Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry sniffled quietly as he turned another page. He was curled in an isolated corner of the Hogwarts kitchens, a plate of sweets on the nearby tabletop and a book in his hands. He'd developed a habit of sneaking into the low-ceilinged room almost daily, the last few weeks.

"Master Harry! Yous is crying, is everything being alright?" Winky, bless her soul, had taken it upon herself to look after him, perhaps to distract herself from her own lack of a bound family. He wasn't fond of being called "Master" but she was stubborn and set in her ways.

Instead of the white, toga-like garb of the other house-elves employed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Winky had donned a simple pink dress that was most likely made for a young girl. She was barefoot, like the other elves, and had a frilly white apron draped over her neck and tied around her waist. It was an amusing sight, but Harry wouldn't do her the dishonor of laughing at her.

He looked up at her with watery eyes. He was crying? Harry lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes furiously. Winky graciously held out a tissue for him and he used it to blow his nose. "No, I'm fine, Winky," he reassured her. "I just got a sad part, that's all."

And sad it was. Terence, the main character Nora's lover, was on his deathbed. The young couple had been so in love, so happy, in the beginning. To have their relationship cut short on such awful terms was certainly tragic.

Winky eyed the tome in his hands warily. "Is Master Harry sure he wants to read a book that is making him cry?" she asked, as if afraid to upset him.

The teen sighed. The house-elf had a point, really. Somewhere along the line he'd become addicted to these ten-cent stories. It'd started as a way to stave off boredom while locked in his small room at Privet Drive. He'd nicked one of his Aunt Petunia's books, only to find out later that it was a romance novel—and a rather raunchy one, at that.

He'd had every intention of burning the book, but somehow, some way, he'd been sucked into the story. The plot sucked, the characters were shallow, and the author had obviously never put a ruler up against anyone's assets, but he couldn't find the will to put it down.

Harry had gone back for another one, and then another. He'd systematically devoured Petunia's entire collection of trashy books within a single summer, and found himself hungering for more.

He ran a hand down his face in aggravation. Even now he was sneaking out of the dorms on sleepless nights to enjoy the quiet bustle of the kitchens, soak in the warmth of the stoves, and curl up with his cheap romances. These moments of silence had become his refuge, a way to cleanse himself from the stresses of each day.

The house-elves were excitable creatures and they weren't all that bright, but they were powerful and had such a capacity for loyalty and compassion that Harry was often left stunned by their caring gestures. They allowed him free access to the kitchen equipment and plied him with as many treats as he could possibly consume.

"It's fine, Winky. You're supposed to cry at this point. It's not a bad cry though; I'm enjoying the story. I promise."

After studying him for a moment longer, Winky's head bobbed in acceptance. "Master Harry is knowing best. If Master Harry is enjoying tacky romance novel, then Winky is not protesting." With that, she turned and wandered deeper into the kitchens to continue her duties.

Harry gaped after her.

Somehow, word had circulated among the house-elves that Harry enjoyed romance novels. Come morning, he found himself buried under a pile of books. Some were dusty and worn, with bent pages and cracked spines—obvious signs of being old and well-read—while others looked relatively new. Thankfully, none had questionable substances gluing the pages together.

He appreciated the sentiment, really, and it was nice to know that they cared enough about him to go to the trouble of scrounging up these copies for him, but he wished they did it out of the boy's dorm, away from a place where his masculinity wasn't in danger of being shredded to pieces. He was perfectly fine skulking around after midnight, thank you very much.

Harry froze as Ron let out a particularly loud snore, followed by aggravated shifting. Oh Merlin, if they found him like this, covered in books with pink flowers and men with long, flowing hair, and titles like "Lover's Kiss," he'd never live it down. The entirety of Hogwarts would know within hours.

Harry sent a silent thank you to whatever deity was looking out for him when Ron finally settled back to sleep. He still had a bit of time before Dean, the early riser of the dorm, woke up—long enough to gather up each tome and hide them.

No one would ever find out.

"Interesting read, Potter?"

Harry jumped in the air like a startled cat, shoving the book in his hand under one of his legs, praying that his visitor hadn't been able to glimpse the title. He didn't recognize their voice so he peeked up through his lashes to identify the newcomer and blanched upon seeing the green, coiling snake-covered crest of Slytherin.

Hufflepuffs he could deal with. Maybe he'd threaten the little buggers into silence, or guilt them into it—something. Ravenclaws—he didn't know; maybe he'd loan them a book from the restricted section. Gryffindors—he might have had to beg them to keep quiet, but Slytherins... he had nothing to persuade Slytherins to keep mum.

He couldn't bring himself to meet the gaze of his fellow curfew-breaker. "Um, I didn't get far in," he squeaked. True... somewhat. "It was a dare," he quickly amended. Lie.

There was only one good thing about this: at least it wasn't Malfoy.

A quiet chuckle reached his ears and his eyes flew up to lock with a dark-eyed gaze. Oh, he thought. It was Blaise Zabini. The one Slytherin he knew nothing about.

"From what I saw, you were half-way through." There was a small smile playing on Zabini's full lips as he leaned forward, placing his arms on the table-top. The kitchens' low light highlighted his sharp features and broad figure.

A flush bled into Harry's cheeks as he found himself admiring the teen's muscled forearms and large hands. Merlin, he was spending too much time reading those books. Didn't they have any from the male point of view? Oh right, they did. Porn.

"Yeah, well, I meant they weren't erm, far into their—" He interrupted himself with a cough. "I didn't mean, um—" Why did he keep freezing up? Harry was sure that his face was as red as a tomato by now; he was liable to burst into flames at any second. At least self-combustion would be a welcome relief from his embarrassment.

Zabini's smile only widened at his fumbling, showing a thin line of brilliant white teeth that contrasted with his dark skin tone. His eyes hadn't moved from Harry's face and there was a glint in the young man's eyes that made Harry want to blush and stammer like a schoolgirl.

Well, you've already done that, you idiot, he growled to himself, scowling.

He would have kissed Winky when she interrupted the awkward silence with a tray of diced fruit and turkey sandwiches that were cut into little triangles, except for the fact that she was wrinkly, green, and so obviously another species that the thought was painful. Very painful.

Harry snatched the bowl of fruit and a fork, determined to keep his mouth busy so it wouldn't spew anything else embarrassing. Zabini, on the other hand, placidly munched on the sandwiches as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"So, what brings you here?" Harry eventually asked. He'd gotten half-way through the fruit and found himself unable to eat anymore and thus unable to control his embarrassing case of verbal diarrhea. "Usually I'm the only one in here this late—or, um, early."

Zabini raised his eyebrows slightly, and Harry got the feeling that every muscle in his face was carefully controlled. "You come here often, then?" Harry noticed that there was a slight accent to his words and that he spoke with a flowing, musical lilt that native English speakers—and Harry especially—lacked.

Harry nodded slowly, warily. "Um, most nights, and I tend to study in here."

Zabini's eyes zeroed in on his face and he slowly put down his sandwich. "Are you not sleeping well?"

The green-eyed teen shifted uncomfortably. Why did Zabini even care? "Um, I don't—I don't sleep very well." That was an understatement. He was lucky if he got four hours a night. He'd gotten used to listlessly going through his classes, though.

"Why?" Zabini asked, his voice oddly short.

Harry snorted and looked down at his lap. Maybe because Voldemort is a night owl and he likes to hold his little goth parties and torture his toadies while I'm sleeping so I can see and hear every single one of their screams. Right, like he'd ever say that.

He was startled from his thoughts by the feel of Zabini's calloused hand against his cheek. The dark thumb brushed against the blue-black circles under his eyes tenderly while the rest of his fingers others curled underneath his chin, gently forcing Harry to look him in the eye.

Harry resisted gaping at Zabini and ruthlessly squashed the niggling urge to lean into the warm hand. He couldn't, however, help the small sigh that escaped his lips or the way his eyelids drooped contentedly. No one had ever touched him like this, so carefully, as if Harry were made of glass.

There were days that he felt just as fragile; like the lightest push would topple him and he'd break into a thousand, million little pieces, never to be put back together again.

"You're tired," Zabini murmured, his voice quiet enough to be a whisper. Harry made a small noise of agreement. His muscles felt like mush; Harry doubted he'd be able to even walk back to the tower. "Sleep, then. I'll be here when you wake up."

Harry didn't know what was so comforting about those words, but he found himself nodding off within seconds, weeks of little to no rest catching up to him. The last thing he remembered was being pulled into warm arms before he surrendered to the embrace of sleep.

Morning arrived all too quickly. He could hear the distant hum of the kitchens as the elves prepared the castle's morning meal. Harry snuffled quietly, snuggling deeper into the soft fleece blanket wrapped around him. He was laying on something soft—a couch maybe, as it was too narrow to be a bed—and there was a warmth against his cheek and another buried into his hair, rubbing small circles on his scalp.

He hadn't felt so brilliant in ages. His muscles ached from little rest and he had a crick in his neck, but he still felt brilliant.

"You're awake," said a quiet voice from above him. Harry hummed quietly in assent, refusing to move just yet. He let out a grateful sigh when the hand in his hair dropped to his neck and dug into the sore muscles there. The grip was firm and reassuring, and the fingers never pressed too harshly.

Harry's mind automatically categorized the touch as "safe," and he melted into the strong caress. "Z'bini," he mumbled as his brain inched toward lucidity, realizing just who was massaging his neck.

He heard the young man's quiet chuckle and shuddered as deft fingers brushed over a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Zabini must have noticed because he circled the area with his thumb and Harry let out a hitching moan as the tenseness in his muscles evaporated. "'S nice," the raven slurred. "Like your hands, they're nice—'n your laugh's nice too. Should laugh more, 'cause it's nice."

Had he been more awake, Harry would have been mortified at his words and proceeded to bury himself in a very deep hole, but Zabini only whispered an amused thanks and continued his ministrations.

Minutes of quiet lethargy passed before Harry's stomach reminded him that he'd had very little to eat the last few days, barring the fruit the night before. He groaned quietly, reluctant to move from his cocoon.

"Breakfast will start soon," Blaise stated, his hand moving to card through Harry's thick hair. He absently twirled a few of the longer pieces around his fingers, marveling at the silky texture. He watched as Harry shifted onto his back and glared up at him blearily. The way the teen's little pink mouth shifted into a pout made his lips twitch in restrained humor. He put aside the charms text in his hand to focus his entire attention on the drowsy teen in his lap.

"Don' wanna'," Harry disagreed. He hadn't slept so well in a very long time, and Zabini was nice—he definitely needed to get his hands on a thesaurus—and he didn't act like any of the other Slytherins at all, pompous asses that they were, and Harry really, really liked the way the other seemed unafraid to touch him.

Blaise ran his index finger down Harry's nose, and held back a laugh when Harry went cross-eyed trying to follow it. He traced slightly chapped, but startlingly soft lips, his finger dipping between the seam teasingly, before drifting to the gentle slope of Harry's jaw.

Harry watched him with wide eyes as Blaise traced his ear, his eyebrow, the apple of his cheek. Harry's face was smooth for his age, and his features grudgingly masculine. Without his glasses, Harry's large, amazingly green eyes were exposed, lined with full, dark lashes; eyes that transformed his face from attractive to... breathtaking. Blaise lips curved into a smile. Who would have thought the Golden Boy was so pretty?

"Zabini?" Harry asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion. Why was Zabini so kind to him? Here he was, his head pillowed on the tall teen's thigh, with Zabini's hand touching his face, and their wands were nowhere in sight and Harry was... content.

