"Greengrass, shall we get started?"

"After you, Potter." She gave him a small bow, which he awkwardly returned. This was not, strictly speaking, a duel, but impressions were important.

Daphne Greengrass regarded Harry Potter. He stood with his wand clutched tightly in his outstretched right arm. His stance seemed practised, but completely unpolished. This was surprising: the House of Potter has certainly diminished since its zenith, but was far from destitute. Given that Harry was an orphan, could it be that he had not been given any private instruction in the basic magical arts? She would have to find out.

Despite this disadvantage, Potter did not strike her as weak. Everyone in Slytherin had assumed that the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been a fluke, but one simply did not survive an encounter with Lord Slytherin's wrath by being resourceless or unskilled. True enough that he had never previously shown any talent at potions (the one class shared by Gryffindors and Slytherins), but he had brewed an exceptional draught when, for once, there was a prize on the line. Perhaps he had been hiding his abilities: a prudence which Daphne approved. It was regrettable that five years of Draco's cheap japes had instilled a tiredness of hearing the name "Potter" that had prevented her from actively considering him. Now that she has, it became abundantly clear that Potter harboured hidden depths.

Most of all, Potter was determined. She could tell just by looking at his eyes, wild and deep as the Fens. They bore a look that reminded her of cousin Rob when he renounced his inheritance to play professional quidditch, of Astoria and her resolve for her future, of her father before her mother took his verve with her when she passed beyond the Veil. Daphne knew of willpower, and knew it when she saw it. Though she had never given it active thought, she always knew that it was the chief virtue she sought in her partner. And here it was before her, looking at her and into her…

Not that the rest of him was bad to look at. She noted that he had always been shorter than most of the other boys in their year, and until the Tri-Wizard Tournament, looked emaciated. This was no longer true: his frame had finally filled out slightly, and his previously wiry limbs hinted at muscle. He was now as tall as her, and would be a hair taller if he remedied his perpetual slouch. While he was not dashing like Blaise or Graham, Daphne knew that the boys in Slytherin all relied on potion regimes to manufacture their looks, which would only diminish with age. Potter, with his slack-fitting robes and raggedy hair, was a wizard who clearly showed no concern over his appearance, which had great potential for quick improvement.

And he was not without wit; his occasional sardonic quips at Professor Snape's expense were imprudent but appreciated. And he definitely shared her contempt for Draco. And he was the Gryffindor seeker, a fact that Daphne cared little for but was vaguely aware would be of great import to most witches her age. It was strange that she had not paid attention all of this before. Perhaps, just perhaps, in another life…

She was stirred from her reverie by a force tugging at her wand. It was not enough to disarm her, and ash wands were difficult to dislodge (a stubborn wood for a stubborn witch, per Ollivander). Reflexes took over, and cast a strong non-verbal knockback jinx right at Potter. Oh. So that happened.

"Ten points for an excellent demonstration of non-verbal casting, Miss Greengrass. Though I do seem to recall asking for the disarming charm."

"Professor, I…"

"I expect far greater restraint from you, Miss Greengrass. See that this does not recur." Professor Snape turned away, and the rest of the class must have thought that house prejudice had spared her from detention.

Potter had picked himself off the floor, and Daphne inwardly winced that she had not taken the chance to help him up. "Greengrass," he said in a loud whisper, "what was that?"

"Sorry, Potter, I didn't mean to do that. I think your disarming charm worked, so I reacted on instinct." Daphne looked sheepish, and he nodded his understanding.

"That's okay, I do that sometimes too."

"Shall we try again?"

Potter resumed his stance, and Daphne let him go first. But she had no intention of appearing inept, and fixated her mind on keeping her wand from being dislodged.

Red sparks flew from Potter's wand, and Daphne tightened her grip on her wand so much that her fingers shook. Inexplicably, she did not feel even the faintest tugging. She relaxed for a split second in confusion, and Potter struck. He brought his wand down in a swift arc, and Daphne's wand flew out of her hand. Potter caught it mid-air and proffered it back to her in a single fluid motion.

"Alright, I'm impressed." And she was: Daphne had been caught completely off-guard by the dummy sparks, which in that instant had looked almost identical to the scarlet stream of the disarming charm that followed. Where did Potter learn tricks like that?

"Thanks," Potter said, who suddenly seemed self-conscious. "I guess I've always had a knack for Expelliarmus."

