Black Feathers
by wylah
Rated: M
Warnings: language, angst, sexual content - slash, mpreg (sort of), some violence & disturbing themes. Other warnings may be added later if necessary.
Disclaimers: I do not own Harry Potter, his co-characters or the universe they inhabit; I merely play with them for my own amusement and I make no profit thereby. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended on my part.
Please be aware that this story will contain same-sex pairings, although any explicit scenes will be edited to comply with the rules of this archive. Don't like, don't read. If scenes are edited, the full versions will be available on my livejournal (see author's page for link)
Summary: Between O.W.L.s, the Ministry's attempts to discredit him, trouble with Voldemort and the Order and having to put up with Umbridge, all on top of the everyday problems of teenage life, Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts looks to be a busy one. He doesn't know the quarter of it. This is the tale of how a skeleton in the Evans family closet turns Harry's entire life upside down.
And yes, the prologue is meant to be confusing! All will be revealed... eventually.
Black Feathers
Prologue: A Brief Addiction
Friday night means drinks at Freddie's, a bar and jazz club near the office. It isn't the jazz they go for as much as the bar, although the unmarried blokes, and some of the married ones, will occasionally dance with a pretty girl. The place is glaringly modern, all chrome and colour. It's not really his thing, but it is convenient, and the others like it well enough.
They're still on the first of their usual three rounds when Symonds points her out to him, elbowing him in the ribs and saying that he's got an admirer. It isn't hard to pick out who he means. She's sitting at the bar where it borders the dance floor, wearing a pale blue dress that complements her long, dark red hair, nursing a martini and looking in his direction with a half-smile on her face. A smile that seems to widen slightly when he looks in her direction.
She's been watching you for the last ten minutes, Symonds says, half teasing, half envious. Never knew you were that good-looking, mate. Half the blokes in the room are staring at her, but she's looking at you.
Symonds is wrong, of course. Has to be, because he certainly isn't worth that sort of attention. He points this out, but Symonds is insistent. By this time the rest of the table want to know what they're arguing about, and he resigns himself to the inevitable banter and wittery. After some observation, the other blokes agree with Symonds, to his half-amused disbelief: she isn't blatant about it, but she is watching. He brushes the idea off, says that even if they're right she probably just reminds him of someone she knows.
Thompson comes up with a way to settle the question for certain: get the next round, and see if she watches him all the way to the bar. He's sure it's just an excuse to get him to shout out of turn, but agrees just to shut them up. He even goes over to the end of the bar where she's sitting. And, incredibly, Symonds is right. He can feel her eyes on him every step, and when he looks up and meets her gaze, she smiles at him - widely, brilliantly, beautifully, and he suddenly feels like he's the only other person in the room.
He says hello, hesitantly, feeling awkward. If he ever was practiced at this sort of thing, he certainly isn't now. She returns the greeting, her voice a throaty, warm contralto, but before he can say anything else - not that he has any idea of what to say - the barman is asking for his order. He waits while the pint pots are filled, expecting her to say something, perhaps 'You seem so familiar, do I know you?' or 'You look just like a friend of mine,' but she appears content to watch the barman work the taps. The man is finished too quickly, and there remains only to drop the money in his hand, pick up the tray and go back to his mates, who in contrast will no doubt have plenty to say. So, inwardly shrugging, he looks up to smile his goodbye, but finds himself looking directly into deep green eyes, and the realisation hits him that she is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. He wants to do something to impress her; for a second he's tempted to tell her of all the great things he's ever done, and invent a few more for good measure. But he's always had a dislike of boastfulness and a horror of making a fool of himself, so, though his knees feel oddly weak and his head dizzy, he clutches hard at his self-control and turns away with only the polite smile of parting strangers.
When he reaches the table all his mates are grinning and tossing smart remarks at him that he barely hears for wondering what on earth just happened. A few minutes later when he dares to look back towards the bar, he finds she's been surrounded by young men vying for attention. He feels vaguely disappointed, which is quite ridiculous, because it isn't as if he could really have stayed and talked to her anyway.
By the time they're leaving she's on the dance floor, although he thinks he sees her glance in his direction as he turns towards the door. He wonders if she'll be there next Friday, then scolds himself for even thinking about it. He tells himself sternly that if her presence inspires such foolish, unsettling ideas, he hopes he'll never see her again.
The next Friday, she's there. And the Friday after that. Sitting at the bar, nursing a martini, half the men in the room staring at her, but she only looks at him. He knows he should find it worrisome, but instead it's exciting in a way that's entirely inappropriate for a married man, and the feeling won't go away no matter how many times he scolds himself.
