Harry Potter & The Hand God

Draco Malfoy is a lot of things.

For starters, he is not an idiot. He has the marks to prove it and, though he's had much little tactical experience, if things go right with Tom, that will change. 

He is not an idiot. Sometimes he acts like it. Sometimes he pretends to because if being Tom's right hand man has taught him anything it's that the alternative can be pain and pain best avoided means you're doing something good. Something smart. 

So when he receives Harry's flyer -- from Harry himself, no doubt, isn't that lovely -- he's smart enough to recognize what his fellow associates do not.

Danger. 

Tom's ambiguous opinion on the matter doesn't help. "If you wish to participate, I have no reason to stop you," Tom tells the group. "I do wish to sit this one out -- keep up public appearances, you understand -- but I will show up in support, if you all wish."

Draco thinks that if the reason he gave was true, it'd be stupid. (Tom's going public the moment he graduates. He will be the Minister. The laws he pushes will show his character, even if he is tactful about it, and he will be. What good would not going against Harry Potter -- who stands for everything that Tom does not -- do? It'd eliminate competition and make a point.) And Draco knows that Tom? 

He is not stupid.

So Tom is sitting this one out for different reason. Does he fear Harry's winning? No, thinks Draco. Tom is strong and Harry is... well. Not. 

Does he agree with Harry's preachings?

That isn't right either. Tom's inner circle meetings prove he doesn't.

Tom, then, values his pretense of friendship with Harry Potter above his reputation in his inner circle (because, though no one says anything, they're all giving each other the side-eye, what is Riddle thinking? What is he doing?). It has been that way for a while now. 

And that.. That is disturbing. This whole thing is.

(Is it just pretense, Tom?)

So although Draco Malfoy is a lot of things (smart -- connected to all the right people -- pampered) what he isn't is doing this. 

Harry Potter is weak. Harry Potter is thickheaded... but not so much so that he'd instigate this without a plan. 

Draco Mafloy will be sitting this one out.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Hm," Harry says, arm wrapping around Neville's waist, head resting on his shoulder. Blaise holds his free hand, eyes on and for only Harry. "A lot more people showed up than I expected."

Hermione, whom Ron is standing beside, looking terribly out of place, shoots him a sour look. "You think?"

They watch as two dozen, almost three but not quite, file into the courtyard. There's a crowd gathering, too. I'll have an audience, Harry thinks viciously. 

"Tom. What's that charm again?" 

Tom tears his grin away from the crowd, fascinated, too, with the spectacle slowly growing. "Which one?"

"Makes you louder. Something like that."

"Voice-amplifying charm."

"That's the bitch. Thanks, Tom," says Harry, giving Tom another one of his signature blinding smiles, before turning to the crowd. There are several familiar faces. Mostly, though, he cannot tell them apart; something about the way they hold themselves -- all similar, all identical, all screaming Pureblood -- making them blur into one nameless, faceless blurb.

But amongst the "blurb," there are a few figures that stand out.

Theo Nott. Daphne Greengrass. Pansy Parkinson. Millicent Bulstrode.

Harry has fought, or tried to fight, each one of them at one point or another. 

And now. Now everything is coming to a head.

"It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" Harry mumurs into Neville's ear.

Neville turns red. "Um -- yeah. It is."

"Well, I think it's--"

"Exceptionally dull-witted and irresponsible?" Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mione, I know." To Hermione's flinch, he sighs. "Look, Mione. Nothing bad's going to happen. And, I guess, if it does -- and only if it does-- then you can step in, okay? Get a teacher. Or something. Okay?"

"Okay," Hermione says softly. 

"Okay," Harry repeats. He separates himself from Blaise and Neville, giving both a sloppy kiss on the cheek before stpping up, lcearing his throat. He casts a voice-amplifying charm. "Welcome to Harry Potter and the war on Purebloods."

Tom eyes the Ron, Neville, and Blaise -- all Purebloods of the Melting Pot -- and is surprised to see them unoffended. Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Harry's friends are understanding. Surrounding themselves with someone that impactful, Tom supposes it's hard not to be influenced. 

