Chapter Text
Thursday, 7th November 1996
Evening
Harry was scrambling frantically through his potions textbook, looking for an obscure point he'd referenced in a previous essay, when Ron rushed into the dormitory.
"Mate, you have to help me," said the redhead, eyes bulging but mouth pressed in a determined line. He had just came from the shower and was clad in only a, thankfully rather huge and fluffy, towel.
"Um, what is it?" Harry eyed his half naked friend warily and put the book aside. He stood up, hoping it wasn't something gross; like vomit in the loo. Ron did look a bit green around the edges.
"You see," he said, grabbing Harry by the arm and hauling the shorter boy to his side. Then he stopped, turned alarmingly pale, and dropped Harry's arm like it'd turned into a slimy snake.
"Okay," Harry said, like this sort of thing happened all time. Which, not actually, but close.
"Just come here quickly," Ron muttered and marched through the bathroom door, Harry following less enthusiastically. With his eyes squinted near shut, he looked around for blood splattered tiles or, more likely, spiders chilling on the ceiling. Finding nothing of the sort, Harry breathed easier.
"Nice," he commented. "You even mopped up the water afterwards this time." "Evanesco," said Ron.
Harry drew up short because: one, Ron had remembered a spell he usually 'has no use for, Hermione always vanishes the food from my shirts anyway' and two, he sounded dismissive about performing a spell in a scary Hermione way.
"What." He didn't know how the standard response was supposed to go because this never happens. Ron shrugged, "Whatever, s'not hard." Harry might have stopped breathing. "And anyway, that's not why we're here." Oh good, Harry was slightly terrified for a moment there. Crisis somewhat averted.
"C'mon then, out with it," Harry said briskly, not even in the mood to gently prompt the matter along.
"Ineedyoutosearchmybody," Ron blurted in one breath, again changing the colour of his face and a disturbing percentage of his chest. Crimson, Harry supposed, or puce. Or was that a more purple colour? Either way, there were zero freckles in sight; he felt they had the right idea.
"What," Harry said again. Ron cringed and scratched his neck awkwardly (yeah, mate, same) and said more slowly, "It hasn't shown up yet, you know, the tattoo? And... Mate, you know I wouldn't normally ask but..." an awkward foot shuffle, "Just help me, please? It must be somewhere I can't see."
They both huffed out breaths at the same time. Ron in embarrassment and relief probably. Harry in weariness and resignation and disgust and amusement and so much despair. His life, always these glamorous surprises.
Although, he supposed, he wasn't all that surprised. The fates always bollixed his life up anyway and plus, he had noticed a distinct lack of romantic gesture toward Hermione, an exact week after Ron's birthday, which, "What do you mean, though? I thought you knew it was Hermione, I mean, I'm certain she doesn't know any other Ronald's."
At that, Ron both grimaced and yet perked up at the same time; the way he would when his mum put pudding on the table and also announced that he had to do dishes afterwards. Great face that, Harry's favourite he reckoned (followed by his 'I'm disgustingly in love with you Hermione but why do you have to bloody ruin my lazy Sunday with bloody homework' face, which was pretty hilarious).
"Really? I mean I figured- Not that I'm being all arrogant! But I wasn't sure and she wouldn't tell me and-" Ron stopped, frowning at Harry in either confusion or annoyance, he wasn't all too clear. Ron could be amazingly expressive but also rather vague faced, weirdly enough. "Hang on. How do you know what her soulmate tattoo says?"
"She told me," Harry shrugged. Hermione had also told him specifically not to mention it to Ron until he came to her himself. Likewise, Ron refused to acknowledge any feelings until he had solid proof. Which didn’t make much sense to Harry but whatever.
"Oh," Ron said, trying rather bravely for nonchalance despite his obvious hurt and jealousy. Harry stared at him for a moment. Seriously? The guy is a complete git the entire time to Hermione and he wonders why she hadn’t said anything?
Harry sighed, "She probably didn't tell you because..." he scrambled for a contrived yet not entirely untrue reason. Ron was an idiot but still his best mate so he figured he could maybe assure him a little, "Because she's... scared? That… you don't have her name tattooed as well."
