Title: Fiendfyre
Beta: Nope!
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini
Warnings: Slash. Threesome. Underage. Abuse. Manipulation. Dark elements.
Summary: AU. Sometimes Harry just misses his cupboard... (a series of connected one-shots unravelling the growing relationship between three boys)
Fiendfyre (advanced dark magic: a curse that produces enchanted flames of immense size and heat, capable of destroying nearly anything in its path)
Lockhart brandishes his wand at the snake, waving it widely as he casts. His words don't sound like any of the Latin dialects that they've been taught, but the spell takes anyway. There's an uncommonly loud bang as it connects with the snake; but the snake, instead of vanishing, is instead shot ten feet up into the air before falling back to the floor with a loud, resounding smack.
Enraged, and hissing furiously, it slithers towards its perceived threat, who happens to be a rather stunned looking Justin Finch-Fletchely. The snake raises itself up again; hood flaring, fangs exposed, with venom stringing between its upper and lower jaw. Harry isn't sure what convinces him to step in. He's hardly aware of moving until his feet have already carried him forward. He (foolishly) shouts out to the snake. "Leave him alone!" and; "it's not his fault!" But, miraculously – inexplicably – the snake slumps to the floor, docile as a house cat. Its dark eyes are fixed on Harry, waiting.
Harry feels the fear drain out of him. He knowns the snake won't attack anyone now, though how he knows he can't explain. He looks up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see him looking relived, or puzzled...but he's certainly not expecting him to look so scared.
...
For all the jokes that were made prior to the snowfall, no one was laughing now. The castle was bloody freezing in winter!
Hogwarts wakes to find itself covered in several feet of snow; the lake had frozen solid overnight, and the Weasley twins had earned a month's detention for bewitching the suits of armour to sing insults at passing students. The great storm that had rumbled on the horizon now screams above them, battering old stone with gales of sleet and snow. It's decidedly unfunny; especially for those in the dungeons, where their breaths rose in a mist before them and they had to layer their robes with warming charms.
Thankfully, the four common rooms and the Great Hall all had roaring fires tended to by dotting elves (which for the burning ears of Harry and Ron, were thankfully never seen by a belligerent Hermione). So no one actually freezes to death. But the draughty corridors had become icy, and the bitter winds that rattled the windows of the classrooms echoed through the dark corridors at night. Sleep evades everyone in the castle, and soon, even the Weasley twins don't wander far from the warmth of the common room fire.
The mood of the castle quickly deteriorates, and it worsens still at the headmasters' announcement that the grounds have been closed off until the storm passes. Claustrophobia sets in; but the feeling of being trapped is neither new or comforting to Harry. It is, however, familiar.
Harry finds he misses flying most of all; not necessarily of Quidditch itself, but of the act of actually flying. It's a different sort of self-imposed isolation when he's in the air, with bitter winds bitting at his face and tears burning his eyes that are not, always, from the fast winds hitting his face. But with the grounds closed and Quidditch training cancelled (to Oliver Wood's obvious displeasure) everyone is a little…on edge.
It does mean an extra hour of sleep for the Gryffindor quidditch team that are usually dragged out of their beds before the sun. Wood's crazy regime of "death is only permissible after wining the Quidditch Cup" is non-negotiable, and, Harry fears, has the full backing of their Head of House. So Harry takes the excuse to draw the curtains on his bed and hide under his duvet for a few more hours; small favours and silver linings, he thinks. He rarely gets to sleep in, and Saturday mornings were made for lazying around in bed.
Most of all, Harry's grateful for the excuse to hide away from the accusing eyes that had taken to following him in halls. He was so tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, either running in the other direction or waiting for a Professor to pass so they could throw underhanded spells at him. He was tired of ignoring the fingers pointing in his direction, of the whispers spoken about him from behind curled hands. Tired of all the muttering, sneers, and hissing as he passed.
"He's gone dark, he 'as. Maybe he always was."
"…not right in the head, that one. I'm telling 'ya mate!"
"He's a liar."
"Don't look him in the eye mate, you don't know what 'e'll do…"
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep…but knows it won't last. If only Neville would stop screaming and trying to cover his chest when Hermione inevitably storms up the boys staircase to drag him down to common room. He knows she's taking none of his shit when she calls him 'Harry James'. So that's how Harry finds himself sitting in front of the common room fire with Ron and Hermione. He watches as they set up a chessboard, a gift set from Professor McGonagall styled after the trial they'd faced last year in getting to the Philosophers Stone: an apology of sorts, Harry thinks. The rest of the common room is full but they leave the three of them a wide berth that is not uncommon with recent events. Harry lies and pretends it doesn't hurt, but the truth is that he's used to being unwanted.
His mind wanders, to a dark cupboard that hides too many secrets. The Dursley's, he thinks with a shudder that crawls down his spine; and suddenly he's falling into half-formed thoughts and fears. Without want or permission...he finds himself remembering lonely nights locked away in a cupboard too small to fit his growing legs. He remembers the hunger that eats away at his stomach, and the cold that doesn't numb but burns. He remembers waking up to blue toes and spider bites that leave him throwing up in the bushes outside, hoping his aunt won't hear and hit him with the frying pan again. He remembers being called freak or boy…of learning his name at age five, in school, when no one else answered to the name 'Harry Potter'. He remembers broken bones that healed overnight and his uncle screaming that magic isn't real as he brakes them again, and again, and again.