"Does anyone need a refreshment on the terms?" Harry asks. A couple hands go up and Harry nods. "We will be fighting an Affair of Honor; no Unforgivables and no exempted from magical law. The loser admits that their opinion on Muggles is incorrect. As a bonus, if you lose, you can no longer say the slur 'Mudblood.' To win, the opposing party must yield, be disarmed, or be unable to continue the duel. We'll set it as a unit. If I am defeated, you all win, even if you have been disarmed or have yielded throughout the duel. For me to win, I must disarm all of you. Any objections?"

There's some murmurs and looks of skepticism but no one speaks up. (Eyes, dozens upon dozens of them; glinting with malice and bloodlust that almost matches Harry's own.)

Hermione looks sick. But she's said her piece. There is nothing else she can do.  

"To agree to these terms, say I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Magic feels heavy in the air as voices pipe up, some collective and others scattered.

"Right, then," says Harry once he's sure that all who will agree have. He raises his wand into the air. "Let's get to it, then." He slams it down, casting a protego. It encapsulates him completely.

He is safe. Somewhat.

Spells ring out -- a blasting spell, a blasting curse, and, alarming, an entrial-expelling curse -- and Harry giggles. You were right, Tom. This works well.

He points his wand to the nearest wizard, who casts a protego, but he casts nothing toward him, turning his wand above his wand head, toward the castle. "Accio Snape's desk," he whispers.

"The fuck did he do?" someone shouts. No one responds. Harry sees around round of curses hit his shield.

There's a crash.

Then the window breaks with a loud crash, Snape's desk flinging itself onto the courtyard. 

"Jonas!"

"Oh, Merlin, fuck--"

"--he's trapped under it--"

"--unconscious--"

Harry points his wand at him. "Expelliarmus." The wand flings itself securely into his hand, no one there to stop it.

Harry smirks. One down.

... Several more to go.

Harry waits. He needs someone to--

"Accio desk!" someone yells.

Harry's smile grows. Yes. Of course someone would take his idea for their own -- it's a great idea! A desk comes flying out of a window but before it could hit the ground, Harry shouts, "Confringo!" making it shatter and explode.

While their eyes are not on him -- and therefore not on his wand, making him able to cast whatever he wants, no consequence -- Harry casts one of the most effective spells to-date: a silencing charm. Harry wastes no time handing out Expelliarmuses, collecting wand after wand, each wizard unable to cast the proper charms to protect them. Some side step him, but if Harry casts a few consecutively, their running turns futile. 

He only get about ten before Pansy Parkinson knocks the next wand coming toward him out of there air. "Keep fighting," she orders, practically spits. 

How? Wandless magic? Harry sighs. Parkinson, close friend of Tom. If anyone knew it, it'd be her. 

Someone mutters something about "figuring out how to tear down his shield" and "wear out his defenses" but Harry isn't worried. Not yet, at any rate. He sends out some of the old classics he'd known for year -- thank you, Fred and George -- finger-removing jinxes, knee-reversing-hexes, slug vomiting curses. Someone retches. Harry steals their wand when they're huddled over.

Someone yields to take their friend to the infirmary. They are both crying. Harry can not feel bad for them. Serves you right, you sick sons of bitches.

Just when Harry is starting to think that this will be easy -- he just needs to  "Fuck him up with physical shit."

Harry tries not to pale.

"Wha -- physical?" someone asks.

You're a problem, Parkinson. I haven't been working fast enough. "If he wanted us to focus on a shattering desk, he could've let it hit his shield," Pansy explains, twirling her wand in her hand, circling Harry's bubble. "It's not strong enough. He's not strong enough."

She transfigures a blade of grass into a rock then levitates it toward Harry.

To passes his protego with ease.

Pansy cackles. "Serves you right, blood traitor! Fuck him up!"

Harry yelps as someone summons flaming arrows, turning them toward him. He acts fact. He transfigures a line of grass into a large metal wall, letting the shield go entirely. It's taking up too much of his magic anyway. He kicks the wall toward the incoming arrows, crashing into them and toppling over a nearby wizard. 

Tom thinks it would've put more oompf into it if he'd used magic, would've hurt that poor Pureblood more, but Tom realizes it's not solely about defeating them. It's the goal, very, but not the priority. He's using a touch of Muggle in everything he does. It is to prove a point. Everything he is doing here to prove a point.

