Hedwig had returned from France days earlier, bearing a message from Fleur that was concise, though heavy with promise. It told him to expect a letter from her father, hinting that the delicate matter he needed counsel on would soon find the attention of one who could be trusted. Harry had waited with a patience that belied his youth, masking the tension that simmered beneath his outward calm. When an unfamiliar owl glided through the Great Hall during dinner, bearing an unmarked package, Harry's pulse quickened.

The package was small, unassuming, and wrapped with discreet precision. Harry made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower with deliberate strides, suppressing the urge to run. Behind the closed door of his room, he wasted no time. A quick Colloportus sealed the door, and he set the package down on his desk, his hands steady despite the anticipation thrumming through him.

Peeling back the wrapping, he uncovered a small, round mirror with a hinged stand on its back—elegant but unadorned. Next to it lay a single slip of parchment bearing only a brief message, in French: "Tap the mirror with your wand to speak with someone you can trust. -D". There was no mistaking its author. Monsieur Delacour had kept his word.

Without hesitation, Harry drew his wand and touched it to the mirror's surface. His own reflection blurred and vanished, replaced by rippling shadows that coalesced into the image of an old man seated in a study draped in history—shelves bowed under the weight of tomes, artifacts, and hunting trophies, including what looked like a Troll's skull.

The man's dark eyes were piercing, bright with a keenness that had not dimmed with age. His hair, silvered and cropped short, lent a certain stateliness to his countenance. He bore the air of one who had seen much and forgotten little. He looked, Harry thought, like a warrior who had become a sage.

The old man inclined his head, his gaze never wavering. "Monsieur Potter. The Boy Who Lived."

There was no derision in the French words, only a solemn acknowledgment of a title that had been thrust upon Harry. The formality, the weight of that recognition—it reminded him of where he stood and why this conversation mattered.

Harry met the gaze with measured calm, refusing to flinch beneath its scrutiny. He replied in the same language. "I'm aware of what people call me, Monsieur. But titles often obscure more than they reveal."

The man in the mirror inclined his head slightly, as if in approval. "Indeed. And they carry burdens few truly understand." His voice, rich and precise, filled the room like a quiet storm. "You were told to trust me, but I suspect you will want more than titles and reputation before you do so."

Harry's eyes narrowed, not out of mistrust, but out of the careful consideration this man warranted. "That would be appreciated, Monsieur."

The old Frenchman leaned back, settling as though preparing to lay down the weight of years in a few sentences. "I am Athos Renard. Once an Auror of the French Ministry. I fought during the Grindelwald War, when darkness sought to consume more than one country's borders. In the years that followed, I hunted those remnants who wished to reignite his fire and worked to forge fragile alliances across Europe. Though retired, I have not forgotten the cost of complacency."

Harry listened in silence, absorbing each word. Here was a man forged in fire and tempered by experience. "Well met, Monsieur Renard. So, you have seen what power does when unchecked."

It was not a question. Athos' eyes, keen and shrewd, met his own. "Power unchecked is a plague, Monsieur Potter. But so too is the instinct to bury the past to preserve the present." There was a pause, weighted with meaning. "What brings you to me?"

Harry drew in a breath, his words sharp and deliberate. "I hold captive one Peter Pettigrew, a Death Eater of Voldemort. Not only that, but he was my parents' friend—their Secret Keeper. He betrayed them to the Dark Lord, then faked his own death, framed another, and hid for years."

Athos' gaze sharpened, as if a blade had been drawn. "A fugitive thought dead, unmasked at last. And yet, you did not take him to your Ministry."

There was no accusation, only the barest hint of curiosity. Harry's expression hardened. "The Ministry is more concerned with preserving its image than seeking justice. And Dumbledore… has his own plans. I need someone outside their influence. Someone who understands the stakes."

Athos regarded him for a long moment, silence stretching thin. "You seek leverage, then, to ensure this truth does not vanish into shadow." His tone was grave, but a flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.

Harry nodded, his voice low and certain. "Yes, Monsieur Renard. I will not let this be buried."

