Disclaimer: See chapter two for disclaimer. It applies for the entire story.
After Draco had told the entire Slytherin house of the conversation between himself and Harry, Blaise found himself to be the pariah of the school. If you were a Slytheirn in the first place, he had found, you didn't have many friends to begin with. He was fine with that. What doesn't kill you could only make you stronger, or so said his mother's seventh husband and his sixth step-father. Of course, he had died two months after being married to his mother. Let's just say that his mother's degree in Chemistry hadn't been cheated through after all.
But when you were a Slytherin one of the nice things was, and this was one of the only nice things about being a Slytherin, that every Slytherin had your back. If you were being beat up by some snot from Ravenclaw, you could count on a group of passing-by Snakes to drop whatever they're holding to help you out, no matter where they had to be or who that Ravenclaw was.
As long as you followed certain rules.
Rule number one: don't fraternize with the Gryffindors. Every Slytherin hated the Gryffindor house in general. They were favored by Dumbledore, by the majority of the teachers, and by the rest of the school. They were "the good guys". Blaise had snorted along with every other Slytherin when he had heard that in the first year. They were just a bunch of ponce goody-two-shoes.
Rule number two: don't fraternize with the single young man who's put the majority of the Slytherin house's parents in jail. Sure, Potter was just a baby when the spell backfired on Voldemort, but that signified the end of the first war. And when the first war ended, so did the Slytherin's grand reign of glory.
Blaise had broken both of the rules.
The other Slytherins weren't exactly lining up to beat the pulp out of him, as he was sure was what Draco had hoped for, but they most certainly were no longer going to drop whatever they were doing to help get him out of a bind.
Blaise shook with laughter as he watched three lowerclassmen scurry away from him in fear. Apparently, being a pariah also made you a tough guy. Not a bad deal, he supposed to himself.
He unfolded Harry's letter for the umpteenth time that night. And for the umpteenth time that night, he cringed as he felt Harry's insecurities and fear come up at him from the paper.
He smiled grimly and wrote.
You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree --
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong --
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
You are not hallucinating.
Hermione's eyebrows shot up to her hairline as she read the newest poem. Harry had only given his two friends that note, refraining from giving them the more personal message which had been left on a separate piece of parchment. "I know this poet!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Plath! Sylvia Plath!"
"Who's Sylvia Plath?" Ron asked through a mouthful of food.
"She's a muggle poet," Harry answered as he pushed around the string beans on his plate. When he saw Hermione's questioning look, he said in defense, "We learned about her in my fourth grade English class."
Hermione nodded. "I did as well. But I had read her work a few years before."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Typical, 'Mione."
"Typical, Hermione," Harry agreed, but not unkindly. For the first time in a few weeks, he smiled at Hermione and was genuinely happy.
"This gave me an idea," Hermione continued. "The other poem had to be by a prominent poet, and most likely one that has a repertoire in our library. And there has to be a theme of some sort to their picking of poets, it can't just be random…"
"…so we should search for poems in the P section first," Harry finished.
"It's only practical," Hermione said.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Ron asked, eyes glimmering with excitement. He always enjoyed a good game of strategy.
"Harry to finish his greens," Hermione replied, taking on a motherly tone.
"Alright, mum," Ron whined. Harry merely grinned and forked at the remains on his plate.
Neville Longbottom's warm brown eyes flickered towards the three huddled in the corner of the Gryffindor common room. They whispered quietly to one another, careful not to let anything slip through the tight triangle they had formed over the years. When Ron raised his head and caught Neville looking in their direction, Neville's eyes dropped to his hands.
"It's awful," Ginny said as she sat down on the chair across from him. She smiled glumly, eyes shining with sympathy. Neville looked up at her.
"What is?" he inquired, although a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach knew what she most likely was talking about.
"The three of them," she answered. "Don't get me wrong, it's pretty incredible, their relationship and all. But isn't it awful how hard it is to break through their little circle?"
Neville's eyes went back to the three. He was afraid that they would hear Ginny talking about them.
"Don't worry," she said, scoffing slightly. "They wouldn't hear me if I was yelling into Ron's ear."
Neville nodded. He kept his eyes trained on the fireplace, though no fire was kindled or was going to be for a month or so. Ginny noticed his melancholy state and added, "But don't get too put down by it, Nev. You have me." She smiled cheerfully and began to prattle on about her current classes.
Neville couldn't help but tune her out as he thought about his aching heart and the reason why he yearned to be close to the Golden Trio so badly.