I'll show you Mudblood.

Harry grabs that wizard's wand -- another one down, that's how many, now? Fourteen? Maybe twenty people left? And now they're all using physical attacks against him? That's not good, not ideal, but he'll work with he, it's fine. It's fine. He sticks the wand in his waistband, sidestepping a jelly-knees hex, and grabs the metal board up from the ground. He levitates it and then stands on it.

It quivers. He doesn't trust himself. Doesn't trust his magic.

He's not here because of magic though -- magic isn't the fucking point, okay, it's the lack thereof -- so Harry makes himself go higher and higher until he is overlooking the courtyard on a magic carpet of iron. He deflects spells easily from this angel, seeing them long before they can hit. 

He's safe. For the moment. It won't last. Someone will take after him again and make their own iron board, joining him in the air. Or someone will accio their broom, far more versatile than him. 

But he has a moment, just a moment, just enough time to think.

He fumbles the potions Tom gave him out of his robe. The first one he uncorks and chugs. It burns his throat a little. That's fine. The second he secures in his hand, gripping hard.

Okay.

Thinking's over.

Now... is the time for action. 

He takes a deep breath. 

Then he dives headfirst off his board, soaring towards the ground.

Tom's eyes widen, wand raising, Harry, I knew you were stupid but this, this is insanity! But below that sparkling superiority there is Tom Riddle's only version of concern, something possessive and stifling and angry, oh so fucking angry, you cannot die, Harry, if you die--

Gasps ring out and someone is running toward him, someone else is yelling "cast a cushioning charm, for Merlin's sake!" but Harry isn't listening. The ground is getting closer but it's not close enough, he needs a moment more, just a moment--

Harry could reach out his arm now and touch the ground and he thinks vividly Now! and casts a cushioning charm and drops the second potion, making fog spill out into the courtyard. It's so thick you can't see beyond your hands and Pansy yells for someone to clear it so he doesn't l have long. He dashes toward the nearest person, listening to their distraught muttering, sounding snobby even when in the middle of a duel, and slams his first into their stomach. They hurl over, coughing, and Harry grabs their wrist, twisting the wand out of their hand.

They scream. They huddled their wrist close to their chest but it doesn't hide the damage. 

Blisters and boils and frostbite and leaking pus. 

Harry's hands glow. 

Thanks for the potion, Tom.

He lunges for the next person, grabbing their face this time, digging his fingers into their eyes, stealing their wand and Harry cannot help but that that even though everyone was worried about the Purebloods using Dark magic against him, he's the Darkest one here. 

A spell shoots blindly through the dog. Harry side steps it then runs in the direction it was cast. It's Goyle. He didn't know what he was involving himself in and it shows. Goyle shoots another spell and Harry grabs his arm, pushing it so it misses. Harry kicks his legs out from under him.

He grabs his wand.

He's carefully approaching his next opponent when the fog clears. 

Gasps, cries, screaming, at the sight of those three writhing on the ground and many people give up. 

But maybe Pansy can tell this largely isn't the work of harry himself, can see right past him, because she does not shrink back or give up, but instead pushes herself forward.

"This is all impressive," she says, brandishing her wand. "But it's smoke and mirrors."

"Fog, actually," Harry says.

Pansy chooses not to respond, instead summoning snakes, hundreds of them, and them casting her own dome-protego. With hers, no snakes penetrate.

Harry tries to bring his iron plate back to him, but he's hit by the leg-locker curse, messing up his lame. A reducto is blasted at his iron plate. 

They're approaching, the snakes, and fast but that's fine. Harry can think fast. 

He casts the tickling curse at the snakes and it works on the ones that it does hit but that's too many.

He will be overwhelmed in seconds and he only has to defeat about half a dozen people now, but that's secondary right now, sorry, because he will die if he doesn't deal with the snakes first, people later. It is win or die and Harry?

Harry chooses life.

He places his wand with the others in the holster of his pants and -- from a deep primal instinct that resembles Slytherin might've had when discovering he could talk to snakes -- he puts his hands together, like he's holding an invisible football, and then, with all his magic and might, squeezes.