Athos leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You tread a dangerous path. Leverage, justice—these are blades that cut deeply. Are you prepared for the scars they leave behind?"

Harry's answer was unflinching. "I am."

For a moment, Athos seemed to weigh every word spoken, every unspoken truth between them. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. We proceed with caution, Monsieur Potter. Justice is seldom clean, and its pursuit often demands a heavy price."

It was Harry who broke the silence first. "There's another consequence of Pettigrew's betrayal that must be addressed," he said, his voice steady but shadowed by the gravity of what he was about to reveal. "An innocent man—Sirius Black, another friend of my parents'—has spent over a decade in Azkaban for crimes he did not commit. Pettigrew framed him."

Renard's eyes narrowed slightly, the barest hint of surprise breaking through his composure. "Indeed, I've heard the name," he replied thoughtfully. "The supposed mass murderer who betrayed the Potters." There was no judgment, only a careful deliberation of what this revelation meant. "You claim his innocence?"

"I do." Harry's tone left no room for doubt. "Black was condemned unjustly, left to rot in a place that no man deserves." The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, but it was tempered by determination. "Pettigrew's survival is proof enough of his innocence."

Renard's gaze grew thoughtful, his features hardening as he considered the implications. "If this is true, it is a stain not only on British justice, but on all who allowed such a miscarriage to persist." He leaned closer, the flickering light casting deep shadows across his face. "I will make discreet inquiries, Monsieur Potter. I have contacts within Britain who may shed light on the details of the trial."

"Thank you," Harry said, and though the words were simple, they carried a depth of gratitude that did not need to be spoken aloud. He knew the risks Renard would be taking, probing into secrets that some would rather keep buried.

Renard inclined his head, as if to acknowledge the unspoken weight of Harry's words, before shifting the conversation back to more immediate matters. "Are you certain that your captive will remain secured?"

Harry nodded, anticipating the question, keeping his response close to the truth, while not revealing anything too sensitive to Renard. "Yes, there was an unrelated threat to the school this year—a cursed artifact planted by Lucius Malfoy, a Death Eater hiding behind the guise of respectability. He used it to target an innocent student, enabling them to Petrify others under its influence. I intervened, disrupted his plan, and secured the artifact. Once I captured Pettigrew, I was then able to Petrify him myself. He's not going anywhere."

Renard's expression darkened at the mention of Malfoy's name, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "The Malfoys have long walked a line between respectability and darkness. Good, so your prisoner is secure."

"Yes." Harry's voice was cool and controlled, his eyes meeting Renard's with unwavering resolve. "He will be Petrified for transport, so there is no flight risk. The school is cultivating a batch of Mandrakes that will be ready by the end of term. Once the Restorative Draught is brewed, I intend to acquire a dose and use it on Pettigrew once he's already securely in Ministry custody."

Renard nodded slowly, absorbing the plan with the practiced mind of a strategist.

"Good," Renard said, a glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes before it was tempered by the gravity of their mission. "When your term ends, I will meet you at King's Cross Station. From there, we will go directly to the Ministry. If fortune favors us, we will confront Minister Fudge himself. If the Minister refuses to meet with us, we will take Pettigrew to the Auror Department and present the evidence there."

Harry nodded. The plan, spoken aloud, hung between them. Renard's voice, low and firm, cut through the silence. "Be prepared for resistance, Monsieur Potter. Even the purest of truths can be twisted by those who fear it."

"I understand." There was no bravado in Harry's words, only the steely resolve of someone who had already walked through fire and would do so again.

Renard's image wavered slightly in the mirror's surface, as if touched by a ripple of unseen currents. "Then we are agreed," he said. "Be vigilant, and know that the path ahead will test every measure of your resolve."

With that, the connection faded, and Harry found himself staring once more at his own reflection. He saw in his eyes the weight of everything that had passed and everything yet to come.

—

After finishing breakfast in the Great Hall, Harry made his way back to the Ravenclaw Tower. The morning sun streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting elongated shadows across the rough stone walls. His mind was focused and clear—today's meeting was more than a simple negotiation; it could define the balance of power in the Forest for years to come.

