Chapter 12 â Prejudices
Golden light filtered through the lofty windows of the Great Hall, bathing the room in the early morning glow and illuminating the motley array of house colours. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, making Harry's stomach rumble with anticipation. Amidst the melange of familiar breakfast smells, Harry and Hermione were deeply engrossed in conversation, their brows furrowed in a shared topic of discussion.
Just then, Professor McGonagall approached the Gryffindor table, her stern visage offset by the crisp pile of parchment in her hands. "Your schedules," she said, her voice crisp and clear over the low hum of breakfast chatter.
"Thanks, Professor," Harry replied, a curious grin etching across his face. Hermione, in the midst of reaching for a piece of toast, paused to give a nod of gratitude.
They unfolded the parchments with a quiet rustle, their excitement giving way to a touch of disappointment as they scanned the neatly inscribed timings and subjects. Harry ran his fingers over his schedule, his brow furrowing at the realisation.
"Only two classes with Slytherin," he commented, glancing at Hermione. Her eyes met his, reflecting a similar sadness.
"That's hardly any time with Daphne and Tracey," Hermione lamented, a sigh slipping past her lips. Harry could see the conflicted emotions dancing in her brown eyes - the tinge of regret was unmistakable.
"I know," Harry replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But, it's for the best, right? We can't be seen with Daphne in public... at least not currently."
A shared silence fell between them, the weight of their understanding pressing on their hearts. Harry's emerald eyes then roved across the Hall, falling on the Slytherin table. His gaze landed on a familiar face - Astoria Greengrass, Daphne's younger sister. He scrutinised her, noting her uncanny resemblance to Daphne - she was a smaller version with a mane of brown hair in contrast to Daphne's golden blonde.
Next to Astoria, Ginny Weasley was engrossed in a lively discussion, her red hair glinting in the morning sunlight. A pang of curiosity arose in Harry. He wondered what her brothers, staunch Gryffindors to the core, thought about their sister's unexpected sorting into Slytherin. He made a mental note to probe Fred and George about it later.
"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione asked, her concern breaking his train of thought.
"Yeah," he said, forcing a smile onto his face. "Just thinking about the year ahead." And with that, he dove back into his breakfast, his thoughts still a whirl of curiosity and plans for the forthcoming year.
~~~o~~~
As the days began to stretch into weeks, the Hogwarts routine resumed its natural rhythm. The old castle echoed with the familiar symphony of student chatter, the scuffling of feet against stone corridors, and the resounding clang of the lunchtime bell.
Maintaining their dichotomous existences became a part of this rhythm for the group. In the safe haven of the Room of Requirement, they were an inseparable unit. Outside, they were a disparate set of individuals, bound by unspoken ties. Daphne, ever conscious of the public eye, bore her "Ice Queen" persona with a frigid grace that sent a chill down the spines of those around her. The term, initially whispered behind hushed corners, became an open nickname as the semester progressed, making her a curiosity, an enigma of sorts among her peers.
The difficulty of the classes ramped up significantly compared to their first year, a change that the group welcomed. The challenging courses were engaging, but they also presented a distinct divide when it came to the Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Gilderoy Lockhart's lessons had formed a stark divide in the group's opinion. Hermione and Tracey, avid fans of the flamboyant professor, eagerly soaked up his tales and lessons. Harry, Daphne, and Jingles, however, found his classes to be the epitome of tedium.
As September 19th rolled around, the day's routine ended with a flourish of excitement. As soon as classes concluded, the group convened in the Room of Requirement, their faces lit up with enthusiasm. It was Hermione's birthday, and the air buzzed with anticipation.
Among the heartfelt wishes and laughter, gifts were presented. Hermione's favourite, by a wide margin, was from Tracey. A copy of Gilderoy Lockhart's latest book, it was a testament to their shared admiration for the charismatic professor. Hermione's joy was palpable, her face lighting up with delight as she thanked Tracey profusely.
This, however, served to fuel the divide among the group even further. Harry, Daphne and Jingles exchanged glances, their expressions mingling amusement and dismay. But, for the time being, they set aside their differences, their focus on celebrating Hermione's special day.
Barely a week later, as September gave way to the rustle of autumn leaves, another date of significance dawned - September 26th, Tracey's birthday. As if in silent acknowledgement, Hogwarts seemed to glow under an ethereal morning light, infusing the ancient castle's halls with an air of quiet celebration.
Daphne, ever observant of her friend's preferences, wore the bracelet gifted by Tracey on her own birthday. The trinket sparkled beautifully on her wrist, a subtle hint of silver standing out against her uniform.
As they gathered in the Room of Requirement, Tracey's wide-eyed surprise was evident when she spotted the bracelet adorning Daphne's wrist. The joy on her face redoubled when Daphne gifted her the same bracelet - a mirror twin, the silver links shimmering in the soft room light. The warm laughter and affectionate teasing that followed this 'bracelet coincidence' amplified the joy of the occasion, adding another cherished memory to their shared collection.
As the days fell away like the leaves outside, life at Hogwarts fell into a steady rhythm of study and camaraderie. Time seemed to glide past them, the crisp autumn days gradually unfurling into the chill of early winter.
Soon, it was time for the first Gryffindor Quidditch practice of the year. The vibrant green pitch, nestled under an autumn-hued sky, vibrated with the anticipation of the forthcoming games, the neatly trimmed grass whispering tales of past victories and thrilling matches. The air tingled with the collective excitement of the Gryffindor team, their eagerness palpable as they donned their Quidditch robes, the scarlet fabric a striking contrast against the mellow autumn backdrop.
It was under this bright canopy that the Gryffindor Quidditch team, led by the resolute and unwavering Oliver Wood, made their familiar trek towards the Quidditch pitch, their scarlet and gold uniforms a stark contrast against the stony grey of the castle corridors.
Their path, however, was halted abruptly by the unforeseen appearance of the Slytherin team. Clad in their distinctive green and silver, they stood tall and imposing, their countenances cold as they loomed in the cobblestone courtyard, a silent obstacle between the Gryffindors and their practice pitch.
Wood, his eyes narrowing at Flint's unusually self-satisfied smirk, broke the silence. "What's the big idea, Flint?" His voice cut through the chilly air like a blade, his irritation clear in his tone.
In response, Flint nonchalantly flourished a parchment, the sinuous signature of Professor Snape on display. "A special favour from our Head of House," he declared, baring a grin that bordered on taunting. "We've been granted exclusive use of the pitch today for Seeker practice."
