Disclaim-her: I wish.

"Somali"
"Arabic"
'Thoughts'
\\Parseltongue\\

January 1997

The rest of the dinner had been awkward, with Sirius laughing boisterously to cover up the stilted conversation left in the wake of Remus' outburst. The house elf brought dessert out which Nuri suspected had simply been the beef-dog from dinner slathered in some sort of chocolatey sauce. It took far too long, but eventually Remus made an abrupt departure and Nuri found himself traveling through a hearth and walking down the drafty hallways of Hogwarts back to his room.

When he opened the portal to the Common Room, Nuri was momentarily stunned by the level of noise. It seemed like the entire Slytherin house was out of their dorms, celebrating their last night of freedom before classes started up again in the morning. For students that were generally reserved out in public, they could make quite a bit of noise in their own lair.

Nuri skirted around the room, keeping his shoulders loose and head down to avoid catching anyone's attention. The last two days had been unpleasant for him whenever he left his room. Everywhere he went students accosted him to either congratulate him or grill him for information on the attack. He loved the battle, but the constant eager questions from children that had never seen a proper fight was starting to get on his nerves.

He flopped down onto the bed in his silent room and stared up at the canopy. Thankfully the rest of the boys were down in the Common Room. He really didn't want to push his luck right then. In a complete contrast to the rest of the school, the Slytherins were silent. The avoided him on masse, many of them glaring at him venomously while the rest seemed to be of the wait-and-see mentality. He would gladly wait and see as well. He knew a confrontation was coming, but given that the Headmaster and Professor Snape would probably strongly disapprove of him putting more students in the hospital, he was going to avoid it for as long as he could. It was simply too much of a bother.

A faint rattling noise interrupted his thoughts, the sound of wood subtly shaking in its hinges. He sat up and looked at the bedside table. The drawer he heavily warded when he first reached Hogwarts shifted and shook in its place.

It took him a moment but he remembered: the notebook. At Diagon Alley he had bought notebooks to allow him to stay in greater contact with his family back in Mogadishu. Owls frequently disappeared over Egypt so they could not be trusted for communication to East Africa. Not to mention it usually took an era to fly the distance.

He reached for the drawer, his magical signature dispelling the wards he had layered over its handle, and pulled the dull leather notebook out of its hiding place. Finally. He had written Ohin nearly a fortnight before asking him about using magics to heal soul fragments. It was not unusual for it to take a bit of time for a response, the man was quite busy with all the miniature Adepts the Warlord hosted at his compound, but normally it only took a week or so to receive a response.

Pulling a quill out of his bag, Nuri lounged back onto his pillows and opened the book. He watched as Ohin's scrawling handwriting filled the page.

Soul magics, my child? Why would you have need of such information? A Destroyer such as yourself should not be messing about with Healer magics, not without considerable training and supervision.

Nuri opened up the ink well sitting next to his bed and dipped the nib of his quill into the ink, drawing it up into the shaft. A splotch preceded his sentence as he shifted the tip and began to write.

Yes, soul magics. I was not intending on doing the magics-

'Yet.'

But I had a question. You should remember that I was sent here to deal with an upstart Warlord at the request of the British government. We spoke briefly about the fact that the Adept had died once upon a time but then raised himself somehow. The Headmaster of the school had informed me that he did so using soul magics. Nuri paused for a moment and Ohin interjected.

Soul magics? Ohin wrote, his writing jagged. I have never heard of soul magics that could bring men back from the dead. Such a thing should never be allowed. What sort of heathen magics do they have you learning up there?

Nuri brushed the feather of the quill across his lips before putting his pen back to paper. Not so much brought back from the dead. More like anchoring their lives to this world through soul magics, leaving pieces of their soul behind to call the rest of their soul back into a body. They house these bits of soul in objects called Horcruxes.

A long pause followed Nuri's paragraph before long, angled letters filled the page.

Split his soul? Ohin wrote. The letters came out quickly, blurring into one another across the page. What sort of madness will bring a man to split his soul intentionally? I have seen it happen accidentally, small fissures that turn into large cracks. Fractures can occur for many reasons, usually traumatic events. But it's usually confined to a fissure. There was one case the fracture went so deep a fragment eventually split off, floating around the man like a concussed child, but that man was mad. He went mad. What was your father thinking, sending you off to battle with a madman, much less a Warlord?

