Slytherins & Escape

Chapter 8: Differences I



Perched high above the sprawling Scottish highlands, the headmaster's office at Hogwarts offered an unmatched view of rolling hills and misty peaks. The late-night sky stretched infinitely, speckled with stars that seemed to shimmer with ancient wisdom. Centuries of headmasters had shared the privilege of this view, but tonight, the splendor went unnoticed. Albus Dumbledore paced the room with restless energy, his usual calm deteriorating with every passing moment. His robes, as worn and frayed as they were regal, dragged against the stone floor with every step.

The glow from his enchanted instruments flickered in the dim light, but their subtle hums and chimes failed to soothe his nerves. A dozen contraptions clicked, spun, and emitted soft, rhythmic pulses as they recorded cosmic energies and mystical occurrences across the magical world. None of it mattered to Dumbledore now. Tonight, the balance of his carefully woven plans seemed to have unraveled.

Dumbledore had witnessed something earlier that evening, something he could neither explain nor dismiss. It left him shaken in a way he hadn't felt since his youth, when he had dared to glimpse his own reflection in the Mirror of Erised. A dangerous relic, the mirror had been hidden away in a remote corner of the castle, but Dumbledore knew it would call to Harry Potter. He had planned for the boy to encounter it, prepared to step in as a guide when Harry needed him most. But what unfolded that night had gone beyond anything the headmaster could have anticipated.

Harry had not gone alone.

Daphne Greengrass, a girl whose name had been little more than a passing entry on a student roster until this year, had accompanied him. Her presence in Harry's life had become increasingly significant since the Sorting Hat's unexpected placement of the Boy Who Lived in Slytherin. Dumbledore had noted their bond with mild curiosity at first, dismissing it as a mere coincidence. But tonight, the depth of their connection and the truths it revealed had left him deeply unsettled.

"Fools, all of us," he muttered under his breath, pausing briefly to clutch the edge of his desk. He stared at Fawkes, his phoenix companion, who perched silently nearby. "I should have foreseen this."

He replayed the scene in his mind, over and over, as though dissecting it might yield some overlooked answer. The children had stood before the mirror, their faces illuminated by its shimmering glow. Harry's reflection had been as expected, his parents, alive and smiling, radiating warmth. But Daphne's reflection had been another matter entirely. It showed a future self cloaked in power and shadows, a young woman with eyes that burned like frostfire. The vision was both beautiful and terrifying, a queen of ice and vengeance standing amidst a world reshaped in her image.

Their whispered confessions had been worse. Dumbledore had known Harry's life with the Dursley's was less than ideal, but what the boy admitted was beyond neglect—it was cruelty, systematic and deliberate. And Daphne? Her experiences were another level of horror entirely. The emotional scars inflicted by her own family were deep enough to twist anyone's soul.

He gripped the desk harder, his knuckles white. "How could I have been so blind?"

For years, Dumbledore had believed he was orchestrating events with precision. Every choice, every calculated delay, every whispered word in the right ear was part of a grand design meant to ensure Harry's eventual triumph over Voldemort. The bond between Harry and Daphne was a variable he hadn't accounted for, and the weight of their shared pain threatened to tip the balance toward an outcome he could not control.

The image of Daphne's reflection loomed large in his mind. What horrified him most wasn't the vision itself, but the sincerity of her belief that the world owed her a reckoning and Harry's quiet agreement to walk that path beside her. The parallels to Tom Riddle were impossible to ignore.

"Not again," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He sank into his chair, the weight of his fears pressing heavily on his shoulders. Fawkes let out a soft, mournful trill, as if sensing his master's despair.

Dumbledore straightened, resolve hardening in his chest. He could not let despair take root. He had faced darkness before and emerged victorious. This time would be no different.

"We start today," he murmured, looking to Fawkes for reassurance. The phoenix tilted its head, a soft trill escaping its beak, as if to agree. Dumbledore's gaze darkened. "There's a defense professor overdue for a reckoning, and I've let him linger far too long."

Daphne shot upright in bed, gasping for air. Her heart thundered in her chest as she stared into the darkness of her dormitory. The nightmare clung to her like an icy shroud, refusing to release its grip. Trembling, she slipped out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, barely reaching the sink before her stomach heaved. Her hands gripped the porcelain edge so tightly her knuckles turned white.

The dream had been more than a dream. It was a vision, vivid and undeniable. The woman she had seen in the mirror was her—but not her. A version of herself cloaked in shadows, radiating power, her icy blue eyes glinting with a hunger for vengeance. She had taken that woman's hand in the vision, felt the rush of power surge through her veins, and for a fleeting moment, it had felt... good.

"That's not me," Daphne whispered, though her voice wavered. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, her eyes haunted. "That's not who I am."

But the image from the mirror, the promise of freedom, power, and the ability to exact revenge against those who had hurt her, lingered in her mind. She shivered and splashed cold water on her face, hoping to banish the thought.

The early morning chill bit at Harry's cheeks as he trudged through the snow beside Daphne. Frost coated the bare branches of nearby trees, and the lake shimmered under a pale winter sun. The landscape was serene, but the silence between them was heavy. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck, glancing sideways at Daphne, who walked with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he had decided to join her morning walk. Perhaps it was the haunted look in her eyes last night, or the quiet way she had left the common room without a word. Either way, something about her demeanor had compelled him to follow.

They had shared something profound in front of the mirror—a moment of unfiltered truth. Harry had seen her pain, her anger, her fractured soul laid bare. And she had seen his.

Daphne broke the silence first, her voice low and hoarse. "Why do you keep following me, Potter?"

Harry paused, unsure how to answer. "Because we're friends," he said simply, watching her closely.

She let out a bitter laugh, though there was no malice in it. "You shouldn't want to be friends with someone like me."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm... not like you." She stopped walking, turning to face him. Her expression was hard to read, equal parts defiance and vulnerability. "You don't understand the things I've thought. The things I've wanted to do."

Harry met her gaze steadily. "You think I don't have those thoughts too? After everything with the Dursleys... you don't think I've wanted revenge?"

Daphne flinched, but Harry pressed on. "I saw you last night, Daphne. I saw what the mirror showed you. And yeah, it scared me. But I'm not walking away."

She blinked, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words came.

"You're not alone," Harry said softly. "Whatever happens, whatever you decide, we'll figure it out together."

For a long moment, Daphne said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

They resumed their walk, the crunch of snow beneath their feet the only sound. Though the path ahead was uncertain, Harry knew one thing for sure: they wouldn't face it alone.

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