Parseltongue.
Chapter 42:
Harry turned at the familiar, but unexpected voice. Malfoy. Junior.
"Draco?" he questioned, frowning slightly.
There went the plan of pretending to be asleep. He didn't know why he called the other his first name, rather than "Malfoy" like he had every single time before that - maybe it was because the blonde called him Harry, maybe because of the remembrall, or maybe because of the nigh unnoticeable terror in the other's tone. It didn't really matter anyhow. "What are you -?"
"Riddle told me to persuade you to come down," Malfoy answered listlessly.
"You?" he asked incredulously. Draco shifted uncomfortably, meeting his gaze for the first time.
"Apparently because I've known you the longest and we seem to be…friends."
"Seem to be -" Harry blanched. "You don't think he knows that you gave me, the you know, do you? Thanks for that by the way."
"I don't know. But I don't like the way he was looking at me."
"Sh*t. I didn't say anything! I swear. I can't say I like you but…Salazar, even I'm not that cruel."
"Reassuring," Draco remarked dryly. He grimaced.
"Sorry. We're probably just being paranoid; there's no logical way he could know." There was a moment of silence. "I'm not coming down. Tom can stew for all I care."
Draco looked alarmed as he spoke:
"No, I'm not bloody going down there on my own - I can't! He'd dice me up for potions ingredients. You have to come, Potter, for god's sake!"
"Tell him I'm asleep," Harry offered.
"I'm not lying to the Dark Lord for you," Draco sneered.
Harry couldn't help but be painfully aware of the uneasiness that still lurked in the shadows of the youngest Malfoy's facial expressions. He began to curse his hero complex.
"Why the hell is he suddenly so insistent that I come and sit in the common room?" he muttered angrily. Okay, he was pretty sure he knew WHY, but…damn it. He was too tired to succumb to Tom's power plays and his twisted mind games. And he didn't mean tired in terms of sleep. Tom wanted him there because Harry had been so adamant against it - he wanted to assert his own dominance. Sometimes, Harry dreamed of easier, Gryffindor days.
It went against his principles to go down now, it was the same as submitting. The hero complex twanged at the nervous expression on Draco's face. Why did he have to feel like he owed the blonde something now?
"You could just stay up here," he shrugged. "Don't go back down."
Draco gawped at him as if he'd gone absolutely mad.
"Did you not hear the bit about him dicing me up for potion ingredients - Potter, Harry…if this is about your stupid pride-"
"Fine!" he snapped, standing up.
He looked around, debating on reading the book on Power Levels and Auras he'd found, before deciding against it because he didn't want to give the Slytherin Heir the satisfaction of seeing his curiosity. He grabbed some parchment and a quill, to pen a letter to Sirius and Remus, before storming past Malfoy and into the common room.
He felt eyes on him instantly when he emerged from the dormitories, Draco at his heels, but ignored them. He particularly ignored a certain, astute gaze that blazed against his skin like a white hot iron. He walked calmly over the far corner, away from Tom or any other Slytherin, sat down and proceeded to stare at his parchment.
The silence was suffocating; choking.
Coming down was the only concession he was going to give the megalomaniac, confusing bastard. He wouldn't acknowledge him, he wouldn't look at him. As far as he was concerned, Tom Riddle did not even exist within his periphery surroundings.
Slowly, conversation started up again, murmurings…and every so often he felt a chill run down his spine at the sharp set of eyes that pierced his features.
He ignored it.
Despite his chosen obliviousness to the world, he hated himself for being aware of the other presences in the room. He despised himself for being able to pinpoint exactly what Tom was doing, despite not actually accepting him as a person in the area.
The other Slytherin's were strong indicators, as was the atmosphere. That was why he knew to be wary when the room quietened, even for a split second, before the conversation surged more muted then before. He could feel the magic as it grew closer, though he gave no suggestion to his awareness.
"Who are you writing to?" Tom questioned. He didn't reply, re-reading his letter so far. He didn't even blink. He was almost certain that the Slytherin's were attempting to eavesdrop.
"You're giving me the silent treatment now? That's mature of you."
He scratched out a line, re-writing it.
