Harry Potter and the Order of the Hidden Flame

Chapter 1

Daphne Greengrass made her way down the aisles of the Hogwarts Express, dragging her trunk behind her, a solid rosewood affair finely carved with a floral pattern, polished to a bright gleam.

Now entering her fourth year, Daphne had a very specific destination in mind.

The Sorting Hat had said she'd make a fine Ravenclaw, though it had agreed with her own assessment that being a member of Slytherin House would best suit her interests.

Indeed, unlike a Ravenclaw, Daphne always saw knowledge as a means to an end rather than an end in itself.

No, when Daphne gathered information and applied logic, it always served a purpose. She knew what she wanted, and pursued it.

This certainty of purpose, this constant drive to make her dreams happen, this ambition, was what made her a true Snake. A derogatory epithet beloved by Gryffindors, she embraced it, made it her own.

Her blood being as Pure as anyone's in Britain certainly helped; it almost guaranteed a comfortable existence in Slytherin.

Daphne didn't just want a comfortable existence. What Daphne held dear above all other things was freedom, the ability to do as she pleased without anyone telling her no.

Daphne hated being told no.

To her it simply seemed like common courtesy. She would let others do as they pleased so long as it did not affect her, and they should extend her this same simple and basic respect.

Obvious, really. She'd felt this way as far back as she remembered.

Yet each year, it only became more apparent how little freedom she had.

First, she had spent years learning etiquette, traditions, and family lore. An unending series of prescriptions on how to speak, what to wear, who to marry. The list of restrictions grew longer every year, and of course was longer still because she was a girl.

She didn't want to be a boy, of course. Most of them seemed cursed to be obsessed with Quidditch, crude humor, and as they got older, breasts. Where was the freedom there?

No, it was like being a Muggleborn. More free in some ways, less free in others. Muggleborns were free from years of tedious lessons, true. Yet every Muggleborn had a school trunk that was absolutely hideous. Muggleborns were no more free from their bad taste and poor manners than men were from their chest hair.

Daphne recognized early on that she had lucked out, being born into a family in the upper echelons of both social stature and wealth. As a result, she had always applied herself to the utmost, even in the most boring lessons and interminable society events.

Her parents and their associates had always showered her with praise, told her how mature she was. Like a miniature adult, they invariably commented jokingly.

Initially she had accepted the praise, valued it. Took pride in the fact that she was more mature than her peers, more prepared for what was to come, because she was impatient to join their ranks. Adults had a degree of freedom she craved desperately.

Over the years, though, she had come to suspect that it was not maturity that set her apart from others. Adults had more experience to draw on, understood more of how the world worked, and above all, had more practice at bluster.

But they weren't uniformly responsibly, or courteous, or any of the many other qualities that they liked to associate with maturity. Mostly she suspected it was self-serving, identifying these positive qualities with something as insignificant as the passage of time.

Take her sister Astoria, for example, who was trailing behind her, keeping up a constant stream of prattle that ebbed and flowed in volume and tempo.

Daphne didn't have to turn around to know her sister was occasionally being drawn in by her reflections in the windows of the darkened cabins, slowing down in her monologue as she examined some aspect of her appearance, fading away in volume as Daphne's constant pace outdistanced her, before picking up the speed of both her feet and her tongue as she rushed to close the distance.

Astoria paused for a second, and Daphne grunted noncommittally. Fortunately that was all Astoria required and she prattled on contentedly. She zoned her sister back out and continued with her thoughts.

When she'd been younger Daphne had thought this behavior a result of Astoria's relative youth. Surely she'd become more like Daphne herself - more mature - over time.

Now she understood that her sister simply had a different personality from her. Currently in her second year at Hogwarts, Astoria wasn't anywhere near as practical, as focused, as calculating as Daphne had been in her first, and Daphne suspected she never would reach that level; one that Daphne had long surpassed.

Again, as with a Muggleborn or a boy, she wouldn't trade places with Astoria given the chance, but there were freedoms Astoria's personality granted her that Daphne envied.

Unlike her, Astoria had always skived off lessons in etiquette and manners. Her name and her beauty excused any mistakes, made them appear endearing, humanizing. People always thought she was adorable. Cute.

