Glisseo
Harry’s hand helplessly probed for a ledge to guarantee utmost sanctuary, knuckles white with strain. The teen’s glasses threatened to slip from his countenance, coated with perspire. His legs dangled in the absence of a foothold, soon locating the windows rimming. Feeling anything but snug, this is where Harry found himself in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. The shingles being paved way for the Horntails path and Harry's possible demise was all that rang in the boy's ears as he hastily made his way around the window perched on one of Hogwarts many spires. He wanted this to be over, damnit, he hadn’t even asked for any of this to happen. But, with a dragon eager for your extinction, and a life like Harry Potter’s, it’s hard to get as you please.
Finally, he’d made his way round. Harry begged his concentration to be focused solely on regaining flight and getting that *damned* egg, but as claws with length and point Harry didn’t fancy dwelling on made their way over, his attention lingered. Adrenaline overcame him, coursing through his veins like a drug. Wrong footwork and he’d plummet to his death, how embarrassing. Defeating the darkest wizard of their time and dying to his feet gaining a clumsy conscience of their own? No way. With an outstretched palm, digits worked their way to grasp the besom, and his heart undeniably jumped when his tug resulted with stubbornness. It was caught on something. The footprop! Harry seethed, working with as much effort as he could possibly put in. The Horntail became of his peripherals, his heart dropped further than before, possibly as distant as his toes that curled with anticipation. With one final tug, it was freed from the castle's restraint, just as a hungry maw allowed itself to crash headfirst into the spire that stood tall only moments before. Harry slid down the castles side, fingers urgently trying to locate any sort of leverage to break his fall. His only sense in return was the cold stone skidding against his palms, every jutting edge and crevice threatening to break skin. As his own unpredicted scream tore from his throat, the raven haired boy suddenly recalled his broom. With swift, practised motion, Harry slung a leg over the glossy timber.
With optimal grit, Harry swerved and twisted skillfully through Hogwarts design as the Horntails monstrous figure casted a blanket between him and the sun, being deserted to its shadow. He hadn’t known how long they’d been flying for, but Merlin, he was beginning to feel exertion, his body's tightening muscles crying for a rest. Harry fixed his grip on the timber, squinting against the fierce wind to relocate where the arena was. He was in the lead, now, beyond furious cries from the mother in the wake of his trek causing his heart rate to inflate. He could swoop in and–
With a sickening lurch, Harry felt searing heat engulf him. Throwing a pathetic glance at the damage caused from the Horntails orifice, he was somewhat soothed by the fact that he himself hadn’t caught flame. Although, to his dismay, it seemed that the bristle end of his broom had. As even more panic was indulged into the boy's pot of problems, he could hear the cracking and splintering of the besom. The embers whispered to him, practically begging him to give in and stop his struggle for maintenance. He did not listen. As the stadium – oddly nil with sound besides the awful roar in his ears – came into view, Harry suddenly became aware of his heart's obnoxious pummeling. Sweeper staggering with its own mutilation, the hem of his robes ugly with vandalism and tempted to give in to his own assiduity, Harry's eyes fixated on the egg. An egg that shined its golden surface with an ethereal light almost harmlessly, as if it were not Harry’s only way out of the Horntail’s peril. It had no idea of its significance. The champion descended in the heart of the stadium, acutely aware of the chants that echoed his name. Almost effortlessly, he ambushed the prize, securely tucking it into the nook of his arm. With adrenaline he hadn’t felt in a while, Harry ascended beyond the stands, free from the Horntail at last. He hadn’t a name for the feeling that came over him as he listened to masses thunderously incantate for him, but it felt almost pleasing.
“Look at that!” Bagman’s clamorous exclamation rang in Harry's pained ears, “Harry Potter, the youngest participating Triwizard champion, was the QUICKEST to retrieve his egg!”
