When Harry walks out of the Potions classroom, he’s thinking so hard about Snape that he doesn’t even notice at first. But when he glances up, mouth already open, expecting to see Blaise and Nott leaning casually against the wall, muttering to each other as usual, they’re just…not there.
He doesn’t feel anything, no speeding heartbeat, no rush of adrenaline, just blinks at the space where they should be standing, where they always stand, waiting for him in the corridor, and frowns at it. That’s not right…that’s not…that’s wrong, it’s not supposed to look like that.
Blaise and Theodore aren’t waiting for him. He feels morbidly curious, wonders what it was he did, because they seemed fine with him at the end of Potions. Not back to normal, but that was mostly Harry’s fault, because he didn’t know how to feel about them, or what you did when someone who was - is - your friend, did something like that. How are you supposed to react? Harry doesn’t know, but he obviously did something wrong, because they’re…they’re just not there. They said they would be. But they’re not.
Harry quickens his step as he makes his way to History of Magic. Maybe they went ahead (even though they said they’d wait). Maybe they’ve saved him a seat in History of Magic and they’ll all sit together making fun of Professor Bins (in the most low-key, non-distracting manner, of course) like normal, before this whole disaster happened.
Except when Harry walks into the History of Magic classroom (what seems like an eon later), they’re not there, either. And that’s when Harry feels the first jolt of foreboding. Maybe this isn’t about him. Maybe they’re in danger!
He wiggles on his seat, raises his hand as high as he can.
“Professor Binns!”
Binns drawls to a stop mid-lecture, wrinkling his forehead at Harry - which looks very, very odd on a ghost.
“Yes? You have a question about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911?”
“Er, no, sir. I was wondering, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott - they’re not in class.”
Blast, if they were skipping out for some reason and Harry called attention to the fact (when Binns would never have noticed otherwise, really) and they got in trouble for it, that wouldn't be a good way to endear himself, would it?
“Ah, yes -“ Binns wheezes. “Unfortunate happening; they’ve had an excused absence.”
“An excused absence?” Harry questions sharply. “What for?”
Binns peers at him disapprovingly. “It’s my understanding that one of the boys was escorted to the hospital wing.”
Harry shoots up from his chair. “I’ve got to go,”
“I’m unaware of any excused absence on your part - Mr. Potter, isn’t it?”
Harry mouth twitches unhappily, but he sinks back down into his seat. The rest of this class is going to be torture. At least usually he can sneak a nap in or snicker at passing notes with Blaise and Theodore. Now he’s not going to be able to think of anything else. Which one of them had to be escorted to the Hospital Wing? What on earth for? Who would hurt Blaise or Theodore Nott?
The moment - and maybe even a few seconds before - Binns dismisses class, and everyone rises lethargically to their feet, Harry is out the door and winging it through marbled corridor toward the first floor and the arched double doors of the Hospital wing.
Hurling himself through them, he stutters to a stop as his eyes drink in the sight. Blaise and Theodore, standing casually next to one of the hospital cots talking to Madame Pomfrey, who hustles over to Harry immediately.
“Don’t tell me you, too -“
"I'm fine, Madame," Harry feels bad for brushing past her, but he does it anyway, pushing toward Blaise and Theodore until he's right beside them.
“You’re alright?” Harry breaths. “What happened?”
“’S all good, Harry.” Blaise quirks a sort of sideways smiled at him, though it seems tight around the edges of his lips. “Theodore here just got into a little tiff with Malfoy.”
Harry scowls. Of course it was Malfoy. “Well, and?” He presses.
This time, Theodore speaks up, sounding not a little annoyed. “He managed, by no skill of his own, mind you, to hit me with a furunculous jinx.”
“That’s awful!” Harry gasps. Then, a second later, “Er - what exactly does that do?”
“Boils,” Blaise says brightly. “Great, honking ugly boils. Painful, too.”
Theodore glares at Blaise, and Harry shudders.
“You don’t look bad,” Harry offers to Theodore.
“An easy fix!” Blaise explains. “There’s a potion gets rids of them. He’s his endearing old haughty self now.”
The boils may have been an easy fix, but whatever started the fight obviously isn’t - and it had to have been something quite inflammatory, because Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Theodore coerced into drawing his wand before. Theodore Nott looks like he’s plotting murder, and honestly, Harry wouldn’t really put it past him.
“Well,” Harry jests weakly, “at least you got out of History of Magic.”
Blaise’s eyes go wide as he swivels away from Theodore abruptly. “But Harry! What about you and Snape? Are you in trouble?”
“No,” Harry says slowly. “Well, not any new trouble, anyway. My detention’s tonight.”
Blaise stops, folding his arms. “We were caught with you last night. We should go to detention, too-”
“No!” Harry protests vehemently. “It was my idea, I was the only reason you were out.”
