THIRTY-EIGHT: Gryffindor Versus Slytherin
The next morning, Harry woke early as usual, but used his time to flatten his hair with repeated charms and don his special bottle-green robes. Hermione did not yet have an Unsorted House badge for him, so he merely wore no badges. Come to think of it, the teachers did not wear them, so he supposed he was in his rights, at least for the next two days.
Harry checked himself self-consciously in the bathroom mirror – ‘Goodness, young Mister Potter, what have you done to yourself?’ – and headed down to the Great Hall, where he found that, other than Minerva and Severus, he was the only other professor up so very early. Harry sat next to Professor Snape with an apologetic half-grin at McGonagall, who eyed him and raised her eyebrow, smiling her approval of his clothing. Against all reason, Harry blushed, trying to decide whether he was pleased by her tacit sanction or offended by her audacity in attempting to dictate his wardrobe.
Snape was absorbed in some Potions journal, and did not bother to emerge to greet Harry; Harry didn’t mind, though. He took out his own work and busied himself with it, coming up with a handful of new ideas for his revised system of punishments. He also added one idea to the small list of new paper proposals he was collecting for when he resumed his life as a student.
When Dumbledore strode in, sharp and full of energy as usual, Snape stiffened as though the other man’s very presence had alerted him. He jumped when he noted Harry seated next to him.
Harry tried very hard not to laugh. “A bit involved?” he inquired.
“Attempting to move myself beyond the events of this morning,” Snape replied, “when a young student in my house by the name of Phillip MacDermott insisted I check his wand for hexes and curses. When I questioned him, he insisted all queries be redirected to you.”
Harry snorted casually. Or at least, he tried to. It sounded more like he had choked. “I doubt you stood for that,” he replied, hoping his hunch was correct.
It was. Snape gave him an appreciative smile. “Quite,” he replied. “Still, Potter. Cleaning the entire Great Hall, without the use of magic? Trying to visit your blighted Muggle childhood on the entire student body, are we?”
Harry winced, stung. “I made it tough, just like you said,” he replied coldly. “Perhaps next time I ought to make them write lines: No matter how I am goaded, I shall not insult another wizard’s House.”
Snape sneered at Harry’s tone and buried himself once more behind his journal, while Harry busied himself similarly with his class notes, feeling oddly hurt. By way of distraction from the cantankerous Potions Master, Harry decided to search out Ewan and Rae, sitting hunched together at the Slytherin table. They were deeply involved in conversation, and, after a minute, Lilac came and sat on Rae’s other side. The three heads nearly knocked, they were so close together, and Harry felt a small jolt of nostalgia. Gazing around the Hall revealed that several other first-years were not at their assigned tables; Harry couldn't help but issue a small smirk as he bent over his lesson plans.
Just then, Harry caught a flash of white-blonde hair and felt the stab of dark grey eyes on his own: Draco Malfoy had entered the Great Hall, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Harry jerked inadvertently in his seat, and he realized that something in him wanted to depart the dais and chat Draco up as if they were old friends – but a sense of caution enveloped him at the glint of Draco’s hard eyes and loping gait. Beyond that, there was a sense Harry got just looking at the Slytherin boy, as if he really ought to stay back. He wasn’t certain where the feeling came from, but it pinned him to his seat.
Draco Malfoy left a haze of confusion in his wake as he sat at the Slytherin table by Ewan and Rae, rather obviously welcoming them to the House, perhaps expressing his chagrin that he had not been present at the Hat’s Sorting. Harry could almost hear the words although Draco was now considerably far away; moreover, he had the odd impression that if he just narrowed his attention carefully enough, the words would come into focus, like the letters at his eye exams.
“Do not forget that your time is up, Mister Potter,” Snape warned him, jolting Harry out of the half-trance he had not quite realized was overtaking him.
“Huh?” Harry managed.
“He is no longer to obey you,” Snape informed him. “Both your and Mister Malfoy’s punishments are over. Remember what I told you: it is one or the other, Potter, or you are doing worse than merely wasting your time.”