That's not what I meant though. But two can play at this game. "My turn then?"

"Your turn, Greengrass."

Daphne waited until he was ready, and took a moment to clear her mind. She had been taught since young that magic was alive, and through its caster, knew the purpose for which it was bent. Charms in particular were always strongest when they felt most needed. The disarming charm was not a spell of levity; it was often the last recourse of witches and wizards in great peril. And she truly was in great peril – not from the boy who stood before her with a curious expression, but worse, from dark forces that had enveloped her entire House. Help me, she implored, Expelliarmus!

A bright flash of red filled the room, and a great force rent the wand from Potter's grasp, sending it flying towards Daphne and knocking Potter backward. All eyes were on her now, and Daphne was pleased with the display. She lacked the reflexes and quickness of mind so highly praised by her duelling masters, but had been favoured with a different gift: an innate affinity for the deep workings of magic, which eluded even some of the most accomplished witches.

Picking up his wand, Daphne helped Potter up. She felt her heart soar when he returned her smile. "That was… something, Greengrass." From across the room, Daphne caught Professor Snape looking at her with an expression that almost resembled approbation.

Daphne was unusually chipper even at dinner, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her best friend. "You'd think someone murdered Daphne Greengrass and replaced her with her non-evil, smiley twin," said Tracey. "Was flooring Potter that satisfying?" Upon hearing the magic name, Draco turned towards them like a kneazle that had smelled a gnome. Daphne smiled serenely.

"Oh, it's not just that. I think he likes me."

"I don't believe you."

"But he was very impressed by my non-verbal casting."

"That doesn't…" Daphne winked at her, and suddenly Tracey understood.

"Expect a fool like Potter to be impressed by anything," Draco interjected. He seemed to be even more full of bile than usual. "Any pureblood wizard worth his wand can easily do non-verbal magic."

"I don't know about that, Draco. You couldn't even disarm Weasley just now," Tracey said.

"And that blood traitor couldn't disarm me either. I'm just tired, that's all. I've been…"

"Wallowing in Potter-inadequacy, as you always are, Draco," Daphne finished for him. "You know, I think I just might go for it. Potter does seem to know his way around his wand, more so than you at any rate." Greg fought to keep from spitting out his soup; Vincent was less successful. Daphne feigned her best look of incredulity. "I'm not sure what's so funny. It's true, you know. Potter managed to disarm me, which is something Draco here couldn't ever hope to do." Draco looked irate, but retained enough sense not to pick a fight with a nundu head-on. Conversation eventually shifted to lighter topics, and Daphne and Tracey left the Great Hall together after dinner.

They did not make it twenty paces before Tracey asked whether Daphne was serious.

"About?"

"About Potter."

"Yes, of course I was serious. I do think he's quick with a wand. Could probably make it as a duellist if he wanted."

"That's not what I…"

"The feint really was quite clever. Vermillious is quicker to cast than Expelliarmus, so…"

"For Merlin's sake, Daffy."

"Oh alright. Yes, I think perhaps there might be some potential there. Maybe."

"But… Are you sure? I mean, he's not not handsome, but he's a Gryffindor, and you always said your father…"

"Tracey, look." They reached the staircase landing, and Daphne stopped abruptly and turned to face her. "I can't really explain why, but I need to do this." This was, strictly speaking, completely true.

Tracey grinned and nodded sagely. "Alright, Daffy. I always knew this day would come. I think you should go for it. I keep saying you really can have any boy you want, and I think it'll work out. But please let me help. I want to be there when it happens."

"Thank you, Tracey. But please don't tell anyone."

"Don't worry, I won't. I swear by my magic."

Daphne sighed. Her own feelings on the matter were… confused. Lord Slytherin's blackmail was beyond the pale, not least because the House of Greengrass prided itself on its autonomy – a trait that Daphne had inherited in abundance. If it had been for anything other than Astoria's safety, she would never even consider selling her dignity that way. Yet after the day's events, it seemed that all was not as bleak as she had expected. Potter was known to be brash and unrefined, and had objectionable taste in friends (mainly Weasley), but as far as boys went, one could certainly do a lot worse. She had not been lying: there was potential.

In the end, none of it mattered. She could rely on Tracey to tell the whole school by tomorrow. Irrespective of her emotions, Daphne had crossed the Rubicon, and there was only one way forward.