DISCLAIM IT: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling does, damnit
There was once a little boy,
With a scar upon the bridge of his brow.
He laughed, he cried,
He experienced things that none knew how.
What was one death to another—
Piled upon each other?
As things went around,
Spinning before his glowering gaze?
Through the thick thoughts that hazed,
Instead of reflecting throughout,
He was thoughtless,
As he died.
And regardless
He knew he was just a toy.
(Yeah, horrible, but there is a certain rhyme to it. Plus, it actually sort of describes the final battle! Just skip the horrible poem I made up at the top of my head, if you want. I won't be that insulted. ;d)
Title: Dark Nights
Summary: In a world where Tom Marvolo Riddle was young, he gave hope to light but ushered darkness. In a world where Harry Potter had died in the Last Battle, his body was never found. In that world, there were tales of Tom, once having a lover, who was then lost to him from a magical malady. And unsurprisingly, Harry Potter was that man.
…In a nutshell, Harry speculated that since light cannot live without darkness, his soul was sent to an alternate universe set in Voldemort's seventh year—a universe in which he had supposedly found the elixir to eternal-youth. How will Harry cope with his new situation? How will Harry behave, seeing the man who had killed his parents? And what was this stirring feeling he had with Tom? What of the other students at Hogwarts?
FIND OUT! By reading this story. xD
Warnings: AU! HPTR, non-con, possible Dark!Twisted!Harry. Disregards HBP and OoTP! So bewareeeee. Of course, I want to add Eileen Prince, so bwhahaha. x3
A/N: After seeing that this pairing had so little love on ffnet, I decided to write one—hey, all authors should try and write HPTR. See where it takes them. ;)
Overall rating: High R (is there even such a thing?
Chapter rating: T
Pairing: HPTR
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Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was an unquestionably eccentric wizard—and his office and attire often reflected that. Once in awhile, when the old codger had the sudden urge to feel a little younger, and a little different he'd have all the portraits of past Headmasters rearranged. Imagine their chagrin: Phineas Black had cursed Dumbledore and his nutty ways for days.
Most times one could find Albus having Tea with the Gray Lady, talking amicably to her about foreign customs and politics. Seeing as though she herself was born in an altogether different era and country (she was from Australia) made it even better! Albus always made sure to add an extra lump of sugar for her—that and a courteous bow of reverence, which she gladly returned with a curtsey.
Where these tea parties took place was another matter; though Albus knew better, he still invited anyone with half a mind to listen to an old man's ramblings—to his office.
As one perused the chambers, many bookshelves, naturally filled to the brim with ancient books and artifacts lined the marble walls. In a particularly dusty shelf, (Albus had forgotten he had a forget-me-not spell on it), was the hand of an Ancient Mummy. Quite rare, and quite expensive, Albus had bought it from a traveling Arabian peddler, eager to be rid of his goods.
"Ninety galleons, no less," spoke the peddler that day. Albus had of course tried to haggle the price down, but the peddler remained adamant.
"Ninety galleons or no deal," he had repeated. And thus, Albus bought it—although not without a great deal of grumbling and complaining.
"Can't even get an elderly discount...how miserly!" The peddler just smiled.
And if this artifact had indeed, human tendencies, it would have preened under a boy's stare. Why?—one must wonder? Well, that is because that boy was none other than the resident Boy Wonder, come out of his way to visit an old friend.
Said boy—regardless of how dangerous the baubles lining the shelves were—prodded each and every one of them. Gryffindor tendency to jump into things with no thought beforehand was all. Harry's fondness to get into trouble without really meaning to, somehow always landed him a detention and a clap to his wrist. If he were honest to himself, he'd realize what a bad habit that was and fix it. And everyone knows that bad habits ended up in death!
Now Harry Potter, at this moment was confused. He hadn't any clue why he had appeared in the Headmaster's office (last he remembered he was shooting a dark spell at Voldemort), and he really, just really wanted to sit down. With that thought in mind, he sagged onto a nearby bookshelf, nearly knocking off a highly esteemed eyeball from a Quintaped. Undoubtedly rare and expensive stuff. But he didn't really care. His head throbbed. Throbbed, throbbed, throbbed. Did he mention that it hurt, too?
