digcat
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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[Harry Potter] Malfoid Stories
- Thread starter AndrewJTalon
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AndrewJTalon
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The dormitory was dark when Harry finally reached it, the only light a thin spill from the window where the curtains had not been fully drawn. Most of the others were already asleep. Ron's snoring rose and fell in uneven bursts from the bed nearest the window, occasionally hitching when he rolled onto his side. Harry closed the door as quietly as he could and stopped. An owl sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, feathers ruffled, one foot tapping with clear impatience against the wood. It held a flat, linen-wrapped package in its beak and regarded him with the offended dignity of a bird that had been kept waiting longer than it considered reasonable.
He paid it with a few Knuts from his pocket. The owl took them, transferred the package to his hands with a sharp, businesslike motion, and left through the open window in an irritable snap of wings. Cold air followed it in. The outside of the parcel was addressed in a familiar hand to Harry Potter, Gryffindor Tower. Beneath the name, in smaller letters, was the single word Snuffles.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under him. He unwrapped the linen carefully, mindful of the rustle. Inside was a flat object and a folded note. The note was marked, in capital letters, READ THIS FIRST.
He unfolded it under the thin light from the window. His hands were colder than he had realized.
Harry,
Only use this in a safe place nobody can see you, and cast Silencio around your surroundings to keep anyone from hearing. Activate it by tapping the glass twice with your wand tip and saying my name.
Snuffles
Harry exhaled. The sound was small in the quiet room. Sirius was not taking chances. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk, the fabric cool and heavy as he settled it over his shoulders, and slipped back out of the dormitory. Ron muttered something unintelligible and turned over. No one else stirred.
The common room was empty, the fire burned down to embers. Harry crossed it, eased through the portrait hole—the Fat Lady grumbled once in her sleep and did not open her eyes—and made his way down the corridor to the unused classroom nearest Gryffindor Tower. The door stuck once; he shouldered it open, stepped inside, and shut it behind him. Dust moved in the air. The desks had been pushed against the walls years ago and never moved back.
"Colloportus," he whispered. The lock clicked, firm. "Silencio."
The room went very still. Even the faint creak of the castle seemed to retreat. He pulled the remaining linen away.
A plain mirror lay in his hands, unadorned, the glass clean and cool against his palms. He drew his wand, tapped the surface twice, and said, quietly, "Sirius."
The glass clouded, then cleared. Sirius's face appeared, slightly off-center, wearing the crooked smile Harry remembered from the old family photos in the album Hagrid had given him. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper and his hair grayer than in those pictures, but the light was back in his eyes.
"Harry!"
"Sirius. What is this?"
"Your father and I used to make two-way mirrors to talk between classes. Works at any distance."
"Wicked." Harry turned the mirror a fraction, watching the way Sirius's image held. His shoulders had loosened without his noticing.
Sirius's smile softened. "How are you? Any more dreams?"
The nightmares about Voldemort had been what he had told Sirius about just before the Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt a small, private relief that his guardian had believed him.
"Well, no. None so far. I'm back at school. Things are going all right, mostly. Moody's a great teacher. Really incredible—"
"Yes." Sirius's expression changed. The smile thinned. "And I'm coming back to help."
Harry's grip tightened on the mirror. The edges bit into his fingers. "But—Sirius, there's a kill-on-sight order for you—"
"I know how to keep hidden, and I'm in contact with Dumbledore. It'll be fine. If Dumbledore has recalled Moody, he's seeing something big on the horizon. Besides, you need all the support you can get. I've been slacking in my godfatherly duties."
"That… that wasn't your fault, Sirius."
"Thanks, Harry." Sirius looked away for a moment, jaw working, then back. The mirror caught the movement. "And one day, maybe I'll believe it. But I'm not letting anything happen to you. Promise."
Something in Harry's chest pulled tight. He shifted his weight on the desk. "Sirius…"
"Well." Sirius cleared his throat, the sound rough and bark-like. "Enough of that girly nonsense. How'd it go with Malfoy?"
