Truth's Like Blood Underneath Your Fingernails by ChoicesWeMake

Harry is curled comfortably under his covers, and has just turned to chapter twenty-six, when his heart stops. One night in Godric's Hollow, proclaims the chapter title, and Harry can feel his hands clench around the book as he draws it closer, shivering, as his eyes drink the words in.

Nearly tearing the page with his eagerness as he turns it, he feels his throat clench because there is a picture - moving! - of a green-eyed woman tossing a mane of dark copper hair and flashing a secret smile, and a tall man with a shining, boyish grin, Harry's crazy hair, and his arm wrapped around the woman, and suddenly the words don't matter anymore. Harry can't draw his eyes away. Unconsciously, his fingers rise to trace the picture as the couple wiggle as close to each other as they can get, trading a proud look. James and Lily Potter, says the caption.

They look perfect, and happy, and his mother had red hair? He can feel himself trembling. Hagrid is right. He has his mother's eyes, exactly. He reaches up to clench his messy black locks in a fist. And his father's hair…feeling unsteady, dizzy almost, he slides off the bed and nearly runs into the empty loo, stares into the mirror nearly cross-eyed trying to examine his facial features, then stares deep into the green of his own eyes.

He walks in a wooden daze back to his bed before crawling in. He doesn't want to close the book, doesn't want to take his eyes away – doesn't want to lose them.

Before he's even able to think about, he's tearing the page from the book, and it comes with a crisp rip. Tossing the book away, he traces his finger over his mother's face hungrily, moves to his father, then back. He remembers when he first learned their names, a mistake of Aunt Petunia's when he was nearly five, and he's held them in his head ever since, keeping them tucked away somewhere in a special box where he draws them out and runs over them when he has quiet moments in his cupboard. But this…he never imagined…his face is stinging but there's no tears, nothing to blink away. His ears are hot and his heart is beating with almost painful thuds against his chest.

He stares at those figures, forcing his sluggish eyes to stay open, picture clutched in his sweaty fingers, memorizing the way his lips turn up and the way her eyes laugh without her mouth even moving, long, long after the last door bangs distantly shut in Slytherin house.

A green flash, and Harry is upright, flinging his covers away from him as if they're scorching, breathing hard. He closes his eyes, pinching them tight shut, and then opens them again, trying to blink away the confused images in his mind. Malfoy, of all people, and Snape, in his dream, and someone else, too…someone with a shrill, piercing laugh. He can't remember it all - he's trying not to, and his arms come around to hug himself as he stares blankly into the darkness.

He spots the beloved picture, which is still held between his sweaty fingers, and tucks it gently under his pillow. He hears a shuffle from another bed and freezes, hoping he didn't make a lot of noise before waking up. The shuffling stops, and Harry lets his head drop, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"Stupid," he whispers fiercely, and he doesn't even know whether he's referring to himself, the nightmares, or the fact that he can't really seem to get rid of them. His body twinges against the curled up position he's in, but Harry ignores it.

"Stupid, stupid…"

He sighs, falls back onto the bed on his side. The pillow against his face feels surreal, the curtains heavy on either side of his bed, and suddenly he can’t stay laying there another moment. Taking a breath, he pulls himself up again and pushes the curtains aside, resting his feet on the floor. He scrubs at his eyes, feels his breath hitch again as that green light flashes through his mind.

"Potter, what on earth…" mumbles an incredulous voice. Harry shrinks blindly from the darkness.

"Sorry, sorry, I-" he rasps. "It's nothing."

He peers out, feeling for the glasses on his bedside table, knowing that he recognizes that voice. A minute later, the annoyed, aloof face of Theodore Nott is staring over at him, curtain parted.

"I'm sorry." Harry offers again, strained.

Nott's got a strange tint in his eye as he studies Harry for a moment, but finally rolls over and closes his eyes.

"Jus' go to sleep, Potter."

"Right," Harry says. "I'll-I'm just going to get some water."

And then he flees the dorm room, bare feet pattering into the washroom. Shutting the door quietly he slides down against it, leans his head back and groans.