Daphne hated those words. They were adjectives appropriate to stumbling kittens, not young Pureblood witches of stature and great potential.

She had developed a reputation as being cold and aloof, even rigid; something which, uncharacteristically for her, was not entirely planned.

Partly it had been intentional. She detested being labeled 'cute' or 'adorable,' and her appearance invited these descriptions. Creamy skin, flaxen hair, long legs, perfect proportions - she didn't want to be a hag, but she wished she didn't look so much like a princess ripped straight from a storybook. She had no intention of inviting the comparison with her behavior.

She always tried to be completely realistic and honest with herself though, and had to admit that there was more to it than that.

She simply wasn't capable of the easygoing, good-natured camaraderie that her sister had always enjoyed among groups of other Pure-blooded girls their age. Her nature required her to constantly analyze phrasing, assess reactions and weigh interests, to both detect and avoid insult or any other unintended implication.

Often, this translated into seeming stiff or unfriendly, yet she simply did not have it in her to engage with endeavors that seemed pointless, like meaningless small talk. Honestly, she didn't understand where others found the stomach for seemingly endless helpings of it.

Pulled out of her reverie by having arrived at her destination, she slid the door open to the final car of the Express. Her first year she had simply sat with the first people she had recognized, which had happened to be Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. Listening to those two preen at each other had nearly soured her on the notion of Slytherin, possibly Hogwarts.

She hadn't remembered them being nearly so overbearing at when they had run into each other as children at social events, but a constant stream of people had been passing by, poking their heads in looking for friends. Draco and Pansy had seemed to be in a competition to be overheard talking about how much magic they knew, or how high quality and expensive their school supplies were.

The next year she had gone to the very last train on the car. Being furthest from the entrance to Platform 9 3/4, it was clearly the least used, well evidenced by its nearly pristine condition.

She levitated her and her sisters' trunks into the overhead racks and sat down, enjoying the still-plush and rip-free cushions in the seats. Really, with all the money they paid in tuition, you'd think they'd be able to hire someone to Reparo the compartments' furnishings, but it seemed a quick Evanesco was supposed to be acceptable.

"... don't really think I should get bangs, and I know Lucy says I'd look so much hotter, but did you see how sexy Draco looked in his Quidditch gear, and he's been dating Pansy Parkinson, and she never wears bangs ..."

Being in the quiet space of the compartment, she was unable to tune out her sister's unending flow of words, and shuddered at hearing 'sexy' followed by 'Draco'. There weren't a lot of boys at Hogwarts, and when your options were restricted to only Purebloods it really gave meaning to the phrase 'slim pickings.'

Still, Draco? Ugh. Cedric Diggory was certainly a choice specimen, aside from the inconvenience of his House. Tall and lean, a star Seeker and top student, and with those cheekbones and ready smile, he didn't need to be your type to appreciate. Michael Corner was sensitive and almost girlishly pretty with his long lashes and wavy mane of dark hair, and Roger Davies had a brooding, sophisticated air and very well-developed upper body.

None of those boys were precisely her type; she suspected boys in general weren't her type. She was interested in men. Men like her father and Lucius Malfoy, elegant yet powerful, subtle yet dominant. She couldn't imagine any of the boys she knew at Hogwarts growing into the role. Surely Lucious hadn't acted as foolishly as Draco when he'd been his age.

Regardless, she most certainly wouldn't abide being in a relationship with a puerile oaf while merely hoping he might grow into a man worthy of her affection, let alone her desire.

Unfortunately, she didn't have forever to decide. Purebloods married young, and the number of eligible bachelors rapidly diminished with each year after Hogwarts graduation.

Fortunately, her parents hadn't managed to conceive a male heir, and she knew it wasn't from lack of trying. She hoped they would give up soon; if they did, the family business would be hers to control, as the eldest daughter.

Daphne realized that her sister had stopped speaking on an upward inflection; shockingly, it seemed she was actually expecting an answer for once. Daphne mentally replayed the last few moments of her sister's rambling, something she'd always had a knack for.

