Teaser of Harry Potter/Daphne Greengrass/Astoria Greengrass - One Shot - Slytherin's Secret Service (Patreon)

Harry Potter trudged through the snow-covered streets of Hogsmeade alone, his breath creating small clouds in the frigid January air. He'd separated from Ron and Hermione twenty minutes ago when their bickering had finally worn his patience thin.

"Mental, both of them," he muttered, kicking at a small pile of snow. "Everyone can see they fancy each other except themselves."

He still couldn't believe how blind he'd been to their feelings until Fleur had pointed it out during Christmas break. The memory of their conversation at the Burrow brought a slight smile to his face. While Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had barely concealed their hostility toward Bill's fiancée, Harry had found Fleur's directness refreshing...

' Harry had been passing the kitchen when he overheard Hermione and Ginny's voices drifting through the partially open door.

"She's just so... full of herself," Ginny was saying with obvious distaste. "Did you see how she tried to 'help' me with dinner? As if I don't know how to set a proper table in my own house."

"I know," Hermione agreed. "And the way she keeps tossing her hair about whenever Bill enters the room—it's like watching a Veela mating ritual."

The girls dissolved into giggles, unaware of Harry's presence—or that Fleur had appeared at the opposite end of the hallway, her arms full of freshly folded linens. The hurt expression that flashed across her face was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual composed demeanor, but Harry had seen it.

Something inside him snapped. He pushed the door open, causing both girls to jump.

"You know," he said coolly, "for two people who complain about prejudice, you're being awfully judgmental."

"Harry!" Hermione looked startled. "We were just—"

"Making fun of someone who left her country to be with the man she loves? Someone who's trying to fit into a family that barely gives her a chance?" Harry shook his head. "Fleur's actually been nothing but nice. She's just... French. Different. Not a crime, last I checked."

He turned to leave, catching sight of Fleur, who had silently retreated up the stairs. The grateful look she gave him stayed with him for the rest of the day.

That evening, Harry had sought her out, finding her alone on the porch watching the sunset. The second memory was equally vivid...

"I wanted to apologize," Harry said, leaning against the railing beside her. "For how everyone's been treating you."

Fleur gave a delicate shrug. "Eet is not your fault, 'Arry. And you do not 'ave to champion me. I am used to people's... reactions."

"Still not right," Harry muttered.

A comfortable silence settled between them before Fleur spoke again.

"I should apologize to you as well," she said softly. "Two years ago, during ze Tournament... I was not very kind. I thought you were just a little boy seeking attention."

Harry laughed despite himself. "Well, I was definitely a little boy. The attention part, though—never wanted it."

She studied him with those perceptive blue eyes. "I know zat now. You faced ze dragon better zan any of us. And what happened in ze maze..." Her voice trailed off respectfully.

"Yeah," Harry said, the familiar weight of Cedric's death pressing on him.

"You 'ave seen more darkness zan most adults," Fleur observed. "Yet you remain... good. Eet is remarkable."

The simple compliment meant more to Harry than all the "Chosen One" headlines combined.

And then there was their conversation two days later, when they'd escaped the crowded house for a walk through the snowy orchard...

"So, 'Arry," Fleur had asked, her breath visible in the cold air, "what do you wish to do after Hogwarts? Assuming we all survive zis war," she added with characteristic Gallic frankness.

The question had caught him off guard. "I... don't really know," he admitted. "I once thought about becoming an Auror, but lately..."

"You 'ave seen enough fighting, perhaps?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I'm good at Defense, but I'm not sure I want to chase dark wizards my whole life. Especially after—if—Voldemort is gone."

Fleur, unlike most, didn't flinch at the name. "What brings you joy, zen? Besides Quidditch?"

"Teaching, maybe," Harry said, surprising himself with the answer. "The DA last year—that felt right."

"Ah, Professor Potter," Fleur teased gently. "I can see it. You are patient with zose willing to learn, yet you do not tolerate foolishness. A good combination."

"What about you? After the wedding?"

"Bill and I are discussing options with Gringotts. Curse-breaking as a team, perhaps. We work well together." Her eyes softened at the mention of her fiancé. "But I also think about children someday. A family of my own."

"Whatever you choose, 'Arry," Fleur said earnestly, "make sure it is for yourself, not what ozers expect from ze 'Boy Who Lived.'"