He thinks of Harry Hunting. Of bruised knuckles and skinned knees and missed meals. Of Piers Polkiss pressing kisses to his bloodied lips, whispering filth against his skin and saying how he was so pretty like that. And he thinks of his cousin, of Dudley's second bedroom where they'd allowed him to coexist amongst the remnants of his cousin's other broken things. But Harry supposes that's all he is, to his mother's sister and her family, to the muggles, to the wizards: a broken thing to be used and discarded.
Harry is not unused to loneliness, to abandonment or rejection…he thinks of the look in Dumbledore's eyes as he says "no, my boy, you must return to your aunt's and uncle house this summer. Hogwarts cannot keep you." Harry's eyes are wet, and he thinks, secretly, that he wont survive another summer there.
"Harry." The thought of his relatives is an ugly one and it makes him feel ugly too, like he's cut himself on a sharp knife and the wound just won't heal. Rotten. The wound is rotten and maybe he's rotten too. "Harry." Hermione touches his shoulder and he tries not to flinch. She sees too much, more then he wants her too. But her voice is soft and her smile belies nothing: at twelve and she's already a genius. "It's okay," she whispers, but her eyes tell him here is not the place to let his thoughts wander like this. Harry looks around, wipes at his eyes on the sleeves of his green Weasley jumper and notices the amount of people watching them from the corner of their eyes and the shadows of the common room.
He doesn't answer her, but instead holds his knees to his chest tighter, as if…if he can hold on tight enough he could put himself back together. As if the pressure of everyone's judgment wasn't breaking on his shoulders. It's not fair, he thinks. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe. Full of magic and people who understood him, who accepted the intelligence his aunt hated in him and the odd quirks his uncle tried to beat out of him. But it isn't.
Selfishly, Harry can't help but want to blame Justin for the fallout – how was he supposed to know he was speaking another language anyway, when it sounded like English to his ears? – but he knows he can't. Wizards…are just as stupid as muggles, in the end. Just as prejudiced. And Harry hates them. Because they can do more, so much more, but they don't. They do less. They do nothing.
"Oh honestly, Harry." Hermione says, and he can hear the frustration in her voice even before he turns to see the frown on her face. It's not directed at him however, and a quick look at the chessboard tells him who the game is favouring. Ron has a familiar grin on his face that is full of arrogance and Hermione makes a sound that's almost swear as he takes her second rook.
"Check." Ron says, and Hermione moves a pawn to block him.
"Is this about Justin?" She asks, and Harry raises a dark eyebrow at her; the sudden hush of the common room sounds far louder then the silence should. "It's not your fault people are too stupid to see what's right in front of them." Hermione says, before snorting (indelicately). "Especially when it literally happens right in front of them." Harry doesn't grin, but neither does Hermione. She has a particular hatred for the bullishness of their house. She knows what it's like to be tormented by her peers and has a spine of mythical mithril when standing up to them. They can all feel the affronted air around them, but only Ron is facing away from the rest of the room and he grins wide enough for all three of them. "But…go and find Justin. Talk to him." She says. "He's not a bad sort…you'll probably feel better, after." Maybe, she doesn't say.
The three of them watch as Ron's bishop wrestles Hermione's white knight off his horse. It drags the small animated piece off the board, returning to its overthrown place with a small wiggle of it's hunched back. The horse follows after its lost knight, and walks right off the board onto the floor at Hermione's feet. Hermione breathes through her nose, heavy and slow, and Harry wonders if Ron should be worried.
"Knight to G4." She says.
"Castle to G4."
"…Castle to G4."
"Ha! Pawn to F6 and Checkmate." Ron says, grinning as pieces of Hermione's beheaded king go flying. Hermione doesn't scream, but Harry thinks it's a close thing. She has a fist held to her pursed lips and her eyes are clenched so tightly Harry wonders if she see starts. Ron turns to him, grin still firmly affixed. "She's right, mate. And you're not getting any work done anyway." Ron says, nodding to Harry's discarded Charms book.
"Maybe I'm doing it telepathically." Harry says, if only to watch Ron laugh. On his other side, Hermione begins a familiar tirade on the barbaric nature of wizarding culture. There's a dark look in her eyes that makes them both a little nervous.
"Shut up." Ron says, laughing. He looks over his shoulder, to at the students who are staring at them and whispering, and his good mood vanishes. Ron glares at them, and mutters "bloody idiots" under his breath. There's always been something protective in the way Ron keeps everyone away from the three of them; how he always chooses the vulnerable seat in the room, how he becomes the obstacle to the outside world. But it's been different this year, and Harry tries to pretend it has nothing to do with flying cars and iron bars on windows, or trunks locked in a cupboard under the stairs with a childish scrawl of 'Harry's room' written in crayon on the wall. "If you find the git." Ron says. "Tell him from me that he's a wanker." Hermione kicks him from under the table and Harry watches as his two best friends descend into childish squabbles.
Justin Flinch-Fletchley. Harry won't lie and say he hasn't been thinking of him recently, and often. But he wonders if there's any point in speaking to him, or if Hermione's right, which she usually is. Should he take the chance to explain to Justin that he'd only been trying to call the snake off from attacking, that he wasn't 'egging it on', or whatever else everyone has been saying happened...but would Justin even listen? Would it make a difference? There are so many rumours circling the halls that sometimes even Harry thinks maybe he's the one that got it wrong.
It's a strange feeling.