Harry grinned and crossed his arms smugly, rather proud of himself for coming up with such a bullshit yet logical reason. After all, sad though it was, it wasn’t unheard of for a thing like that to happen; even in a world designed for ‘perfect’ matches, love was unfair.
"That's stupid. Never happened before, has it?" Harry bit his lip because Ron was just, so wrong about that. It would probably be counter-productive to bring it up right then, though.
But, it seemed, rather than sounding suspicious (for once in his life) Ron actually seemed to be thinking it over. Then he nodded and frowned, "Yeah, seems like the sort of thing Hermione would get into her head. I just need to show her otherwise, don't I?"
Sometimes, Ron really surprised Harry with his astuteness and had to remind himself not to be so uncharitable. After all, it wasn't Harry who kicked his best mate's arse at chess every single time.
"So," said Ron, pale and hesitant once more. "Just. Please, yeah?" Harry grimaced, sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and said, "Fine."
Ron gave a smile that managed to convey: 'mate you know you love me, even if you should never say so out loud'. Harry grinned in a 'you're so not getting a Christmas present ever again, you realise' way.
"But," Harry added aloud. He pointed a stern finger, "If it's like on your bum then I’m sorry to say-" "Merlin's soggy tits, no one is going near anyone's arse. Why would you say that." Harry tried to maintain a grave face at Ron’s scandalized tone. He mostly failed.
Sunday, 10th November 1996
Early morning
"So," Harry started casually, spooning a dollop of porridge into a bowl. "The left dimple in the small of your back, eh?"
Hermione jumped and squeaked something that may have been "what" but most probably was "fuck". For someone so swotty and 'prudish', for lack of a better word, she had a nasty mouth when startled. A fact which never failed to entertain.
"What did you say?" she hissed through Harry's snort of amusement and mockingly admonishing finger of glee. At the first mention of ‘dimple’ Hermione had cast the handy Prince’s Muffliato charm so Harry felt safe in speaking freely.
"Just be glad that you got such a good tattoo placement," he carried on, ignoring her question - there was no point in repeating himself because she had heard the first time, sharp girl that she is. "Be very fucking glad."
Harry will never be able to describe the utter and profound relief at having found an elegant script of 'Hermione' in his first glance at Ron's back. Best mate or not, there were just some things that should remain sacred and private. And it seemed that this time Merlin and Morgana and whoever the fuck controlled the cosmos had agreed.
The day before had been when Ron had approached Hermione about the tattoos. Harry hadn’t seen but he could imagine it was rather awkward. He hadn’t yet had the chance to talk to Hermione about it; the two of them had been seen snuggling on the couch and he didn’t have the heart to interrupt.
"It's not," Hermione seemed to physically take a hold of her shock, shaking her bushy head and swallowing back a mouthful of tea. "It's not the left side, it's the right dimple."
"Oh," said Harry, and raised his eyebrows in interest. "I hadn't realised you could have them in the same place yet also not." Hermione levelled a look at him which seemed to say, 'elegant, harry'.
"Eloquent, Harry," said Hermione, which was close. "But, yes, they usually are- How much do you know about soulmates and their markings?"
Harry shrugged and made a face at her wording and Hermione, noticing, made a face back. She didn't like the word 'tattoo', for whatever reason, and he hated the word 'markings'. It sounded so possessive and if there was one thing he had decided, it was that he would never be owned. By anybody.
"Not much, to be honest," he said. It was true. Of course he knew what they were, in a vague 'everyone has a soulmate' way. And he knew when they appeared, which is obvious by the hype around turning seventeen and whatnot. What he didn't know was why - because seriously, it's weird isn't it, the way magic or Merlin's wise old beard decides on the love of your life.
And also how the bloody hell does it even work? It appears on your skin wherever it feels like and - what? You suddenly fall in love? What if you already knew the person and you hated them? Or they were a truly terrible person? Harry's mind flashed to Voldemort. It seemed a bit unfair to just have to accept a thing like that.
"Well," Hermione had her lecture face on, abandoning her breakfast to focus on him completely. Harry prepared himself by chugging down his coffee. "Soulmates are joined through a magical bond. It is different from any other bond as it is declared by Magic Herself. It cannot be feigned, forged nor forced."