In his room, Harry knelt beside his trunk. With a few murmured words, the locks clicked open, revealing the trap door leading to a small Expanded room. He descended swiftly, retrieving his Centaur-made bow, still pristine and unused, along with his Invisibility Cloak and Nimbus 2001. The bow was longer than any he'd used before, finely crafted with a natural curve that felt at once familiar and foreign in his hands. He packed it carefully into his rucksack, its weight a reassuring presence. The Cloak and broom followed.

He shrugged the rucksack over his shoulders, then called out, "Dobby."

A soft pop echoed in the quiet room, and the house-elf appeared, his large eyes wide and attentive. "Yes, Master Harry?"

Harry nodded, slinging the rucksack over his shoulder. "Take me to the edge of the Forest—just past where the wards end."

Dobby's ears twitched as he nodded once, and without another word, he reached for Harry's hand. In the blink of an eye, the familiar room vanished, replaced by the towering, shadowy expanse of the Forbidden Forest. Harry took a moment to steady himself, the scents of damp earth and fresh leaves filling his senses.

"Thank you, Dobby," he said quietly, releasing the elf's hand.

Dobby gave him a quick, earnest nod and popped away, leaving Harry alone. He retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and broom from his pack, and tossed on the Cloak, feeling its silken weight settle around him, then mounted his broom. The air around him shifted as he rose quietly through the trees, gaining altitude. He flew cautiously, scanning the forest floor below for any sign of the clearing Firenze had described.

It took about a quarter of an hour of circling in a widening spiral. Then, finally, he saw it—a large clearing marked by a circle of ancient, moss-covered stones. Harry angled his broom downward, landing softly on the grass, the crunch of leaves muffled beneath his feet.

He slipped off the cloak, folding it neatly and stowing it in his rucksack, then drew his wand and murmured, "Tempus."

The floating numbers told him it was not yet noon; he was ten minutes early. Harry took a breath and stepped further into the clearing, feeling the quiet gravity of the place around him. The stones loomed, ancient and silent, bearing witness to what was to come.

The stillness of the clearing enveloped Harry, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze passed through. He turned his attention to the ancient stones, briefly wondering if Gellert's restoration technique would yield any results. He put the thoughts from his mind. He needed to remain focused on the meeting ahead.

After what Harry estimated to be around ten minutes, the soft thud of hooves against the earth drew his attention. Emerging from the shadows at the edge of the clearing, four Centaurs stepped into the light—Magorian, tall and imposing with a chestnut coat; Firenze, his palomino body gleaming softly; Ronan, his red-chestnut hide blending with the colors of the forest; and Bane, his dark coat and fierce expression making him seem like a thundercloud ready to strike.

Magorian stepped forward, his movements deliberate, each stride resonating with authority. He halted a few paces from Harry, his gaze steady but not unkind.

"Harry Potter," Magorian began, his deep voice resonating through the clearing, "I am Magorian, leader of this herd. You have walked a path few would dare, and your actions thus far have preserved the delicate balance of our forest. For that, I thank you."

Harry inclined his head respectfully. "I am honored to be here, Magorian."

Before he could say more, a scoff broke the calm. Bane stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the young wizard. "Balance?" he echoed, his voice thick with skepticism. "You speak of balance, Magorian, but this one harbors a nest of Acromantula eggs and commands a Basilisk—Salazar Slytherin's monster. Tell me, wizard, what does this say of your intentions?"

Harry met Bane's gaze, unflinching. "It says that I know the cost of power and the danger of leaving it unchecked," he replied evenly. "The eggs are in stasis to prevent overpopulation. Without control, Aragog's brood would overrun the Forest, and you would be forced to take more drastic measures. I chose a different path."

Bane's nostrils flared, his skepticism undiminished. "And the Basilisk? Vercingetorix, you call it. One command from you, and it could scour the Forest clean. Is this your version of balance—power held in reserve, waiting to strike?"