A ripple of surprise washed over Wood's features as he processed Flint's words. "A new Seeker, you say?" he asked, his tone echoing with a challenge, his gaze meeting each member of the Slytherin team.
Confidence radiated from Draco Malfoy as he separated from his teammates, his silver-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight. "That would be me, Wood," he responded smugly, his voice dripping with arrogance.
In the distance, Daphne, Tracey, and Jingles observed the scene. They were not participants, but spectators, their faces illuminated with curiosity and a trace of concern as they watched the spectacle unfold.
But it wasn't just Malfoy's audacious declaration that spurred a reaction. The entire Gryffindor team took in the sight of the glossy, sleek broomsticks clutched in the hands of the Slytherins. Nimbus 2001's, all of them.
Malfoy caught the shock on the faces of the Gryffindor team and couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, didn't I mention?" he said, his voice carrying an unbearable level of self-satisfaction. "The whole team has been gifted the Nimbus 2001, courtesy of my father."
Nearby, Hermione stood up from her reading spot, her eyes wide and her mouth set in a grim line. She had been lost in one of her textbooks, the spine bent and pages dog-eared, but the confrontation had drawn her away. With a swift movement, she was standing with the Gryffindor team, her chestnut brown eyes narrowed.
Malfoy, revelling in the attention, continued his tirade. "I hope you've been practising, Potter," he drawled, a smirk stretching across his face. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you too much in our next match."
Hermione, ever the defender of her friends, bristled at his words. "The Gryffindor team earned their spots through talent, Malfoy. No one here had to buy their way in," she said, her voice steady and resolute.
Malfoy turned to her, his grey eyes gleaming with contempt. "As if I care about your opinion, Granger," he retorted. He paused, his lips curling into a sneer. With an air of deliberate menace, he uttered, "You're just a Mudblood."
The lingering chill of the cobblestone courtyard seemed to deepen, becoming a physical manifestation of the raw tension that filled the air after Malfoy's offensive remark. The crowd of students, caught between surprise and indignation, were momentarily rendered mute.
Among them, Daphne and Tracey, their faces hardened into impassive masks, hands involuntarily balled into tight fists at their sides. Their every muscle was tensed, bristling against the blatant disrespect that Malfoy had demonstrated towards their friend. An outsider might have overlooked their muted response, but the flash of shared defiance in their eyes spoke volumes, cutting through the frigid air with a silent, icy rebuttal.
Abruptly, their silent stand was broken by the sudden rush of a streaking black blur. Jingles propelled himself from Daphne's arms, his blue eyes sparking with an unexpected ferocity under the fading golden wash of the afternoon sun. Darting through the sea of students, his sudden flurry of movement sent a ripple through the crowd. His sharp hiss, punctuating the silence of the courtyard, echoed ominously off the stone walls, drawing all eyes to him.
He skidded to a halt at Hermione's side, pressing against her legs. Hermione, despite the heavy weight of Malfoy's words, managed to maintain her composure, bending down to carefully scoop up the agitated cat. Her gaze met Malfoy's sneer head on, her expression stern and unyielding. "Jingles," she declared with a remarkable calmness that belied the indignation in her brown eyes, "doesn't appreciate such vile language." The black cat, comfortably nestled in her arms now, continued to glare at Malfoy, its gaze flashing with unspoken fury.
An insolent chuckle escaped from Malfoy's lips, the sound grating against the charged atmosphere. "And why would the opinion of a mangy cat matter?" he scoffed, his tone laced with contempt, the malicious glint in his eyes boring into Hermione.
Jingles' reaction was immediate, his blue eyes narrowed, and he hissed again, louder this time, baring his fangs in a show of feline fury. Malfoy, taken aback, faltered, instinctively taking a step back from the vehement cat. His laughter dwindled, replaced by a momentary flicker of unease as he glanced from the glaring cat to the defiant Hermione.
"Enough of this," Malfoy grumbled finally, trying to regain his smug demeanour. "Let's not waste any more time here." The Slytherin Quidditch team, after exchanging one last contemptuous look with the Gryffindors, sauntered off towards the Quidditch pitch. Their departure left behind a courtyard filled with tension, the echo of their altercation lingering in the cool air, fading slowly as the students began to disperse.
The courtyard had settled into an awkward silence as the Slytherin Quidditch team receded from view. Harry, amid the scattering of students, wore a puzzled expression on his face. The term Malfoy had used, 'Mudblood', it was unfamiliar to him. A pang of curiosity mixed with concern gnawed at him. But for now, he knew he had to remain quiet.
Just then, a soft purring sound broke his train of thought. Hermione, kneeling next to the feline, was murmuring a quiet, "Thank you, Jingles," her hand tenderly stroking the soft, glossy fur of the cat. A look of appreciation warmed her face, melting away some of the bitterness the incident had caused.
In response, Jingles rubbed his head affectionately against Hermione's cheek, his wet nose leaving a damp trail. "Guess you've got my back, don't you?" Hermione added with a faint smile. With a soft sigh, she gently placed the cat down on the ground, where he immediately set off.
Jingles, his tail held high in triumph, trotted over to where Daphne and Tracey were standing. Daphne and Tracey watched his journey before eventually locking eyes with Harry and Hermione. A fleeting moment of mutual understanding passed between them.
As Harry felt a gentle pull on his sleeve, he turned to see Hermione's eyes meeting his own. Her gaze was heavy with the silent reminder of their hidden arrangements. "Remember, Harry," she whispered, so quiet it was nearly lost in the light breeze, "we mustn't draw attention."
Harry offered her a discreet nod in understanding, the stark reality of their situation settling in. "Right, Hermione," he agreed in hushed tones, a hint of disappointment concealed beneath his acceptance.
Meanwhile, Oliver Wood, shaking off the unpleasant encounter, rallied his team together. His face was set in a grim mask, but his voice held an edge of determination. "This changes nothing," he declared, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his teammates. "We'll arrange a practice as soon as we have a slot for the pitch. Be ready, and I'll keep you posted on the date and time."
With his final words hanging in the air, the Gryffindor Quidditch team dispersed, each player lost in their own thoughts about the upcoming season. The courtyard, once a buzzing hub of activity, now bore the quiet remnants of the day's events, a mute witness to the unending rivalry between the houses.