Harry groaned and let his forehead rest against the cool edge of the mirror for a second. The glass fogged faintly under his breath. "Ugh. I must have done it wrong. She's… she's actually happy about the date. Even the twins pushed it further."
Sirius's mouth twitched. The smirk returned, wider, and he leaned in until his face filled more of the glass. "Oh?"
"Yes! Right in front of the girl I actually like!"
"Ooh. Rough, Harry. Very rough. I have been there before."
"Is there any way out of this?"
"Harry, listen." Sirius's voice turned more serious, though the amusement did not entirely leave it. One eyebrow rose. "If she finds out this entire thing was a prank, she'll—"
"Murder me?"
"Probably," Sirius agreed. He tilted his head. "How much time do we actually have? Before this date."
"The first Hogsmeade weekend. One week." Harry shifted on the desk. The wood was cold through his robes; he felt it against the backs of his thighs. "They doubled them this year. There's two before Halloween now, what with the Triwizard and all."
Sirius was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved, calculating. "All right. That's better than I expected. Not much, but better. We can work with that."
"Work with it how?!" Harry's voice rose. He sat straighter, free hand gripping the edge of the desk. "The twins told her I'd take her flying over the forest at sunset! They told her we'd go to the Yule Ball! I don't even know what I'm supposed to say to her between now and then!"
"You say as little as possible until we have a plan," Sirius said. His tone had gone flat and practical. "And you do not, under any circumstances, tell her it was a joke. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if we can manage it cleanly. First one, you go. You survive it. You come back and tell me exactly what she said, what she liked, what made her angry. Then we adjust before the second."
"Second?!" Harry squawked.
"Second," Sirius nodded.
Harry stared at the mirror. His reflection was a faint ghost around Sirius's face. "You're serious."
Sirius grinned, quick and sharp.
"I'm always Sirius when pure-blood girls are involved." The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Listen to me, Harry. If she finds out now, she won't just be angry. She'll be humiliated. In front of her house, in front of the school, in front of people who already watch her because of her name. Do you really want to do that to her?"
A pain hit Harry in the chest, sudden and low. He was always under scrutiny for his name. He supposed it was not so different for her. His free hand had curled into a fist against his knee without his noticing.
"No," he decided. The word came out quieter than he expected. "No… I mean she can be a pain and a brat and bully but… No."
Sirius sat back. The crooked smile returned, thinner than before, and he regarded Harry with something that looked almost like approval.
"Which brings me to the question I was going to ask before you started panicking."
Harry braced himself. His shoulders had gone tight again.
Sirius regarded him for a moment, head tilted. "Harry… is a date with Malfoy really that bad?"
"I…" Harry paused. His ears felt hot. "I mean… I-I thought it would be but…"
He had a sudden, unwelcome vision of her actually smiling at him, cheeks pink, one hand in his as they walked. The image was clear enough that he shook his head, hard, as if he could dislodge it, due to the convoluted torment inside his chest.
"YES! YES IT IS!"
Sirius looked skeptical. One eyebrow climbed.
"Uh-huh. A hot bird on your arm who really wants to date you?"
"I don't know why she does!" Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The motion left his fringe standing up. "She's a bloody nightmare! She wasn't supposed to actually say YES!"
"Well, she has, so clearly she believed you were being sincere," Sirius said.
"Or she's trying to drive me mad!" Harry insisted. His voice cracked on the last word.
"Girls always do," Sirius chuckled. The sound was warm and unhelpful.
"But if she finds out—!"
"She won't." Sirius leaned a little closer to his side of the glass. The smile had gone crooked again. "Just listen to old Padfoot. He won't steer you wrong. I promise you'll get out of this alive… and mostly in one piece."
"Mostly?!" Harry's head came up. The mirror tilted with the movement.
"Well, she might bite."
Harry stared at him. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Bite? Why?!"
Sirius just grinned.