He sighs. "Alright." He says, and his voice is quiet even to his own ears. Ron and Hermione both pretend not to hear him, probably knowing he'll take the excuse to stay next to fire and let his thoughts spiral. They push him out the door without moving. Encourage him without looking at him. He's up and moving before he realises it, passing little Ginny Weasley on his way out of the common room. She's too busy scribbling away in her dairy to even blush at him.
The Weasley twins are entering the common room as Harry climbs down from the portrait hole: one of them has a toilet seat around his neck. As they pass each other, the other twin runs a hand through Harry's hair with a laugh. Harry swears, trying to fix his hair flat over his forehead as the portrait swings shut behind him. He pauses, but they've already come and gone. The silence of the corridor is harrowing after the buzz of the common room, and Harry suddenly realises that he has no idea where Justin might be at this time of the day…or week.
He doesn't know Justin well, or at all really. They share a few classes and he thinks Hermione is in a literature club with him (she spent two weeks raving about people reading the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings but who couldn't 'be bothered' with the Silmarillion). But Harry has only ever shared a few short conversations with Justin, mostly only small talk as they waited for a professor to arrive. Harry has experienced that same disappointment from Justin as he has from all of his muggle-raised yearmates, who somehow expect to bond with him by talking of Xbox's and muggle school trips and childhood stories that he doesn't have but doesn't want to admit to. So Harry smiles and lets the conversation pass until he can safely withdraw back to Ron and Hermione.
But Harry's never really got that awkwardness from Justin that comes from people being star struck by The Boy Who Lives, somehow a completely different entity to him as Harry. He knows very little about the Hufflepuffs in general actually; he knows they're generally looked down on by the rest of the school but from what he's seen they're just as good as any other student…and loyal, to a fault. Good at finding lost things, or so he's told. They've trained up a decent Quidditch team this year too. He sighs. The library's as good as place as any to start looking, he thinks, knowing there are always a few Hufflepuffs loitering around. He heads there first.
The walk from the seventh floor, where the Gryffindor tower is concealed behind the painting of The Fat Lady, to the library on the first floor, is a long one; and by the time Harry gets there the library itself is a welcome sight. He lucks out too, spotting a group of Hufflepuff's from his year. He only recognises a few of them, but they look far less intimidating then the group of fifth year boys sitting in the corner – he's pretty sure that's the Hufflepuff Seeker, acting rowdy and laughing far too loudly for a library.
The second year Hufflepuffs are seated towards the far left of the library, and Harry's grateful because he can avoid the direct walkway and hide between the tall bookcases. There's no need to draw even more eyes to him, and, he thinks, there's no telling if these Hufflepuff's will be as hostile as the rest of the school.
There's nothing in particular about this group that draws his eye, other than their strange behaviour and the crest on their robes. But there's something that makes Harry hesitate in his approach. They're speaking in harsh whispers, he notices, not unusual for a library but it doesn't look like the usual teasing or questioning between friends. None of them have a quill in their hand, though one of the girls has one tied in her hair, and even with the open books in front of them, they lay ignored.
There's a stout boy with fawn coloured hair leading the conversation; he looks only vaguely familiar. The others at the table are all looking at him as he speaks, but don't offer much in the way of their own opinions. It's all so very different from the rambunctious nature of Gryffindors, all with something to say and someone to speak over, that Harry can't help but stare. It doesn't look like Justin's with them however, and Harry's just about convinced himself to brave the awkwardness of the situation and step forward when the stout boy continues speaking.
"…so I told Justin to hold up in our dormitory." He says, and eyes are unkind as he looks at one of the girls sitting across from him. She's only a little thing, with blonde hair pulled into low pigtails and a face smaller then even little Ginny Weasley. She's blushing horribly under his attention, and slides down in her seat as if to avoid his gaze. Harry pauses, watching the boy watch her. The stout boy makes a point of stopping the conversation, makes sure everyone is aware of it, and then he turns away. Harry is familiar enough with that sort of dismal that he doesn't have to look for the hurt on the girls face to know it's there; his aunt is particularly fond of making sure he is aware of just how unwanted he is in her home. "I'm mean." The boy says, ignoring the girl so completely that she bites her bottom lip so it doesn't shake. "If Potter's marked him down as his next victim it'd be best if he keeps a low profile for a while."
Harry blinks. And the world stops, just for one short moment; beneath the cage of his ribs his heart gives a funny, pained little beat. "Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let it slip to Potter that he's muggleborn. I mean. Justin actually told Potter he'd been down for Eton." The boy snorts. "That's just not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin's heir on the loose."
Harry closes his eyes and tries not to sigh (or cry). Of course he'd known what people were whispering about, how could he not? Only the heir of Slytherin could possibly be a Parseltounge, they said. It has to be him, they said. Salazar Slytherin lived over a thousand years ago, they said, who's to say a descendant of his didn't marry into Potter's line? ...but actually hearing it was another thing altogether. And even worse! That someone's was so terrified (of him!) that he was hiding in his dorm, too afraid to leave. Terrified should he accidentally run into Harry somewhere in this huge castle. His heart gives another funny little beat.
"You definitely think it's Potter then, Ernie?" One of the girls says. Sitting beside her the girl with a quill in her hair elbows her in the side. Quill-girl gives her friend a look that tells her to shut up.