~~~o~~~
As the twilight hours approached, the friends regrouped in the Room of Requirement. It morphed into a cosy den with an inviting warmth in stark contrast to the dreary stone corridors outside. The room bore a picturesque fireplace, its hypnotic flames danced against the aged bricks, bathing the room in a gentle, orange glow. Heavy velvet drapes fell from tall windows that overlooked a simulated starry night. A worn Persian rug extended over the wooden floor, inviting occupants to rest upon it.
Emerald and crimson velvet pillows of all shapes and sizes were scattered about, and plush, oversized chairs with high wingbacks stood sentry around the fireplace. Daphne and Jingles had claimed a large chair by the fire as their own, the feline purring contentedly on her lap, his eyes reflecting the fiery spectacle in front of them.
Upon a low table in the centre of the room, scrolls and textbooks were strewn about, marking the academic endeavours of the group. A number of ornate sconces adorned the walls, their flickering candles casting an array of shadows over the ancient tomes and scrolls that filled the extensive bookcases lining the room.
Harry, his green eyes tinged with an earnest unease, hesitated as he opened the conversation. His gaze flicked between each of his friends before settling on the dancing flames in the fireplace. "I...uh, I've been meaning to ask," he started, swallowing visibly. "What... what does 'Mudblood' mean?"
The room went quiet at his question, the usual mirthful atmosphere replaced by a tense undercurrent. Daphne exhaled slowly, her gaze holding an unfathomable depth as it remained fixed on the fire. Her fingers idly stroked Jingles' fur, seeking solace in the repetitive motion.
"It's a hateful term," she began, her voice laced with a heaviness that caused the flames to flicker as if in agreement. "Used by those who consider themselves blood purists. They use it to insult and demean those who don't come from a lineage of magical families. 'Mudblood'... it's a term that suggests impurity, that the magic of these individuals is somehow dirty or tainted."
She paused, glancing around at her friends, her eyes briefly meeting Hermione's before dropping back to Jingles. "It's a term bred out of prejudice and ignorance, Harry. It's not right, and it's certainly not fair."
Harry listened, his face a canvas of emotions ranging from confusion to indignation. The furrow of his brows deepened as he digested Daphne's explanation. "That's... That's disgusting," he eventually spat out, his fists clenched at his sides. "The notion that someone's worth is determined by their heritage is... it's just... wrong."
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, the shared discomfort palpable. It was Hermione, her eyes unnaturally bright under the warm glow of the room, who finally broke the silence.
"You know," she started, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. "It's not just the insult that gets to me. It's the entire... charade we have to keep up."
She looked up, meeting each of their gazes in turn, her jaw set in a firm line. "Every day, pretending as if we're nothing more than acquaintances. It feels like...like we're living a lie." Her fingers traced an invisible pattern on the pillow next to her, her brow creasing in thought.
Daphne gave an understanding nod, her fingers absently stroking Jingles as she contemplated her words. "I agree, Hermione. It's difficult, and I hate it too." Her gaze strayed to the dancing flames, her voice barely a whisper. "But Astoria is still loyal to our parents. If she found out about us, it would only make things worse."
Tracey, who had been quietly observing the conversation, suddenly perked up. "What if we could change Astoria's mind?" she suggested, her voice hesitant yet hopeful. "She's been spending a lot of time with Ginny. Maybe if the Weasleys help..."
Daphne listened to Tracey's suggestion, her lips pursed in thought. Her gaze fell to the flickering fire, its dancing shadows painting her face with an ethereal glow. She found herself nodding, her voice thoughtful when she finally spoke.
"You know, Tracey, you might be onto something. Astoria's world view has been so limited due to our upbringing. The Weasleys, especially, could provide a stark contrast to our parents' beliefs." Her voice grew softer, a touch of wistfulness tinting her words. "Maybe exposure to different perspectives might cause her to question what she's been taught."
She let out a long sigh, her fingers absently twirling a lock of her platinum blonde hair. "But it's tricky. If we try to force things, we run the risk of Astoria becoming defensive and cutting ties with Ginny. We can't push too hard."
Turning her gaze back to the group, she pressed her lips into a thin line. "As much as it pains me to say it, for now, we must maintain the charade outside these walls. It's our best bet of keeping the peace and avoiding unwanted attention."
The mood in the room had turned sombre, the echo of their shared frustration lingering in the air. But, as it often did, the conversation gradually shifted to lighter topics: the difficulty of their recent Transfiguration homework, Lockhart's latest lesson in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the latest tricks they'd learned in Charms.
Their laughter and easy banter filled the room once more, pushing back the shadows of their earlier conversation. Time slipped away unnoticed until the familiar chime of the castle's curfew bell echoed in the distance.
With reluctant sighs, they rose from their comfortable positions, each of them sharing a final lingering look around their shared haven. One by one, they stepped through the doorway and back into the reality of Hogwarts, the room of requirement falling silent once again, awaiting their return.
~~~o~~~
As twilight cast long shadows across the Hogwarts grounds, the echoes of lively dinner conversations were beginning to subside within the Great Hall. In contrast, the Slytherin common room was bathed in a soft emerald light, the glow from the magically enhanced fireplace casting dancing shadows across the sleek stone floor.
Daphne, Tracey and Jingles, had claimed a cosy spot near the hearth. Daphne, her icy blue eyes sparkling in the firelight, was animatedly recounting a funny incident, her laughter mingling with Tracey's and creating a bubble of cheerful warmth around them. Jingles, purring contentedly, was sprawled in Daphne's lap, his vibrant eyes half-closed in bliss.
Their peaceful interlude, however, was abruptly shattered by a disdainful voice that seemed to ooze superiority. Draco Malfoy, his platinum hair a sharp contrast against the emerald hue of his robes, was standing tall before them, an insufferable smirk on his pale face. Crabbe and Goyle, as reliable and as dull as ever, flanked him, their towering forms casting long shadows that reached towards the trio by the fireplace.
"Greengrass, Davis," Draco drawled, his eyes glinting with something akin to amusement. "I must say, it's quite a relief to see you two distancing yourselves from that insufferable Potter and his Mudblood sidekick."
The offensive term hung heavily in the air, a bitter reminder of the prejudices that stained their magical world. Jingles was the first to react, his eyes flying open as his fur bristled menacingly. A low, throaty hiss escaped his clenched teeth as he glared at Draco, making it clear that the sentiment was far from welcome.
Undeterred, Draco sneered at the protective feline, his nostrils flaring in distaste. "Do keep your cat in line, Greengrass. We wouldn't want it causing unnecessary trouble."