---
The Slytherin fourth-year girls' dormitory was warmer than the corridors outside it, the lake-light through the high windows turning the green hangings a deeper shade. Lyra Malfoy's trunk stood open in the center of the room. She was on her knees beside it, robes pushed up to her elbows, digging through folded garments with the focused irritation of someone who had already rejected three perfectly acceptable options and was prepared to reject three more.
Millicent Bulstrode sat on the edge of her own bed, broad shoulders relaxed, watching with the mild perturbation of a girl who had expected the evening to be quieter. Pansy Parkinson perched on a chair nearby, chin in her hands, expression already sliding toward exasperation. Daphne Greengrass occupied the window seat with a book open across her lap, posture elegant, attention divided. Tracey Davis sat cross-legged on the floor at Daphne's feet, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth curved in faint amusement.
"So," Tracey said. "Going on the date with Potter."
Lyra did not look up. A jumper sailed over her shoulder and landed on the rug. "Yes. To gather critical intelligence."
"Sure," Pansy said. "Like how his tonsils taste."
Lyra spun. The motion was sharp enough to send a strand of hair across her face. She glared at all four of them, color already high on her cheekbones. "I do not like him! Not one bit!"
Pansy turned her head toward Daphne with the silent plea of someone who had been carrying this argument alone for too long. Daphne kept her eyes on the page. Tracey elbowed her, once, then again. Daphne sighed, soft and precise, and lowered the book a fraction.
"We were all there, Lyra."
"No." Lyra's hands had curled into the fabric still in the trunk. "No, see—this is one of his schemes. You remember!"
"Scheming isn't exactly his forte," Tracey said. "Surviving and being awesome is, though."
Millicent nodded. The motion had the weight of a crag deciding whether to become an avalanche. "Yes. He can summon a Patronus to drive off a hundred Dementors."
"He slayed a basilisk," Tracey added. "A thousand-year-old one. With the Sword of Gryffindor."
"He even defeated You-Know-Who," Pansy said. "In single combat. Twice! Once when he was a baby even!"
Millicent's sigh was almost wistful. "He's killed a man already. I wish a boy would kill someone for me."
"Me too," Daphne said, without looking up.
Pansy and Tracey both turned to stare at them. Lyra, for her part, had gone very still. For a moment her eyes were distant, fixed on something none of the others could see: Potter with a sword in his hand, bare-chested, that infuriating smile directed at her while something large and dangerous lay at his feet. She blinked, hard, and the image scattered.
"He… he's not even my type."
Pansy made a sound of pure exasperation. "A muscle-bound hunk who can outfly you and slays monsters isn't good enough?"
"Heh." Tracey tilted her head. "I'll take a crack at him if you're not game. He does gardening. The Muggle way."
Millicent's brow furrowed. "How do you know?"
"Saw him in Herbology once. His outer robes got dirty with Bubotuber pus. He had to pull them off—" Tracey's expression turned briefly dreamy. "Mmm. Pure lean muscle. I could just li—"
She registered the frantic warning looks from Daphne, Pansy, and Millicent a fraction too late. When she turned, Lyra was already standing inches from her, wand in hand, face pale with rage, eyes burning for murder. Tracey squeaked.
"—eave him for you," she finished, sliding behind Daphne with impressive speed. "My best friend and superior in all wayspleasedon'thexme."
Lyra's growl was low. "You wouldn't know what to do with him. And besides—" The murderous edge eased, just slightly, into something smug. "He asked me."
A pause. The flush returned, climbing toward her ears.
"N-not that that matters! I will simply go along with it for good relations. We're hosting the Triwizard Tournament. What matters is that we look good for our foreign guests… Before they arrive. We need the practice!"
Millicent, Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey exchanged looks of varying degrees of exhaustion. Pansy sighed.
"Well then. In the interest of relations, we'll be providing backup."
"D-don't be silly." Lyra turned back to the trunk and began digging again, movements sharper than before. "I'll be just fine on my own. The less people see this… this embarrassment of riches, the better. I have my reputation to think about. Being seen with Potter. In public. On a date."
