Chapter 3

When Walls Talk Back (And Sneer)

"Well, that was… something," Fleamont exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound casual. "Who knew the old man could be so menacing? Gave me chills, like I was balls-deep in a snowman!" He shivered theatrically, but there was an edge to his laughter, as if he was teetering on the brink of something he couldn't quite grasp. He looked at Harry, expecting a reaction, some sign that this was all normal.

Harry just stared, his confusion deepening with every passing second. The day had been bizarre enough, and now his brother's behavior was pushing it into the realm of the surreal. "Enough," Harry snapped, his voice tight with a mix of concern and frustration. "What's going on with you? You're acting so… different."

Fleamont forced another laugh, but it came out more like a nervous chuckle. "Different? Nah, this is just… how I am, bro," he said, though the word "bro" felt foreign, as if it didn't belong in his mouth. He tried to sound convincing, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.

Harry's expression didn't soften. Instead, his eyes narrowed, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "You've never called me 'bro' in your life," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "What's wrong with you? Tell me the truth."

Fleamont's thoughts were a chaotic mess, memories and reality blurring together in a way that made it hard to think straight. "What do I say? What the hell do I say?" Panic bubbled up inside him, his mind racing to find something, anything that made sense. In a moment of desperation, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Alright, alright!" Fleamont said, raising his hands in a mock surrender. "I'll tell you what's going on. I'm… I'm gay."

Harry blinked, clearly taken aback. "What?"

"Yeah, that's right," Fleamont continued, his voice leveling out as he tried to keep his story straight. "I like men, and I've been waiting to tell you. Please, just… don't be mad, okay? Support me." He said the words as evenly as he could, but they felt hollow, like they were coming from someone else's mouth.

There was a long silence, the air between them thick with tension. Harry's confusion turned into something sharper, but he forced it down, his voice lowering but gaining an edge of disbelief. "You think this is a joke?"

Before Fleamont could respond, Harry's wand was out, his movements sharp and precise. Fleamont stumbled back, trying to dodge, but his body was sluggish, his mind even more so. He ended up on the ground, looking up at Harry, who was staring down at him, his face a mixture of anger and something else—something that looked a lot like hurt.

"I can't believe I was actually worried about you," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

Fleamont's mind was spinning, the situation slipping further out of his control. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though the words didn't seem to reach Harry.

Harry just shook his head again, brushing the dust from his robes. "I'll see you in the infirmary," he said coldly, turning and walking away without another word.

As the sound of Harry's footsteps faded, Fleamont let out a shaky breath. "Well… that could have gone better," he muttered to himself, his thoughts once again spiraling into a tangled mess. He had no idea what was happening or how to fix it. All he knew was that he was in way over his head, trapped in a world he barely understood, with a brother he didn't even know he had.

Fleamont sat up slowly, rubbing his head, trying to piece together what had just happened. "This is insane," he whispered, his voice shaky. His thoughts were a tangled mess, an overwhelming sense of dread clawing at his mind. This isn't right… none of this is right. He had spent an eternity in that void, stuck in the same spot, trapped with nothing but his own fractured thoughts. And now—now he was here. A new world, new people… new everything.

Smells, voices, sounds—they were all crashing in on him, too loud, too sharp. Why is everything so loud? He needed to get out of here, out of this chaos before it swallowed him whole. I have to get out. Now.

Fleamont wandered through the empty corridors of Hogwarts, each step echoing in the silence. No other students in sight—good. Better this way, he thought. Keep away from the noise, the people. His mind raced, a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts. "I need to get my head straight," he muttered under his breath. "Figure out exactly what the hell is going on. This isn't the books… this is something else. Fanon? Am I stuck in some twisted fanfic?" The idea gnawed at him, each thought more absurd than the last.

For one terrifying, fleeting moment, he doubted everything. "Is this just another dream? Another escape into my mind? Am I still there, in that damn place, staring down that endless road for eternity?" The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and his breathing quickened. The walls seemed to close in, the corridors stretching impossibly long.

Lost in his spiraling thoughts, Fleamont didn't see where he was going until he collided with what he assumed was a wall. But walls didn't have sneers. Fleamont looked up, his vision still a bit blurred. Blonde hair, cold gray eyes, expensive robes… Of course.

"Ah, Fleamont Potter," Lucius Malfoy drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with disdain. "As reckless and nearsighted as your father, I see." His lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes were hard, appraising.

Fleamont blinked, trying to focus. "Mr. Malfoy," he began, his voice unnervingly steady, "as petty and shortsighted as your former lord. And remind me—how did that end for him?"

Lucius's eyes narrowed, his smirk faltering for just a second before he recovered. He straightened, adjusting his immaculate robes. "You'd do well to mind your tongue, boy," he hissed, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "It's Lord Malfoy to you. And I assure you, whatever trivial concerns fill that tiny brain of yours are of no importance to me."

Fleamont stared at him, barely hearing the words. Lucius was still talking—something about the Board of Governors, the safety of the school—but Fleamont's mind was elsewhere, slipping away from the present. "I wonder how serious the basilisk incident was here. He doesn't seem that bothered… Different from canon. Everything's different…"

His thoughts derailed completely. HOLY SHIT, DOBBY! Fleamont's eyes darted around, searching for the house-elf. Where's Dobby? He should be here. But he's not. His heart began to race, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. This isn't right. Why isn't he here?

A sharp snap brought him back, and Fleamont blinked rapidly, his gaze snapping back to Lucius, who was now looking at him with a mixture of irritation and something unreadable.

"Is something the matter, Potter?" Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Fleamont forced a laugh, the sound high and unnatural. "Heh, you say it just like your son."

Lucius's expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of something passing through his eyes before he quickly masked it. "You're clearly not well," he said, his tone clipped. "But if you're done wasting my time, I have business with your headmaster."

Fleamont nodded absently, his thoughts already drifting away from the conversation. "Sure, whatever you say… Lord Malfoy," he muttered, barely registering the man's final, scrutinizing look before he turned and stalked off, his robes billowing behind him.

As Lucius disappeared from sight, Fleamont let out a shaky breath. "That was weird… Anyway, I need to get the fuck out of here." The need to escape clawed at him, more urgent now than ever. He had to get away from the noise, the people, the overwhelming reality of this world that wasn't his.