Harry took a step forward, his voice steady but edged with steel. "If I wanted domination, you would know it. I would not be here, speaking of balance. I would have unleashed Vercingetorix already, on the Acromantulas, on any who opposed me. But I didn't. Every action I've taken has been to maintain order—not to rule, but to preserve."

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down on all present. Ronan shifted, his gaze thoughtful but wary, while Firenze watched with a mixture of support and caution. Magorian's eyes narrowed slightly, considering Harry's words.

Finally, Magorian spoke, his tone measured. "Your words are bold, Harry Potter, and they carry the weight of truth. Power held with restraint is rare among wizards, and rarer still among those who would seek to walk among us. Yet restraint must be proven over time, not spoken of in moments."

Harry inclined his head. "I understand."

Magorian's gaze softened, but only slightly. "We will watch, wizard, as we always have. But know this: should the balance shift, it will be our duty to act."

The quiet acknowledgment from Magorian hung in the air, a reminder that while trust might be offered, it would not be given lightly. The centaurs stood in a loose circle around Harry, their expressions reflecting the weight of what had been said. Harry took a breath, sensing that this was the moment to speak further—to show that he understood not just their concerns, but their history as well.

"Magorian," Harry said, his voice steady. "I know this place holds great significance for you and your kin. Firenze spoke of it—of how this was where the Founders of Hogwarts once met with your chieftains."

Magorian's eyes darkened slightly, not with anger, but with a somber recollection. "You speak true, wizard. This place remembers. It saw times when Wizard and Centaur stood as allies, bound by mutual respect. But those days faded, corrupted by mistrust and the Ministry's heavy hand. The Founders honored us. Those that came after did not."

Harry nodded. "I understand. The past is not easily forgotten, nor should it be. But I believe the same respect that once bound us can be renewed." He slipped the rucksack from his shoulder and carefully drew out the Centaur-made bow. The wood gleamed faintly in the light, and he held it with the reverence it deserved.

"This bow," he continued, stepping forward with care, "was crafted by your kin. I purchased it as a tool for survival, but it remained unused. I know that Goblins see human ownership over their work as non-transferable—I do not know if Centaurs share such a belief. But I offer it back to you now, as a token of respect and good faith. I have no desire to keep what was made by your people without your blessing."

Magorian regarded the bow with a steady, unreadable expression, while the other Centaurs leaned in slightly, curiosity flickering in their eyes. After a moment, Magorian spoke, his voice calm but with a hint of intrigue.

"A human who offers back what he could easily keep? Rare indeed. Tell me, Harry Potter—what did you learn of the bow you carry? Did you seek to master its craft, or did it merely sit, a trophy among your possessions?"

Harry met Magorian's gaze. "I practiced archery for years before coming to Hogwarts. I trained with lesser bows than this one, but I respected the craft and what it meant. I never saw this as a trophy—only as a tool I would use, should the need arise. But it never did."

The Centaurs' eyes were trained on the bow as Harry held it out, their expressions a mix of curiosity and measured interest. Magorian stepped closer, his gaze moving over the polished wood and fine craftsmanship. The Centaur chieftain studied Harry for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he glanced at Firenze, who gave a slight nod of approval, and to Ronan, whose eyes were bright with interest. Even Bane, though silent, seemed to be weighing the gesture carefully.

"We do not share the Goblins' beliefs about ownership," Magorian said at last, his tone not unkind. "A Centaur-made bow, once given or traded, is yours to keep. It is a rare thing, but not forbidden. What matters is how you wield it."

Ronan stepped forward, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "You said you practiced archery. Show us."

Harry nodded and stepped back, taking a stance he hadn't used in some time. He notched an imaginary arrow, feeling the familiar tension in his arms as he drew the string back. The bow's weight and balance felt natural, even though he hadn't shot a bow in well over a year. He aimed, held steady, and released the string with a twang, his movements fluid and precise.

The Centaurs watched intently. When Harry lowered the bow, Ronan inclined his head. "Your form is true. It speaks of discipline and respect for the craft."

