Chapter 4

As Daphne soared through the quiet, moonlit corridors of Hogwarts in her animagus form, her thoughts churned with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The night air that flowed through the halls and brushed against her feathers seemed to whisper of change—something she wasn't sure she was ready to face but couldn't turn away from either.

She thought of Harry Potter, of his aura. That golden, blinding presence still burned in her mind, a light so fierce it almost hurt to think about. What was it about him? She had always thought of herself as detached, logical—a Slytherin through and through. Emotions were tools, leverage to wield against the unwitting. But tonight… tonight, Harry had unsettled her in a way she hadn't expected.

That look in his eyes, the determination, the pain hidden beneath layers of quiet resilience. He wasn't weak, not in the ways that mattered. His life had forged him into something sharper, something raw, and for reasons she couldn't explain, she found herself drawn to it. To him. He wasn't like the simpering boys in her house, nor was he the hero everyone in Gryffindor idolized. He was… different.

Her talons scraped lightly against a stone ledge as she paused for a moment, perched in the shadows of an alcove, her sharp eyes scanning the empty corridor below. Why had she told him so much? She had no illusions about herself—she was a pragmatist, someone who played her cards close to her chest. And yet, she had told Harry about her desire for knowledge, about power. She had even shown him her animagus form. No one else knew about that, not even her parents.

The thought of her parents sent a ripple of anger through her. They had always been so eager to bow down, to cling to the Malfoys and their ilk, groveling for scraps of favor while bleeding the family coffers dry in the process. Daphne hated it. Hated their weakness, their servitude, their lack of vision. They had been everything she despised, and she had vowed never to become them.

But Harry… Harry wasn't weak. He wasn't a mindless follower, nor was he blinded by ideals of glory or fame. He was determined to stand on his own, to carve out his own path, even if it meant defying the world. In that way, he was like her. And yet, he was also entirely unlike her. There was something good in him, something unbroken. She didn't understand it, but she respected it.

She stretched her wings and took off again, gliding silently toward the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The torches lining the walls flickered below her, their golden light chasing away the shadows. As she flew, her thoughts began to settle, her mind focusing on the future. This connection, whatever it was, could be useful. Harry had potential, raw and unrefined, but it was there. And for reasons she couldn't quite put into words, she wanted to see him succeed. Perhaps it was selfish, or perhaps it was something more.

By the time she reached the wall that concealed the Slytherin entrance, Daphne had regained her composure. She landed gracefully, shifting back into her human form with practiced ease. The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, the green glow from the lake casting eerie shadows along the walls. Daphne slipped inside as if she had been there all evening, her expression neutral, her strides purposeful. She made her way toward the dormitories, but as expected, trouble found her before she could escape.

"Greengrass," Draco Malfoy's voice rang out, sharp and theatrical. He was lounging by the fire, his pale face smirking in the flickering light. "Out for a midnight stroll, were you? Tsk, tsk. A young lady like yourself, wandering the castle at night without a proper gentleman escort—someone like me, for example—it's dangerous. Anything could happen."

The room quieted slightly, curious eyes turning toward Daphne. Pansy Parkinson snickered behind her hand, clearly delighted by Draco's performance.

Daphne stopped, her back to him for a moment. She took a deep breath, composed herself, then turned around with an expression as cold and unbothered as marble. "Gentleman?" she repeated, her tone light but laced with venom. "What an amusing way to describe yourself, Malfoy. If I ever need protection, I'll be sure to find someone capable. You, unfortunately, don't meet the qualifications."

The smirk on Draco's face faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly, pushing himself out of his chair to approach her. "Careful, Greengrass," he said, his voice lowering, but the threat was hollow, his confidence clearly shaken. "You might find that your sharp tongue will cost you one day."

Daphne tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. "I think the cost of my sharp tongue will always be less than the cost of your overinflated ego," she replied smoothly. "But thank you for your concern, Malfoy. I didn't realize you'd taken such a personal interest in my safety. I'll be sure to… treasure the thought."

A few muffled laughs escaped from the Slytherins around the room, though most quickly hid their amusement under feigned coughs or turned away. Draco's face darkened, his usual pale complexion tinged with pink. He opened his mouth to retort, but Daphne didn't give him the satisfaction of a full confrontation.

