Chapter 2

The Great Hall was alive with its usual morning bustle. Students chatted animatedly about their holiday breaks as owls swooped in, dropping off letters and parcels. The smell of sausages, toast, and pumpkin juice filled the air, but Harry barely noticed. He poked at his plate distractedly, his mind elsewhere.

He had been replaying the events of the last term, particularly the strange encounter in the library with Daphne Greengrass. Her piercing blue eyes and unshakable confidence lingered in his thoughts like a puzzle waiting to be solved. It was strange, he thought, how he hadn't seen her around the castle since then. He couldn't shake the feeling that her sudden reappearance—and her ability to transform into a raven—meant she could go anywhere around the castle.

"Harry?" Ron's voice broke through his thoughts.

Harry blinked and looked up. Ron was leaning over the table, his fork halfway to his mouth. Hermione sat across from them, poring over a thick book titled Hogwarts: A History.

"What?" Harry asked, trying to sound like he hadn't been staring off into space.

"I was asking if you've heard of Nicholas Flamel," Ron said, frowning. "Hermione's been going on about him all morning."

"He's crucial to solving the mystery of the trap door," Hermione added, her tone urgent. "It's maddening that we haven't found anything yet."

At the mention of Flamel, Harry froze. He had uncovered something in the library that night—but he hadn't told them. The memory of Daphne kept him from bringing it up now. Explaining what he had found would mean explaining her involvement, and for some reason, he wasn't ready to share that.

"I think I've seen his name in a book," Harry said vaguely, hoping it would satisfy them.

Hermione perked up immediately. "You have? Which book?"

"I can't remember," Harry lied, shifting uncomfortably. "It's probably back in the library somewhere."

Hermione gave him a sharp look but didn't press further. Ron, however, groaned and dropped his fork onto his plate.

"Great," Ron muttered. "More library time."

Harry forced a laugh, but his attention drifted again.

At the far end of the Slytherin table, Daphne sat alone, a thick book propped open in front of her. Her raven-black hair gleamed in the morning light, and she seemed completely engrossed in her reading. For a moment, Harry thought she might have vanished again, like a ghost.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, Daphne looked up.

Her icy blue eyes locked onto his, and Harry froze. There was no malice or mockery in her expression, no hint of the usual Slytherin arrogance. Instead, her lips curved ever so slightly into the faintest smile before she returned her attention to her book.

Harry's heart skipped a beat. He quickly looked away, hoping Ron or Hermione hadn't noticed.

"Harry, are you sure you're feeling all right?" Hermione asked, peering at him over her book.

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Just thinking about Potions class."

Ron groaned loudly. "Snape's going to ruin the whole day, isn't he?"

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. "Well, if you two actually paid attention—"

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. His thoughts were on Daphne. Why had she smiled at him? And why did she seem so at ease, even while sitting alone at a table full of people?

The dungeon was cold and unwelcoming, the air thick with the scent of ingredients stewing in cauldrons. Potions had always been Harry's least favorite subject, and Professor Snape was the main reason why.

"Today," Snape began, his tone as sharp as ever, "we will be brewing a Deflating Draught. A potion so simple that even the most inept among you should be able to manage it."

His black eyes swept the room, lingering on Harry as if daring him to fail.

Harry clenched his jaw and focused on his ingredients, determined not to give Snape any reason to single him out. He carefully measured the powdered root of asphodel and added it to his cauldron.

But no matter how hard he tried, it seemed Snape was always one step ahead.

"Potter," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "What is this… mess?"

Harry looked up, confused. "I'm following the instructions, sir."

Snape sneered. "Is that what you call this? It's a wonder you haven't managed to poison yourself yet. Five points from Gryffindor for your incompetence."

The Slytherins snickered, and Harry felt his face burn. He wanted to argue, but he knew it would only make things worse.

By the end of the class, his potion was a murky disaster, and Snape's parting words—"A complete waste of effort, as usual"—echoed in his ears as he packed up his things.

Harry was eager to get outside, to feel the wind on his face and let the stress of the day melt away. Flying always made him feel better, and after Potions, he needed it more than ever.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Daphne until it was too late.

She bumped into him lightly, her shoulder brushing his as she passed. Harry turned to apologize, but Daphne didn't stop. She kept walking, her pace quick and deliberate, her long black hair swaying behind her.

It wasn't until she disappeared around the corner that Harry felt it—a small weight in his pocket.

Reaching in, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment. His heart raced as he unfolded it, recognizing the neat, elegant handwriting immediately.

Meet me in the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor tonight at midnight. I have something to show you. -D

Harry stared at the note, his mind buzzing with questions. What could Daphne possibly want to show him? And why now?

As he tucked the note back into his pocket, he felt a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension. Whatever awaited him that night, he was certain it would be unlike anything he had experienced before.