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Harry Potter: Forging the Flame Ch. 17
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 15:31:22 +0000 UTCChapter 17.
Harry had his quill in hand, but he wasn’t writing. Instead, he was watching Hermione, who was already flipping through Introduction to Arithmantic Theory.
“Alright,” she said, setting her quill down. “Let’s figure out where you went wrong.”
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, considering it took me four hours to get through one sentence, I’d say… everywhere?”
Hermione gave him a look but didn’t argue. “Let’s start from what you already know.”
Harry reached into his bag and pulled out his notes—the mess of parchment filled with numbers, scribbles, and several frustrated ink blots where he’d nearly stabbed his quill through the paper. He slid them across the table.
Hermione scanned them quickly, her fingers trailing over the rough translations. “Okay… You’re using standard numerical substitution.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “That part was easy enough. But shifting the numbers back doesn’t always give me words that make sense.”
Hermione hummed, flipping a few pages in her Arithmancy textbook. “That’s because this isn’t just simple letter shifting. The book isn’t just hiding words—it’s restructuring them. Did you check for sequencing patterns?”
Harry blinked. “Sequencing what?”
Hermione sighed. “Right. That explains why it took you four hours.” She pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and quickly sketched out a number grid. “Okay, listen. Magical ciphers don’t just scramble letters—they follow magical cycles. Some use the Rule of Three, some use Prime Patterns, and some use Magical Constants. If the book is encoded with Arithmantic principles, then we have to figure out which rule it follows.”
She tapped her quill against the parchment. “You said the first sentence you translated was—”
“To the seeker of knowledge, the mind is the most fragile thing to break,” Harry recited.
Hermione nodded. “Alright. And how did you crack it?”
Harry hesitated. “I just kept shifting the numbers up and down until the words started making sense.”
Hermione gave him a slightly pained look. “Harry… that’s brute force. You could’ve been shifting for days and still gotten nowhere.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “I don’t exactly have an Arithmancy professor sitting next to me all the time.”
Hermione ignored that, already pulling over Broken Mind and scanning the first page. She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t just one encryption. It’s layered.”
“Layered?” Harry repeated.
She pointed at the text. “Look—each sentence doesn’t just follow one pattern. It’s shifting between two different methods. That’s why your brute force method took so long. You were trying to crack two ciphers at the same time without realizing it.”
Harry groaned. “Fantastic.”
Hermione, however, looked almost excited. “This means we can narrow it down. If we can find the pattern for each section, we can break them faster.”
She flipped back to his notes and traced a line of numbers. “Here—see how this section follows a simple shift, but the next line suddenly jumps?”
Harry squinted. “Yeah…”
“That’s because it’s alternating between substitution and sequencing.”
“Alright, so how do we use that?”
Hermione’s eyes gleamed. “We find the repetition. Magical sequencing follows cycles—if we can map out the shifts, we’ll know exactly how to decode the rest without guessing.”
She turned her parchment around and handed Harry his quill. “Let’s do it properly this time.”
Harry sighed but took the quill. “Alright, Professor Granger. Show me how it’s done.”
Hermione grinned. “Watch and learn.”
And with that, they got to work.
The library had gone quiet, save for the occasional rustling of parchment and the scratch of quills from distant tables.
Harry flexed his fingers, letting out a slow breath as he looked at the journal in front of him. Hermione had given him a way in—now it was up to him to make sense of it.
But even now, staring at the pages, he could still hear her voice, walking him through the process step by step.
It had been slow at first.
Harry had never thought about magic as math before. Arithmancy always sounded like one of those subjects that Hermione loved just because it was difficult, and up until now, he had assumed ciphers were just… scrambled words. A trick of letters.
But as Hermione explained, Broken Mind wasn’t just scrambled. It was rebuilt.
“See this?” she had said, pointing at the numbers he had written down. “You used simple substitution, right? Assigning letters to numbers?”
Harry had nodded. That part made sense—A was 1, B was 2, and so on.
“And you tried shifting them back and forth until something readable appeared.”
“Yeah,” Harry had muttered. “Didn’t work.”