Daphne, her eyes locked onto Draco's, countered coolly, "As I've said before, Malfoy, Jingles is a resident of Hogwarts, not anyone's pet."
With a huff, Draco glared at Jingles, his eyes narrowing as he spat, "Better learn your place, cat."
In response, Jingles swished his tail, his blue eyes seeming to glow ominously as he fixed Draco with an unwavering stare, refusing to back down.
Turning his attention back to Daphne, Draco subtly shifted his tone. His words, though veiled in politeness, couldn't hide his underlying intentions. "Greengrass, surely a pureblood lady of your standing has the luxury of choice when it comes to marriage prospects, doesn't she?"
A surge of alarm rippled through Daphne, her mind working quickly as she realised the precarious position she was in. If Malfoy took a real interest, their parents would undoubtedly get involved, and she was far from ready for that.
In response, she let out a light, nonchalant laugh, her expression meticulously schooled into one of casual indifference. "Why, Malfoy," she retorted smoothly, "I do believe I have some time before I need to worry about such matters. After all, isn't Hogwarts about education and personal growth?" She paused, her gaze holding his steadily, "Marriage can wait."
Though his face tightened in response, Draco merely nodded, stepping away with a final glance at Daphne. The trio was once again left to the warmth of the fireplace, the echoes of the conversation lingering in the air, a stark reminder of the intricacies of their world.
In the wake of Draco's departure, Daphne sank back into the plush cushion, a grimace tugging at her lips. Tracey, who had watched the exchange silently, turned to her friend, an empathetic frown on her face. The glow of the fireplace cast long shadows over them, the flickering fire painting a picture of wavering uncertainty.
"Could you imagine what it'd be like if Draco took a real interest?" Daphne whispered, her eyes focused on the dying embers. "My parents would practically trip over themselves to sign a betrothal contract with the Malfoys."
Tracey's eyes widened slightly at her friend's words, the reality of the situation sinking in. She understood Daphne's predicament. As much as Hogwarts was their refuge, their families and their expectations still held sway over them. "How are you doing with your own plan?" Tracey asked in a whisper, breaking the silence that had descended on them.
Daphne let out a sigh, her gaze flickering towards the ceiling as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. "Haven't made any progress," she admitted, frustration lacing her words. "If Malfoy decides to push the matter, I might need to refocus my efforts."
At this, Jingles nuzzled his head against her hand as if providing some silent support. Tracey, on the other hand, offered Daphne a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, her voice full of resolve. "Whatever happens, Daphne, we're here for you. You won't be facing any of this alone."
The tension that had woven itself into Daphne's features seemed to soften slightly at their words. A quiet gratitude bloomed within her as she watched her friend and her feline companion. It was a small comfort, but it was real and tangible in the face of her fears.
Deciding it was high time they turned in for the night, the girls rose from their comfortable spot by the fireplace, Jingles following suit. As they moved towards their dorm rooms, their intertwined shadows danced on the stone floor, a silent testament to their unwavering support for one another.
~~~o~~~
The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room cast a welcoming light over Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley twins. The quartet had gathered around the plush armchairs, the crackling fireplace providing a comforting soundtrack to their evening conversation.
"Fred, George," Harry began, the question that had been hovering in his mind finally finding its voice, "How do you feel about Ginny being in Slytherin?"
Fred glanced at George, an amused twinkle in his eyes before he responded. "Shocked, at first," he admitted, the corner of his lips twitching into a smirk.
"But then we realised," George picked up seamlessly, mirroring his twin's smirk, "houses don't really matter. She's our sister, and we'd back her up, no matter where she ended up."
"Yeah, even in Slytherin," Fred added, his grin widening. "Percy, though, he needed a bit more convincing."
"But Ginny proved herself," George chimed in, his smirk softening into a proud smile. "She's top of her class. Mastered all the first-year spells so far faster than you could say Quidditch."
At this, Hermione couldn't help but beam, pride filling her eyes. "That's wonderful," she said earnestly. "You two could learn something from her academic ambition."
Laughter spilled from the twins, their shared amusement filling the room. "You won't be catching us in the library anytime soon, Hermione," Fred quipped, chuckling.
"Yeah, academics and us?" George added, shaking his head. "Don't see a bright future there."
Changing the topic, Harry decided to ask about something that had been nagging at his curiosity for a while. "What about Ginny's friendship with Astoria?"
"Aha!" Fred exclaimed, pointing a finger at Harry. "Now Harry's asking about Slytherins. Fancy anyone in particular?"
"Daphne, perhaps?" George teased, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Guys, be serious," Harry retorted, rolling his eyes at the twins' antics. He was slightly relieved to see their reaction though; it meant they weren't bothered by who their sister was friends with.
"Alright, alright," Fred conceded, laughter still dancing in his eyes. "We have no business interfering with who Ginny's friends with."
"Just like we have no business in who you're friends with," George added, raising his eyebrows suggestively at Harry. Both twins burst into laughter, their shared joviality echoing through the common room. Harry just shook his head, his lips curling into an amused smile. With the Weasley twins, a conversation was never boring.
With the previous topics exhausted, the conversation naturally drifted towards Quidditch - the subject that was never far from the minds of the Weasley twins and Harry. Hermione, however, wore a look of resigned patience as they started discussing strategies, player formations, and the latest broom models.
"Quidditch, again?" she sighed, shaking her head in fond exasperation. "You lot are impossible."
Without waiting for a retort, she reached for one of her textbooks, 'Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms,' her interest piqued by the complex symbology displayed on the cover. As she delved into her book, her focus entirely consumed by the mysteries of ancient runes, the sound of Quidditch talk became a familiar background hum.
As the evening wore on, the shadows deepened and the fire in the hearth dwindled, giving way to the flickering candlelight. The conversation around her slowed, the passionate Quidditch chatter subsiding as the weight of the day began to settle upon them.
When the antique clock in the corner chimed ten, signalling the approach of bedtime, Harry stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. "I guess it's time we call it a night," he announced, his gaze sweeping across the common room.
"Sounds like a plan," Fred agreed, stifling a yawn as he rose from his armchair.
"Yeah, wouldn't want to turn into a pumpkin," George added with a mischievous grin, following his brother's lead.
Hermione, too, bookmarked her place in her book and prepared to retire. "Goodnight, guys," she called out, her voice soft but warm in the gradually quieting common room.