Tracey opened her mouth. "Didn't you just say you wanted to be seen for good relations—"
Daphne's hand settled on her forearm, light and final. She shook her head once. Tracey subsided, though not without a muttered, "But she—"
Pansy looked at Daphne. "I thought you had trained her by now."
"She is quite recalcitrant." Daphne returned her attention to the book. "The breed will tell."
"Hey!"
He paid it with a few Knuts from his pocket. The owl took them, transferred the package to his hands with a sharp, businesslike motion, and left through the open window in an irritable snap of wings. Cold air followed it in. The outside of the parcel was addressed in a familiar hand to Harry Potter, Gryffindor Tower. Beneath the name, in smaller letters, was the single word Snuffles.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under him. He unwrapped the linen carefully, mindful of the rustle. Inside was a flat object and a folded note. The note was marked, in capital letters, READ THIS FIRST.
He unfolded it under the thin light from the window. His hands were colder than he had realized.
Harry,
Only use this in a safe place nobody can see you, and cast Silencio around your surroundings to keep anyone from hearing. Activate it by tapping the glass twice with your wand tip and saying my name.
Snuffles
Harry exhaled. The sound was small in the quiet room. Sirius was not taking chances. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk, the fabric cool and heavy as he settled it over his shoulders, and slipped back out of the dormitory. Ron muttered something unintelligible and turned over. No one else stirred.
The common room was empty, the fire burned down to embers. Harry crossed it, eased through the portrait hole—the Fat Lady grumbled once in her sleep and did not open her eyes—and made his way down the corridor to the unused classroom nearest Gryffindor Tower. The door stuck once; he shouldered it open, stepped inside, and shut it behind him. Dust moved in the air. The desks had been pushed against the walls years ago and never moved back.
"Colloportus," he whispered. The lock clicked, firm. "Silencio."
The room went very still. Even the faint creak of the castle seemed to retreat. He pulled the remaining linen away.
A plain mirror lay in his hands, unadorned, the glass clean and cool against his palms. He drew his wand, tapped the surface twice, and said, quietly, "Sirius."
The glass clouded, then cleared. Sirius's face appeared, slightly off-center, wearing the crooked smile Harry remembered from the old family photos in the album Hagrid had given him. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper and his hair grayer than in those pictures, but the light was back in his eyes.
"Harry!"
"Sirius. What is this?"
"Your father and I used to make two-way mirrors to talk between classes. Works at any distance."
"Wicked." Harry turned the mirror a fraction, watching the way Sirius's image held. His shoulders had loosened without his noticing.
Sirius's smile softened. "How are you? Any more dreams?"
The nightmares about Voldemort had been what he had told Sirius about just before the Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt a small, private relief that his guardian had believed him.
"Well, no. None so far. I'm back at school. Things are going all right, mostly. Moody's a great teacher. Really incredible—"
"Yes." Sirius's expression changed. The smile thinned. "And I'm coming back to help."
Harry's grip tightened on the mirror. The edges bit into his fingers. "But—Sirius, there's a kill-on-sight order for you—"
"I know how to keep hidden, and I'm in contact with Dumbledore. It'll be fine. If Dumbledore has recalled Moody, he's seeing something big on the horizon. Besides, you need all the support you can get. I've been slacking in my godfatherly duties."
"That… that wasn't your fault, Sirius."
"Thanks, Harry." Sirius looked away for a moment, jaw working, then back. The mirror caught the movement. "And one day, maybe I'll believe it. But I'm not letting anything happen to you. Promise."
Something in Harry's chest pulled tight. He shifted his weight on the desk. "Sirius…"
"Well." Sirius cleared his throat, the sound rough and bark-like. "Enough of that girly nonsense. How'd it go with Malfoy?"