Harry lingered little on this remark. He wanted nothing to do with this tournament, in fact. Why should he care? All it did successfully so far was earn himself a strained relationship with Ron, as well as half the bloody school. The Horntail’s sudden and deafening cry as dragon keepers marshalled it into its enclosure was enough to draw him out of the poisonous, self-eating mind of his. Despite his unwillingness to compete, Harry did feel some elation for himself, though. He had made it through the first task, and, well, what could be worse than a Horntail? More placated than he had been in weeks, Harry declined from his position in the sky, making his way towards the med-tent where Madam Pomfrey would aid the smarting wound that oozed cerise blood quite uncomfortably on his arm.
…
Around a week later, Harry was fervently charging up the staircase to the owlery, the sound of his urgent steps palpable to anyone present. He was eager to deliver a message to Sirius informing him of the events that occurred in the first task. The raven haired boy was in such a good mood that he even found himself tutting to a rhythm, finally with some sense of tranquility as he hurried along. It had been a rough few weeks when the only thing he experienced was verbal taunts and insults from his peers, or others ignoring his existence as a whole. Of course, the Potter Stinks badges were a period of time where he was seen by his classmates – but, alas, in a negative manner. His face was distorted into that of disgust as he finally reached his destination, even having skipped steps with his ardour. He could forget about the bloody badges now, though. He had the support of his house. Deciding he was done with the thread of thoughts, he distanced himself, making his way over to the snowy owl leant above a kill – likely from a hunt. He smiled endearingly at his beloved pet.
“Hi Hedwig,” Harry began affectionately, “care to deliver something for me?”
The owl cooed softly at her owner, nibbling the boy's fingers with adoration. Harry took this as consent. As he knelt himself down slightly to lace the envelope around her talon, a trill of greeting was voiced only a few feet away from their current positioning. Slightly alarmed, Harry rounded and saw the creature that had vocalised acknowledgement was an eagle owl, and shortly following his eyes grazed upon a boy. A boy with white-blonde hair and pointed attributes. Malfoy’s face twisted into an unattractive sneer, one that made his nose scrunch terribly. He was sure to have wrinkles early on in life, Harry noted all while trying not to laugh at such a thought.
“Some performance you portrayed last week, Potter,” Malfoy began, his voice tight with repulsion, “the only thing bigger than that ugly scar on your forehead is your luck.”
Harry was in no mood for Malfoys vain attempts to patronise him, he just wanted to deliver his letter to Sirius, check in on his owl and return to figuring out what the bloody hell he was going to do about that egg.
“And the only thing bigger than that is your obsession with me..” Harry sighed, returning to tying the memo. “Seriously, shove off Malfoy. I’m in no mood.”
Of course, when did Malfoy ever listen to Harry? As the scarred male finished and rose to depart, it was no surprise to find that the blonde had in fact, stayed loyal to his spot opposing him. Another exhale promptly found itself slipping from Harry's lips.
“Obsession? Potter, don’t flatter yourself. I’m no Granger.” Harry inwardly cursed at remembrance of Rita’s article of him and Hermione, that people now believed the two to be in a relationship, “It’s not my fault that you always put yourself where people can see you, thirsty for attention. It's simply observational.”
As Malfoy finished, Harry had to admit that this was all beginning to irk him. Yes, he was familiar with the others' banter and over the years had developed a sort of resilience towards his ridicules but he was genuinely in no mood at all. He couldn’t ignore the way Malfoys giddy expression grated his nerves like sandpaper, as if annoying Harry was the highlight of his day. Merlin, it probably was the highlight of the numpty’s day.
“Thirsty for attention, am I?” Harry mused, as if this was a joke to him. It sort of was. “That's rich, coming from you. Last I checked, you were so desperate for me to even spare you a glance in second year that your father had to pay for you to have a spot on the quidditch team, and to play my position.”
As he snapped back, voice seeping with sarcasm, Harry watched Malfoy struggle to mask his humiliation with a facade of indifference. This came to no avail. The blondes haunt face warped with a scarlet colour that clashed with his usual pale complexion, and oh, berating his bully was a feeling that compared to no other, only if Ron were here.. The gratifying feeling of his retort lasted only seconds longer.