Harry righted himself, snapping his spine back in place. Now was not the time to act like a bumbling fool! It was time for action and—he sagged again, just as the throbbing increased. "Oww," he said, and placed a hand over his face to muffle his groan. Where was the last battle? And where the bleeding socks were Moldywart and his minions?
He grappled for a hold on the shelf and righted himself once more. First thing was first: discover why he was back in Professor Dumbledore's office. He stumbled quite a bit initially, but he eventually got used to bumping into a wall or two. Really, the bruises on his shoulders from the impact were nothing!
"Oww, oww, oww," Harry said again, eyes squinting from the pain. "I feel like a big bruise, with another bruise on top of the first—owwww! Stupid mummy hand!" How odd, he thought and peered back at the shelf. Where is that ancient hand? He swore it was there a second ago. "Seems as though I've misplaced you," Harry mumbled dazedly.
"You don't say," said an amused voice behind him. Whirling around, Harry was confronted with—
"Armando Dippet?!" Harry let out a strangled sound. How… What? Where? He had recognized the gray haired wizard, primarily because he was usually seen conversing quietly to Dumbledore. Come to think of it, asides from Phineas Black, there were only two Headmasters that ever talked to Dumbledore. Now that was an odd thought.
"Yes, my boy?" said Armando in a chipper tone, firmly pushing his huge spectacles over his nose. "Do you need something?"
Harry sputtered. "W-why would I need anything?" he said, and backed into another shelf, a book uncomfortably jabbing into his hip.
"Because you're in my office, of course!" Armando beamed, but then his jubilant expression vanished a second later. "Unless it doesn't look like my office?" he queried in a disappointed tone.
Harry stared. "Well uh—it does look like your office, sir," he said, emphasizing the last word. This could be some sort of hallucination played by the Death Eaters, or a deranged dream of some sort. The latter sounded more plausible than the former. The Boy Wonder continued, "But it reminds me of a… very close friend's own. He liked very much to keep his office—err, used."
"Oh really?" Armando beamed again. "We must have similar tastes then! Care to share a lemon tart while telling me of this man?"
Harry almost laughed, if his ribs didn't hurt so much. "Yes," he said finally, "you really do have similar traits." So that was where Dumbledore had gotten his sugar fixation from: Armando Dippet. Who would have seen that coming?
Armando looked thoughtful, as he let his gaze travel down to the bruised boy before him. "I've just noticed lad," he said, "that asides from you not answering about the lemon tart—I've never actually seen your face here in Hogwarts until today!" The hair on Harry's neck jumped. Oh shit, oh shit-- "Are you a new student come to get an interview?" he went on to ask. Harry stopped panicking. He could see how truly curious the old man was, and he didn't feel the distinct urge to lie. Lying was bad. Lying equaled undoubtedly bad—very bad and unfair consequences.
Harry's smile was strained. "No, not really sir." He decided that honesty was the best policy, so he began his tale. "I'm from the future sir."
"…Pardon?" Armando conjured a chair, and sat on it, once again pushing his glasses up his nose. He motioned for Harry to continue, and the boy did so, without any inflection on his part.
"I'm from the future sir," Harry said again, "and if I'm right," he cast a quick tempus charm, "it's 1943. I'm precisely fifty-five years three hours and ten seconds from the future."
"It seems sort of odd, telling this to me," said Armando thoughtfully, lips taking a downturn. "Wouldn't it be better if you had lied to me? For how would one gauge that my actions were sincere?" He looked genuinely baffled, and for the first time since he had found himself in Dumbledore's office—Harry felt comforted. Here was a great man, one of Hogwarts's past Headmasters, asking his opinion on a matter that didn't really need much thinking. From the start of his explanation, he had already sounded like a loony. What more was there to think about asides from shipping Harry off to the St. Mungo's?
"I don't know, sir—"
"Call me Professor Dippet." The old man interrupted with an indulgent smile.
Harry mustered a small, tired chuckle. "All right sir—I mean, Professor Dippet," he said. "I don't know why I did it. I just knew that you were being honest in your actions by your curiosity. And isn't curiosity an honest emotion, sir?"