One or the other – befriend him, or ignore him entirely. Harry had been certain mere moments ago that he had succeeded in the former, but now he wasn’t so sure. He busied himself with a chat to Professor Flitwick; in order to make his little punishments, he needed a fairly sophisticated charm, and he wanted consult the diminutive professor to double-check his work. By the time the professional conversation was over, so was breakfast, and Draco Malfoy was long gone.
The day ran rather smoothly for Harry until the sixth-year DADA students arrived, filing in with a great deal of jokes and laughter. Ron grinned at him unabashedly, but Hermione sat down and removed a fresh quill from her case, setting down a hefty stack of parchment before her.
Harry couldn’t help himself; his professional demeanour cracked, and he offered the bushy-haired girl a wide, appreciative smile as a thank-you.
“Hi, everyone,” he said awkwardly as Draco slipped in just before the start of the lesson. It was one thing to be teacher to the first-years; it was another to be that to his mates.
“Hey, Harry!” Seamus whooped enthusiastically, and everyone grinned.
“First of all, some announcements,” Harry said with a smile. “The Defense Association will be starting up again, on the first and third Thursdays of every month–”
There was a widespread cheer at this news; after all, most of the students in Lupin’s sixth-year Defense class had once been Harry’s.
“The second piece of news is that I am officially declaring myself a member of the Unsorted House as of today.”
Many of those in the room looked discomfited; Harry caught Lavender wriggling in her seat as he expressed his desire to distance himself from Gryffindor, and a rash of whispers broke out amidst the small group.
“Look, you all might as well know I’m doing it partially to be able to play Quidditch later on today,” Harry informed them, and he watched them relax. “But, well, that’s not the only reason.”
“Maybe it’s because the Hat proclaimed you a Slytherin in front of everyone,” Zacharias Smith said with a grimace.
“I’m sure that’s what the majority of people will think,” Harry said ruefully – and quickly, because he noted Ron turning red on his behalf. “But the truth is, I’ve been considering joining the Unsorted House for awhile now. This just tipped the scales.”
“I’ve seen you talking to some of the first-years,” Parvati volunteered, looking for confirmation at her friend, Lavender, who nodded.
Harry nodded too, leaning against the teacher’s desk in an unwittingly official-looking pose. “Yes, but mostly I’ve been thinking about prejudice,” he said simply. “I think that us fighting amongst ourselves is exactly what Voldemort wants. Besides, Voldemort is terrified and disgusted by people who aren’t like him. Does anyone in this room really want to be imitating him?” He scoured the classroom with his gaze, and most of his fellow sixth-years looked away.
Not Draco Malfoy, of course, but Harry couldn’t tell whether that was because the blond boy disagreed, or from sheer principle. He wasn’t about to stop class to ask him, either.
“In that spirit,” Harry went on, rummaging behind Lupin’s desk, “there is this.”
Another low murmur filled the room as Harry placed a wooden box with a circular hole cut in its top.
“What’s that?” Padma squeaked.
“Every time anyone in this classroom insults another wizard’s house, they have to reach in here,” Harry said in a deceptively neutral voice, “and take a scrap of parchment. Then, they have to do whatever that paper says.” He smiled. “I’ve charmed them all like Howlers... so if you refuse to do them, they will eventually scream, explode, and likely scorch you. And shout the task you refused to perform, along with some verbal abuse.”
Hermione and Ron blinked in tandem and exchanged a startled glance.
“I think you’ll all agree that the tasks – which, I assure you, are relatively simple – are better than an entire evening in which you and I stare at one another. Right? Right,” he answered himself. “So far, in all of our myriad and somewhat dubious instruction in Defense, I don’t think anyone has covered defense against Charmed Objects. Please take out a fresh bit of parchment – this is a bit tedious, so it may take awhile.”
While the instruction on different sorts of charmed objects went rather well – Harry had secreted different bespelled items both from his own sources, and from random spots throughout the Castle, and the physical examples enlivened the lesson – the moments directly after were what worried Harry.
Zacharias left chatting up Justin, saying, “well, I don’t know who he thinks he is, but if he tells me to take a parchment, I won’t. It’s ridiculous how he was going on like he’s a teacher, he isn’t any older than you or I, is he?”
