Secondhand Slytherin

Secondhand Slytherin by Pseudonymous Entity

Summary: He gave Harry a wry smile. "They're going to stare regardless you know. Why not give them a show?" Just before the Yule Ball, Harry gets advice from an unlikely source. Harry's choice to follow that advice, and the mask he wears while doing so, changes the night's course of events. In the aftermath of that night Harry discovers he might have a taste for finer things. What harm could come from wearing the mask a little longer? Afterall, its all in good fun...and Tom Riddle isn't using it anyway.

Warnings: I laugh in the face of canon.

"I buried the unseemly urges deep down in the ground with the roots
But it's all coming up to the surface, maybe it's getting ready to bloom
And I don't wanna be a monster in the making, I don't wanna be more bitter than sweet
I don't know how to be just standing by blankly not getting angry..."

-Angry Too

He flopped over on his back, feeling the hard stone floor against his spine. It was comforting after the relentless cold. Grounding. Faint warmth from a large fireplace across the hall barely reached them, its heat quickly dissipating from the new icy assault of the opened doors.

Beside him, Parvati pushed herself to her elbows and scoffed. "Says the sports wizard."

Harry grinned over at her. "I accept that identifier, but I am highly offended by it." His hand slid on the wet stone and his elbow smacked into the floor, sending jolts of pain up his arm. Harry swore. "Winter sucks."

Neville edged into the entrance hall, moving around their pile of wet adolescents in careful steps as he made his way to the side and leaned against the wall with a thud. "As someone who likes both plants and being outside," he said, "I quite agree." Neville groaned, leaning forward to peel his coat off and dropping it on the floor where it fell with a heavy thump. He shook his head, sending fat heavy drops flying from his hair. "The snow I can do without."

"See?" Harry said, sitting back up and holding out a hand toward Neville for a high five. "Neville knows what's what."

Neville stared at his hand blankly for a moment before tentatively reaching out.

"You slap it," Harry explained, miming the action. "It's a violent Muggle gesture of support or celebration."

Shrugging, Neville reached out and smacked Harry's hand. "Huh," he said, a small smile spreading across his face. "That's sort of satisfying."

They all helped each other to their feet, holding tight to one another in an effort not to be sent sliding back to the floor. Lavender tried the high five next, her hand meeting Harry's with a soft thud. "This is fun," she agreed, her eyes twinkling.

Starting to feel too hot now that his blood was flowing again, Harry unfastened his cloak and let it drop to the floor. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, unsticking it from his forehead, halfheartedly trying to put it back into place. A lost cause at this point, most likely. At least it wasn't sticking up all over the place like a bird's nest anymore. That was something.

"You're Potter?"

Harry turned his head to see Lysander staring at him. Harry raised a brow. "Expecting someone else?"

Levi squeezed Lysander's arm, a wicked smile darting across his face. "Go on. You've already put your foot in it."

"Potters have brown hair and eyes," said Lysander, dully, by way of an explanation.

Harry, who had seen his father's photo and did in fact know what Potters were meant to look like, blinked at him, nonplussed. "Clearly."

Neville snorted, looking up from where he was stomping his feet to remove the snow coating his shoes.

Levi patted Lysander's arm. "What my brother means to say is you've been blessed by your grandmother's Black genes," Levi motioned toward Harry's hair, which was black and not brown and which Harry had never given thought to before, "and Peverell eyes. The family Potters are famously descended from. That and, allegedly, Gryffindor."

Peverell eyes. People usually assumed he got them from his mum, who also had green eyes. According to Remus and Sirius anyway. Harry was aware in a vague, periphery sense that he had uncommonly green eyes. He had just sort of chalked it up to a 'magic' thing.

Lysander cleared his throat, looking a tad embarrassed. "I thought they were glamoured," he admitted.

Beside him, Lavender gave a delighted clap. "Hear that Harry? He thought you were just vain."

"I was merely caught off guard," said Lysander, his easy smile returning when it became clear Harry was not offended. "You're not quite what I expected in the Boy-Who-Lived."

"I live to disappoint," said Harry, solemnly.

That startled laughter out of Levi and Lysander both, something like approval flitting across Levi's face.

More students came in through the now open doors, trudging with snow-covered hair and sore fingers. Ron's red hair was visible at the back of the group; he stepped to the side and stomped up and down with both feet, breaking off chunks of ice from his shoes, muttering darkly.

Parvati peeled off her jumper, wringing out one of the sleeves, water dripping onto the stone floor. "Ugh. Let's get out of these damp clothes, shall we?"

Neville toed at his coat, which was still lying heavy on the floor. "I'm not sure that will ever be dry again."

Harry unwound the purple scarf around his neck and handed it back to Lavender with a thank you. He tried to hide his amusement as his friends removed layer after layer, looking both too hot and too cold and altogether miserable. Harry didn't have any winter clothes unless his cloak counted. He was used to the cold, as much as he despised it.

Lysander removed his cloak and the coat beneath it, both in a dark charcoal, and shook them out. Levi followed Harry's approach, letting a similarly charcoal cloak and coat fall to the floor with a wet thud, revealing decidedly Muggle-adjacent clothing underneath. He had what Harry could only describe as a punky half-kilt tied around his waist, with pouches, pockets, and straps covering it. Beneath that, fluffy fur leggings and short thick boots with black metal studs.

Levi looked properly warm in that. And also very cool.