"Susan." The boy, Ernie, says. Harry still thinks his eyes are unkind, but his face twists into a look of contrition...concern? No. A mockery hidden behind a well-placed smile. Harry has meet many bullies in his life, has watch Dudley birth a mean streak in people who were capable of far nastier things then any of the spells he'd learned at Hogwarts, but he'd always thought the ones who pretended to be your friend first were the worst sort. "Potter's a Parselmouth." Ernie says, slowly. "Everyone knows that's the mark of a dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? Of course you haven't! Because there isn't one." He says. "They called Slytherin himself the serpent-tongue."
The table shares a series of silent looks. Only the girl with the quill in her hair actually rolls her eyes, but the others look uncomfortable. The small blonde girl who'd been shot down so firmly earlier is pulling at the ends of her pigtails. Harry hopes against hope that one of them will say something, but none of them do.
"Parseltongue is the Slytherin line's most famed legacy, everyone knows that. And you know how purebloods are with guarding family secrets. They'd kill any bastard offspring just to keep their talents in the family." Ernie says, as if he were speaking of the blue sky and not murdering infants. "And Slytherin was a dark line at that. One of the olde families. Didn't they all bind their bloodline to the main family? Blood rites or some sort."
"But that's illegal!" One of the boys whispers, furious and scandalised all at once.
"Sure." Ernie says. "Now it is. But not back then. And Potter could easily be the heir. All the olde families intermarried at some point. It's the only explanation for why he can talk to snakes, Susan." Ernie says, looking at her with his mockery of a smile. It's then that Harry suddenly remembers. This is Susan Bones, her aunt is the head of the Auror cores - the wizarding special police force. Was that why Ernie was acting nicer towards to her?
Harry might hate him, just a little.
"Ernie." Susan says, arms crossing over her chest, and she looks away.
"Do you remember what was written on the wall?" Ernie says, before adopting a terrible impression of a ghoul: "enemies of the heir, beware!" he says. It causes a few giggles around the table, to Ernie's everlasting dismay. "Whatever." He says, scoffs. "Look. The facts speak for themselves. Potter has some sort of run in with Flich and the next thing we know, Filch's cat has been attacked." Ernie ticks off a finger on his raised hand. "That creepy little firstie that follows Potter around with the camera...he was taking pictures of the Quidditch match last week. Potter didn't like that, did he? Lying in the mud, broken arm and all." He says. "And who knows what the brat did to annoy Potter in their common room...next thing we know, the kid's been attacked too." Another finger is ticked off.
"But he's always seemed so nice!" Hannah Abbott says. "And he's always helping the first years when they get lost in the halls - not just from his own house either!" She says, which is...rather sweet of her, actually. "Maybe he didn't like that Creevy boy, but he was never nasty to him. Harry's never been nasty to anyone, has he?" She says, looking around the table. "Neville says he a good person." She says. "He can't be behind the attacks! His best friend is muggleborn. His mother was muggleborn!" She takes a deep breath before saying: "he's the one who made You-Know-Who-Disappear. So, he can't be bad." It's such a naive thought that Harry actually agrees with Ernie's laughing-snort.
Ernie smiles, slow and quiet, and says. "No one actually knows how he survived that night though, do they? He was only a babe when the attack happened, and with both parents dead there was no way to find out for sure. It's all hearsay. No one actually knows what happened."
"Oh, come off it, Ernie." One of the boys, a ginger haired kid with glasses, says. "You said it yourself, he was just a kid."
"His scar." Susan says quietly. "Auntie says...it's the same shape as the hand movement for the...for the killing curse. They know it's true. They wanted to run tests, but he was put away into hiding, so..." She shrugs. "I...I don't know."
"Fact is, Potter should be dead." Ernie says. "How many other mother's stood in front of their sons? You have to ask yourself why...why him. Why would a spell that had never failed in its intention fail now. Especial when it was the wand of You-Know-Who." He says. "Surely, only a really powerful dark wizard could have survived a curse like that. So maybe...that's the real reason You-Know-Who wanted him dead. Because he didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him." Harry bites at his lips, and try's to hold back his (infamous) temper. "And who's to say everything we know so far isn't a lie." Ernie says. "It a bit too perfect, isn't it? Gryffindor, quidditch prodigy, friends with muggleborns and blood traitors." He scoffs. "He pretends like he's average but he scored as high as Granger in last years exams." He says. "He's always one of the first to get a spell right, and I've never heard of a Professor keeping him back because of trouble with his essays. It's all a lie." There's something terribly dark about the way Ernie's says that, and the table around him shifts uncomfortably. Ernie forces his well place-smile back into place and pretends it didn't happen. "I mean, you've got to wonder what else he's hiding."
"Why don't you ask him?" Someone says, and Ernie out-right smirks.
"Maybe I will." The girls titter.
Harry snorts and steps out from the shadow of the bookcase. He's never seen a group of people pale faster. Even uncle Vernon hadn't paled so fast when Dobby the house-elf had dropped that cake on Mrs Masons head. Ernie, in contrast, is frozen, cheeks reddening and eyes blown wide. Harry has to try so hard not to laugh.
"Harry!" Hannah says, voice more of a squeak, and she blushes when Harry cuts a look at her.
"Hi." He says. "Sorry to interrupt." He tries hard to bite down on the impulse to look at Ernie and say 'I heard you had something you wanted to ask?'. "I'm looking for Justin. Flinch-Fletchley." He adds after a pause. He can almost hear the reply of 'Justin-who?'. "Know where I might find him?"