Harry noted that the blond boy didn’t make much of an effort to modulate his voice, despite the fact that he was standing just outside the classroom doors.
Hermione’s words were even less encouraging, coming as they did from a friend. “You’re somewhat... authoritarian,” she mused, leaning casually against Lupin’s desk, the better to confide in him. “You might want to give more pause after you ask questions, you know, instead of just rapping out the answers yourself when not everyone automatically understands what you mean. We aren’t all as brilliant in Defense as you are.” Seeing Harry’s hurt expression, she stammered, “Harry, that’s a compliment, you know!”
Worst of all, though, was Draco Malfoy, who left the classroom without giving him a second glance.
Once classes let out, Harry made for the dorms rather than the Quidditch pitch, abruptly realizing that his green robes would indubitably be taken for a support of Slytherin. He rooted around in his trunk for his rattiest black, determined not to mess up his dress robes, in any case. He caught a glance of himself in the full-length mirror half-covered by discarded robes, books, and joke shop items – there wasn’t much call for one in the room that he, Ron, Dean and Seamus shared, to be perfectly honest – and blinked in surprise at his reflection.
Sure, he’d spent some time primping in the morning, but over the course of the day, he had managed to forget how he looked. His hair, despite all expectation, remained sort-of neat, or neater than was usual, anyway. His green eyes burned brightly under the influence of his dress robes, and his skin looked far less peaky than usual without the black for contrast. More importantly, he was standing in a posture to which he was unused, shoulders tossed back, expression cool and almost arrogant.
He realized he was seeing his ‘teacher face’ and practically tore out of his nice things. He’d had no idea that he looked – like that. He did the catch for his off-black robes and straightened.
“Well,” the mirror wheezed, hoarse from ages of disuse. “It was a sight, Harry, dear, but I suppose all good things must come to an end.”
Harry, grimacing, ruffled his hair for good measure before heading off for the pitch.
The weather was chill as Harry snuck into the Gryffindor changing rooms, beholding the team for the first time. Katie was there, of course, and, oddly, so was Ginny, who hadn’t said a thing about her placement on the team or lack thereof. When Harry inquired as to her position, she smiled at him and let him know that she had been appointed Chaser. He recognized none of the others, although it could not be denied that Katie had put together a very young team this season.
“Now, Harry,” she warned him darkly. “I’ve been willing to take you on despite the fact that you didn’t do me the courtesy of showing for tryouts...”
“I was trapped in the Chamber of Secrets,” he said lamely.
“...but I also realize you haven’t gotten used to any of our tactics or plays,” she went on. “So – stay out of our way and keep your eye out for the Snitch. Savvy?”
“Savvy,” Harry replied miserably.
“Good. Team? We’re going to lop off the head of Slytherin and serve it to them on a platter!”
“Ewwww...” Ginny moaned.
“Yes, well,” Katie replied anxiously. “All right, so I don’t have the pep talks down like Oliver did.”
Harry laughed, but he was the only one who did. With a pang, he realized he was the only other one in the locker room who remembered Oliver Wood's coaching.
“But that doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “None of it matters, because each one of you is bloody amazing in his or her own right. So go out there and play hard, and play good. We’ll win the day without breaking a sweat,” she added, confidence glowing in her skin, in her voice.
“I like your pep talks better,” Harry muttered.
Katie knocked him playfully in the shoulder and then they were off, to the sounds of Ernie MacMillian announcing their names.
It was still quite unseasonably cold for the end of September, and Harry felt like it ought to be cold enough to see his breath – but only when he breathed out slow and deep did it crystallize in the air, misting and slightly obscuring his vision.
Draco, he slowly realized, was hovering as far from him as humanly possible, all the way at the other end of the pitch. For the first time, Harry felt a stab of irritation at the Slytherin’s aloof demeanour. What is he playing at? he wondered, grimacing.
And then the game was on:
“And Chaser Ginny Weasley, a new addition to the team, seems to be settling in well,” Ernie was saying admiringly. “Look at that girl go!”