Magorian's gaze softened slightly, and he gestured for Harry to lower the bow. "Keep it, Harry Potter. Continue your practice. A Centaur-made bow is more than wood and string; it is a bond with the land and with those who crafted it. Honor it with use, not by leaving it untouched."

Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He nodded, feeling a deeper understanding of what the bow represented. "I will. Thank you."

Magorian stepped back, his voice firm but carrying a note of cautious respect. "Then let it be a sign of what can be—not simply a tool, but a reminder of the respect you have shown here today."

Bane huffed, but remained silent. Firenze's gaze held approval, and Ronan's curiosity lingered. The clearing, ancient and solemn, seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging the moment.

"You have taken a step," Magorian said, his tone heavy with meaning. "But many more lie ahead. Walk carefully, and let your actions continue to speak for you."

Harry inclined his head. "I understand."

—

The flickering Bluebell flames danced along the sconces, casting elongated shadows over the enchanted meeting space. Penelope's voice carried a steady, practiced cadence as she guided the Enclave through the intricacies of Healing Charms, her words crisp and authoritative. Yet, despite her careful explanations, Harry's mind wandered. He caught snippets of her lecture—references to magical sinew regeneration, spell limitations on reversing severe nerve damage—but the words were like drops of water slipping through his fingers.

He'd spent the afternoon securing an accord with Magorian. The Centaur chieftain's warnings, his heavy gaze, and the undercurrents of tension had stayed with Harry, making it difficult to concentrate on the meeting. He forced himself to focus, nodding at something Penelope said, though he couldn't recall the question.

"…and that brings us to a demonstration," Penelope announced, her gaze sweeping over the group. "Who here already knows the basic Episkey charm?"

Harry lifted a finger, while Fred's hand shot up, followed quickly by George's, both of them grinning. "We can patch up broken noses and bloody lips with the best of them," Fred declared.

"Or at least the best in this room," George added with a wink.

Hermione raised her hand more demurely. "I've practiced it. Successfully," she said, a hint of pride slipping through.

"Good," Penelope acknowledged, a smile tugging at her lips. "We'll split into groups, then. Those of you familiar with Episkey can work on coaching the others until they have it down. Fred, George, Hermione—you're on teaching duty."

Hermione nodded, already moving to gather the other members who needed to practice. Fred and George exchanged a mischievous glance before turning to the cluster of students, adopting exaggerated, professorial airs. "Welcome, young apprentices," Fred began, "to the esteemed art of not bleeding everywhere."

"Step one," George intoned solemnly, "is to avoid getting hurt in the first place. But for those less graceful among you, there's Episkey."

Their antics drew laughter, lightening the mood in the room, but Harry's attention had finally sharpened. Penelope had turned her focus to him, Percy, and Robert. "For the rest of us," she said, "I thought we might tackle Vulnera Sanentur and Brackium Emendo. They're complex, yes, but I suspect we're all up to the challenge."

Percy nodded with characteristic seriousness. "These are advanced spells. The incantation must be precise, and intent matters greatly. Improper focus could result in unintended tissue manipulation."

Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers curling tighter around his wand. The thought of mastering a charm that could mend grievous wounds was compelling. Practical. Necessary. The kind of magic that could make a difference when the stakes were highest. He pushed aside thoughts of Magorian's warnings, of Centaur politics and buried tensions. This, he reminded himself, was within his control.

"Right," Penelope said. "Let's start with Vulnera Sanentur, used for healing wounds too deep for Episkey to handle."

Harry allowed himself to be drawn into the challenge, the thrill of learning and mastering new magic pushing aside thoughts of Acromantulas, Basilisks, and Centaurs.

—

The Slytherin Common Room was unusually quiet. Normally a place of hushed conversations, simmering rivalries, and thinly veiled ambitions, it now held the weight of something different—Snape's sudden, unprecedented address. Standing near the crackling fireplace, the Potions Master's black robes billowed as he spoke, his voice low and commanding.