The Friday after, it's starting to look like she's a permanent fixture, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn't try to strike up a conversation with her, to at least give her the opportunity to tell him that he reminds her so much of her favourite brother or cousin. He ignores both the sinking feeling that idea gives him, and the remnant of common sense that tells him he should simply stay away. Once more he says hello as he leans on the bar waiting for the tray of pints, and she smiles demurely as she replies. He asks casually if she comes here every Friday - and then winces because it sounds like a pick-up line, and a cheap one at that. But she doesn't seem to notice; answers that she came with a group of friends several weeks ago, and they liked the look of the place - and was that the slightest of flirtatious glances he saw? - so they keep coming back. He remarks that they'll probably see a lot of each other then, as he's there every Friday. She says she hopes so, and this time there's no question about that little glance upwards through long dark eyelashes. He knows he should be dismissive, let her know he isn't interested, perhaps even mention his wife - but it's rather flattering, after all, to have a beautiful, obviously well bred young woman so attracted to him. They've only had the briefest of conversations, and she'll no doubt find someone more interesting to flirt with soon, so it's all perfectly harmless, really. He smiles at her as he says goodbye, and she smiles back, and for a brief moment he feels once more as if he'd do anything in the world if only to impress her. This time he ignores the flash of emotion; after all, such feelings are surely harmless unless one acts upon them, and he certainly isn't going to do that.
The next weekend she's there, but she seems to be distracted. It's silly, he supposes as he frowns into his pint, to feel disconcerted because she isn't watching him. He makes some excuse to go to the bar, and realises that he must have been mistaken, because she's as friendly as before. He notices for the first time that she speaks with a slight lilt - Welsh, perhaps, or Irish - only on a few words, but he finds it attractive. He doesn't talk to her for long - his workmates would notice, and start up about it again - but she suggests he stay for a little while after they leave. And where's the harm in that? She talks like an intelligent woman, and it would be pleasant to have an uninterrupted conversation with her.
--
It became a habit to stay for an extra twenty minutes after the lads had gone, to talk to Moira - that was her name, Moira. She was a pleasant conversationalist, and it was a perfectly harmless thing to do, after all. There was no reason anyone could think he was being unfaithful to his wife in any way - not that anyone would ever find out, as he made it a habit to pretend he was leaving with his mates and then double back. But there was nothing immoral about it, even if he did sometimes wonder what it would be like if he wasn't married and could enjoy more than just her conversation, even if he sometimes lost track of time while in her company, even if her voice and her habit of touching his arm did make his heart beat faster and his knees weaken, even if her laugh made him smile and her very presence made him want to be a great man just so he could tell her of great things he had done. It was all perfectly innocent, just two adults enjoying each other's platonic company in a public venue.
It became much less innocent the night he found himself kissing her in the park across the road from the club. A chaste brush of lips on cheek - the first kiss she'd given him - turned into something much less chaste and much more wonderful, so wonderful that he didn't wake up to the enormity of what he had done until she was gone. At first he blamed it on having too much to drink, vowed that it would never happen again. He finally decided, as he walked home in an unpleasant daze, that he couldn't meet her any more. The next Friday he pretended to feel ill after work, and instead of going to the club he went home and spent the evening with his family. It didn't help, though. Despite his resolve, he couldn't stop thinking of her, of her creamy skin, red lips, the indefinable scent that hung around her, the taste and texture of her mouth… it was like an addiction, and the more he resisted the more he needed to taste her again. Finally he decided that he had to meet her at least once more, if only to tell her why this couldn't continue, if only to apologise…
He tried. She was devastated when he told her he was married, fleeing the little table in tears, and he sat back, feeling hollow and bereft, but at the same time a little relieved that now he could get back to his normal, uncomplicated life.
When he walked into the club with his mates the next Friday, she was at her old seat at the bar, as beautiful as ever, with half the men in the room looking at her. And she was looking at him.
He shouldn't have stayed after his mates left that night. Shouldn't have stayed all the following Friday nights. Shouldn't have started slipping out to meet her on other evenings, making obvious excuses to Pansy. He shouldn't have almost believed her when she told him that they were meant for each other, that she couldn't live without him, that she'd die if she never saw him again. After all, if it were true, he couldn't give her up; he had a moral obligation to stay with her, really. When he was with her, he almost felt the same way himself. But then he'd go home to the wife he loved and the daughter who adored him and wonder what the hell he was doing, and swear to break it off… until the longing became too much and he had to see her. She was an addiction, an obsession. When he was with her, the guilt went away.
After nearly three months of this, Pansy confronted him. Asked him if he was seeing someone else, and he couldn't deny it. He saw the hurt in her eyes and suddenly realised afresh all that he was risking for these illicit trysts. She didn't scream or cry - that was the best thing about Pansy, she never got hysterical - she told him quietly and firmly that he had to make a choice, and left him sitting at the kitchen table to make it. It didn't take very long.
The last time that he saw her, Moira didn't scream or cry either. She laughed, actually, said with a catch in her voice that she was lucky to have had as much time as she had; that he was a good man and she was sorry she had led him astray. She should have just gone away when he told her he was married, instead of risking his family's future for her own. He recited the comforting phrases he'd rehearsed, said that she'd find a better man than him, that there was someone out there just for her. She smiled sadly, knowingly, at the words, and gently kissed him goodbye.
Afterwards he went home to Pansy, distressed by the parting but already feeling relieved that his life would be simple again, that he wouldn't have to struggle every day with his emotions and his principles, always feeling that he was in the wrong no matter which way he turned. Pansy was distant for some time, of course, but he knew he deserved it. He was suitably - and honestly - apologetic, tried his best to be a perfect husband, bought her small presents and spent as much time at home as he could. Within three months, his life was back to normal and he was wondering what on earth had led him to act like such an incredible fool. And although he remembered Moira with some affection, he also wished that he had never met her.
And he thought that was the end of it.