Armando laughed. "Well so it is! And if I wouldn't know any better, you've just passed the interview!"
"I—what?"
"In any case, since you're going to be a student here at Hogwarts, you need all the 'credentials'—which you probably already have, seeing as though you're wearing Gryffindor robes. And just for your information," he waved a hand, "I'm not going to ask you about your time, and I will not go out of my way to question you about your past. Although one thing is for certain," Armando's brown eyes then glittered strangely in the torch light, "you're going to have to tell me your name."
"My name," Harry echoed blandly.
"Yes your name, my boy."
"It's…" Harry sucked in a sharp breath. "Harry Potter." He expected a startled glance, or maybe even a gasp, but Harry wasn't really disappointed when all the elderly wizard could do was blink. He really was getting used to being a nobody already.
"My, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Armando's eyes crinkled as he said, "And I suppose that means I'll have to provide you for everything, lad. Well then—" he clapped his hands twice, and instantly, a list of Hogwarts supplies for sixth year appeared. He levitated the list to Harry, who felt too dizzy at all to actually walk, and informed him that on the morrow, they'd have a visit to Diagon Alley.
"Best get enough sleep, Harry boy," replied the Headmaster cheerfully, giving Harry a playful wink. He then ushered Harry to the rooms, located down a long, winding staircase. It seemed like a shortcut to the Dungeons. When they had finally reached a door, Armando had pushed him in, not bothering to close the door.
Harry, not one to complain about how drab the chambers were, quickly staggered to a large, unoccupied bed and passed out.
As he ascended the stairway, Armando sighed, worry etched onto his aged face. "M'boy, you may not be able to get back to your own time after all." And with that, he closed the doors to his office.
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Unfamiliar voices buzzed around his ears.
"Hey Abraxas, who do you think this is?" a low baritone asked.
"I don't know, Alphard. He seems like a transfer student," answered a soft tenor.
"Interesting development. Think Riddle would want to know it?"
"Perhaps," the second voice said faintly. "Or perhaps not. You know he does not like to be disturbed so early in the morning."
"I suppose," said the first voice dubiously. "We'll just leave him here for now. I'll question him later after my free period, if he's still in bed. Well I suppose we should go now, then Abraxas. We shouldn't tarry lest we'd be late for breakfast."
"You mean you don't want to miss seeing Emmeline," teased the second, voice fading to a gradual echo.
Soft footsteps signaled that the two had left, and Harry stirred, cracking a bleary eye open. He stifled his growl of annoyance as rays of magical sunlight hit his face. Why it was charmed that way in this room, was a mystery even to him. In the Gryffindor Tower, they had always an abundance of real sunlight.
He yawned into his pillow, privately whining in his head. He hated mornings. In fact, morning came too fast for him. If only night lasted fourteen more hours, then he'd be more willing to take the blasted cheery sunshine on. He rolled over, and instead, found himself on the floor, legs twisted in the forest green comforter.
"Owww—not more bruises!" he said, and rubbed his lower back. Harry really didn't want to get up now.
Polka dotted shoes met his eyes.
"Mister Potter?"
Harry grunted, hearing the recognizable voice speak. "I'm over here," he motioned with a weak wave of his hand.
"So I see," came Dumbledore's amused reply. He was dressed in deep green robes, clashing horribly with the orange sash tied around his waist. A dozen sparkly stars weaved in and out of his long graying hair, and Harry resisted the urge to wince. Whoever did his robes deserved a good, hard bitch slap from Harry. It was way too early to see something so utterly outlandish.
He didn't bother to cover his grimace.
"Care to help a poor student up?" he asked, breaking the awkward silence.
"It would be my pleasure, Mister Potter," Dumbledore said.
"Just call me Harry, sir," he sighed, hoisting himself up with Dumbledore's extended hand. He brushed the dirt off his robes and offered a smile. "Mister Potter makes me sound old."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Of course then, Harry. I'm Professor Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration teacher."
"I know," said Harry thoughtlessly, before slapping a hand over his mouth. Sheepish, he laughed nervously and covered his mistake up by saying, "Well, Professor Dippet told me."