"You will watch Potter's associates," he instructed, his tone as cold as the dungeons themselves. "Every movement, every whisper, especially on weekends. Report anything unusual to me or… to Draco."

Beside him, Draco Malfoy's chest puffed out. He wore a smug smile, clearly reveling in the authority bestowed upon him. Daphne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Draco's ego was insufferable on a good day—this would only make it worse. Already, he was strutting around like one of his family's vaunted peacocks, whispering orders to Crabbe and Goyle and casting sidelong glances to see who was watching.

Daphne slipped away as soon as she could, making a mental note of Snape's decree. It wasn't entirely unexpected—Potter's growing influence and skill had made waves even in Slytherin—but Snape's open acknowledgment was surprising. Whatever Potter was doing, it was enough to unsettle Snape, and that meant it was worth paying attention to.

Later that evening, Daphne waited until Tracy had packed up her books and left for the library. The common room was quieter now, the younger students occupied with assignments or hushed gossip about Snape's announcement. Once she was sure she had privacy, she retreated to her room and knelt before the small, ornate fireplace. She tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames, watching as they roared to life with a green hue.

"Father," she called, leaning forward.

The flames shimmered, and moments later, her father's face appeared within them. He looked as composed as ever, his steely eyes meeting hers with a mix of curiosity and expectation. "Daphne," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She recounted the events of the day—Snape's orders, Draco's newfound status, and the palpable tension in the common room. Her father listened silently, his expression unreadable, until she finished. When she was done, he regarded her with a thoughtful frown.

"This is significant," he said finally. "And an opportunity."

Daphne tilted her head, unsure of his meaning. "How so?"

"Think, Daphne. Snape's attention on Potter suggests something deeper at play. If Potter is as calculating and clever as you've described to me—and I have no reason to doubt your assessment—then he will see value in having eyes and ears within Slytherin." He paused, letting his words sink in. "You could offer him precisely that."

She stared at her father, shocked at the bold approach he was suggesting. "You want me to become his double-agent?"

"It would be a simple arrangement," her father said coolly. "You relay information to Potter while appearing to carry out Snape's orders. The stakes are relatively low—Snape's ire is a paltry risk if it gains Potter's favor. Think of what it could mean for your position, for our family's influence, if you were to build a connection with someone like him."

Daphne's stomach twisted. She understood the logic—it was impeccable, as always—but the thought of approaching Potter left her feeling uncharacteristically unsure. "I haven't spoken a word to him since first year," she pointed out, irritation creeping into her voice. "Why would he trust me?"

"If he is as intelligent as you claim, he will at least listen." Her father's eyes bored into hers, sharp and unyielding. "The decision is yours, of course. But I would be… disappointed if you let such an opportunity slip by."

The call ended shortly after that, her father's face vanishing from the flames. Daphne leaned back, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on her. The logical part of her knew he was right—this was an opportunity. But the thought of actually speaking to Potter, of trying to strike a deal with him, made her chest tighten. How in the world was she supposed to approach him? She hadn't the faintest idea what to say, or how to convince him she wasn't simply playing a double game.

She scowled, frustration and nerves roiling within her. Whatever happened next, it was bound to be anything but simple.

—

The rest of March passed without anything of note happening. Harry spent most of his time focused on preparing for OWL-level Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Potions. The first three subjects were ones Gellert had promised to test him on over the summer, and Harry intended to excel. Potions was a more pragmatic choice—better to stay ahead of the curriculum and deny Snape any fodder for criticism. His other projects—exploring the subterranean river beneath the castle, refining his squid-suit, and experimenting with the Founder's Study—were temporarily set aside. With the arrival of spring, there was little time to spare for anything but his studies.

The Enclave remained a key focus, too, with Fred and George Weasley approaching him about throwing a members-only party for their birthday on April 1st in the Enclave's meeting space. Harry agreed without hesitation; the twins were invaluable allies, and their request was simple enough to accommodate.

