Anybody's Hero
Rating: M
Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.
For my 300th reviewer from ToBedlamandPartwayBack , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.
I changed the title. It's been bothering me that it wasn't quite accurate; ideally I'd like to field the entire line in, but…maybe once it's all done. Cheers, and enjoy.
Chapter Two
"Bloody hell!" Harry exclaimed, stumbling away from Flint, or more like shoving him away. The older boy had gotten rather…handsy, during their journey. It made the odd ends of him tingle, and he wasn't quite sure it was pleasant. Still, air came to him a little easier, now. It seemed Flint's little mesmerising act worked better with touch, and he was a little leery of giving the other boy such a huge advantage over him. "A little warning next time, if you don't mind," he snapped, whipping about to glare at the older boy.
"But what if I do?"
Harry blinked. "What?"
Flint tried for innocence, and failed terribly. His smile was bordering on sleazy. "What if I do mind?"
He rolled his eyes. "What am I going to do? The big bad evil Death Eater's kidnapped me and is forcing me against my will. Oh, help me, help me, someone, please."
Flint actually chuckled at that, and raised his hand to the sharp bone of his hip to urge him on. Harry, still alert, shied away from his touch and the older boy backed obediently off, hands raised. "Interesting choice of words there, Potter," he said, although he didn't state just which phrase it was that had caught his ear. "And I'm not, by the way."
"Forcing me against my will?" Harry asked. "Well, I suppose not," he grudgingly admitted as he began walking forward.
"Well, not that either," Flint conceded, guiding him through the throngs of people. Harry'd always known size was a factor when cutting through a crowd like a knife, beginning with Hagrid and his first trip to Diagon, but Flint brought it to a whole other level. It wasn't just his size that had people keeping a clear berth from there, but also the air he exuded seemingly out of his pores. It was pure confidence and power, sheer animalistic strength. It was almost instinctive to avoid it. Harry shuddered, and Flint took the opportunity to sneak a soothing hand up and down the small of his back, shooting the most bizarre tingles down his spine at the contact.
"I meant that I'm not a Death Eater. Won't say no to 'big' and 'bad' though," Flint added cheerfully.
Harry stopped straight in his tracks and stared up at Flint. The older boy stopped as well, forcing the people about them to move around them. Several threw them dirty looks, but Harry didn't care about them, and Flint just didn't care, period.
"What do you mean, you're not a Death Eater?" he asked, astonished. "You just said you were one, just now!"
"I never said I was one. You can check me all over; I'm not wearing any marks," Flint replied, calmly. "You said that I was one of them, and I responded with these words exactly: 'Aye, I'm for them'. Not that I'm a part of them."
"You said 'aye'," Harry accused sullenly, unsure if he was grumpy because Flint wasn't a Death Eater, or if he'd assumed too much earlier. "And 'aye' means yes."
Flint cocked his head aside and shrugged. "Well, maybe," he conceded, hand pressing into the small of Harry's back to initiate their moving again. Flint's hand remained where it lay, a warm and oddly weighty anchor against the whirlpool in his mind.
He just sighed and glanced around him. "Where are we, anyways? I'd've thought you would've Silenced me for blurting it out loud like that. This can't be the sort of place where just anyone would openly talk about Voldemort and Death Eaters; I don't know anywhere that is.."
"And yet here we are," Flint mused, "doing exactly that. We're not in Diagon Alley, if that's what you're asking. Dreadful, nasty commonplace hovel, besides. No, this is the Rue Morgue."
He blanched. "I beg your pardon?"
Flint smirked at his response. "The Rue Morgue," he repeated carelessly. "Morgue is French for 'haughtiness', 'lordliness'."
Slowly, Harry took in just what kinds of people were swarming around them. "How could I have missed that," he griped.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, in a cambric work shirt that Dudley had once deemed fashionable and overlarge cargo pants. All around him swirled silks and high-count cottons, flowed chiffon and charmeuse, swayed thick wools and tweeds, and the people about him were gay and laughing. He started off a little annoyed with their flippant attitude, given the recent events, but…no, that wouldn't have been possible. He and Flint had spoken openly about the Dark Lord earlier, brazenly, even, and such a thing would never have gone unnoticed on an ordinary street.