Harry groaned and let his forehead rest against the cool edge of the mirror for a second. The glass fogged faintly under his breath. "Ugh. I must have done it wrong. She's… she's actually happy about the date. Even the twins pushed it further."
Sirius's mouth twitched. The smirk returned, wider, and he leaned in until his face filled more of the glass. "Oh?"
"Yes! Right in front of the girl I actually like!"
"Ooh. Rough, Harry. Very rough. I have been there before."
"Is there any way out of this?"
"Harry, listen." Sirius's voice turned more serious, though the amusement did not entirely leave it. One eyebrow rose. "If she finds out this entire thing was a prank, she'll—"
"Murder me?"
"Probably," Sirius agreed. He tilted his head. "How much time do we actually have? Before this date."
"The first Hogsmeade weekend. One week." Harry shifted on the desk. The wood was cold through his robes; he felt it against the backs of his thighs. "They doubled them this year. There's two before Halloween now, what with the Triwizard and all."
Sirius was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved, calculating. "All right. That's better than I expected. Not much, but better. We can work with that."
"Work with it how?!" Harry's voice rose. He sat straighter, free hand gripping the edge of the desk. "The twins told her I'd take her flying over the forest at sunset! They told her we'd go to the Yule Ball! I don't even know what I'm supposed to say to her between now and then!"
"You say as little as possible until we have a plan," Sirius said. His tone had gone flat and practical. "And you do not, under any circumstances, tell her it was a joke. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if we can manage it cleanly. First one, you go. You survive it. You come back and tell me exactly what she said, what she liked, what made her angry. Then we adjust before the second."
"Second?!" Harry squawked.
"Second," Sirius nodded.
Harry stared at the mirror. His reflection was a faint ghost around Sirius's face. "You're serious."
Sirius grinned, quick and sharp.
"I'm always Sirius when pure-blood girls are involved." The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Listen to me, Harry. If she finds out now, she won't just be angry. She'll be humiliated. In front of her house, in front of the school, in front of people who already watch her because of her name. Do you really want to do that to her?"
A pain hit Harry in the chest, sudden and low. He was always under scrutiny for his name. He supposed it was not so different for her. His free hand had curled into a fist against his knee without his noticing.
"No," he decided. The word came out quieter than he expected. "No… I mean she can be a pain and a brat and bully but… No."
Sirius sat back. The crooked smile returned, thinner than before, and he regarded Harry with something that looked almost like approval.
"Which brings me to the question I was going to ask before you started panicking."
Harry braced himself. His shoulders had gone tight again.
Sirius regarded him for a moment, head tilted. "Harry… is a date with Malfoy really that bad?"
"I…" Harry paused. His ears felt hot. "I mean… I-I thought it would be but…"
He had a sudden, unwelcome vision of her actually smiling at him, cheeks pink, one hand in his as they walked. The image was clear enough that he shook his head, hard, as if he could dislodge it, due to the convoluted torment inside his chest.
"YES! YES IT IS!"
Sirius looked skeptical. One eyebrow climbed.
"Uh-huh. A hot bird on your arm who really wants to date you?"
"I don't know why she does!" Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The motion left his fringe standing up. "She's a bloody nightmare! She wasn't supposed to actually say YES!"
"Well, she has, so clearly she believed you were being sincere," Sirius said.
"Or she's trying to drive me mad!" Harry insisted. His voice cracked on the last word.
"Girls always do," Sirius chuckled. The sound was warm and unhelpful.
"But if she finds out—!"
"She won't." Sirius leaned a little closer to his side of the glass. The smile had gone crooked again. "Just listen to old Padfoot. He won't steer you wrong. I promise you'll get out of this alive… and mostly in one piece."
"Mostly?!" Harry's head came up. The mirror tilted with the movement.
"Well, she might bite."
Harry stared at him. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Bite? Why?!"
Sirius just grinned.