Zabini made a sound low in his throat before speaking. "You really do need to get up. It's almost seven and I'm sure Weasley and Granger will be worried that you're not in your dorm." He gently smoothed out the small pucker of skin between Harry's eyes, forcing his face to relax.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but paused when he realized that Zabini was right. He sighed in defeat and grumpily untangled himself from the thick blanket before standing on shaky legs.

"You need to eat something," Zabini said.

Harry nodded, "I usually eat in here; the food they serve at breakfast is too heavy for me." Typically, his breakfasts consisted of small portions of fruit, porridge, toast, tea, and orange juice. He didn't mention the fact that the smell of bacon made him queasy; he'd prepared it every morning for six cumulative years at the Dursleys and he was utterly sick of it.

Zabini leaned back into the couch, one arm lazily resting on the armrest and the other flung over the top edge. The Slytherin's robes were discarded and he was clad in black slacks and a white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone. Harry had to admit that he looked good like that; relaxed and his mind at ease.

The question popped out Harry's mouth before he could stop it. "Is it hard, living in Slytherin?" He had the sudden urge to ask the house-elves for a muzzle—or maybe a large sock.

Zabini eyed him speculatively, as if weighing his answer. "It depends," he said, his left leg moving up until his ankle rested on his right knee. "The majority of the house is filled with sniveling idiots intent on riding on their parent's coattails. People like Malfoy, for instance, haven't a lick of sense. It's always, 'my Father' this and, 'my Father' that." He stopped to roll his eyes and grin at Harry's quiet snicker before continuing, "But there are some—usually those who don't come from the more prominent families—that want to move up in the world, and would do almost anything to make sure that happens."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Your house traits are cunning and ambition, I understand that. But, it's not always like that is it? Not always about power plays and family standing, yeah? They're still just teenagers, you know—kids; I can't imagine that they always think about what they say before they actually say it."

Zabini chuckled knowingly. "There are those of us who take it a bit more seriously, but we're more like the other houses than you'd believe. Most of the Slytherins were first considered for other houses. Many of us are smart enough for Ravenclaw," he said, "and you'll seldom find a Slytherin that isn't loyal, whether it's to their family, their beliefs, or those that they deem important."

Harry wandered back over to the couch and sat down, enthralled by the house that he had very nearly been sorted in. "And what about Gryffindor?" he asked.

Zabini smirked at him. "What would our cunning and ambition be worth if we did not have the courage to enact our plans? Or the bravery to step outside our comfort zone and make connections or carry out our duties to our families? Nothing."

Harry looked at him with large eyes. He bit his lip as absently fiddled with a loose string on his wrinkled school robe. "I was almost sorted into Slytherin," he whispered, not meeting Zabini's eyes. It was a secret he'd never told anyone—not even Ron or Hermione. But to learn that there was more to the House of the Snakes than he'd ever thought... He found himself wondering what he would have been like, had he accepted the Sorting Hat's first decision all those years ago.

"It doesn't surprise me," Zabini finally said, shocking Harry from his thoughts. The emerald-eyed teen's head whipped up to face him, features slack in disbelief. He spared the surprised Gryffindor a small smile before gently teasing, "Hufflepuff wouldn't surprise me either, given how absorbed you were with that book of yours. Darkest Embrace, was it?"

Harry's cheeks flooded with color and he scowled good-naturedly at his companion. "Yeah, well, it's a good book!" he argued, crossing his arms huffily.

Zabini shocked Harry by letting out a deep laugh. The sound washed over him like thick molasses and he found his spine tingling with a shiver of delight. How odd to think that just minutes ago, he had been snuggled up to this person, this stranger, and more content that he'd ever remembered being. What was it about Blaise Zabini that made his stomach flutter with butterflies and his pulse race?

"Would you indulge me and tell me why you like reading such stories?" Harry narrowed his eyes at Zabini's smirking face. He made it sound so... wrong, what he was doing. But there was nothing wrong with it, and he didn't care what any stuffy Slytherins with nice laughs and gentle hands thought. Not at all.

"If I must," Harry sniffed, trying to recover some of his lost dignity. He held the expression for a moment before the crick in his neck protested. He nearly groaned; how did Malfoy deal with having his nose so high in the air, all day, every day? "It started out as a way to alleviate boredom, really. I had no idea what I was getting into at first. I just nicked a book from my aunt so I'd have something to do during the summer when I was, um, put in my room."

He didn't notice the way Zabini's eyes narrowed at his awkward description. He speaks as if they treat him like a pet. Honestly, put in his room? The words themselves weren't enough to garner suspicion, but the way that Harry stumbled over them certainly was.

"Believe me; I was horrified when I found out just what my aunt had been reading. But next to staring at the wall, even a bodice-ripper novel was an... acceptable alternative." Harry met Zabini's eyes for a second and shrugged before glancing away. His cheeks were still glowing faintly and he wondered why he was even bothering to tell Zabini this. "But even though it wasn't the greatest writing... I kind of liked it. The characters were... happy. They found each other and stayed together, even though there were people trying to tear them apart for whatever reason. They took care of each other." He swallowed past a developing lump in his throat, "I just—I guess I kind of want something like that. I don't want to be treated like a porcelain doll all the time, and I can think for myself, and I'm not a bad shot with a wand, and all that, but... I want to be taken care of."

Blaise watched as Harry's eyes dimmed ever so slightly. The teen looked distraught at his words, and he refused to lift his head as he ploughed on. "I know that life isn't simple like that, and that people fall out of love, and things happen—but it just sounds nice, you know? To have someone to love you for who you are, no matter what—to desire you and want you and face whatever trials they have to just to keep you." He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, "Ugh, I sound like a girl. Stupid books always make me weepy."

Blaise frowned for a moment before reaching out and gripping Harry's chin, pulling his downturned face upward. "There's nothing wrong with wanting that, Harry," he said seriously. Harry shivered under his gaze but nodded faintly.

"Blaise," he whispered, as if testing the name on his lips. "Thanks, Blaise."

Blaise granted him a small smile. "Now, it's time for you to eat. Breakfast is almost over, and while it's the weekend, I'm sure that you'd like a shower and a change of clothes before long."

Harry mustered up a grin, rubbed at his reddened eyes once more, and stood. "Yeah, I'm kind of hungry, and a shower sounds good." He toed the stone floors for a second as Blaise got to his feet gracefully. "Thanks," he said again, leaning in to steal a hug from the tall Slytherin, "for everything."

Blaise hummed quietly and dropped his forehead to rest against Harry's. "You're welcome," he whispered, smoothing a line across Harry's flushed cheek with his nose. "You're very welcome."

Chapter Text

Harry shuffled back to his dorm in a daze. After their little talk, he and Blaise ate breakfast together before parting ways. If he were honest, Harry would admit that he rather enjoyed spending time with the tall Slytherin, but instead he was considering the merit of becoming a pathological liar. It sounded like an interesting hobby. It was like denial without the guilt.

The little voice inside him that always told him who to trust was silent when it came to Blaise. Had it been another Slytherin, he was sure that it would have been screaming 'danger, danger, Will Robinson!' as opposed to melting into a pile of hormonal goo when confronted with those compelling, dark eyes and deep voice.

The fact that he had fallen asleep in Blaise's presence was telling, much less answering his question about just why Harry enjoyed soppy romances. He was perceptive, that much was obvious, and Harry wondered if he had gathered something from the conversation that even Harry himself was unaware of.

And the way that Blaise touched him! Merlin, it was intoxicating. It was strange, the way his gentle caresses had calmed the raging tornado of emotion inside of him. Harry felt utterly relaxed around the other; he felt free to be himself, almost like he knew that he wasn't going to be held up against some pre-conceived notion and expected to measure up to it. He was Harry, just Harry, a title that had never been more important to him.

He shook himself from his thoughts as he rounded the corner and stepped onto the landing that led to Gryffindor Tower. He'd moon over Blaise later; he had best friends to dodge.

Blaise stalked the abandoned corridors of the dungeon in silent contemplation. The last thing he had expected when he'd gone down to the kitchens for a late night snack was to run into Harry Potter. Before today, he'd thought about the teen as little as he could, barring the occasions when his name and face was plastered on the front of the Daily Prophet because of some scandal or another. He simply wasn't concerned with Potter or his dealings.

He'd walked into the kitchens only to be herded into a secluded corner by a stubborn house-elf in a pink dress. The first thought on his mind had been a question about why he was being led away from the small table for visiting students until his eyes landed on a small figure, curled into a ball on one of the wooden dining chairs.

Their back had been pressed against the far stone wall, and they perched on the seat precariously, knees bent and delicate-looking bare feet hanging halfway off the edge. Their face was buried in a paperback book with a luridly purple cover and bright yellow lettering that read "Darkest Embrace." Oddly enough, a man and a woman were entwined on the front, gazing into each others' eyes with nauseating affection.

He had been just about to turn around and leave when the person shifted and reached one hand up to pull a lock of hair behind their ear. Blaise had frozen mid-step when the motion exposed a livid red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on their forehead.

Potter, he had realized. Harry bloody Potter is reading a romance novel. Oh, this is rich.

But, instead of sauntering over and teasing the boy like he'd meant to, the moment those brilliantly green eyes, so often hidden behind Potter's hideous glasses, peeked up at him shyly, his cruel intentions had crumbled into dust and he'd struck up a conversation with the Gryffindor.

And how intriguing it had been! Harry had been nothing like he'd expected. Blaise had known the teen wasn't arrogant, Merlin no, but he'd never put any real thought into just who the person behind the shiny facade of The Chosen One might be.

Harry was... enchanting. His face was a work of art, yes, and his skin amazingly smooth, but the teen was also so heart-breakingly affection-starved that Blaise couldn't help but give him some of what he so obviously yearned for. He was puzzled; did Harry's friends not hug him? Did they not compliment him or just sit with him in silence, or talk about subjects other than school or, as the case may be, the Dark Lord?

Blaise donned his cloak as the air in the dungeons began to cool the deeper he wandered. He had no intention of returning to the common room at the moment; he had far too much on his mind, not the least of which being the way his heart and stomach ached at Harry's teary eyes.

He sighed in aggravation, but found himself grateful that he'd stayed up to study, and that that nosy house-elf had pushed him to that secluded corner.

Perhaps he'd be hungry again tonight... The house-elves always did make the best turkey sandwiches.

"Back again?"

Harry looked up from his book to find Blaise standing over him, a tray of food in his hands. Harry grinned up at him. He had been hoping that he'd run into the other teen again. But so soon! "I could say the same for you," he teased, patting the seat next to him invitingly.

The house-elves had replaced the couch that Blaise had transfigured with a real, astoundingly comfortable one. Since transfigurations would turn back into their original item after a certain amount of time depending on the amount of magical power pushed into the spell, Harry was delighted to see that they cared enough about his comfort that they'd gone to the effort of finding a spare couch and moving into his little corner.

Blaise chuckled and sank down onto the center cushion, placing his plate on the empty spot to his left, and pulled Harry into his side. After a second of surprise, Harry relaxed into the Slytherin's warmth with a sigh, his eyes drooping almost instantly.

"Did you eat today?" Blaise asked, a hand coming up to curl around Harry's side. Harry nodded against his chest sleepily. "Good. And your friends?"

"Didn't bother me," Harry mumbled. "I think they're used to me disappearing now; I've been doing it since the start of term. Must be tired of asking where I go, since I never answer."