“Because this isn’t just substitution,” Hermione had said, her voice carrying that sharp edge of excitement she got when she found a puzzle worth solving. “It’s reconstruction. The words weren’t just hidden—they were remade.”
Harry had frowned. “Alright… so how do we figure out how they were remade?”
Hermione had pushed a fresh sheet of parchment toward him, already sketching out a grid. “We map the shifts.”
The first step had been recognizing the cycle.
Magical ciphers followed patterns—loops, repeating shifts, sequences drawn from prime numbers, Fibonacci series, or magical constants.
They started by analyzing the sentence he had already cracked.
To the seeker of knowledge, the mind is the most fragile thing to break.
They re-encrypted it using the same method he had guessed at before. If they could reverse-engineer the pattern, they could apply it to the rest of the text.
First problem? The number shifts weren’t uniform.
Some letters moved up in value, others down. And it wasn’t even consistent—the shifts changed every few words, following some hidden rhythm.
Which meant there was a second layer.
“This is sequencing,” Hermione had said, tapping her quill against the parchment. “Each section follows a shifting key. Look—these numbers aren’t static. The pattern is altering itself every few words.”
Harry had rubbed his temples. “Alright, and how do we stop it from doing that?”
Hermione had smiled. “We don’t stop it. We predict it.”
And that was when they’d discovered the Rule of Seven.
At first, the shifts still looked random—until Harry stared at them long enough to recognize the pattern.
He almost missed it. The numbers were jumping, shifting, but something about them felt… familiar. He frowned, scanning down the page. Then, suddenly—
“Wait.” His quill hovered over the parchment. “Every seventh character.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Harry sat up straighter. “Every seventh letter—the shift resets itself.” He ran his finger down the page, eyes widening. “It’s not a random cycle. It’s locking itself into place, like a rhythm—like a spell stabilizing itself.”
Hermione stared, then quickly checked his work. A moment later, her face lit up.
“That’s it!” she breathed. “Seven is a magically significant number—it governs spell structures, enchantments, and even prophecy. If the cipher is following a numerical cycle, seven is the perfect choice!”
Which meant…
Harry’s eyes had widened. “We can break it.”
Hermione had grinned. “Yes. Now we just apply the reverse.”
Once they had the key, decrypting the first few paragraphs became almost easy.
Instead of blindly shifting letters, they followed the cycle backwards, tracking the hidden sequencing and restoring the original words.
Letter by letter, the scrambled text finally settled into something readable.
Harry blinked back to the present.
They had done it.
It had taken another hour—Hermione working faster than he could keep up, cross-referencing everything with her Arithmancy notes, while Harry tried to apply what she was teaching in real-time. Mistakes were made. A lot of them. But slowly, the scattered fragments had begun piecing themselves back together.
And now—he had more than just a sentence.
With a slow breath, he adjusted the parchment in front of him. The words no longer twisted on the page.
They were clear.
These words be mine, set to parchment in the waning of hope. If thou hast found them, know this: they were ne’er writ for thee, nor for any other soul, but for the truth alone.
I am Joren. The year of our Lord, seventeen-hundred and ninety-one.
Long hath man spoken of curses, of wounds unseen, yet few know the depths to which they cut. A body may wither, yet still it doth belong to the soul. But the mind—aye, the mind may be taken, riven from its house, left naught but a ruin, where once thought and self did dwell.
My wife lieth still, her breath warm, her hands yet soft—but she is lost unto me. She seeth naught, she heareth naught, and if she dreameth, then may Merlin himself take mercy upon her, for she cannot wake.
So I set myself upon this path, not for wonder, nor for glory, nor for the vainglorious pursuit of knowledge. I seek because I must. And if there be no answer, then let these pages stand as my reckoning.
For if I cannot bring her back, then let these words be the pyre upon which my soul shall burn.
Harry stared, frowning.
The writing was strange—formal, dense, nothing like modern research. The sentences stretched long, the phrasing almost theatrical, like something out of an old manuscript.
And then he turned the page.
Of the mind, men know but a sliver, and even that which is known is naught but shadow and smoke.