---
The Slytherin fourth-year girls' dormitory was warmer than the corridors outside it, the lake-light through the high windows turning the green hangings a deeper shade. Lyra Malfoy's trunk stood open in the center of the room. She was on her knees beside it, robes pushed up to her elbows, digging through folded garments with the focused irritation of someone who had already rejected three perfectly acceptable options and was prepared to reject three more.
Millicent Bulstrode sat on the edge of her own bed, broad shoulders relaxed, watching with the mild perturbation of a girl who had expected the evening to be quieter. Pansy Parkinson perched on a chair nearby, chin in her hands, expression already sliding toward exasperation. Daphne Greengrass occupied the window seat with a book open across her lap, posture elegant, attention divided. Tracey Davis sat cross-legged on the floor at Daphne's feet, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth curved in faint amusement.
"So," Tracey said. "Going on the date with Potter."
Lyra did not look up. A jumper sailed over her shoulder and landed on the rug. "Yes. To gather critical intelligence."
"Sure," Pansy said. "Like how his tonsils taste."
Lyra spun. The motion was sharp enough to send a strand of hair across her face. She glared at all four of them, color already high on her cheekbones. "I do not like him! Not one bit!"
Pansy turned her head toward Daphne with the silent plea of someone who had been carrying this argument alone for too long. Daphne kept her eyes on the page. Tracey elbowed her, once, then again. Daphne sighed, soft and precise, and lowered the book a fraction.
"We were all there, Lyra."
"No." Lyra's hands had curled into the fabric still in the trunk. "No, see—this is one of his schemes. You remember!"
"Scheming isn't exactly his forte," Tracey said. "Surviving and being awesome is, though."
Millicent nodded. The motion had the weight of a crag deciding whether to become an avalanche. "Yes. He can summon a Patronus to drive off a hundred Dementors."
"He slayed a basilisk," Tracey added. "A thousand-year-old one. With the Sword of Gryffindor."
"He even defeated You-Know-Who," Pansy said. "In single combat. Twice! Once when he was a baby even!"
Millicent's sigh was almost wistful. "He's killed a man already. I wish a boy would kill someone for me."
"Me too," Daphne said, without looking up.
Pansy and Tracey both turned to stare at them. Lyra, for her part, had gone very still. For a moment her eyes were distant, fixed on something none of the others could see: Potter with a sword in his hand, bare-chested, that infuriating smile directed at her while something large and dangerous lay at his feet. She blinked, hard, and the image scattered.
"He… he's not even my type."
Pansy made a sound of pure exasperation. "A muscle-bound hunk who can outfly you and slays monsters isn't good enough?"
"Heh." Tracey tilted her head. "I'll take a crack at him if you're not game. He does gardening. The Muggle way."
Millicent's brow furrowed. "How do you know?"
"Saw him in Herbology once. His outer robes got dirty with Bubotuber pus. He had to pull them off—" Tracey's expression turned briefly dreamy. "Mmm. Pure lean muscle. I could just li—"
She registered the frantic warning looks from Daphne, Pansy, and Millicent a fraction too late. When she turned, Lyra was already standing inches from her, wand in hand, face pale with rage, eyes burning for murder. Tracey squeaked.
"—eave him for you," she finished, sliding behind Daphne with impressive speed. "My best friend and superior in all wayspleasedon'thexme."
Lyra's growl was low. "You wouldn't know what to do with him. And besides—" The murderous edge eased, just slightly, into something smug. "He asked me."
A pause. The flush returned, climbing toward her ears.
"N-not that that matters! I will simply go along with it for good relations. We're hosting the Triwizard Tournament. What matters is that we look good for our foreign guests… Before they arrive. We need the practice!"
Millicent, Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey exchanged looks of varying degrees of exhaustion. Pansy sighed.
"Well then. In the interest of relations, we'll be providing backup."
"D-don't be silly." Lyra turned back to the trunk and began digging again, movements sharper than before. "I'll be just fine on my own. The less people see this… this embarrassment of riches, the better. I have my reputation to think about. Being seen with Potter. In public. On a date."