Oh, magic was a ‘her’, then? He'd no idea really, and suddenly he felt ashamed. Nearly six years he'd been in this world and still he got surprised by the smallest of things that the littlest of wizards probably knew.
Harry sat up straight, determined. He was going to fix this neglect on his part as soon as possible. Even if he had to drag his own arse to the library, kicking and screaming. Looking at Hermione, he reconsidered. After all, she would surely take upon his new education with an enthusiasm to rival Bellatrix and the Cruciatus.
Pushing that decidedly painful thought away, he turned back to his friend's babble, "And so, even though said markings do appear in the same area as their counterpart, they are just that; a counterpart."
At Harry's blank look she elaborated, "It’s like a puzzle, you see? If, for example, Ron and I were to- snuggle, let's say. And we were to- to hold each other around the waist, his hand would touch my mark and my hand- his. And it's like- a perfect fit," she finished awkwardly, blushing all the while. He was glad that Ron was still asleep in the dorm. It was rather sweet, though and, he realised, that must be what they were doing on the couch yesterday.
"Oh, I think I understand," Harry said, though he was pretty sure he would only really understand properly what it meant to fit together with someone like that when he. Well, found his missing piece. Merlin, how he blushed in turn. Wary though he was, he wasn’t entirely averse to finding someone.
In fact, the idea did seem sort of nice. Maybe he and his soulbound wouldn’t even be in love but they would at least never have to be alone; he had heard of platonic soulmates before. There were parts about the bond he didn’t fully understand and that he thought might turn out to be vile (if the slight territorial vibe he got from being ‘marked’ it was anything to go by), but maybe it wasn’t like that at all.
Would the bond make someone like Hermione, who was a head strong and independent woman, into a kept person? He really didn’t think so, but it was magic. Which he had not yet come to understand.
Harry grabbed a perfectly warm and buttered piece of toast and mused, "But I'm not sure I understand what their purpose is, though? I mean, why do we need them? Love seems a really silly thing for 'magic' to declare essential so as to hand pick them herself. I mean, I have to say, I’m perfectly fine as is."
"Oh, Harry," and suddenly she launched herself at his side, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. Why was she doing that? He’d just asked a question, for Merlin’s sake. People were starting to stare and whisper, as usual.
Hesitantly, Harry started patting her head and said, "Okay." Sniffling, Hermione pulled away and - what the hell did tears have to do with this conversation?
"I keep forgetting how those disgusting relatives of yours treated you!" she burst out and Harry shushed her awkwardly. No need to fuel the gossip mongers. "And then- then you go and say something like that. So. So heart-breaking and I'm sorry, Harry. I’ve been doing some reading and I came across- oh, I'm a horrible friend, I really am!"
Harry rubbed at the back of his neck in bewildered confusion. "I don't know what you mean, Hermione," he said helplessly. "Where did you come on the Dursleys from what I said?"
Fat tears welled up in her brown eyes and in his surprise Harry took out his wand, "Evanesco." Yelping, Hermione touched her cheek where the trickling tear had just disappeared. Relieved that he hadn't accidentally vanished her eyeballs, he tucked his wand away.
"Now, did you have to do that?" Hermione demanded and looked fully prepared to launch into lecture mode again but it was not to be, it seemed. At that moment, Harry found he might have preferred it.
Her face softened like a melting piece of butter - alarmingly in danger of turning all liquid. "I'm just. You know I care for you, don't you? And Ronald, as well. We do love you, and so does Ginny, as a sister now even. And Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley and the twins and, in fact, all of them!"
"Okay," Harry said blankly. Hermione took it as agreement, even though it was more of a shutting down of his brain in confusion.
"And Professor Lupin," she continued, even though Remus was no longer her professor and had, in fact, requested that they call him Remus. Then she started on an entire list of the Order, making sure to keep her voice lowered, and then, terrifyingly, she started babbling about bloody DA members and he just had to stop her right then.
Harry put his hand over her mouth mid-rant and then stared because, "Zacharias Smith?"