"... so horrible, like that Sirius Black, can you believe he broke into Hogwarts and attacked Ronald Weasley, I mean the Weasleys are blood traitors but they are Purebloods, do you think he'd attack us because Daddy went to America during the war?"

Daphne looked over at her sister and felt a moment's sympathy. She actually looked frightened.

"Don't be silly, Astoria." Daphne frowned. She hadn't meant to sound harsh - she rarely did - but it was silly. "The Weasley Twins turned in that map they had when they couldn't find Ron in a rare moment of responsibility for those two. They said they saw Sirius Black on there once, after he'd been spotted in the school. The staff watched that map day and night for weeks, and Black didn't show up once. He grabbed Ron's pet rat and fled. What do you expect from a madman Azkaban escapee? We were just unlucky he was fixated on Hogwarts. He's gone."

Astoria was still frowning, twirling a strand of her platinum locks around a finger, a habit their mother had despaired of weaning her from. Daphne tried a different approach.

"Honestly, the real danger last year was Professor Lupin. Can you believe he was a werewolf?" she asked, trying to mimic the inflection other girls used when gossiping. Her sister should have known better, but that had never stopped her sister before. The wrinkles of apprehension melted from Astoria's guileless face.

"Oh Merlin, can you believe that? A an actual werewolf? In Hogwarts? Lucy had a crush on him, can you believe it, he was so drab and frumpy..."

Daphne had heard about Lucretia Travers' crush on Professor Lupin more times than she wanted to count, but felt accomplished at having eased her sister's fears. Jabbering was Astoria's natural, happy state - voluntary silence indicated something wrong.

True, plenty of strange things had happened in Daphne's three years at Hogwarts. Her first year, a corridor on the Third Floor had been off limits and there had been rumors of a monster guarding a treasure, possibly a Dragon or even a Cerberus.

Then the Gryffindors had come from nearly last place to win the House Cup when Dumbledore had given just enough points to three of her fellow first-years for alleged heroics, details of which were merely hinted at.

All anyone knew was that the next year the Third Floor corridor was no longer off limits and they had a new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, Professor Quirrell having disappeared without a convincing explanation.

Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. Two blood traitors and a Muggleborn know-it-all, they had in one mysterious afternoon earned more points than she had earned for Slytherin in an entire year of hard work in classes.

That had been the first clear indication that Dumbledore, who was supposed to be neutral in his capacity as Headmaster, favored the Gryffindors in general and over Slytherin in particular. Daphne had initially dismissed these stories - staples of the Slytherin common hall - as wild-eyed conspiracy theory.

Further confirmation of Dumbledore's bias had been forthcoming the next year, when a half dozen students and Caretaker Filch's cat were petrified, with graffiti stating that the Chamber of Secrets of legend had been opened.

Again Slytherin had been in the lead for the House cup. And again, the same trio of now second year Gryffindors pulled off some secret heroics. This time Dumbledore's vague story involved the rescue of Weasley's younger sister from another monster.

Again, equally sparse on detail. And again, the only fact that could truly be nailed down was the disappearance of their Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. The grapevine placed him in a special ward in St. Mungo's, totally insane.

Then last year, again the Gryffindor Trio had been in the thick of the danger, apparently taking it upon themselves to do what the Aurors and Dementors were sent to Hogwarts for after Sirius Black was spotted in Hogsmeade. It was Hermione and Neville who had discovered that the Twins had an enchanted map that could show if Sirius Black was in the school, and convinced them to take it to the professors.

Even for Gryffindors, those three were impressively able to wander right into the thick of whatever odd trouble confronted Hogwarts each year. What was truly remarkable was that they continued to emerge unscathed, the brief stays with Madame Pomfrey notwithstanding.

Daphne admitted that Hermione was a competent witch. Grudgingly - and never aloud - she allowed it was even possible Hermione was her superior academically, thought most certainly not when it came to wandwork. Daphne simply didn't prioritize memorizing every last footnote in their texts.

They were at Hogwarts to learn magic, not to learn facts about magic, after all.

