Chapter 129:
Lestrange scrubbed hastily, furiously, at his face, but even that couldn't hide the relentless spill of tears and the red puffiness of his eyes. Harry's mouth felt dry.
"Potter," Cygnus muttered, angrily, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his wand.
On instinct, Harry disarmed him, catching the weapon, unable to stop staring.
Lestrange was crying.
Shoulders hunched even more, defensively as if to make a smaller target, but a wilful, hateful expression remained upon those features.
"Are you okay?" he asked, not sure what else to say. Lestrange made a choked sound.
"Fuck off Evans."
"You're crying…"
"I'm not crying," the other snarled, fists clenched. "Tell anyone I am and I'll kill you."
"Second time lucky?" he returned, arching his brows, unable to prevent the taunt from slipping by his lips. Lestrange's face contorted further, more animalistic than human, his breathing heavy.
Harry took a thoughtful step closer, noting the way Lestrange cringed back against the wall. His eyes scanned over the figure before him.
Tight muscles, ready for fight or flight….dark rings around his eyes like shadows, signifying a lack of sleep…wild, manic eyes…lips white with fury and drawn back in a snarl…bruises….crumpled.
A shell of a man.
A desperate man.
A broken man.
His heart twisted despite himself.
"What in Salazar's name happened to you?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper. "You look terrible…those…you're bruised…"
"Just leave me be," Lestrange spat. "It's none of your business."
Harry reached out a hand, ignoring the way the other flinched, not sure if he was satisfied or repulsed by the terror in Cygnus' posture.
"What happened?" he questioned again, with more steel this time. "Tell me."
"Why should I?"
"Because I want to help."
"I don't want your help," Lestrange drew back, practically flattening himself against the wall. "Always have to play the hero - don't you? - just get away from me I HATE you!" He dropped his hand.
"Why?" he asked. Lestrange gaped at him as if he was a freak.
"Why what?" he snapped.
"Why do you hate me?"
"I'm not playing therapist so you can humiliate me further!"
"Well, I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell happened to you," he returned, evenly, albeit a bit sharply. He shouldn't be, but he was…concerned.
Maybe it was the 'hero complex' but he felt compelled to help. He…he just pitied the ghost of a boy in front of him, more than anything.
Of course, he could hardly stand the other, the thought of him disgusted him and he also thought he was pathetic…but he couldn't in good conscience just ignore him if something was wrong.
Besides, he did need Lestrange's help…and he was curious about why he seemed to offend the other so, to the point of murder. It couldn't only be because the other was in love with Tom, could it? Maybe he could reconcile wanting to help with his own aims?
"You happened to me," Lestrange hissed. "Now get lost and go die."
"You hated me from the second we met, I did nothing to you," he replied irritably, ignoring the latter suggestion. Lestrange glowered at him in mutinous silence, tear tracks still etched on his cheeks.
He folded his arms in a show of patience, leaning into the wall next to the other boy, disregarding the light warning burn of the Horcrux around his neck.
He'd been talking to Marvolo everyday, as bargained, but he'd been careful to avoid discussing anything important. Maybe that had to change - he was just nervous to try and juggle both Marvolo's and Tom's manipulations at the same time.
"Are you seriously just going to stand there? Because you'll be waiting a long time if you think I will willingly have anything to do with you," Lestrange growled, still scrubbing at his eyes, taking a wrathful step towards him once more, but the bolster and swagger in his movements had gone, replaced by the more guarded circling of an enemy wolf.
Harry reminded himself that the other was unarmed, and wouldn't be able to beat him in fight anyway. Lestrange had nothing on Tom.
"I didn't make that clear?" he returned, arching his brows. Lestrange seemed to be fighting for composure.
Harry knew, on some level, that they way he was handling this was cruel - if their roles had been reversed, he would have been mortified and willing to do anything to get the other away from witnessing his struggle and weakness.
Harry could feel his left arm beginning to prickle, along with the thrum of the locket around his neck. He ignored them both, the warning, pressing forwards recklessly.
"I know you're in love with Tom," he stated, quietly, watching Lestrange's reactions closely. The other whitened, like a ghost.
"I-I don't know-"
"Tom told me," he cut in, bluntly. Lestrange looked up at with dark, anguished eyes, barely containing violence.
"I don't know what you're hoping to achieve," the other replied, tightly, "but you have nothing I want, so will you leave?"
"What about if I said I could get Tom to stop ignoring you?" he replied, studying his fingernails.
He felt Lestrange go absolutely rigid, tears still swelling in his eyes. Harry squashed down compassion; he couldn't afford it now. Then, to his surprise, Lestrange's jaw clenched.
