He will be confronted by another Slytherin first

Harry pushed through the throng of students streaming toward the Great Hall for lunch, the castle's corridors alive with chatter and the distant clang of armour suits shifting in their niches. His morning classes had dragged—Potions under Slughorn's jovial ramblings, Defense Against the Dark Arts with Snape's perpetual sneer—but the weight of Ron's unanswered questions lingered like a poorly brewed draught.

He veered off the main path, opting for a quieter alcove near the entrance hall to catch his breath alone, the scent of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafting temptingly from afar. The stone bench was cool under him as he sat, staring at the flagstones, the power's hum a faint undercurrent in his veins, reminding him to watch his words even in solitude. Shadows played across the walls from the high arched windows, where dust motes danced in slants of midday light, and the occasional portrait muttered to itself, oblivious to the living world.

He rubbed his temples, the events of the night before replaying in flashes—Narcissa's chambers, the bath's steam, Cassiopeia's **** acceptance. It was all too much to unpack in the bustle of Hogwarts, where eyes were everywhere and secrets had a way of unravelling like poorly knit scarves.

A free period before lunch had seemed a mercy, but now, in the alcove's hush, doubts crept in: Was he pushing too far? The power felt like a double-edged sword, slicing through problems but leaving wounds that might never heal. He leaned back against the rough stone, exhaling slowly, trying to centre himself amid the distant echoes of laughter from the hall.

A shadow fell across his boots, sharp heels clicking to a halt before him with the precision of a duelist's stance. Harry looked up, meeting the icy blue gaze of Daphne Greengrass, her platinum blonde hair cascading like a waterfall over her Slytherin robes, lips curled in a disdainful smirk that screamed pure-blood entitlement.

She stood with arms crossed, chin lifted as if the mere act of addressing him soiled her pedigree, her posture radiating the kind of arrogance that made his scar itch. Her skin was flawless, pale as fresh parchment, and her green-and-silver tie was knotted with impeccable care, as if even her uniform bowed to her superiority.

"Potter," she drawled, voice dripping with condescension, each syllable stretched like she was explaining colours to a troll. "Fancy finding you skulking in the shadows like some common sneak-thief. Though I suppose that's fitting for someone of your... calibre."

Harry's brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise giving way to wariness as he straightened, his green eyes locking onto hers. Who was she to corner him like this? Daphne Greengrass—Slytherin's ice queen, all haughty glances and whispered alliances, never one to dirty her hands with Gryffindors unless it suited her schemes.

"Greengrass," he replied evenly, keeping his tone neutral, the power stirring faintly but held in check. "What do you want?"

Daphne let out a delicate huff, as if his question were beneath her, unfolding her arms to examine her nails with feigned boredom.

"What I want is irrelevant," she said. "What I cannot comprehend is this absurd spectacle you've orchestrated. Pansy and Cassiopeia—two perfectly respectable witches from esteemed families—fawning over you like you're some sort of prize."

She paused, her eyes narrowing. "I simply cannot fathom what they see in... well, you. A scruffy Gryffindor with delusions of grandeur? It's positively baffling."

"Do tell, Potter," she continued, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Have you been practicing your parlour tricks in front of a mirror? Or is it just the fame that blinds them to your obvious shortcomings?"

Harry's jaw tightened, irritation flickering like a spark on dry tinder as she paced a slow circle around him, her robes swishing with theatrical flair, the hem brushing the flagstones like a queen's train.

Her words landed like calculated jabs, each one probing for weakness, and he felt the heat rising in his cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the sheer gall of her tone—as if he were a bug under her boot.

The power coiled tighter in his chest, tempting him to whisper something that would wipe that smirk off her face, but he bit it back, fists clenching at his sides.

"I’m not sure if that is any of your business," he muttered, voice low, but the edge crept in unbidden. Harry still was careful with is words to avoid triggering his power.

Daphne paused behind him, her laugh a light, mocking trill that echoed off the alcove's walls, circling back to face him with eyes narrowed in mock pity. "Oh, but it is, Potter. When my housemates debase themselves, it reflects on all of us. Honestly, the way they fawn over you—it's undignified. Giggling in the common room, stealing glances in class—like common Hufflepuffs. I had to investigate, naturally."

She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips as if savoring his discomfort. "I had Professor Snape spike their pumpkin juice yesterday with a potion-dispelling tonic, just to be sure. No effects whatsoever. Then today, I convinced Slughorn to do the same—separately, of course, wouldn't want to arouse suspicion from those two. And yet, here they are, still mooning after you like lovesick first-years. It's genuine, which is utterly horrifying."

Her gaze raked over him disdainfully, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with venom. "What could possibly draw them to someone so... ordinary? So utterly unremarkable? Your mother's blood must have diluted whatever potential your father had."

The spark ignited into a low burn now, Harry's face flushing as her condescension poured over him like treacle—sticky, suffocating, each word laced with that superior lilt that made his blood boil.