"Hum, that's strange," said Dumbledore, but did not question. He patted Harry's head and beamed. "Shall we get to Diagon Alley then?"
Harry gave the old man a sharp look, surprising him. "Firstly, has Dippet informed you of my situation?" he said.
"Yes, he has unfortunately," said Dumbledore, turning serious. "He had also told me to ask you to change your name for a short time—granted that you know what you are getting yourself into?"
"That thought has merit," muttered Harry, never really thinking of changing his name. While it was true that using Harold James Potter as a name suited him, it just didn't really fit in this time period. And so he contemplated.
It seemed as if his brain wasn't quite catching up to his body yet.
"I'll think about it later," Harry said to Dumbledore, as they walked out of Hogwarts's wards. They bypassed the Forbidden Forest and countless meadows, until Dumbledore abruptly shot an arm out to stop Harry in his tracks.
"This is the end of our walk, I'm afraid. Now grab a hold of my arm, m'boy, this is going to be quite a bumpy ride." Dumbledore smiled warmly, half-moon glasses casting a blinding glare in Harry's eyes. Harry closed his eyes and heaved a dramatic breath.
"I hate apparating," he grumbled, but did as he was told. He gripped Dumbledore's dark green sleeve tightly. Soon he felt the instinctive feeling of his body being torn to bits, then being put together in a short span of time. When the spinning stopped, Harry groaned, tempted to buckle down to his knees. Boy, that dizzy sensation from yesterday was coming back with a vengeance!
"I really, really hate apparating," Harry said, after regaining his composure a moment later. Dumbledore only smiled and moved towards Flourish and Blotts, his brisk pace causing Harry to jog to catch up to him. For an old, hobbling man, Dumbledore was quite fast with his feet. As they passed Eeylops Emporium, Harry stumbled on a loose stone, but caught himself in time from faulting face first into the dirty street. He groaned. All this exertion made him want to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away, if only to get a clutch on his reality. Honestly, Harry had yet to come to terms with his situation.
"Tired, Harry?" Dumbledore questioned, an eyebrow arched, still ambling quickly to their first destination, Flourish and Blotts.
Harry snorted. "Tired isn't the half of what I'm feeling right now, Professor," he answered back.
"That I'm sure of," Dumbledore replied, laughter evident in his voice.
Together they entered Flourish and Blotts, and greeted the owner.
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It was very musky here, Harry decided, while wrinkling his nose. Dust was everywhere inside the apothecary in Knockturn Alley (Dumbledore had insisted on going here), and there were even a few choice cobwebs wedged between the much older chipped potion vials. Harry somehow found himself stepping on a dirty floor pot. He lifted his shoe, then shook the black slime off in disgust. Good thing that the potion he treaded on was just a simple magical insecticide, or else he would have been seriously injured.
"Harry, stay here for a bit while I go find the things you need," was all Dumbledore had said, before rushing to the other side of the dank store. Harry shrugged. Well, it beat staying in a pot of magical bug-away any day.
He perused the shelves, reading each and every one of the labels. He began reading from left to right.
Amortentia – Extremely potent love potion. Note: do make sure not to breathe in the scent of Amortentia yourself—leave the potion in lukewarm water before adding a lock of your hair and pouring it in your heart's desire's cup. Never put near a gust of breeze or window. 110 galleons and 16 sickles.
Vertonosim et Lia – Sleeping potion; causes ten to eighteen years of slumber, never aging the drinker. The older the potion is, the more potent. This potion is currently five-hundred and thirty six years old. To determine length of sleep, 6x-976(n-156)/356, x being the age of the potion and n being the age of the drinker. Currently, this potion will put drinker to sleep for approximately one hundred fifty years, five months, and six hours. 99 galleons 5 sickles and 15 knuts.
Oblivius Molto Tout – Forget-everything-much potion; causes the same symptoms of 'Obliviate', but to a higher degree. Discretion in use and distribution of this potion is varied in many countries. England, only select apothecaries sell this potion. In America, it is considered extremely rare. In Middle-east and Asian countries, only witch-doctors know how to brew this potion, and often, most of them are killed by other witch-doctors for power. Currently 330 galleons.