Blaise sighs. “I’ll have treacle tart waiting for you?”
“No, you won’t,” Harry grins. “It’s with Filch, remember? He always manages to keep me late, you’ll be in bed asleep.”
Blaise purses his lips stubbornly. “I’ll leave it on your bedside table then.”
“You know Malfoy will eat it before I get to it.”
“Well, I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t I?”
“How?”
“We’re Slytherins, Potter. I’ll figure it out.”
“D’you think Theo’s reading that book, or trying to glower it to death with his eyes?” Blaise whispers to Harry.
Harry snickers. “You could ask him.”
“No thanks!” Blaise shook his head, grinning. “It wouldn’t be the book in danger of death, then!”
Whatever happened with Malfoy, Theodore Nott isn’t able to shrug it off like Blaise has. He’s been irritated - more than usual - and snappish the whole evening, stiff and withdrawn, and they haven’t been able to tease him out of it.
When Blaise starts a pillow fight in the corner of their common room, Harry welcomes it, both as a distraction from his looming detention and as an outlet for his nervous energy.
At the end, he and Blaise are sitting in a pile of fluff as feathers shower down around them, and their shouts of laughter are finally dying down. Nott is reading in a chair, not having been convinced to join them.
“So,” Blaise turns to Harry. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
For a moment, Harry goes still with surprise, because Blaise says it lightly, but his brown eyes are soft and questioning, and Harry can’t think of what to say.
Nott’s book snaps closed.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Nott says cooly. “We did what needed to be done the other night, Potter, and you know it.”
Harry bristles, pulling himself until he’s sitting up straight. “Is that so?” He says. “You decided that, did you?”
“Well, you weren’t going to decide. Not when you were too busy trying to hold a grudge against the one man who could actually have helped -“
“Ah, yeah, because that’s all adults want to do, help-“
Nott’s eyes hardened. “Snape helped you!“
“Bit of a gamble, though, wasn’t it?” Harry bit out.
“Of course it was, Potter, everything is, if you don’t take risks, you can’t achieve anything, and you certainly won’t advance beyond all the other safety-hugging cowards-“
“Coward, now!” Harry cries with a sharp laugh. “And what are you, a Gryffindor?”
Not stiffens and Harry sees Blaise wince out of the corner of his eye.
Theodore’s face has darkened, looking impossibly shadowed. His tone is flat. “I like you, Harry. Don't - don’t cross me.”
“Or what?” Harry says. “You’ll snitch on me to Snape? Oh, except-“
Theodore stands abruptly, movements sharp, and Harry realizes in that instant that Theodore’s hand is on his wand. He catches his breath, bracing, he isn’t sure for what. Something dangerous and unknown is swirling around the other boy - but Nott rips his hand from his wand, snatches up the book he’d been reading from the chair and stabs it into it’s place on a low bookshelf before whirling and striding from the room. When he leaves the air settles slightly, feeling like they’ve just missed by inches being hit by a devastating thunderstorm.
Harry’s fists are clenched, and he’s trembling; he can feel his fingers shaking against his palm.
“He-“ he seethes at the empty doorway, nearly spitting. “He doesn't have the right to gamble with what isn't his - my life, with Hedwig-”
Blaise, for once, doesn’t say anything.
And then, very quietly - “Harry,”
Harry turns on him, nearly says something cutting and unforgivable, but - none of this is Blaise’s fault. Harry deflates, tries to catch his breath, the anger seeping from him slowly, and he can feel an unutterable sort of sadness flood in behind it.
“Don’t take it too hard, Harry.” Blaise says softly. “Theo’s - not himself. He got a letter from his parents today.”
Harry feels like that should mean something to him, but he doesn’t understand, and he’s tired of not understanding.
Harry’s right, isn’t he? Getting yelled at, taken things out on, just because someone’s had a bad day - he gets enough of that from the Dursley’s, doesn’t he? It’s not fair that he has to put up with it from his friends, too.
Then Blaise stands, helps Harry up, leaving a corner of the common room exploded with in white plumage - leaving a mess behind them - as they shuffle into the boy’s dorm.
“Blaise - you, Theodore….you’re the only ones I’ve ever had on my side,” Harry says quietly.
“Leave him be, awhile.” Blaise advises gently. “He’ll come back.”
“I- yeah.” Harry says, not looking at him. Then, he startles. “What time…? I’ve got to get to detention.”
“That’s right,” Blaise gasps. “Go on, then, Harry.”
At the last minute, just before Harry rushes out the door, Blaise catches him and wraps his arm around him tightly for a long second before he lets go, giving Harry a shrug and a little grin afterward.
“Good luck with Filch, mate.”
Harry nods.
He can feel Blaise's hug all the way to Filch’s office.
Chapter 4
To be continued...
Chapter End Notes:
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