Nuri ignored the slight to his aabbe with long practice. Ohin always held a… unusual place in the compound. What happened to that man? I remember you telling me once that as a Healer you occasionally fixed people's souls. Is that what happened with that man?

Well… Ohin began after a long pause. He was brought to me shortly after his last wife died, taking their only son with him. He had apparently spent the last several weeks trying to Heal them of the fever that took them to their beds, but he was a Builder. He created things from nothing; he didn't know how to work with things that were already there, much less something as delicate as a soul.

The magics damaged him, and when they died the emotional trauma was simply too much. The tenuous tie that held his soul together snapped and he went crazy. The town's shaman called me when he stole into a local chicken coop, raping the hens and slaughtering all the roosters before painting himself in their blood and running through town. The townspeople wanted the man executed, but the man had meant much to the mayor, so he bought the man some time to try to get help before putting him down like a rabid dog.

Ohin paused and when he didn't continue Nuri wrote, Where you able to help the man?

Slowly Ohin began to write again. The shaman brought the man to me, still covered in rooster blood, screaming about his dead wife haunting his steps, and how he could hear the child whispering in his ear. I gave the man a small sliver of nightshade, sedating him long enough that I could evaluate him. His soul… his soul was jagged, the edges torn like virginal flesh and bleeding out energy and magics. The other part was difficult to find, but I found it hovering over the graves of his wife and child.

I took the man to the graves which just made him worse. I collected the bit of soul floating nearby and slowly began stitching it back to the whole, like I had done before with a small fissure. When fractures happen, we use some of our magic and some of the patient's magic as well as parts of their soul to weave the pieces together and encourage them to grow into a whole. But it did not work that way for this man. I don't know if it was my inexperience or the fact that he had a full fracture, but the soul kept slipping and the man began to thrash. I gave him more nightshade to keep him calm, but it ended up being too much. I had not been a Healer very long so I measured it wrong. I had been trying to align the pieces back together again when both halves slipped from my hands and evaporated like water in the desert sun. The mayor had not been very happy with me, but the townsmen… the townsmen drank to my name the rest of the night.

The words trailed off and Nuri let the silence run for a few minutes. He knew the old man quite well, and he knew that such a mistake had likely haunted the man for decades.

Well, Nuri began, after the silence ran on too long for his patience. The Headmaster has told me that this Warlord has split his soul seven times, seven pieces that must be destroyed before he can leave this world.

No. The word came quickly, without hesitation. You cannot destroy the pieces. I will not allow it. I will not teach you to do so. That cannot be allowed. They must be rejoined or nothing will be done at all.

Nuri rolled his eyes. It had always been that way, a fundamental disagreement between Ohin and Nuri, or Ohin and Idris, on how to handle, well, everything. But the man was stubborn, and Nuri knew that he would not be swayed on this matter. He shifted on the bed, flopping onto his stomach as he readjusted the book.

Very well, old man. What do you suggest I do then? I sincerely doubt the Warlord will allow me to sit at his bedside while I Heal him or- Nuri wrote quickly, avoiding the argument he could see brewing through the swipes of ink forming on the page -that he would allow a Healer to treat him for something he intentionally inflicted upon himself.

Well… the jagged scrawl smoothed out as the words slowly flowed onto the page. I do not even know if soul magics could be used to sew pieces of a soul back together. I was not successful before the man perished, but perhaps it could be adapted. The pieces would all still need to be in the same place, but the magics do not have to be thorough. The soul could be patched together loosely, over a small distance.

The magics only need to last long enough so that his soul will leave with him when I kill the man, Nuri wrote simply.

There was a pause before Ohin replied. No guarantees, but perhaps it would be enough for a short while. I will say this, however. YOU will not be able to do this magics. It is the opposite of your ability, and you will be more likely to fracture your own soul while shattering this Warlord's. You must find somebody there will ability in soul magics.

That might be difficult, Nuri wrote. These British, they seem to believe that soul magics are evil.

Do they now? Well that will cause you some difficulties. Find someone with ability in Healing, then, and we'll see what we can do with them. Until then I will think on this problem more and consult with some of the other Elders.