With a lurch, the train started moving. Daphne was pleased that no one had entered their compartment yet; it seemed they'd have peace and quiet on their trip to Hogwarts.

She didn't hate being around other people in general, but various tensions made social interactions difficult for Slytherins. The Puffs and the Claws generally united behind the brash Lions against the more cohesive and calculating Slytherins, whose natural ambition led them to win the House Cup more years than not.

Yet while the Slytherins presented a united front to the usual trifecta they faced between Houses, intra-house tensions and politics were far worse. The other Houses may have had numbers, but they simply weren't playing the game at the same level as the Slytherins.

Most of the Slytherins were raised on intrigue, and the vanishingly rare Muggleborn Sorted into the House must feel as if dropped into shark-infested waters with a profusely bleeding cut.

Of course, there were cliques of normal friendliness within the House, particularly among the girls. Unlike the boys, the girls familial loyalty wasn't determined for the most part while at Hogwarts. That happened when you were married, and in the traditional patriarchy of Wizarding Britain, at that point your loyalty was to your husband's family over your father's.

This meant the only true issue of contention among the Slytherin girls was their competition over the small pool of eligible husbands. Common wisdom among Pureblood women had it that the best men were always taken before they graduated Hogwarts. And as far as she could tell it seemed true; her parents and those of the the vast majority of her friends had at least met at Hogwarts, when not already romantically involved as students.

Given the slim pickings at Hogwarts, by the time the seven year hourglass of your school years started to get bottom-heavy, even the most kind-hearted and good-natured years of Slytherin girls got catty. Her own crop of Slytherin witches, for better or worse, weren't much of either of those compound adjectives.

As a result, she didn't have anyone she'd label a close friend. She didn't ever pity herself - she never engaged in pointless emotional caterwauling. However, she also didn't mislead herself in order to feel better about her failures.

Friends were important. She knew they were important to gaining power and prestige. She had had to learn, in detail, about the greatest witches and wizards of history. Though they varied immensely as individuals, one common feature throughout, be they witch or wizard, Light or Dark, was that they had a group of loyal and devoted followers. Their cadre, their coterie, usually the stuff of lesser legends themselves.

The Snakes had their own legends, of friendships forged at Hogwarts that later went on to achieve great things in the world beyond. Many Ministry administrations had formed in Hogwarts, and a preponderance of them were in Slytherin. Unfortunately in recent years, all had been overshadowed, no pun intended, by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.

Well, fortunately, if you asked Draco Malfoy and his junior Death Eater sycophants. Not that Daphne ever would ask those cretins. She avoided talking to them as much as socially permissible. Not because she was scared. She had no reason to be; her name's prestige and her father's wealth and murky reputation ensured that they wouldn't dare try anything with her or her sister.

Daphne simply hated what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done, to the Wizarding world at large and Slytherin House most of all. Their reputation was tarnished beyond hope of imminent redemption. Already they had been the house of the cunning, the power-hungry, the manipulative.

There were rumors about Salazar Slytherin in his later years, twisted Dark rituals, quite distasteful but also largely unsubstantiated. Very little of what little was known about the Slytherin founder could be deemed fact rather than mere myth.

Yet there was nothing mythical about the Dark Lord except the degree of his brutality, his callous disregard for Pureblood tradition when it did not fit his personal vision of absolute personal dominion over any, Magic or Muggle, who survive his bloody ascension.

The Greengrass family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, deemed the most Pure of British Pureblood families. Further distinguishing their name, they were one the Neutral Nine, which for centuries had been a neutral coalition. They had made sure that any, Dark or Light, could buy wands and brooms and potions and regulation-compliant cauldrons. They had provided neutral ground where representatives from feuding factions could treat for peace.

You-Know-Who had laughed in their faces. Many of her father's closest friends had been killed when they insisted on remaining neutral, not being Marked as his servants. She wasn't supposed to know that her own family had had dealings that war that were decidedly Dark, but she had overheard her father and her uncle whispering once and knew that some of the reputation her father had, which kept boys in her year respectful, was well-deserved.