Fred and George bid their goodnights in unison, their twin voices blending harmoniously. Harry nodded in response, offering a quiet, "Night," before making his way up to the boys' dormitory. The common room was left to its peaceful slumber, the dying embers of the fire casting dancing shadows onto the ancient stone walls. It had been another day at Hogwarts, filled with its own mix of challenges and delights, and they all retreated to their beds to rest for the adventures of tomorrow.
~~~o~~~
The weeks had swirled by in a flurry of school life, with the occasional Quidditch practice, mountains of homework and day-to-day routine that was life at Hogwarts. Autumn had brought a kaleidoscope of colours to the castle grounds, the leaves on the trees turning various shades of red, gold, and brown. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall echoed the transformation outside, with the students basking in the warm hues during their meals.
During this time, Harry, Hermione, Tracey, Daphne, and Jingles had developed their own rhythm, their friendship growing stronger with each passing day, despite the charade they had to put up. The academic year was demanding, but they always found time to support each other, whether it was to help with homework, lend a listening ear, or simply offer a comforting presence. However, as Halloween approached, the mood within the group became more sombre.
Halloween at Hogwarts was a sight to behold, replete with a banquet and merry-making that even threatened to outshine Christmas. Jack-o'-lanterns glowed warmly in the Great Hall, while floating candles bathed the stone archways in an ethereal light. Laughter echoed through the corridors, students animatedly sharing stories of past Halloweens, and there was an air of palpable anticipation for the feast.
But amidst the cheery atmosphere, Harry found himself shrinking back, shrouded by a melancholy that the spirited celebration only seemed to exacerbate. As students around him rejoiced in the revelry, eagerly awaiting the evening's festivities, Harry became a quiet onlooker. His bright green eyes, usually filled with life, now carried the weight of a sombre remembrance. This day, unlike for the others, was a solemn marker of his loss.
In light of this, the group had decided to forgo the festivities and meet in the Room of Requirement instead, to lend their support to Harry during this difficult time.
As the final class of the day wrapped up, Harry made his way back to the Gryffindor common room, his mind clouded by thoughts of his parents. He had a couple of hours before their meet-up, and he planned to use the time to drop his books off in his dormitory.
Upon entering the dormitory, he found Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, their faces sporting mischievous grins that made Harry instantly suspicious.
"Harry, lad," began Seamus, a glint in his eye, "you and Hermione seem to be spending a lot of time together. Always sneaking in just before curfew, you two."
Harry stiffened at the insinuation, his eyes narrowing at Seamus. "That's none of your business, Seamus," he replied coldly, his hand tightening around the strap of his bag.
Unfazed by Harry's response, Seamus continued, a smirk playing on his lips. "Just saying, Potter, she's got a decent figure. If you put a bag over her head, she'd be bearable."
The words were barely out of his mouth when Harry's temper snapped. He dropped his bag and, with a swift movement, punched Seamus squarely in the jaw. Seamus staggered backward, clutching his face in surprise as Harry's anger echoed through the dormitory.
As Seamus rebounded from Harry's punch, a feral glare appeared in his eyes. In a swift motion, he lunged at Harry, his fists swinging. Harry blocked the first punch but Seamus managed to land the second, catching him in the ribs.
Seeing his friend engaged in a fight, Dean didn't hesitate to join in, his loyalty to Seamus overruling his sense of fairness. With two against one, the odds were unfairly stacked against Harry.
Fists flew, punches landed, and soon enough, Harry found himself on the receiving end of a two-front assault. Despite the disadvantage, he refused to back down, every nasty comment about Hermione fuelling his resolve.
The dormitory door burst open as Neville stumbled in, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of the brawl. Panicked, he turned and dashed out of the room, his voice echoing through the corridors as he cried out for Professor McGonagall.
The fight ended swiftly as Neville's calls for McGonagall reverberated through the dormitory. Fear of their formidable Head of House imbued the panting boys with an immediate sense of restraint, their mutual glares still ablaze but their fists now firmly at their sides.
In no time at all, the stern figure of Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway, her eyes flashing dangerously behind her square glasses.
"Well?" she demanded, her gaze sweeping across them. "Would anyone care to explain?"
Seamus, nursing a bleeding lip, was the first to speak. "Potter started it, Professor," he said, casting a bitter look at Harry.
"Only after Seamus made a distasteful comment about Hermione," Harry shot back, his green eyes blazing defiantly.
"Enough!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the tension. "I don't care who started it. Fighting is not tolerated at Hogwarts. You will all serve detention." Her gaze turned frosty as she looked at Dean and Seamus. "You two, with me, right now. And Potter," she continued, her gaze turning to Harry, "you will report to Professor Lockhart." She scrutinised Harry's visible wounds meticulously, her gaze reflecting a mix of concern and sternness. After a moment, she broke the silence, adding, "And that's once you've paid a visit to Madam Pomfrey."
All three boys paled at the mention of the infamous Gilderoy Lockhart. He was known for assigning particularly tedious tasks during detention.
"And twenty points will be deducted from Gryffindor for each of you," she added, her gaze hardened, a testament to her disappointment.
As Professor McGonagall left the room, with Dean and Seamus trailing behind, Harry was left contemplating the repercussions of his actions. The thrill of the fight had evaporated, leaving behind only regret and a daunting dread for the upcoming detention.
His stopover at the Hospital Wing didn't take long. With a quick wave of her wand, Madam Pomfrey patched up his busted lip and throbbing rib. As soon as she was done, she shooed him off towards his waiting detention, her expression a clear sign of her disapproval.
Evening had descended upon Hogwarts by the time Harry found himself seated in Professor Lockhart's extravagantly decorated office. A mountain of fan mail lay spread out on Lockhart's desk, a quill flying swiftly as it danced over parchment.
Harry's task for the night was to assist Lockhart in sorting and signing the stacks of fan letters. It was a tedious task, made all the more unbearable by Lockhart's incessant ramblings about his many exploits and achievements. Time seemed to drag on and on, until at long last, the final letter was signed, and Harry was dismissed.
Stepping out of Lockhart's office felt like a release from captivity. As the door closed behind him, he heaved a sigh of relief. But his respite was short-lived. A familiar figure was waiting for him in the corridor.
"Hermione," he greeted, a smile playing on his lips, the tension from detention visibly lifting from his shoulders.
But Hermione, usually a comforting presence, didn't share his joviality. "Harry James Potter," she began, her tone stern, her brows furrowed in disapproval.