Thank you, Ohin. I have missed you and the compound. I hope everyone is doing well? Nuri wrote with hesitation. He tried not to think too much on his homeland. Deep in the Scottish winter he couldn't help but long for the equatorial sun. And for people that made sense.

You're welcome, and everyone is well. Now get some rest. We will see each other again before long. I will write you again when I have news.

Good night Ohin.

He had successfully managed to put Draco off for a week. Between classes and the continued training sessions with the Aurors, Nuri had kept himself scarce. The few times he had been in the Common Room, he made sure that he had a lover with him. While the avoidance was certainly enjoyable at first, it was starting to get boring and he was getting worn out. He told himself that he simply didn't want to deal with a whiny and bereaved child and simply ignored the curl of guilt that wormed its way up his throat. But it all had to come to an end eventually. They lived in too close quarters for him to be able to avoid the boy for the rest of the term.

Thus it was completely unsurprising to Nuri when Draco cornered him in the Great Hall, at the start of breakfast about a week into term when he was still sleepy and quaffing his coffee in an effort to jumpstart his day. Before he realized what he had done, he agreed to meet with the stone-faced boy to continue their lessons after dinner.

He knew it was going to be a bad night when he walked into the training room and the Malfoy boy was already there, the lines of his back rigid. He stiffened at the sound of the door sliding closed against the stone floor, but didn't turn around. Nuri was glad Mujahid was busy with the Adepts. He didn't think this was going go well and he didn't want to see the pretty blond's blood splattered across the stone floor.

That would simply be a waste. At least until he got a chance to have a romp with him first.

"Well, Draco," Nuri purred, slipping the cloak off his shoulders. He didn't let the sliver of unease he felt slip out through his words. The boy wasn't worth the uncertainty anyway. He was just a part of a long, drawn out chase. Nothing more, nothing less. "Are you not looking… sleek tonight." He let his eyes trail down the blond's back, admiring the shape his shoulders made through his deep green sweater. "Have you dressed up for simply me?"

Draco wasn't sure what he had been thinking.

He wasn't sure he was thinking at all.

The Somali boy had just been so goddamn smug.

After the morning that the Daily Prophet arrived, that stupid rag, he swore he wouldn't approach the boy again. His father has died. His father. Yes, the man had been a Death Eater. No, he hadn't been the most affectionate of parents, but Slytherin men were expected to be stoic.

It was two days after their New Year's Ball. He had even been stupid enough to feel hopeful that this year would be different, that things would change and the bleak life that every Slytherin student at Hogwarts faced could change. And then the Aurors arrived.

They told them nothing. His mother… his mother had held it together so well. Like a true Malfoy. Like a true Slytherin, she held it together until those horrible men left. Then she quietly left the room, locked herself in her study and cast a Silencing charm. He expected no less of her.

He did the same thing in his room, and promptly destroyed everything of value.

But deep down, below the grief and below the anger, he felt guilt.

The Aurors refused to tell them anything, other than he had died during a raid. They wouldn't even release his body for another three days. It was unacceptable and undignified.

But then to come back to Hogwarts to read in a fucking newspaper that his fighting partner, a man he wanted so desperately in bed, was the one to have killed his father.

He could have killed the Somali boy then and there. But he was a Slytherin through and through. Self-preservation was more important than vengeance. The metallic taste of guilt welled up, encouraging him to run.

So he decided to avoid the boy.

He lasted a week before he came in one morning to see Nuri looking well shagged and sated, sipping his morning coffee without a care in the Merlin-forsaken world. He saw red, and demanded that he meet him for fighting practice. Flashes of him ripping the boy apart, limb by limb and leaving him to die in a long forgotten hallway clouded his vision, and it wasn't until he stormed out of the Great Hall that he realized what he had done.

Challenged the son of a Dark Lord.

He may have lost his father, and grieved the man, but he still had his pride. Straight after classes he went to his room, showered and then dressed impeccably, before leaving the Slytherin dorms and winding his way down to the dungeons.

He was unsurprised when he arrived at the room to find it empty. He leaned up against a weaponry rack and stared at the far wall, deliberately facing his back to the door. He told himself it was because he didn't fear Nuri, so didn't feel the need to be defensive, but really he wasn't sure how he would react if he saw the boy enter the room.