With an elegant turn, she left him standing there, his words unspoken and his pride bruised. She made her way up the stairs to her dormitory without another glance, her heart steady and her mind already turning back to her real concerns. Draco Malfoy was a distraction, a petty nuisance in the grand scheme of things. She had no time for his games, not when her own plans were far more important than anything his tiny mind could comprehend.

As the dormitory door closed behind her, Daphne finally allowed herself to relax, the tension from the confrontation draining from her shoulders. She sat on her bed, the soft green canopy above her providing a momentary shield from the world. They didn't know where she had been, and they didn't know what she had done. That was how she preferred it.

Daphne sat cross-legged on her bed, curtains drawn tightly around her. The faint emerald glow from the enchanted sconces outside the dormitory windows cast long, wavering shadows over the folds of her bedspread. The steady hum of the Black Lake pressing against the castle walls filled the room, the rhythmic sound lulling her as she tried to organize her thoughts.

Her day had been… eventful.

She began with Potions, where her sharp gaze had repeatedly strayed toward Harry. She didn't mean to watch him, but her eyes kept finding their way back to him regardless. He wasn't particularly skilled with a cauldron, but his focus—Merlin, his focus—was palpable. Every precise movement, every deliberate stir, was a testament to his determination. It didn't matter that Snape loomed nearby, waiting to pounce on a mistake, or that his housemates snickered at him under their breath. He simply endured it all, forging ahead with quiet defiance.

Daphne frowned slightly, realizing how much of the class she had wasted observing him instead of perfecting her own potion. She was nearly one step from disaster before her instincts kicked in and saved her.

And then there was the note.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. The secrecy of it all had sparked an unexpected thrill. Pocketing the parchment before anyone noticed, decoding its message… It had reminded her of something from one of the Muggle spy movies she'd once stumbled across as a child. Not that she'd admit it, of course. But even now, she couldn't deny the flicker of excitement she'd felt—brief, fleeting, and foreign.

But their meeting had been something else entirely.

Daphne closed her eyes, exhaling slowly as the memory resurfaced. She had gone into it cautiously, expecting to endure a cryptic exchange or perhaps some clumsy Gryffindor attempt at intimidation. Instead, she found herself peeling back layers she hadn't realized were there. Harry wasn't what she expected. He wasn't Potter, the bold and brash hero she had crafted in her mind. He was raw. Honest.

Real.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She hadn't meant to share so much. She rarely let her guard down, not even among her own housemates, and yet tonight, words had tumbled from her lips before she could stop them. She told him about her frustrations, her ambitions, her disdain for the blind loyalties of her house. And he… he listened.

And then there was the hug.

Daphne hugged her knees to her chest, her face warming slightly at the memory. She still couldn't explain why she had done it. It wasn't planned—it had simply happened. Something about the way he stood there, vulnerable yet unyielding, had pulled at her. Before she could think, her arms were around him.

She could still feel the moment he went rigid, his entire body stiffening as though the very concept of a hug was foreign to him. That alone made her heart ache, even now. But then, after a heartbeat, he began to relax. Just enough. It was tentative, uncertain. And in that moment, she felt a connection she didn't understand.

Why had he reacted like that? What kind of life made someone recoil from such a simple act of comfort?

Her mind lingered on his eyes—those vivid emerald green eyes that seemed to burn with something unspoken. There was power in them, raw and unyielding, but also vulnerability. Pain. She had seen it, felt it, and it unsettled her. The world seemed determined to crush him, yet there he stood, defiant and unbroken.

She sighed, letting her head rest against her knees. This wasn't who she was supposed to be. She had spent years building walls, carefully cultivating the icy mask that protected her. She didn't care about anyone but herself—she couldn't afford to. And yet… here she was, reflecting on him like it mattered.

And then there was that scent.

Her cheeks warmed further. She could still recall the faint mix of broom wax and cedar. It lingered in her mind, grounding and warm, and she hadn't realized she was breathing it in until the moment she pulled away, startled by her own impulsiveness.

Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap. Why did it matter so much? Why did he matter so much? The questions circled in her mind, but she pushed them aside with practiced ease.

"Focus," she whispered to herself. "This is nothing."

But even as she stretched out on her bed and pulled the blankets around her, her thoughts kept circling back to him. To the way he stood tall despite the weight he carried. To his aura, the strange warmth that radiated from him.

And to the way she felt when she hugged him, as though she had taken the first step toward something she didn't quite understand.

"Harry Potter, what have we started?" she murmured, her voice barely audible as sleep finally claimed her.