No one speaks, they look at each other uneasily before looking at Ernie. Harry leans a shoulder against the bookcase behind him, feet aching from standing still for so long, and waits. Ernie, at length, says. "What do you want with him?"
"Do you usually demand a reason from everyone asking for help?" Harrys says, instead of the thousand biting insults that are on the tip of his tongue. Ernie blushes a pale, blotted pink and Harry scratches at his jaw to try and cover the way his lips are curving into a smile. "I just want to talk actually. Everyone else seems to have an opinion on what happened during the Dueling Club, but I haven't actually spoken to him yet." Harry said. "Hermione said I was moping." Because she had, so many times. "She said I should talk to Justin if I didn't want him listening to everyone else's opinions istead. I figured it was worth a shot."
"We were all there." Ernie says, and Harry isn't surprised at the hostility. "We saw what happened."
"Oh. You speak Parseltongue?"
"Don't be stupid, Potter." Ernie says, looking like he regrets it instantly. One of the girl squeaks. Someone coughs. Harry, in contrast, smiles - just a little.
"So, you haven't a clue what I said." Harry says, scratching at his jaw again. "Which doesn't particularly help me, as it doesn't really prove or disprove what I've been saying." He says. "It's more interesting listening to gossip I suppose. Did you hear Harry Potter set a fifty foot snake against a Hufflepuff, what an evil git." He rolls his eyes. "And how stupid can you get, to try and kill someone with two Professors and sixty witnesses?"
Ernie grits his teeth. Harry thinks it looks painful. "Like I said. We were all there. We saw what happened."
"Seeing as you were there, you would have seen the snake back off after I spoke to it." Harry says. "Look, I just want to speak to Justin. Everyone else can believe what they want, but he was looking at the snake - there's no way he didn't see it backing down."
"All I saw." Ernie says, lips curled and teeth flashing in another mockery of a smile. "Is you speak Parseltongue and chasing the snake towards Justin."
"I didn't chase it at him." Harry snaps. "Like I said, think what you want. You gonna help me talk to Justin or not?" He asks, before adding, "you can chaperone us like we're courting." He smirks and tries not to laugh as both Hannah and Susan giggle at the absurdity of it.
"Not." Ernie says. "It was a near-miss with that bloody snake Potter, and-" a stutter, Harry feels absurdly proud of himself. "-and...before you get any ideas," Ernie suddenly looks very anxious, eyes flashing around the library like it's only just occurred to him that he might be pissing off a potential threat. "My blood is as pure as any other purebloods, even if my family name isn't as old as some." Ah, Harry thinks, there's his hang up - the Potter name outranks him, even as a half blood. "So, before you try anything-"
"I don't care." Harry says, and a vindictive part of him makes sure he's looking Ernie in the eyes when he says it. "I don't care about your blood. I don't care about your family name." I don't care about you, he wants to say. "I'm proud of my mother, and I'll carry her blood like a shield against bigots like you." He wants to say more, wants his words to burn, but he holds his tongue with the thought of Hermione tugging at his sleeve and Ron rolling his eyes but ready for another fight. "I was raised in the muggleworld, I might as well be muggleborn."
Ernie hates him, Harry can see it in his eyes. "I heard you hate those muggles you live with." Something in Harry snaps. Those muggles. His magic kicks out, reacts as it always has - instinctively, and the lantern on the wall behind Ernie cracks and shatters all at once. The Hufflepuffs all jump and someone lets out a small, terrified shout. The angry footsteps of an angry Madam Prince echo in the silent library.
"It's not possible to live with the Dursley's and not hate them." Harry says, voice dark, and he wonders if he can blame Paseltongue for the hot coils that tighten around his throat; there's a dark, terrible thought echoing in his head. He wants to curse Ernie. Wants to watch him cry, wants everyone to see, wants everyone to point at him and laugh. Wants to do more then just torment him but wants to humiliate him too. Wants Ernie to know what it feels like to live with those sorts of muggles. "I'd like to see you try it." He watches Ernie, just for a moment. "But it's good to know, what a Hufflepuff's worth." Harry says, looking away. They're affronted, he can see it in the way their shoulders rise up to their ears and their chins jut out stubbornly. Susan even starts to stand, mouth open to say something, but Harry is already gone. He passes Madam Prince on the way, and smiles as her voice echos with the lecture she gives to the Hufflepuffs.
No one stops him on the way out.
He doesn't think of the Dursley's.
...
The thing no-one mentions about living in a magical castle hundreds of thousands of years old? It's easy to get lost when you're not watching where you're going. Calling Hogwarts alive is no stretch of the imagination: generations of witches and wizards who have attended Hogwarts have feed into her ambient magic. This was a castle where the stairs moved; where the doors walked themselves off the walls; where entire towers went missing; where corridors rearranged themselves at night; and where secret passages revealed themselves only if you already knew where they were. Harry's honestly not surprised he gets lost.
He needs a fucking map.
His hands are shaking; he's so angry that he can't see past it, and that honestly scares him. His magic licks against his fingers and if he were to look down he's sure he'd see actual flames. But the thing is, Harry doesn't want to be angry...he just wants to be alone. So of course that's the moment a hand appears from nowhere. He's grabbed by the loose material of his jumper and pulled into a classroom that definitely wasn't there before. Harry's too surprised to struggle, almost too surprised to care. He falls against the inside wall of the classroom with a pained grunt.
"Potter." Draco Malfoy says, in his usual, infuriating drawl. Of course, Harry thinks, because his day can't get any better.