"I've seen the way he looks at you." Hermione said, suddenly all teasing tone and arched eyebrows. Though Harry could somehow tell it was hollow. "You think he hates you but, really, he just has trouble coping with his feelings. I’ve also heard his soulmark starts with an ‘H’."
Her lips curled mischievously but her eyes held something else. Sadness, maybe. And Harry wasn’t sure but he figured she also looked somewhat... hopeful. Harry snorted. What? She actually wanted Smith to be his soulmate? Ridiculous.
"Hermione. You're sounding completely mental right now. What's the matter with you?"
"I just want you to be happy," she said, this time with furrowed eyebrows. Her face was doing a lot of strange things that day, Harry thought bewilderedly. "And your family, oh, they're meant to love you! What kind of horrid people are they!"
"Hermione," he said again, more firmly this time. "I never cared about the Dursleys, okay? Their- indifference hasn't affected me, alright? Not ever. Well," he amended, "Maybe in the beginning but they’re not even my family, I’d say. They’re bastards and I’m happy to see the back of them." This made her face crumple and Harry groaned in exasperation.
"Look, I’m fine. I’m not even going back there!" Harry cried. Hermione proved unmoved by his assurance, brown doe eyes shining wetly - tears that he left this time out of pure annoyance. "OK, would you stop looking at me like that? And maybe explain to me what this is all about?"
At that, Hermione nodded and took a deep breath to calm herself. This time, instead of clinging to his arm, she took his hand. Harry was at once surprised by her tender grip, then quickly went back to annoyed. She held his hand like he was fragile. Harry didn’t like it. He squeezed his fingers around hers viciously, bittering the gentle act; she winced and let go.
Harry didn’t apologise, though he did feel slightly guilty at hurting her. Only slightly, though. Hermione didn’t seem to expect him to, either, as she looked loads more apologetic than he.
"Listen, Harry," she began. A look at his stony face made her look away nervously and Harry reluctantly relaxed his frown. He didn’t want to be an arsehole, despite feeling justified in being one. "Studies have shown- No, Harry, listen. It is important, I promise. OK. There have been studies having shown that, under certain circumstances, a soulmark can just… disappear. In some cases it never shows up at all, depending on when these… circumstances started. Things that are traumatic to the soul. Like committing m-murder. Or… Experiencing abuse. And neglect." Harry’s heart stopped.
Hermione was peering at his face anxiously. "Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry?" He could guess, probably very well, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t like where this was going. "Harry, with the Dursleys… You might not…" Here, she hesitated.
"Why don’t you say it, Hermione? You’re just dying to, aren’t you?" His tone was harsh and that wasn’t fair but he didn’t know what to feel. He’d known about some of those people, who didn’t have that other piece. He’d never met one personally, but he’d heard many tragic stories - the way they were almost never whole. He had always felt sorry for them.
"They never loved you," Hermione whispered, so faintly as though she hardly wished him to hear. But he did. "They treated you like rubbish, neglected you worse than a house elf. Punished you for something that you couldn’t control. The bars on your window. And the catflap for scraps of food. Fred and George told us- they saw your c-cupboard. We know they k-kept you there. "
Harry swallowed at the lump in his throat. It wasn’t anything new that he was hearing; he had lived through it, after all, had accepted it. But hearing Hermione saying it so callously, no, bluntly, hurt. And he knew, he knew, she was doing it for him (the cracking of her at the end showed that). He didn’t want pity and she understood that now. What he hadn’t expected was the inexplicable wave of shame… He didn't know that she had known.
The deeds of his ‘family’ had never been spoken aloud, not even by him, bar passing comments. It was staggering what the words did to him. And its implications.
He may not have come to terms with having a soulmate in the future but he just felt it was yet another thing being so ferociously ripped from him. The hypothetical person that was his soulmate was now just another person to add to his list of people he could have loved, and loved him, if they had not died. Because that’s how it felt; a tiny part of his soul, its missing piece that was meant to find him, being murdered right in front of him. Just like his dad, his mum... Sirius.
The loss ached.
This time when Hermione placed her hand on his, he let her. The warmth of their skin touching was a tiny comfort to the cold spreading through him. And when she said quietly, "It’s only a possibility, Harry. And you’ve always been lucky, you know?" he pretended like that was a comfort, too.
