Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

march, 1995

...

'no streaks this time?'

he asks, after a while, careful with the tone of his voice, trying not to stare too much, trying not to trip over protruding red bricks or stones. or worse yet, trip over absolutely nothing at all, again.

'thought i'd change it up,' her voice is breezy, brisk, airy as she jumps from brick to brick, having long traversed past the immediate castle grounds and nearing its outskirts where the path is not as carefully assembled and lacks most of its bricks, whether by theft—for whatever reason anyone would dare ever steal hogwarts' prized red bricks—or salazar just never bothered to set them in the ground.

he stares, anyway, and hopes she's too preoccupied making sure not to step on grass to notice. her hair is wispy and short and silver, a colour he's never seen on her before, and it flutters with her every movement. big jumps, barely-there-short steps and the slight movement of her fingers.

he follows her, entranced, and at a more sedated pace, until they arrive at a clearing right outside the forbidden forest.

the red-bricked path continues, even if barely and most surprisingly, to what is most certainly the outline of a wide circle, sparingly filled in with more red bricks. there are pillars of stone, starting tall as twice as him, surrounding it at not all similar intervals. they—harry and daphne—have long debated the origin of this very same construct. was it used for some sort of ritual, or was it perhaps some sort of asinine decoration borne out of the founders' minds?

he doesn't know, and neither does she. it could be neither, either, or both. it's too messy for the rituals they know about, and their image of the founders simply does not match it.

the unknown does not stop daphne from dancing in, heading straight towards the record player resting at the feet of the skinnier pillar of the lot and lowering its needle. the unknown didn't stop them, either, from littering the place with armchairs and sofas and even some small bookshelves here and there. there are a few multi-coloured blankets loitering about, strewn all over the furniture, more daphne's work than his own. a kitchen cabinet with a kettle and two cups on top of it, housing a myriad of snacks inside. a table but no chairs. there's parchment hanging from the stone pillars; from notes to old essays to quick notes, lists, things to remember. there's a desk, big enough for the both of them to work at the same time, covered with opened books and blank sheets of parchment and more than a few broken quills, but no broken inkpot.

he makes for the armchair on the right, the one that's his, the one with the book on the history of wandlore he hasn't yet managed to finish, but he barely makes it a step into the circle when there's a hand grabbing his own and dark blue orbs are staring right at him from up close and he tries to ignore the tingle up his arm, tries not to get lost in her eyes.

'dance with me?'

there's sweat on her forehead and her checks are slightly flushed and he cannot say not to her. not like this, with her breath hitting his face, mint and coffee and parchment and fresh ink melding together all at once, and her expectant eyes and mischievous smile.

so, he dances with her. it's not something slow, something that it would require for them to dance closely to each other, like in the balls he's grown accustomed to. and they spend the most of two thirds of an hour mostly jumping laughing, smiling around and at each other until they end slumped against each other on the floor, sweaty and breathless; her head resting on his chest.

'fourth year is almost over,' she says, unbelieving. she sounds less breathless than he feels, and at the same time, a lot more. 'father says—he believes me ready. for more responsibility.'

'and are you?'

'i… am not—i'm not sure,' she whispers. 'i can do the numbers. the calculations. they are simple. people are not, harry. they contain multitudes, most of which they are not aware of. they move on emotion, not reason. they are fickle, unreliable. in business.'

'and yet you have managed to run a very profitable smuggling business here, without anyone in power being the wiser. you are outselling the weasley twins.'

'it's not very hard to swear them to secrecy. they are kids, harry. all of them are. all of us are. and there's no way dumbledore doesn't know. slughorn knows.'

'they are all kids. kids are fickle and unreliable, too. perhaps even more so. the weasleys only know it was you outselling them because you wanted them to. dumbledore knows when a portrait sneezes, i'm sure. and you are slughorn's star pupil.'

'still not a people person,' she tries, after a brief pause, but he can sense the repressed laugh in her throat.

'you own two thirds of what will be zonko's most prominent competitor in no less than five years. i've seen the models. while you're still—'

'it's only a third. the other one belongs to you,' she's smiling, peering at him from where she lays. they have not cleared completely but her eyes are not as clouded as they were before, he's sure. her bottom lip is unusually red.

'while you're still in school,' he finishes, and she rolls away from him, preferring to lay next to him instead. missing her seems stupid, so he tries not to. instead, he says, 'astoria could always take over the smuggling business. i'm sure she'd be delighted.'

'that's never happening,' her reply is instant but it has no bite. 'she will be lucky if i let her work as a clerk in exchange for a momentary compensation.'

'i've heard rumours, though. about a green-and-blue eyed girl trying to break into the market.'

'that's pretty ambitious of her. i will not intervene, for a while, at least.'

'i would not underestimate her, daphne.'

'has she truly managed to buy you so early in the game, harry?'

'no, no. but she is your sister. that's reason enough for anyone to be wary.'