Draco kicks the door closed with his foot and steps into the space between them. They're so close that Harry can count each of his pale eyelashes...but instead, he looks down at Draco's hand on his chest, looks at the way Draco has twisted and pulled at the material of his favourite jumper to get him where he wants, and sighs. It's going to get pulled out of shape and Harry's going to be pissed. He thinks about saying it out loud, considers it, but Draco doesn't look like he's in the mood to enjoy the quip.
"Malfoy." He says instead, returns it in tone, mostly because Harry knows it'll annoy him.
Draco wears his familiar smirk like a cloak, but there's something unsteady about it today...Harry's not sure he likes it. "You really should watch where you're going." And the sky's blue, Harry thinks. But he lets his head fall back against the wall as he groans, lets Draco laugh at him. He feels the hot-wet exhale of laughter against his neck as Draco moves closer, and he does nothing. Harry acts as docile as that snake had in the Dueling Club, but any fool would have know it was still the most dangerous thing in the room. Harry almost has his wand pulled from his where he's tucked it in his back pocket when Draco wraps a hand around his wrist. His magic jolts. "Potter." Draco's eyes are shinning suddenly, grey eyes bright like hoarfrost, so different to the dark look from moments before. "Pay attention." He whispers, so quietly that Harry wonders if it was real.
Draco's hands tighten suddenly, one on his chest and the other around his wrist, and there's a sudden sharp bite of nail. Harry almost moans at the pain but bites it back; Draco smiles. And it's such a little thing, private, like they're sharing a secret. :Shit: Harry hisses. "That hurts." He says, and it does. But there's there's a peculiar look in Draco's eyes now, brighter still, and dilated. "Malfoy." He says, because he's sure his wrist is going bruise and how the hell is he suppose to explain that?
"Potter." Draco says, breathing his name on an exhale. And if his hands had felt warm before they feel like fire on his bare skin now. It's uncomfortable. Harry shakes his arm and sighs in relief when Draco steps back, both of his arms safely retreating with him. Harry shivers, suddenly cold, and he pulls his sleeves down to cover his wrists. He thinks, that for all their fights and animosity towards each other, they've never actually come to physical blows, this - this may be the first time they've actually touched. (He doesn't count the aggressive-barging techniques that are perfectly legal to use on the Quidditch pitch, something all Seekers use to their advantage).
"The only thing you should be paying attention to is me." Draco says, smile still perfectly in place, as if their skin hadn't just burned. Harry glares at him. "Much better." Draco says, and turns to walk towards the back of the room. Harry suddenly has the urge to punch him, to leave a mark somewhere on that pale skin of his, to hurt him in some small, insignificant way. Anything, he thinks, to get away from those eyes that are always watching him.
"Sure Malfoy, it's not like I've got anything better to do." Draco snorts, amused, but there's another noise, a chuckle that doesn't belong to Harry or to Draco, and it leaves Harry suddenly off-kilter. His eyes flash around the room. They're not alone. He worries, for a moment, that this is some sort of trap, a game, to humiliate him, to ridicule him...but then he sees Blaise Zabini, sitting oh-so-calmly and reading a Charms book similar to the one Harry had left behind in the common room.
He sighs. Draco's an antagonist, he likes the fight...Harry's seen it in his eyes. But he's seen Blaise Zabini calm that fire too, imagines he strokes it in different ways, intellectual arguments and soft smiles Harry's only seen from across a crowded room. But for some reason Harry settles, knowing, inexplicably, that they're not after a fight. "Potter," Blaise says, a slight incline of his head and curl to his lips that are neither kind or cruel. Amused, maybe. Blaise runs a hand through the fine hairs at Draco's nape as he sits beside him, and they lean into each other's space. Neither of them take their eyes away from Harry. "Won't you take a seat?" The room is obviously abandoned but is still laid out like a classroom in-use. Long benches in rows of four, wide walkways between seats, a single podium at the front, and a old blackboard covered in chalk-dust. The room itself is actually covered in dust, balls of it rolling on the floor at their feet; the room is filthy, apart, of course, from the seats the Slytherin's occupy...and a single seat in front of them.
(Magic, Harry thinks.)
Harry walks to the window instead, sits on the large outcropped seal and watches them silently. Side-by-side they're both stupidly attractive for twelve years old. High cheekbones and narrow noses, lips that fall into a natural bow, bejeweled eyes...Blaise's are dark and slanted whereas Draco's are unnaturally bright: they're attractive in the way most pureblood seem bred to be. Harry sits with one leg up towards his chest, rests an arm for balance behind him and comforts himself with the knowledge that it's easier to reach for his wand without seeming like he wants to. The Slytherin's both smile at him. "Isn't this the part where you curse me?" Harry says.
"Do keep up." Draco says with a roll of his eyes. "If we'd wanted to curse you, you'd be in hospital wing already." Harry laughs.
"I can count on one hand how many times you've landed me in the hospital wing, Malfoy. Twice! And one of those was a fucking accident." He says, thinking of Draco's wide eyes and outreached hand as he and Ron tumble down the missing stairs between second and first floor...they were lucky the moving stairs had caught them with no more then a sprained ankle and bruised face between them. "You're an annoying pest Malfoy," Blaise covers his lips with a hand, long fingers curled to cover a smile, and Draco crosses his arms in a huff. "But you're not dangerous. Well, you are...just, not to-" not to me, he doesn't say. He looks away. "Though, why you'd expect me to believe anything you have to say-"
"A Malfoy's word is his Honour."
