's face.

"We've been worried about you, D'. You're not talking to us or anything. Michael's worried about you . . . hell, Blaise Zabini even went to Pomfrey, demanding you get help."

Daphne turned to Colin, who nudged her with his elbow, "Blaise Zabini?" he mouthed at her. Daphne looked at him, pleading him to shut the hell up with her eyes.

"I don't need help, Weasley." Daphne put an extra note of hard-edged bitterness behind Ron's last name.

It only made him look at her with increased worry.

"This isn't you, okay?" Ron stepped forward, away from the others. He looked at her with a stubbornly-set jaw. "Whatever it is, just tell us, or go to Pomfrey, or Dumbledore—"

That was what she needed to send her over the edge.

"DON'T EVER MENTION THAT BASTARD'S NAME TO ME! YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME! DUMBLEDORE THINKS I'M WRONG! HE THINKS I'M A MISTAKE! FUCKING MEDDLESOME BASTARD THINKS HE CAN FIX ME? I'M SLYTHERIN, YOU BASTARD! I'M NOT CHANGING, I'M NOT—"

Daphne panted and breathed and knew she was crying but she couldn't care and she didn't care and she saw the shocked faces of all the Gryffindors looking at her and she didn't care and she didn't care . . .

Ron moved closer to her. "Daphne," he said, quietly and firmly, with his arms reaching out to her. Daphne cowered away from him.

"Don't," she said in a breathy whisper, eyes focused down and to the side. She was crying and she still didn't care . . . she didn't care . . .

"Stop." The firm voice returned. Daphne looked up at Ron, and saw nothing but sadness and compassion in his blue eyes. She wanted to retch. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to tear and rip those blue eyes right out of his head because then, maybe he'd hate her as much as she hated herself.

Ron wouldn't be looking at her like that if he knew what Dumbledore knew about her.

"You should hate me," she mumbled. "All of you should hate me."

"We don't, Daphne. We don't hate our friends, okay? We don't hate people that are important to us—"

Daphne looked up at him. He still had that confounding expression of concern, of worry, of undeserved compassion, ignorant of reality, and it made her ill that he was so stupidly, blindly concerned about her when she was just like Voldem—

And suddenly Daphne doubled over and retched out the contents of her stomach, which was admittedly little, since she had not eaten that day. She spat and she retched and she heaved, and through the noise, she heard footsteps running away, voices saying "Pomfrey", and "Hospital Wing", and two hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her dark hair away from her face as she spilled her guts onto the cold Hogwarts stone floor . . .

"Professor . . . Headmaster . . . Calming Draught . . . Dehydrated . . ."

The voices were fuzzy-sounding and faraway. It reminded Daphne of the white static that appeared on television stations sometimes when the weather knocked out the signal, or when programming had run out for the day.

The inside of her mouth felt thick, cottony. She rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, and smacked slowly.

"Daphne?"

"Miss Greengrass?"

"Everybody, out of the way. Headmaster, please stay where you are." Daphne heard the sharp, blunt tones of Pomfrey's voice barking orders left and right. She also heard the shuffling of feet as people moved out of the way. Curiosity overcoming her total lack of energy, Daphne opened her heavy-lidded eyes.

To her immediate right was a flash of red robes, white hair and blue eyes. Professor Dumbledore gazed upon her with a small, solemn smile. "How are you feeling, Miss Greengrass?" he asked in a gentle voice. Daphne rearranged the tired muscles in her face to form something as close to a scowl as she could physically accomplish.

"Go away," she said with a croak.

Dumbledore sighed. "I would like an opportunity to talk to you, Daphne."

"Not talking to you. Not talking to any of you." Daphne could see that there were other people standing around her bed, all with similar expressions of worry and sadness. And she hated them . . . she hated all of them.

"Hey, D," came Ron's gentle voice to her left. She didn't bother looking at him, closing her eyes instead. "We've been here, waiting for you to feel better. You know you can talk to us—"

"Ask him," Daphne nudged her head to Dumbledore, "I'm no longer in control of my own destiny," she said, dryly.

"Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore said with a heavy voice, "I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am for upsetting you." Daphne looked at him, hoping her eyes conveyed just how much she did not care. She saw only the Headmaster's eyes, wet and blue, and looking immensely sad. "I take full responsibility for the state you've been in the last few days. I wish you could have talked to me about what was troubling you—"

"Why? So you could just tell me how to act, what to think, what to feel?" Daphne spat back to him, although it sounded like a great series of croaks and squeaks.

"Miss Greengrass, if you want to, we can discuss this, just you and myself, without the others—"

"Oh, I think they should know. They should know that you thought I was going to be the next Voldemort, how I was just some sort of tool that you could use to make yourself feel better and okay that you let Voldemort become Voldemort. You forced me to feel this way, you forced these things on me."

She fell down back into the hospital bed, tired and pissed off and wanting nothing more than Dumbledore to leave her the fuck alone.