It is not of flesh, which healeth in time. Nor is it of spirit, which may yet linger when the body doth fail. The mind is the tether betwixt the twain, the bridge betwixt the waking and the void.
And lo, when such a tether is severed, when the bridge is sundered, what remaineth? A vessel with naught to guide it. A soul bound to a house whose door is shut.
The curse that taketh the mind leaveth no scar upon the brow, nor mark upon the skin, yet its ruin is greater than any wound that bleeds. A man struck dumb may yet learn anew. A man robbed of sight may yet know the sun. But he who hath lost his mind? He is as one buried afore his time.
There is no healing of the flesh that may restore it. No potion that may bid it return. For that which is broken in the mind is not as a bone, to be set aright. It is not of sinew nor muscle. It is not of blood nor breath. It is of thought, and thought is a thing unseen.
Thus, before one may mend, one must first behold. And herein lies the first and greatest trial—how doth one see that which hath no form?
Harry strode through the corridor, Joren’s words still tumbling in his head. The mind wasn’t flesh. It wasn’t spirit. But if it wasn’t either, then what was it?
He thought back to Professor Sprout, to the way she had frowned when he asked about healing the mind. “That’s the challenge of working with the human nervous system—it’s so intricate that even the smallest imbalance can disrupt everything. The best we can often do is manage symptoms, not reverse damage.”
Even with magic, even with all the potions and spells wizards had, the mind was still mostly a mystery. Something people couldn’t quite touch, couldn’t quite fix.
But Joren wasn’t just talking about treating symptoms. He was talking about seeing the mind. Like it was something real, something a wizard could hold onto—if they just knew how.
Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that yet, but he had the nagging feeling that Joren had been onto something. And if he was, then maybe… maybe there was a way to fix what everyone thought was impossible.
Harry pushed open the door to the study hall, still half-lost in thought.
Ron had snagged them a spot near the middle and was already slouched in his chair, lazily twirling his quill between his fingers. “Took your time,” he muttered as Harry dropped into the seat beside him.
Lo, I have peered within mine own mind, and I know now that I am a stranger to it. I did believe thought to be the lantern that guideth man, yet now I see it is but the flame, flick’ring and restless, shaped by unseen winds.
What is the mind, if not the keeper of self? Yet I have found no walls within it, no bound’ries where I may say, here is thought, and here beginneth will. The mind is not a thing of stone, nor parchment upon which wisdom is writ. ‘Tis a shifting tide, where currents unseen do pull the spirit this way and that, and a man knoweth not he is carried ‘til he is lost.
Mine own reflections betray me. I bid them rise at will, yet they come unbidden, bringing forth memories long since buried. I know not what calleth them—some scent upon the air, some echo of a voice not spoken, and lo, I am there once more, reliving what hath passed as though time itself did bow to the mind’s whim.
And what of fears? I did believe fear to be born of reason—a beast that may be tamed by knowing its name. Yet even now, mine hands do tremble at phantoms unseen, at thoughts that creep forth from the deep, and I am left to wonder—who, then, commandeth the mind? Is it I who wieldeth it, or it that wieldeth me?
If I know not the ways of mine own mind, how shall I seek hers? If I cannot yet master thought, how shall I grasp that which hath no form?
Thus, I set forth upon a graver task than I had known. Not merely to seek, nor merely to mend, but to behold. For if the mind be a thing of shifting tides, then let me learn to walk its shores. If it be a house wherein the self is kept, then let me find its threshold.
And if the mind be naught but a prison, then let me find the key.
Harry exhaled, rubbing his eyes as he set his quill down. He’d barely looked up the entire study hall, but now, he was starting to feel like he needed to step away from it—just for a moment.
He turned to Ron, who had spent the last half-hour doing absolutely nothing. His parchment was still blank, his quill tucked behind his ear, and he was now balancing his chair on its back legs, staring at the ceiling.
Harry smirked. “Busy, are you?”
Ron tilted his head toward him, unimpressed. “Oh yeah. Loads to do. Just pacing myself.”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t push it. Instead, he drummed his fingers against his notes. “Alright, tell me something. What do you think the mind is?”
