Obsession and Her Trappings
(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)
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Chapter TwoHarry 2— Ruby-Red Secrets
At breakfast the next morning, word came out that a "pomegranate ripened under the summer solstice" had been mysteriously spirited from Professor Trelawney's tower. Although the theft was officially being blamed on Peeves, Harry had a feeling that the item's purity, or lack thereof, had something to do with the faulty fortune cookies. At least, his theory helped explain the puzzling reaction the Weasley twins had had to seeing said professor.
"Bloody owl-faced crone," Fred had muttered when she had swept past the Gryffindor table. George had agreed, coupling a nod of his head with a string of utterances that had turned Ron's ears pink.
In their disgust, they had given away the defective batch of cookies in the common room, before returning back to their "laboratory." Fred had explained to everyone who had returned to see the sequel to last night's events that, for some reason, the cookies were actually giving accurate predictions. No words could even hope to convey their dismay that this was the case.
At first, people had been wary to touch the things; no one was totally convinced that this wasn't all part of another devious Weasley twins prank. Nevertheless, after a few brave souls took tepid bites and pronounced the cookies excellent (if a bit on the crumbly side), they vanished quickly.
Harry himself had grabbed a fistful, and retreated back to his room to eat while studying for a particularly nasty Transfigurations test. He had been working in the common room, but it had become much too rowdy to get any work done in there. As he left, he heard Seamus yell something about fireworks, followed by a small explosion, and much laughter. Trust the twins to inspire a party even when they failed at something.
Smiling, Harry sat down cross-legged on his bed. He heaved open his massive textbook, the mattress bouncing slightly from the weight of it. Settling himself down for a long afternoon, he absently grabbed a cookie, and began to read.
However, after the first few, Harry had lost both the will to eat and to study. Systematically, he cupped each folded cookie in his hand, and squeezed until dust seeped out from his clenched fist. His red and crimson coverlet was coated in a fine layer of crumbs, but he couldn't have cared less about the mess he was making. When he opened his palm, it was red with imprints of the cookie's corners. And all he was left with was his fortune.
He formed a small pile of the papers on his knee. Some were written in red, some in green, but all contained that same blasted sentence. "Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it." Again and again, as if this were all he'd ever need to know, as if this was his only fortune in life.
He stared at the pile, not knowing what to do with them all. At first, he thought he could burn them, tossing the entire batch into the fire. But knowing the Weasleys, he doubted that one of their gags— even a faulty one— could be discarded so easily. Most likely, the flames would only make them multiply in number, so that in the ashes he'd find dozens upon dozens, mocking him.
Throwing them all out the window was just as futile, for they were probably infused with a Boomerang Charm. And even if they didn't come back, did he really want to litter the grounds with his fortune? Someone (probably Snape) would find out who was behind it, and punish him for it. So that was out, too.
Maybe, if he asked them when they were in the right mood, the twins themselves would tell him how to dispose of the things. But they were already hard at work at fixing their mistakes; he doubted that interrupting them would achieve anything. And he would have to explain why he cared so much, why those words (silly, simple words really) affected him the way they did. That would never do.
He looked down at the pile, and a chill raced through him. "Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it." What sort of cryptic garbage was that? He wanted to laugh the cookies off, to show Ron and Dean when they came back from the Library. He wanted to make up some snappy comment that would rid himself of all questions about what they meant.
He wanted to, but he couldn't.
All he could think about was the way Draco Malfoy's eyes glinted whenever he said something nasty about Harry and his friends, the way a spark of gold would flash amid that sea of icy blue. And the way that, when Ron had said something about Draco not having any real friends in the first place, there was a split second when he almost looked hurt. The way sometimes, when Draco slipped while cutting an ingredient in Potions class and three droplets of blood fell from his finger, Harry had the urge to bring said finger to his lips, and to lick away the crimson stains. And the way that would feel, velvet tongue over soft, pampered skin. Delicious.
"Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it." How could they have possibly known? Harry felt as though some stranger had come during the night and sifted through the darkest corners of his mind, stealing those precious ruby-red secrets that he half-wished didn't even exist. How could such a stupid, stupid joke have violated him so completely? For that was the best word to describe it— violated.