He's not really sure where Nott stands in things. He's certainly not one of Malfoy's goons, but he hasn't made much of an effort with Harry, either - not that Harry expects that. He swallows. People have been friendly, neutral, snide or outright hostile, but almost no one's specifically wanted to spend time with him. Except, well, Blaise. It seems like Blaise just couldn't care less about what anyone else thinks, and nothing Harry has done so far has messed their tentative friendship up. But Nott – he hangs around them on and off, but Harry can never quite tell with him.

Now not only did Harry wake the poor boy up in the middle of the night, but he probably heard Harry waking up from his…dream. Harry's throat tightens. It's fine. He'll handle it. If it's all over the Common Room by tomorrow, he can take it. Think about something else, think about something else.

Flying. Flying tomorrow is going to be brilliant, Harry knows it, Malfoy or not. He's going to be in the sky, like he has wings, and there's going to be nothing but wind and blue… Harry relaxes and imagines himself up there, wondering and wondering what it's going to feel like to be released from the ground.

There's a loud squeak as the door is forced open, a squabble of voices and Harry jerks away as his dead weight is pushed by the door. He jumps to his feet, moving back and running his hands through his hair. Wincing, he realizes his glasses have fallen off in his hurry, and he scrambles over the floor for them.

"Lost something, Potter?" Malfoy's voice sneers above him, voice thick with disgust. "What in Merlin's name are you doing on the floor? Wiping it, maybe? That's the only things those ridiculous rags you're wearing are good for, really–“

Harry's hands close around his glasses and he grips them with white knuckles before jamming them onto his face. Goyle and Crabbe are suddenly behind Malfoy, and Harry backs against the wall. Quiet morning, Harry alone…this is a perfect opportunity for Malfoy, and sure enough, he's drawing his wand.

"Better poor and happy than rich and miserable," Harry spits out, even though it's kind of a stupid saying, and Harry isn't either of those.

"Let me help you with that, Potter."

There's a malicious smile on his face as Malfoy lifts the wand, and Harry braces, glaring, wishing he had his, because he's not going down without a fight.

"Accio," Malfoy says triumphantly, and Harry's glasses go flying into Malfoy's waiting hands. Malfoy holds them up cackling. Well, fine, if that's the worst he's going to do.

Harry stands stiffly as Malfoy waves them around tauntingly, his figure blurred.

"Oh, dear, Potty's face is quite empty without his famous spectacles," Malfoy says. "Shall we give him some decorations to match that hideous scar of his?"

Harry's eyes narrow, desperately trying to focus. Malfoy's got his glasses, his wand in his hand, and he's jeering… but he's hesitating. Harry can see it in the way he's angling his wand, not quite at Harry, as if he doesn't really want to hurt him.

It's different than Dudley, and Harry's standing there, stilled, not sure why he's not being beaten into the ground and slammed into shower stalls yet. Malfoy has him at wand point. Malfoy has him at wand point, helpless, and he's done nothing but steal his glasses and wave them around and taunt him like some excited primary kid.

Although that doesn't mean he's not about to do more.

Crabbe shoves forward and makes toward Harry, who flinches back, and then there's a sudden voice from the door.

"Can't a bloke even get to the loo? What's this, then?"

His tone is even, but, as usual, he sounds just slightly annoyed. Theodore Nott.

Crabbe glances at Malfoy stupidly, and then backs away.

"Absolutely nothing, Teddy," Malfoy says lightly. "Just about to help Potter wash his face."

Harry holds in a shudder. The bathroom is a veritable playground of creative, nasty props, a bully's dream, and Harry would know. He’s had long, forced get togethers with toilets, shower heads, sinks, and the fragile, sharp cold of washroom tile.

Malfoy tosses the spectacles on the ground, and Harry inches toward them, then snatches them from the ground, blushing. They're his only pair, and he has no way to get another. Aunt Petunia barely bothered to let him get these. He feels the frames bent just slightly, but presses his lips together as he shoves past Crabbe, Nott, Goyle, Malfoy, out into the dorm, and collapses, slumped into his bed, letting the curtains fall behind them.