Harry blinked, taken aback by her formality. "What's wrong?" he asked, concern etching into his features.
"Neville told me what happened," Hermione said, her gaze intense. "About the fight with Seamus and Dean."
Harry grimaced, the memory of the fight still fresh. "It's not as bad as it sounds," he tried to assure her, but Hermione cut him off.
"I appreciate that you wanted to defend me, Harry," she said, her voice softer now but still stern, "but getting into a fight? That's not the way to handle things."
Harry looked at Hermione, taking in her worried expression and knew he couldn't argue with her. His actions had been impulsive, driven by anger, and he understood why Hermione was upset.
"You're right," he conceded, "I let my anger get the best of me. I'll try to handle things better next time."
Hermione nodded, accepting his promise. Her expression softened, concern for her friend winning over her annoyance. "Just... be careful, Harry," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me."
Harry just nodded softly in reply.
A faint smile flickered across Hermione's lips, mellowing the harsh lines of her stern expression. "Daphne, Tracey, and Jingles are already in the Room of Requirement," she reminded Harry gently. Her voice was soft, like a whisper on the breeze, carrying the promise of comfort and companionship. "Fred and George helped us snag some dinner from the kitchens."
The mention of food, coupled with the thought of sharing this sombre day with his friends, brought a spark of life back into Harry's emerald eyes. A low growl erupted from the pit of his stomach, echoing his anticipation of the makeshift feast.
But as they navigated through the dimly lit castle corridors, an unfamiliar sensation pricked at Harry's senses. A voice, chilling and sinister, slithered into his ears, its whisper a sibilant hiss. "Kill... Kill..."
His foot faltered mid-step, his face blanching. The blood in his veins turned icy. He swivelled around to face Hermione, his eyes wide and alarmed. "Hermione, did you hear that?"
Bewilderment clouded her brown eyes, her eyebrows knitting together in a look of genuine confusion. "Hear what, Harry?" she asked, her voice barely more than a murmur.
Before Harry could respond, the voice returned, the haunting hiss drawing away from them. A surge of fear propelled adrenaline through his body. "It's going to kill someone!" He bolted, chasing after the spectre only he seemed to hear, Hermione hot on his heels, her worried calls echoing through the stone corridors.
The chase led them to a gloomy corridor on the second floor. As they skidded to a halt, Harry felt his breath hitch at the dreadful sight that unfurled before them. Water was lapping at their shoes, a deluge spilling from the girls' bathroom nearby. And there, in the harsh, flickering light of a wall torch, was the petrified body of Mrs. Norris, her eyes frozen wide open in eternal terror.
Just above the unfortunate feline, a chilling message was scrawled across the cold stone wall in fresh, dripping blood: "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware." Harry felt his heart constrict, a sudden icy dread seizing him as he stared at the warning. His skin crawled, goosebumps spreading up his arms, the voice echoing again in his mind.
The cold dread that had seized Harry continued to twist in his gut as the petrified form of Mrs. Norris remained a chilling spectacle under the flickering wall torch. The steady dripping of water from the girls' bathroom was the only sound that filled the gloomy corridor of the second floor. That is, until a new noise broke the near-silence.
The echo of distant footsteps, growing steadily louder, brought Harry's head swinging around. A chill snaked its way down his spine as Argus Filch, the grizzled and stooped caretaker, rounded the corner. His wild, rheumy eyes took in the scene, flitting from the frozen form of his beloved cat to the ominous message dripping blood on the wall. His face contorted, grief and rage twisting his features into an even more grotesque mask.
With trembling hands, Filch clung onto his lantern, casting long and nightmarish shadows across the hall. "Potter," he spat out, his voice guttural and raw, a rough accusation that cut through the corridor's quiet. He stepped forward, his beady eyes narrowing at Harry. His gaze was a dagger, pointed directly at the young wizard. "What've you done?"
The question, more of a damning accusation, echoed off the stone walls, lingering in the air, heavy and deadly as a hangman's noose. "What did you do to Mrs. Norris?"
His heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, Harry felt a surge of indignation. "I didn'tâ" he started, but Filch had already turned to face the growing audience, his hands outstretched dramatically.
An echo of gasps and startled whispers followed the arrival of two groups of students. The Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws had been on their way to their common rooms when they happened upon the grim spectacle. The corridor was fast becoming crowded, filled with wide-eyed students, their faces a mix of shock and curiosity, as they took in the eerie tableau before them.
Harry, fighting back a sudden rush of anxiety, lifted his chin defiantly. "It wasn't me, Mr. Filch," he declared, his voice ringing out clear and steadfast, carrying an undertone of indignation. He gestured towards Hermione, who was standing beside him, her brow furrowed in concern. She nodded her agreement, lending her silent support to his protest.
The seconds that followed his statement stretched out, taut and tense. The only sound was the steady drip of water and the whisper of hushed conversations amongst the students. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting for Filch's response.
The old caretaker looked at Harry, a sour curl to his lips. "Then who, Potter?" he sneered, turning back to the petrified cat, his gnarled hand reaching out to stroke her frozen form. His voice, though strained, rang out clear in the hushed corridor, "Was it that ungrateful beast Jingles?"
"Enough, Argus," came a soothing voice.
Albus Dumbledore appeared, his tall form commanding the crowd's attention, the twinkle in his eyes dimmed by the severity of the situation. He was flanked by Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Lockhart, their faces echoing various shades of concern and curiosity.
Dumbledore's gaze swept over the crowd, his voice resonating through the corridor. "Students," he said, with calm authority, "return to your common rooms immediately. This area is now off-limits until further notice."
Turning towards Filch, he offered a comforting reassurance. "Argus, I understand your pain, but Mrs. Norris is not dead. She has been petrified, and we shall do our utmost to reverse this. As for your accusations towards Harry, they are misplaced. We will investigate thoroughly."
Filch's sagging shoulders eased a bit, and he nodded mutely. Dumbledore's assurance had doused the fire of his anger, replacing it with a glimmer of hope. Yet, the sombre atmosphere remained, shrouding the castle in a chilling silence that marked the onset of a mystery yet to be unravelled.
Dumbledore turned his attention to the two students still remaining. His voice carried an air of tranquil authority as he asked, "Might I enquire, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, as to what brings you here? Do you have any knowledge of this incident?"
Hermione, her curls shimmering with the dim light of the corridor, stepped forward. "We don't know anything, Professor. After Harry's detention, we were on our way back to the common room. Harry wasn't feeling well, so we thought we'd skip the feast. We found Mrs. Norris just like this... we don't know what happened."
