Chapter 9: The Sorting II
Harry was more than willing to kill Slughorn, painfully, slowly, and bloodily. It was only the presence of Ginny on his arm that kept him at bay. The man deserved an incendio right in that smug face.
As soon as Harry had boarded the train, he and Ginny had been accosted and dragged to Slughorn's car to be tortured by the man's incessant prattle. Ginny gave him a weary smile, and the grip on his elbow tightened. Hermione and Ron were in the Prefect's car, and Harry was stuck at this useless, fucking party.
He really, really wanted to hit something.
Where was she?
Ginny's presence was a comfort, but he found his thoughts returning to his cousin. She was so close. She was somewhere on this train and he just. Could. Not. Get. Away. He wanted to kiss the ground when they pulled into Hogsmeade. Ginny looked at him when he started to quietly mutter under his breath.
Ron clapped his shoulder, making him jump.
"Merlin, mate. Loosen up a bit."
Harry grunted and Ginny sighed.
"He's been like this all afternoon."
He winced. "Sorry."
Ron pulled up beside him, Hermione in his wake.
"Don't worry about it, mate. Sooner we get to the Great Hall, the sooner you can see her."
He managed a small smile and climbed into the first carriage available. Neville joined them later at the Gryffindor table, looking a little more subdued than usual.
"Alright there, Neville?" Hermione asked politely as the Hall began to fill.
"No, I'm fine," he stuttered a little. He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Did – did you know there's a new student here?"
"Why? Did you meet her?" Harry half-pounced on him.
"N-no. Well, I mean, yes. I did."
"Calm down, Harry," Ron laughed uneasily as Ginny tugged him back into his seat. "You're getting a little scary, mate."
Harry gave Ginny a grateful smile when she started to rub his back. He looked back to Neville expectantly. The boy cowered under the attention a bit.
"Um, well, she seemed f-fine. Luna liked her."
"She met Looney," Ron laughed.
Neville frowned at him. "Don't call her that."
Ron flushed. "Sorry."
"Luna liked her?" Hermione encouraged softly.
Neville nodded thoughtfully. "Well, yeah. They read the Quibbler together."
They blinked. "She reads the Quibbler?"
"Well, they were talking about it, but I don't think Luna really cared about that."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"They weren't really getting along. Well, I mean, they weren't fighting, but they weren't really talking either. Except for talking about the articles."
"I don't get it," Ginny said when he didn't continue.
He frowned, thinking. "Well, I left to let them change, you know, and I came back and they were just smiling."
"Smiling?" Ginny repeated. They looked at each other.
"Yeah, and they were friends. Like that."
Nobody uttered the vague taste of curse in the air.
"They could just be friends," Ginny said softly.
They looked over as one to the Ravenclaw table. Luna sat segregated from the rest of her house, reading her father's magazine. The radishes were still dangling from her ears, casting a strange reddish-purple glow to her otherwise golden hair. The bottle caps still hung around her neck. It was slightly difficult to find anything overtly strange about her when everything else was so naturally abnormal.
If that made any sense at all. Harry's head hurt.
The first years entered the Hall, herded as always by McGonagall. There was no strange older girl among them. It seemed Harry had even missed the hat's song. He rubbed his scar absently, not so much because it hurt but by habit.
The first years were sorted meticulously, and he managed a belated cheer whenever Gryffindor was called. Hermione looked at him worriedly. The Hall settled and Dumbledore rose.
"This year, in addition to our wonderful new first years, we have a new student. I hope you will all extend your most gracious welcomes to her. She's been home-schooled, so being here might be a shock to her. Filius," he asked to the squat Charms professor. "Would you please fetch Miss Potter for us?"
Whispers rose, the name repeated throughout the Hall. Heads turned to look at Harry. However, the boy wasn't paying any attention to them. His eyes followed the professor as he trotted towards the doors, sticking out his head.
The doors opened.
Every head turned to see the girl being half-shoved by an annoyed Professor Snape into the Hall. Over-large, hazel eyes took in everything around her. She was paler that Harry, and her hair was twisted into loose ebon curls, framing a heart-shaped face.
She was pretty, he thought. The exoticness of her face, vaguely Spanish-English perhaps, suited thick curves, giving her an animal beauty. Despite the richness of her hips and face, she had sharply delicate wrists, like blades. He watched her flounder for a moment before her eyes focused on Dumbledore.
"Ah, Rose. Welcome." He gestured towards the hat. "If you will?"
She walked. No, she swept. Like she knew each part of her body was suppose to move in a certain way. Her curls bounced over her prim shoulders. She looked longer when she moved, swan-like, but her eyes were wide and wild, frantically searching the Hall like a trapped beast. They stopped twice. Once on Neville and once on Luna.
