Harry Potter & The Hand God

Blaise wakes up, the night after Harry kissed him, apologizing for hexing him, with his teeth growing at an alarming rate. His fingernails are following suit. He laughs to himself if he had been alone, watching his teeth become buck and his nails become claws.

It's almost funny.

It keeps going.

And going.

And going.

And then suddenly, it isn't funny anymore.

He had known Harry was angry -- had expected it, had acted against Tom Riddle with it in mind -- but this is a lot. He would have to spend at least a day in the infirmary.

More, if he didn't drag himself there soon.

He is halfway there when he runs into Tom Riddle. Headboy. It's his night to patrol. Riddle drinks in the situation greedily.

"Dentistry troubles, Zabini?" Tom asks. Merlin, how he wishes he could take points for this. But apparently prohibiting students from taking care of their medical needs after hours was "odd" and "inhumane" punishment and had been outlawed long ago.

Still. It was gratifying, watching Blaise suffering due to Tom. (Technically, due to Harry, but because Blaise had hurt Tom, and that's just as well either way.) Did you exact his punishment with this in mind? Tom thinks. You know my patrolling schedule. Is this a part of hurting him? This humiliation?

I am probably one of the only people who will see him like this. 

Just like you planned, Harry.

I have never been so happy to be a pawn.

Tom makes Blaise wait. "Can't have you walking about without a hall pass, can we?" They can, of course, because Blaise's outward condition is hall pass enough, and Blaise surely knows this just as much as Tom does. But Blaise's teeth are currently fusing together -- same as his fingernails are, his too hands now connected to one another, quite disturbing -- and all words comes out in a gross slobber of gibberish so even if Blaise wanted to protest, and he does, it's not as if he can.

This part feels planned, too. 

Tom runs out of reasons to keep Blaise there, but he feels like he's done enough. Like Harry has. His point is unforgettably proven.

In the morning, after Madame Pomfrey has sorted out his fingernails but, "Your teeth, Blaise," she says, sighing, "will need much more time to separate and shorten," Harry visits him. Visiting hours aren't open yet but Blaise doesn't question Harry's unorthodox appearance.

Harry is always showing up in places he shouldn't. (He finds it fun. Before Fred and George's expulsion, they gave him a map. It showed Hogwarts and all their residents and how to get in and out of the infirmary undetected. He hasn't used it for much mischief -- he doesn't generally go out after hours; all business done up front -- but this, this he doesn't mind whipping it out for.)

"Good morning," Harry says quietly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not very," Blaise says. His words are legible but muffled. Harry makes it out fine either way.

Harry nods, expecting that answer. "You didn't tell Pomfrey it was me," he says after a moment.

It's an accusation. He knows it's true because he would've been in trouble already, would've been called down to the office, House points taken. The Ministry would've gotten involved.

But they aren't, so Blaise's kept his mouth shut.

"Why would I?" I love you. "You already apologized." 

Harry runs a hand over Blaise's nails, prim and proper and freshly trimmed. "Can I ask you something, then? If I am already forgiven?"

"I am given the impression that you will ask no matter what it is I respond with," Blaise responds, correct, knowing Harry far too well, "But yes, you may."

"Would you do it again?"

Blaise doesn't have to ask what. He knows what Harry wants him to say, though.

I regret it.

I will never touch amortentia again.

I will not hurt Tom Riddle again.

Never.

But Harry is not controlling. He is friends with his friends because of who they are, not because of who he wants them to be.

(Letting Hermione allow Tom Riddle to sit with them; letting his ideals of House politics go unshared. His leeway is sometimes utterly foolish.)

So when Blaise says, "Yes," he says it honestly.

Harry ducks his head. (Blaise cannot help but feel as if he's failed some sort of test.) "I would do this again, too, on the subject matter." 

"I expect nothing less." It is said fondly.

Blaise knows he isn't lying. This situation is bound to repeat and, if Harry finds out, he will find himself bedridden.

This is a benchmark, after all.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

During lunch, Tom asks a lot of questions about the spell used. Harry first thinks it's because he wants to learn it himself, but he reveals himself to be way too familiar with it already for that to be the case.