Ron groaned. “Merlin, not this again.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
“You’ve been muttering to yourself the whole time, mate. And I knew—I knew you were gonna rope me into it.” Ron let his chair drop forward, giving Harry a look. “Can’t we talk about Quidditch or something normal?”
Harry crossed his arms. “You said you were bored.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather be regular bored than thinking bored.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Just humor me.”
Ron sighed dramatically but sat up. “Fine. What do I think the mind is?” He paused, frowning as he thought. “Dunno. It’s just… your brain, isn’t it?”
Harry tilted his head. “But we don’t do magic with our brains. We use our wands. And magic doesn’t come from the body, not really.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “Flitwick said our magic comes from our magical core, yeah? That’s what fuels spells, what gives us power.”
Ron nodded, wary. “Yeah, and?”
“So if magic has a core… what’s the core of the mind?”
Ron blinked. “…What?”
Harry sat up, more interested now. “Think about it. Our magic comes from something real—our magical core. It’s not just in our heads, it’s there, part of us. So what about the mind? Where does it come from?”
Ron groaned and rubbed his temples. “Mate, I dunno. I didn’t come here to philosophize, I came here to sit in silence and wait for this to be over.”
Harry ignored that, his thoughts racing. “Joren keeps saying the mind isn’t the body, right? So if it’s not something physical, but it exists—there’s gotta be something that holds it together. Some core that keeps it you.”
Ron groaned louder. “Oh great, now you’re inventing cores. Next you’ll be saying people have Quidditch cores.”
Harry smirked. “Maybe you do.”
“Damn right I do.”
Harry shook his head, but the thought stuck. Flitwick had made it sound so obvious—magic needed something to anchor it, something to give it shape and power. What if the mind was the same? What if there was something at the center of it, something real, not just thoughts floating around?
A shadow loomed over their table.
The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled.
He looked up—and met Snape’s dark, unreadable gaze.
Ron instantly sat up straight, looking alarmed. Harry didn’t know how long Snape had been standing there, but the way his black eyes were locked onto him made his stomach drop.
For a second, Snape just watched him. Then, in a voice far too measured, far too calm, he said—
“Quite an interesting topic you discuss, Potter.”
Ron looked like he very much regretted being part of this conversation.
Harry kept his expression neutral, though his shoulders tensed.
“Only a few in this school have ever delved into the mind arts,” Snape said, voice soft but edged with something dangerous. “And even fewer have the discipline to master them.” His eyes flicked down to the parchment in front of Harry.
Harry said nothing.
Snape’s lip curled slightly. “It is not merely a matter of curiosity, Potter. The mind is not some puzzle to be solved with brute force.” His eyes flickered to Ron for half a second before settling back on Harry. “Nor is it a thing so easily grasped by those who lack patience.”
Ron visibly bristled. “We’re just talking, Professor.”
Snape ignored him completely. His attention remained on Harry, who had the oddest feeling that Snape was looking through him rather than at him.
“The mind arts demand control,” Snape continued, voice quieter now. “A mastery of self before mastery of another.” His dark eyes glinted. “But then, I would not expect you to understand that, Potter.”
Harry clenched his jaw.
Snape studied him for a second longer—then, with a flick of his robes, turned and strode away.
Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, what was that about?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. His mind was still turning over Snape’s words. Not just the insult, but the rest of it.
The mind arts demand control. A mastery of self before mastery of another.
That didn’t sound like something Snape had said just to mock him. That sounded like something real.
Harry glanced back at his notes, at the words Joren had written.
If I cannot yet master thought, how shall I grasp that which hath no form?
A strange sort of realization settled over him.
Snape and Joren were saying the same thing.
The telescope’s brass frame was cold beneath Harry’s fingertips as he adjusted the focus.
He marked down the positions of Mars and Saturn without much thought, his mind still turning over Snape’s words. But he didn’t have the energy to dwell on it anymore.
It was Friday.