Early afternoon
The air was positively icy when Harry took to the air, robes billowing behind him in a way he imagined was rather dramatic. He wasn't wearing Quidditch robes so the wind rushing past him left goosebumps on his arms and legs, even through his extra strong warming charm. He didn't care though, the pinpricks of flesh, slightly painful, did a nice job of distracting him.
Slowing down from the initially intense take off, Harry made his way around the pitch in a couple of warm up laps. It was a brilliant day for flying; while not necessarily sunny, the sky was clear and for once not a single rain cloud in sight.
His pace slowly dwindled away into lazy twirls and suddenly quick turns which nearly threw his glasses across the pitch. Smiling ruefully, Harry pushed his fringe out his eyes and placed a non-permanent sticking charm on his spectacles. A slightly sticky sensation enveloped the charmed place on his skin before trickling away.
Confident that he would not be losing any worldly possessions, Harry shot through the sky, pulling no stops and simply letting the broom take control. His Firebolt, faithful for now nearly three years, was as smooth and as precise as his very first try. The thought caused a pang in his chest that he fought ferociously. He was here to forget, not think about- he twisted sharply, narrowly missing a goal post and muscles clenching as he drew his body tightly to the broom in a corkscrew.
Harry sped downwards, the air tugging at his skin and making his eyes burn. Despite the tears leaking, he never took his eyes off a spot on the ground; imagining for just a single heart-stopping moment what it would feel like to just collide, to not brake in time, to fall- once again, he turned, barely missing the earth by inches.
Harsh breaths fell from his mouth as his chest heaved and heart hammered. Flying had always been a way for him to let go and there had been no limits to the stunts he could pull. From the moment he had first soared into the sky he had known freedom, no matter how ridiculous it sounded, and he had known that no feeling could compare to that very first rush of riding a broom.
Until now, that is. Harry was in no way suicidal and there were way too many near-death experiences for him to ever crave death. But in that one moment, where he had felt a tiny something - he wasn't sure what but he knew it felt incredible.
For someone who loved flying as much as Harry did, he had to admit he had never done anything like that before. Sure, he was on the house team and often pulled daring stunts - regardless of whether he had wanted to or not - but never before had he just. Flown.
In previous years there was always just something going on that prevented him from taking his broom out for fun. The school year might have only just begun two months ago but it was already decidedly not fun. Which made flying his solace.
With that thought, Harry zipped away again, wind nipping at his heels like joyful companions. Though he didn’t yell out in joy, his lips curved slightly. The heavy weight on his heart seemed to lift imperceptibly.
Sunday, 1stDecember 1996
Midday
The rain had hardly abated and Harry was up the stairs to fetch his Firebolt and back down in the common room just as quickly. Making his way toward to portrait hole, he only paused when someone called out to him. "Harry!" He turned, it was Ron.
Harry walked reluctantly over to the couches by the fireplace. Ron shifted over from where he'd been leaning against Hermione, who looked up from her book and smiled cautiously.
"Alright?" Harry ventured awkwardly, rolling on the balls of his feet in impatience. He was eager to get outside before it turned too dark to get much flying done.
"Where're you going with that?" Ron indicated his head to the broom in Harry's hand. "It's bloody freezing out there."
"I know that," Harry rolled his eyes. Honestly, who cared about the weather? He just wanted to fly. "I just want to catch a bit of the light while it's no longer pouring."
Ron made a face of uncertainty. “Well…” he started and looked at Hermione, who raised her eyebrows at him. He shrugged then turned back to Harry, seeming to make up his mind. “I’ll go with you, then. That one seventh year donated his broom to the school. Said he didn't need it cos he’s so busy. It’s not a Firebolt but-”
“Ron,” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. “I meant I wanted to fly alone.”
“But, wait,” said Ron. He stood up and started walking to the dorms. “Let me just grab my coat and we can-”
“NO,” shouted Harry. The common room went silent, everyone now wholly focused on him. Harry blushed faintly under the attention; he hadn't meant to be so loud in his refusal. It was just, “I need to be alone for this.”