It wasn't that they didn't care, he realised. It was because they were genuinely glad of Voldemort's return. They were even comforted by it. It was what lent them the strength to wander the streets, meandering and gallivanting and indulging in all types of merrymaking. The spark in their eyes was hope, however evanescent it was. However evanescent it might be.
"What is this place?" he asked again, somewhat awed and cowed. He didn't even bat off Flint's arm about his waist, tugging him possessively closer. Right now, when he was this uncertain, the warmth and solidity of the other boy's body was almost comforting. "Rue Morgue."
"It's where we come to celebrate," Flint replied cryptically. "It's where we come to dance."
Their first stop was to a shop so quiet and discrete, he would have walked right on past the same way Muggles would have walked right past the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron if Flint hadn't snagged his elbow. There was a quick discussion between Flint and the proprietor, who was a tall lanky sort barely able to keep his head from clipping the roof beams in his store. The shopkeeper kept throwing him measuring looks over Flint's shoulder, brow furrowed as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. Harry scowled right on back, a little annoyed by how out-of-the-loop he was on things.
"All right," the proprietor said at last. "Think I've got it."
"Brilliant," Flint said in turn. "I'd probably need to get you to deliver the rest of it by owl to him. But since we're dining at Ancelot right now-"
"Yes, yes, of course," the man murmured, turning about and brandishing his wand. He conjured up some garments, before shoving them unceremoniously into Harry's arms. "There you go," he said. "Go ahead then, change. This ought to be a good gauge. I'll make any minor adjustments from what I see with this."
Harry gripped the clothes, wrinkling the fine fabric as they all just stood there in a tight triangle, staring blankly at each other.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but just what's going on?"
"Go on then, Potter," Marcus urged, "get changed. We're to lunch first, and then I'll take you to Middleton."
He couldn't deny that almost anything would fit in better in this Rue Morgue than the Muggle clothes he was wearing now, but it still came as a bit of a shock. "What?" he squeaked. "Right now- as in right here?"
"Well, yes," the proprietor said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Where else? I expect you could go out in the street, to be a good sport and all, but you're obviously new here. I wouldn't think you'd be that open so quickly."
"So you're expecting me to doff my drawers in a place that's smaller than my old cupbo- I mean, er- my old room," he stammered, mentally cursing at the slip. "Or any room. Dressing room. That's the ticket."
Flint's eyes narrowed at his slip, but was successfully distracted by the latter unfamiliar term. "A self-dressing room?"
"A room that Muggles use to try clothes on, Marcus," the proprietor explained patiently. "It's very small and cramped. Strange thing, those Muggles."
Flint's eyes narrowed even further. "Exactly like your cu-"
"I'm not going to doff my clothes in front of a couple of blokes I barely know," he declared loudly over Flint's words.
"I'm just about asexual," the proprietor assured him, "so you needn't worry on my account. Marcus- well, he's really just all sexual, but he's looking after you now. That means he won't let any harm come to you, not even from himself."
"Gee, why don't I feel comforted by that?" he drawled, flushing. Despite his words, strangely enough he did feel comforted, remembering the vow Marcus had made to him in the Ministry. Turning resolutely around, he shucked his clothes as quick as he was able to, and threw the clothes on haphazardly. When he turned about, he found the two with strangely wooden faces looking back at him.
"What is it?" he asked, beginning to frown.
Flint looked like he wanted to bite off a curse, but it was the proprietor who spoke. "You- it's just a feeling on my part, I think, but you don't look in the mirror very often, do you?"
Harry frowned for real this time. "No, no I don't. I mean, I check to see that my hair's not gone mad on me, or that I don't have bits stuck in my teeth, but not much more than that."