Tom watches from the field and he recognizes it, this feeling that surges upon him. So does Blaise. All of Harry's melting pot looks nostalgic. 

There is something tugging at their chest and Tom sees it -- whatever it is though it feels like his magic and it must be -- congregate in Harry's hands and everyone on the field looks lost and crestfallen and Pansy's summoned snakes crackle away. 

Harry is holding my magic. 

Everyone's magic.

Harry, Tom thinks and he's breathless and though he had spent years in that stupid fucking orphanage without the slightest idea of his magic and his power, he has never felt more Muggle. Harry, what the fuck are you?

And Harry.. he doesn't spot, doesn't look like he plans to anytime soon, even though all hands holding their wands are now empty and everyone seems magically unable to continue dueling which means he's won already. 

Sometimes in Tom shatters.

If he does not stop this now then--

He scuttles toward Harry and eventually, it feels like a lifetime, feels like it's already too late, he grabs his arm and shakes him.

Harry's hands drop at his side and whatever it was in his hands is now out. "Harry, wha..." and Tom, for everything that he's read, can't find the words for this, can't find it in him to voice his awe and confusion and fear -- and Harry's shoulder are shaking.

Harry's... he's laughing. 

"Tom, Tom," he says between giggles, grasping Tom harshly on the arm, "Merlin, Tom, do you know what this means? Do you? I need to write this down -- I need a quill, a--" He breaks out into another rounds of laughter, hysterical. He transfigures a blade of grass into a pen and writes something down on his arm.

A pen. A fucking Muggle pen, oh Merlin, and Tom thinks that that is so much more practical than a quill, isn't it? You'd have to transfigure the quill and a ink bottle and a piece of parchment and that's so much more Work -- and he used to use pens. When he was young and then when he first started here and he can hardly remember but how could he forget and he gave them up -- gave so much up -- in the pursuit of power and influence but he's standing beside Harry, now, who summoned a Muggle pen, Purebloods disgruntled and on their knees crying all around him and he's laughing--

And.

And is that not power? Is that not influence?

Tom has... has never felt more silly. And small.

Tom knows that that no matter who he is now or what he has proven himself to be, there is still a part of him buried and persistent, ever digging at its grave, that says that Tom is powerful but only almost special. Most days the idea is unthinkable. Him? Not special? The mindset of a fool. He is Slytherin’s heir. His magical powers rival Dumbledore’s, if not surpass them. He is a prodigy and everyone and their mom knows it and that, that is special.

But that piece of him -- the same one that made him name his new snake after his first one, the same one that echos Mrs. Cole’s cruel words with a tone of voice so truthful he feels like he is young again, believing he needed and wholeheartedly wanted a family – it… is a piece that claws at him. Everyday. Even now.

Especially now.

Because standing beside Harry Potter, who is laughing so hard he can hardly keep himself straight, leaning on Tom heavily but not really meaning to, surprising Tom with this pure, unadulterated display of subconscious trust… Standing here, the knowledge that Harry is magical in a way Tom is not and will never be hanging above them?

Tom has never felt more insignificant. (How could he have ever thought Harry Potter was unremarkable?)

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Harry Potter is not himself. Blaise Zabini is mindful of this. Harry Potter sometimes says things that aren't him but could be, close enough that if you squint your eyes you could almost miss it. But Blaise Zabini never misses it.

He knows better.

In the courtyard, before teachers arrive -- Snape, in particular, seeming most pissed off about his desk and Harry's unharmed state -- and take a hundred House points from each student participating in the duel and forty from every person who stood there and watched, as well as two months detention for everyone involved in general -- before that, Blaise had watched Harry put his hands together and had felt his magic get pulled out of his core. 

He had watched this, and for the rainbow of hearts spread out, decorating the grass with something other than bloodshed, it did not compare to Harry.

Harry, who was sucking the magic out of people's bodies like Dementors sucking souls.

Harry, who was undeniably, strikingly green. Green and only green.

This time, it's all him. All Harry-fucking-Potter. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Tom Riddle feels something rise in his chest. It's been there for a while, so distinct it's hard to miss, hard to believe Tom hadn't been aware until now.

It is infatuation.

Queer. Affection. Infatuation. Harry Potter is teaching him so many new things.