Ron sent a dark look around the room and those staring turned away reluctantly. He then frowned at Harry, without real heat this time - he only seemed confused. On her place on the couch Hermione bit her lip anxiously.
“OK?” Harry added belatedly. Ron opened his mouth then visibly stopped himself from saying something, which was unusual but Harry wasnt about to prolong his stay by voicing this observation.
At Ron’s nod, Harry stepped out of the portrait hole. Not that he needed Ron’s, or anyone’s, permission to go flying for Merlin’s sake, Harry thought as he walked through the corridors.
The pitch was once again empty when he got there; though not usual for a Sunday specifically, it was not surprising because of the shitty weather. Besides, as it was nearly winter break, not many chose to spend much time outside unless it had snowed.
Harry was glad for it, though. He had refused Ron's company because he didn't particularly want anyone to witness his death defying stunts - while alright in matches, his best mate might be a bit concerned for his near vicious abandon.
While it could be explained as 'practice' and, even on a good day, Harry was known for reckless actions, he didn't want any scrutiny. Especially after his talk with with Hermione; and Harry was under no illusion that she hadn't shared it with Ron.
He didn't know how much longer he could hold up his emotions and he was sure that this flight would be the one to crumble him.
Harry just needed to let go.
Every Sunday for the past month Harry had taken the opportunity to go out to the pitch and unwind. Though, to be honest, it was more of a distraction from unwanted thoughts that always seemed to intrude upon him.
His chest constantly ached as a reminder of what he had 'lost'. It was mildly annoying as Harry tried to constantly remind himself that he was being a fool. He hadn't lost anything, yet - and even if he had no soulmate it wasn't the end of the world.
Looking out at the grey sky, very rapidly bleeding into darkness, Harry tried suppressing the thought that always followed, to no avail.
He might not have long to mourn his soulbound if he was going to die soon, anyway.
Shaking his head, Harry hurtled through the sky in a burst of savage speed. The memory of the prophecy following him like a malicious ghost that he refused to let catch him, feeling the ghostly hands of despair nearly grabbing hold of him entirely.
Harry gave a silent snarl, his broom pushing and pulling at the air in a battle of death-defying rolls and angry streaks through hoops. He felt like lightning, as he flashed to the ground in a zigzag motion, though never letting the ground feel his charged touch.
When his heart near burst out of his chest in its frantic pounding, Harry slowed to a halt. His throat burned, scraped raw from his laboured breaths. A sob welled up from him and Harry could barely stop it from erupting.
With a furious roar he landed into one of the nearby stands, the crash of his fall drawing the trapped sob in a pained cry. Harry folded on himself and let his heartbreak sound into the air.
Harry couldn't be strong right then, the way he had tried so very hard to be every single day. Everything had felt like it was building up, slowly consuming him in a flood his fragile walls strained to withhold.
Tears burned his face like acid corroding him from the inside out and he gasped for air. Harry's body shook from the force of his horrible, gut wrenching crying.
He felt pathetic blubbering like a bloody baby all by himself and yet he couldn't stop. Just - why did it always have to be him?
It wasn't fair. He was a good person and despite his horrible childhood he had always - always - tried to do the right thing. Tried to make his parents proud...
"It's not fair," Harry whispered uselessly - for what did the empty air care for his heartache? Only it seemed he was not as alone as he had thought; a hand had settled on his shoulder silently, and squeezed gently.
Harry gave a start, breath stuttering in his chest with shock,"What-" he turned to look, and promptly gaped at the person sat beside him.
Blaise Zabini gave a solemn nod, serious brown eyes roving over his face in curiosity. Harry's face hardened and he pulled his arm out of Zabini's grip, turning bodily away.
"Come to gloat, have you?" He asked, voice sounding detached in his effort to remain calm. "The great 'saviour' having a grand old cry out in the cold. Weeping over his dead parents, no doubt."
Zabini said nothing and Harry clenched his jaw in embarrassment. His outburst hadn't provoked any sort of response and instead he just felt stupid and childish for it.
The silence stretched on, long beyond the point of awkward and then came the calm voice, "Are you, then?"
Harry frowned. Zabini's tone was not mocking or malicious and sounded, rather, conversational.