In the end, they had only avoided being Marked themselves by fleeing to America during the height of the war. She'd actually been born there, though they'd moved back to England when she was still a baby. Her grandparents had been able to convince Voldemort that it was necessary for the business they were doing on his behalf, due to the strict sanctions and privation of war at home.

Daphne had also overheard the Dark Mark was inactive, not gone. No one understood the Mark fully, but her father's generation of neutral Slytherins knew as much as anyone not Marked could know, and the general consensus was that if the Dark Lord had died, the Dark Mark would have vanished, or possibly simply become a mundane ink tattoo.

Such a Mark should not have any residue of Dark Magic, yet the Dark Marks were used to convict Death Eaters after the Dark Lord's sudden disappearance and apparent defeat at the hands of the Potter baby. The Boy-Who-Lived, they called him at first. Later, somewhat snidely, he became The-Boy-Who-We-Lost.

Later, in retrospect, she would always find it odd that her train of thought, as inexorable sometimes as Astoria's vocalized equivalent, led her to be thinking of Harry Potter at that moment. She was absently staring at the far end of the train compartment, wondering how her Hogwarts years would have been if Potter hadn't disappeared as a toddler.

Vanished. Under mysterious circumstances, quite possibly abducted, from whatever seclusion he'd been sent off to for the sake of security. Safety at the expense of freedom, a repeating refrain that had become quite tiresome to her. Even when it was not her freedom at stake, she found it oppressive by proxy, a matter of principle that anyone's choices be taken from them by another's decree.

It was with these thoughts that her train of thought ground to a halt. The actual train she was in continued to clatter rapidly along the rails, undeterred by her musings. Her mind wasn't suited to being idle, and when not engaged with itself, it engaged with her environment.

The thick curtains on the windows at far end of the compartment were drawn along both sides, the gas lamps set at the ends distinguished. When she and Astoria had entered she'd given a glance, but had been distracted. This was why she felt a sinking in her gut, a sudden thrill, when one of the shadows resolved itself under her scrutiny into a shape. A human shaped shape.

Daphne wasn't eloquent when she was frightened. She didn't scare easily, but she was unnerved that she had missed this stranger's presence in the compartment she shared each year with her sister. Her compartment. She knew it was not hers, objectively, but she had spent two blissful years riding the Hogwarts Express in peace in this compartment, and it was starting to feel a little bit like home.

A home that had now been violated. This stranger - male, with those shoulders - was shrouded in a dark cloak with the hood up, only the lower half of his face visible. She was convinced another student would have made themselves known once they had heard Astoria's prattling, if only to plead for a moment's respite.

His preternatural stillness unnerved her. He was sprawled back into the corner of his seat, head tilted down, as if sleeping. Yet no one slept without shifting a muscle. Part of the reason Daphne hadn't seen the stranger was that he was as motionless as a statue. There was no hint of sound or movement from the other end of the cabin; she still wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just a trick of the poor light.

Astoria continued to chatter, oblivious, eyes fixed out the window on the Scottish countryside zipping by. Remaining nonchalant, Daphne put a hand on Astoria's shoulder. Their family wasn't big on physical contact, and her sister immediately trailed off and turned to look at her.

She caught her sister's eyes and rolled her own exaggeratedly toward the far end of the compartment. Astoria followed her gaze, turning her head and staring openly and immediately opening her mouth to speak. So much for being discrete.

"Honestly, Daphne, I know you're quiet but you can just say words at me. You know, with your mouth. Am I supposed to be looking at something? Hey, what's that lumpy thing over there, oh-Merlin-it's-Sirius-Black-he's-going-to-kill-meEEEEE!"

Astoria's snarky tone had rapidly shifted to panicked gibbering once she'd taken notice of the ominous strange lurking at the far end of the compartment. She leapt to her feet, drawing her wand, and Daphne also leapt up, hoping to keep her sister from doing anything rash. Merlin, what if this was the new Defense professor?

She'd been focused on her sister for only a few moments. She only had time to reach for her sister's wrist when the incantation left her lips.

"Locomotor WIBBLY!"