Malicion Exosso – Bone-melting, acidic potion to all races (this includes Vampires, Werewolves, Veelas, Harpies, and Dementors). Used only in dire situations, or potion will turn a clear liquid and end up as sugar water. PRICE NEGOTIABLE
Now I want that potion, Harry thought, staring at the liquid green bottle of an 'undeniably happiness' potion. Too bad the side effects were insomnia and inability to stay in one place for more than fifteen minutes.
As Harry was eyeing the vials of potions lining the tables of the apothecary, Dumbledore was busy haggling down the price of his cauldron, set of sixth year potions (how Dippet knew he was sixth year was beyond Harry's comprehension), dragonhide gloves, boots, and magical tinted glasses worn only during Potions. What made Harry wonder was why he needed the boots? However, he thought it best not to pry. Besides, if Dumbledore wanted him to know, the old coot would have told him.
"Not going to ask me why I bought you dragonhide boots?" Dumbledore queried, after wrangling the price down to fifteen galleons. The owner grumbled, while handing the elderly wizard his change, but all he got in return from Dumbledore was a small grin.
Harry just shook his head. He then settled near the counter and gave the suspicious owner of the Apothecary a nod, alleviating the man of any shoplifting tendencies he might have had.
The sable-haired boy shrugged.
"Yeah, I want to ask," Harry said. "But then again, I really don't want to know."
"Oh but you must!" Dumbledore's eyes began to twinkle madly. "In this day and age, Hogwarts has yet to make an appropriate school uniform—designed robes and cloaks, yes! But not the clothes most likely to be seen when flapping your robes and cloaks about as one runs! You need a whole new wardrobe m'boy, and this is just the start of it!"
Harry refused to curse at Dumbledore, so he settled for a long, deep, smoldering glare. He hoped that it singed Dumbledore's huge eyebrows off.
"You are so not choosing my wardrobe," said Harry, resolute.
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"No wait—not that! OWW!"
"Stop moving, young sir!"
"Well if you stopped poking me with those horrible needles—eeeeeowww! Not the bruise! Watch it, you old maid!"
"I'll teach you old maid, you insolent brat!"
"You there—yes, you, you blithering idiot, come here and help me with this boy!"
Harry had a hard time trying to cope with the fact that an old woman was currently prodding him in places that no one had ever before. It made him sick and yes, slightly flustered. His cheeks tinged as the old woman had called one of her more 'attractive' male assistants to help her. Horrible woman she was.
Although, if Harry were honest, the man was quite a looker, if his bizarre teal colored eyes were any indication of his obvious magical creature heritage. Harry guessed the man was a vampire.
The assistant moved with swift grace to Harry, and when his boss wasn't looking—ran an appraising hand down Harry's crotch. Harry stiffened, and quickly shied away from the man's wandering hands.
"Do those pants fit him, dear?" the old woman's voice became her sweet and tranquil tone, rather than the harsher, more unforgiving one she used on Harry.
Anastasius—from what Harry could squint out on the nametag (Dumbly-dore had took his glasses)—smirked.
"I'd say these pants suit him quite well," the man replied, before moving to actually size Harry's arms and legs. He let out a sigh of relief.
"Get him the regular stack of white polo shirt and undershirts," Anastasius called out. "Get a velvet dress robe designed by Madame La Blanche—"
"—The one with the stiff neck collar and silver lining?" a meek voice interrupted.
"Yes, yes, that one. Put it on the table, he's definitely getting that one," Anastasius said, and held an ordinary blue shirt to Harry's frame. "Hmm, not bad, but we'll need a darker shade on you to keep you looking the mysterious debonair." The striking man then threw the shirt to a discarded pile nearby and shouted, "Pull out dark blue shirts, the standard black slacks and as many gaudy pants with chains as you can find!"
Harry wasn't sure to be glad that Dumbledore wasn't doing his wardrobe, because this man seemed enthusiastically choosing clothes and fashion, regardless of how comfortable it was. At least Dumbledore had comfortable ducky pants.