"I see," the man said neutrally, and then began to straighten out his outfit as if the past half-minute had never happened, successfully distracting Harry from his thoughts. He hadn't noticed the clothes as he'd put them on, and it was only now that he realised he'd just donned a rather neat pair of robes in deep navy, with matching trousers beneath. The crisp shirt beneath was dark aubergine, and a pair of black dragonhide boots were produced. The last thing the proprietor added was a white napkin in his breast pocket, 'as an accent', or so he'd claimed.
"Well I say," the proprietor murmured. "You clean up rather well. Pity I can't do a thing about your hair, but you don't quite look half-arsed anymore."
Harry smiled wryly. He rather liked this strange proprietor, whom Flint was friends with. He was thin as a beanpole with near colourless eyes, raucous curls and dimples in his pale cheeks.
"Here, let me," Flint said, reaching forward to hold Harry's chin carefully in place. He tensed as he found a wand pointed at his face, but Flint was aiming at his glasses, and a nifty transfiguration later, he was outfitted with a pair of rather stylish eyepieces rather than Spell-o-taped bits of broken glass.
"Good," the proprietor declared. "You're all set for luncheon." The man winked slyly at the disbelieving look on Harry's face. "You don't do things halfway if you're Dark." He gaped. It was the first time he'd ever heard of someone referring to himself so openly and off-handedly as such. Flint, the crafty bugger, didn't count. "Marlowe Hobbes, if you ever need my services again. I trust I'll be seeing you afterward."
He bowed them out from his shop, nearly braining himself against the door handle, the space was so small. With a touch of difficulty and a lot of magic, they managed to squeeze about each other and manoeuvre back out onto the street.
"Is he always this odd?" Harry found himself asking. He found himself dazzled anew by the sights, the sounds, the smells. With just a different set of clothes he found himself already more attuned to Rue Morgue.
Flint laughed. "Hobbes said it just now. When you're Dark- we don't do things half-arsed, Potter." He glanced backward with an amused smile, clearly jibing him. Harry huffed, and barely noticed it when the other boy stopped him in front of another establishment, a little bistro-type café with al fresco seating. "Here we are, then, for lunch- Ancelot."
Harry openly stared about him as they were seated. Around them, people ate their luncheon, conducted their business, or just caught up with old acquaintances. They seemed no different from the persons at Diagon Alley, but he noticed a sort of muted quality about their exchanges. Their feelings, while no less undimmed, weren't violently abrasive and overbearing. It made the ambience calmer and more intimate.
"Do you come here often?" he asked, sitting absently when Flint pulled out his chair for him.
Flint smiled. "As much as I can," he confessed. "I've got a bit of sweet tooth, and this is an excellent place to indulge."
It was the least serious thing he'd heard from Flint all day, and he couldn't help but laugh. Flint continued to smile at him, and it struck him that this moment seemed almost natural between them.
"What would you like?" the older boy asked, gesturing at the menus on the table between them. "If you're feeling adventurous, you could always let them surprise you." He indicated the server that stood unobtrusively at his elbow, and the man stepped forward. "Although I would recommend the steak."
Harry swallowed his nervousness. "Sure, why not?" he agreed, offering the server his menus. The man took them, bowed briefly to them both, and left. "Adventurous wasn't the word I would've used. I wouldn't have known what to order," he confessed after the man was out of earshot, his head still turned to watch the server leave.
"I thought it'd be something like that," Flint said thinly. He frowned at the older boy, not understanding, but Flint didn't elaborate.
"Tell me, then," he said instead. "What does it mean to you to be free?"
Flint took up the subject change easily enough. "The same as it does to you, I suspect," he said, shrugging. "To be uncontrolled, unfettered. All I ever said was that the Dark and Light had to coexist. I said nothing about them having to interact. We would prefer it that way, and besides, they want nothing to do with us."
"You do have a tendency to hide yourselves away," Harry conceded, planting both elbows on the table and seating his chin on his hands. He saw Flint wince at his abysmal table manners and grinned. The other boy just rolled his eyes at him.
"All the better to surprise you with," he drawled. "There is no Light without Dark, and no Dark without Light. Now you tell me, have you heard any of your Lightsiders say anything like that?"