He wasn't sure how long he waited, staring at the stone walls and the old weaponry, before he heard the hinges of the old door creak, the rusted metal bitterly complaining about the disturbance. He forced himself to stay relaxed until the door started to close and the wood scraped against the stone floor, the angry sound startling him. He stiffened. That was all he allowed himself.

"Well, Draco. Are you not looking… sleek tonight."

Draco took one slow breath and turn around on his toes. He left his arms loose at the shoulders and the muscles of his legs stayed tense as he met the eyes of the boy for the first time since he left Hogwarts just before Christmas.

"Have you dressed up for simply me?"

He always forgot just how green those eyes were. He sucked in a quick breath and then glared at the man when he smirked. Those eyes could not be natural. They looked like they sucked in the Avada Kedavra that hit him as a baby and absorbed it, and now every time his eyes alighted on a person they radiated the fierce danger of an Unforgivable.

"Those clothes are quite nice, too nice for fighting. What were you expecting, a candlelight dinner?" Draco's glare deepened and Nuri laughed. "I did not think so. Take that fancy sweater off before I rip it off."

The seed of anger that Draco had held deep in his belly since he learned of his father's death from those callous Aurors blossomed. He pulled the sweater off, his movements stiff and jerky, and threw it into a dusty corner of the room. He could taste the fire crawling up his throat, curling under his tongue. His teeth began to tingle, and he had to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. His tie followed the sweater a moment later, flung hard across the room. He let the fury overwhelm him, masking the unease and nausea that seemed to sit in his belly every day since his father died.

He looked back at the Somali boy and felt the same rage took him that morning, driving him to demand this meeting. Images overlaid his vision and he could see the boy at his feet bleeding and begging for mercy, or hung from the rafters of the Great Hall.

"Into the dust?" Nuri asked before shrugging. "Suit yourself." And pulled out his wand. As his arms shifted under the light, his scars shimmered, catching Draco's attention.

He felt like he had been doused with a bucket of cold water.

He had seen those scars flash before, when he had spied on the Slytherin sparring with his bodyguard. He didn't admit it aloud, but in the silence of his own head he thought that Muggle was just a little terrifying. And the other boy and defeated him soundly. This was not a man to be fought straight on. Draco needed to be smart, not rash like a Gryffindor.

He could hear his father's voice in his head, chastising him for being so foolish and un-Slytherin. He felt slightly nauseous.

No. He felt sad. He missed his father.

Without saying a word Draco pulled out his wand, stepping back with his right foot for balance as he spread his stance, loosening up his knees.

Nuri gave him a vicious smile and threw a spell the color of burnt gravy at him.

Draco threw himself forward, twisting to the side. It was not the most elegant thing he could have done, but he froze a moment too long and was forced to react. He could feel the muscles around his ribs protest as the spell grazed his shoulder, splitting the fabric of his second best shirt. A shirt his father had given him for his birthday the previous year. He felt some of the anger rise again.

"Good! You have not forgotten all leaving Hogwarts. I thought you would get fat and lazy, at home for Christmas." The voice was loud and snide.

Draco sneered and threw a fast, nonverbal hex. It was underpowered and if he was honest with himself it was a second year spell, but the spell was fast and the first thing he could think of. The fury he could feel banked deep in his chest flared. No Malfoy would become fat or lazy.

The Somali dodged easily. The sweep of his arm from the dodge effortlessly twisted, and a magenta colored spell sped from the tip and impacted his chest, splattering a stain the same shade of magenta across his stomach.

The other student tsked, tsked!, at Draco. "Lazy and sloppy," he said simply.

"Bombarda!"

The spell was out of Draco's mouth before he realized what he was doing. The magic leapt from his wand, speeding across the gap between the two boys and sailing… right over his shoulder. Nuri didn't even attempt to dodge and the spell missed him by a good two feet. Shame raced through his body, staining the anger a furious purple.

"Sloppy," he tsked and squinted at Draco. "Are you angry?" he asked, his body language open and curiosity coloring his tone. His wand was hanging loosely at his side and he seemed completely unconcerned that Draco had his wand pointed at his head.

"Angry?" Draco asked, the word coming out at barely a croak. Did he really just ask him that?