"Sure." Harry says, because that sounds more like an oath than pretty words, and he knows better now. He knows more of the wizarding world, enough, at least, to know when not to mock someone. Like refusing a handshake. "But you're taking the whole 'Gryffindor idiocy' thing a bit too literally. Were not actually stupid." They both laugh at that, a rich sound that echos each other. "Shut up." He tells them. "Why am I here?"
The room is silent for a long time, before Draco says: "you're an idiot, Potter."
"Draco." Blaise tuts.
"What?" Harry laughs at them. "Look, if we'd wanted to hurt you," Draco says, lips pulling at one side as if he were struggling not to smile, "we wouldn't have given you time to run."
"I'm not running."
"We can see that." Blaise says, dark eyes flashing up from his Charms book. Harry's momentarily stunned. "Draco likes playing his game with you. They're fun, they get you railed up, get your magic to go a bit-" a sharp inhale, "wild." A pause. "They're fun, but in no way malicious." Blaise smiles, hands stroking the page of his book, as if districted by the thought of it. "But you see. Draco has a particular weakness. A, possessiveness, of a sort, non? It comes from his French patrimoine. Il est dans son sang, vows voyeur." ["But you see. Draco has a particular weakness. A, possessiveness, of a sort, no? It comes from his french heritage. It's in his blood, you see."]
"Et là je nous si jouais bien." Draco tuts. ["And here I though we were playing nice."]
Blaise smiles as he turns a page in his book. "Oh but darling, that accent."
"As fun as the french lesson is." Harry says, rubbing at the sensitive skin of his wrist where a spiderweb of bruises have already started to darken. Draco watches him, short of breath. "You might want to get to the point before I leave."
"Oh, il est précieux." Blaise whispers. ["Oh, he is precious."]
"Ha. Et que feriez-vous s'il sait français?" ["Ha. And what would you do if he knows french?"]
"Embrasse le." ["Kiss him."] Harry jumps, startled by the sound of Draco's sudden laugh. It's such a happy sound, and so strange as Harry tries to match it to the image of the boy he's known. But, it's nice too. "Potter. This is Blaise Zabini, have you been introduced?" They haven't, but of course they know of each other. "His is mother is french and an old family friend, of sorts. His father was a lesser-prince from the Greek isles. He wasn't in line for the throne, but Blaise is still, technically, a prince." Draco says. "We were playmates, when we were young."
"And now?" Harry asks, because it feels unfinished.
"Now we are just mates." Blaise says with a secretive smile. Harry...doesn't want to know.
"Blaise." Draco says. "This, is Harry Potter." Harry's breath catches. He's been introduced many times, but never like this. His aunt and uncle were never ones to particularly want to offer any information about him, so to them, he was just the boy. But since his return to the wizarding world he's been received with varying degrees of awe and wonder, his name spoken like a broken prayer. Harry hated it, how they loved his father's name and forgot his mother's strength. But when Draco says his name, it isn't in awe. It was like he wasn't introducing The Boy Who Lived but someone else who deserved the weight Draco put behind his name.
"A pleasure, chéri." Blaise says, and Harry watches him smile, looking at him like he knows exactly what Harry's thinking. And for all Harry knows, maybe he does. Because surely there has to be more to magic then turning matchsticks into silver sowing needles and rats into drink goblets. Harry watches Blaise's smile grow, a flash of perfect teeth and dark eyes, and thinks: yes. Harry can see him being a prince, imagines a dark throne and how a gold circlet would sit on his head. He struggles to catch his breath. ["A pleasure, darling."]
"Sure." Harry says, and tries desperately not to blush. Because what are you supposed to say to royalty...he's not expected to curtsy is he? "Malfoy, what-"
"Draco insisted." Blaise says, eyes still unmoved from Harry's face. "He's rather adamant we knock some sense into you."
"What?" Harry says.
Draco sighs. "You really are an idiot." Harry sits there, offended beyond belief, but then Draco's talking again and he can't even call him out on it. "Look, Potter. Growing up, everyone thought Harry Potter had been hidden away somewhere, under wards we could only dream off, learning magics we would tremble under." Draco smile falters, breaks somewhere in middle. "But then last year, when Dumbledore explained away that situation with Professor Quirrell in his usual round-about way, he said...you were returning to your aunt and uncle. " Draco says, with bright eyes staring at him. Harry looks away.
"What was with that?" Blaise asks, (interrupts), his dark eyes like fire, and so undeniably curious. Draco flashes him a look, but he too looks suddenly interested.
"I killed him." Harry says, shocked at his own words. He blinks. Because he had, hadn't he...that's what it comes down to. He'd killed a man.
"What?" Draco says, but Blaise snorts a low, dark sort of laugh beside him.
"How did you get away with that?" Blaise asks.
"I killed a troll earlier in the year, but no one seems to care about that."
"That was true too?" Draco says, eyes growing wider still.
"Sure."
"Pouvons-nous le garder?" Draco whispers, staring at him with wide, bright eyes. Harry blinks at them, and Blaise watches him in return, dark eyes unblinking (hungry). "...s'il vous plaît dites-moi que nous arrivons à le garder." ["Can we keep him?" ... "...please tell me we get to keep him."]
Blaise turns his head towards Draco, eyes still on Harry, and says, "you were talking, Draco."