He frowned. "No," he admitted, "it was always a them-or-us type situation. It was more like one side couldn't live without the other. But you're not fooling anyone if you say anything different," he said hotly. "It's all on record, what you'll did in the last war. You can't tell me you'll were all for letting the Light live, either!"
Flint made a displeased face, but to his surprise, didn't disagree.
"Some of the old faithful may have been a little…overzealous," he conceded, pointedly ignoring Harry's snort and muttered, "I'll say!" "But our priorities have changed, now," Flint continued. "No more hiding. We won't do that to our own. That's more than the Light can say, isn't it?" he challenged.
"What d'you mean by that?" Harry demanded, but their server had returned, bearing their appetisers on twin plates. He had the duck confit with marmalade sauce on spinach leaves, while Flint got foie gras casserole. He felt his was a little extravagant as compared to the other's, but when Flint all but shoved a forkful down his throat- he couldn't help but moan in sheer bliss.
"You can't tell me that's not Dark Arts," he moaned. "That tastes so much better than it should. I've never had anything this good."
Flint smirked. "You'd never find food this good anywhere in the Light world," he acknowledged, "but it's not because of Dark Arts. Here at Ancelot- here at the Rue Morgue- all of the preparations are undertaken by hand. These meals are all a labour of love. Magic is innate in the process, not just the outcome."
"Food can't be conjured," he reasoned slowly.
"No," Flint agreed, talking past another mouthful, "but it can be assembled with the correct swish and flick. That's how Lightsiders make their food, to save time, to avoid the mess, whatever bloody excuses they give, and that's why it tastes so different. No amount of swishing and flicking can mimic the taste of food made with hands leaking magic out of their fingertips."
He chewed thoughtfully. "That sounds right gross when you put it like that," he said after he'd swallowed. "And actually, that sounds like something a Muggle would say. After all, they have to prepare their food with their hands, most of the time."
Flint pursed his lips at the comparison, but again stumped him with his lack of protest. "They're not wrong about that, I told you the Lightsiders are right lazy sods," he said. "They use magic for absolutely everything, forgetting that there are certain rituals that need an actual form, not an imitation of one. Magic can only mimic a person's presence, not make up for one."
He squinted. "You know about the graveyard," he reasoned. "Then you must know the ritual Voldemort did to revive himself. He came back, as a person. Sort of."
The other boy rolled his eyes. "You can't imagine the Dark Lord came out of his mother's womb looking like that, did you?" Flint asked rhetorically, and then shot him a stern glare as he opened his mouth to retort. "But yes, you're right. There was no way anyone could have swish-and-flicked the Dark Lord's body into existence, so they had to conduct a ritual. The labour of it is just as important as the magic."
"Okay," Harry said, "all right. I think I get that much. The Dark involves action as much as it does magic? And the Light tend to resort only to magical means."
"You think it's the Dark lording our magic over the Muggles?" Flint sneered. "It's the Light, not us. We've always had to be cautious of the unfamiliar, and we've watched the Muggles all these years. They deserve much more credit than the Light will allot them. We might not embrace the Muggles, but we are not the ones who desire to bury their heads in the sand and cry 'ignorance'. Because of them the stagnation's already begun. We can feel it in our bones, even you must. Our world is still wonderful, yes, but it is no longer truly magical. It will take eroding the Light's influence in our very culture for that to return."
Their conversation had taken a rather serious turn, Harry mused, as he chomped through another mouthful of duck. He didn't quite know what to make of it all, what he was being told. Of course, he was extremely aware that this was only a telling. He only had Flint's word that the Dark was anything like he said it was, although the Rue Morgue was absolutely marvellous. He couldn't take anything for certain until he saw Flint's words in action for himself.
And then what? he wondered. Where did that leave him? He had no idea. He still wasn't quite sure why Flint had approached him in the first place. If Flint was trying to get him to switch sides- he paused, mouth still open and his hand hefting a spoon en route. If Flint was trying to get him to switch sides. Harry didn't feel very hungry anymore, and put his spoon down. He didn't notice the concern causing Flint's eyes to bore into his face.