Nuri nodded just once. "Yes. Angry. A little, anyway." He cocked his head to the side, looking at him as if he were a child caught in a vat of jello.

Draco saw red. Another spell, a purple one, flew from his wand and at Nuri. He couldn't remember casting it but he hoped that it hit and turned the boy's skin inside out.

Unfortunately his skin stayed in place and the Somali simply stepped to the side, unhurried and unharmed.

"Sloppy," he said before twisting his wrist and throwing a deep green spell at Draco.

Draco had been so focused on attacking the black-headed student that he wasn't prepared for the counterattack. His eyes widened and he threw himself to the side hastily, colliding into a rack of weaponry. His limbs tangled with the pikes and spears, and he and the rack hit the stone floor with an echoing crash.

The impact stunned him, and it took several moments for him to realize that blood was running into his eyes. He blinked several times, uselessly trying to clear his vision, before attempting to wipe at his eye with his hand. It took several tugs to realize that his arm was trapped in between two pikes wedged between the wall and the rack and a few more tries before he was able to release it and clear the blood from his eyes.

He sat up gingerly, the room swimming as he righted himself. He swayed, nauseous for a moment before regaining his bearings and looking around the room.

He jumped when he realized that Nuri was kneeling in front of him, his bright green eyes staring at him intently. It took him a moment to realize that the other boy was saying something.

"What?" he said. He shook his head slightly and immediately regretted it. He put his hand down on the cold stone floor and willed his dinner to stay in his stomach.

Nuri paused for a moment before responding. "You are angry. You are angry and sad. Your anger makes you sloppy. Fear makes you sloppy. Love, hate, sadness… these all make you sloppy. You cannot afford to be sloppy while throwing magics. You will die. You are lucky you did not spear yourself," he said, gesturing to the weaponry scattered around Draco's prone form.

Draco did not respond. He could feel the echoing anger and guilt rattling around in his stomach, but they were overshadowed by the dizziness and nausea. And a lot of embarrassment.

Those green eyes stayed placid, staring at Draco for a handful of heartbeats for the man abruptly stood.

"Up."

Draco shook his head gingerly, happy to realize that the room was no longer spinning.

"Up."

The voice was flat, demanding. Draco swallowed hard before levering himself to his knees, using the fallen rack as a crutch as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, swaying, before spreading his stance and looking at those Avada green eyes straight on. He was proud that it only seemed to take a moment or two for the nausea to subside.

Nuri sneered, "Pathetic."

Embarrassment and fury crashed into him, his arm raised and before he realized what he was doing he shouted, "Stupefy!"

The spell seemed to wind through the air like a corkscrew. Draco watched it with fascination until it splashed against a shield a couple inches away from Nuri. He didn't even bother to dodge. He didn't even bother to take the energy to dodge. The dismissal that implied, from the man who insisted that wizards were too lazy to use their bodies in a fight… his lips pulled back, his teeth bared from primal instinct. He took a step forward and forced a spell out between his clenched teeth.

"Relashio!"

Again Nuri didn't bother to dodge. He didn't even bother to block it. The fiery sparks of the spell simply washed over him, ineffective.

Nuri sneered. "Pathetic. What did you expect that spell to do? Are you thinking?"

Draco took another step, jabbing his wand out in front of him.

"Deprimo!"

He smirked as Nuri twisted to the side, forced to dodge the explosive magic. The spell impacted the floor just behind where Nuri had been standing, blasting away an impressive chunk of the stone. If only he hadn't dodged…

His satisfaction did not last long, as a nonverbal spell caught him off guard and threw him off of his feet. All the air in his lungs was forced out in one quick huff as he impacted the wall behind him. His head snapped back and a dull crack signaled the moment his skull met the stone. A ringing started in his ears and his vision browned out, neither of which he noticed through the nausea that sped through him. His legs gave out underneath him and he hit the floor with just enough time to roll to the side and threw up everything he ate that day.

His body convulsed with dry heaves when Nuri finally sauntered across the room and knelt down next to him. He felt the cold wash of a spell that immediately quelled his nausea, but did nothing for the pain in his head or the spasming of his stomach.

"What is your problem?"

