Hey all,

Sorry to take down the original, but as I was editing and re-reading what I had wrote, something a little more interesting occurred to me. Hopefully you're as captivated by this idea as I am. Comments and critiques are always appreciated. If there's something you don't like, please, let me know- that's how you grow as a writer.

Thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy.

The search for a cabin on the Hogwarts Express had never seemed to take so long, at least in Harry's memory. Hermione had snatched Ron away, refusing to be less than ten minutes early for the pair's first Prefect meeting, while Ginny, with a quick apology, had run into Michael Corner and ducked into his compartment to get reacquainted. So, keenly aware that he was alone, Harry had proceeded to go door-to-door, doing his utmost to search for a friendly face as unobtrusively as he possibly could.

It did not go well.

Very quickly, the reigning Triwizard Champion discovered that not only had any adulation of his most recent accomplishment grown stale, it had downright curdled. Apparently, the Daily Prophet had spread their version of Harry; the image of a deluded and vainglorious Boy Who Lived. a perception that, to Harry's dismay, reached as far as his own dormitory, if Seamus Finnegan's stiff, "Sorry, full," was anything to judge by.

With growing desperation, and only a few doors to go, Harry threw caution to the wind and spun into the next open compartment he came across. In his haste, he banged his trunk against the lip of the doorframe, jamming his knee in the process. Cursing under his breath, he pulled it in with an almighty heave and almost fell into a seat, rubbing his leg.

"Alright, Potter?" Came a wry voice from the seat across from him.

Harry looked up, his emerald eyes meeting amused grey ones. He flushed- she was extremely pretty, and he was absolutely positive she saw his less than graceful entrance. Inwardly, he cursed his impatience; surely the compartment could've waited for one second, if not five?

"Er, sorry, do you mind if I..?" He gestured around vaguely, trying to present an air of nonchalance.

"Not at all," the girl said, eyes flicking back down to the book she'd been reading before Harry had entered. Harry couldn't help but admire her golden tresses, wreathing her face in soft, glowing ringlets.

He paused, uncomfortably. "Thanks," he finally replied, relieved. Grabbing his trunk, he situated it on the rack above him, not knowing what else to do. He looked out the window, marveling at the speed at which the country flew by. Eventually, though, he grew bored.

"What're you reading?" he asked, turning hopefully, seizing on the only topic of conversation immediately available to him.

The blonde in the seat across from him raised a well-shaped eyebrow. Rather than respond, she tossed her book over to Harry, who caught the slightly wild throw with the unerring accuracy of a Seeker. His brow creased.

"Bubbling Brews and Culinary Crews?" Harry was confused. "Is this- is this a cookbook?"

The girl across from him lifted her chin. "It's a selection of potions and recipes by Gordon Ramsay, if you must know."

He tossed the book back to her, still not entirely sure he understood what had been said. "So… it is a cookbook, then? As well as a… potions manual?"

She sniffed. "It's not so simple as that. Cooking and brewing are… complimentary arts."

Harry's lips pressed into a frown. "D'you- d'you like potions, then?"

"I do."

His frown deepened.

"But… why?"

For a moment, she looked astounded, as though his question was as absurd as it was stupid.

"Potions is- it's-" she cleared her throat, looking rather embarrassed to have to cast around for speech at such a time. Gathering herself, she looked Harry dead in the eye. "Potions is an art. It's flexible, and dangerous, and beautiful."

Harry was completely lost.

"Flexible? Beautiful? I mean, dangerous I can understand, but-"

"That's precisely it," she said, her voice gentle, almost pitying now, "you don't understand."

For a moment, Harry's mouth worked around empty breath, words coming to neither his mind nor his mouth. Of course he understood potions, he wanted to say. Of course it was dangerous, but flexible? Snape scrawled instructions at the beginning of class, to be followed with exactitude. And beautiful? Harry could have snorted - the foulest smells and most unappealing colors he had ever seen had all taken place in the cauldron sat in front of him in the dungeons.

"Fine," he managed, although he waited like a coiled snake to rebuke whatever she was going to say, "What's beautiful about it? Flexible, even?"

The girl- whose name still escaped Harry- took a second to collect her thoughts. She did this often, he realized, she paused to ensure whatever she spoke was exactly what she meant.

"So… you've seen the book."