Speaking of Dumbledore… Harry's blurred gaze landed on what he thought to be the elderly wizard. He was currently reclining in a chair, happily munching on a strawberry tart and sipping tea. When Dumbledore caught Harry's eyes, the old man smiled and waved.
"How is it over there, Harry?" he bellowed, making Madame Louise (the old woman that had failed to size Harry earlier) scowl.
"Fine—just fine!" said Harry, strained. He swatted Anastasius's hands away from his arse. "Not there!" he hissed at the man, who only grinned innocently.
"What did you say, m'boy?"
"I'm FINE," Harry repeated, trying desperately not to strangle Anastasius. The handsome man smirked, then grabbed Harry's hand and peppered it with kisses. Harry swatted Anastasius again, though this time, on his head. Still no effect.
"All right son, just making sure!" Dumbledore called back. "If you need anything, just say my name!"
"…Okay, sir!" he said. Harry's shoulders then drooped, but were quickly straightened by the hawk-eyed Anastasius.
The older man 'tutted', apparently recovered from the beating he had received from Harry.
"Horrible posture you've got there," Anastasius noted through narrowed teal eyes. "I guess we're just going to have to fix that, hmm? Waddya say to helping him become a regal prince, Madame Noir? He's quite the pretty one, and if my eyes don't deceive me, quite powerful in his own right. I wouldn't mind staying with him all night if just to make him more elegant!"
The woman that scrambled to get Harry's clothes laughed and tittered over to Harry. She then scrutinized him through silver eyes before saying, "All right, Anja, since he has the potential. I'll see what I can do."
"Don't I get a say in this?" Harry asked.
"No!" the two workers cried out in unison, already in a flurry to get him to act more stately. But first, Harry had to get a whole new wardrobe.
Harry just sighed, feeling their prodding and mutterings of 'no, no, no, this won't do!' increase. This whole escapade was shaping out to be a relatively long day.
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Harry collapsed on the couch that Dumbledore had transfigured, glad that he was back in Hogwarts's walls and not standing in front of a cooing mirror. Why the old codger let him stay with those—Harry fought a grimace—those people for so long (approximately six hours), Harry couldn't fathom, so he brushed the niggling thought away, frowning.
One thing was certain though: Dumbledore was a bit of a sadist.
On the other hand, this was perhaps an understatement, seeing as though he had purposely made Harry blind throughout the whole affair at Madame Louise.
The sable-haired boy sighed, and turned over so he lay on his stomach. Times like these he wished he had a slow down button. Just so he could accustom himself to everything and anything. Made for a better life anyhow.
"Harry, dear boy, are you that tired?" asked Dumbledore, concern evident in his voice.
"Shut up, old man," he muttered, irritated.
"What is it, Harry? I can't hear you?" There was a smile in Dumbledore's voice.
"NOTHING!" Harry shouted into a cushion, frustrated. In this time, Dumbledore was as annoying as he was manipulative. Damn old coot.
"Did you think of a name yet?" asked Dumbledore cheerfully, unaware of the turn of Harry's thoughts
"No," said Harry, sighing. "I don't want to change my first name, but how about my surname?"
"Sounds fine to me, m'boy. I understand why you don't want to be seen as a relation to the Potters," said Dumbledore wisely.
"Yeah, well, I've decided that my surname should be Ashcroft, named after the Death Wizard in Africa," said Harry. "Read that he was a horrible man, ordering the Africans to sacrifice each other for a meaningless thing of some sort," he then went on to add. He slumped against the couch, and gazed at Dumbledore through tired eyes.
"Life was unfair to them," he said, a note of finality in his voice.
"That's just life Harry: people die and people live," Dumbledore responded, strangely quiet. He eyed Harry, blue eyes losing their customary twinkle, and said, "Life is one long road, filled with bumps and unnecessary turns. If one could just see past them and make it to the end—well, we'd be happy least to say. We wouldn't need to squabble over things or question others."
Harry stayed quiet.
"I suppose it's getting late. I should return you down to the Slytherin dorms and take my leave."
Harry stayed quiet.
"Come then Harry."
