Yes, though he will attempt to be subtle

Why not? he thought, the idea blooming like a dark flower—let their words do the work, but tip the scales just enough. As Pansy's next retort landed, sharp as a Stinging Hex,

Harry murmured under his breath, the words slipping out with that familiar thrum: "Each time Daphne gets shot down by Cass and Pansy in this argument, she'll come over to their side of thinking—about me, about everything—bit by bit, until she's fully on board."

The shift was imperceptible at first, a subtle flicker in Daphne's icy blue eyes, like a candle flame wavering in a draft, as Pansy fired off another volley with her trademark bite: "Jealous much, Greengrass? Can't handle that Harry's actually worth something beyond your dusty family trees? All those ancient pedigrees gathering cobwebs while he's out there actually doing something meaningful."

Daphne opened her mouth for what Harry expected to be a scathing comeback, her lips parting in that familiar curl of superiority, but the sneer faltered mid-formation, her perfectly arched brows knitting together in a rare display of confusion, as if her own thoughts had turned traitor.

She blinked twice, the arrogance in her stance—chin high, shoulders squared—losing a sliver of its rigidity, her fingers twitching at her sides like she was grasping for a retort that suddenly felt hollow.

"Worth... perhaps I underestimated," she muttered, almost to herself, the words escaping in a hushed tone that lacked her usual venom, her gaze darting briefly to the floor before snapping back up, as if she'd swallowed a Confundus Charm and was only now feeling its disorienting swirl.

Harry watched from his spot against the wall, arms still crossed, the power's hum a steady pulse in his veins, like a heartbeat syncing with the argument's rhythm. It was working—each verbal strike chipping away at her defences, pulling her inch by inch toward their side without her even realizing the invisible hand guiding it.

With a quick, triumphant glance exchanged between Pansy and Cassiopeia, Cassiopeia seized the moment, her voice steady and cutting, imbued with that Malfoy precision: "Underestimated? That's rich coming from you—clinging to 'tradition' like it's a life raft in a storm you and your kind caused.”

It was somewhat amusing what Cass was talking about Harry mused.

“Harry's fought real battles,” Cass boasted, “not just whispered schemes in dark corners or hid behind family vaults. He's stared down **** and come out swinging, while you've... what? Polished your reputation at parties?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Daphne's posture softened a fraction more, her arms dropping limply to her sides, the rigid line of her spine easing as if an unseen weight had lifted.

A **** nod escaped her, small at first, then more deliberate, her platinum hair swaying with the motion as the argument's logic—or was it the power's weave? —sank deeper into her mind, rooting like a spell taking hold.

"Battles... yes, he has survived, hasn't he?” she agreed reluctantly. “More than most. I suppose there's... merit in that kind of resilience."

Pansy pressed the advantage, leaning in with a predatory gleam in her dark eyes, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper that echoed off the alcove's stone walls. "Merit? Try legend. While you're busy judging blood, Harry's rewriting the rules—pure-blood, half-blood, it doesn't matter when you're the one ending threats like Voldemort. Admit it, Daphne; your precious traditions are just excuses for staying safe and superior."

Daphne's flush returned, but this time it wasn't purely from anger; her eyes flickered back to Harry, lingering longer, assessing him not with disdain but with a budding curiosity that softened the sharp edges of her features. She shifted her weight, one hand absently smoothing her robes as if trying to compose herself, but the power nudged further—another layer peeling away.

"Legend... perhaps. If he's truly rewriting rules, then maybe... maybe blood isn't the only measure." The admission came haltingly, her voice quieter, the haughty drawl fading into something almost thoughtful, as if each rebuttal from Pansy and Cassiopeia was a key unlocking doubts she'd long buried under layers of pure-blood indoctrination.

Pansy didn't let up, her dark eyes narrowing with glee as she stepped even closer, invading Daphne's space with a finger pointed accusatorily.

"Survived?" she echoed with a scoff, her chuckle low and mocking, bouncing faintly off the alcove's damp stones.

"Thrived, you mean. While you're off judging blood like it's some sacred relic, Harry's out there dismantling threats head-on. Admit it—your pure-blood drivel is nothing but a shield for cowards too scared to step out of line."

Daphne's lips pressed into a thin line, her earlier poise wavering as she crossed her arms defensively, though her stance lacked its former steel; a subtle hesitation crept in, her gaze sliding toward Harry with an appraising glint that hinted at cracks in her resolve.

The power's influence wove deeper, softening her edges like mist eroding stone. "A shield... possibly," she conceded quietly, her tone losing its sharp bite, fingers drumming lightly on her elbow as if testing unfamiliar ground. "If he's as formidable as you claim..."

Cassiopeia seized the moment, her silver-blonde hair catching the torchlight as she leaned forward, voice smooth but edged with conviction. "Formidable? He's the **** that'll shatter this war, not cower behind outdated walls. Blood's just a story we tell ourselves—it's deeds that carve the path forward."

Daphne drew in a breath, her rigid shoulders easing as the rebuttal landed, pulling her further along the invisible current. "Deeds... fair point," she allowed, her haughty inflection dulling to a murmur of **** insight, as though the girls' persistent strikes were steadily reshaping the foundations of her long-held convictions.

Harry felt the satisfaction deepen, the scene unfolding like a carefully orchestrated play, the girls' words his unwitting instruments in drawing Daphne fully into the fold.

By the end, as the verbal storm ebbed, Daphne stood there transformed—not by ****, but by the power's gentle nudge weaving through their words. Her eyes met Harry's fully now, alight with dawning admiration, her voice softening to a murmur.

"I... I see it now. You're not what I thought. Perhaps I was wrong about all of it."

Pansy and Cassiopeia exchanged victorious glances, chests heaving from the fray, but Harry stepped forward, voice low to keep the moment intimate amid the alcove's echoes. "You two alright with this? With her... joining us?"

Pansy blinked, then shrugged with a half-smirk, wiping sweat from her brow. "Joining? Well, yeah—we just talked her 'round, didn't we?” she questioned.

“Feels right, like we won her over fair and square. Not thrilled about sharing more, but hey, our words did the trick," Pansy concluded.

Cassiopeia nodded, her expression a mix of contentment and mild ****, arms crossing as she eyed Daphne appraisingly. "Exactly. Natural outcome of a good thrashing in debate. She's seeing sense because of us—makes it feel earned,” Cass stated.

“A bit weird” Cassiopeia admitted, “but... content with it. Our doing, after all."

Daphne smiled faintly, stepping closer to Harry, the group falling into an uneasy but unified hush as the lunch bell tolled in the distance.