...

"Eet is obvious, 'Arry," she had told him while they sat in the garden, escaping the tension inside. "The way they fight? Classic. In France, we say that the more passionate the argument, the more passionate the... well, everything else." She'd winked at him then, causing him to blush furiously.

Their friendship had developed unexpectedly over those holiday days. Harry had defended her when others whispered criticisms just within earshot, and in return, Fleur had offered him insights about girls that made Ron's tips from Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches seem childish by comparison.

Harry's hand instinctively moved to his wand pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of his holly and phoenix feather companion. He'd been practicing a spell in secret—one not found in any Hogwarts textbook but mentioned in a dusty tome he'd discovered in Grimmauld Place last summer. With Voldemort growing stronger, Harry couldn't afford to limit himself to Disarming Charms anymore.

The quiet buzz of Saturday shoppers filled Hogsmeade village. Students clustered in groups, moving between Honeydukes and Zonko's, while older villagers went about their business with the perpetual wariness that had become common in wizarding Britain. Harry was contemplating whether to meet up with Neville and Luna at the Three Broomsticks when movement near Scrivenshaft's caught his eye.

Daphne Greengrass exited the quill shop alone, her posture rigid and eyes constantly scanning her surroundings. Harry knew little about her beyond her reputation as the "Ice Queen of Slytherin" and that she wasn't part of Malfoy's usual gang. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she carried her packages with practiced elegance.

Something about her demeanor struck Harry as odd. She wasn't simply exhibiting the usual Slytherin aloofness—she looked genuinely concerned, like someone expecting trouble.

Harry slowed his pace, watching as Daphne quickly moved toward the less crowded part of the village. His instincts, honed by years of danger, prickled uncomfortably.

Then it happened. Five figures in black robes apparated into the narrow street ahead of Daphne, their silver masks reflecting the winter sun.

"Death Eaters," Harry hissed, drawing his wand immediately.

Daphne froze momentarily before dropping her packages and pulling out her own wand. The lead Death Eater pointed directly at her.

"Greengrass," a male voice snarled from behind the mask. "Your family's neutrality has become... inconvenient to the Dark Lord. We're here to deliver a message."

Harry didn't hesitate. He moved quickly to position himself within striking distance while remaining hidden behind a stack of crates.

"Stupefy!" Harry's spell caught the rearmost Death Eater by surprise, sending him crumpling to the ground.

The remaining attackers whirled around, momentarily confused by the unexpected assault.

"Potter!" one of them spat. "The Dark Lord will reward us doubly for bringing both of you!"

Daphne used their distraction to her advantage. "Ossio Dispersimus!" she cast, her voice colder than the winter air. The curse hit one Death Eater, who screamed as the bones in his wand arm shattered.

Harry's eyes widened momentarily at the brutality of her spell, but he had no time to dwell on it. Two Death Eaters were now advancing on him, wands slashing through the air.

"Protego!" Harry's shield charm deflected a vicious purple curse. "Expulso!" he countered, causing the ground beneath one Death Eater to explode.

The air filled with dust and debris as spells flew in all directions. Harry dove behind a low stone wall, feeling the heat of a curse passing inches from his face.

"Potter, watch out!" Daphne's warning came just in time. Harry rolled left as a jet of green light struck the space he'd occupied moments before.

The Killing Curse. They weren't here to capture anymore.

Something cold and determined settled in Harry's chest. These Death Eaters had come to murder a student in broad daylight. His mind flashed to Cedric, to Sirius, to all those who had died while he survived.

No more.

Harry closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, focusing on the spell he'd been practicing. The incantation formed in his mind rather than on his lips—Vacuum Pulmonis.

He aimed at the three Death Eaters who had regrouped, preparing to cast in unison. The air around them seemed to shimmer, and suddenly they were clutching at their throats, eyes wide behind their masks, gasping desperately for breath that wouldn't come.

Harry didn't waste the opportunity. "Diffindo!" He cast the cutting curse three times in rapid succession.

The first Death Eater's wand hand severed at the wrist. The second took the spell across the chest, his robes immediately darkening with blood. The third caught the curse across his throat, dropping instantly.

Meanwhile, Daphne faced the remaining Death Eater. "Discerpo!" she cast, and the air itself seemed to tear at her opponent. The Death Eater's screams cut off abruptly as his body was shredded by invisible forces, falling in a black heap to the ground.