The words came out garbled to Draco, hardly audible underneath the predominant ringing in his ears. He kept himself from shaking his head, barely.

"What?" he asked?

An irritated look stole across Nuri's face. "What is your problem? You are overemotional. It has made you sloppy. You cannot fight sloppy or you will be killed."

Draco grimaced. He might have argued with him on that fact before he reached the dungeons, but he almost skewered himself on a weaponry rack. That did not speak well in his favor.

He almost flinched when Nuri leaned forward, reaching far into his personal space and only stopping when his nose was an inch from Draco's face. He sat like that for several long moments, just looking at him. Evaluating. It took incredible self-restraint for Draco to keep himself from squirming. He couldn't stop the flush from creeping up his neck, however.

Shame washed over him. This was the man that murdered his father, guilt. He should not feel attracted to the man.

"You are angry," Nuri said. Draco tried not to startle, but it was very abrupt in the silent room. "You are angry, but not just angry. You are grieving. That makes sense. Grief and anger, all directed at me because I killed him."

The banked coals in the pit of his stomach roared to life, and he could feel the fury at this murder pulsing through his veins all over again. But before he could say or do anything, Nuri started speaking again, still an unnerving inch away.

"Yes, grief, yes, anger, but there is more. Something else." The black-haired boy tilted his head to the side. "If it was anger and grief. If it was only anger and grief, you would avoid. You would not see me, not talk to me. Or you would attack me in the Great Hall in vengeance, which would have been proper in both of cultures. But you did neither. You avoided for some time, and then brought me here, to fight. To talk."

Nuri stood up and began to pace. It did wonders for Draco's equilibrium, and he set his hand down to try and lever himself back up to his feet. He got two inches off of the floor when dizziness overwhelmed him and his arm gave out. He gingerly leaned back against the stone wall and vaguely tracked Nuri as he paced between weaponry racks.

"You are too emotional," Nuri began, obviously talking mostly to himself. "Anger and grief, they would cause you to fight emotional, but that would have been in the Great Hall. You would have thrown a spell when that newspaper came out. You did not."

"I wouldn't be a good Slytherin if I attacked you in such an obvious place," Draco replied through gritted teeth.

Nuri paused, looking at him as if he hadn't expected him to be there. After two heartbeats he shook his head and resumed a slow pace. "No. You are too angry. And you would want witnesses, as you fear me." Draco growled. "There is more than anger and grief. It would not be love, and I doubt happiness. The way you spoke… you speak with me, and your father was a Death Eater." Nuri paused and stared straight at him. "On the wrong side. You were on other sides. That cannot be comfortable."

Draco growled at him and levered himself against the wall, slowly rising to standing to meet Nuri eye to eye.

"He was my father, my family-"

"Irrelevant."

Draco resisted the urge to lunge for Nuri's neck. He didn't think it would end well for him.

"Irrelevant. You grieve, you anger because he was your father, he was your family. But you are here because of guilt."

Draco could feel all the blood drain from his face. His heartbeat echoed in his ears bouncing off the stone walls and rattling about his head. He could feel the nausea slowly climbing up his esophagus as saliva pooled in his mouth. "How dare you-"

"You feel guilt. Some of your anger is guilt. Guilt, how strange. Why do you feel guilt? It is not because of you he is dead. We are not friends or lovers, so it is not for that." Draco could feel a hot flush race through his body and color everything from his neck to the tips of his ears. "Guillt, are you happy? Happy he is dead?" Draco growled at him. "No, not happy. Relieved. How strange. Relieved. Is it because you are now free? Is this why you anger?"

Draco lunged for the boy's neck anyway, and fell several feet short of his goal as his depth perception failed him. The floor spun dangerously and he closed his eyes, waiting to impact the stone yet again. Instead of the cold floor, he felt two warm bands wrap around his chest, halting his decent. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the bile he could feel rising to stay down. When he regained his equilibrium he looked up into two pools of green.

Later he would blame Poppy's diagnosis of a severe concussion for his actions. But at that moment, the touch of Nuri's scarred skin across the stomach bared by a hiked up shirt set his libido ablaze. As the room spun behind them, and the floor listed underneath them Draco did the only thing he could do.

He leaned forward and kissed Nuri on his parted, soft lips.

And then blacked out.