"Right." Draco says, frowning, trying to shake that dazed look from his face. "Dumbledore said you were going back to your aunt and uncle. But before you, James Potter was the last of his line. No siblings, no aunts or uncles. So we knew, it must have been your mother's relatives you were with. Muggles." He hisses. Harry doesn't dare look at either of them now, tenses his jaw and thinks how unfair it is, that thoughts of the Dursley's should keep interrupting such a lovely Saturday afternoon.
"The halfbloods and the purebloods figured it out." Blaise says. "The muggleborns are as oblivious as ever." It's a derisive comment, but Harry doesn't call him out on it.
"We thought you were raised like a pureblood," Draco says. "We...expected it, really. Everyone did. We though that you'd know our customs, that you'd understand the social faux pas's...that you'd recognise the magic when you felt it." Harry feels his magic surge again, as if in answer, feels it move under his skin like an itch. His chest aches, strangely cold. "We hadn't even considered that you wouldn't know. You should have been taught! Any of the olde families would have fostered you - no." Draco says sharply, frowning at him. "Not because you're The Boy Who Lived. Because you're the last of your line. You carry all of their hopes with you, an entire House. You've been denied the magics you should have known from birth...but if...if you'd been brought up in our world, with us, you would already know the history of family legacies. It's an honour."
"This...is about the," disbelieving, Harry rubs at his forehead and the dull ache of a headache that's started to throb there. "This is about me being a Parselmouth?" He says.
"You act like it never happened." Draco says. "Like everyone else's fear can wipe it away."
"Malfoy-"
"No." Draco shouts, standing from his chair in such a quick motion that it falls to the floor. Harry watches it, and then watches as Draco slams his fist on the table in front of him of him and pants like he's in pain. "It might work." Draco says, still breathing heavily. "They fear it enough that they can pretend it never happened. You can go back to being their golden boy. But you won't forget." Draco says, eyes flashing to meet his across the room. "It's your choice, it's always been your choice. Let them forget." Draco shrugs. "Or force them to accept it. It's always been a part of you. If they want you, they should accept all of you."
"I..." Harry says. "...don't know."
"You haven't spoken Parseltongue since the Dueling Club."
"So?"
"Why are you so afraid?" Draco shouts.
"I'm not afraid!" Harry says, standing too, too angry to keep up the pretence of being anything else.
"Then why haven't I heard you speak it since?"
"You hadn't heard me speak it before, either, Malfoy." They both stop, both of them panting now. Blaise raises a hand to gently pull at Draco's arm, returning him to his seat. Harry doesn't have to answer him, he realises that, but a part of him wants to. "I don't even realise when I'm speaking it." Harry says, at length. He looks away. "It sounds like English to me, I've only ever really spoken to one snake before, and she...left."
"Left?" Blaise asks.
"She went back to Brazil."
"What?"
Harry leans back against the outcropping of the windowseal and huffs a short laugh of his own, determined to never tell either Slytherin of how he let a snake loose on a group of unsuspecting muggles and trapped his bullish cousin in a glass enclosure designed for dangerous reptiles. "Nothing." He says.
"There's a story there." Draco says, grinning.
"Shut up." Harry cuts a look at him, but Draco only smiles wider. Harry feels tired suddenly, too many emotions in too short a time. Not whiplashed, but still aching from the impact. "Why do you care." He asks. "Both of you. This is a lot of trouble to go to for some you hate."
"Who said we hate you?" Blaise asks. "Draco likes to play games with you. I like to watch you playfight. We don't hate you."
"Playfight." Harry huffs, his hands twitch with the urge to use airquotes. A lie, he thinks. They're lying. They must be...nothing else makes sense.
"Don't let them forget." Draco says, and he sounds so earnest. Harry hates him. Hates them both. They're so confusing. The whole world is suddenly a confusing mess and his head hurts.
"Draco gets awfully upset when he's ignored." Blaise says, as if it answers everything. Maybe it does. Harry looks at the blond boy who's...blushing.
"I've been watching you." Shocker, Harry thinks. "The students send curses at you in the corridors, they trip you on the stairs." Draco crosses his arms over his chest, there's an angry expression on his face. "Someone set your bag on fire last week...don't worry, they won't do it again." He says. Harry blinks at him. "You'd never let me get away with that." Draco says at last.
"No." Harry agrees.
"And you're never in the Great Hall anymore." Bright eyes stare at him, trace his body from his messy hair to his scuffed trainers. "You didn't eat enough in the first place, you shouldn't miss meals." Draco says. "At least that Granger girl is good for something." Because of course Hermione has no qualms about dragging him into the Great Hall kicking and screaming. "If she doesn't keep it up I'm going to make you sit with the snakes and force feed you." Harry laughs. "Don't tempt me, Potter." Draco says, and Blaise has that dark look in his eyes again as he watches them.
Harry watches them in return and tries to convince himself that he's cold, not trembling. It's feels strangely like they're playing a game and Harry hasn't been told the rules. "This has been the weirdest day." He says.
Authors Note:
I use Google Translator for the non-English (french, and later Latin) translations. For any native speakers I apologise if I got it wrong, and please correct me where you see it! Also, please read the warnings at the start of each chapter as I don't want anyone triggered, if I miss anything please let me know. I'll update them as we go.
Let me know what you think!
NB:
Thank you to Annalane on Ao3 and sabicous on FF-net who helped with the previous version's French translations. And thank you to Daradash, for being so lovely.