No one could know; Harry was absolutely sure of that. No one must ever find out that he, the paradigm of truth and bravery and all things Gryffindor, was— no matter how deep in the back of his mind— lusting after the poster child of the inbred, purebred, Death Eater youth group. Some things were better kept to oneself; some tainted desires best left for cold, lonely nights when everyone else was asleep. Yes, that was where this belonged— safely tucked away, unknown to all but Harry. That was the only way he thought he could face such a desire. Alone.
Maybe, though, it would be safe to tell Hermione. Someday, when they were studying quietly in the library, maybe— just maybe— Harry could approach the topic. She'd probably be the best confidant; her reason could pierce through even the most clouded situations. She'd listen patiently, and give him her best "I-don't-know-why-I-bother-with-you-people" sigh. Then, she'd proceed into a long lecture on "the forbidden fruit," which would most likely be loaded with psychobabble and Freudian theories. It wouldn't help his situation, but it was the best option he had.
After all, who else could Harry tell? The only other person with whom he'd be comfortable discussing his love life would be Ron, and he could just see what would happen if he confessed this demon.
First, there would be the silence, during which Ron's face would become more and more horrified and Harry would wish more and more that he could apparate to somewhere far, far away. Then, Ron would begin to yell, howling expletives not even the twins would be bold enough to use, all directed at Draco.
When he had calmed down a bit, perhaps Ron might begrudgingly temper his hostility towards Draco for Harry's sake. But that would come at a price, of course; after admitting that he had a crush on Malfoy, things would never be the same between the two of them. And if there was one thing Harry did not want to do, it was lose his best friend. So Ron was definitely out of the question.
Speaking of Ron— Harry realized that it was late. Pretty soon, he and Dean would be back. He couldn't let them see the mess he had made, couldn't stand to find answers to the interrogation that would undoubtedly follow. He couldn't even answer his own questions— how could he even address theirs?
Harry grabbed his wand from his nightstand, and waved it at his bed. "Balayera Crumbs," he muttered, and the crumbs flew into the dustbin. Harry was thankful that he had even remembered such a simple spell. When he allowed himself to worry overmuch about The Draco Dilemma, it usually eradicated all other thoughts, leaving him in a melancholy stupor. Tonight, it was only the fear of being caught that allowed him clarity of thought.
There was still the matter of the fortunes themselves, though. Lacking any way of permanently disposing of them, he decided his best bet was to hide them for the time being. He opened the trunk at the foot of his bed, and began to pull out everything that he had stored in it. Various items came out, all that were sure to 'come in handy sooner or later.' Socks, spare robes, letters, and old editions of The Daily Prophet flew across the room.
His fingers touched the bottom, nails scratching against the wood. Harry collected the papers, scooping the slips into his hands. He dropped them in with no flourish, wishing he could so easily dispose of the problem itself, and not just one of its many symptoms. They fell like snowflakes, lying to rest with a quiet grace. Harry saw them not as that, though, but rather as a poison, some glittering potion that was even still calling his name as the light made it glint and twinkle.
He would not be swayed by them; he began to repack. No time for folding anything, but it didn't matter. There was no order, but never mind that either. Harry just kept reaching out his hand, finding a shirt or a book to add. He didn't even know if it was all his. All that he really cared about was getting those damn things out of sight, creating a buffer between the poignancy of the words and himself. Every time he was ready to stop, he thought he caught a glimpse of one gilt corner peeking out from under the mounds and mounds he had piled.
Finally convinced that they were safely buried, Harry took a deep, calming breath. After several attempts and one hastily uttered Shrinking Spell, he managed to close his trunk. He stood up, and was about to go back to his long-ignored Transfigurations text, when something drew him to the window.
He looked down at the courtyard, illuminated by the gibbous moon in the sky. A lone figure was crossing, feet making tracks in the snow. The person's hood had been up, but halfway across, it fell down to reveal a head of silvery-blond hair. Even from all the way up in his room, Harry knew the only person who it could be.
Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it.
"Easier said than done," he muttered.
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(end part two)