Chapter 2

The dorm room in Hogwarts' staff quarters was small but cozy, its stone walls softened by tapestries of silver and green that caught the flicker of a single candle. A narrow window overlooked the dark expanse of the grounds, where the Forbidden Forest loomed under a starless sky. Daphne Greengrass stood beside an open trunk, her slender fingers sorting through neatly folded robes and stacks of spellbooks. At twenty-four, she carried the poise of a seasoned witch, but tonight, unpacking in the castle for the first time in seven years, she felt the weight of memory settle over her like dust.

She'd left Hogwarts after graduation, eager to escape the shadow of the war, the whispers that clung to her Slytherin name. Now, back as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, the castle felt both familiar and foreign—its halls echoing with the ghosts of her youth. As she reached into the trunk for a bundle of parchment, her hand brushed something smooth and forgotten. She pulled it out: an old photograph, its edges worn but the image vivid.

In it, a younger Daphne stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of Slytherins, their green-trimmed robes pristine, their smiles sharp with teenage arrogance. She was sixteen, her blonde hair tied back, her eyes bright with mischief. Beside her, Draco Malfoy grinned, his pale face alight with the same reckless confidence. Both of them held up their hands, fingers crossed in the "pure-blood" sign—a gesture that had once felt like a badge of honor. The others—Pansy, Blaise, a few faces now blurred by time—laughed in the background, the Slytherin common room's emerald glow framing them all.

Daphne's breath caught, a pang of nostalgia tightening her chest. Those days had been simpler, hadn't they? Late nights plotting pranks, whispering about bloodlines and legacy, believing they were untouchable. She traced a finger over the photo, her lips curving into a wistful smile. "We were so sure of ourselves," she murmured, her voice soft in the quiet room. "So certain we were right."

But the smile faded as quickly as it came. She set the photo on the desk, her gaze lingering on the "pure-blood" sign. Seven years ago, Voldemort's fall had shattered that certainty. She'd seen the truth of him—his cruelty, his madness, his betrayal of everything he'd claimed to stand for. He wasn't a savior of pure-blood ideals; he was a monster who'd used them as a leash. The ideology she'd once flaunted felt hollow now, a joke told by children who didn't know better. "What were we even fighting for?" she whispered, her voice tinged with disgust—not just at the past, but at herself for believing it.

She turned away, shoving the photo back into the trunk, burying it beneath a stack of teaching notes. The girl in that picture wasn't her anymore. She was Professor Greengrass now, here to teach students how to defend themselves, not divide them. Yet as she resumed unpacking, the memory lingered—a bittersweet echo of a time when the world had seemed so black-and-white, and the lines of loyalty so easy to draw.