"Miss Greengrass, I am very sorry. I regret how you found out about my involvement with your childhood, and I do sincerely regret how I've handled matters. I should have approached you about them."

She waited, wanting to see if he'd continue. She watched the headmaster and wondered when he had grown so old. Finally, she heard talking, but it wasn't from the Headmaster.

"We know, Daphne."

She snapped her eyes around to find Harry Potter talking to her. Even though she was lying down in bed, she felt like the bottom of her world had dropped out from beneath her and she was falling, falling, falling . . .

(They knew?)

(Of course they knew. Dumbledore's giving lessons to Harry. One plus one equals "Daphne's an evil bitch and Harry Potter will never like you".)

She felt her chin tremble and her eyes water for, like, the thousandth time over the last week, and she continued to not bloody care.

"I've been doing research about Voldemort's past, Daphne, and I started remembering things you told me about your childhood and being a ward of the state. I told the Headmaster that I thought there were some similarities," Harry wasn't meeting her eyes, but he was walking closer to her bed.

(He must think I'm disgusting.)

"But even though I saw the similarities with how the two of you were brought up, I know the differences between you two. Daphne, you went out of your way to be a part of the D.A. and to go to the Ministry with us—"

"Oh, well, guess what? I only did that so you would fucking notice me! Fat lot of good that did . . ."

Total silence . . .

An eternity passed. Crickets chirped. Quills dropped.

And Daphne heard nothing but heavy breathing.

(What. The. Hell. . . . Greengrass?)

(Shut up! Stop talking!)

(Can I cut out my own tongue?)

"What?" asked The Idiot Who Lived.

"I said, Harry - Potter," Daphne spoke very slowly, "I did it only to get into your stupid heroic pants." She heard a disapproving breath of air coming out from Dumbledore. She only rolled her eyes.

"You liked me? As in . . . you liked me more than just as a friend?"

(Boy might be brave, but he ain't smart!)

"Yes. Happy now? I did this entire blasted . . . thing . . . so you'd like me, you notice me, and maybe, just maybe you would be willing to be with me." Daphne closed her eyes and shook her head. "Is Michael here?"

"No," said Harry quietly.

She was grateful; at least Michael Corner wouldn't hear her confession like this. "I never had a chance, then. Not when you all seem to know everything about me, and why he," she pointed weakly at Dumbledore, "even decided to meddle in my life." She looked over at Dumbledore, who simply kept his head bowed.

"Daphne, I do like you. . . ."

"As a friend, yes, Potter." Daphne brought her hand up to her eyes, covering them from the others. "Don't talk anymore. I don't need to hear it. Anything you say's gonna make me want to punch—"

(Myself.)

"—You."

Daphne chanced opening one eye, and looked at Harry through her fingers. He was watching her with caution and sympathy. Pushing down another wave of nausea that was building at the pathetic sight of him, Daphne turned her head sharply away so that she faced Ron Weasley.

"Can everyone else leave . . . except for Ron?"

Harry, Hermione and Dumbledore all nodded in turns.

"Miss Greengrass, I will ask, upon your release from Madam Pomfrey's care, for you to come up to my office to see me. I realize how upset you are with me, which is perfectly understandable. But I would like an opportunity to explain myself to you and then offer to you my forgiveness, if that would be permissible."

Daphne could only swallow and nod in response. The Headmaster's mild tone seemed to have deflated the balloon of anger she had been surrounded in since coming up to the hospital.

With that, the two students and Headmaster left, leaving Daphne and Ron by themselves.

"Daphne?" Ron asked her. "Did you want to talk to me?"

Daphne shrugged. "Got your mum's jumper on," she mumbled.

Ron chuckled. "Don't sound too excited there." He smiled for a few moments, but it fell from his face. "Daphne—"

"Do you hate me too?" She looked up at him, and Ron could see her eyes. They were brimming with fresh tears. Ron knew that she didn't want his pity or sympathy, but looking at her right at that moment, how could his heart not break?

"No one hates you. We're your friends. I think of you like a sister." He watched as Daphne averted her eyes to the bottom of her jumper and fiddled with her fingers. He watched her face as her chin wrinkled and her lip started trembling again.

Having been with Hermione for several months now, Ron no longer felt the strangling sense of apprehension in dealing with displays of emotion. Of course, being a bloke, he'd prefer if girls didn't use him as their own personal handkerchief. However, looking at the Slytherin girl, she who had been the thorn in his side all of last year, she who'd been the bane of his existence, Ron was put in the strange and unique position to be the one person that the girl wanted to turn to for support.

"Hey," Ron said, moving to sit next to her on the bed, "we've known about this for a while, okay?"

"How long?" her voice was thick and heavy with moisture.

"Since October. And look, you're a proud owner of a Weasley jumper, eh?" Ron let a small chuckle escape him. He frowned when he realized Daphne wasn't amused. She continued to stare into the distance, emotionless.

"I did want to be a good person, Ron." Daphne spoke quietly, causing Ron to lean over to her. "But . . . knowing what I was like, what I remind people of . . . what good is in me? I come from shit, and I'll go back to shit."