He's so tired! He can't believe he fell asleep in the loo, of all places. He grabs his wand, wary of not having it now, and bolts up again. It's morning. Time to throw his clothes and his robes on, gather his books…his mind flashes suddenly, and he reaches under his pillow, clutching the folded up page for a minute. He takes one stolen glance at it before tucking it securely into his History of Magic textbook and feeling ridiculously better. It's safer there than in his dirty, holey pockets, but he'll still be able to carry it with him. And-today…today he's going to fly.

I'll make you proud, he promises the picture, fingers fondling it roughly before he pulls away and presses the clean pages closed around it.

Malfoy scowls at Harry all through breakfast, probably sore about being interrupted by Nott this morning. The Slytherin table is alive with rumors about him, but Harry ignores them as he does pretty much everyday until he's leaving, and Malfoy bumps into him on his way out.

"Heard you had a rough night last night, Potty. Poor widdle Potter can't sleep without his mummy?" he heckles. "Awww,"

Several firsties nearby laugh, and Harry furiously starts forward, before barely managing to hold himself back. Crabbe, Goyle, Great Hall, he reminds himself through gritted teeth.

Fuming, Harry turns away and nearly runs straight into Nott. Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe are walking away, laughing, and he deflates.

"You told them, didn't you?" Harry says quietly.

Nott eyes him disdainfully, still looking perpetually annoyed. "What are you going on about?"

"Why?" Harry crosses his arms. "I... just want to know."

Nott looks at him. His face turns scornful.

"I do have better things to discuss with people than Harry Potter's bizarre nighttime habits, you know," he says.

Harry let his breath out, and finds his voice is trembling now. "You..you didn't?" he chokes.

"I do actually have useful things to do with my time besides gossip. Studying, for example. With Daphne Greengrass." Nott smiles faintly, and Harry lets out a little breathless chuckle of disbelief.

"I really am sorry I woke you up last night.”

"Potter, I don't know what you're talking about."

With that, he breezes away.

Harry finds Blaise walking beside him to class, and remembers the other boy's careful glance as he tossed him the book yesterday. He feels a sudden urge to hug Blaise, but he's afraid of doing it wrong, and is that really a thing boys do, anyway? He's never seen Dudley or his gang do it... not that they're great examples of how one should act. He restrains himself, but finds his face splitting into the warmest, widest smile it's ever had. He catches the other boy's hand before jerking back.

"Blaise!"

Blaise grins at him.

"Thank you. For the book. I can't-I don't know how you knew, but I–I’ll–I just–“ Harry breathes it all out, not quite sure how to express-no one's ever done anything like this for him before, and he–

Blaise shrugs, gives him a little pondering look, before waving his gratitude away with a grin.

They walk to class, Blaise going on about McGonagall, their transfiguration teacher and Gryffindor Head of House. Harry likes her actually, a bit. She's stern, but more encouraging than Snape is, and she tends to be fair, even if she is more warm toward the Gyffindors. Flitwick is funny, and Madame Sprout is nice…Binns is utterly tedious and droning. Harry doesn't think he's ever been so out-of-his-mind bored in a class, ever. Which is too bad, because the subject would interest Harry otherwise. He hasn't met Madame Hooch yet, who's teaching their flying class this afternoon, but he has to admit, is he ever looking forward to it.

As it turns out, she's alright, too. She's got sharp, bright eyes and she seems to run things pretty tight, but Harry doesn't mind, because then there's a broom and he's clutching the smoothed wood between his hands.

"Grip like this," Hooch demonstrates, holding her own broom, and Harry squints, moving his fingers into the same position.

"That's not how my father told me to do it," Malfoy interrupts.

Hooch ambles over to him, face pinched with disapproval.

"Well, now that I've taught you the correct way, Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you can go home and teach him,” she suggests roguishly, and Harry hides a grin.

"And, kick off from the ground in three, two-"

Not everyone is having an easy time of it. Blaise is doing all right, but several of the other Slytherins aren’t. Pansy Parkinson's broom is wobbling beneath her, and Gregory Goyle hasn't even got his off the ground yet. Harry glances over at the Gyffindors. Some of them seem to be having trouble, too. In fact, there's one rather chunky boy with blondish hair and a sheen of sweat on his forehead who's - Harry's eyes widen, and his hands tighten around the broom under him. The boy is off before Madame Hooch has sounded the last number, shooting far higher in the air than they were instructed to go.