Harry cocked his head.

"Do you agree?" Harry just looked her, so she clarified, "Do you agree that potions is like cooking?"

"I - I suppose," he said hesitantly, though he'd never made such a connection before.

"Good. Ingredients and recipes," the girl continued, holding out her hands as though weighing the two, "steps and results. One informs the other."

Harry found himself nodding, though his mind was flying through the various combinations of the words she uttered. He could not, he discovered, counter with anything that he, in good faith, believed.

"Basically, you have materials and a guide," she said, carrying on, regardless of Harry's internal conflict. "But really, all that matters is where you're going, right?" She waited for his affirmative.

Haltingly, Harry nodded.

"Exactly," she continued, "so, if you have the materials and the guide, and you know where you're going you can… figure out shortcuts, or even take a detour. Does that make sense?"

And, in fact, it did.

"So that's what potions is like- for me, at least. And that's what cooking is like, too. You identify your end goal, and, just, you know, go for it." The girl looked slightly self-conscious at the end of this, not meeting Harry's eyes for the first time in their conversation.

"I… never thought of it that way," he finally admitted, after a long pause.

She shrugged, still looking slightly embarrassed, if the angle of her body was anything to judge by. Steadfastly, she held both her shoulders and toes away from Harry, pointing them out the window instead.

"I'm not sure many do, honestly. But then," she allowed, her upper body relaxing a bit, "not many purebloods know how to cook."

"You're a pureblood?" Harry asked automatically, shifting forward in his seat. He hadn't met many purebloods. Save for the Weasleys and the Malfoys- and, he supposed, Sirius- he really couldn't call any to mind.

"I am," the girl uttered proudly, lifting her chin just the slightest bit. "Back to my great-great-grandmother and grandfather, at the very least."

"And… what do you know about them?"

"Not much," the girl admitted, giving a slight shrug. "My grandmother came here from Bulgaria, and she met my grandfather here. The Greengrass have always been in Britain- at least, as long as we remember- and she married into the family."

Suddenly, Harry realized that this girls finely wrought features were somewhat familiar. The angle of her chin, the shade of her eyes, the bearing of her shoulders… yes, he knew her, he was certain.

"Greengrass…" he said slowly, realization dawning on him. "You're Daphne Greengrass! You're in my year."

"I am," Daphne stated, unimpressed. "Is that a surprise to you?"

Embarrassed that it had taken him so long, that he'd even forgotten in the first place, Harry shook his head, even though he felt his cheeks heating up.

"N-no, not at all. I recognized you."

"Of course you did," she stated flatly, surveying him with slightly narrow eyes, the grey in them deep like a storm cloud. For a moment she held him, transfixed, in a gaze like steel, then she sighed, breaking eye contact to look out the window. "I suppose Harry Potter had better things to do than learn the names of his Slytherin classmates."

"Well, you'll forgive me if I was a bit concerned for my own life," Harry bit back, trying and failing to remain civil. If anything, his words amused Daphne. She put the book on the seat beside her, crossing her arms.

"In class?"

Harry shook his head, cheeks still hot.

"You know what I meant."

"I did," Daphne admitted, letting the edges of her lips twist up in a wry smile. She couldn't explain why, but she enjoyed keeping others off-balance; with the Boy Who Lived, it was even more entertaining. She decided to throw him a lifeline:

"Really, Potter, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. For the life of me, I could name maybe half of the Hufflepuffs in our year. There are more important things."

"Yeah," replied the dark haired boy, finally leaning back into his seat with an exhalation of air, "you're telling me."

Daphne said nothing, as she felt nothing needed to be said. Instead, she studied her new train companion, taking in the dark purple rings under his eyes and the nervous tremble of his hand, which rested lightly on the well-worn wood of his wand.

She frowned slightly. Her summer had been spent on the Island of Santorini, basking in the sun and taking full advantage of the cool, clear water of the Aegean. What had Potter had to deal with, she wondered. Suddenly the alleged Dementor attack the Prophet was so quick to scorn seemed conceivable, if unlikely.

"You should sleep," she found herself saying, blushing a bit when he shot her a look, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. "You just - you look tired."

"I am," he admitted, rubbing his eyes in a familiar gesture. "Long summer."

"How was it?"