Harry remained quiet but followed Dumbledore. He did not question why he was placed with the snakes, but he believed that Dippet had asked the Sorting Hat which house he should be in. He did not fault the Headmaster for doing so.
"Hapax legomenon," Dumbledore told the walls, leading to the Slytherin Dorms. He turned to face Harry, a kind smile on his face. "This is where I leave you, Harry," said the old man, gently ushering Harry inside. "Just go past the long corridor and into the second to the last door. That is where Armando had placed you." Unfortunately. But that was left unsaid and unheard, though Harry knew better.
Still quiet, Harry made his way to the chambers. Fortunately, no one was out in the Common Room (as it was rather late), and for that, he was thankful. He shuffled quickly to the door Dumbledore mentioned and pulled it open, peering a green eye inside. No one was moving, so he safely assumed he could walk in.
Big mistake.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
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"Well, well, what do we have here, boys?" asked a velvety voice, making Harry shudder. It belonged to someone that looked like an exact, carbon copy of his Potions Professor—Snape. Minus the billowing cloak; he was also only in his nightclothes. That and his eyes weren't a dark obsidian but a chipped blue. Is that how he looked without the shapeless robes on? The thought of seeing his Potions Professor undressed made Harry's cheeks tinge. But he pushed that thought away into the gutter of his mind. Wordlessly, he stared, realizing that this Snape was where his teacher got that chocolatey voice. Sexy.
"Hum, what do you think? Is he a spy in our midst?" Snape continued, warily eyeing Harry's frozen form up and down. Harry was sorely tempted to tell him to sod off, because (assuming that this was Snape senior) the irony of it all called for a good, long laugh. Hah, a Snape talking about spies. Huh, what funny stuff.
An elegant eyebrow rose to the accusation (not Harry's of course), and a short, gruff voice said, "Come now Nero. Don't act too rashly. He's probably just a butler sent by Professor Dippet to do our bidding." The sarcasm was evident from Harry's point of view.
Nero Snape grunted, the sarcasm apparently lost on him. "I care not for your speculations, Crouch," he snapped.
"And I care not for your paranoia, Snape," the auburn-haired boy sneered. He then turned to Harry and said in an apologetic voice, "Sorry for one of my housemates. He's always jumpy and he's prone to panic attacks—just don't tell anyone about that tidbit though!" There was a flicker of a smile before the boy said, "I'm Caspar Crouch, and the one that's holding you hostage is none other than Nero Snape. Quite the contradiction to purebloods, I'm afraid."
"Shut your mouth!" hissed Nero, though he released the spell on Harry with a wave of his wand. Grateful, Harry rubbed his forearms, trying to get a little feeling back into them. Caspar gave Harry an apologetic glance.
"Say sorry, Nero," admonished Caspar.
"No."
"Say sorry or I'll let them know about it."
Harry vaguely wondered who the Hell 'them' were.
Nero's arms crossed and he stared at Harry and Caspar disapprovingly, lips thinning to a mere line.
"Never," he said, but quickly changed his answer when Caspar lifted a box of… Honeydukes chocolates? "All right, all right, I'm sorry," said Nero sulkily, sitting Indian-style on the floor.
"Good." However, Caspar didn't care.
After a long, silent moment, he looked at Harry curiously, as the sable-haired boy made his way back to the bed he abandoned so many hours before. It was immaculately cleaned by the house elves (compulsive little buggers they were) and a pile of what Harry believed to be his pajamas were laid at the edge of his bed. Why he hadn't noticed he was in the Slytherin Dungeons, was once again, beyond his comprehension. Somehow, in this time, Harry was just as clueless as he was before he came here.
"Who are you, by the way?" Caspar finally asked, when Harry was comfortably settled. How thoughtful, thought Harry sardonically, but indulged the nosy boy anyway.
"Harry Ashcroft," said Harry curtly. Guess the 'elegant' lesson he had with Anastasius and Madame Noir helped.
"Ashcroft as in the Ashcroft?" said Nero disbelievingly.
"No relation to the Death Wizard of course," said Harry instantly, dashing Nero's hopes. The tall boy sulked again. And he oh so wanted a lesson in Dark Arts too!