Blaise hummed and slowly munched on his sandwiches, savoring each bite, while his other hand rubbed soothing circles on Harry's hip. They sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's company. Most of the house-elves were out, cleaning the castle while the students were sleeping, so they had the kitchens to themselves. Blaise doubted that the little creatures would ever repeat anything Harry said, though, given how they seemed to adore him.

Harry broke the silence reluctantly, asking a question that had been on his mind all day. "Why are you being so nice to me, Blaise? I don't understand—what are you getting out of this?" He shifted his head just enough so he could meet Blaise's eyes. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but the Slytherin was close enough that Harry could see each of his handsomely dark features.

Blaises's eyebrows rose, but not in surprise. He had expected Harry to ask such a question sooner or later. He saw how the skin around Harry's eyes tightened ever so slightly, and his body tensed, as if he was preparing to be hurt.

He frowned at that. Did the raven-haired teen expect that Blaise was doing this for kicks? No; he rarely deemed anyone or anything worth his time. He wouldn't have bothered coming back to the kitchens if he was simply toying with Harry; he wouldn't have bothered promising to stay while Harry slept last night if he wasn't serious.

"Why would I need something to want to be around you?" Blaise asked. He reached up to stroke Harry's smooth cheek; he'd never get over the way an attractive blush would follow the motion of his fingers. Harry was so easy to fluster. "I enjoy spending time with you," he said, meeting Harry's gaze with his own. "I enjoy speaking with you. I enjoy looking at you. I enjoy touching you." He tapped Harry's nose in emphasis and smiled at his companion's growing flush, "That is what I get out of this."

"Oh," Harry breathed. He was completely and utterly taken aback by Blaise's words. He hadn't expected Blaise to be so... frank about his motives. He'd never had someone tell him that they enjoyed simply being around him. Just remembering those words brought a happy glow to his face. "I—I like being around you too, Blaise," he replied, not for the first time wishing he was as eloquent as the man next to him. "I'm sorry for thinking something like that; it's just, people approach me looking for help or friendship or status all the time—because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived," Harry spat out the title angrily. "I didn't mean to group you with them, but you were so nice to me, and no one has ever, um, touched me so carefully before."

Blaise suppressed a smirk. Harry obviously didn't notice how easily his words could be taken the wrong way. Or maybe he was just a pervert. Either worked. "Your friends don't touch you? Or hug you?"

Harry shrugged the shoulder that wasn't pressed against Blaise's side. "Ron's not a very touchy-feely person. Comes with growing up with five brothers, I guess. And Hermione—she hugs me, but it's not very often, and she kinda' squeezes so hard that it hurts. That and her hair gets in my mouth." Blaise laughed quietly at Harry's wrinkled nose.

"But," he continued, his expression dropping like a stone, "I stay away from everyone else. There are people who want to touch me, you know, because I'm the Chosen One or some such rubbish. They think I'm some sort of good luck charm—if only they knew that my luck was horrid. They look at me and they see some sort of hero, and they always expect me to do everything perfectly. But I'm not, and I can't." Harry sighed and tucked his head underneath Blaise's chin, "I can't count how many times I've had my robes ripped, or gotten hurt, or had to accio my belongings because they can't keep their hands to themselves."

Blaise's lips pursed angrily. He'd never noticed—was it because he was blind or because he purposely ignored Harry? Was he so unconcerned that he would disregard the events around him? To someone so obviously in pain? He prided himself on his perceptivity and resourcefulness, but he'd already shown that he was just as arrogant as those he ridiculed.

Blaise was ruthless. He pursued his goals with single-minded determination. He was frosty to his housemates and unfeeling to nearly everyone else. He gave his Professors the minimum of respect that their positions deserved, and sometimes not even that. He spent most of his time on the sidelines, watching his classmates make fools of themselves while planning the security of his family's future.

And then, Harry comes along and brings out a whole different side to himself—one that he knew existed, but never bothered to show anyone other than his mother.

"Then hex them," Blaise suggested. If they gave Harry such trouble, they deserved it. Had they tried the same tactics on him, he would have cursed them within an inch of their lives.

Harry laughed humorlessly. "I would if I could. But imagine the repercussions for that—it'd be everywhere. Boy Savior Attacks Classmate. Short of mauling me, I can do nothing but avoid them. The only upside is that I've gotten rather good at concealing and repairing charms."

"And your head of house?"

The teen snorted. "As if she could do anything. She's a good teacher, and she really tries to keep us all in line, but there's only so much she can do. Detention isn't going to stop anyone if they're determined to steal my underwear, or something." He shivered at the thought. "The worst thing is, is that I have to keep my temper in check through all of this because if I don't, my magic goes crazy—and if someone is hurt, the blame falls on me."

Blaise nodded. It wasn't uncommon for the magic of some witches or wizards to respond during stress. "Life isn't fair," he said, but not unkindly. Harry sighed in commiseration and nodded against his chest.

Moments passed where they both indulged in the comfort of the newly installed settee, their eyes closed tiredly and limbs intertwined.

Before they drifted off to sleep, Harry made to pull away. "You should go back to your dorm," he insisted. Blaise couldn't have slept well last night, and it would be selfish of Harry to ask him to stay. "Sleeping here can't be comfortable—"

Blaise cut him off by pulling him closer and turning until he was lying down with his head against the armrest and Harry on top of him. The couch was just large enough to fit him comfortably, though his feet hung over the edge.

"Quiet," the Slytherin ordered, conjuring the same fleece blanket that Harry had been wrapped up in the night before. "Sleep now."

Harry sighed and laid his head back down on Blaise's shoulder. His eyes closed easily and they both drifted off without further complaint.

Their late-night meetings soon became routine, even after the weekend came to a close and classes resumed. Harry had slept more consecutive days in the past week than he had since the end of his first year.

At first, they had both woken earlier to have enough time to return to their dorms to shower and dress for the day until the house-elves had directed them to a door that hadn't been there before. Behind it was a full, three room bathroom: one containing the toilet, and two separate shower rooms. The three wooden doors all led into the sink area, which had a double sink and some cabinets filled with shaving cream on Blaise's side and hair gel on Harry's.

Blaise had smirked at Harry's agitated scowl. "Think they're trying to tell you something, hmm?" he'd teased, ruffling the untamable mop of hair on Harry's head.

Harry had slapped Blaise's hand away with a growl. "Shut up! Just you wait; soon I'll be able to grow a beard longer than Dumbledore's!" He'd stubbornly ignored Blaise's incredulous snort. "And everyone knows that my hair is hopeless! I don't need to be reminded; I live with it."

He laughed quietly at the memory. Words couldn't describe how grateful he was to Blaise. The dark-skinned man seemed to have infinite patience, and was always willing to listen and just as willing to tell Harry about himself in turn. His nightmares had all but subsided, and Voldemort seemed reluctant to open the link when Harry was feeling so deliriously happy.

The only thing he regretted most was that they had to keep their meetings a secret. Blaise hadn't expressly said anything, but Harry was positive that he wouldn't want his housemates or anyone else to know that he was meeting with the Harry Potter. It'd bring a slew of unwanted attention to him, attention that he'd dodged quite skillfully his entire Hogwarts career.

At the present, he was slinking around the corridors on his way to Charms. He'd taken an alternate route to avoid the crowd, uncaring that it took him out of the way; anything was better than the whispers and stares he normally garnered. The hallway to Flitwick's classroom was perhaps the most heavily traveled in the castle, as it was on the way to the Great Hall, the Entrance Hall, and the transfiguration classroom.

"Hey, Harry!" a voice called, pulling him from his musings.

He looked up to see a boy and a girl, both wearing Ravenclaw robes, hurrying towards him. He didn't recognize either of them.

They stopped before him looking slightly out of breath. "Hi!" the girl chirped, a large smile on her face. She was fair-skinned and blonde, and a smattering of freckles was splashed against her slightly snubbed nose. He felt dread well up in him as her brown eyes looked at him with something akin to hero-worship.

"Um, hi," he greeted, uncomfortably aware that the corridor was abandoned, his hands were loaded down by books, and he hadn't bothered to take his wand out of his bag.

"It's so nice to meet you face-to-face!" she gushed. "You remember me, right? My name is Sarah, Sarah Gamp."

Harry's eyes flicked to the boy, who was gawking at him rudely, before returning to the excited girl. He pasted a painfully fake smile on his face. "Yeah, I do. It's nice to meet you, too." Yes, there was definitely merit behind becoming a compulsive liar. It made people think that he liked them.

She giggled behind her hand, fluttering her eyelashes so quickly that it looked like she had dirt in them. He wondered how she could think that it was even remotely attractive. Harry personally thought she might have a twitch.

Of course, given his luck, she just might. He really didn't want to be the butt end of some cosmic joke and get slapped for his lack of tact. His bad karma had already taken the form of a snake-obsessed megalomaniac, and he was fresh out of good deeds to punish.

They stood there in an awkward silence, at least on Harry's part, for a few moments, before he shifted. The books in his arms were getting heavy and he really needed to get to class; he'd already eaten up time by taking the long route—which had turned out to be a bust.

"I, erm, need to get going, so... it was nice meeting you—hope we can meet up some time soon. Bye." He whipped around and was already striding away quickly when a hand, larger than his own, wrapped around his bicep and yanked him back. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep from crying out as his shoulder was jerked painfully. The textbooks in his hands fell to the floor with a loud thud.

"Hold up, man!" the boy, who had been silent until how, called. He seemed unaware of just how tightly he was gripping Harry's upper arm, or that he had likely pulled a muscle in his shoulder by wrenching him back so suddenly.

"Please release me," he grit out, wishing that he hadn't been stupid enough to put his wand in his bag—which was now on the floor, several feet away. He'd really like to give the boy a piece of his mind, supersized.

The boy ignored him and tugged him closer. "Nah, man, you might run away. She has something to ask you."

Harry wasn't delicate by any means, but the boy gripping his arm was at least two stone heavier than him and a fair bit stronger if the bruise he could already feel developing on his bicep was anything to go by.

"I won't ask again. Please release me," he said once more. His temper was dangerously close to fraying, and while he didn't have his wand, that wouldn't stop his magic from lashing out and probably causing more damage to the two Ravenclaws than a mere stinging hex.

He glanced at the girl for some support, but she was just standing there with hearts in her eyes, stupid enough to think that he would agree to anything she asked after the way she approached him and how her guy friend was handling him.

"Last warning," he whispered, yanking his arm once to test the boy's grip. It didn't yield and he seemed to get more agitated that Harry wasn't falling to the ground, asking whether or not they'd like him to shine their shoes—with his tongue.

"Seriously, man, relax. Sarah's just gonna' ask you a question. You don't have to wig out."

Harry was an instant from releasing the tight leash he had on his magic, uncaring that it would probably turn the piece of scum into a pile of dust, when a quiet, menacing voice filled his ears.

He'd never heard anything so beautiful.

"Is there a problem here?"

Chapter Text

"Is there a problem here?" Blaise was stalking towards them, tall and imposing even in his school robes, his face a mask of cold fury. Harry could see the restrained anger in the dark man's eyes and felt himself relax, knowing that Blaise would take care of him.

Blaise had felt an icy rage build in his chest the moment he'd laid eyes on them. Though he was at the other end of the corridor, he could see the lines of muted pain on Harry's face, and the way the Ravenclaw gripped him without care. His wand was in his hand in an instant and he strode towards them, intent on ripping the little bastard holding Harry to pieces.