To their surprise, Snape's voice, cold as a winter's night, interjected. "Perhaps they were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Dumbledore nodded at the Potion Master's words, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he turned back to Harry and Hermione. "It seems you've been spending less time with Miss Davis and Miss Greengrass recently. Why is that?"
Harry met the headmaster's gaze, his brows furrowing slightly. He responded with a noncommittal shrug, "We've just been busy with our own classes, Professor."
But Dumbledore was not easily dismissed. His wise eyes seemed to pierce through Harry's evasion as he continued, "Perhaps, but could this change also be linked to the younger Miss Greengrass' arrival?"
Silence followed, as neither Harry nor Hermione gave a response. Dumbledore simply nodded, the silence speaking volumes. "I see," he said finally. His gaze softened, turning to Harry. "Could you please pass on a message to Miss Greengrass for me? I would like to see her in my office tomorrow after classes."
With a final nod of dismissal from Dumbledore, Harry and Hermione hastily left the gruesome scene. Dumbledore's penetrating gaze seemed to linger on their retreating backs, but the pair pressed onward, whispering quietly between themselves. They cast careful glances around corners and in dark hallways, avoiding the watchful eyes of any lingering professors.
Breaking off from the main corridor leading to the Gryffindor common room, they made their way towards the corridor with the nondescript tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. With a combination of concentration, need, and pacing, they called forth the Room of Requirement. The door materialised in the stone wall, and they stepped into the familiar, comforting interior of the Room.
Seated on a plush armchair, Daphne looked up from the book she was engrossed in, a faint line of concern appearing between her brows at the sight of their dishevelled appearances. Across the room, Tracey paused in her playful chasing of Jingles, her laughter fading as she studied her friends.
"Harry, Hermione," Daphne greeted, closing her book and eyeing them with a discerning look. "What happened? You're both late."
Harry shared a glance with Hermione before he began recounting the evening's events. His voice filled the room, the words echoing around them, painting a vivid picture of the blood-chilling voice only he seemed to hear, the horrifying sight in the corridor, Mrs. Norris suspended from a torch bracket, the threatening message written on the wall, and the encounter with Dumbledore afterwards.
As he spoke, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence, each word punctuating the tension that seemed to grow with every passing moment. The playful atmosphere from earlier seemed a distant memory, replaced by an oppressive heaviness.
After a beat of silence following Harry's tale, Tracey broke the silence. "So... you heard a voice? And it led you to... that?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, her usual bubbly demeanour replaced by a grave seriousness.
Harry simply nodded, the firelight flickering in his green eyes, making them appear even more haunted.
Even as the warm fire flickered playfully against the dark walls of the Room of Requirement, the atmosphere among the friends was noticeably subdued. Each of them picked at their food, their thoughts clearly elsewhere. The news of Mrs. Norris and the strange voice had effectively cast a pall over their usually lively gatherings.
Harry was the first to break the silence. His voice steady, he directed his gaze towards Daphne, who was absent-mindedly tracing patterns on the worn wooden table with her fingers. "Daphne, Dumbledore asked me to tell you that he wants to see you in his office tomorrow after classes," he said, his green eyes filled with empathy.
The reaction was immediate. Daphne's fingers stilled and she stiffened, her face losing its softness as her brows furrowed in consternation. "So he's not satisfied just watching our every move," she retorted, a spark of irritation burning in her ice-blue eyes. "Now he wants to interrogate me personally. Great."
Jingles, perched on the edge of an ornate clock, flicked his tail against Daphne's shoulder in a reassuring manner, his sharp blue eyes softening as he met her gaze. "I'll be with you, Daph. You won't be alone." His tone was earnest, and a hint of a purr lingered in his voice, echoing through the silent room.
A new voice entered the conversation, its owner observing Jingles with curiosity. Hermione, her usually bright eyes filled with concern, asked, "Jingles, Filch accused you of being involved in Mrs. Norris petrification and called you an 'ungrateful beast'. Do you have any idea why he would have said something like that?"
Jingles glanced at Hermione and then around at the others. A quiet sigh echoed through the room as he began to speak, his usual playful tone replaced by one of sombre reminiscence. "When I arrived here as a kitten, I didn't have anyone. Mrs. Norris... she sort of took me under her paw, showed me the ropes. She was... she was like a mother to me."
His gaze became distant, his voice distant as he lost himself in the past. "But over time, things changed. I stayed a kitten longer than any normal cat, and she... she grew weary of me. I was different, and she didn't like that. She became isolated because of me. The other pets started avoiding her, because of my... condition. When I finally grew out of my kitten phase, I... I cut ties with her."
He paused, his gaze returning to meet his friends'. "After that... she was less than friendly towards me."
There was a moment of silence, broken when Tracey reached out and lightly stroked Jingles' fur, a comforting smile gracing her lips. "It wasn't your fault, Jingles. You were just being you."
Hermione's expression mirrored the sentiment, her eyes softening as she gave a gentle nod. "Absolutely, Jingles. No one should ever make you feel less for being you."
Despite the heaviness of the conversation, a sense of warmth began to permeate the room again, carried on the words of friendship and understanding shared among the group.
In the comfort of the Room of Requirement, the group was huddled together, their expressions tense in the warm flickering firelight. The soft crackle of the fire was the only sound breaking the silence as Tracey finally spoke, her voice slightly shaky as she asked the question that had been nagging her.
"Jingles," she began, glancing at the black feline with an inquisitive gaze, "have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?" Her fingers twitched slightly in her lap, a clear sign of her nervousness.
Jingles, his sapphire eyes catching the fire's glow, tilted his head in contemplation. He looked deep in thought, his tail wrapping tighter around his body. "Only the legends," he finally responded, his voice cool and even, though there was a glint of uncertainty in his eyes. "But personally, I've always thought it was more of a myth than anything."
Hermione, her keen intellect piqued, leaned forward, the firelight illuminating her serious face. "And these legends, do they say anything about what might be inside the Chamber?" she asked, her fingers tracing patterns on the armrest of her chair, a silent testament to her restless mind.
Jingles paused, his gaze becoming distant as if he was peering back through the years. "The legends say it houses a monster of Slytherin's making," he said slowly. "Its mission supposedly is to purge the school of those whom Slytherin deemed unfit to study magic." His voice dropped, adding a gravity to his words that hung heavy in the air.