"Neville Longbottom, get back!" Madame Hooch shouts, but his broom is going straight up like a cork launched from a bottle, higher, higher - suddenly he gasps, and the broom shoots sideways, and he's slipping, slipping - and the whole class grimaces when he thuds into the ground with a whine. Seconds later, a quiet thunk announces the arrival of his broom, right beside him.

Madame Hooch hurries to him and inspects him a moment.

"Broken wrist," she says shortly, then spins around.

"I'm taking him to the hospital wing, and don't any of you move until I get back! If I find one of you in the air, you'll be out of Hogwarts quicker than you can blink."

As soon as she and Longbottom have hobbled off, a quiet murmur flows between the Gryffindor and Slytherin sides.

"Well, well, the house of the brave seems to be lacking a little skill and daring today," Malfoy sniggers, pushing his way to the head of the Slytherin crowd.

Harry feels an aggravated twinge. He doesn't mind Malfoy picking on him, he's used to it. But he wishes Malfoy would bloody well leave everybody else alone.

"What do you think, Parkinson?" Malfoy continues loudly. "Think big fat baby Longbottom lacked more skill, or bravery today?"

Parkinson, her ridiculously smooth hair shimmering dark in the sunlight, laughs sharply.

"Well, I don't know, Malfoy…that's a hard one!"

It's obvious they're putting on a show, and the Gryffindor lines are getting as crimson as their ties, while snickers float up from some of the Slytherins.

Harry frowns, and inches over toward Malfoy.

"Don't pick a fight, you prat," he says, voice low. "We'll get in trouble."

"Or they will!" Malfoy hisses back.

And then he rolls out another loud, taunting commentary, and Harry can see a lanky Gryffindor with bright red hair and a spray of freckles draw his wand.

That’s it. Harry shoves Malfoy hard, and glares. If he wants to pick a fight he can, but he's not going start some House war that's going to affect everything for the rest of the school year. They have a hard enough time with the Gryffs.

"Something to say, Potter?" Malfoy's pale eyes are burning silver fire, and Harry realizes maybe even more than showing off, Malfoy is trying to make up for his hesitance this morning.

"I was just wondering if you practice provoking everyone around you on purpose, or if that's just another natural talent of yours,” Harry says lightly. "Although, considering Madame Hooch's comments this morning, we'd have to reevaluate just what natural talents you actually have…"

He's hit him hard exactly where he knows to, and it's a bit of a low blow, but when is something between him and Malfoy not? Some of the Gryffs are staring, wide-eyed, but at least they've backed off, most of them throwing disgusted glances toward the other group and turning away, muttering something about slimy Slytherins being easy to incite. Hypocrites, Harry thinks.

Malfoy leans over to him, pointed face fierce, eyes flaring.

"I live in your dorm, Potter, are you sure you want to start this?"

It surprises him a little that Malfoy's giving Harry a bridge to back up, but Harry doesn't hesitate.

"I never started anything with you, Malfoy! I didn't have to! You started this, so just stick to your bloody little target and bugger off the Gryffs - they could cause real trouble, for all of us!"

Malfoy's eyebrows have shot up.

"Defending the poor little lions, now are, Potty?"

Then his face hardens.

"Ever the hero, Potter. You should learn early that heroes always get what's coming to them."

Harry's never been a hero, and that's not what he is now, but he picks up the taunt.

"And what's that, Malfoy? Everything? The gold, the girl, the kingdom? Because from what I've read of heroes, they're usually the winners."

"Oh?" Malfoy closes in with the air of predator on prey, his voice light and bladed and swirled with malice. "Because that's not what I hear about your parents, little orphan Harry. Heroes, apparently, but they didn't get much for it, did they?"

Harry hears a blank sort of roaring in his ears, and Malfoy's still talking.

"-Martyrs, we could go with, maybe. Of course, you provided them with that golden opportunity, but I wonder if they wouldn't rather still be alive-"

Harry lunges for his school bag and the wand he tucked inside, being afraid it was going to fall out of his pocket while he flew, but Goyle is one step ahead of him, moving surprisingly fast for his bulky figure to grab Harry’s bag

Then Malfoy is suddenly in front of him. He tuts, smirking.

"Oh, dear, Potter."