"I really like your whole," Harry said, waving his hand in a circle, "deal."

The slender wizard looked down at his clothes, glittering braids spilling over his shoulder once more, and patted the pockets on the half-kilt which clinked and jangled suspiciously, "Thank you." His violet eyes flickered over Harry. "Love your boots."

"Everyone does," said Lavender wistfully.

Harry looked down at his feet. "Thanks. They're dragonhide."

"Empathetically sourced dragonhide," Parvati added, helpfully. "Our Harry does have fabulous taste doesn't he?"

Harry huffed at her, amused. "I almost didn't wear them today," he admitted. "Glad I did though. That's the only part of me not freezing."

"Bit much, isn't it?"

Harry blinked when he realized Ron was talking to him. He felt a wave of self-consciousness roll through him, unable to keep from looking down at what he was wearing. He frowned.

"I don't think so? Not compared to..." he trailed off, loathe to bring up his clothes from the Yule Ball, to remind Ron of his maroon robes he'd hated. To cause another fight.

"Enough heel, mate?"

Harry held one of his legs out and tilted his foot around. His boots did have a little bit of a heel, but boots often did.

Ron stepped forward, a lopsided smile on his face. "And what happened to your hair?"

Harry raised his hands to his hair before he could stop himself. "Ah, that, well the snow messed it up a fair bit, I—"

Ron scoffed. "I know. Still look like a swot though." Ron reached out and started scruffing up Harry's hair. Harry scowled and yanked his head back. Draco was going to give him an earful later.

"Looking a tad girly, mate," said Ron, smirking. He put his hands in his pockets. "What's with all the new stuff anyway? Haven't got enough?"

He could feel his cheeks burning. His eyes stinging. Ron was only teasing, was smiling even, but it wasn't funny to him. Harry fisted his hand, digging his nails into the palm. "I—"

The high he'd been riding for the last several minutes was thoroughly doused and went out.

Harry didn't want to fight with Ron anymore. He didn't know how to act when Ron was angry with him, when Ron's jealousy shone through in little glimpses in the cracks in their friendship.

He didn't mean it, Harry reminded himself. Ron was teasing him. Thought he was being funny. He knew Ron's brothers acted in such a way, that the Weasleys as a whole showed affection through testing and taunting, or at least accepted it as a normal part of the family process. They could insult one another and sit for dinner laughing the same day, the same hour.

That, objectively, families and relationships could be like that.

But Harry didn't grow up in the same world as the Weasleys. In Harry's world, when his family said something mean, it was because they meant it. It was intended to cause harm. He was meant to remember and accept it because he deserved it.

He knew that here at Hogwarts, in his experience, he was expected to tolerate it from Ron, from his friends, or people who called themselves his friends. He was supposed to accept and forgive these things. Hermione expected him to. Had done, when Ron was being an absolute jerk for weeks after Harry's name came out of the Goblet.

Harry didn't know how to live in Ron's world. It did hurt him, he did remember, and he didn't know how to forgive it. Only how to pretend that he did.

Harry gave a small jump when he felt fingers in his hair. He looked up to see Levi standing in front of him, slowly fixing Harry's hair.

"Weasley, I didn't realize you were such an expert in feminine fashion," Levi drawled. Harry tried to look left, but Levi held him firmly, still fixing Harry's hair. He only realized to his shock that the corners of his eyes were moist with frustration when Levi gently ran a finger over his cheeks.

"Anything you want to share with the class?" Levi continued, conversationally.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Not an expert on any fashion but at least it makes sense for me to recognize it. I actually have a mum—" Ron's words cut off abruptly, hanging in the air.

Beside him, Levi went stiff, his hands pausing and then falling to his sides. He was staring at Ron incredulously. Everyone around them had come to a standstill, the noise of the hall fading into an uncomfortable silence. Harry frowned. Then it caught up to him.

"Actually have a mum..." He repeated slowly. Ron winced.

"I did have," said Harry, hardly recognizing his own voice over the hum of chaos struggling not to surge to the surface inside of him. "Once."

Ron's face flashed with emotions too quickly for Harry to name them all—regret, guilt, confusion. "I didn't mean it. Not like that." The redhead gave Harry a look he didn't understand, a mix of apology and something else, then turned and shuffled away across the hall, headed toward the main staircase.

Harry steeled himself, turning to look around at the other students who were standing there, watching the drama unfold. He should feel lucky, he thought, that it wasn't a larger audience.

"He didn't mean it," Harry found himself saying, the words bitter. "He doesn't realize what he's saying. I think he forgets."

Levi's violet eyes slid to him and narrowed. "Lucky him."

Lavender, Parvati and Neville, lovely people he did not deserve, pretended nothing happened even as more students flooded into the entrance hall as they realized the doors were unstuck. Hermione walked in with a group of Hufflepuffs and Durmstrang students, including one quite smitten Viktor Krum. She wore his fur-lined cloak around her shoulders.

"There is some suspiciously moving snow," said Hermione, glancing around with a puzzled expression. "It's... squeaking?"

"Clark!" Lysander turned and darted out the open doors. Levi muttered something French under his breath and followed after him.

Viktor looked from the two running Hufflepuffs to the collection of students in front of him, to Hermione, his brow furrowing.

"What is a Clark?"

Pseudonymous Entity

2024

Thoughts, Questions, Theories, and Limericks always welcomed

AN: Yikes.

ANx2: Viktor out here asking the real questions.

-Pseu