The Ravenclaws both jumped at his question and Blaise guessed that he must look rather threatening, as they blanched almost in unison. The boy released Harry instantly and backed away, dragging the girl with him.

"Um, no," the irritating shit said, his free hand up in the air in a placating gesture-the hand that had held Harry tight enough to cause him pain. Blaise memorized his face and made a silent promise that the school year would be living hell for the useless git. "Everything's fine; we'll just be going now." And with those last parting words, he turned around and fled, the blonde chit following close behind.

As soon as they were out of sight, Blaise turned to Harry, his entire countenance shifting.

Harry smiled at him weakly as he felt his magic settle, a little disbelieving at just how close he'd been to losing control of his temper and seriously hurting the two Ravenclaws. His shoulder stung rather badly and every time he twitched, a sharp pain lanced through his back and up his neck. Now that his magic wasn't coiling and writhing in restrained anger beneath his skin, he felt the pulled muscle and bruise in full. "Hey," he greeted his dark-skinned savior. Blaise said nothing, instead choosing to carefully remove Harry's robe and unbutton his white shirt. "Woah, hey!" he cried, yanking away only to groan in pain as the movement jarred his injury.

Blaise glared at him. "You're hurt," he growled. "Hold still."

Harry huffed, "Fine," and let Blaise continue to undress him, praying that no one else would happen upon the corridor and draw the wrong conclusions.

Harry's shoulder looked normal, but Blaise could tell that it was paining him greatly. What drew his attention the most, however, was the purpling, hand-shaped bruise decorating his left bicep like some sort of twisted tattoo. Blaise hissed in anger, even as Harry tried to deny how serious it was.

"It's not that bad," he protested feebly. He cried out when Blaise poked it with his wand to prove he was lying, and badly. "Ah! I get it, fine. Don't poke it! That hurt!"

Blaise shook his head at Harry's hard-headedness and pointed his wand at the bruise, being careful not to brush it, just as Harry had requested. "Episkey," he quietly intoned.

A dull yellow light shot from his wand and wrapped around Harry's arm before sinking into the skin. Within seconds, the bruise and the slight swelling around it disappeared. Harry blinked down at his arm in shock.

"Huh," he muttered, "Useful spell. I'll have to learn it."

"You need to go to Pomfrey for your shoulder. Episkey only heals minor wounds; it will probably make a sprain worse."

Harry scowled and sulked. He'd been trying to keep out of the Hospital Wing this year. He doubted that Madame Pomfrey would be happy to see him and told Blaise just that. He got a blank stare in return. "Impassive git," he grumbled as they both walked towards their destination.

Blaise suppressed the urge to grin at Harry's growl even as he hefted the teen's heavy books. Harry didn't look intimidating in the least; just like an angry kitten with its fur all puffed up.

"You're laughing at me," Harry groused, looking at him suspiciously. Blaise rose an eyebrow as if to say, 'Who, me?' The innocent act didn't fool Harry for a second. "See? There!" He pointed at the corner of Blaise's mouth, which was twitching in silent mirth.

The tall teen resisted the urge to slap Harry's finger away from his face. "Pointing is rude," he replied, purposely dodging Harry's accusation.

Harry's hand dropped and he pouted, "Yeah, well, so is ignoring people-and laughing at them."

"I didn't laugh at you," Blaise denied, hitching Harry's bag higher on his shoulder as they walked. He knew that Harry was trying to distract him from the cold anger that was still coiling in his belly, and he appreciated it.

"But you were thinking it."

"Mr. Potter! What have you done this time?"

Harry cringed at Madame Pomfrey's stern voice. If there was one thing that could cow him faster than anything else, it was the Hogwarts nurse. He knew from experience that he did not want to piss off the person piecing him back together. He just might end up with a hand in the wrong place.

He'd make a mention about the person handling his potions, but since Snape already hated him, he was doomed on that front.

"Um, just a little mishap. It's nothing major," he said sheepishly, waving his free hand as if to ward off the stench of his obvious lie.

Pomfrey turned to Blaise. "Mr. Zabini, will I be able to trust you to tell me the truth?"

Blaise nodded curtly. "Harry was pulled into an altercation with a pair of students from Ravenclaw. He kept his temper even when the male had laid his hands on him." He made sure to phrase it so the nurse knew that Harry wasn't to blame. His blood started to boil just thinking about it. He really regretted not cursing the idiot. Blaise hated the thought of Harry being hurt. "I arrived in time to diffuse any fight that might have ensued."

Madam Pomfrey blinked bemusedly at the familiar way that the Slytherin addressed her most common patient, and turned to look at Harry in fond exasperation. "Now, Mr. Potter, would you mind telling me where you're hurt?"

Harry sighed and wandered over to the nearest bed and plopped down as if this were a routine thing. Given his history, Blaise supposed it just might be. "My shoulder. When the arsehole grabbed me, he pulled something." Pomfrey clicked her tongue at both his language and at the behavior of the mystery assailant. A few short waves of her wand later and she had a diagnosis.

"Well, you've certainly pulled something. In fact, you're lucky that your shoulder wasn't dislocated. I can give you a muscle mending potion right now, but you need to keep your shoulder as still as possible for the next few hours. That means no writing, lifting, or casting," Harry's lips had thinned in agitation, so she decided to give him at least one upside, "but,I won't keep you overnight."

He was already late for charms, but now he wouldn't be able to do any class work? Couldn't the git have broken his nose or something? That would have been fixed more quickly! "Can't you just heal it now?" he asked.

Pomfrey tutted, "Not everything can be mended with a wave of the wand. Nerves, muscles, and cartilage in your shoulder were damaged, Mr. Potter. It's not always convenient, but the potion will give you back the full use of your arm within the day."

He sighed in resignation, "Fine." At least he wouldn't be held for observation.

The aging nurse looked at him sympathetically. "I can wrap your arm and shoulder in a sling that will keep you from accidentally jostling it, but it will affect your other shoulder too." Harry quickly shook his head no; he had no desire to be that vulnerable, "I expect that you'll need someone to escort you from class to class. I'm sure Mr. Weasley or Ms. Granger would be happy to-"

"I'll do it," Blaise cut in. Harry's head whipped around to stare at him in genuine surprise and delight.

Madame Pomfrey nodded in that brisk manner of hers. "Alright then, it's settled. I'll be back in a few minutes with the potion. Make yourselves comfortable while you wait."

When the nurse was gone, Harry glanced up at Blaise, a small smile on his lips. "Thanks," he said. "You didn't need to stay with me all the way here, but thank you."

The corner of Blaise's mouth twitched upward and he measured his response carefully. He reached over the pluck Harry's glasses from his face-ghastly things, they were-and knelt down so they were eye to eye. "I enjoy taking care of you," he quietly said.

It took Harry a moment to register the words before his eyes widened visibly and a flush bloomed on his cheeks and across his nose. I enjoy taking care of you. The words echoed in his head as he gazed at Blaise's unmoving visage.

"I don't want to be treated like a porcelain doll all the time ... but... I want to be taken care of."

"I enjoy spending time with you. I enjoy speaking with you. I enjoy looking at you. I enjoy touching you." ... "I enjoy taking care of you."

A shiver traveled up his spine. Blaise was looking at with those dark eyes that made his stomach clench and his head spin pleasantly.

"I-" His throat had closed up and his eyes were started to water. Merlin, he was such a ponce. "Are you serious?" he finally croaked out. He felt like he was swimming in disbelief but there was so much hope welling in his chest that it felt like he couldn't breathe. Blaise would never understand just what his words had meant to Harry, what they had done to him. His insides were all scrambled up and he couldn't help but lean into the heat and security that Blaise seemed to radiate.

Blaise had this sad smile on his face as he reached up to hold Harry's cheeks in his hands-gently, so gently. "Very," he whispered.

Harry sniffled and his eyes blinked wetly, "Blaise." The name was a mere breath on Harry's lips, and it contained so much.

"I know, Harry," the dark-complexioned man said, leaning forward to brush a tender kiss on Harry's forehead. "Shh, easy now."

If Madame Pomfrey was surprised to return and see Blaise kneeling in front of Harry with his hands cradling the injured teen's face, she said nothing of it. With the bearing of a woman who'd spent over three decades practicing her craft, she quickly enlisted the Slytherin's help. The two helped Harry replace the shirt that he'd taken off, and Pomfrey handed Harry the potion.

He grimaced as he knocked it back, smacking his lips at the horrid aftertaste. "Ugh, that's awful." Madame Pomfrey seemed to smirk at him even as she conjured a glass of water. He could feel the potion start to work, and what had been a dull throbbing quickly evolved into sharp pinpricks of discomfort that covered his entire body. "This is really uncomfortable," he grit out.

Pomfrey patted his knee sympathetically. "It won't be for long," she assured, "just until the potion has finished mending the damage." Harry sat on the bed, sulking, while the nurse relayed a few instructions to Blaise before returning to her office.

"Poor baby," Blaise teased as he spelled away the grit from the knees of his slacks.

The Gryffindor pouted up at him until a thought crossed his mind. "This means you're my slave for the day, yeah?" he asked excitedly.

Blaise eyed him warily, "I wouldn't say that."

"Oh yes you are," Harry disagreed. "You have to follow me around and do my bidding-or else."

The dark-skinned young man wasn't much threatened, but he caved when Harry gazed at him with large, pleading green eyes-if only to stop the teen from looking so pitiful.

Harry knew that he'd won the moment that Blaise's broad shoulders slumped. He grinned up at his companion, "Well, let's get going, then!" The teen struggled to his feet awkwardly, trying not to use the muscles in his shoulders. He felt as if his entire body had fallen asleep; the sharp pricks traveling along his nerves were almost painful.

As he watched Harry's awkward movements, Blaise was unsure what he could do to help. Carrying Harry would be counter-productive, as they had to keep his shoulder still, and he doubted that Harry would approve of being babied. The sable-haired teen waddled around the Hospital Wing several times, his gait awkward and uneven, before coming to a stop before him.

"Why the bloody hell are you so tall?" Harry suddenly griped, aggravated that he had to crane his head to look Blaise in the eye. He stared up at Blaise indignantly, as if his height was a personal offense. Harry knew for a fact that Ron was probably taller, but Blaise had this look about him that made him seem more intimidating. It was so unfair.

The Zabini heir had to suppress a laugh. What kind of question was that?

"My mother," Blaise answered, rather unnecessarily, "is rather tall, as was my father." He paused to measure Harry silently. His eyes were level with Blaise's collarbone, an acceptable height for a sixteen year-old, and one that looked especially attractive when paired with Harry's lithe frame. "Your height is perfect, Harry."

"Whatever," Harry mumbled, though it lacked any real fire. There was a faint bit of color high on his cheeks from Blaise's compliment. "Let's go-I'm going to put you to work."

Blaise rolled his eyes as he opened the door for the determined teen. He couldn't wait to see just what Harry would have him do.

Despite his boasting, Harry didn't have any dastardly or humiliating tasks in store for Blaise. The sable-haired teen merely returned to the kitchens, determined to camp out while the potion finished working. Blaise could see the way the tension visibly eased from Harry's body as they returned to their little alcove, several house elves calling out greetings on the way.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Blaise asked, eyeing the way Harry eased onto the long couch. He wouldn't have thought that such a serious injury, however harsh the initial action from the Ravenclaw boy had been, would have resulted from it.

Harry smiled blithely and shook his head negatively. "Not really," he assured his companion, "I've had worse."