Somehow, the first week of term was already ending. Tomorrow morning, he had a meeting with Daphne in the library to go over their project. He’d barely even thought about it. Between Moody’s lessons, the Skrewts, cracking Joren’s journal, and whatever this whole mind arts business was, things had gotten… complicated.
And the strangest part? He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when that had happened.
There hadn’t been one big moment where everything changed—no disaster, no sudden twist. It had just shifted, bit by bit, until now his days were crammed with things he hadn’t even considered a week ago.
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes before finishing the last few notes on his chart.
One week down.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet by the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed through the portrait hole. It was late—later than Harry had realized—and most of the younger students had already gone to bed. A few fifth and sixth years were still awake, hunched over textbooks and notes, but otherwise, the room was still.
Ron groaned as he flopped onto the couch. “That was bloody awful. What’s the point of stargazing if half the lesson is just clouds?”
Hermione, ever the academic, sighed. “Professor Sinistra can’t control the weather, Ron.”
“Well, she could’ve at least made it interesting,” Ron muttered. “I spent the last twenty minutes staring at what might’ve been Mars. Or it might’ve been a smudge on my telescope. We’ll never know.”
Harry shook his head, dropping his bag onto one of the tables. “At least we’re done for the night.”
Hermione settled into the chair across from him, already flipping open Ancient Runes: A Comprehensive Guide. “I wouldn’t be so quick to say that,” she said without looking up. “You still have your Potions project meeting in the morning.”
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”
“You don’t sound thrilled,” she observed.
“It’s not that,” he admitted. “It’s just… a lot. Between Snape’s project, Moody’s lessons, Joren’s journal, and—” He stopped himself before he could say mind arts out loud. “It’s just been a long week.”
Ron groaned again, stretching his arms over his head. “Mate, you could’ve just said, ‘Snape gave me homework, and now I have to spend my Saturday morning with a Slytherin.’ We all would’ve understood.”
Harry smirked. “And miss out on all the fun? No chance.”
Ron yawned, dragging himself off the couch. “Well, I’m going to sleep before I start dreaming about bloody star charts.”
Hermione shot him a look. “You should finish your Astronomy homework first.”
“Later,” Ron said, waving her off as he trudged toward the boys’ dormitory.
Harry hesitated, glancing down at his bag. He should go to bed too. But instead, he pulled out his notes and parchment, spreading them across the table.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re working now?”
“I need to sort this out before tomorrow,” Harry muttered, already scanning his messy list of potion ingredients.
Hermione gave him an approving nod before turning back to her book. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Harry barely heard her.
His quill tapped idly against the table as he worked, rewriting notes, crossing things out, adding new ideas.
Harry sat hunched over his notes, his elbow propped on the table, head resting in one hand, while his other hand lazily twirled his quill. He was exhausted. After staying up far too late working through his potion ideas, he’d barely managed four hours of sleep. He yawned, blinking blearily down at the mess of parchment spread out in front of him.
He’d started with seven core ingredients—things he’d found in earlier research. But sometime around two in the morning, his list had grown. Five new ingredients had been added, each scribbled in his messier, sleep-deprived handwriting.
The problem? He wasn’t sure if any of it actually worked together.
Harry scanned the parchment again, rubbing the side of his temple as he read over his own notes.
Silverthorn Extract – Supposedly reconnects severed magical pathways, but it was so rare that most potioneers avoided it. Plus, too much and the body could reject it entirely. Would it even mix well?
Nulla Root – Used in experimental calming draughts, said to settle shattered nerves. But it was volatile. Too much and it could shut everything down completely. Too risky?
Fluxweed (Harvested at Full Moon) – He’d written this one down with a big question mark. Some texts suggested it enhanced magical conductivity in damaged pathways, but was that just theory?
Whispervine Sap – This one was practically a myth. Old apothecary records claimed it could help restore clarity to broken minds, but there was zero modern research on it. Could be useless… or groundbreaking.
Powdered Graphorn Horn – He’d added this at the last second, mostly because he needed a stabilizer. It was known for strengthening potions and binding volatile ingredients together. But would it be enough?