More puzzling was the behavior of Daphne Greengrass. The second-year Slytherin had been casting sidelong glances at him, meant to be subtle but unmistakable to someone as observant as Harry. He dismissed it initially, hoping it wasn't some delayed onset of Valentine's Day fever. But her attention continued, and he began to suspect there was more to it than idle curiosity.

Late one Saturday afternoon, Harry was tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, surrounded by stacks of books and parchment as he reviewed complex non-verbal defensive spells. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting warm patterns on the stone walls, creating a rare moment of calm. It was then that Daphne made her move—and it was not at all what he had anticipated.

The blonde Slytherin stepped into view, her expression calm but her eyes betraying a hint of tension. Harry set down his quill, raising an eyebrow as she approached. She moved with a measured grace, as if weighing every step, and stopped a few paces away.

"Potter," she said evenly, her voice low enough not to carry.

"Greengrass." Harry leaned back in his chair, maintaining a neutral expression. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She hesitated—only for a fraction of a second, but enough for him to notice. He'd seen her watching him over the past few weeks, and he'd made a point of ignoring it, hoping she would lose interest. Clearly, she hadn't.

"I need to speak with you. Privately."

Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. This wasn't what he had expected, and he didn't like surprises. "Here isn't private enough?"

"No." She glanced around, her eyes flicking to a group of fourth-years at a nearby table. "Not for what I need to say."

Curiosity warred with caution in his mind, and the former won. "Fine. Follow me."

He stood, leading her out of the library and down a series of less-traveled corridors. After several minutes, they reached a disused classroom. He pushed the door open, gesturing for her to enter first.

Inside, the air was cool and still. Harry closed the door behind them and turned, crossing his arms. "You have my attention."

Daphne took a steadying breath, her eyes meeting his with the kind of intensity he'd only seen in duelists and chess masters, the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows illuminating her in a dramatic, golden glow. "You're being watched," she said bluntly.

He didn't flinch. "I'd be shocked if I wasn't."

She shook her head, a trace of impatience breaking through her calm exterior. "Not just you. Snape has tasked our house with tracking your 'associates'—Ravenclaws and Gryffindors. He's made Draco his deputy for it, and he's taking it far too seriously."

Harry's expression remained impassive while he considered Daphne's words. He'd suspected Snape had eyes on him, but this level of coordination was more troubling. Either Dumbledore hadn't spoken to his Potions Master, or Snape was ignoring the Headmaster and pursuing his own agenda. Either way, Harry knew he'd have to make sure there were consequences for Snape's continued disrespect. "And why are you telling me this?"

Daphne hesitated again. She was well-practiced at hiding her emotions, but Harry could sense the weight of whatever internal struggle she was facing. "Because I don't particularly enjoy Draco's antics. And because… I have a proposal."

Harry's gaze didn't waver. "Go on."

"I can be your eyes and ears in Slytherin," she said, her tone firming. "Snape thinks I'm cooperating. Draco certainly does. But if you're as calculating as you seem, I imagine you'll find my assistance… useful."

Harry considered her words carefully. This was unexpected, and unexpected offers carried risks. "And what do you want in return?"

Daphne tilted her head slightly, as if weighing her own words. "Protection from retribution if things go wrong. Snape's wrath isn't pleasant, and Draco's pettiness knows no bounds. I don't intend to make myself vulnerable without assurances."

He nodded slowly. "Reasonable. And what makes you think I'd trust you?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't have to. But you're smart enough to know when someone has leverage and when they don't. I'm offering you leverage."

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Harry didn't trust easily—it had kept him alive and ahead of his rivals for this long—but there was a cold logic to her offer. If she was genuine, it could be invaluable. If she wasn't, he would deal with it.

"Very well," he said at last. "But if you cross me, Greengrass, you'll regret it."

"Understood." She didn't flinch, meeting his gaze with an unblinking steadiness. "I'll keep you informed."

For the first time, a flicker of a smile crossed his lips. "I look forward to it."

With that, Daphne nodded, turned on her heel, and left the room, her expression unreadable. Harry watched her go, his mind already working through the implications. Whatever game she was playing, he intended to win it—or at the very least, ensure it worked to his advantage.