“At least I have a father to buy me things,” Malfoy snarled, Harry's comment seeming to have hit a nerve. “Last I checked,” He paused again, making sure his parroting was obnoxiously known, “your father was dead.”
Harry felt an unexpected wave of shock spurt through his body, leaving the boy paralyzed in its wake. For a moment, Harry just stared at him, letting the emotions of the past weeks control him. It wasn’t long before a fist was thrown, outcry from the owls was heard, and an outburst of fluttering wings.
…
“Harry, all I’m saying is with your current position - even if you didn't ask for it- as a Triwizard champion, you should not have hit Malfoy in the face like that. You know how his family is.. They’ll find a way to make scat of your image.” As Hermione went on, Harry internally fought with himself to not say something cruel. He was proud of what he’d done to Malfoy. The git had earned it. Yet, Malfoy had been oddly quiet about what Harry had done so far, it unnerved him slightly. The prat hadn’t even thrown himself a pity party in the Hospital Wing, choosing not to curse Madam Pomfrey with his whining.
“Scat of his image or not, Harry,” Ron interjected, face alit with awe, “that must’ve been a brilliant sight. I wish you’d waited for me.. To see that ferret fall right on his arse...”
Ron’s comment of course resulted in a book slamming square-on into the red heads arm, heavy tome against freckled skin echoing in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione did not like violence at all, Malfoy or not.
“Hermione, honestly, I don’t care. I didn’t even want to participate in the first place, Malfoy can shred my reputation for all it’s worth. I just don’t want to die.” Harry quipped, unusually harsh. But, this was to be expected. He never dealt with stress very well, and it was becoming very overwhelming at this moment. He spoke without much thought.
Prominent front teeth chattered uneasily, Hermione always hated the topic of Harry dying. The three of them collectively knew Harry’s life was borrowed time, that he had the possibility of dying ages ago. It was not a subject to be trivialised without extreme emotions. A tremor escaped from Ron, leaving Harry intrigued to press the topic. Before he could, Hermione started.
“That’s absurd, you know. You wouldn’t die. Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it. Would he, Ron?” The girl with unruly, brown hair fretted – to Harry, it seemed as if she were trying to convince herself rather than him. Ron simply nodded, not adding his input. Even worse than Harry, he didn’t deal with these conversations verbally, sticking to what was occurring behind the freckled mien.
Harry did not reply.
Deciding she was done with her subconscious goading, Hermione huffed and began anew.
“Have you been working on the egg? The next task is – it’s in February. It’ll come up quickly, Harry. You’ll need to devise a plan, me and Ron, we could help you of cours–”
“Yes, Hermione. I am working on the egg.” Harry quickly added his clarification to decrease the conversation. Because, in reality, no. He hadn’t begun yet. He knew Hermione was right, and he didn’t want to talk about it. In reply to his hasty comment and obvious attempt to subside any converse, Hermione pursed her lips and cracked open her book, almost immediately taken by the words depicted on the page. Whenever she needed to think, she would immerse herself into a novel. He knew she didn’t entirely believe him, and honestly, he didn’t mind. Anything to relieve himself of any dialogue including the Triwizard tournament.
“Enough of that, then.. Up for some chess, Harry?” Ron inquired, leaving the scarred boy to offer him a sympathetic glance. As stressfilled as this is for himself, he couldn’t imagine what Ron must be feeling.
“Sure, Ron.”
…
In January, Harry predictably still hadn’t dealt with the polished egg that contained information about the next task. Every morning, when he’d wake up, the chore of having to explore what insights the egg held bored him, and he’d neglect it. Hermione did not approve, obviously, and for once, neither did Ron.