"Is this what it's all about?" he asked, still not looking up.
"What what's all about?" the other boy asked, cautiously.
He jerked his head up and glared. "Playing the fool doesn't suit you, Flint," he hissed. He could see the older boy startled by his sudden animosity and thought that was well and good for him to feel off-kilter once. It was only how he'd been feeling all ruddy day!
"You don't have to tell me your sob stories anymore," he said. The disappointment didn't settle very well atop the duck, although he didn't like thinking he could ever have been disappointed with Marcus Flint of all people. To be disappointed would have meant he'd have had expectations of the other boy, and Merlin forbid that ever happen. He was only beginning to understand now how truly dangerous that was. "As intriguing as all of this has been," he said coolly, "I do believe I'd like to go back now."
Flint was staring at him as if this was the first time he'd seen Harry all day. "What brought this on, Harry?" he asked quietly. "You said you'd give me the whole day to-"
"I never said a thing about taking up the whole day. You were the one who swore your damn oath," he snapped. "Besides, if it's not Dumbledore wanting to use me, then it's you lot. Now tell me, how the hell is one side any better than the bloody other?"
Flint looked shocked. "You knew, then," he said. "You knew, that Dumbledore-"
He gave a hysterical laugh. "Not going to deny your part in it, then?" he asked archly. All at once he caved.
"No," he whispered, "I didn't. Didn't think of it at all, was so blind all this time-." He made a pained sound and slumped back in his seat. "It was just- when I thought things through- I was thinking, you see-" He looked up at Flint desperately then. "I was trying to understand why today had come about at all, what you gained by intervening with the Wizengamot, of all things. I wouldn't have thought of it at all if you hadn't shed such light on things. What you had to gain was just as much what Dumbledore had to lose.
"Me. I won't fool myself into thinking I'm actually worth anything, but Merlin knows that sodding title-" He bit off his words with a grimace, before soldering his eyes at Flint. "Now, are you going to sit there and tell me I'm wrong?"
"It was always ever about you, Harry," the other boy said carefully.
He tossed his spoon with its remaining mouthful of duck on the table. Around them, a few heads turned at the clatter of silverware. "I knew it," he muttered bitterly.
He wasn't expecting Flint to lunge forward and snatch for his recently-emptied hand. Harry jerked his head up and stared at the other boy in astonishment. Under his gaze Flint licked his lips, visibly nervous. He didn't understand. What possibly could Flint have to lose?
"You weren't wrong," Flint began, "when you spoke of who had to gain what.
"It's not the Dark that gains you, Harry.
"It's me."
"I beg your pardon?" he wheezed. Underneath Flint's hand, his fingers twitched involuntarily. The older boy merely tightened his grip.
"What I intended to gain by telling you about the Dark was your understanding, Harry, perhaps your sympathy, but not your service and not your allegiance." Flint's pistachio eyes were serious as he stared unwaveringly at him. Harry didn't think he'd ever been this surprised in his life. "If you're not Dark, then you're not Dark. I'm hoping for a Neutral, at least, but if you're Light-" he shrugged. "Then it can't be helped, although I sincerely doubt it. Your magical alignment has nothing to do with your stance on magic. Although it is rare for a Lightsider to be standing with the Dark and vice versa," he conceded. "It's as bad as denying the very nature of magic."
"I-I had this ridiculous crush on Cho last year," he finally stammered, and then wanted to smack himself on the mouth. Of all the foolish, inane things to say-!
Flint rolled his eyes again. "Puppy love," he dismissed. "I think I can overlook that much. Harry, I'm in this for keeps."
He gaped. "But how- you don't even know me," he protested, albeit weakly.
"I want the chance to," Flint quietly replied, squeezing his near-forgotten hand once, before letting go.
Harry flexed his fingers, and they felt strangely alone all there by themselves.
"I was the one who spoke to my Lord and asked for this intervention," Flint confessed. "I argued for the opportunity to speak with you, to show you our world, before stepping back and letting you make your choice on your terms."