Silence descended, broken only by Harry and Daphne's heavy breathing. Four bodies lay motionless around them, with the fifth Death Eater—the one Harry had initially stunned—still unconscious.

"We need to alert the Aurors," Harry said, moving carefully toward Daphne, his wand still raised in case more attackers appeared.

Daphne's face was pale, but her expression remained composed despite the carnage surrounding them. Only the slight tremor in her hand betrayed any emotion.

"They came specifically for me," she said, her voice steady but quiet. "Because my family refuses to choose sides."

Harry nodded, understanding the precarious position of neutral families in this war. "Are you hurt?"

"No." She straightened her robes with a gesture that seemed absurdly normal given the circumstances. "That spell you used—the one that affected their breathing. It's not taught at Hogwarts."

"No, it's not," Harry confirmed, offering no further explanation.

A small crowd had gathered at a safe distance, whispers rippling through the onlookers. Soon, professors would arrive from the castle, and questions would follow.

Daphne's blue eyes met Harry's green ones directly. "Thank you, Potter." The words were formal, but sincere. "I recognize that I owe you a life debt."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "You don't owe me anything, Greengrass. I couldn't just stand by and—"

"Nevertheless," she interrupted, "in my family, such debts are taken seriously. Very seriously." Something flickered across her features. "We will discuss this further, when circumstances are more appropriate."

Before Harry could respond, Professor McGonagall came hurrying down the street, her face etched with shock as she surveyed the scene.

"Potter! Miss Greengrass! Are you injured?" she demanded, looking between them and the fallen Death Eaters with horror.

As McGonagall sent her Patronus to summon Aurors, Harry noticed Daphne watching him with an intensity that made him strangely uneasy. No, not uneasy exactly—something else he couldn't quite identify.

"This isn't over, Potter," she said quietly, so only he could hear. "A Greengrass always repays their debts. Always."

With that cryptic statement, she turned to answer Professor McGonagall's questions, leaving Harry to wonder what exactly he'd gotten himself into by saving the Ice Queen of Slytherin.

⚯ ͛

Harry sat on a wooden chair in the Three Broomsticks, which had been hastily transformed into a makeshift interrogation room. The pub had been cleared of customers, leaving only Harry, Professor McGonagall, and two stern-faced Aurors.

"Run through it one more time, Mr. Potter," said the older Auror, a weathered man named Dawlish whom Harry recognized from previous encounters. "You witnessed five Death Eaters apparate directly in front of Miss Greengrass, and you intervened without hesitation?"

Harry's fingers tightened around the lukewarm cup of tea Madam Rosmerta had pressed into his hands. "Yes. They specifically targeted her. Said her family's neutrality had become 'inconvenient' to Voldemort."

Both Aurors flinched at the name, irritating Harry. How could they fight what they feared to name?

"And then you..." The younger Auror, a woman with close-cropped gray hair, consulted her notes. "You cast a spell that affected their breathing?"

"It's not dark magic," Harry said defensively, feeling McGonagall's sharp gaze. "It temporarily prevents the lungs from drawing air. Gives you a few seconds' advantage."

"Where did you learn such a spell?" McGonagall asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Harry hesitated. "A book at... at my godfather's house."

The mention of Sirius hung in the air between them. McGonagall's expression softened marginally.

"And afterwards, you cast cutting curses," Dawlish continued. "With lethal intent?"

"They tried to kill us," Harry replied flatly. "The one who got away fired a Killing Curse that missed me by inches. Should I have disarmed them and offered tea?"

The female Auror—Proudfoot, Harry now remembered—exchanged a glance with Dawlish. "The Ministry's official position is that deadly force is authorized when confronted with Unforgivables," she said carefully. "Particularly given the current... climate."

"How fortunate for Mr. Potter," McGonagall said dryly, "that the Ministry's positions shift to accommodate reality occasionally."

Harry suppressed a smile.

"Miss Greengrass's account matches yours," Dawlish concluded, rolling up his parchment. "The survivor is being transported to a secure holding facility for questioning. You're free to return to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter, though we may have additional questions later."

As Harry stood to leave, Proudfoot added quietly, "For what it's worth, Potter, most Aurors would have done exactly what you did. Five against two—you're lucky to be alive."

