Why Potter Could Never Be a Slytherin
Blaise Zabini is heir to his Noble House and heir to his lady mother's way.
One would think that because of it, he would be a ponce like dearest Draco.
However, Blaise finds the entire ceremonial formalities tedius, boring, and thus only rarely bothers with it. It is not like anyone can shame him for it, not when he is Slytherin's hearthrob and Elara Black's favorite escort.
Ah, Elara Black.
Their precious pureblood princess.
More like psycho, though Blaise would never dare say so in polite compagny. Or around Draco who thinks himself his namesake in everything that concerns his sister in soul.
Sometimes, Blaise wonders how the heiress wasn't sorted into Gryffindor with her possessive and angry magic that curls protectively around all those she has come to care for. Any Slytherin would have jumped on the mere idea of the Black heiress's apparent weakness. After all, sentimentality and loyalty aren't easy to come by in the Green and Silver House. Pansy Parkinson had thought Elara like her traitor lord father, a Gryffindor maybe not in uniform, but at heart.
Poor naive Pansy.
One might think that she would know better than to provoke the last heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, the darkest family of old wizarding blood.
Maybe she thought that Elara's supposed Gryffindor qualities would include morals.
Only, Elara Vespera Black is not a witch known for her morals.
More so like she has none. If she ever had them, Elara had erased them long before Blaise got the pleasure to meet her.
Elara Vespera Black might hold the fierceness of Gryffindor but it is Slytherin's venom that she breathes every day.
As for Potter?
Potter could never be a Slytherin.
Not when he is so obvious with the affections he hold for the Dark's heiress.
It would be funny, in a tragic sense, Blaise supposes. For the Golden boy of the light to be so smitten with the daughter of the Dark.
Yes, Potter would never be able to wear their crest for he is so painfully obvious.
Exhibit A:
"Miss Black, if I may ask-"
The poor Beauxbatons sod does not change a chance before Potter's icy glare as the Boy-who-lived glowered not too far from them.
"Miss Black?" he scoffs with a sneer, a decent attempt at Draco's perfect one. "That is Lady Black to you. Did Beauxbatons not teach you manners?"
Draco quirks an eyebrow at the Boy-Who-Lived-to-piss-off-Draco, Blaise only stiffles a smirk.
The French splutters angrily. "Listen here boy," he spits as red color his cheeks. It is obvious he is not of the old Noble French Houses with his lack of decorum. "You-"
Elara casually wipes the back of her gloved hand.
A breach of courting etiquette, a clear insult.
Oh, how Blaise loves his daily entertainment.
The heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black smiles coldly. "It is Lord or Heir Potter, Monsieur Dubois. I would ask of you to remember your manners in my presence."
"My Lady, I-"
"No need, Monsieur. Je comprend qu'une telle demande puisse être au-delà de votre portée. On n'y peut rien quand notre cerveau est limité."
(I understand that you wouldn't be able to do so. There's nothing to do when your brain is so limited.)
See?
Delightful.
"Lara," Draco hisses under his breath, grey eyes so similar to his sister's, wide and scandalized. Only Potter, who lacks a Noble education that should have been his as Heir of the Potter Family, blinks cluelessly.
Elara tucks her elbow in Draco's arm, the perfect image of their beloved princess as if she had not insulted her third suitor today alone, not that those boys were any worthy of the term suitors, from their lack of good breeding to a lack of skills or brains.
"Gentlemen," she bids them goodbye with a small curtesy.
Potter just stares at the back of her head, eyes unblinking as if he had just seen a nymph.
"Alright there, Potter?" Blaise asks, tucking his hands in the pockets of his pants.
Potter nods. "She speaks French."
The heir to the Zabini cannot help but quirk an eyebrow. "She is a Malfoy in all but blood. Of course, she speaks French." He then wiggles his brows in a unseemingly manner that would earn him a poorly aimed elbow to the gut if Draco were there. "Why, do you like it?"