"And spend the rest of my life second best to you?" he sneered. "No. I've had enough of that, thanks."
Harry's breath almost caught in his throat, but he kept his composure carefully, not sure if it was because he'd finally developed the skill of neutrality or because his face had frozen in position.
"Second best to me?" he enquired delicately. Lestrange's mouth twisted, and he laughed, sounding somewhat crazed or hysterical.
"You haven't noticed? Everyone's always second best to you, I'm guessing your blood traitor friend is secretly relieved to get rid of you, because now he can finally step out of your overwhelming shadow."
Lestrange took a step forward, eyes glinting, hands snapping out, clutching each side of his face like Tom had done earlier, nails digging in to draw blood. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, a curse ready on his tongue.
"Dumbledore, Voldemort, Tom…it's all about you…what's so special about you?" the other murmured, breath hot on his face.
"Let go of me, Lestrange," he ordered, without inflection or fear. "If you help me, there's a good chance you'll end up with Tom to yourself anyway, and Voldemort, for that matter. Is that enticement enough?"
He could see by the look on Lestrange's face that it was, but those hands didn't let go, and it was making him uneasy. "Lestrange."
The fingers slid off his face obediently, and he resisted the strong urge to step back, not at all sure about the stability of the figure before him. His skin was stinging.
"What is it you need?"
"Something from the Lestrange vault, it's not your business what, but I can assure you it won't be a family heirloom or anything like that," he replied, getting straight to the point.
Cygnus surveyed him with sharp eyes.
"Okay. Deal," he agreed, abruptly. Harry's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"And you won't try and get me killed during the trip, or in anyway harmed or locked in a vault, or accused of theft?" he added, watching momentary disappointment flitter over the other's face. It was somewhat disturbing how much his fellow Slytherin wanted him dead.
"Yes, yes," Lestrange snarled. "And you will, the next time you see him, get Tom to stop ignoring me - and get him to show me some positive attention, not-" Lestrange's fingers began to dig and scratch at his skin, alarmingly. "Not negative."
"Deal," Harry agreed, warily, already mentally searching as to what plausible loopholes were left to both of them.
"Deal," Lestrange gripped his hand, and a gentle throb of magic ran between their fingers. It wasn't anywhere near an Unbreakable or an Oath, but it was a magical acknowledgement of their negotiations.
"And what will you concede me for my silence? I presume you don't want Tom to know of this plan of yours, as otherwise he would be ordering my cooperation on your stead?" Lestrange queried slyly.
Harry scarcely refrained from gritting his teeth. He glanced over the other's bruises again.
"I'll ensure Zevi, Abraxas, Alphard or Draco don't castrate you or attack you. They don't seem very fond of you, and Tom's attention alone will not protect you from their hate."
Terror flashed in the depths of Cygnus' pupils, just for a second.
"Fine," he bit out. Harry nearly smirked, but simply nodded.
He appraised Lestrange for a further moment, with a slight uneasiness, and the knowledge that he still didn't know why the other had been crying in the first place.
Small steps…he turned to continue on his way, tossing the wand back, not sure if he could stomach the other's presence any longer.
Salazar…he was going to have put up with Lestrange again…damn it. And somehow persuade Tom to redeem Lestrange and not torture him…yay.
That would be a fun conversation.
"Evans," the other called, after him, and he stopped, turning his head back. Lestrange's eyes were so dark they were almost black. "I hope he destroys you like he did me."
Harry's fists clenched, despite himself.
"Well, if he does," he replied pleasantly, with an icy smile, "I'd like to think I wouldn't sit in a corridor crying about it."
He didn't look back that time.
John Dawlish sprinted down the corridors of the Auror Department, skidding into his boss' office.
"Sir-Mr Scrimgeour-sir-the Death Eaters-sir- they're-"
The wiry, lion like man whipped around, wand already in his hand.
"For Circe's sake, speak clearly and concisely man! What is it?"
Dawlish drew in a deep breath, never feeling so bewildered in his life.
"Sir they're…well, it seems their marks have turned on them, they're handing themselves in…loads of them."
"What the devil is that Dark Lord planning?" the man growled, pacing up and down his office. "Lead the way, Dawlish. Where's Shacklebolt and Tonks?"
"Sir, that's not all," he said, quickly. "They don't seem - the Death Eaters, that is - well, they're resisting being taken in."
"You just said they were handing themselves over!"
"Their Dark Marks," he said earnestly, "are handing them over, they're not going on their own accord, their begging for the Dark Lord's mercy actually. It's…it's a riot in the Atrium sir, people are scared."