Harry nodded grimly. Lucky. Always lucky. The word had lost all meaning.

"You did WHAT?" Hermione's voice echoed through the Gryffindor common room, causing several first-years to scurry up to their dormitories.

Harry winced. "Keep it down, would you?"

Ron whistled low. "Bloody hell, mate. You took out four Death Eaters?"

They sat in their usual corner by the fire, Harry having just finished recounting the day's events. Hermione's face had grown progressively paler as he spoke.

"Harry, that spell you described—manipulating someone's ability to breathe—that sounds dangerously close to—"

"To what I needed to survive," Harry cut her off, his tone sharper than intended. "To what I needed to keep Greengrass alive, too."

"I'm not criticizing," Hermione said softly, reaching for his hand. "I'm worried. For you."

Harry deflated slightly. "I know. Sorry. It's been a hell of a day."

"So Daphne Greengrass, eh?" Ron said, clearly attempting to lighten the mood. "Ice Queen herself. Always thought she was a bit of alright, you know, if you can get past the whole 'would sooner hex you than look at you' thing."

"Ronald," Hermione admonished, but without her usual fire.

"What? I'm just saying she's fit. And apparently not actually aligned with You-Know-Who, which puts her several steps above most Slytherins in my book."

Harry stared into the fire. "She said something about owing me a life debt."

Hermione straightened immediately, academic interest piqued. "That's significant in pureblood circles. Some of the oldest families have entire sections of their family magic devoted to the proper acknowledgment and repayment of debts."

"Great," Harry muttered. "Another magical obligation I know nothing about."

"Maybe she'll do your Potions homework," Ron suggested. "Snape actually seems to like her."

Harry shook his head, remembering the intensity in Daphne's blue eyes. "Something tells me she has something else in mind."

The Great Hall hummed with excited conversation during dinner. News of the Hogsmeade attack had spread throughout the castle with the usual Hogwarts efficiency—which meant most details were wildly inaccurate.

"I heard Potter summoned a fiery serpent that devoured the Death Eaters whole," a wide-eyed Hufflepuff third-year was saying as Harry passed.

"Don't be thick," her friend replied. "Everyone knows he transformed into a griffin and tore them apart with his claws."

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the Gryffindor table, ignoring the whispers and stares that followed him. Six years of this, and it never got easier.

As he took his seat beside Neville, he allowed himself a quick glance toward the Slytherin table. Daphne Greengrass sat with perfect posture, seemingly unbothered by the commotion around her. Beside her, a younger girl with similar blonde hair but a softer face was speaking animatedly. Astoria, Harry presumed—Daphne's sister.

On Daphne's other side, Draco Malfoy leaned close, speaking with unusual intensity. Harry couldn't hear the words, but Malfoy's body language radiated tension. Daphne's response was minimal—a slight shake of her head, a few carefully chosen words. Malfoy's pale face twisted with displeasure.

Interesting, Harry thought. He'd half-expected Malfoy to be pleased about the attack. Unless...

His train of thought was interrupted as Dumbledore rose from the head table, raising his hands for silence. The Hall gradually quieted.

"As many of you have heard," the Headmaster began, his voice grave, "there was an incident in Hogsmeade village today involving several of our students. I wish to confirm that there was indeed an attack by masked individuals, and to assure you that the proper authorities have been notified and security measures are being reviewed."

Murmurs rippled through the Hall.

"I must emphasize," Dumbledore continued, "that in these darkening times, vigilance and unity are our greatest strengths. House rivalries must be set aside in the face of greater threats."

His gaze swept the Hall, lingering momentarily on Harry, then on the Slytherin table.

"I remind all students that future Hogsmeade visits will involve additional security precautions. Your Heads of Houses will provide details. That is all."

As students resumed their conversations with renewed fervor, Harry noticed Astoria abandon all pretense of Slytherin reserve, throwing her arms around her sister in a tight embrace. Daphne's usual mask slipped for just a moment, revealing genuine emotion as she returned the hug.

Across the table, Malfoy's scowl deepened. He shot a venomous glance toward Harry before abruptly standing and exiting the Hall, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.

"Potter."

Harry looked up to find Professor McGonagall standing behind him. "The Headmaster would like a word with you in his office after dinner."

