Catalysis
Venom, spreading across the corridors of the school is what Black is. Sticky, unbothered by the others horrific torture, like substance. Cruelty at its core without a second thought.
And agonising pain is what goes through his mind while Black looks straight into his eyes, as if not knowing that the clash of two Legilimency master-minds can set the whole school on fire. He looks away first, allowing Potter to laugh, make it all into a miserable joke that will spread across the Griffs like the venom Black holds in his teeth.
Because he is ready to burn it all, and then hide under the stairs of his trash-father’s house. Like he did it at the age of five, then while being poisoned – right before the train to Hogwarts.
Get yourself together, little skunk, and fight back.
Is what was told then with an unpleasant, rough voice that makes him vomit every time. His fathers’ words are nothing in this place, and yet they sit deep. So, he tries, but not to make an addicted alcoholic proud, but to survive. He studies, learns, improves. Mind closed, chained and put on the verge of its own existence, all his knowledge is in the books he fills with the words that will never be said aloud.
And yet again, he meets the gaze of the one. Mulciber throws a glance at him with creepy grin, whispering between the lines of Potters triumph speech, reminding of a drunken, and soon to be dead, Tobias. All because of the words that are heard again, but spitted out of a mouth of a fucking Black.
Just a glimpse is all it took for venom to spread in his mind and now heart is open to the lion with a venom instead of blood. He is compromised, however, not understanding silence. How Potter jokes about primitive shit like winning a fight and not poison, that he took at the age of eleven.
Get yourself together, potion maker, and fight back.
Voice of Black is lethal, mixed with exposure and his eyes are locked. Not a sight of fear is seen in them, but Black knows the truth. Mind is clearly open and the one who won, a guest in a lion's form, reads it like its owner, staining muddy walls with his venomous, cold-blooded truth.
He cannot believe into reality, next life seems to be approaching rather quickly and before he knows it, potion is in the hand.
He gets himself together and after the train stops, father is killed, and clothes are cleaned, he drinks it all – the potion he has spent weeks perfecting, crawling to the cupboard underneath the stairs with fingers crooked and blood staining floor.
Either way. Venom spreads with ease.