There was a fluttering, snapping sound, a shifting of shadows in the cabin. One moment the stranger had been an unmoving splotch on the far end of the cabin. The next, she was staring into a fierce pair of green eyes. For a moment she didn't hear her sister's frantic screams. Her awareness of her surroundings returned an instant later, Astoria's wails snapping back to the fore.

Daphne took in the tousled mane of black hair framing tanned skin. The straight posture, broad shoulders, strong chest. The cocky half-smile. She inhaled deeply and smelled the outdoors - woodsmoke and pine needle, the subtle fragrance of herbs and hints of citrus.

Orange, not lemon, she identified absently. Her mother loved fine perfumes.

Slowly, her thoughts caught up with her other faculties. She realized the stranger held her sister's wrist loosely in his hand, causing her wand to point harmlessly at the floor. She imagined that to go along with that sculpted forearm, a symphony of muscle and sinew, that hand must be rough, calloused, the grip gentle but unyielding, then shook herself. What was wrong with her?

Obviously, what was wrong with her was that she was facing a boy her own age who looked entirely too good. Astoria had taken notice of this as well, as her screams had cut off and she was now studying the boy's face intently, her captive wand-arm no longer her main focus.

Daphne frowned. Even Pansy hadn't been this boy-crazy as a second year. She really needed to keep an eye on Astoria this year. In this instance, though, Daphne couldn't blame her sister. There was something quite exotic, a hint of danger, but in an exciting rather than a worrying way, about the stranger.

He had been talking for a few moments now, she realized. She consulted her short-term memory to reconstruct the words she'd missed.

"Wow, so sorry. Didn't mean to startle you ladies. Got here early and tried to find a quiet corner for a bit of a nap. My sincere apologies, really, overreacted when I heard the commotion. So sorry."

With those words he dropped her sister's wrist, indeed appearing less fierce now. Not quite sheepish, but certainly slightly embarrassed. She kept silent, observing him. One of her first lessons had been that the best way to get an impression of someone is to be quiet and let them take the lead in the interaction.

The strange boy was impressive. His eyes flickered from her, to her sister, to the racks above them containing their luggage, and then back to her, all in a heartbeat. He gave her a more thorough once-over, easily detected but far less overt than even the best behaved Pureblood boys had been lately.

Particularly given the tight fit of the robe she was wearing for her first day back at Hogwarts. His eyes went to her feet and back to her eyes, like bouncing a rubber ball off the ground and catching it. He didn't leer, like some boys, or blush, like most, nor did he appear entirely disinterested, like a few.

Only after a few seconds of silence had passed did she realize that she was caught in his gaze again, a fly in honey. She gave herself a shake - internally, she was much too good to every visibly shake herself - and opened her mouth to give the boy an appropriate scolding for daring lay hands on her sister, startled awake or not.

As usual, Astoria had been less comfortable with the stretching silence than I, and words were already tumbling out of her mouth, rapidly increasing in speed and pitch in proportion to her excitement.

"Merlin, you scared us! We thought you were Sirius Black! What are you doing, hiding in the back of the train like this? Who are you? Don't you know an escaped convict is on the loose? You should be more careful. Are you a student? Why aren't you wearing Hogwarts robes? Oh Merlin, that scar, you're Harry Potter!"

This revelation seemed to stun even Astoria into silence. Daphne snapped her mouth shut, which had remained open, poised for a gap in her sister's tirade. Her eyes snapped to said lightning-bolt shaped scar. Certainly the most famous scar in Magical Britain, a scar everyone had been hoping to catch a glimpse of for as long as she remembered.

When he didn't deny the charge, instead looking even more visibly embarrassed, Daphne realized with a sinking feeling that this really was Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived himself. She'd never had the same silly fantasies Astoria and her friends entertained, of finding the Boy-Who-Was-Lost and rescuing him from his exile.

Silly, like the idea of kissing a pathetic frog and getting a dashing prince. Life didn't work like that. Though, she wouldn't mind kissing- no! Her mind would obey her. She tore her attention back to what he was saying.

"Ah, yes. Harry Pan-," His voice hitched for a moment, and he cleared his throat. "Potter. Harry Potter. That's me. Pleasure. Uh, Hogwarts robes? Ah, I knew I forgot something..."