Tracey opened her mouth. "Didn't you just say you wanted to be seen for good relations—"
Daphne's hand settled on her forearm, light and final. She shook her head once. Tracey subsided, though not without a muttered, "But she—"
Pansy looked at Daphne. "I thought you had trained her by now."
"She is quite recalcitrant." Daphne returned her attention to the book. "The breed will tell."
"Hey!"
celsiussy
Not too sore, are you?
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At this point I'm pretty sure that Sirius just wants Harry to be married closer to him on the family tree more than he already is.
Also, if he survives in this Malfoidverse, he can rub it in Narcissa's face.
Actually, no, if he survives, Narcissa might plot to have him married so the Black family name survives. She'll literally Chrispost until he gets hitched with a witch with a decent pedigree.
Also, if he survives in this Malfoidverse, he can rub it in Narcissa's face.
Actually, no, if he survives, Narcissa might plot to have him married so the Black family name survives. She'll literally Chrispost until he gets hitched with a witch with a decent pedigree.
Bungles976
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
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Can anyone give me an idea on the order of this or is it just read it in the order it was put out
digcat
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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order it was put out
________________________
For anyone who would want to read the Malfoid rewrite.
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Tsundere - Chapter 1 - Guardbro - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
archiveofourown.org
Last edited:
Harry Potter and the Clearly Not Okay -dere
New
CountvonBarnOwl
Know what you're doing yet?
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I won't even bother including a warning because you should know by now about my penchant for nonsense.
The Payback War Begins, or; Grizzly Murders in the House of Dursley
February 1995 - The Hogwarts grounds, a few hours after the second Triwizard Task
"Potter? What exactly am I looking at." Lyra Malfoy asked him.
"Guuurr..." Harry stared at Lyra.
When the Malfoy heiress had regained consciousness after the events of the tournament, and air was in her lungs again, she immediately put it to use to shriek herself blue in the face whilst bodily dragging him off the pitch. From what Harry heard or, thought he had heard, he would be awarded second place, for arriving first, and staying behind until the others were rescued.
Which had not gone over particularly well with his date.
Lyra Malfoy was displeased, more than usual, at the fact that he did not grab her as soon as he could, pull her to dry land, and give her another foot rub like the one she had badgered him into giving her after the ball itself when she claimed that dancing with an ox made her feet hurt to much and he owed her. He had acceded then after she proved a joke that he told Ron and Hermione in their second year ended up being right. Being that if Lyra wanted something - it had been to brag or gloat, as they had told it but demanding to be waited on hand and foot worked just as well - then she was perfectly willing to follow you into the loo over it without an ounce of shame. At least he was able to get through his business before she decided to climb over the stall door.
But today, Lyra had frog-marched him, berating him all the while, down to the Slytherin dungeons, and into the bedrooms where she threw him onto a bed that was larger and more luxurious than the other two and pulled a silvered bowl, about eight inches across, and six deep, up from the trunk at its foot. "Do you know what a Pensieve is, Potter?"
"Wipe that stupid grin off your face and answer the question, Stupid Pottah!" The still somewhat soaked woman said, depositing herself on his left thigh and leaning in close.
Harry smiled, whenever Lyra lost control of herself she started pronouncing his name as if she were still eleven, with that thunderous pop of the 'P' and the snobbiest prelude to a sneeze, or something that sounded like it, that he could imagine in place of the '-er.' He didn't dare correct her. The Yule Ball had seen her become... something in the same county as bearable. A and for a woman as easy on the eyes as Malfoy had become, the eyes, the face, the long blonde hair and the curves that made him desire so badly to put up with her.
"No, I don't know what a Pensieve is exactly. Might you enlighten me, Miss Malfoy?" Harry made sure to use the moody young witch's favorite word at the end.
"Hmph," her cheeks puffed up as she smiled and went smug, "Well, Potter, a Pensieve is a silvered basin like this one here that lets you view copies of your memories in the third person. So we're going to go step by step through the last day so you can explain to me why exactly you felt the need to deviate from getting me out of the water."