Potter doesn't respond.
Well, that is boring. Perhaps did Blaise push too hard and broke the poor half-blood's brain. He turns around to leave, only pausing as Potter's whisper reaches him.
"I could listen to her speak like that the whole day."
A smirk blooms on Blaise's pretty lips.
See?
That's no Slytherin.
Exhibit B:
Elara Vespera Black and himself are the trend setters among purebloods. Whatever they wear is sure to be sold out comes next moon, and Blaise takes great pleasure in knowing this.
Do you know how much Bellvoy, a famous and luxurious fashion brand tailored specifically for purebloods, pays monthly to have the two of them wear their clothes?
Hundred of galleons.
As such, Bellvoy started to adjust their brand to better suit his and Elara's tastes.
Blazers, elegantly cut and with silver cufflink.
Cloaks with a thicker velvet layer that rests on the model's figure.
Off-the-shoulder dresses, beautifully cinched at the waist to pool in a silk waterfall.
Dressed cut like armor, veils and tules for sleeves.
And if it just so happens that emerald becomes a color almost exclusively reserved for the last Black, well no one has seen fit to complain. After all, it wasn't like all shades of green were suddenly requisitioned by Elara.
Only emerald. Her favorite color.
"Only the best for the House of Black," Elara had sniffed under Theo's bemused stare.
"I'm sure," Blaise agrees, wiggling his brows playfully, part because of how flagger-basted Draco looks as he stares at the color's fabric, part because for all her training, Elara can be painfully oblivious sometimes.
"Lara," Draco makes something alike a choked whine and a whiney plea. "Must you?"
Elara gives a firm nod, her face elegant and neutral. "I must."
And if Draco shoves the cloth to the side, muttering about a damned Potter, well, Blaise would be a poor friend not to tease Draco.
They are waiting in line, waiting for Flinch to be done with listing all the things they aren't allowed to bring back from Hogsmead, a pure waste of time if you would ask Blaise. And of course, precious and beloved students that they are, the Gryffindors are the first to leave the line, mingling with their friends in loud chatter.
Potter, as if he cannot help but gravitate where his dearest Elara is, passes by them, talking with the Weasley boy and Granger. Weasley's arm is snug around Potter's neck as he loudly blabbers about HoneyDuke's latest candies and Blaise wrinkles his noise at the boy's grating voice.
Too loud, too deep, though it flunctuates as all teenager's voices tend to.
But as Potter passes Elara, he glances at her. Stops. And comes back on his track to once more look at her.
Daphnee Greengrass, Elara's friend and lady-in-waiting, smothers a giggle behind a gloved hand.
Draco purses his lips.
"Potter," Elara greets, which is more than what half of the Hogwarts students will ever get from Slytherin's beloved princess. "Can I help you?"
Potter shifts, entire body angled towards her. "I like your outfit."
Daphnee has to turn away from Potter's poor attempt at flirting.
Because it is flirting, no matter what Draco likes to pretend otherwise. Potter is too much of a Gryffindor for it not to be obvious.
Elara quirks an eyebrow, tilting her head. "Thank you, I suppose."
Potter nods. "Say Black, anything you want to tell me?"
"Have a good day?" Elara asks.
Potter smirks. He only smirks that confident, almost charming quirk of the lips around Elara. "Not that," he steps closer and in the corner of his eyes, Blaise can see Draco bristle like a drowned cat. "Why is that you're always wearing emerald? You're truly a witch after my own heart, aren't you?"
There is a pause.
No one, except maybe Draco in the privacy of the Malfoy's manor perhaps, had ever dared to voice what they all noticed.
Till Potter opened his big mouth. The sheer guts it takes to say that to Elara Vespera Black, daughter of the famed vicious Sirius Black, and granddaughter of the Lady Walburga, a feared harpy from her times.
Again, not a Slytherin.
But Potter has guts, Blaise will give him that.