Harry did, briefly, still scanning the pitch for a flash of gold. Ginny appeared to be running the length of the pitch on her broom; after a moment, she tossed the Quaffle at one of the Slytherin goals.
Harry heard the ring which signified her success, but he had no attention to pay the rest of the game; he had caught a wink of metallic brightness, and, fast as thought, he was diving for it.
Malfoy, however, had seen him, and strived to overtake Harry, approaching the dark-haired boy at a near-right-angle trajectory, heading for where he expected Harry to be, rather than for where he was... Harry realized that they would crash, but it wasn’t in him to give ground – or air – before the other boy... his days of obeying the Slytherin were over.
At the last moment, Draco swerved dramatically, pulling up on his broom, but it was too late – the two brooms tangled, Harry’s head knocked into Draco’s, and the flight path of both boys was disrupted drastically.
And the Snitch was gone.
“What a move by Draco Malfoy!” Ernie crooned. “The Slytherin Seeker seems more intent on keeping Harry Potter from the elusive Snitch than in capturing it himself!”
Harry, who thought it was rather typical of Malfoy to ram his broom off-course, took it in good grace. He shrugged at the Slytherin and eased his broom higher to see the pitch with more clarity in case the capricious Snitch made a reappearance, rubbing his forehead all the while.
“I couldn’t help but notice that your teammates have stopped attacking you,” Harry said casually, then realized it was the first words he’d spoken to Draco Malfoy in days, after weeks of constant company; the words felt strange in his mouth.
“They were concerned,” Draco replied, “over my loyalties.”
“And now they’re not,” Harry filled in, still feeling as though there were something strange about the discussion.
For an answer, Draco dove and Harry instinctively followed, leaning close along his broom, scanning for the flash of gold –
There was none, he realized: a feint. He pulled out immediately, followed Draco at a more sedate speed.
“Just trying to avoid a conversation, aren’t you, Malfoy?” he shot out – and it was a shot in the dark, but his words seemed to find the mark anyway. Draco flushed under his gaze, then growled, “leave it alone, Potter,” under his breath.
“Don’t think I will,” Harry replied cockily. “So, what’s made your schoolmates change their collective mind? You kneel in front of Voldemort and pledge your eternal obedience?”
Harry had been hoping to provoke a reaction, something along the lines of you wish, Potter, you can’t be rid of me so easily, and so he was startled by Draco’s visibly different reaction.
Draco’s broom jerked – he paled. Harry watched him swallow.
After that, there didn’t seem to be very much to say. Harry had forgotten the game below them, and he thought it was pretty safe to say that Malfoy had forgotten it as well. The pale-haired boy blinked at him unassumingly, his expression surprisingly blank, open, as though he were awaiting judgment. Harry, for his part, scanned the other boy’s expression, searching for the tell-tale sign of a lie.
He could not find one, but that didn’t change his opinion on the matter.
“I don’t believe you,” Harry said, and it was a statement of fact rather than an accusation.
Draco’s features twisted, his glare turning ugly. “Believe it, Potter,” he said.
“Let me see it, then.”
“See what?” he demanded, too quickly.
Harry edged his broom closer to the Slytherin’s, until the tail of his broom brushed against the tail of Draco’s. “You know what. I want to see your arm.”
“No.” Draco jerked both physically and magically away, flinching and unconsciously easing his broom away from Harry’s.
“Yes,” Harry countered. “I have to see it. I have to see it now.” He edged his broom forward again.
With a snarl, Draco was off, speeding across the sky, and with less than a moment’s pause, Harry was following him, urging his broom to greater and still greater speeds, the way he had done that misty morning alone on the Quidditch pitch, testing how fast his model could truly go... Draco looped tightly through the air, but Harry followed... Draco feinted, speeding towards the ground, but Harry dropped directly through the air, letting gravity do the work for him, knowing he would be going faster than Draco by the time he was ten feet from the ground... Draco sped dangerously close to the onlooking witches and wizards, Harry a mere foot behind him, now...
“Slow the hell down!” Harry ordered.