Daphne's soft voice echoed in the tense silence following Jingles' revelation. "Muggleborns..." she murmured, the implication clear. She glanced towards Hermione, her eyes filled with a quiet worry. Harry, Tracey, and Jingles followed her gaze, a shared unease in their eyes.
As the evening unfolded, a hushed solemnity settled over them, casting a pall over their once jovial gathering. They shared a quiet meal, the clinking of cutlery and the crackle of the fire serving as the only interjections to the profound silence. Each bite seemed almost mechanical, the usually comforting flavours and textures of the food offering little distraction from the chilling reality they were beginning to grapple with. The warmth from the fire and the presence of close friends did little to dissipate the cloud of apprehension that hung heavy in the room. A lurking danger had turned the castle, their sanctuary, into an enigma, and even as they ate, the silent question seemed to hang between them, haunting and unspoken.
As the chimes of curfew echoed distantly through the castle, they rose from their seats, the comfort of the plush cushions a stark contrast to the worry etched on their faces. Murmuring goodnights and urging each other to stay safe, they each made their way back to their respective common rooms. The shadows of the castle seemed deeper, the halls more chilling, as they were left alone with their thoughts, each wrestling with the uncertainty of the days to come.
~~~o~~~
The day passed in a blur for Daphne, the hours spent in classes providing a semblance of normalcy amid the mounting worries. When the final bell rang, a heavy feeling settled in her chest as she, with Jingles at her side, made her way towards the Headmaster's office.
The castle's halls were less crowded now, the chatter and laughter of students dissipating into an eerie silence as she climbed the stairs leading to the office. Her heart pounded in her chest as they reached the stone gargoyle, a feeling of trepidation washing over her as she realised she didn't have the password.
Just as she was about to turn back, the sound of footsteps echoed behind her. Turning around, she saw Professor Dumbledore walking towards her, a jovial smile on his face. "Miss Greengrass," he greeted warmly, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. "KitKat," he announced clearly to the gargoyle, which sprang aside to reveal the spiralling staircase.
Inside the office, Dumbledore gestured for Daphne to take a seat while he walked behind his desk. The room was filled with an assortment of strange objects, the flickering light from the fireplace casting dancing shadows across the walls.
As Daphne settled down, Jingles jumped onto her lap, curling up comfortably as though to offer her some comfort. Dumbledore sat down, his demeanour becoming serious.
"I must express my concern," he started, his gaze steady on Daphne, "I fear that your friendship with Harry and Hermione might be strained."
Daphne's gaze hardened at his comment, her grip on Jingles tightening slightly. "You don't have to worry, Professor," she responded firmly. "Our friendship is as strong as ever."
Dumbledore nodded, a contemplative look crossing his features. "Then, I deduce you must have a secret meeting spot, away from the prying eyes of Astoria," he said, his gaze not wavering.
Daphne remained silent, her eyes meeting his in a silent standoff.
Dumbledore sighed, a small frown marring his usually jovial face. "I have offered my help to you on several occasions, Miss Greengrass," he started, his voice barely above a whisper. "And it saddens me to see that you've not taken it."
Daphne squared her shoulders, her eyes burning with a defiant fire. "For me to accept your help, Professor," she said, her voice cool but firm, "you'd first need to earn my trust." The words hung in the air, a challenge and a promise rolled into one.
The heavy silence in the office was broken as Dumbledore leaned forward, his hands lightly resting on the desk. "And how might I go about earning your trust, Miss Greengrass?" He asked, the soft sincerity in his voice tugging at the corners of his lips, curiosity sparkled in his piercing blue eyes.
"By never using Legilimency on me again," Daphne shot back, her eyes flashing with a fierce determination. "That would be a start." The words were crisp and clear, echoing in the silence of the room.
A soft sigh escaped Dumbledore's lips, his gaze dropping to the desk, his fingers tracing the intricate woodwork. "That was a lapse in judgement on my part," he conceded, an unusual display of regret reflected in the furrows of his face. He looked up, locking eyes with Daphne again, a note of intrigue laced in his tone. "Though I find it interesting that you seem to value Jingles' secrets over your own."
Daphne, for her part, remained stoic, her expression unreadable, the silence growing thick between them. Eventually, she chose to change the course of the conversation. "What do you know about Jingles?" She questioned, her voice calm but carrying a hint of accusation.
"He's a magical cat," Dumbledore replied, his words trailing off into an evasive non-answer. His gaze never left Daphne's, but the warm twinkle in his eyes did not reach his words. "Beyond that, I'm afraid I don't have much to offer."
The reply was met with a momentary silence before Daphne rose abruptly from her seat, her hand closing gently but firmly around Jingles, who meowed softly in acknowledgment. She began to walk towards the door, her movements echoing her resolve. "That's exactly why I can't trust you, Professor," she declared, her voice steady but laced with resignation. "You keep your cards too close to your chest."
Her hand had just reached for the ornate door handle when Dumbledore's voice stopped her. "Miss Greengrass," he called out softly, halting her mid-action. His voice filled the room again, almost cautiously. "Are you familiar with the events of Halloween 1981?"
Daphne gave a slight nod, her grip tightening on the door handle, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of the situation.
"Hagrid didn't just retrieve Harry from the ruins that night. He brought back Jingles as well," Dumbledore divulged, his gaze steady on Daphne, observing her reactions.
A flicker of confusion crossed Daphne's face, her eyebrows knitting together as she processed the information. "What about his eyes?" She probed, her tone guarded. "Was there anything unusual about them?"
Dumbledore's face reflected genuine surprise at her question. "Not that I recall," he responded, his head tilting to one side, a puzzled expression forming. "Is there something I should know?"
A knot began to form in Daphne's stomach. She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "Why did you cast a lock on Jingles?"
The headmaster's eyes widened slightly, his brow furrowing as he considered her words. "A lock? Like one would place on a toddler?"
Jingles' soft voice echoed in Daphne's mind. "Daphne, we're revealing too much. It's time to leave."
Heeding his warning, Daphne snapped out of her thoughts and stammered out an excuse. She quickly wished Dumbledore a good day and, with a swift turn of the door handle, made her way out of the office.
Unbeknownst to the pair, the moment the door closed behind them, Dumbledore's attention was immediately diverted towards a stack of parchment on his desk. His eyes skimmed through the applications, the corners of his mouth tightening. The hunt for the next Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was beginning, and there was a specific candidate who Dumbledore felt could potentially provide the answers he sought.