Christmas went over awfully well, Harry had received gifts and the cordial feeling of the holidays collided and embraced him with a hug so taut and devoted that made him never want to bid them farewell. Thankfully, he hadn’t seen much of Malfoy and the ghastly blonde remained deep in the labyrinth that was his mind. He preferred it this way.
It was like this until it wasn’t.
One inviting morning, Harry strode into the great hall. The air was buzzing with animated conversations, students enjoying the weather to come as the snow prepared to withdraw. The ancient wood of the tables groaned with the plates of breakfast adorning their polished surfaces, bench whining as Harry took his spot opposing Hermione and Ron. Immediately, he took into account their tense expressions, reserved body language and the usual friendly aura that followed them gone, as if it were never a part of their character in the first place. Harry’s usual oblivious demeanour was all but gone as an odd source of anxiety stirred in his stomach, eyeing them with uncertainty. It wasn’t just them, though. A lot of the Gryffindors in close proximity to Harry seemed to eye him with darkened expressions, creased eyebrows and all sorts of threatening gestures.
“Having a fine breakfast then, yeah?” Harry embarked sharply, tone cutting right through Hermione and Ron’s edgy behaviour. He believed the harshness of his dialogue to be from coiled up frustration, as he had just secured the loyalty of his house, only to seemingly lose it not even two months later. Ron bent his head, long nose and flaming red hair giving him the expression of a fox. He began quietly,
“Mate, Malfoy’s having a go at you.”
Harry did not get this at first. He only stared in blatant disorientation, before his pent up emotions took control of his lips, fists tightening as nails burrowed into his calloused palms.
“Having a go at me, yeah? Well, he can shove it right up his ferret ars- Wait, how is he having a go at me?” Harry backtracked quickly, eyebrows flickered up, then down, twisting in deformity as an array of senses came over him. Confused, pissed, anxious, every negative emotion he could think of.
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, vulnerability in her usually assured mannerisms. Hands flapped around dynamically as she quickly covered what had happened over the period of time from when Harry was valued, to where he was looked at with betrayal from those he was laughing and sharing tender moments with not even a week ago.
“Well, Malfoy, you know.. When he’s mad.. He’ll do anything in his power to make you look horrid. I told you so, Harry.” She hesitated as Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes when she said ‘I told you so’, but he loved her too much to retaliate. “He’s been.. He’s been telling everyone that you’re cheating in the tournament, Harry. And well, it’s not going over people's heads as just Malfoy rumours in order to ruin you, they’re taking it.. To heart. People are believing him. I mean, not just anyone who is under the age of 17 participates in the Triwizard Tournament, it hasn't happened in a long time.. It dates back to before-”
“‘Mione, Malfoy’s rumour.” Harry quickly interjected, had it been any other time he’d allow his friend the satisfaction of knowing something the other two didn’t but he had to hear what was being done by the Slytherin.
“Right, sorry.” She proposed an apologetic look before continuing, “He’s spread the idea that maybe the Headmaster is giving you some extra help due to your young age, and, in his words, evident favouritism toward you.”
Ron's younger sister Ginny, who thankfully had not plagued Harry with any poisonous signals thus far, (much unlike his other housemates), spurted a giggle into her pumpkin juice. Ginny always provided those around her with warmth, even at the worst of times. Harry felt it now. Her company had always been a pleasure.
"Give Malfoy some credit; you are probably Dumbledore's favourite. Obnoxious as he is, he does make clever plays, the idiot."
Ron was practically seething in Harry’s defence. The ladder did understand Ginny was only joking, though.
“Shut up, Gin. This is serious. You know what he thinks of our family!” Ron practically spat, grimacing as he looked to the Slytherin table. The sibling bond of arguing was not something Harry wanted to put up with at the moment, so he dispersed of it.
“‘S’at's all he’s said then?” Harry bit, his jaw clicking in place with increasing tension. Malfoy always made him really pissed off. Hermione only contributed a curt nod, meanwhile Ron continued his one-sided standoff with the Slytherin table. A table that was eerily quiet, a stark contrast in their favour.