"You used a spell from Salavestor's Melting Skins?" Tom asks, excitedly. "The one in the Restricted Section?"

Harry frowns. "Pomfrey checked it out for me. I said it was for a DADA essay."

"You know the type of spell that was, right? That that book is filled to the brim with--"

"Dark spells?" Harry guesses, laughing. "Sure. I know."

"And you used it?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I?"

Tom feels faint. He might be blushing. He never blushes. "Your friends, for the most part, are most outspoken about their opinions about Dark magic."

Harry smiles. "I am not my friends, Tom."

Tom has never felt so disoriented, so elated. "You hate Malfoy, and Lestrange, and Nott, and Rosier--"

"Yes," Harry says. "Because of their takes on blood purity. And the Houses. And the Ministry--"

"But not Dark magic?"

"The issued definition of Dark magic is magic used with the intent to harm. And, in case it isn't obvious," he sticks his arms out in a grand gesture, "I have never fancied myself a pacifist."

Pain can be used to counteract prejudice. Intolerance of intolerance is necessary.

(Pacifism is weakness.)

"Of course," Tom says, but he doesn't hear them. 

Harry Potter is not against Dark magic.

Harry Potter... is not against an essential part of him. 

Why does that make him feel so happy?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Harry Potter is writing a newsletter when Tom Riddle finds him after lunch.

"Harry," he greets, sitting across from him at the library table. He glances at Harry's paper. It is bright pink. "What is it you're writing."

"An invitation."

"To whom? And what for?" he asks. His Hufflepuff connections -- all bribed into telling him the comings and goings of Harry Potter's House, which, Tom supposes, makes them more informants than connections -- had not told him of any upcoming celebrations.

"A war." He signs his name at the bottom on the paper.

Tom's eyes are drawn to the motion. He frowns. "You're writing in pen," he states. "And what is this about a war? You are child. You are yet to become a soldier. There are no battles to fight even if you were." He is more surprised at Harry's writing utensil than his delusions.

Harry spins the pen between his fingers. "They are practical. I learned how to transfigure them, so now I have them in abundance, if you'd like one."

The idea of something so Muggle in his hands repulses him. "No, thanks."

Harry shrugs. He takes one last look over the poster, nods, then slides it over to Tom. "I am starting a war of my own. I will be the only soldier fighting."

Tom takes the paper, eye brows rising. He remembers something about insanity and eventually death, but then can't decide if this is insanity or stupidity. The line between the two is not usually so undefined.

Stupidity is believing the Earth is flat. Insanity is believing the Earth is flat, the sun isn't hot, and the atmosphere gives off heat in its place. One is able to be reasoned with; debated, disproven. The other is stubborn even and especially when facing factual information. Their mind cannot be changed. 

Tom cannot decide which one this is.

Harry Potter -- The War On Purebloods

It is time to settle a long term debate; are Muggles inferior? It is the mainstream Pureblood ideology that they are. The Ministry is actively trying to suppress Muggleborn rights and many of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Purebloods and even half-bloods alike are in support of it.

But I think it ridiculous.

I am a half-blood. Muggle runs in me.

I am not inferior because of it.

So I have a proposal, to and for those who disagree. We will settle this in a way magical enough for even Slytherin himself to get behind.

It's time for an Affair of Honor. It is a duel, in a sense; me against everyone who shows up. One v. Many. Magically binding.

To win, I must be disarmed or I must yield or I must be physically or magically unable to continue fighting. The same is true vice versa.

I will set the stakes fairly low. The loser will admit they are wrong about Muggles. 

They will also refrain from saying the slur "Mudblood."

If you or anyone you know is interested, please meet me in the courtyard, 2pm, Saturday the 23rd.

Signed,

Harry Potter, the half-blood prince.

"So," Harry says once he's finished reading it. "What do you think?"

I think your mind is melting. But perhaps not. Perhaps this is your normal. "It is a bit intense," Tom says.

"Is it?" Harry takes the paper from him, skimming over the words. "I was going for that."

"I see."

"You seem upset."

"I am simply interested in some of your wording choices."

"Hm? Which ones?"