"Sherbet lemon?" Dumbledore offered, gesturing to the familiar crystal bowl on his desk.

Harry shook his head, remaining standing despite the offered chair. The headmaster's office looked the same as always, silver instruments whirring softly, Fawkes preening on his perch. But something felt different. Perhaps it was Harry himself who had changed.

"I've reviewed the Aurors' preliminary reports of today's incident," Dumbledore said, setting aside the candy and folding his hands. "Most impressive spellwork, Harry. And most concerning."

"Concerning?" Harry echoed.

"Four men are dead by your hand," Dumbledore said quietly. "Regardless of their allegiances or intentions, that is a heavy burden for anyone to bear, especially one so young."

"Better them than us," Harry said flatly. "Better them than Greengrass."

"Indeed." Dumbledore studied him over half-moon spectacles. "Yet I must ask: was there truly no alternative? No way to incapacitate rather than kill?"

A familiar anger flared in Harry's chest. "With all due respect, sir, where was this concern for non-lethal alternatives when Cedric was murdered? Or when Sirius fell through the veil?" His voice cracked slightly on his godfather's name. "My mercy is running low these days."

Dumbledore's ancient face seemed to age further at Harry's words. "I understand your pain, Harry. More than you know. But vengeance is a path that—"

"It wasn't vengeance," Harry interrupted. "It was survival. They came to kill, and they found what they were looking for—just not how they expected it." He took a deep breath. "I'm not going to apologize for staying alive, sir. Or for keeping Greengrass alive."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft sounds of Fawkes shuffling his feathers.

"Very well," Dumbledore finally said. "I only ask that you consider the weight of your choices, Harry. Each life taken—even in self-defense—leaves a mark on the soul."

"My soul's got plenty of marks already," Harry replied, suddenly feeling exhausted. "One more lesson I wish someone had taught me before it was too late."

As he turned to leave, Dumbledore called after him. "Harry? The spell you used—the one affecting respiration. It's uncommon magic."

Harry paused at the door. "Found it in a book at Grimmauld Place. Figured if Death Eaters won't fight fair, neither should I."

"Be careful with such magic," Dumbledore warned. "The line between defense and darkness can blur easily in the heat of battle."

Harry nodded once before descending the spiral staircase, unsure whether the heaviness in his chest was guilt or the simple acknowledgment that childhood—whatever remained of it—had ended for good in a snow-covered street in Hogsmeade.

Three Days Later

Three days after the Hogsmeade attack, Harry hurried through the third-floor corridor, already ten minutes late for Charms. He'd overslept after another night of training until he was exhausted.

"Excuse me, Harry Potter?"

The voice—feminine and unfamiliar—stopped him mid-stride. Harry turned to find a girl with golden blonde hair watching him with curious hazel eyes. Though she wore Slytherin robes, her expression lacked the customary disdain he'd come to expect from Malfoy's housemates.

"Astoria Greengrass," she said, extending her hand with casual confidence. "We haven't formally met."

Harry hesitated only briefly before shaking her offered hand. "Daphne's sister, right?"

"The very same." Astoria smiled, the gesture transforming her face from merely pretty to genuinely striking. "I've been trying to catch you alone since Saturday. You're surprisingly difficult to corner for someone who stands out so much."

"I've had practice avoiding attention," Harry replied dryly. "Look, I'm already late for Charms, so—"

"Professor Flitwick won't mind. I've already spoken to him. He's quite understanding once you explain that you're discussing life debts with the person who saved your sister from certain death."

Harry blinked, thrown by her directness. Astoria gestured to a nearby bench tucked into an alcove.

"Just five minutes of your time? Please?"

Curiosity won out over punctuality. Harry followed her to the bench, maintaining a respectful distance as they sat.

"First, thank you," Astoria said, her playful demeanor giving way to genuine emotion. "Daphne is... well, she's everything to me. Our parents are often abroad, and she's been more mother than sister since I started Hogwarts."

"She seemed capable," Harry offered, recalling Daphne's brutal efficiency during the fight. "Those spells she used weren't standard Hogwarts curriculum."

Astoria's laugh held a hint of pride. "The Greengrass sisters are full of surprises, Potter. Our family didn't survive eight centuries of magical warfare by relying on Shield Charms."

"Eight centuries?" Harry couldn't hide his surprise.