“Not all.. But the rest doesn't matter.” Hermione was one to over analyse every detail of a situation, so Harry saw this as out of character for her. He could see right through her as she internally battled herself on something, if she should say it at all. He decided to leave it at that.
Despite him not replying, Harry felt a sense of betrayal as Hermione was undoubtedly hiding the full extent of truth. Rough hands located his fork and he dug it into his toast, separating the crisp bread absentmindedly as he tried to eliminate the feeling of hatred for his peers. How they could switch up so fast. He bit his lip in guilt, insecure of the thought. Hating them is wrong, he reflected - but he just couldn't free himself from the emotion he knew deep down was authentic.
After a few minutes of silence from the usually clamorous trio, Seamus strutted by, glaring at them with overt distrust. Harry in specific, of course.
“Is it true then?” Seamus spoke bitterly, as if Harry cheating in the tournament would be a direct offence to him. “You’re rigging the tournament? Dishonourable, if you ask me. It’s enough to put your name in there while being under the age of seventeen but cheating, you’re different than I thought you were.”
Harry felt that rage in him once more, same as before he punched Malfoy in the face. *It’s too damn early for all of this, can someone just eat their bloody toast in peace?* Before he could properly reply with a response he would regret later, Ron butted in.
“No, he's not. Considering you’re a twat dumb enough to actually believe Harry put his name in the Goblet, I’m not surprised that you believe Malfoy’s rumour. It’s Malfoy! When has anything he’s said been reliable? Might as well join the Slytherin table with the idea that anything Malfoy says is true.”
Harry felt such a rush of affection for his friend's immediate protection that he just couldn’t find it in himself to remind Ron that he too believed Harry to have put his name in the Goblet before the first task had begun.
To Seamus’ stunned reaction followed by stillness, a lack of vocals and his cheeks turning a colour indicating humiliation, (probably from the idea of joining the Slytherin table), Ron went off once more.
“Now buzz off, Finnigan.” Ron snapped, to which Seamus did hurriedly, taking his site next to Dean a group or so down.
Harry took to his toast again, stomach grousing with a lack of food. Around a mouthful, he mumbled a thanks to Ron who flushed - insisting it was nothing and not to be brought up again.
For the rest of breakfast, the three struck up discourse and decided to no longer linger on the topic of Malfoys rumour. It was pleasant to forget about the void in Harry’s stomach as they did so.
…
After his final afternoon class, Harry made his way to the great hall for supper. The distraction of Hermione and Ron’s company lasted little duration as the day advanced, Harry grew uncontrollably rancorous, fighting to reach for his wand and hex any Slytherin who got somewhat close to him. He belittled himself for feeling this way, as it was wrong, but again, it was hard to fight. Malfoy managed to bring out the absolute worst in him, always. Still, this provided no justification for his sour behaviour toward a first year Slytherin asking him directions to the male's lavatory.
As the boy hastily took his leave in absolute terror, Harry rubbed his face in chagrin. He just couldn’t believe how anyone could take Malfoy of all people seriously when it came to gossip, specifically about Harry. The two had a dreadful history, always going out of their ways to lambaste one another. The male trekked down the staircase, hoping to find his friends before he lashed out on someone who had no play in the hostility that was Malfoys doing once more, he just didn’t know how to deal with these feelings. They were hard to control and he didn't know why.
Of course, he had to jostle right into a coil of snakes, led by one gracing Harry with aristocratic features displaying nothing but disdain. Malfoy. It wasn’t just one house, though. Behind his flock were some Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and even some lone Gryffindors. At first, Harry jumped to the assumption that they were a part of Malfoy's gang now, but they must have just been leaving an afternoon class as he saw Neville in the rear end of the crowd. They must be heading to the great hall as well. Yet, It didn’t make sense why they would enter a collision, as they were looking to arrive at a familiar destination. It was then he recalled where he was, what school he attended and the idea that the celestial steps that carried the lot of them liked to play gimmicks on the students. He cursed magic, quickly taking it back as it gave him everything he knew.