"Daphne, I don't think where you came from has anything to do with you as a person," Ron looked at her intensely. "I had my doubts about you once. You rememeber that, right? Back then, I didn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Now? Well, now, I think you're a good person. I think you do some right nasty things, but that doesn't mean you don't have a good heart. Good people fuck up. And, maybe by the same token, bad people might do some good every once in a while. But, really, I think we're all kind of the same. Just people . . . making choices and learning from our mistakes. I know I learned from mine," Ron said quietly, lilting his voice in a hopeful way.

Daphne's chin kept quivering, the vibrations growing stronger and stronger until the water filling the edge of her lower lashes could no longer be contained, and her tears spilled out, coursing down her cheeks, staining them in a red and salty path.

She gasped and sobbed and gasped and all Ron could do was put an arm around her shoulder, telling her "It's all right . . . it's all right, yeah?" as he awkwardly hugged her.

Harry and Hermione walked back to the common room in relative silence, having said "good night" to one very exhausted and emotionally worn Headmaster.

"Did you know she liked me, Hermione?"

Harry looked at Hermione as she took a breath. "Well, no. I had my suspicions, what with her readily agreeing to everything you asked her to do, like spy on Malfoy. I think she told Ron, though."

"After everything she's done for us, everything she agreed to do against Slytherin, to try to help us out . . . it sounds like she had some pretty strong feelings," Harry said, more to himself than as part of his conversation with Hermione. He heard her take and let out a deep breath.

"Well, perhaps she used it — her feelings for you, that is — as an excuse of sorts. I think her reasons for helping us out, for trying to do what Dumbledore asked her to do goes far deeper than being attracted to you. She's not ready to admit it yet, but it's something she's struggled with all year."

Harry just looked at Hermione, with a rather skeptical look on his face. "But . . . why? Why would she struggle with her reasons for helping us out?"

Hermione kept her eyes on Harry and leaned forward. "She feels that part of her identity of being a Slytherin means she can't fully believe in the things that we're fighting for, Harry. So it's easier to justify that she tells us about Malfoy, agrees to search Malfoy's things because she's got a crush on you rather than fully accepting the fact that she doesn't believe in what she sees as the Slytherin perspective."

Harry lifted his eyebrows. "That . . . makes sense," he said, then frowned. "Doesn't really make me feel better, though. I feel like I'm causing her pain."

Hermione shook her head. "I actually think she'll be fine about her feelings about you. Honestly," she said in mild and soft tone, "I think she's far more upset about finding out why Dumbledore's been so concerned about her since childhood."

Harry nodded. "But what's going to happen now? Do you think she'll run off to all the rest of Slytherin? Will she ignore us? Will she run to Malfoy?'

"It's Daphne choice. We've shown her who we are, and now she has to make the decision if she's going to continue to be our friend. I do think, though, that Slytherin might not be so accepting of Daphne even if she turns her back on us. One thing Daphne's made abundantly clear is that Slytherins are driven intensely by house loyalty. You don't see other Slytherins being friendly with other houses, well, unless they're getting something out of it, like Blaise Zabini—"

"—Wait, what?" Harry asked. Hermione waved at him.

"Long story. Anyways, Daphne appears to have been an anomaly. She actively fought with us in a battle that sent Death Eaters, including Malfoy's father, to Azkaban. Her House might not accept her back."

Harry and Hermione sat in the common room, eventually pulling out quills and books and parchments to try to do some schoolwork. Harry, for his part, took to his normal studying habits and poured over the Half-Blood Prince's Potions textbook. So engrossed was he in reading, he barely noticed Hermione's indignant tutting ("Honestly! I've a bad feeling about that book . . ." "You just don't like it because I'm giving you a run for your Galleons in Potions," Harry snapped back) or that Ron re-entered the common room fairly close to midnight.

Hermione laid down her quill, taking care not to spill any ink. "How was she?"

Ron's eyes went a bit wide as he breathed out. "Not good, if I'm being honest. She cried a lot, and talked about what crap she was, how she's evil . . ." Ron ran his hand through his shaggy hair and shook it tiredly as he yawned. "It really hit her, y'know? She seemed kinda confused about everything. Daphne was desperate to show us that she's actually a good person and not all Slytherins are snake-y bastards," Ron rubbed at his lips, "and now, she just seems, so . . . so—"

"Lost?" Hermione ventured. Ron nodded.

"But she shouldn't," Harry said suddenly. "She's a good person. Daphne's tried really hard to get us to trust her, and, well . . . look at how she reacted to Dumbledore thinking she's like Voldemort. No way she's a bad person."

"I don't think any of us are saying she's not, but Daphne herself's got to figure out that she's not. All we can be is patient." Hermione exhaled and set her mouth in a firm line; however, her eyes remained soft and sad. "I do hope she doesn't fall down." Hermione glanced quickly at the table. "She seems really fragile, though, despite how hard and tough she tries to be."

Ron grunted quietly. "Don't we all . . . ?"