And then, at the bottom of the parchment, a series of frustrated questions from sometime around three in the morning:
How do we bind these effects together without canceling them out?
What’s the best base for nerve healing? Water? Alcohol? Something infused?
Do calming agents interfere with memory restoration? What happens if they mix?
What’s the magical trigger? Can we make it activate only when needed?
If Phoenix Tears are impossible, what else can regenerate damaged nerves?
Harry sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face.
His list had evolved. But it still wasn’t a potion—just a bunch of effects thrown together, hoping they’d work. He needed structure. He needed—
“Hello, Potter.”
Harry looked up as Daphne Greengrass took the seat across from him. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, loose strands framing her face, but it was the smooth line of her neck that caught his attention for a second too long.
Shaking the thought off, he sat up straighter. “Greengrass.”
She glanced at his notes, scanning them with mild interest. “You look like you spent all night on this.”
“Most of it,” Harry muttered, stifling a yawn as he stretched. “And I still feel like I’ve got nothing.”
Daphne unfolded a few small sheets of parchment, slipping them onto the table beside his mess of notes.
Harry raised a brow. “You actually did research?”
“I’m not going to let you tank my grade,” she said dryly, tapping her parchment. “And you’re not as useless at this as I thought.”
Harry scoffed but said nothing. He’d take the backhanded compliment.
Daphne leaned forward, tracing a finger down his list of ingredients. “Okay. We have a starting point. But what are we actually trying to do?”
Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Same thing we talked about before—healing. But we need to be specific. What are we actually trying to fix?”
Daphne nodded slowly. “Right. We’re not making some generic remedy, so we need to decide exactly what kind of healing we’re focusing on. Internal injuries? External wounds? Bones? Nerves?”
Harry glanced down at his parchment, covered in scrawled notes and scratched-out thoughts. “I was thinking about severe damage—the kind normal healing potions don’t fully fix. Stuff that leaves permanent scars or weak spots.”
Daphne tapped her quill against the table, thinking. “So, deep tissue repair? That’s already more advanced than simple wound-mending. And if we’re dealing with severe damage, we’ll need something that regenerates, not just heals.”
“Exactly,” Harry said, pointing to his notes. “That’s why I’ve been looking into things like Murtlap Essence and Gillyweed—stuff that helps with regeneration. But I feel like we need more.”
Daphne’s eyes flicked over his list. “Murtlap’s good for surface damage, but it won’t work for deep injuries. Gillyweed regenerates tissue, sure, but only in the short term, and mostly for water-based environments. If we’re going for something long-lasting, we need an ingredient that reinforces structural integrity—bones, ligaments, muscle.”
Harry frowned. “Something like… Moonstone?”
Daphne shook her head. “That enhances absorption, yeah, but it won’t build anything new. We need something with actual reconstructive properties.”
Harry thought for a moment, then hesitated. “What about Salamander Oil?”
Daphne’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Salamander Oil?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, leaning forward, suddenly remembering where he’d seen it. “I read about it in one of the alchemy books—it regulates magical flow, making potions more stable. But the part that caught my attention was its use in burn salves. It doesn’t just soothe injuries, it helps restore damaged skin and muscle without causing scarring.”
Daphne’s expression shifted, a spark of interest in her cool blue eyes. “That could actually work.” She pulled one of her loose sheets of parchment closer, flipping it over to a blank side and writing something down. “If it can stabilize regeneration, it might keep the potion from working too fast and causing more damage.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “But we still don’t know how all of this brews together. Some of these ingredients might react badly if we just throw them in a cauldron.”
Daphne smirked faintly. “That’s where I come in.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Face it, Potter,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You might be catching up on theory, but brewing is still my specialty.”
Harry huffed, but he couldn’t argue. “Alright, fine. Then tell me—what kind of potion base are we even using? Because if we pick the wrong one, this whole thing’s useless.”
Daphne rested her chin on her hand, thinking. “We need something strong enough to hold all these ingredients together but not so overpowering that it ruins their individual properties.”
“Not water-based,” Harry said immediately.