Potter trailed off, looking annoyed. He plucked at his own robes, colored dark green and cut in an untraditional style. Not European or American, she knew those cuts; it was the family business, after all. No, this was an Asian look. Vietnam, Thailand, Burma maybe. If he'd been hiding in the southeast Asian jungles it was no wonder they hadn't found him all these years.

"Am I a Hogwarts student - long story. Short answer, I don't know. That's up to this Dumbledore to decide, I suppose."

Daphne couldn't place his accent. It seemed to shift, vaguely American, then vaguely English, then vaguely Australian or maybe South African, and back. Nothing to give a clue to where he had been all these years.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Well, again, sorry about the commotion. Not a great first impression. Need to work on that. I'll just go back..."

Daphne realized she still hadn't uttered a syllable. She spoke quickly, before Potter could turn around.

"Please, it was nothing."

There was a time to scold, to insist on one's place being observed and respected. There was also a time to be gracious, and Potter was clearly embarrassed by his actions. Really, grabbing a Pureblood witches' wrist. She didn't let her thoughts stray back to thoughts of that grasp.

"We have you at a disadvantage, Mr. Potter. I am Daphne Greengrass, and this is my sister Astoria. Forgive her output, she was merely startled by your sudden action."

Daphne quickly felt her composure return. The rote formality and politeness quickly returning her firmly to her comfort zone.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter!" Astoria squeaked simperingly.

"It is understandably shocking to meet you in this matter," Daphne continued, with slight emphasis to indicate her apology had been unnecessary, merely good manners.

"As you must know, you're quite famous among Hogwarts students. You were on the Hogwarts books - we were meant to be in the same year, if you hadn't disappeared. Instead, you've been thought lost, presumed dead, for over a decade. No one has heard of your return to society or that you will be attending Hogwarts. That news would have travelled as fast as owls can fly."

She left it there, not asking any questions explicitly, as was proper. That had been another of the first lessons she'd learned, lessons Astoria had the good sense to remember for once apparently, based on the fact she wasn't filling the silence Daphne left hanging in the air like a question mark.

"Ah, yes. Ms. Greengrass, Ms. Greengrass. Pleasure's all mine. Long story, but I've been... fine. Alive. Busy. It's... a long story. Complicated."

Potter had a clipped way of speaking, never using full sentences as she had been trained to. He had rough manners, but some manners were clearly present, judging by how he hadn't used their first names. Rough material could be shaped, refined, by one with sufficient vision and skill.

Daphne frowned fleetingly at her wandering thoughts. "Yes, I'm sure it must be, and we don't mean to pry. Don't let us keep you from your rest; you're quite welcome to share our cabin, and we'd welcome the opportunity to answer any questions you might have. Such as about the required dress code at Hogwarts, or the likely punishment to expect for failing to abide by it."

She tried for a friendly, open smile - not the easiest expression to pull from her repertoire - and sat back down on her seat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Astoria slowly follow suit, but she kept her gaze on Potter. She was realizing that despite the fluid confidence and physicality he had displayed earlier in moving so quickly and decisively, he was still a bit awkward in his manner.

She didn't want to startle him. She didn't need to break eye contact to know that Astoria was doubtless making moon eyes at him. Some things, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, were utterly predictable and simply couldn't be helped.

Instead of retreating to the darkened corner of the compartment he'd been skulking in - she didn't believe that he had slept through Astoria's continuous monologue - Potter sank to his haunches in an easy squat in front of them. Internally, she winced. Her father or Lucius Malfoy would never squat.

She couldn't help notice the way his thigh muscles were outlined against the stretched fabric of his oddly-cut robes, though. Perhaps squatting wasn't completely unacceptable behavior for a proper wizard.

Merlin, she really was off kilter. She focused on her breath, inhale, exhale, steady and simple, calming. She had no problem with patience, and for once her sister's undeniable curiosity was keeping her equally rapt in attention.

Slowly, haltingly, leaving more unsaid than said, each tantalizing hint of a question answered, like striking the head off a hydra, led a multitude of new questions to spring up in it's place.

Yet even Astoria didn't interrupt.