"The Noble House of Greengrass predates the Ministry itself," Astoria explained, a note of formality entering her voice. "Our ancestors were casting spells when the Malfoys were still minor nobles in France and the Blacks were herding goats in Wales."

"And you've stayed neutral all this time?"

"Strategic neutrality," she corrected. "There's a difference between neutrality and weakness. We choose no side but our own, and we protect our interests with... selective alliances."

Harry studied her, sensing the weight of family history behind her words. "That can't be easy now, with Voldemort gaining power."

To her credit, Astoria didn't flinch at the name. "Hence the attack on Daphne. A warning, not just to our family but to others considering a neutral stance."

"Why are you telling me this?" Harry asked.

Astoria tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, the gesture oddly vulnerable. "Because you need to understand what it means that a Greengrass owes you a life debt. In some families, it's just an archaic concept. In ours, it's woven into our very magic."

"I didn't save Daphne expecting anything in return," Harry said firmly.

"Of course not. That's precisely why the debt formed." She leaned forward slightly. "Magic recognizes intent, Potter. You acted selflessly to save a life. Our family magic acknowledges such actions as worthy of repayment."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "So what exactly does that mean? For Daphne? For you?"

"For us," Astoria emphasized. "Family debts are shared burdens. Daphne bears the primary obligation, but the House of Greengrass stands as one." Her eyes sparkled with sudden mischief. "As for what it means practically—that requires a longer conversation. Somewhere more private than a hallway."

"I'm not sure—"

"The fifth floor corridor, behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," Astoria interrupted smoothly. "Tomorrow evening at eight. Do you know it?"

Harry couldn't help but feel she already knew the answer. "The Room of Requirement."

"Is that what you call it?" She looked genuinely intrigued. "We've always known it as the Come-and-Go Room. Fascinating how Hogwarts reveals different aspects of itself to different houses."

She stood gracefully, smoothing her robes. "Daphne and I will meet you there. We'll have a proper conversation about what repayment might entail."

As Harry rose to leave, Astoria caught his wrist lightly. "One more thing, Potter." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Don't get the wrong idea about my sister. The 'Ice Queen' reputation serves its purpose, but there's fire beneath that frost. You've seen a glimpse of it already."

Before Harry could respond, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek, so quickly he might have imagined it.

"That's from me, not the debt," she clarified with a grin that could rival the Weasley twins at their most mischievous. "Consider it a down payment on our gratitude. The rest... well, that's what tomorrow's meeting is for."

She was gone before Harry could formulate a response, golden hair catching the light as she disappeared around the corner, leaving him with more questions than answers and the lingering warmth of her lips on his cheek.

Harry arrived at the Room of Requirement ten minutes early, partly from nervousness and partly to ensure he controlled what form the room would take. He paced the corridor three times, concentrating on a neutral meeting space—comfortable but not intimate, private but not secluded.

The door materialized, and Harry entered a modest sitting room with a crackling fireplace, two armchairs, and a small sofa arranged around a low table. Large windows displayed an enchanted view of the Hogwarts grounds at sunset, though Harry knew they were several floors away from any real window.

He'd barely settled into one of the armchairs when the door opened again, admitting the Greengrass sisters. The contrast between them was even more pronounced side by side—Daphne with her pale blonde hair pulled into an elegant twist, her posture rigid and expression carefully neutral; Astoria with her golden waves falling freely, a playful smile already forming as she spotted Harry.

"Right on time," Harry said, rising to his feet.

"A Greengrass is never late," Daphne responded coolly, "nor early. We arrive precisely when decorum dictates."

Astoria rolled her eyes. "Ignore her. She practices these pronouncements in the mirror." She bounced onto the sofa. "This room is brilliant! I told Daphne you'd used it for your secret defense club last year."

"How did you—" Harry began.

"Slytherins know everything worth knowing," Astoria interrupted, her hazel eyes sparkling. "Especially about handsome Gryffindors who fight Death Eaters."

Daphne cleared her throat. "Perhaps we could focus on the matter at hand?" She took the remaining armchair, perching on its edge as if prepared to flee at any moment. "Potter, I recognize that I—that we—owe you a significant debt."

"Really, it's fine," Harry insisted, reclaiming his seat. "Anyone would have done the same."