Harry seemed to consider the question, turning it over in his head, trying to feel out how much he could reveal.

"Long," he repeated. "Frustrating."

She looked at him expectantly, and he sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

"I just… kept waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Anything!"

Her eyes widened slightly, and Harry realized he'd said that a little loud.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, bringing his hand back up to his hair before resting it behind his neck. "I just- it was- I haven't really been able to relax," he finished, somewhat lamely in his opinion.

"Because of the Dark Lord."

It was a statement, not a question. There was a long silence, and Harry scrutinized her with new eyes. Who was she, this Daphne Greengrass of Slytherin, and what did she know? Immediately he crossed his arms, making sure his hand was over his left pocket, where he kept his Holly wand.

"Yes," Harry said slowly, still watching her closely. "Voldemort."

He waited, expecting her to squeal or flinch or some combination of the two, only to be surprised when she did neither, didn't even blink, in fact. Instead, she raised her chin.

"Yes," she echoed, "Voldemort."

Harry shook his head, half in disbelief, and half because he was impressed. Very few people dared to utter his name, much less with such a minimal reaction. Dumbledore, Sirius, himself… Everyone else, even McGonangall, couldn't suppress a shudder at the Dark Lord's name. And yet Daphne…

"What do you know about-"

SCREEEEEEEECH!

Suddenly, impossibly, forebodingly, the train came to an abrupt halt. The whiplash of such a sudden arresting of momentum catapulted Daphne onto Harry, who could only widen his eyes in shock.

Daphne picked herself up, running her fingers through her hair.

"Sorry about that-"

"Shh!"

Harry wasn't even looking at her. Instead, wand in hand, he moved very slowly towards their door. Cracking it open, he peeked out into the hallway, ignoring the babble of surprised students, looking for hooded robes and a bone white mask.

None were to be found. Rather than relieving Harry, this only served to deepen his concern. He entered the walkway slowly, sharp eyes flitting back and forth, and noticed that Daphne too was beside him, wand out and eyes narrowed.

Then the screaming started.

Harry burst forward, followed close behind by Daphne, heading towards the front of the train where the noise appeared to be coming from. After flying by compartments, weaving his way through the fleeing crowd, he suddenly stopped, as though he'd run into a wall. He heard Daphne's sharp intake of breath as cold, deeper than skin, deeper than bone, wound its way through their bodies.

"Dementors," Harry said warily.

"Can you make a Patronus?" he asked Daphne, without looking back to see her shake her head. She eyed him skeptically.

"Can you make a Patronus?"

"Stay behind me," was all Harry said in reply, walking forward slowly. With each step, the chill tightened its hold, icy fingers grabbing heart and mind alike. His mother began to plead for her life in his head. Up ahead, behind the fleeing students, an unnatural darkness blackened the hallway, billowing out like a noxious smoke.

Condensation froze on windows, some of which cracked at the temperature drop. Daphne suddenly realized she could see her breath.

"Stay behind me," Harry repeated, inching forward. Drawing closer, the blonde Slytherin repressed a shudder. She had never known the Dementor's touch, and wished to never know it again. A memory flashed through her mind, unbidden, of the day on the lake when her sister nearly drowned. Astoria's gasping, rattling breath sounded loudly in her ears.

Ahead of them, several cloaked figures swooped lazily. Behind them lay bodies, slouched against the walls and sprawled on the floor. Their hearts beat, their lungs whooshed out air, but their eyes were open and unseeing.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry intoned, and a shining stag erupted from the tip of his wand. Instantly it lowered its magnificent rack of antlers, charging forward at a gallop. It gored one Dementor, which let out a shriek that Daphne was sure she would never forget, and kicked out at another.

Still screaming, the Dementors swirled around the stag before escaping through the windows in a crash of broken glass.

Daphne ran forward, checking on the prone figures.

"They were Kissed," she said softly, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears, "all of them."

Harry let out a strangled shout, bounding forward so quickly Daphne jerked her head up to see if the Dementors had returned. But no, Harry had peered into a nearby compartment- the Prefects Compartment- and made a horrifying discovery.

Seated there, faces blank and unassuming, were the Prefects: Ron, Hermione, even Malfoy.

And they'd been Kissed as well.

AN: Thank you for reading! I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, but it should be an interesting journey to say the least. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.