Ordinary?

As if facing down Voldemort year after year was a hobby.

Harry’s scar throbbed faintly, a reminder of battles she'd never comprehend from her cushioned perch in the Slytherin dungeons. He rose slowly, green eyes narrowing to slits, towering over her now with shoulders squared, the power thrumming like a storm on the horizon.

"Do you know what you're talking about?" he growled, voice tight, irritation mounting with every haughty tilt of her head, every flicker of her perfectly arched brow.

Who did she think she was, meddling like this? Spiking drinks? It was invasive, arrogant—pure Daphne.

Before he could snap back with something sharper, footsteps echoed from the hall—quick, determined clips that cut through the tension like a Severing Charm.

Pansy and Cassiopeia rounded the corner, their expressions shifting from casual lunchtime chatter to stormy outrage as they spotted Daphne's smug stance, her arms recrossed like a barrier. Pansy, dark hair whipping like a flag in wind, planted herself between Harry and Daphne, arms akimbo like a shield, her pug nose wrinkling in disgust. Cassiopeia flanked her, silver-blonde locks gleaming under the torchlight like polished galleons, her blue eyes flashing with protective fire, lips pressed into a thin line of fury.

"What in Salazar's name are you on about, Greengrass?" Pansy snarled first, her voice a whipcrack that made Daphne flinch ever so slightly, though she masked it with a toss of her hair.

"Eavesdropping now? Poking your nose into our business like some nosy house-elf? If you've got something to say, spit it out—don't hide behind your daddy's name and that fake smile."

Daphne recovered quickly, her tinkling laugh devoid of warmth as she unfolded her arms, gesturing dismissively at Harry like he was yesterday's Prophet. "Oh, please. I'm looking out for you—both of you. Throwing yourselves at Potter? A half-blood mongrel with Mudblood friends? It's a disgrace to your lineages. Malfoy blood, Parkinson pride—wasted on him? Wake up, girls; he's beneath you."

She paused, her eyes gleaming with scorn as she swept her gaze over Pansy and Cassiopeia. "A half-blood pretender playing hero, surrounded by blood traitors and Muggle-lovers. What would your families say? Cassiopeia, your father would roll in Azkaban if he knew—"

"Shut your trap about my father," Cassiopeia cut in, voice icy and controlled, stepping forward until she was nose-to-nose with Daphne, her posture mirroring the arrogance but laced with real steel.

"You don't get to lecture us on pride when you're the one slinking around spiking drinks like a coward,” she stated jabbing a finger into Daphne’s chest. “Jealous, are you? That Harry's got more loyalty in his pinky than your entire circle of sycophants?"

Pansy nodded vigorously, her dark eyes blazing as she jabbed a finger at Daphne's chest, not quite touching but close enough to make the blonde step back.

"Yeah, and half-blood or not, he's faced down You-Know-Who more times than you've faced a bad hair day,” she snidely remarked.

“What's your claim to fame, Greengrass? Perfect nails and a pedigree that's inbred to the point of idiocy?” Pansy taunted. “Spare us the pure-blood rubbish—it's as outdated as your wardrobe."

Daphne's cheeks flushed a faint pink, her composure cracking under the dual ****, but she rallied with a sneer, glancing at Harry over their shoulders like he was a particularly loathsome bug. "Outdated? It's tradition, something you two seem to have forgotten in your rush to slum it with Potter. Half-blood status aside, he's got the manners of a troll and the company of Weasleys and that know-it-all Mudblood Granger."

She let out a dramatic sigh, her voice rising in pitch with feigned exasperation. "How can you stand it? It's embarrassing—Slytherin is supposed to mean cunning, ambition, not... this."

The argument escalated, voices layering in a heated tangle that drew curious glances from passing students—Pansy's sharp retorts cutting through Daphne's sneers like hexes, Cassiopeia's measured barbs exposing the hypocrisy in Daphne's pure-blood bluster with surgical precision.

"Tradition? You mean hiding behind daddy's gold while the world burns?" Cassiopeia fired, her hands gesturing wildly.

Pansy piled on, her voice rising with glee. "And embarrassing? You're the one making a scene, Greengrass—jealous much? Can't stand that we're happy while you're stuck with your tea-party twits."

Daphne shot back with more venom, her eyes flashing as she jabbed a finger toward Harry. "Happy? Deluded, more like. His half-blood taint will drag you down—mark my words, you'll regret sullying your names with him."

The alcove rang with their clashes, words flying like sparks from crossed wands, the three Slytherins locked in a verbal duel that showed no signs of abating.

Harry stood back, arms crossed now, his initial irritation simmering down to a grim satisfaction as he watched the trio clash like serpents in a pit, coils twisting in a dance of fangs and fury. It was almost amusing—Daphne's arrogance crumbling under the weight of Pansy and Cassiopeia's united front, her jabs about his blood status bouncing off like dud spells. The power hummed quietly, tempting him to intervene.