"Am I what?" Harry asked in return and turned back to face him. Those brown eyes held an intensity that Harry had no idea what to make of.
Harry thought Zabini might have asked if he was, in fact, the Chosen One. To which he might have answered 'yes' just to see a reaction. Instead, it was the other remark that was focused on, "Weeping over your dead parents?"
Swallowing dryly, Harry looked into the sky bitterly. He could feel the drying tracks in his face trickle mockingly.
He wasn't crying over his parents - except... Harry breathed out harshly as he realised he sort of was. Only, not entirely; it was just one of the drops having him spill over.
Not that it was Zabini's business. "No," he said, and, suddenly not having any energy to tell the other boy to piss off, he leaned back against his seat.
In the corner of his eye, Harry could see Zabini still staring at him. Any other time he might have wanted to snarl at him, a vicious "fuck, mate, what?" maybe sitting on his tongue, ready to shock Zabini into any other emotion besides mild curiosity.
Instead he just sat there, as though he were genuinely alone, feeling hollow and numb. And yet, somehow he also felt like he had not sat there mere minutes before, sobbing his heart out. He still felt like he needed to be broken some more; still felt too whole for the sheer amount of emotions he let go warranted.
Which was ridiculous, Harry realised. Here he was, all wretched in the cold, next to Zabini of all people. Wishing to break down more in front of someone who should, all things considered, have him be grateful for numbness over vulnerability.
Even still, he was an emotional person and always had been. And any lack of emotions had him feeling out of sorts.
"What do you want?" Harry asked suddenly, sitting up so quickly he nearly toppled over. A hand caught him by the cuff of his sleeve, carefully making sure not to touch the skin of his wrist.
Harry looked at Zabini's hand blankly, absently noticing how tan it was, bronzed compared to his own sickly pale. The hand withdrew, Harry's gaze following it before flicking it up to Zabini's face.
"That's rather unsettling, you know," said Zabini casually, ignoring his question entirely.
Harry snorted in disgust. He had no idea what the other boy meant but what he found unsettling was the intensity of those dark brown eyes - they seemed to be trying to take in each of his features individually as though they were fascinating puzzle pieces that just did not fit.
"Right," said Harry. He tried matching Zabini's gaze when it reached his eyes but as soon they caught Harry found the pierce entirely too uncomfortable. And so he focused instead on the peculiar arch of his eyebrows - it was pointed in a near perfect triangular shape.
"I can see you do not know what I mean," Zabini remarked and the brow lifted, its shape narrowed. He sighed when Harry remained silent, finally seeming to lose his air of nonchalance. "That, Potter. Exactly that is what unsettles me."
"What," said Harry, leaving no inflection for the word that should have been a question.
"Your lack of..." Zabini looked away as though for the word in the sky. He would find nothing there but dark grey, Harry figured. He settled on one anyway, "Fire."
The word was clearly unsatisfactory though; Zabini frowned, his eyebrows almost rounding out its sharpness.
"I'm not allowed to be sad, then," Harry concluded dully. He didn't care what Zabini thought he knew. He didn't know Harry and whatever illusions of his character he seemed to picture were probably nothing like him.
"No," said Zabini. It didn't sound like he was affirming Harry's words but instead like he was flinging them away as insignificant.
At that, Harry locked his eyes onto Zabini's, fighting against the feeling of needing to look away. This time, Zabini seemed to indulge him as his ever roving gaze stayed just as firmly.
They were a more interesting shade of brown than many others Harry had seen. Subtle flecks of amber swirled like tiny nuggets of precious gold through deepest chocolate. They were pretty, Harry reckoned, if not entirely more unsettling in their strangeness.
"No," Harry echoed lightly, just to see what Zabini made of that.
"That would be absurd," said Zabini, just as lightly. "Of course I am not telling you what you're allowed to feel. Would I?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "You don't know me. And I can't say I know you, really."
"Yes," Zabini's tone changed to a weighted one. The single word was said so gravely that Harry nearly laughed out in incredulous amusement. As it was, his mouth merely twitched into a tiny lopsided smile.