“Obviously,” Daphne muttered. “And not Troll Fat—too slow.”
“Dragon Blood is out,” Harry added. “Not that we could get any.”
Daphne hummed in thought, her fingers drumming against the table. “Salamander Oil could work as a secondary stabilizer, but we still need a main base. Something with flexibility and absorption.”
Harry sighed, staring at his notes again. “So basically… we need an answer we don’t have.”
“Not yet,” Daphne corrected. “But this is progress.”
Harry snorted, rubbing his temple. “If you say so.”
She smirked. “You’re lucky I’m patient, Potter.”
A few moments passed, comfortable silence stretching between them.
Then, without really thinking, he asked, “So… do you actually fly?”
Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the shift in topic. “What?”
“Flying,” Harry said, grinning slightly as he sat up again. “You said you like Quidditch, but do you actually get on a broom, or are you one of those ‘I prefer to watch from a safe distance’ types?”
Daphne scoffed. “Please. Of course I fly.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? How good are you?”
Daphne smirked. “Good enough.”
“That’s not an answer,”
“I don’t need to prove myself to you, Potter,” she said smoothly. “Unlike some people, I don’t need an audience to know I’m capable.”
Harry snorted. “Right. So you just fly around in secret? No one’s ever seen the great Daphne Greengrass on a broom?”
“I don’t fly in secret,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes. “I just don’t make a spectacle of it.”
Harry tilted his head, studying her for a moment. “You ever think about joining the Slytherin team?”
“Not my thing. Too much drama. And if I wanted to deal with people shouting at each other all day, I’d sit closer to the Gryffindor table.”
Harry chuckled. “Fair point.”
There was another pause, more relaxed this time. Harry hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, but now that they weren’t dissecting potion theory, he felt… lighter. Like this was the first time they’d actually talked, not just worked.
“Alright, then,” he said, grinning. “What team do you support?”
Daphne tilted her head, as if considering whether to answer. Then, finally, she smirked. “Puddlemere United.”
Harry’s eyes widened in mock offense. “Puddlemere?”
“What?” Daphne said, feigning innocence. “They’re disciplined, strategic, and their Chasers are the best in the league.”
Harry shook his head, laughing. “Oh, you are absolutely a Puddlemere fan.”
“And let me guess,” Daphne said, crossing her arms. “You’re a die-hard Cannons supporter, just like Weasley?”
Harry made a face. “Please. Give me some credit.”
Daphne smirked. “Alright, then. Who?”
“Holyhead Harpies,” Harry admitted.
Daphne’s brow lifted slightly, impressed. “Not bad.”
“See? I have good taste,” Harry said.
“That remains to be seen,” Daphne teased.
Harry grinned, resting his arms on the table. “Alright, Greengrass, if you’re as good as you claim, you should prove it.”
Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, shrugging. “Fly with me sometime.”
For the first time, Daphne didn’t have a quick reply. Her fingers twitched slightly where they rested on the table, and—was she actually blushing?
Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Nothing!” she said quickly, but the faint pink dusting her cheeks said otherwise.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “No, no, definitely something.”
Daphne glanced down at her parchment, suddenly very interested in straightening it. “It’s stupid.”
Harry grinned wider. “Now you have to tell me.”
She exhaled, crossing her arms tightly. “I—” She hesitated, then sighed, looking away as if embarrassed by the words before they even left her mouth. “I like watching the Gryffindor-Slytherin matches.”
Harry frowned, confused. “Okay…?”
She huffed, glancing at him briefly before quickly looking away. “Because you always humiliate Malfoy.”
Harry stared for a moment, then burst out laughing.
Daphne groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Merlin, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, you absolutely should have,” Harry said, grinning like mad. “That’s brilliant.”
She shot him a glare, her face still slightly red. “If you ever repeat that, I will hex you into next week.”
Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Daphne narrowed her eyes, then looked around as if making sure no one had overheard. Lowering her voice, she added, “But that stays between you and me. Got it?”
Harry smirked. “Cross my heart.”
Daphne huffed, rolling her eyes, but the corner of her lips twitched, betraying the hint of a smile.