Luna beamed at her in a way he had never seen before, and he finally understood Neville's faltering explanation. They just… smiled. Rose's smile was grateful and nervous. McGonagall lifted the hat and Rose sat.
The Hall was silent as the hat slid down to her nose, obscuring all but her full lips. Harry noticed absently that her bottom lip was fatter than the top, like she had just been kissed. He glanced at Ginny, new, unpleasant thoughts running through his head about her time in the house of Malfoy.
That mouth started to scowl before the Hat erupted, "Gryffindor!"
Harry jumped, unable to believe he'd be so lucky. He did not join his housemates' cheering as the hat was removed.
It was obvious that Rose did not care for the attention, as she slowly scooted closer and closer to Neville. When the food appeared, she only nibbled, systematically handling her spoon and knife.
He didn't know what to do, if he should call for her and if he did what he should say. We don't know each other, but we're family. I'm the reason you're a life debt to the Malfoys. We swallowed, not even able to open his mouth.
Hermione sent him a sympathetic look, interrupting the conversation around the girl.
"Don't you want to meet him?"
Harry glanced down the table, half afraid of the answer, watching her in the way one is forced to watched oncoming disasters.
Rose hid her face by addressing her plate. "I have no say in what Mr. Potter wants or does not want," she said with practiced speech. "That is his discretion."
Seamus glanced at him. "Don't you want to meet him?"
Harry started to break the conversation. It was unfair when she obviously had no idea he was right there. But Rose sent a glare at her plate and set down her utensils, tenseness in her shoulders, answering while he still was still awkwardly deliberating.
"In case Dumbledore forgot to mention it, I am a life debt."
Harry was not expecting the reactions that caused. A few students eavesdropping from the other tables suddenly scooted back, looks of disgust on their faces. One boy from Gryffindor started to move down the table. Neville's eyes were wide with understanding.
Rose continued like she didn't notice. "Whether Mr. Potter is inclined to meet me or not is within his discretion. Custom regards me as a..." She hesitated over the word, glancing to the side. Like she needed to gather her courage to say the words. "Cast off."
Neville actually winced, looking over his shoulder.
"I am not permitted to speak to a member of my old house without his permission," she said, no longer pretending to touch her food.
"That's ridiculous," Hermione said. "You're his family."
At last the girl looked up. It wasn't often when someone looked at Hermione like that, like she obviously didn't understand something. Rose turned away, taking her goblet.
"I assure you," she said bitterly. "I am not."
Harry couldn't take it anymore. He leaned up in his seat, a sound escaping his throat before he could control it. As if trained, Rose looked over, and her eyes widened in shock.
She knew him. Harry didn't need any awkward introduction. Her eyes did not run to his scar. She stared him right in the face and knew him, the similarities between them impossible to miss. Even though they were only cousins.
"You," his tongue worked dumbly. "I want you to speak to me."
He felt like he couldn't have said anything more stupid, but Rose nodded in a trance, looking at equally overwhelmed as he did. He could not imagine what this felt like for her, what Dumbledore had told her about him, what she knew about who he was. He only knew he had to keep her with him, the last of his family.
Ginny's hand felt like something foreign, and he unconsciously leaned towards her.
"Are you alright?" she whispered.
"I'm fine," he answered automatically then changed his mind. "I don't know. I don't know anything."
Her brow furrowed and she didn't speak. Harry held her hand, needing it to ground him.
Dinner ended before he'd touched his meal, too caught up in his thoughts to pay attention to anything else.
o.O.o
I didn't know where the common room was but I really, really, didn't want to stop and ask. The hand on my shoulder was hesitant and shy, and I forced myself not to spin around and snap.
Forcibly slow, I met Neville's gaze. His silent smile was appreciated as he led me back down the corridor. I felt my shoulders sagging, losing the fire of injustice. By the time we reached the Fat lady, I was too tired to care.
Neville stammered until someone spoke the password behind us. The common room was mostly empty, late as it was, but I didn't take the time to appreciate the warm walls and heavy red and gold brocade. The couches looked very comfortable, rich floral imprint etched out in standard brick red with gold rope trim.
I hesitated, unsure of where I stood. As a servant, I could not sit until they were seated, but I was swaying on my feet. I suddenly felt another inquisitive touch, more timid even than Neville, at my elbow.
I rested my head in my hands, knowing it was my lord Potter.
"Do you need the nurse?" he asked, voice full of concern he didn't know how to express.
I shook my head. "I just need sleep."