Zabini spied the miniscule movement of his lips and, as though in exchange, mirrored it. It was such a ridiculous and silly thing that Harry would never have thought the stoic Slytherin would do. Harry wondered whether it was a genuine reciprocation; he wondered whether he would have liked it to be.
Then, the stare broke and it wasn't due to Harry looking away. "You..." Zabini started, only to shake his head and instead begin anew. "You're good. You look natural out there." He indicated his head first to his broom then to the sky.
"So?" Harry asked, smile vanishing. Was Zabini mocking him? "You've seen me at matches before, haven't you?"
Zabini shook his head and raised a sharp eyebrow. "Never like that," he said, putting a strange emphasis on the last word.
"'Like that'?" Harry asked, trying to blank his face from giving him away. He wondered just how idiotically reckless he had looked to the composed Slytherin. "How, exactly?"
Zabini glanced at him, for some reason avoiding eye contact as though he hadn't been blatantly staring at him before.
"Beautiful, I suppose."
At that, Harry inhaled so sharply he began spluttering in a way that was not decidedly not beautiful. "Excuse me?"
"Has nobody ever told you that before?" Zabini asked. Doubt lacing his tone but the gold in his irises glittered in laughter "Granger? Weasleys one through seven? One of your fangirls, perhaps?"
Harry took a deep breath, this time not letting it lodge in his throat, and desperately willed the heat in his cheeks to remain internal.
"You just said yourself that I had never flown like that before." He pointed out, deciding to ignore the derisive tone he had used when naming his friends; and the fact that he did not have fangirls, thanks. "When, then, would anyone know to say something like that?"
Zabini turned to him and surprise seemed to flicker in his strange eyes before being masked as curiosity once more.
"You mean to say that no one has said anything like that to you before?" He jabbed his head at the sky again and added, "Or seen you."
Something in the way Zabini said that had Harry bristling. "What? Because I'm such a show off, is that it?"
"I didn't say that," Zabini kept his voice cool and Harry gritted his teeth at it.
"Whatever," Harry muttered, not wanting to have to dance around words just to get somewhere with the conversation. Hating how out of sorts he was. Then, in a more spiteful tone, "Besides people don't exactly go around calling their mates beautiful, do they?"
He narrowed his eyes and said pointedly, "Much less strangers."
Zabini adopted a politely quizzical look: a tiny puckered frown paired with upturned lips. "And here I thought all Gryffindors were such bleeding hearts, always trying to outdo each other with compliments."
Harry snorted. Were it Malfoy who had said it, Harry might have taken it for a disdainful insult. Once again, Zabini surprised him; this time by teasing him, it seemed. And in a decidedly non-rude way, playful he might have thought.
"We're not Hufflepuffs, Zabini. Words like 'beautiful' aren't said without romance being involved," he said and, even then, he had his doubts. "I think, anyway. In any case, I'd have thought Slytherins don't even know that word, at all."
"Potter, if you ever saw the Slytherin common room or any other Pureblood's home you would know differently.We do appreciate our beauty." Well, Harry hadn't seen a Pureblood's home besides the Weasleys - decidedly not thinking of headquarters - and, while he loved the chaos of it that probably hadn't been what Zabini had in mind. Plus, from what he had seen of the Slytherin common room he wasn't much impressed. Cold and dark and filled with snakes as it had been.
In any case, Harry had to wonder what that said about his flying that Zabini would call it beautiful. He was certain he had to have looked deranged at some point, his simmering anger and despair shouldn't have been missing much from his emotive face. Not to mention just what Zabini might have thought of his breakdown after.
Zabini was back to scrutinising his face again, though if possible he seemed even more as if Harry confused him greatly. He said, in a smooth tone barely covering something beneath, "One would think you would have more confidence in yourself."
Before Harry could respond to that baffling comment Zabini was standing, gracefully as ever as he walked away.
Harry blinked for a second and then he found his voice. "Oh, I have confidence. I am the Chosen One, if you'll remember," Harry called after him. While he had tried to inject his voice with mocking venom all that remained was aching bitterness and a strange confused hurt.
Zabini did not pause, long strides carrying his solid and straight back further away through the dark. Though quiet, Harry had little trouble hearing his amused response.
"I remember."