Elara, remarkably, doesn't falter. "Perhaps it is because it is my House's color. And my favorite one." She says.
Potter hums. "Favorite color, huh." He gently takes a pan of Elara's ribbon, emerald silk on ebony, till his eyes are at the same level as the ribbon. The shades are so similar, it is almost funny. "Funny, it is the same color as my eyes. Do you like my eyes that much, Black?"
Blaise, if he had been a Gryffindor and unafraid of Elara's ruthless spellwork, would have answered a resounding yes at her place.
"I don't." Elara snatches back the end of her ribbon. "And it is not the same color as your eyes, Potter, don't be vain."
Theo throws her an incredulous glance, and Elara flippantly waves her hand as if chasing away Potter's daring thought. Instead, Theo flinches.
Ah, Elara probably sent him a wandless stinging hex for letting his emotions betray her words.
Poor Theo.
He never did understand Elara the same way Draco and Blaise do.
Elara would rather carve her chest open than admit a mistake.
"Oh, really?" Potter drawls.
"Really." Elara sneers. "I wouldn't expect a boy, much less a Gryffindor, to notice the delicate subtleties of colors, Potter. I guess everyone has their faults."
"And I guess yours is you never do like to admit you like me."
"I would have to like you for it to be a fault. Fortunately for me, it is not."
"I don't know about that, Black, your emerald ribbon says otherwise."
"It is no fault of mine, Potter, that you do not even know the color of your eyes." She waves her wand and a spiral of color, like ink that spirals in the air, emerges. And the color isn't quite the same as Elara's ribbon. "That's the color of your eyes, Potter, for Slytherin's sake. It's called jade green."
Blaise doesn't know why he expected Potter to call bull on that.
Honestly, everyone can see the difference between the jade green, more mellow and a tad bluer than Potter's vibrant, pure green eyes that could pass of as emeralds.
"Ah," Potter sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "It's almost the same shade, though."
Elara sniffs. "Perhaps, but it's not. Now, if you are done thinking the universe revolves around you, my friends and I have better things to do. I shall take my leave."
As they leave however, Blaise hears Granger mutter under her breath, "Did Black just gaslight Harry for a shade of green?"
Blaise isn't quite sure what gaslight means.
Nonetheless, he would have answered yes.
Ahh, poor little Potty.
He wouldn't have survived a day in Slytherin if he believed Elara's lie, the poorest she has ever uttered in her life.
Because they all know that Harry James Potter's eyes are the same shade of emeralds.
And it just so happens that Elara Vespera Black's favorite color is the same too.
In Bellvoy:
"Oh, my, monsieur, ne bougez pas s'il vous plaît."
"I'm sorry?"
"Don't move, if you will."
The boy, tall with hair that have never heard of a brush, stills himself. Valérie can finally get a good look at him, and she hums pleasantly as she crosses gaze with him.
His eyes are a startling, vibrant green, the like that Heiress Back is so fond of.
She glances at what he is holding.
A scarf with emerald embroidering.
Un chef-d'oeuvre digne de sa maison de couture.
"I see you found our latest collection."
The boy blushes. "Yes, it's very-" he pauses. "Pretty."
Valérie giggles behind a wrinkled hand. "Of course. Now, dear monsieur, I regret to tell you that this scarf is not on sale yet."
"Oh, umm, why if I may ask?"
Valérie tilts her head. "Oh, haven't you heard? The Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has added emerald green to her House colors. It is now know as Emerald Black."
"So, this is emerald." the boy murmurs. "Do you have a scarf that is jade green, madam? To match my eyes."
"Of course we have jade green," Valérie pauses. "But that shade, my dear, won't do."
The boy lifts his thin framed glasses back up the bridge of his aristocratic nose. "Why not?"
Valérie laughs a twinkling laugh, like bells her husband would sigh ever so fondly. "Because you have emeralds for eyes."
The boy falters, before a large smile curve his lips and makes his eyes sparkle like gems under the sun. "I knew it."