"Would they?" Daphne's blue eyes fixed on him with unsettling intensity. "Five Death Eaters, Potter. Most wizards would have run. Most Slytherins would have calculated that my death served their interests. Most Gryffindors would have charged in recklessly and gotten us both killed."

"What my sister is trying to say," Astoria interjected, "is that your specific combination of courage and competence made you uniquely capable of saving her. Hence, a unique debt."

Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Look, I appreciate the... recognition, I suppose. But I don't need anything from you."

"This isn't about need," Daphne said sharply. "This is about honor. About magic older than this castle."

Astoria leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Our family motto is 'Semper Solvenda Debita'—'Always Repay Your Debts.' It's not just words, Harry. There are... consequences... if such debts remain unsettled."

"Consequences?" Harry echoed.

"Our ancestors ensured that Greengrass obligations would not be taken lightly," Daphne explained, a hint of discomfort in her voice. "The magic begins subtly—small misfortunes, minor ailments. Over time, it grows more... insistent."

Harry frowned. "That sounds like a curse."

"Family magic often blurs such distinctions," Daphne replied. "The point is, Potter, this debt cannot simply be dismissed with Gryffindor nobility."

Astoria shifted closer to Harry. "Besides," she added with a sly smile, "repayment needn't be unpleasant. There are many ways to satisfy a debt."

"Astoria!" Daphne's pale cheeks colored slightly.

"What? I'm being practical." Astoria's feigned innocence didn't match the mischief in her eyes. "Harry saved your life. What's a wizard's life worth these days? A small fortune? Political alliance? Personal... services?"

Harry felt heat rising in his own face. Were they really suggesting...?

"We are offering options," Daphne clarified hastily, shooting her sister a withering glare. "Financial compensation. Political protection. Information. The House of Greengrass has resources and connections that could prove valuable in your... situation."

"Voldemort, you mean," Harry said bluntly, noting that neither sister flinched at the name. "You're offering to help against him?"

Daphne's expression revealed nothing. "We're offering whatever would satisfy the debt in your estimation. Our family maintains neutrality, but personal debts transcend political stances."

Harry studied the sisters, trying to reconcile their contradictory natures. How could two siblings be so fundamentally different? Daphne, all ice and protocol; Astoria, warmth and spontaneity. Yet something in their determination united them—the same stubborn pride beneath vastly different exteriors.

"I don't want your money," Harry said finally. "Or your political connections. I've had enough of politics to last a lifetime."

"Then what do you want, Harry Potter?" Astoria asked softly.

The question hung in the air. Harry caught Astoria watching him with interest, while Daphne's composed facade showed the first cracks of genuine curiosity.

"Honestly? I don't know," Harry admitted. "But I know what I don't want—I don't want to be owed, or to put you in danger by association."

Astoria laughed. "We're Slytherins, Potter. Danger by association is practically our house specialty."

"Perhaps," Daphne said slowly, "we might simply offer friendship. A rarity between our houses, especially in these times."

"Friendship?" Harry repeated, surprised by the suggestion.

"With certain... parameters," Daphne continued, her eyes never leaving his. "We would be available to you—for counsel, for assistance, for... companionship—as the need arises."

Astoria's smile widened. "What my proper sister is trying to say is that we'll be your friends with benefits. The benefits being whatever you require."

"That is not what I—" Daphne began, but Astoria waved her protest away.

"It's exactly what you meant, just without the stuffy language. Harry saved your life, Daph. There's no repaying that with a handshake and occasional study sessions."

Harry cleared his throat. "Maybe we could... meet again. Take some time to think about what this means. For all of us."

Daphne nodded, visibly relieved. "A sensible suggestion. This weekend, perhaps? Here again?"

"Saturday night," Astoria confirmed before Harry could respond. "Eight o'clock. And Harry?" Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "Perhaps you could ask the room for something a bit more... comfortable next time?"

Daphne stood abruptly. "We should return to our common room before curfew. Potter... thank you for hearing us out."

As they moved toward the door, Harry caught a flicker of something unexpected in Daphne's ice-blue eyes—not just gratitude, but something warmer.

Astoria, catching the exchange, smirked knowingly. "Saturday at eight, Harry. Don't be late." She brushed her fingers against his arm as she passed. "And do try to think of something creative in the meantime. Life debts should be settled with imagination, don't you think?"