Blaise wasn't sure if that was supposed to be comforting, but the words fell short and only deepened his frown. "You don't take care of yourself," he concluded. The muscles in Harry's shoulder would have had to been weakened or previously injured—both of which pointed to possibilities that Blaise didn't much enjoy.

Harry shrugged shallowly, the potion already numbing the snapping pain in his back. "I have been lately," he rebuked. "You've been making me."

"And before that?"

Harry sighed. Blaise wasn't going to give up. "No, I didn't. That particular shoulder has been dislocated several times, so it's quicker to strain than most others. Plus, I was injured at the end of last year—" He quieted abruptly.

"The Daily Prophet mentioned you had entered the Department of Mysteries," Blaise prompted when Harry cut his own sentence off.

Harry's lips twitched. "About the only thing they got right, apart from Voldemort actually being back. But yes, I broke into the Ministry. Stupidly—recklessly."

The Zabini heir couldn't contain his curiosity. "Why?" he asked.

Harry glanced up at him for a second before returning his gaze to the weave of the couch's upholstery. In that split second Blaise was privy to the maelstrom of conflicting emotions that Harry seemed to have been repressing for a very long time. He stood abruptly, startling the injured teen, and moved from one of the wooden table chairs to Harry's side and pulled him into his lap.

Harry froze, his muscles stiffening in shock. Blaise ignored his companion's apparent discomfort and held him closely, comforting Harry the way that he knew the sable-haired teen would respond to positively: touch.

He could tell that Harry had long suppressed the feelings behind the events in the ministry. Blaise wondered if he had ever, even once, spoken to someone about what occurred there. He himself was ignorant of the proceedings during and even leading up to whatever happened, but he could tell the affected Harry deeply.

"Tell me," he whispered, silently offering to listen to Harry's pain, to take it upon his own shoulders, to offer the comfort that he had been so freely giving the last few weeks.

Harry turned to gaze at him intensely, finally relaxing into his hold, before he sighed. "Alright," he finally said. "I had this dream…"

Chapter Text

Harry hummed quietly as he rolled his shoulder to work out the remaining kinks. He was probably late for dinner, but he'd been tied up with Madame Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing. It came as no little relief when the aging nurse declared him fit for classes. The joint would be tender for a few days, but Harry would take that over having his movement restricted by a stupid sling any day of the week.

Instead of interrupting the meal by walking in belatedly, he decided to head to the kitchens. Harry wondered if Blaise would meet him there yet again; true, he had spent the entire afternoon with the dark-eyed man, but he couldn't help but wish for more time in his shielding presence.

Harry bit his lower lip to suppress a smile as he remembered the events of the afternoon. Blaise had skipped his own classes to see to Harry's comfort, and listened as the troubled teen unloaded not only his involvement in his godfather's death, but the happenings of each of his years at Hogwarts.

It was startling, the way Blaise had been enraged on his behalf. Of course, he hadn't expressed it in the way that Harry was so prone to—with loud, angry words and explosive displays of magic—but there was a distinct frostiness to his features, and the air around them had seemed to darken and a chill had overtaken their small alcove. Harry had almost been frightened at the way the man's countenance had hardened; even now, he shivered in remembrance, though he wasn't sure it was in fear.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at Blaise's reaction. The Slytherin hadn't done anything to disprove that he was anything but genuine in his intentions; quite the contrary. But there was a part of Harry—the little boy that had grown up with the Dursleys, that had been so keen to latch onto Ron and Hermione—that had been buried, pushed aside, in the face of fame. That timid, eager-to-please child was still there, a constant presence in the back of his mind, a reminder of the loneliness of his previous existence. And with that little voice came fear—fear of losing his friends, of losing his magic, of being pushed aside, of being worthless—and now, of losing Blaise—his gentle hands, his patient gaze, the feel of being wanted for who he was—that sad, lost, lonely boy—and not his name.

The comfort Blaise brought him was strange and terrifying in its own way. He loved Ron and Hermione, and he always would, but Blaise was different than them—important to him in a way that neither Ron nor Hermione could ever be. It was a novel experience.

Perhaps it was the sliver of inherent darkness Blaise carried, or the way his sharp eyes looked at Harry and truly saw him. He knew, without a doubt, that it had something to do with the way Blaise handled him so carefully.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. As a result, the stubborn locks stuck up in comical disarray.

He didn't distrust that Blaise had no interest in using Harry for status or money—it was so against Blaise's character that the mere thought was laughable. And yet, a very large part of him was struggling to understand just where he stood with Blaise. Unlike his relationship with Ron and Hermione, he wasn't sure how to define what Blaise was to him. A friend, obviously—but he had told Blaise things that he wouldn't dream of sharing with a mere friend. A best friend? Maybe, but that term didn't seem to illustrate the odd intimacy they shared.

They weren't partners, or boyfriends, or lovers, or whatever people were calling it nowadays. Harry blushed at the thought, a bit mortified to find that he wasn't opposed to the idea. There was a part of him that felt a bit possessive of Blaise's companionship.

Harry grimaced at his thoughts, feeling particularly stupid for allowing himself to wallow in teenage angst and denial, and who was he kidding? It wasn't just a part of him that wanted Blaise—it was all of him.

There was just one problem with that. He didn't know what the hell people in relationships did.

Harry glanced this way and that as he prepared to sneak past the open doors to the Great Hall. The kitchen was on the other side of the corridor, and though he could have used the stairs on either side of the castle in a round-about method of getting there, he had no desire to spend nearly twenty minutes getting to his destination. Besides, it made him feel sneaky—very Mission Impossible-esque—to slip past hundreds of oblivious people.

Unfortunately, two people in particular had other plans. "Hey, Harry!"

Harry stopped dead, a pout forming on his features. The words triggered a strange sort of déjà vu, and he turned around slowly to meet his ambushers, even as he prepared himself for a confrontation that he had, admittedly, been running away from all year.

"Harry, you need to stop this." Hermione's voice was gentle, but chiding all the same. Ron stood next to her, angry and pitying and awkward all at once. Harry thought it was quite an interesting combination.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Hermione," he murmured, before grimacing. That was perhaps one of the worse things he could say, outside of, 'What, breathe?'

Hermione scowled at him quite ferociously, and when she next spoke, her voice had risen ever so slightly. "You need to stop running away from us, Harry. We've barely seen you outside of classes all year."

Harry shifted, uncomfortably aware that he had been a bad friend to the two. It wasn't their faults—but Harry wasn't sure that they were able, or willing, or understand what went on in his head. After everything at the end of fifth year, he had needed time to assimilate, and eventually being on his own had become comfortable—more so than being trailed by his well-meaning but forceful best friends.

"I'm sorry," his whispered, wishing he could explain everything—wishing that his tongue didn't turn to lead in his mouth every time he tried to.

Hermione didn't look satisfied. "It's like you don't want us anymore, Harry. I would have thought that after everything we've been through, you'd have placed more trust in us. I know you're hurting over Siri—over Snuffles, but you've got to move on. He wouldn't want you to stew in that guilt, Harry."

Harry's lips thinned and he glanced anxiously to his left. He understood that Ron and Hermione were hurt, and he did deserve a bit of scolding, but he didn't appreciate that they saw fit to air his dirty laundry in front of the rest of the school.

"I don't think this is the appropriate time or place for this, Hermione," he gritted out, gesturing to the Great Hall's open doors and the staring populace that lay beyond.

"It's never appropriate, though!" She almost yelled, finally losing her temper. Harry was so distant, so unlike the teen she knew, and it unnerved her. She looked to Ron for support, but he merely shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. "You never talk to us anymore. Are—are we even friends now?"

Harry looked at her sadly. "Of course we are, Hermione. I love both you and Ron, but—I just…" he trailed off, unwilling to say anything in front of the entirety of Hogwarts.

Blaise had helped him work through his grief with Sirius by just listening. He hadn't told Harry to get over it, hadn't even said he was sorry. He'd just held Harry, allowing the teen to talk about how he'd led the man into a trap, how betrayed he'd felt when, at the end, Sirius had called him by his father's name, how guilty that made him feel—because he had no right to feel such betrayal when it was him who had gotten them into that mess in the first place.

Maybe it was wrong of him to be angry with Ron and Hermione for refusing to do just that, but there was also the fact that his avoidance of them didn't have everything to do with Sirius. They were still children, so slow to comprehend what each confrontation with Voldemort was beginning to point to, something that he was coming to understand in full—and he felt so very, very old as he spoke to them now.

There was silence between them now as Hermione waited expectantly for an explanation he wasn't willing to give.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling very tired and vulnerable all of a sudden. He wanted so very much to figure out his niche in the world, to find happiness, before he worried about anyone or anything else. It was a selfish desire, and Harry was beginning to wonder if he was even allowed to have them.

He could see the hurt in Hermione's eyes, and he felt wretched for having inflicted it. He loved them, he really did, but there was something missing between them now—like a chain that had been rendered useless because of one broken link.

Maybe he was that link. A broken, useless—

His thoughts were cut off as he felt a familiar presence settle against his back. He sighed as the strong arms around his torso drew him from his melancholy, and he melted into the embrace. He really hated such self-destructive judgments—he knew he was worth more than that, but it didn't always stop his mind from traveling down that dark road.

Harry tilted his head back until it rested against a broad chest, and he smiled tenderly up at the dark features that greeted him. "Hey," he greeted softly, eyes tracing the almost invisible furrow between Blaise's brows.

Blaise glanced down. Harry saw the corners of his lips curl faintly in an almost invisible smile. The look in the tall Slytherin's eyes was obvious. Are you alright?

Harry felt a tendril of warmth uncurl in his chest as he took in Blaise's face; one would think it was carved from stone—but Harry could see affection in the line of concern in Blaise's brow, in the tilt of his mouth, and most certainly in the way his strong hand stroked his hip soothingly. It was almost like Blaise had known what he'd been thinking. Strangely enough, it didn't bother him in the least. He knew, then, that he got to see a side of Blaise that no one else did—and he was proud of it.

He placed a hand over Blaise's forearm, enjoying the way the hard muscles twitched underneath his grip, and squeezed lightly in silent affirmation. I'm okay.

"Harry?" The tentative call of his name interrupted his thoughts and he turned to look at his friends. Though a slight flush crept into his cheeks at the sight of their gob smacked faces, he refused to pull away from Blaise's embrace. He wasn't ashamed of Blaise, or of their unusual relationship.

He met Hermione's eyes determinedly. "Yeah?" A quick glance at Ron showed that the red-head's features were twisted into a particularly angry grimace as he glared at Harry's Slytherin companion. He blinked at the sudden change.

Hermione glanced between Harry and his tall shadow worriedly, her earlier words temporarily forgotten. "I, um—who is—are you—"

Harry very nearly groaned. Trust Hermione to be so eloquent when chewing someone out, but freeze up when confronted with something out of the ordinary. "Blaise Zabini, meet Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, my best friends. Ron, Hermione, meet Blaise Zabini, my slave."

Blaise snorted quietly, his nose pressed into Harry's messy hair. "Very funny," he murmured low enough that only Harry would hear him.

There were a few seconds of incredulous silence. "Slave?" Hermione squawked. Her entire demeanor seemed to swell in righteous indignation. "Harry James Potter! What have you done—?"

"It's just a joke!" Harry cried, cutting her off, lifting his hands in supplication. He really wasn't in the mood to listen to another tirade, and they still hadn't moved from their spot in front of the Great Hall, which was slowly beginning to fill with curious eavesdroppers as dinner wound to a close.

