Harry will wait for them to return and discuss their next move over dinner

An hour slipped past, the fire popping softly, before the door finally creaked open. Pansy and Cassiopeia stepped through, their robes slightly rumpled from the meeting, expressions shifting from weary to delighted as the scent of the meal hit them. Pansy's eyes widened, a grin breaking across her face like sunlight piercing clouds. "Harry, you sneaky git—this looks amazing!" She hurried over, dropping into a chair with a contented sigh, already reaching for a fork. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she tucked a strand behind her ear as she piled her plate high, the clink of silverware echoing in the cozy space.

Cassiopeia followed more gracefully, her silver-blonde hair catching the fire's glow like moonlight on water. Her smirk softened into genuine warmth as she took the seat beside him, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek, her lips soft and lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. "Didn't expect a full spread. You've outdone yourself—makes up for dragging us back here after that tedious house drivel." She draped an arm casually over the back of his chair, her fingers brushing his shoulder in a subtle, affectionate claim.

They dove in, plates filling with hearty portions, the conversation light at first—complaints about Snape's endless lectures on house unity, his voice droning like a persistent boggart in the Slytherin common room. Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically, mimicking the Potions Master's sneer as she recounted how he'd docked points from a hapless second-year for "insufficient enthusiasm." "As if anyone could muster enthusiasm for his monologues," she quipped, spearing a potato with her fork. Cassiopeia chuckled, a low, melodic sound that eased the tension in Harry's chest, and added her own tale of a third-year's botched potion exploding in a shower of neon sparks, leaving half the room covered in glittery goo. "Snape just stood there, looking like he'd swallowed a lemon, and drawled, 'Five points from Slytherin for incompetence.' As if it wasn't his fault for assigning that ridiculous brew to beginners."

Harry let them unwind, picking at his own food—a slice of roast beef here, a forkful of salad there—the flavors rich and comforting, grounding him in the moment. The pumpkin juice was cool and spiced, washing away the dryness in his throat from the day's suppressed words. He watched them with a quiet fondness, the way Pansy's eyes sparkled when she laughed, or how Cassiopeia's posture relaxed, her usual guarded elegance giving way to something more open in this private haven. These moments, stolen amid the war's shadows, reminded him why he fought—not just for survival, but for connections like this, fragile yet fierce.

Only when the initial hunger ebbed, plates half-cleared and goblets refilled, did he steer them back, voice steady but laced with the undercurrent of his earlier turmoil. "About your mother, Cass. I've been thinking—Kreacher's betrayal was the real spark that led to Sirius, not her directly. But she's still neck-deep in Voldemort's plots, conspiring against me and mine. We need to handle it without... extremes."

Cassiopeia set down her goblet with a soft clink, her gaze sharpening like a wand drawn in duel.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her expression a mix of defensiveness and calculation. "She's not as devoted to the Dark Lord as you might think. Mother's loyalty has always been to family first—the Malfoys, me above all.

"My father might've dragged us into that mess, but her? It's survival, not fanaticism.” She explained. “I know her; she can be convinced to switch sides, especially if it's for my sake.

"Promise her protection, show her the tide's turning, and she'll bend.” Cassiopeia assured Harry. “She's seen enough of his failures—the botched resurrection, the losses at the Ministry—to doubt his invincibility."

Pansy nodded thoughtfully, swirling her pumpkin juice in her goblet, the liquid catching the light in amber swirls. "Makes sense. Narcissa's cunning, not blind. If we play it right, she could be an asset. Feed us intel from the inside, maybe even sabotage a plan or two without drawing suspicion.

"My own parents are toeing the line similarly,” she explained, “fear more than faith keeping them in check."

She glanced at Harry, her dark eyes searching his face. "But we have to be careful. One wrong word, and it could backfire, pulling Cass into the crossfire."

Harry mulled it over, the ideas from earlier shifting in light of Cass's insight. No chains of loyalty needed if persuasion could work—cleaner, less risky, and it preserved some semblance of free will, something his power often tempted him to override. He cut into the treacle tart, the sticky filling oozing out as he plated slices for them all, buying a moment to think. The sweetness hit his tongue, a brief indulgence amid the gravity.

"You're right. Forcing her might breed resentment, and we don't need another enemy in the shadows. But confrontation has risks too—wards on the Manor, potential traps. If we go, we go prepared."

Cassiopeia savoured a bite from the tart, closing her eyes as she did so before she responded. "The Manor's protections are keyed to family blood. I can get us in without tripping alarms. And tonight... the house elves would be settling in, my father still rotting in Azkaban. Mother's likely alone, brooding over her ledgers or staring at that infernal family tapestry. It's as good a time as any."

Leaning back, Pansy wiped her mouth with a napkin that had appeared courtesy of the room's magic. "Then we plan the pitch. Harry, you lay out the prophecy angle—show her Voldemort's doomed. Cass, appeal to her maternal instincts. Me? I'll watch for deceit, keep things grounded." Reaching across the table, she squeezed Cassiopeia's hand in solidarity, then turned to Harry with a wry smile.

And if it goes south, well, I’ve got that reality-bending trick up my sleeve as a last resort. Or well a first resort even.

A surge of resolve washed over Harry, tempered by the warmth of their camaraderie. The feast had done more than fill stomachs; it had fortified bonds. "Alright, then let's not wait. We go confront her at Malfoy Manor. Tonight, if we can swing it. Face to face, lay it out, and see if she'll flip for you." Raising his goblet in a mock toast, he watched the juice slosh gently.