Tom points to the heading, leaning over to get a better look. "The War On Purebloods," he says aloud. "Are not two of your closest friends Purebloods?"

"Generalization makes it impossible for a Pureblood to separate himself from the debate," Harry explains. "No, 'well it says some Purebloods, so it can't be me.' If they are not included in the people I'm referencing, then," Harry shurgs. "They just won't show."

"I see," Tom says, again. He will not voice his own opinions on Muggles and Muggleborns; it is better not to upset Harry about these things. He is currently convinced Tom is different from his friends. (And he is -- though not like Harry thinks.) It is best not to change that. "I was also wondering--"

"Yes?" Harry interrupts.

Tom holds back his irritation. "You are challenging them to an 'Affair of Honour.' I was not aware such an 'affair' existed." 

"Did you know the Ministry cannot interfere with the dwellings of magical duels?"

Yes. I am aware of most things. Which is why your little term confused me.

You are always surprising me. I am not sure if I like or dislike it. Most days I sit squarely in both corners.

"Relevancy?" Tom prompts.

"It is shady," says Harry, "that you can do anything -- no matter how otherwise illegal, no matter how violent or murderous -- anything and... the Ministry restrains itself from doing anything. Because it is a duel, they say. All participants consent. Whatever is done in a duel, stays in a duel. They cannot be punished -- for any of it. Do you understand?"

"I was under the impression you were rather keen on wizard's duels." The grapevine is rather telling. Harry has offered out more duels than Tom has Crucios, and that is saying something.

"And people are rather keen on rejecting them," says Harry. "And that's my fuck up. That's my problem -- I'm sticking to a failing point." If nothing around me will change, I will change myself.

"It's too much risk, too much commitment," he continues. "I could do anything in them and go relatively unpunished. And people, they've used that to their advantage before, haven't they? Imagine how many people have tricked someone into a duel and then used it to read their mind or torture them, all above the Ministry."

"Shady," Tom echos, not really caring. Harry is obsessed with the Ministry's alleged corruptness, while as Tom is more interested in using that to his advantage, perhaps contributing to it along the way.

"Yes. Shady. Exactly. Wizard's duels are fun in concept, but the fun ends there. So no one will duel me and I respect that, it's smart, it's the good decision, the Ministry needs to add restrictions to duels, blah, blah, blah. I can learn. I am learning."

"With an Affair of Honour?"

"It took a lot of research to find it, but Mione's a big help with that sort of stuff."

"Find what?"

Harry slams the table. "With an alternative! It's a widely abandoned duel alterative -- you're not allowed to cast Unforgiavables, and you're not exempt from magical law."

"So Dark spells -- they're still allowed?"

"Within the extent of the law."

Tom takes in his words. Fascinating, he thinks, something sparking in his chest, surprising himself. You are always fascinating. "You wish to attract those keen to the Dark Arts?"

"I wish not to deter them," Harry says, which sounds like the same thing to Tom. 

Tom wants to call him foolish. A dozen Purebloods, all weidling Dark magic, all out to prove themselves right? It is like throwing himself to piranhas. They will devour him alive.

But his face is too red, his voice too breathless, for him to protest. He clears his throat. "I am intrigued on your self-assigned title." I like to hear you talk. Keep going. Your nonsense is comforting and I do not get why.

I might not care.

"The half-blood prince?" He chuckles as if it is ridiculous to his own ears. "I'm not certain where I picked it up. It does feel familiar, though I'm not sure how. But it feels fitting."

Famiiar. But not to you?

Lily, Tom thinks. This is Lily's way of supporting you.

I wonder where she got it.

I...

I wonder why I care.

Tom sighs. "If you want to make your point obvious," he says, and he's not sure why, Harry makes him so unbecoming, like he is wearing his shoes on the wrong feet, "pass the posters out by hand, rather than by spell. They'll hate that."

Harry's smile is blinding.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Harry Potter is not sure what straw broke the camel's back. Lestrange's comments about Hermione and Ron's "vile and immoral relations," Malfoy's snickering about Blood Traitors, or Snape, who acts like calling someone a Squib is the greatest insult. 

Whatever the straw, the camel's back is broken.

And now?

Now -- he is our for blood.