"I believe Harry would be more at ease in a private setting," Blaise finally said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

Hermione and Ron looked surprised to hear him speak. Harry wondered, resentfully, if they were expecting Blaise's words to be sibilant or rude just because he was in Slytherin.

Well, they weren't, and he liked Blaise's voice—a lot!

Since his two friends didn't look eager to accept Blaise's proposal, Harry just shrugged at them and let Blaise lead him away, trusting them to follow if they really wanted their questions answered. He was feeling a mite bit more willing to humor them with Blaise there with him.

As they left, Harry heard Malfoy call out from the crowd they left behind, voice incredulous. "Zabini! What are you doing with Potter?"

Blaise merely glanced back at him with dangerous eyes, his arms tightening around Harry as a practically carried him off, and raised an eyebrow as if to ask, what are you going to do about it?

Harry smirked smugly as he peeked over Blaise's shoulder, and waved mockingly at the angry blond. Poor little ferret-face.

Chapter Text

"I can walk by myself, you know," Harry stated wryly as he and Blaise, followed by Ron and Hermione, headed to some room in the dungeons of the school. He could tell that Blaise wasn't going to reveal their hideaway in the kitchens and for that he was thankful.

"I know that," Blaise replied, but made no move to release Harry from his clutches. Harry pouted up at him.

They eventually entered an abandoned classroom not far from the Slytherin Common Room. Torches sprang to life as Blaise and Harry stepped foot in the room, glowing flickers of light illuminating the craggy stone walls. Several desks were stacked up against the far wall, the chairs tucked underneath in neat rows. Blaise immediately took out his wand and vanished the light film of dust coating every surface and refreshed the damp air with a quiet mutter.

Harry grinned when, a moment later, a perfect replica of their settee in the kitchens sat in front of him. He threw himself on it with a laugh, delighted that he'd have a familiar comfort during the coming tête-à-tête.

Blaise chuckled at him almost inaudibly, moving to his normal seat on the right side of the sofa, his left arm resting along the top of the backrest. After a nudge from Harry, he also transfigured one of the desks into an overstuffed loveseat and levitated it across from them.

Ron and Hermione stood in the doorway, eyeing the simple set-up. Harry saw the reluctance in their features; it was obvious they were uncomfortable being so far into Slytherin territory. He trusted Blaise, though. He obviously had a reason for bringing them so far away from the heavy traffic of central Hogwarts.

As if reading his mind, Blaise spoke quietly in an attempt to quell Ron and Hermione's nervousness. "This part of the castle has additional wards," he said. "It's steeped in old magic that prevents eavesdropping charms from taking root."

Harry's eyebrows rose in unison with his friends'. He could see why that would be useful, very useful—and very Slytherin.

"It's not foolproof, of course, but certain parts of the runic equations in most listening spells are nearly identical. The wards, which are embedded in the walls, lock onto those equations and break them, disrupting the spells."

The two Gryffindors seemed to shrug, their aversion to their rival house overridden by their desire to speak to Harry. They took a seat across from Harry and his dark companion, eyeing the two with no small amount of curiosity and trepidation.

Blaise saw that neither Harry nor his friends were willing to start the inevitable conversation—stubborn Gryffindors, he sighed to himself—and so broke the tense silence himself. "What questions did you wish Harry to answer?" he asked. Though his words were soft, his deep voice carried them easily to Harry's friend's ears.

Ron looked indignant that Blaise had the gall to question them, and he scowled heavily at the Slytherin's hulking figure. Harry had to suppress a smile at the way that Blaise returned his look: with complete boredom. Hermione merely took the opportunity presented to her.

"Why have you been avoiding us, Harry?"

Harry sighed. Of course Hermione would ask the most difficult question right off the bat. He supposed that it wasn't actually all that hard to answer—he wanted time alone, and eventually, he wanted to spend his free time with Blaise—but he wasn't sure the answer would satisfy his friends.

And there was no chance that he'd inform them of his obsession with romance novels. He loved them, but the fact that the house-elves and Blaise knew was bad enough—he had no desire to exacerbate his embarrassment. Harry shivered at the thought.

Blaise watched him as if he knew Harry's dilemma. He could see the sympathy in the man's dark eyes, but there was also a teasing glint that made Harry flush.

He wouldn't tell them, would he? No, of course not.

Somehow, that didn't reassure Harry very much.

Ron and Hermione were eyeing him expectantly. Harry sighed and leaned into Blaise's side, ignoring the way his friend's faces twisted in confusion at the familiar action. He grimaced; what was he thinking? He hadn't gotten this far by lying. If they were really his friends—and they were—they'd accept his reasoning, give him a good thwack on the head for ignoring them, and continue on.

"I wanted time alone," he said, echoing his earlier thoughts. "Away from everyone, at first. It's not anything against you two personally, but I felt so overwhelmed at the time, and I had absolutely no personal space. Both of you had to tail me to keep people from harassing me, but it got to the point where I wanted away from you, too."

Harry glanced up to take in their reactions, letting out a sigh of relief as he did so. Hermione's lips were pursed, but she had an understanding look on her face. Ron was nodding slowly.

He glanced down when he felt a warm, strong hand settle over both of his; he hadn't realized that he'd begun to wring his fingers in nervousness until Blaise had forced him to stop. If he looked carefully in the dim light, he could see that the skin was slightly red and agitated from where both of his hands were nearly engulfed by Blaise's single.

Harry chuckled nervously. "Sorry, I'm just—I don't want you guys to be mad at me. I know it was stupid of me—"

"No, Harry," Hermione interrupted, "it wasn't. We understand, really; we were just worried about you. It's just not like you to avoid us like that. If this has anything to do with—"

"Hermione," Harry interjected quietly, "please stop bringing up Sirius. Yes, I miss him, and yes, it hurts, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't keep rubbing my face in the fact that he's gone. I feel his absence more than you ever could; I don't need you reminding me of that every time I do something out of character."

The silence that resulted from his words was both shocked and strained. Hermione gaped at him while Ron sat beside her rigidly.

Harry knew that his words were unnecessarily harsh, but he refused to allow Sirius's death to haunt his every step. He didn't want to live with that event hanging over his head, and he knew that Sirius wouldn't have wanted him to, either. If Hermione couldn't accept his actions lately as his own choice instead of a result of misguided grief…. well, maybe she didn't know him as well as she'd thought.

Hermione swallowed and nodded slowly. Harry hated to see the hurt in her eyes, but he was his own person; he didn't need her policing his decisions.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered, "but not everything I do is about Sirius. I've been avoiding you because I needed space; I needed time to think things out. I just—I can't do that around you, around anyone."

"Then why is he here?" Ron asked, breaking his silence. He was pointing at Blaise, more frustration than hostility present in his gaze. Harry guessed it was likely because Blaise had never given them any real trouble, even though he was in a house where the majority loathed the very existence of any Gryffindor—and Harry especially.

Harry bit his lip. He knew it was a hypocritical of him to say that he wanted to be alone yet cling to Blaise's company, but he wanted Blaise near him more than he'd wanted almost anything else. He was so different from anyone else he knew; so soothing and kind to Harry. He wasn't sure how to explain Blaise to his friends—how was he to tell them he was more comfortable around a veritable stranger than he was them, whom he'd known for over six years?

"How long have you been together?"

Harry choked, his eyes flying to Hermione. She was looking between him and Blaise with something like realization in her eyes.

"What?" Ron squawked, turning to stare at Hermione with disbelief.

"I—we're not—he's not—" Harry bit his lip and glanced to his side to see Blaise's reaction, only to jump when his gaze locked with the dark man's intense stare. He felt his whole body flush in those few seconds he was able to meet Blaise's eyes, before he forced himself to turn away with a fierce shiver. There was something in the man's expression that made Harry's stomach quiver madly. Strange thing was: he liked it—a lot.

"We're not dating," Blaise said, seeing that Harry was so flustered that he began fumbling his words. The sable-haired teen noticed, though, that he had yet to look away from Harry, even as he addressed Ron and Hermione; he could feel the weight of Blaise's stare on the side of his face as surely as he could feel the heat of the man against his side.

"You're… not?" Hermione repeated, her voice small and horrified. "But I could have sworn—oh, goodness, I'm so sorry!" She looked utterly humiliated on their behalf, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in dismay.

Harry coughed uncomfortably, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment. "It's alright, Hermione. Blaise and I have just been spending a lot of time together lately." It was a weak deflection, and if that wasn't incriminating enough, Harry's breath hitched audibly when Blaise's calloused fingers began to caress the sensitive skin underneath his jaw.

His friends followed the movement of the dark hand with disbelieving eyes. He could feel the smug satisfaction radiating from the strong form next to him and resisted the urge to kick his shin. What in the world did the Slytherin think he was doing?

They descended into an awkward silence, the air between them riddled with obvious tension. Harry remained very aware of the way Blaise continued to drag his fingers over the tender skin of his throat and he relaxed into the motion unconsciously even as he sought to avoid the incredulous looks—and dare he say, gratified, on Hermione's behalf—of his friends.

Not only was he mortified that Hermione had jumped to that conclusion—in front of Blaise, no less! Harry was barely able to decipher his own jumbled feelings towards the Zabini scion; he didn't need Hermione messing with his head even more!—but that he desperately wanted to be able to prove her suspicions true.

He didn't want to think of Blaise with someone else; didn't want to imagine him touching them with the same amount of care, embracing them as easily or carefully, or looking at them with that ridiculously knowing gaze—the one that made him feel like his stomach had turned into a snitch, zipping around inside him, and shoved his heart into his throat.

Harry sighed and gave his two friends a strained smile. "I'm sorry for making you worry so much," he said, hoping that they could wrap this up soon; he needed to go think, and perhaps sulk, and maybe he'd crack open a new book just so he could cry over a sad ending because he was feeling pretty damn miserable right then.

Hermione nodded, elbowing Ron in the ribs harshly enough that it set his head bobbing up and down. "Me too, Harry; I shouldn't have confronted you so publically. You deserve better than that, especially from us." Her eyes slid to Blaise's intimidating figure, both wary and calculating. "And I'm sorry for…" she gestured between Harry and his companion vaguely, referring to her earlier blunder and causing a fresh wave of mortification to crash over the green-eyed teen.

"It's fine," Harry said. "Look, why don't we go down to Hogsmeade this weekend? Together."

Both Ron and Hermione's eyes lit up at his suggestion. Seeing their reactions, Harry felt such shame at his actions that his bottom lip began to quiver with repressed emotion. That something as simple as spending time together could make them so happy… He really had been taking them for granted, so wrapped up he'd been in his own problems.

Hermione stood and crossed the small distance between the sofas to wrap Harry in a strong, long-awaited hug. "No matter what," she whispered into his ear, "we'll always love you and be there for you." Harry nodded, clutching at her tightly as his eyes began to sting hotly. Finally, Hermione pulled away, and Harry turned to Ron.

They looked at each other awkwardly, Ron adverse to such displays and Harry unwilling to make the red-head uncomfortable.

"We're okay, right?" Harry asked doubtfully, clenching his fingers in his robes and shifting from foot to foot nervously.

Ron looked over Harry's nervous figure before his gaze flicked to the man stretched out on the sofa in front of him. He repressed a shudder at the way Zabini's gaze drilled into him, dark promises lurking in the shadows of his eyes should he hurt Harry. He hadn't noticed before, but the Slytherin's fingers were curled confidently around an ebony wand, resting on his thigh unassumingly—and pointed straight at him.