Scrimgeour's lips thinned.
"Alert the minister, and someone get me Dumbledore. Everyone, move-now!"
Sometimes, Dawlish thought, glumly, he wondered what had possessed him to join this department.
Harry felt the breath leave his lungs when two hands grabbed his collar, seemingly out of nowhere, slamming him up against the wall behind him. He stiffened, before blinking.
Tom.
He looked pretty pissed off for some reason.
"You know," Harry said lightly, "you've got to stop pinning me up against things. It doesn't give a very good impression, and I dare say it would be easier just telling me to stop when you want to talk to me."
"Your emotions are spiking, what the hell have you been up to?" Tom glanced at the Horcrux around his neck, one of his fingers running across the hot gold. "And this thing has been flitting to me for the last ten minutes."
Flitting? The heat bursts? Oh crap, he'd forgotten Tom had been able to sense the Locket and what Marvolo was feeling.
Bloody Marvolo.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied, in an appeasing manner, starting to prise Tom's fingers from his shirt. The grip tightened in response, tugging upwards slightly, bringing him up onto his toes.
For what had to be the millionth time, Harry cursed the fact that Tom was taller than him. The other didn't loom over him or anything, but he was about a good head higher, which made situations like this so very uncomfortable. Why were none of his friends short? Why wasn't he taller? It was bitterly unfair.
"Not reassuring," Tom hissed. "Ordinary for you is sabotage, trouble and mass murderers out for your blood."
"Why are you so worked up suddenly?" he asked, controlling the snap of his voice. He needed Tom in a relatively good mood for his negotiations on Lestrange's behalf.
"Forgotten already that my life is attached to yours, golden boy?"
Oh. He grimaced. He didn't think Tom would take the fact that he had actually…temporarily…forgotten as a good response.
It had all been a bit of blur at the time, in fairness.
"I'm in Hogwarts, perfectly safe," he dismissed, instead, valiantly not thinking about the Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber, the troll, the other students or anything else like that. "And I thought you'd haven taken that off by now."
"With Voldemort liable to be after your head more than ever, as illustrated by his gift this morning?" Tom returned coldly. "Not a chance. Our joint fate is probably the only reason he didn't send you explosives for breakfast. He won't kill you until it's removed."
"I don't need your life attached to mine!" Harry protested, panicked.
It was a stupid idea, he didn't know why Tom had done it. What good would it do if both of them ended up dead because of some accident?
What if he randomly tripped down the stairs or something? Ugh. His life was too dangerous for it to be that closely connected to someone else's wellbeing.
Especially the wellbeing of someone he cared about.
"I don't know," Tom replied, coolly, "it might force you to think about the stupid things you get yourself into for once."
Harry scowled, silent for a moment.
"And what part of this conversation necessitates shoving me against surfaces?"
"The part where it keeps your attention."
"Because I'm normally distracted by shiny objects, you mean?" he returned scathingly. "Let go, it's getting uncomfortable."
"Even more reason to stay like this," Tom drawled.
Harry rolled his eyes, before abruptly wrenching Tom's fingers off, and pushing him firmly backwards. He brushed himself down, spearing the other with his gaze.
"You're in a spectacularly foul mood all of a sudden," he noted. "Did your retaliation not go as planned?"
"It went fine," Tom snapped.
Harry arched his brows in silent question, head tilting, wondering if he should be worried or if this was one of Tom's normal mood swings. The Slytherin Heir crossed his arms.
"I've just been forced to endure the crazy blonde giving me relationship advice for the last half an hour."
Harry's lip twitched, but he graciously struggled to smother his sudden need to smirk. Tom shot him an unimpressed look, and he cracked; laughing.
"Luna," he confirmed, "tried to give you relationship advice? About who? What did she say?"
"Glad to see my suffering amuses you so," the young Dark Lord deadpanned. Harry fought once again to control his laughter, but only succeeded in making it worse. Tom's eyes began to glint, dangerously.
"And it was about you, actually."
The laughter stopped.
"What about me?" he demanded, not sure if he should be alarmed or not.
"Apparently we should kiss and get rid of the overwhelming sexual tension."
"She did not say that!" Harry protested. "Tom!"
"You disagree with her hypothesis?"
"Screw you."
"Yes, she recommended that too."
Harry narrowed his eyes, taking in Tom's sudden smirk, the taunt.
"You're avoiding the topic, what did she actually say?"
"What were you actually doing?" Tom returned. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you've switched the conversation onto me."