The bushy-haired girl, a prefect who had introduced herself as Hermione Granger, came down the stairs, likely having finished orienting the first years.
Her eyes full on us. "What took you so long?"
"Professor McGonagall requested to speak with me," I said, trying, and likely failing, to straighten.
She peered at me. "Are you alright?"
I sighed, wondering how many people were going to ask before I'd be dismissed to bed. "I'm just tired."
She did not look entirely convinced, the look she gave of someone used to recalcitrant children lying through their teeth.
"I'll show you to your bed," she said after she was done inspecting me.
I checked another sigh of relief, following her up the stairs. I ignored all the eyes on my back.
o.O.o
Thank Merlin it was Saturday. First day at school and no classes. I stretched. The sun had yet to rise through the window, but I could feel it coming. My toes curled under the sheet. With a muffed grunt, my body went lax. I stared at the canopy for a moment before I drew back the covers.
It was dark, deep grey shadows stretching across the canopies and my slumbering dormmates. I changed leisurely out of the school uniform in which I had slept, padding on cold floors to the showers.
They were marked only with a small sign on the door at the opposite end of the room. The stalls were cut into the stone and a chilly this early in the morning. Seventh years had showers separate from the underclassmen. The four stalls seemed to be personally allotted, three spares cast sporadically between the others. Mine, I found, was in the far right-hand corner of the room, the towel rack nailed to the wall instead of the columns between the stalls.
The water felt great, steam erasing the morning chill. It ran through my tangled hair, the locks growing dark and heavy. I dried off in the stall, the towel so pleasantly fuzzy that I knew the house elves must have taken in from the line the morning before.
No one had awakened when I returned, but a dull shade of light came through the window. With a quick flourish, I wrapped up my hair and dressed. I left my hair down, impatient to explore the castle.
Though the corridors were wide, more often opening to sweet alcoves and gardens, I did not feel my usual pinch of panic. The school was old, moving with the hills. Like the inside of the shadow of a mountain. It was impossible to provoke my agoraphobia.
The stairs moved. I hadn't noticed the moving staircase yesterday, too tired and fussy. So many, I thought they'd be impossible to navigate even after living here for centuries. The armor stared after me as I walked, paintings snoring or moving with the diligence of seasoned workers.
Confined to Bathilda's house, I had never experienced such things. Read about them, learned of them, even seen them in the picture books, but never experienced them. It made me feel young.
Caught in my musings, I curtseyed to a stray knight whom I had awoken with my passing.
"I bit wistful this morning, aren't we?"
I turned and caught sight of my lord, glistening in his public robes.
"Good morning, my lord," I said, bowing to him as well.
He didn't smile back. Draco was leaning against a corner, his arms crossed and his foot balanced arrogantly. The whisper of heritage that had been present in his home had somehow been turned into a gaudy peal. His clothes were well kempt, a silky black shirt and the more traditional wizarding robes replaced by dark manticore-hide breeches. Even his shoes screamed wealth, polished and with the added heel that had become fashionable that year.
"I trust you were welcomed into your house with open arms," he sneered, looking at freshly manicured nails.
He was angry, and I didn't really understand why.
I answered carefully. "Perhaps a little more enthusiastically than my lot, my lord, but there was little harm done."
"Little harm done," he echoed lowly, eyes on his rich fingers. "Little Gryffindor."
"You… don't like my house?"
He flashed with anger, the pretense of his interest forsaken. "Your house is a despicable excuse of an establishment, full of mudbloods and traitors!"
I eyed him evenly. "You mean to say they value nothing of heritage?"
He startled, losing ground. Wide stormy eyes met me. "I mean to say."
I walked towards the alcove, where the morning was spilling into the hall from behind Roman columns. I pondered the stones.
"Did you know Ginerva Weasley is a sorceress?"
His lips twitched but I could barely see it. "I have long lost count of their spawn."
I spared him a level look and continued. "I wonder at all the things hidden from them."
The alcove was silent save the birds trilling above the eaves. They seemed so exited by the dawn. As if they had never before seen the morning.
"Why Gryffindor?"
The sudden question startled me. "Hmm. Oh. Mercy if I know. It's a senile dishrag."
"And why do you say that?"
I waved at the air. "Silly thing kept jumping around. First wanted to put me in Hufflepuff, then wanted me in Slytherin, but that might have been because I insulted it. Told me I wasn't enthused enough for Ravenclaw. I think it put me in Gryffindor out of sheer stubbornness."
Draco laughed, his ire forgotten for the moment. "It wanted you in Hufflepuff? Oh that's rich."
I gave him a dirty stare. He stared back, looking far too amused with my frustration.