“Look who it is! Potter, you look terrible, rough day? See, I heard a rumour about you. Care to confirm or deny?”
Malfoy cackled derisively, finding his own remark utterly hilarious. Harry tried his best to ignore the way Pansy Parkinson spoke into her cough, when has he looked anything else, but he just couldn’t. This vexed him to a point like no other, he did not and would never understand Malfoy’s obsession with getting under his skin.
“Come up with that on your own or did Malfoy give you a hand? Never really been very funny or remarkable, have you Parkinson?” Harry bit.
Pansy’s upper lip curled into a sneer as she climbed a step higher, maybe to seem more intimidating - it didn’t work.
“You’re awful. Save your frail attempts at humour for someone who will give a shit.” Her aggressive eye makeup and vulgar language made it hard for Harry to maintain eye contact with her. He didn’t know which was funnier.
Dismissing the girl, Harry regained focus on Malfoy, who was glaring venomously at him. As if he couldn’t believe Harry would even try and say something like that to his friend. Harry finally responded to Malfoy’s first endeavour at taunting him.
“I’ve heard your little rumour, Malfoy. It was a feeble attempt, at best, if you really want my input. Your face, which is surprisingly delicate, proved so when it met my fist.. And I s’pose your ego is equally fragile if you’re doing all of this just because you got an owie.”
Malfoy’s face contorted into sudden worry, before quickly masking it yet again as if revealing what he truly felt would allow others to see right through him. His friends looked at him with plain bewilderment, as if what Harry said was a load of hogwash. This caused Harry's countenance to betray him as well, looking on at them all with disbelief. Malfoy must have healed himself on that day, nobody had seen the black eye Harry knew he had provided Malfoy with.. it made sense.
“Of course the prat hasn’t told you! He came into the Owlery,” Harry began, feeling smitten with the idea of embarrassing Draco in front of all the bystanders.
It was then Harry’s staircase was moving. It had disconnected with the former and took to linking with another, as did Malfoy’s. Once again, the stairs never were in his favour. Still in close proximity, Harry opened his mouth to finish what he had started. Before he could, Malfoy’s wand was out, and the low incantation of Glisseo could be heard, coming from pale lips, even from where Harry was. Oblivious to the spell’s doings, he found himself quickly descending down what once was formerly a staircase. As he progressed down the inclination, rowdy laughter echoed the walls decorated with paintings coming from the Slytherins, the other onlookers bidding adieu. Harry’s feet and hands helplessly patted around the unblemished surface, struggling to maintain himself. He physically couldn’t, as he was moving down what was now a slide rapidly.
If matters weren’t horrid enough, Snape was the only professor in sight to deescalate the situation. After returning to his feet due to a counter spell, points were revoked from Harry as the Slytherins corrupted the true intel of the story, making the Gryffindor seem at fault.
…
Harry was beyond mortified at what had happened with the Slytherins. He felt more hatred for them than he’d ever before. Hermione of course was looking at the situation much differently then he was. She thought the idea of having a bully for a professor was disastrous, and something needed to be done. She proposed the idea of a petition, but Ron was too busy playing chess and Harry was mulling over the humiliation he’d felt so neither replied, (to which she huffed and returned to her charms essay). After about an hour of silence, and enjoying just being near each other, the group disbanded as Harry announced he was leaving for bed.
As the other two bid him goodnight, Harry wasn’t so sure it was going to be a pleasant rest. The next task was in a month's time, and he hadn’t even bothered to see what the eggs insides were. He stumbled his way up the stone steps to his dormitory, deliberately avoiding the exruciating gaze of the prize he’d won from the first task. Practically pouncing into the comfort that was his bed, Harry fell asleep before anyone else arrived, dreams dancing with taunts of the tournament and Malfoy.