"And- and you think I'm going to believe- that- that Voldemort just listened to you prattle on, and not only that, agreed to the whole bloody arrangement?" he asked incredulously.
"Well he did," Flint said plainly.
He didn't bother holding back his snort. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Surprisingly, Flint just smiled. "I'll hold you to that, Harry."
There was something in Flint's eyes that had him glancing down to his plate, cheeks burning. The server had delivered their mains unobtrusively and cleaned up the mess he'd made with his spoon. Harry busied himself with cutting up and devouring his steak, all the while ignoring the flaming hippogriff roosting between them during luncheon. The food was excellent, but Harry barely tasted it as mouthful after mouthful slid down his throat nearly automatically.
"What do you know then," he said at last, when their plates had been cleared and their server had discretely set their placings for dessert, "about Dumbledore and his plans?"
"That they have never once benefitted you," Flint replied immediately. "I hate to say it but even Black or Lupin would have been preferable to you having been left with Muggles. At least then you wouldn't have-"
"Wouldn't have been the ignorant twerp I am?" he finished nastily.
Flint was watching him intently. "You really don't know, do you," he murmured, but it wasn't exactly a question. "Earlier, when Hobbes asked about the mirrors- you really don't look into them. And how about when you wash-"
"Will you just come right out and say it?" he snapped.
"Your entire back is covered in scars," Flint said, face carefully blank. "And these are not scars children receive from being children."
Harry froze, and then smiled very stiffly. "I don't know what you mean," he said, "I'm afraid your definition of what being a child entails some rather glaring differences."
"Dumbledore let that happen," Flint said.
"The wards-"
"-are useless now that my Lord has your blood in his veins. And my Lord has found them always useless after having studied them. Your Order of the Phoenix said they had guards watching your Muggle house?" Flint snorted his derision. "My Lord was there just this past week and none of them saw him."
"Voldemort…was at Privet Drive?" he repeated weakly. There were a lot of impossible things going on with this conversation, and he didn't know which one of them to start off with first.
"Those wards Dumbledore claimed for your protection," the older boy sneered, "while based on the fact that you and your aunt shared the same blood of Lily Potter's running through both your veins, was drawn from your magic, and depended on not your mother'saffections at the time of her death, but your aunt's." The bottom of his stomach dropped out. "And you expect me to believe she held any affection for you at all?" Flint demanded. "Given those marks on your back?"
"I-I-" Harry stammered, unable to form a proper thought. He swallowed tightly a few times, before managing, "I-I knew that Dumbledore- he. I-I knew. That he was testing me. Every year, making me jump through all those bloody hoops. Bu-but I don't-"
"It would make sense if the old bastard were figuring out how much power it took to defeat a Dark Lord. This is how Dumbledore's been using you," Flint said bluntly.
"What?" he exclaimed, just as two glasses of vanilla ice were set before them both.
"You're an experiment, a mere factor in his equation. Blood," Flint said suddenly, "is one of the most magically potent substances in the world. With a drop of one's blood you can work both wonders and horrors. And now that my Lord has your blood- well, I expect he knows things about you that you couldn't even fathom.
"Did you know that your magical core's been blocked? Nearly completely dammed up so that only a trickle comes through. Part of it is siphoned off to power those bloody wards, I suspect, but there are still traces of it having been stoppered even more severely in the past- our guess is that with every passing year, every passing- hoops, as you call them, the bastard undoes a little more on his block." Flint sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Come and be honest with yourself, Harry," he said. "You're up against the most powerful Dark Lord that the world has ever seen, and you're barely half-trained, yet you've managed every time to either come out not losing, if on top.
"If you can hold the Dark Lord at an impasse on just a fraction of your power, can you imagine what you'll be like with all of your reserves open to you? To borrow a mathematical term, you're the unknown variant in this formula, Harry. Absolutely no one knows just how much you're capable of. So that makes you the best crash dummy. They can run test after test after test on you and know you'll never break. And that's what they've been doing to you year after year."
"They wouldn't do that," he protested weakly.