I was suddenly warmed by the thought that, though he was wearing airs for his peers, this was his private face, something reserved only for his family… and me. I ducked my head to hide how silly my face must have turned, hoping he wouldn't comment.
His index finger touched lightly on my jaw, arrogant its rights.
"The morning suits you."
I was suddenly breathless. I felt his hand move to play with the end of a damp curl that had fallen over my shoulder.
"Then I shall have to greet you every morning," I whispered.
I felt his smile through my skin, a soft curling of his lips like the kneading of a cat's soft paws.
We turned into the alcove, reminded of that day in Allionya's Garden. Nothing could compare to that, a secret we shared in silent glances. He let me beside him on the beach, late summer sun falling over our shoulders. We had another hour perhaps before the halls would start to fill.
"You should put your hair up," he remarked.
I touched my head, having forgotten that my hair was still wet and was becoming unruly.
I blushed. "Pardon. I should have pinned it up before leaving the dorm."
He took my hand and bade me to kneel in front of him. I squirmed between his knees, my back to him and unsure of his intent.
"I like your hair down." He started brushing through the strands with his fingers. "And it looks even better wet."
He started drawing it back into his palm.
"I don't understand. Then why…" He gave a small yank and I quieted.
"Because," he drawled. "You look like you just had sex. Or that you are going to."
My face turned a humorous shade of cherry, and he laughed from inside his throat. I had the vivid urge to tell him everything about my day yesterday. How the crowd had terrified me and meeting Neville on the train. How I befriended Luna and the strangeness of seeing my cousin. I wanted to ask him about the thestrals and Defense Against the Dark Arts, how nervous I was about Charms and Transfiguration and about why my cousin was so important to Voldemort.
But I remained silent. It wasn't my place to voice these things and even less to want him to confide in me.
"What are you thinking?"
Draco was leaning over my face. He had somehow managed to tie my hair into place, probably by transfiguring a ribbon. I had unconsciously scooted closer into his seat, my head almost resting against his lap. He was bent over, regarding me with impatient charcoal eyes. His bangs slid translucent to either side of his face.
"I'm not sure," I answered truthfully. I shuddered.
His gaze turned quizzical, and I was suddenly bound to answer the question there.
"I think I think of you more than I should."
"You think of me," he repeated thoughtfully. His eyes teased. "More than a servant should think of her master?"
My eyes were steadier than my heart.
"More than I think of Master Malfoy."
I felt him make the distinction. His hands ghosted over my shoulders, teasing flesh below my neck. I shied from his touch and inadvertently placed myself further between him.
"More than my father. I thought we understood this when you invited me to your bed."
I scowled at him. "I didn't invite you. Merlin, you make me sound like a strumpet."
"I could make you one. Force you," he said coolly in response to my scowl.
"I know," I agreed, calling the weak bluff. I looked away. "As could your father. There is no force to it. I would accept you both just as I accepted the Pact."
"Would you?"
His chuckle was humorless. In a deft motion, the finger resting on my collar slid down. It was eerily similar to a serpent. He brushed passed cloth and clung.
He had come near this in the library, a test of my loyalty and my determination. This felt hot and viperish. He was still mad at me, I realized. Then, just like in the library, I squirmed and acquiesced. Even though something in the way his hands moved felt somewhat more… wrong.
I did not look at him but in the stony distance where nature ended and the school began. Still, I felt his eyes bore into me.
"What did you think of Potter?"
I saw it suddenly, why he really was so upset. Harry Potter. I could feel the thoughts running through his hand. They were so base that it was a shame that I had not understood them sooner. Still, I had much to learn of this world and her denizens.
Softly, I stopped his hand. It surprised me only a little that he complied. I turned, the grass churning under my shoes. I saw the fire in his eyes now, hidden beneath the masquerade of ice.
Slowly, wondering at my own presumption, I rose until I was in his lap completely, legs parted around him and my arms balanced on his shoulders. He was forced, with awkward confusion, to rest his hands on my hips. My knees hit the back of the bench, and my dress rose to expose the straps of my garter, the edge of milky thighs. In this position, I had to lean forward, my head above him.
Making sure I had his attention, I spoke into his bewildered eyes.
"He does not command me."
He stared up, shocked by the pair of promise and boldness.
"You really do serve Malfoy," he breathed, his chin brushing my collarbone.
I allowed myself a small smile, already overly brash. "I've been saying that for the past month, my lord."
His fingers tightened over my hips, and he looked away. He had no idea how to deal with me. With less grace than his mother and less power than his father, there was still no one anyone else I would serve, tangled in the best and worst of tradition. I wondered at the future for him, so much potential in a seed overshadowed by monoliths.