We're all missing our biggest friend.
He could tell the young Dark Lord was getting irritated with him, at the casual dismissal of his presence. But Tom wasn't going to win this one.
Harry would rather gouge his own eyes out with a blunt and rusty spoon.
Besides, Tom had been ignoring him all day. He was merely obliging the other by not forcing his company. It seemed some people lacked that courtesy, unaware of when they were not wanted.
He needed to finish the letter, than he had a viable excuse to leave, because he had the sinking suspicion that Tom wasn't going to play fair. He never did. It was why Tom had more obvious victories than he did; Harry still had a modicum of honour.
Looking forward to hearing from you, I have to say I'm missing sane - well, relatively, I know you Sirius!-company and conversation. Love,- He paused, hesitant to use the word. Was that acceptable? Hermione put love at the end of all her letters to family and friends, but Hermione was a girl so he figured the rules were different.
Maybe best? Regards? Cheers? He tilted his head in thought, some part of his brain asking him why exactly he was so intent on thinking through one measly lexical choice, even if it was a potentially volatile one like 'love'. He ignored that part of his brain.
Personally, Harry thought he was getting quite good at this ignoring shindig.
He'd stick with love, why not? Sirius had written it at the end of a letter before, so that had to mean it was okay, right?
He reached to dip his quill into the inkpot again, before finding it had moved. He didn't want to shift his gaze up to see where it had moved to. He probably didn't need to. He cast a summoning charm, feeling a smug sense of triumph when it whizzed into his hand without the need for looking up. No, he was not being childish. Or stubborn.
Love, Harry.
"Harry, don't ignore me," Tom's voice was dangerous, deadly.
He waited a moment for the ink to dry so it wouldn't smudge, before folding the letter and moving to stand up. All without looking up.
Fingers curled around his wrist in a crushing grip, bringing his movement to an abrupt halt. One; one. Tom was breaking his façade of carelessness to react. That would not endeavour him to his minions.
Harry was careful not to let even the traces of a smirk grace his lips. He was cautious not to wince either, but the other's grip was tight enough to bruise. If it constricted any further Harry was pretty sure that some of the tiny, fragile bones in his hand were going to fracture.
He stared resolutely at the floor, resisting the urge to pull away or hold his breath. He was not going to react.
And Tom was not going to play anything less than filthy.
Taking advantage of the fact he was refusing to react or respond in any way, the other used his lack of struggle to haul him towards the sofa where he had been sitting. Shit. Struggle, don't struggle? Struggling is a reaction.
"Oh, you've found a way to shut him up then?" Lestrange asked
. Harry could hear the taunt in his voice. He ignored it. With difficulty.
"Mm," Tom said, his tone light - but Harry could pick up on the smallest tightness in it, the strain. He was seriously getting under the other's skin with this. He should do it more often. "I have him well trained - don't I, pet?"
Or not. Don't react. Don't react. Don't even look at him. It's what he wants. Harry repeated the mantra in his head. From experience, snapping back and fighting wasn't the most effective method for victory, so he would try something a little more unorthodox. Something unexpected.
He kept his gaze fixed on the floor. Being one of the smallest guys in the year, it was easier than trying to stare over someone's shoulder or over their head in a disregard of their existence.
"Nothing to say, Harry?" Tom hissed, close to his ear. He didn't shudder.
He was yanked into a sitting position, Tom's arm looped securely around his shoulders now. It was tight though, a fraction under choking. He could feel his muscles trying to tense up in response, his magic and his body itching to retaliate and throw the other off. "No matter, I have all night."
Harry decided he hated psychopaths. More than before. Even he could pick up on the highly awkward vibe on the air.
The rusty spoon suddenly seemed appealing.
A/N: Well. I hope you enjoyed the update. If you didn't, I apologise, I will humbly aim to improve my writing skills, or tell you to sod off if I'm feeling particularly aggressive or rebellious. Wow, I'm in an odd mood. Eek. Thanks for all the reviews, they make me smile like the Chesire Cat. Seriously. My family ask me what the hell I'm smiling to myself about…and I'm going to stop rambling… until next time: adios!