Harry folded his arms, mirroring Tom's closed off posture. They assessed each other for a few minutes.
"You know, darling, you have scratch marks on your face," Tom said, flatly.
Harry's hand shot up, automatically, to the mild stinging where Lestrange had gripped him. Merlin. The bastard had actually broken his skin! He couldn't believe it. He bet the git had done it on purpose, just to make things difficult.
"Hermione's cat doesn't like me," he excused, nonchalantly.
"Hermione's cat has nails?" Tom enquired. "What a fascinating specimen of feline that is. Pray, how did "Hermione's Cat" get such a grip on your face to leave nail scratches?"
"Nail scratches look a lot like cat scratches," Harry insisted. "You're jumping to conclusions. I dare say it's the jealousy again."
Tom favoured him with a challenging, vaguely disbelieving, look.
"Nail scratches look very different to cat scratches," he replied. "Unless the cat in question is McGonagall, or generally the informal colloquialism of cat, meaning an offensive term for a woman who is regarded as spiteful or malicious."
"Now really Tom, Minnie's not that bad," he replied.
"Harry!"
"What? She's not," Harry continued innocently. He began walking, Tom, hot on his heels, grabbed his arm once more.
"What. Happened?" the other demanded, in a very low, menacing tone of voice which suggested he was done with the banter and the playing.
Slender fingers traced against the skin Harry guessed held the scars.
He held still, more out of the awareness Tom would merely adjust his grip if he did move. Tom looked tense, agitated. This wasn't helping with the mood thing, and Lestrange had specified 'the next time you see him' in his side of the bargain.
Of course, he could have mumbled it and fulfilled the oath in that cheating way, but the truth was, he did genuinely need Lestrange's assistance sooner rather than later.
"I want you to, nicely, reinstate Lestrange back into your Death Eaters," he stated. "Don't ignore him anymore, and give him positive attention."
Tom was still, surveying him.
"Lestrange did this to you."
There was no questioning, it was a statement, and not a particularly pleased one at that.
"I knew it," Tom near hissed, fingers tightened on his shoulder again. "What were you doing that near to him? He tried to kill you, if you remember."
"It's quite a vivid memory," Harry said blandly, paying no notice to the glare directed his way.
"Then, barring being as stupid as you seem determined to convince me you are, why would you ask me to reinstate him, and why would I ever agree to it?"
"Because I'm asking you to." Implicitly; he was open to negotiation. Tom's eyes narrowed.
"What are you plotting involving Lestrange?"
"Is that the concession you are demanding?" he questioned, willing to play dirty. "My answer?"
"As if I'd ask something so little when this seems so important to you."
"Then what?" Harry dared. "What do you want?"
Tom studied him, critically, and Harry could practically see the different responses dancing in his eyes.
"What if I refuse to enter negotiations with you?" The Slytherin Heir asked, quietly, challengingly. "How will whatever it is your plotting fare then?"
Badly. Very badly. Still, he made a pretence of shrugging casually.
"Well, if you have none of your normally numerous concessions to demand…" he trailed off, disentangling himself from the general Tom-sphere, sauntering down the corridor. He held his breath.
"Wait."
He stopped, relatively triumphant, but didn't turn. He felt Tom come up behind him, and circle to stand before him, arms folded lazily again.
"I'll reinstate Lestrange, and show him the positive attention he doesn't deserve, on two conditions…" the other proposed.
Wariness coiled in his gut, but he simply gestured for Tom to continue.
"The first, you will not be alone with him. Ever."
Not good for his plans…but, how alone was he in Gringotts? It made everything more difficult certainly, but it was manageable.
"And the second?"
"You let me make you a Horcrux, and cooperate with me regarding it."
Crap.
A/N: So, I was a bit bored. You got an update out of it. I hope you liked it. Any chance a 175 of your or so of you 800 estimated readers feel like reviewing for 3000? :P Not that I'll refuse to write or anything if you don't, but you know, just for kicks. I love reviews, as most writer's do haha.
Anyhow, hope you enjoyed it :) Does it feel like the story's making progression?
PS: Just so you know, I've given up on the Slash issue. It's not slash, they're not going to start kissing or dating or anything like that (at least not as anything but a joke or whatever) but yeah, if you want to view this is a preslash or even slash, I have given up trying to persuade you otherwise, lol. It's an ambiguous relationship - read what you want in it. :)
Note: I've just been informed that on Tuesday it is the 2 year anniversary of writing Fate's Favourite - woo! - haven't we come a long way? I feel this deserves a DD anniversy oneshot. Any requests/ideas?