Ron coughed and shrugged, before he reached over to wrap Harry in a hug of his own, silently telling his young friend that all was forgiven. Harry burrowed into his embrace for a few long moments, before they pulled away from each other quickly; looking for the entire world like nothing had taken place.

Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed quietly. "Boys," she muttered, throwing on her cloak and gathering her book bag. "Come on, Ron. You have a Transfiguration essay due to tomorrow, and don't try to tell me you've already started it. We both know better."

Blaise and Harry were left in silence for several moments after Ron and Hermione's departure. Harry peeked at Blaise from beneath his bangs shyly from his spot by the door. He'd watched his best friends walk away in desperation for something to do that didn't entail facing Blaise with Hermione's words still haunting his thoughts.

"Sorry about them," he chuckled, the sound strained. "Ron is the one that usually forgets to think before he speaks—"

"Look at me," Blaise ordered, standing and walking over to Harry with long strides. He frowned at the way Harry tensed up at his approach, and even more at how the teen shook his head, denying his request. He sighed quietly, wrapped a hand around Harry's chin, and forced him to look up, though he met very little resistance in the process.

"Never," Blaise said, "be uncomfortable around me. Do not feel as if you must hide your face from me." He reached out to trace the now familiar path along Harry's lovely features, relaxing minutely as Harry leaned into his touch. Blaise absolutely despised the way Harry had sought to pull away from him, to hide his feelings and embarrassment because of Granger's unthinking words.

Harry sighed, covering Blaise's hand with his own. "I know; it's just…" he paused for a moment, before continuing: "Come with me," he said. Blaise's eyebrows rose in question. "To Hogsmeade," Harry clarified, "this weekend, with Ron and Hermione. I'd like… I'd like it if you were there."

The Slytherin chuckled at the way Harry's features turned pleading. "Of course, Harry. As if I would allow you to go without me."

Chapter Text

After dropping Harry off at his common room with a promise that he would pick the teen up for their Hogsmeade outing the on the weekend, Blaise took a meandering route back to the Slytherin dorms, using the extra time to gather his thoughts. More specifically, he focused on the way Harry had erupted into a blushing, stuttering mess at Granger's insinuation that they were in a relationship.

While Blaise would have to be stupid not to notice Harry's attraction to him, he also knew that Harry was wary to act on his feelings. The Slytherin was pretty sure it had to do with the way that Harry was so inexperienced with relationships in general, by no fault of the teen's own. Though he soaked up any sort of positive attention, Harry was tentative at best when returning affection. It made Blaise smile and quiver in anger simultaneously: Harry was so easy to please, and so loving, but his hesitant demeanor was all too telling.

He had mixed feelings about Harry's friends. He knew the green-eyed teen harbored a fierce devotion towards them, and they returned it to some extent, but Blaise was reluctant to fully entrust Harry's well-being to them. They were able to hurt Harry far too easily with poorly chosen words and actions.

Harry had been a complete mess when they met. He'd been utterly drowning in grief, having just lost his godfather and no one—not his friends, family, nor a single member of the faculty—had seen fit to speak to him about his loss. Blaise's jaw clenched in anger. The adults at Hogwarts were complete imbeciles, almost neglectful in caring for their students' emotional well-being. If he were to count the incidents where Harry had been physically endangered... He already felt a strong urge to maim something—or someone.

Nonetheless, Blaise wasn't in a hurry to put a label on his and Harry's relationship. They were growing closer in a manner that was comfortable for both of them; their connection was something that went beyond the shallow affairs of teens into something that was deeper, more permanent.

Blaise would stop at nothing to protect that.

He let out a quiet sigh as he reached the entrance to the Slytherin dorms. He already considered Harry as good as his; he only tempered his affection because Harry wasn't quite ready for something more serious. Blaise grimaced internally; he sounded like some lovesick teenage girl. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he muttered the password to his dorms. He ignored the thick silence that greeted him after the entrance's stones ground to a halt and calmly sat down in a comfortable armchair in a far corner of the room.

Blaise couldn't care less about what was going through their feeble minds. No doubt Malfoy's screeching had alerted the entire northern peninsula to his and Harry's friendship.

He suppressed the urge to smirk in remembrance; the disbelief blond's face had been comical. He had an inkling that Malfoy Junior's absurd reaction had much to do with ill-concealed jealousy. Blaise remembered when Harry, a thin slip of a boy at the tender age of eleven, had turned down the blonde's offer of friendship. Since then, Harry had pretty much avoided members from the Serpent House like the plague. Malfoy obviously took some sort of twisted pleasure in the fact that he was the only Slytherin Harry spoke to on a regular basis, regardless of the fact that most of their conversations consisted of hurling insults and, on some occasions, spells. Seeing Harry interact with Blaise so easily—another Slytherin, of all people—had clearly rubbed salt in a wound the youngest Malfoy had let fester for years.

Blaise glanced around the room, taking in the hushed whispering of the older years and the deliberate, if apprehensive, quiet of the younger Slytherin members.

Harry probably would have done well in Slytherin, of that he was certain. But Blaise had a feeling that his house would have changed Harry, tainted him in a way. While Harry's observation at their first meeting had been correct—Slytherin wasn't always about power plays and blood purity—Blaise would be the first to admit that Slytherin had a dark side to it, something rotten and seething and all too connected to the brewing war.

Blaise was no exception to that; he generally preferred to keep his dark side hidden, however.

Putting the growing tension in the room out of his mind, Blaise pulled out a shrunken text from his pocket, resized it, and settled in to read. He'd been on his way back from the library when he'd run into Harry and his friends; he'd have to make up for the delay if he wanted to spend his weekend work-free.

All too soon, his face morphed into an irritated scowl when the entrance opened and stomping footsteps interrupted his concentration. "Zabini!" Blaise knew without looking that it was Malfoy who had barged into the commons like an idiotic buffoon and yelled his name. Though he didn't glance up from his book, Blaise felt the comforting weight of his wand fall into his grip.

"Za-bi-ni," Malfoy repeated, walking straight towards his resting place, each step punctuated with a syllable of his last name. He almost grimaced at the sound; only Malfoy had a way of making any word, much less his name, sound detestable.

Blaise knew that Malfoy would demand an explanation after his display in the entrance hall that evening out of a misguided sense of entitlement. However, Blaise had absolutely no patience for dealing with the superior little snot; everything about Harry was Blaise's business alone.

"Yes?" Blaise answered, icily. He looked up from his book with a frigid expression, his dark eyes colored with undeniable annoyance. Hopefully Malfoy would take the hint and get lost, but given the size of the prat's brain, Blaise doubted that would happen. Such subtleties were beyond someone with the intelligence of a rodent.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Malfoy asked, his face tinted red with anger. "What were you doing with Potter of all people?"

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern," Blaise replied, leaning back into his chair comfortably. Did he really thing that Blaise would bend to his childish whims? Yes, of course he did. The skin around Malfoy's eyes tightened at the implied slight; good, let him see that Blaise considered him unworthy of his time and attention.

"I think it's everybody's concern. I'm sure that every person here—" Malfoy said, gesturing around the rest of the room imperiously, "—wants to know what you were doing with him. Not just a Gryffindor, but Harry-bleeding-Potter."

Blaise merely stared at Malfoy, his expression unchanging. Inwardly, he was lamenting the lost study time Malfoy's temper tantrum was costing him.

Malfoy grit his teeth at Blaise's continued silence and whipped out his wand, pointing in the dark-skinned man's face. "You're wasting your time with him, you know. He's going to die. The Dark Lord—"

Blaise surged to his feet, throwing his book to the side, and launched himself at Malfoy. The blond's eyes widened in shock and fear as Blaise's large hands grabbed the shorter teen around his neck and slammed him against the common room's rough stone wall, ripping the wand from the teen's hand in the process.

"Do not threaten Harry," Blaise hissed, his face inches from Malfoy's. He took dark satisfaction in the fear filling the boy's eyes; he wanted it to be known that he would not abide any threat to Harry's well-being. "The Dark Lord will fall, Malfoy. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to tear him apart with my bare hands."

The blond smirked even as he scrabbled weakly at the hand around his throat. The taller young man didn't doubt that there would be a bruise come morning. He hoped it lasted for weeks; it would serve as a reminder. "He's too strong—" Malfoy's words cut off with a choked gurgle as Blaise's grip tightened mercilessly.

"I. Don't. Care," Blaise growled. He kept his ears open for any movement from the common room's other occupants, but it seemed that no one was willing to come to Malfoy's rescue. Malfoy's gaze, meanwhile, remained defiant. Blaise grinned darkly at that. He enjoyed the way the other teen's eyes widened in panic at the expression.

"You know, Malfoy," Blaise murmured, "I don't think you're taking this seriously." He traced the line of Malfoy's jaw with his wand. The tip sparked in response to his anger and Malfoy flinched at the painful flashes of heat against his skin. He would not let anyone or anything stand in the way of his relationship with Harry or, most importantly, Harry's happiness. He'd destroy whatever tried. Malfoy would have to understand that.

"Let me spell this out for you," Blaise said, his voice dropping menacingly, "if you ever try to stick your filthy little nose anywhere near my business again, I'll burn your hands and feet until your skin blisters and flakes and your muscles cook. Then I'll cut them off and mount them on the common room wall." Malfoy went white at the threat, but Blaise wasn't finished, not by a long shot.

"If I hear that you've told your darling father about this," Blaise continued, glaring down into Malfoy's wide eyes, "I'll break each and every single one of your ribs, pry open your chest, rip out your heart, and feed it to you piece by piece while it's still beating." He heard someone choke in the background at his gruesome threat and resisted the urge to smile. "And don't worry, little Malfoy," he cooed in false comfort, "I'll make sure to take pictures so everyone sees just how pathetic you can be when begging for mercy.

"And if any of this gets back to the Dark Lord, you can say goodbye to everything you've ever cared about." Blaise slammed Malfoy against the wall once more for good measure before leaning in to whisper into his ear. "And before they die, I'll make sure mummy and daddy know that their son couldn't just keep his big- mouth- shut."

He felt Malfoy freeze in terror and decided that his words had had their intended impact. He released his grip around the blond's neck and stepped back, watching dispassionately as the teen crumpled to the floor coughing and wheezing and holding his throat. He supposed he should be grateful the little shit hadn't pissed himself.

Blaise kicked the boy's ankle lightly, but hard enough to garner a flinch. "Remember what I said, Malfoy. Stay away from Harry—and keep your mouth shut." He tossed the teen's wand at his feet, summoned his discarded book, and stalked out of the room.

Harry watched the portrait for a long while after it closed, Blaise's words echoing in his head. "Do not feel as if you must hide your face from me." Harry recalled the way Blaise had gripped his chin, tilted his head up, and looked him in the eyes as he'd said that. The green-eyed teen admired the other's fearlessness; he'd been so mortified by Hermione's implication that they were—that they were dating. He'd feared Blaise would be uncomfortable with the insinuation, that her words would cause their friendship to change. All he'd wanted to do in that moment was hide from the hurt that was to come.

Except, Blaise hadn't hurt him; instead, he'd soothed the fears that had erupted in Harry's chest with a few simple words. Harry bit his lip to stop a stupid grin from spreading over his face. He forced himself to turn away from the portrait and wandered over to the cluster of chairs by the fire.