Greg turns the school bag upside down and Harry's books and wand come tumbling out over each other, spraying onto the ground. Harry sucks in air with a gasp when he sees his History of Magic, and suddenly, that's all he can think about. Forget the wand, he needs that book. The book with his picture. He dives after it, and barely notices out of the corner of his eye that he's startled them; they obviously expected him to go after his wand. His fingers have barely brushed the book, though, before it's yanked away, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe.

Pulling himself from the ground, he's heaving.

"Give that back, Malfoy."

"What? This old textbook?"

Malfoy smiles, shimmying his broom under him, with the book in one hand. Of course he doesn't understand why it's so important, but he does understand that Harry wants it, badly. Malfoy's suddenly off the ground, floating smoothly up, his broom hovering. He's handling the broom with ease, and Harry feels a prick of disappointment that Malfoy seems to be almost as good as he said.

"Fine, Potter. You want your old book? Come and get it!"

Harry's shaking finger's are already grasping his broom. Without even thinking, his feet kick backward and he's thrusted upward, his robes flying out behind him, and he wobbles a little in air, and then shoots forward.

"Potter, you idiot!”

Harry barely register's Nott's voice from the stunned crowd below, and is faintly impressed that he's moved Nott from his inscrutable mood, but he ignores it. He's flying, the air rushing through him, running through his hair, over his skin, and it's brilliant. His blood is pumping hard and fast as he soars, pulling his broomstick up a little to jerk it higher, higher, and there's a collective gasp from the students below.

Harry, however, is reveling in the sharpness of the sky and the fierceness ripping through him, his toes are curling in his too-large shoes, his hands gripping the stick like a lifeline. His head is cleared, and there is just one thought left in it: he's getting that picture.

He swivels mid air and finds himself level with Malfoy, who's looking at him with a face even paler than usual and a poor attempt at keeping his jaw shut.

"Give it over, Draco,” Harry says coldly.

Malfoy regains his composure, and a gleam of triumph comes into his eyes. "Alright. Fine. Catch, Potter!"

And the book is sailing over them, then plummeting toward the ground in a free-fall.

No! Harry watches it, as if in slow motion, and he lets instinct carry him as he wraps himself around his broomstick until they are one, streaking fast and faster in a steep dive toward the ground, white wind whistling loud, nothing is moving but him and his broom and that falling book. The ground is rushing at him, but he has eyes for one thing only. He flings a hand out, fingertips stretching as if they could extend at their ends, and he puts whatever he has left into reaching those tumbling pages. Those tender tips feel something solid, and seconds later, he feels his feet skid against the ground. He's coming in fast, tries to stop, and suddenly he's tumbling to the ground, book crushed in his grip and cradled to his chest.

He can feel his side hit hard, maybe even scrape, and his elbows plow into the grass. There's dirt on his face and green in his hair, but he's whole, and his picture…rummaging frantically through the pages, he finds it tucked into the back, no worse for wear. He's a little shocked it didn't fall out while the book was pitched toward the ground, but there it is, and he feels a rush of relieved tears behind his eyes that he blinks away.

Shakily, he gets to his feet, gathers the book, snatches his broom up, and looks around into a rabble of staggered, dumbfounded faces. He's panting, and he bites his lip, trying to catch his breath.

"HARRY POTTER!"

There's a loud screech that makes him wince, and then his broom is plucked away. Harry steps back, bracing, he doesn't know what for, but it's Madame Hooch, and she's obviously seen something. Seen enough.

"Mr. Potter, did I or did I not instruct you specifically not to even get off the ground?"

"You did, but-"

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Malfoy's suddenly not very far too his side, looking disgruntled and defensive.

"You were off the ground, as well?"

Well, she must have gotten that from the Gryffindors, because there's no way she arrived early enough to see that, and Malfoy certainly wasn't confessing.

Malfoy must see there would be no use protesting, because he utters a petulant "yes".

"Go! Go stand over by the wall, boys. You will be dealt with shortly."

Harry slowly gathers his bag, picks his books up numbly and drops them in it, then carefully tucks his only slightly wind-battered History of Magic in and stumbles over the side of the castle, and only then does it start to sink in, and his heart is sinking with it. What has he done?