“I don’t listen to you anymore, Potter!” Draco shouted back – then had to dip instantly to avoid the Bludger which had been heading for them. Harry was less than a heartbeat behind, but he still felt the heavy ball graze his hair.
Now he was alongside Malfoy, who rammed him from the side. His leg smarted, but he ignored it, twining his right leg around Draco’s left, so that it was not only impossible for the Slytherin to ram him, but also impossible to escape him. He rose in the air and Draco was bound to follow, however little he liked it.
Draco flipped to Harry’s own broom so that he was seated facing the black-haired boy; he knocked Harry in the teeth, and leapt back to his own broom now hovering below.
Draco’s diversionary tactic had not bought him much time. Instants later, Harry had his hands wrapped around the double length of Draco’s broomstick and his own, binding them together and making it impossible for Draco to escape. Harry fumbled anxiously for Draco’s sleeve, tearing it in the process.
The blond boy had been struggling like a man possessed, but once his arm was exposed, he froze, going suddenly limp in Harry’s arms.
Harry, for his part, had never really believed it. He’d thought, somehow, that Draco’s arm had been injured, or that Draco had merely wanted to maintain some of his Slytherin mystique – but there it was, in throbbing black, dark as pitch and twice as odious: a skull with a poisonous snake slithering up from its depths, set in and surrounded by skin pink with recent abuse...
Harry released Draco with a cry, but the fight seemed to have left the boy, who merely glared at Harry in silent, offended fury from underneath his fringe of pale hair.
Harry swallowed, then swallowed again; he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the Dark Mark; he stared so long and so hard that the image seemed to blur in his eyes, the snake emerging from the skull, flicking its tongue at him.
“You go the hell away!” Harry hissed angrily. “You leave him alone!”
It was then that he realized dimly that he was: a)incoherent – b) speaking in Parseltongue to an inanimate object –c) yelling at a mess of ink and magic for attacking his friend – and d) defending someone who was rather obviously not a friend in the first place.
It came upon Harry suddenly that he had been very, very stupid. Because while Draco had said he trusted Harry, he had never told Harry that he liked him. Draco could trust Harry because he was honorable. Because Harry was a Gryffindor.
Because Harry was oh-so-stupid...
The pain was so acute that Harry doubled over and thought he might vomit. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought rambled, and won’t that be a pleasant surprise to the spectators below...
God it hurthurthurt, and Harry slowly came to realize that he was about to perform an Obscura, and that he didn’t really care because this was the sort of thing that Obscura was really for, and the darkness was building in him, rising like a wave does over your head at high tide, and he was noticing all sorts of things he hadn’t before, because something in him was still subconsciously fighting it off, despite the fact that not caring a whit for Draco Malfoy was looking better and better –
He was cold, so cold he began to shiver, and the sensation of drowning persisted and persisted, no matter that he cracked an eye open to view the air around him, hoping to dispel the impression. His stomach felt even sicker, and in his brain was a scrambling, rapid-fire jumble of thoughts that often either made little sense or had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Paradoxically, the encroaching Obscura allowed him a certain cool indifference that enabled him to examine each thought as it flitted from his subconscious to his conscious mind and back again, attempting to form connections in the connectionless sea of combined terror, hopelessness, and grief that was seeing the Dark Mark on Draco Malfoy’s pale arm.
And suddenly it reached the point of becoming unbearable, and Harry, with a familiar feeling of resignation, decided to give in...
...when Draco made an odd noise in the back of his throat, and the Obscura collapsed, the backwash beating against Harry.
Harry choked, the pent-up energy still singing in him, although he no longer felt the faintest urge to do an Obscura. In fact, he felt strangely sleepy...
The pitch spun.
“Uh oh,” Harry said, aloud. His hands suddenly seemed weak and uncoordinated as they grasped for his broom handle; he only managed to avoid falling off by leaning heavily forward, and hanging on to his Firebolt for dear life.
Then he realized that Draco was already sliding limply off of his broom and into the void one-hundred meters above the pitch, eyes fluttering closed as he lost consciousness.
The End.