Hermione's presence on the loveseat made him pause. He hovered uncertainly for a moment, remembering their earlier reunion, before sinking down next to her. She looked up at him and smiled in welcome, unsurprised at his presence, but happy to see him nonetheless.

"Finished staring at the portrait?" she quipped, a smirk slipping over her features. He stared at the alien expression for a moment, before nodding, embarrassed.

"Yeah," he muttered, looking down at his hands. Every time he saw them, clasped together in his lap like that, he could imagine that Blaise was there, holding both of Harry's hands with one of his and giving him strength. She watched his face for a moment before setting her book aside.

"What's up?" she asked, angling her body towards him.

"Where's Ron?" he asked, ignoring her question.

She raised her eyebrows at the evasion, but answered anyway, "He's out flying; said he wanted to practice for something or other."

Harry nodded in reply and they sat awkwardly for a moment, Harry trying to figure out what to say and Hermione simply staring at him with those intelligent eyes of hers'.

"Will you tell me what's bothering you?" she asked after another long moment of silence. Harry grunted indecisively, once again staring at his hands. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I know we haven't been very close lately, but I'm still here for you, Harry, no matter what. I meant what I said, earlier: I love you. You're my best friend."

Harry glanced up at her words and took in her open expression before blurting out, "I think I like Blaise!" He gasped afterwards and slapped his hands over his mouth before looking around the common room. He'd said it louder than he'd intended.

Hermione's brow furrowed in puzzlement for a few seconds as she tried to decipher what he'd said—it had come out more like "itinkilieblaze" than an actual statement—before an unholy grin spread across her lips.

"Oh, I already knew that," she said, waving her hand dismissively. Harry stared at her, wide-eyed.

"What?" he squeaked. Was he that obvious? Oh god, if Hermione had figured it out, he was sure Blaise knew—he was so smart that there was no way—

"I can see why. He's certainly handsome," Hermione mused. Harry gaped at her, his thoughts screeching to an abrupt halt. "Exotic-looking. Great body—you can tell by his shoulders."

"H-Hermione!" Harry sputtered. Hermione was looking at Blaise? At his Blaise? She glanced at him before laughing softly.

"Oh come now, Harry. You can't honestly say that you haven't looked at him, can you?"

Harry bit his lip. "Well, a bit, but... most of the time, I'm not thinking about... that. I haven't, well, I haven't done it on purpose. I've noticed things, like—his hands, they're really strong, and big—and his forearms, I noticed those first—and he has this smile, it's a twitch of the lips, really, but he does it whenever he looks at me and it's so amazing," Harry breathed out the last word before noticing exactly what he'd said, and who he'd said it to. He glanced at Hermione, horrified.

She looked amused, but understanding. "Harry, there's nothing wrong with that," she assured him. He nodded, his face pink with embarrassment. It was one thing to notice how Blaise looked, but it was another to be talking about it like some—some—well, like Lavender and Parvati! He knew better than to say girl, because Hermione was a girl and she certainly wasn't like... them.

"Harry..." Hermione began, her face unusually serious. "You do know that it's perfectly okay to like boys, right?"

Harry blinked at her in surprise. "Well, yeah. Why would that be a problem?" He wasn't sure what she meant. Was there supposed to be something wrong with liking a boy?

She seemed to relax at his words. "It's not. Some people, though, have a problem with two men being in a relationship. They believe it's a sin, you see, because they aren't biologically compatible," she answered. At his confused expression, she added, "They can't have children."

"Oh," Harry frowned. He'd never heard of anything like that. If you like someone, that was that, right? He just figured that a lot of men liked women because a lot of them were pretty and soft and kind and they usually smelled good. Then again, Blaise smelled good—sort of musky and spicy, but very, very fresh—so maybe that didn't have anything to do with it. But what did children have to do with it? Men couldn't have kids, yeah, but that shouldn't mean that they weren't allowed to be with someone they loved. It was like saying a person couldn't breathe air because they had brown hair or liked to eat dessert before dinner. "That's stupid," Harry declared.

Hermione grinned. "Of course it is, but no one has ever said that humans are entirely logical."

"I don't think I'd ever like to meet someone that thought that way," Harry admitted. People could say very harsh things when they believed they were in the right. He'd suffered enough persecution at the Dursley's for being something he couldn't control.

"No," Hermione agreed, "I imagine not. I wouldn't either." But she knew Harry wouldn't have to worry about that. If someone said hurtful words about Harry's sexual preferences not only would she and Ron curse them to a bloody pulp, but she had no doubt Blaise Zabini would positively ruin them. Harry had been completely oblivious to the dangerous gaze the dark-skinned young man fixed on her and Ron the moment they'd met in the entrance hall, though it had subsided—somewhat—once apologies had been given.

"I just—I don't know what to do about it. I mean, I had that date with Cho, but that was..." Harry cringed in remembrance. Simply spending time with the girl had been painful. She'd cried all the time, and they really hadn't had anything besides a love of Quidditch in common. Not to mention the kiss in the Room of Requirement. Harry had almost jumped out of his skin when she'd laid her lips on his, and only good manners and paralyzing shock had prevented him from shoving her away. He'd never been kissed before that, but he was sure it wasn't supposed to be so... uncomfortable.

Hermione's lips twitched. Harry had described the little kiss he and Cho had shared as "wet," but the look of horror on his face when he'd recalled the experience had said a thousand more words. "I think that you should take it a step at a time. You need to figure out just what you want from Blaise before anything happens."

"I know, but... I'm pretty sure I know what I want." He wanted Blaise's hugs, his gentle touches, his quiet words, his deep laugh, his soothing presence—everything that Blaise offered now. But, he also wanted more than that. He couldn't deny that he wanted to know what it was like to be kissed by Blaise—would he be forward and level-headed like he usually was, or tender like the way he sometimes cupped Harry's face to trace his features? Or would he be rough and demanding and controlling of Harry's every action? Harry shivered at the thought, a sudden flash of heat uncurling deep inside him.

If those books of his were good for anything, it was ideas like that. He wouldn't mind trying out everything he'd read with Blaise. No, Harry mused, not at all.

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts before turning back to Hermione, who was patiently waiting for him to continue. "I don't know how to tell him," Harry admitted. Or when to tell him. Or whether or not Blaise would even accept. Harry would be surprised if Blaise returned his feelings; the thought was so strange that it was laughable. Who would like someone like Harry?

He couldn't help, though, the small, fragile seed of hope inside his chest, an oft-forgotten place full of sacred "what ifs" and future possibilities.

And then there was Voldemort. The thought sobered Harry immediately. Blaise would be in so much danger if he got involved with Harry. That alone made his concerns moot. "I'm dangerous to be around," Harry whispered sadly, slouching into the couch. "You and Ron—I can't do anything to prevent you following me; we've been together since first year. You know the risks. But Blaise..." He trusted Blaise, he really did, but there was something so painful about the thought of him being hurt—even more so than Ron and Hermione. He couldn't put Blaise's life on the line like that. He wouldn't.

After a long, contemplative silence, Hermione spoke. "I think that you'll know how to tell him when the time comes," Hermione said, answering his first anxiety. "And as for Voldemort... I think that Blaise was aware of the danger of getting involved with you when you first met him, Harry. He's a Slytherin, remember? Voldemort is very real to them—I don't think he has any illusions about that."

Harry made a small noise of understanding but didn't look all that encouraged. From his glazed eyes, Hermione could see that he was off in another world entirely. She nearly flinched in surprise when he stood suddenly and walked slowly towards the common room entrance, still deep in his own thoughts.

"Harry?" she asked after him, but he didn't answer. Hermione watched him go with a sad frown. "Don't you see the way he looks at you, Harry?" she whispered to herself, once the portrait had closed after his exit. "It's like you're the most important thing in the world to him."

When Harry got to the kitchens, he was surprised to see Blaise had gotten there first. He hung back for a moment, observing the intense, ice-cold fury that colored the Slytherin's features. He was leery of bothering Blaise when he was so obviously in a bad mood lest his anger be redirected towards Harry, but concern soon won out over caution and Harry approached their sofa.

"Hey," Harry whispered, standing off to the side so as to not startle the other.

Blaise's head snapped up so quickly that Harry nearly recoiled in preparation for whatever slur would be thrown his way, but the dark-skinned man's features softened immediately upon seeing him. Blaise stood swiftly and approached him, wasting no time catching the other in his arms and burying his face in the sable-haired teen's neck. "Harry," Blaise murmured, his voice muffled against Harry's skin.

Said young man blinked in bewilderment as he dangled a foot from the ground, before tentatively reaching up and wrapping his arms around Blaise's shoulders. He was confused at the sudden mood change. What had gotten Blaise so worked up?

"What's wrong?" Harry asked after the tension lining Blaise's shoulders—which, given Hermione's earlier observations, Harry had to admit were really quite fantastic—eased.

Blaise sighed and pulled back to look Harry in the eyes, though he had yet to release him. "Nothing important," he responded quietly, drinking in Harry's worried appearance.

Harry frowned at the non-answer, but allowed Blaise his secret. He let Blaise carry him to the sofa, admitting to himself that it was nice to be engulfed by the man's strong arms after his earlier conversation with Hermione. He sighed happily as a large hand found its way into his hair, before he tensed ever-so-slightly as a sharp tug sent a spike of heat down his spine.

Okay, he had enjoyed that far too much.

"What brought you down here?" Blaise asked, breaking the comfortable quiet between them. The hustle of the kitchens seemed so far off, ensconced in their own little piece of the universe as they were. Neither noticed Winky drop off a platter of their favorite treats.

Harry's eyes began to droop and he yawned, the heat of Blaise's body having a somnolent effect on him. "Missed you," he replied, pressing his nose into the fabric covering the Slytherin's chest. He smelled sooo good.

Blaise hummed in reply. "The feeling is mutual," he said, carding a hand through Harry's thick hair. He watched the teen in his arms drift off, not once releasing his hold. He had seen the strain in Harry's features when he'd first arrived, and the way that he'd shied away at Blaise's expression. The reaction had hurt; a deep, punishing spike of pain had erupted in his chest at the wary, almost fearful look he'd seen on Harry's face.

He'd come down to the kitchens after nearly suffocating Malfoy into unconsciousness to return some order to his thoughts. Blaise was no stranger to violence, nor was he afraid of using it; he could be plenty sadistic on his own right, and he wasn't ashamed of it. While Malfoy had threatened Harry, he was simply an irritating pest—of no real consequence in the long run. Blaise, however, had nearly gone off the deep-end because the blond had no filter between his brain and his mouth.

He didn't really regret threatening the little brat until he nearly soiled himself, not really; the blond had needed to know that Blaise wouldn't tolerate any interference and Blaise wouldn't lie and say he hadn't enjoyed it. He just didn't much fancy dealing with the consequences of his inability to keep his head on straight where Harry was concerned. Rumors about the incident would spread, and the entire school would be privy to what happened within the day. Harry would be subject to even more attention and Snape would, doubtlessly, call Blaise to his office once he was made aware.

The latter he could deal with; he was even looking forward to having a shot at the man who'd made Harry's life miserable for the last six years. The former, though, was regrettable. He knew how much Harry hated his fame. Blaise's lack of control would only make that more severe.

He sighed, tightening his grip on Harry's slight frame. He swore to himself that while the green-eyed teen might see Blaise lose his temper—it would occur whether he liked it or not—Harry would never be on the receiving end of it. He glanced at the clock on the opposite wall before settling himself more comfortably on the sofa.

Only one more day until the weekend.