"You're so predictable, Nero," responded Caspar wryly, lounging on the floor near Snape. "I know you've wanted a personal lesson by a dark wizard, but I didn't know you wanted it that badly."
Nero mumbled something incoherent, and Harry and Caspar shared a loud laugh.
Maybe staying in this time wouldn't be so difficult or dreary after all.
A sudden boom from the doorways had the three boys jumping immediately to their feet, wands drawn. What surprised Harry was that Caspar actually looked serious. He sensed that the auburn-haired boy was a down-to-earth, jovial person, and it took a lot to make him ever be solemn. His green eyes traveled to the two persons at the door, and he almost gasped, if it weren't for the fact that he schooled his features to resemble an impenetrable, blank mask. Great going, those lessons were, if he had to live with these people everyday.
The first person was none other than a Malfoy.
The tall, stately blond boy, quietly observed all three of them, quick-silver eyes flitting to Harry's. Those eerie silver eyes of his flashed dangerously, before quickly darting back to his companion—
Who was none other than a Black.
His inherently aristocratic features indicated that he was born from a well-bred family. Delicately arched eyebrows, hallowed cheekbones, and a sensuous mouth not only added to the image of 'age old beauty' but of refined elegance. It wasn't that Malfoy wasn't handsome. It was just that his beauty lacked the mysterious, crackling aura his darker companion contained. To this, Harry was sorely tempted to say, 'Damn, I can never meet their expectations', and he couldn't help that his eyes widened in mere awe of the two.
They made a splendid picture together.
"Hm, the strange boy from earlier," murmured Malfoy, lips quirking. "He's awake, Alphard."
Alphard snorted derisively. "I'm not blind, you git," replied the handsome boy, obviously irritated at his best friend's behavior. He turned to Nero and Casper expectantly. "What have you gathered?" he asked in a mild tone, well aware of Caspar bristling like a cat whose tail chopped off. He tried to be placating to both Caspar and Abraxas, and it seemed as though it wasn't working one bit. At least, for Caspar it wasn't.
"His name is Harry Ashcroft," answered Nero with a nonchalant shrug. Caspar was a bit too busy glowering at Alphard to actually answer. Harry took it that they weren't on the best of terms.
"Interesting," was all Alphard said. He eyed Harry speculatively.
Harry elevated a brow. "Can't I introduce myself?" he spoke out.
"I suppose," drawled Malfoy. "But not until we do—proper etiquette calls for it, you know." The blond then bowed gracefully. "I am Abraxas Prata Malfoy. And the handsome boy besides me is Alphard Daniel Black, younger brother to Orion William Black."
"Damnit, they have better names than me," grumbled Nero, flushing when Abraxas gave him an odd stare.
"Yes, that's true," agreed Caspar. "It's infinitely better than Nero Rudo—" A hand was quickly clapped onto Caspar's mouth, preventing him from speaking anything more than mumbles.
"…Rudolph-?" Harry smothered his laugh and grinned at Nero's ruffled look.
All three wizards, excluding Nero, shared an amused look.
"Don't say it," said the dark-haired wizard, lips pursed. "My dratted mother thought it would be funny to give me a second name that was associated with a reindeer. Bloody sodding sadist she is."
"But she does make splendid cookies," piped in Abraxas, smiling.
"Indeed," grinned Alphard boyishly, settling near Nero and a little ways from Caspar, who watched him suspiciously. "And great fudge too," he then added.
Hmm, Harry thought, laughing as they all gathered in the middle of the chambers to play a game of, 'Get to know you'. Perhaps it really wasn't going to be that difficult to be with these people after all.
A/N: I did this chapter, out of the blue. Took me two days but as always, I was inspired by something. Blah, blah, blah, who needs to know. Just leave me a review and tell me if you like it. Spend a minute or two telling me that I need to improve, because Lud, I need to. xD
And if you're wondering why Harry seems so at ease with the Slytherins--well that's because he was -supposed- to be in Slytherin. It makes sense that he'd get comfy around those gits.
"Hapax Legomenon" -- Greek Proverb for 'Once said'.