"They would," Flint overrode him. "I told you, the Light are all lazy fucking sods. All this whole conflict is to them is a bloody equation, Harry, and you are the least of their concerns, especially when leaving you in your current quandary is going to help them solve it. I mean, after they work it out, using you, by the way, they won't even have to think about how to defeat us anymore."
"If- that's why," he realised. "All those years ago- this is why he came looking for us. For my parents and me."
Flint gave a rumble of dissent. "Not exactly. There was a prophecy, and back then we didn't realise that prophecies were self-fulfilling. They're a ruddy lot of codswallop, to be honest, but like I said, the old faithful were a little too enthusiastic." He made a face. "Odds are, Harry, you would never have been this powerful had the Dark Lord not attacked you that night. If he hadn't marked you, passed some of his powers to you, we've theorised that probably allowed you to tap into the whole of your core. That helped you survive, not only counteracting the killing curse but nearly destroying the Dark Lord as well. Children don't have full access to their cores, you see, let alone babies," Flint explained. "You've got to reach your age of majority, and then some for you to grow into your magic. For something like this to happen to you at the age of one- you would have either died or gotten that much stronger. Fortunately the latter occurred, but almost immediately after you had those blocks placed on your core so you've never been allowed to grow into it."
It was all a little hard to swallow, to be honest. "Then- then what about my mother's sacrifice?" he asked. "Everyone always says-"
"That's as much codswallop as that ruddy prophecy," Flint growled. "Magic is all about will and intent. A corpse can't affect magic in the slightest, not even through its lingering sentiments."
It was a lot to take in, and Harry sought refuge in his glass of vanilla ice. Flint took his cues from him and reached for his own glass. For a few minutes they sat in silence, each eating their dessert, although the pleasure had been rather drained from the experience.
He sort of understood it now that Flint wouldn't lie to him, would swear an unbreakable oath if he so wished it. There had just been so much information, though, and so much he'd never noticed, never seen. And no matter what Flint had said, no matter how much sense he'd made, Harry was still a little leery at accepting it all based on the older boy's word alone. There was still some nugget of self-preservation in him that was screaming for him to walk away. That was probably the smartest decision right now, but he wasn't quite sure if it was the wisest.
"It's all a bit much to swallow one on top of another, isn't it?" Flint asked kindly, and he shot the older boy a guilty glance over their table. Flint chuckled quietly as he licked sticky vanilla-flavoured trails off his dessert spoon, the least decorous Harry'd seen him all day. His eyes lingered on the cold-pinked tongue curled around burnished silver, and he had to force himself to look away. It didn't stop his cheeks from burning, though. Flint said nothing, just stared right at him. He swallowed thickly, guiltily glancing back as Flint gave the spoon one slow, last lick. He could've sworn he'd heard the 'shing!' of that slick muscle against the silver. He had to tear his mind away, to more...mundane matters.
"It is," he agreed slowly, "and a lot of it is because what you've said doesn't match what I've seen or heard. I don't remember this you at all from Hogwarts. I don't remember seeing any of it."
He bit his lip at the last, unsure of what would come next after that little confession.
But all Flint did was smile grimly as if he weren't terribly surprised by his words. And, Harry supposed, he couldn't have been.
"It's not the sort of thing we could risk," Flint explained. "The ones of us that are Dark- sure, you'd expect most of Slytherin right off the bat, but I'm telling you now it isn't always the case. Genetics has nothing to do with your magical alignment." His face darkened. "Families have been torn apart for less, anyways."
That was another hook, that sunk under his skin like a prickling barb. Judging by the softening look on Flint's face, the older boy knew it too.
"Damnit," he growled, and Flint laughed, lightly.
"I think I've talked more than my fair share," he murmured. He put his spoon to the side of his glass, signalling that he was done. Harry followed suit, if rather less elegantly. "I think it's time you heard what other people had to say. This conflict is far more personal than most people like to admit."
And that's a wrap for chapter two. There was a tonne of information that I threw in there, which makes for a tonne of future precedence. We'll get to it all, eventually, so patience please (o: Reviews are cosmic love. Cheers.