Harry made a face that did not look too unlike one he would have made had he swallowed a lemon. But the way that Lyra giggled when she saw his grimace did register. There was just one problem.
"How, am I supposed to do that?" He asked.
Lyra's face went red like a hunk of metal drawn from the fire at a smithy, and the quivering of her expression gave Harry the distinct impression that it would be just about as hot to the touch.
Then she started cackling.
"Isn't it obvious, Stupid Pottah? Take your memory out with your wand and drop it in the basin. Then when the runes turn it into a liquid, you stick your head in."
Harry Potter was not a mind reader. He knew that the mental arts existed and what they could, in theory, do. But he didn't need to be. Years of protracted exposure of Lyra Malfoy had enabled him to gauge roughly how full of shit she was by her tone of voice and exactly how her head moved based on when her haughtiness was warranted - at least in her head - versus when it was all bluster. And right now he was perfectly willing to bet his entire legacy that Lyra had little if any idea on the mechanics of how to do that.
The fact that her face was now radiating enough excess heat that Fawkes might reasonably mistake it for a mating call - there was an unpleasant thought - told him how right he was.
"Why... why it's very simple, Stupid Pottah, you take your wand," she held hers up to his head, "and you just pull the memory..." nothing happened.
"Erm... Malfoy..." Harry said.
"SHUT UP! I'm trying, I've only ever seen this done twice." Lyra shouted back.
"Sorry." Harry apologized as Lyra growled and her expression pursed in concentration.
"Now, your memory..." Lyra said before another pause. Another very drawn out pause... Were... were those tears starting to well up in the corners of her eyes..?
"This one, ohohoho, yes, this one feels right." Lyra said triumphantly and exceedingly smugly as she pulled a mote of white light from his temple and plopped it into the basin.
"There, perfect. You might want to pocket your glasses, Potter." Malfoy said as she put on her headband, and Harry obliged while contemplating whether or not his early tenure at Hogwarts had seared a taste for spoiled-rotten bratty girls into his subconscious.
They both sucked in a full breath of air and plunged their heads into the foggy soup.
Hence the current problem. "This isn't the lake." Lyra Malfoy said, looking over a street, or to her it was probably something more akin to a dung heap, that was very familiar to the shocked, and currently nonverbal Harry. "Four Privet Drive?" She continued, with the sort of disgust that made Harry wonder if she had previously caught the Dursley address pleasuring itself in public.
"My family's house." Harry replied flatly.
"Oh." Lyra brightened up, before she skipped into the Dursley domicile. 'No doubt eager to watch me be miserable,' Harry thought to himself.
That was a judgment that Harry forced himself to reconsider. While watching 'An average day in the life of Harry Potter before Hogwarts,' Lyra went from smug, mostly about the "impoverished squalor" that the Dursley family allegedly lived in to shocked at the way that the family treated like a House Elf, a House Black House Elf to be specific. That prompted Harry to make a mental note to inquire with Sirius about exactly what she had meant, and to inquire with Dobby to see whether it was true or not that Lucius did not beat the House Elf as often or as hard as Vernon and Dudley did to him - as Lyra had claimed - during his servitude. Then Lyra had gone from shocked to appalled, once she realized that it was not a one-off and she had seen the cupboard under the stairs. He thought that one was public knowledge in the Wizarding World, given that was the address that all of his mail was sent to.
He tried mollifying her and getting her to settle down, but perhaps saying that this particular day had not actually been so bad, but going through what usually happened to him on Halloween was, in hindsight, wrong move, given that she responded by blowing her nose into his shirt twice and throwing a tantrum on the floor.
After about a minute of flailing her limbs, rolling around whilst crying, and screaming "Pottah!" Lyra got up, disengaged from the goings-on of the memory completely, and started moving about the house like a robot. Harry followed her, and tried to make her talk again, but she was dead to the world, completely entranced. Her attention seemingly occupied entirely by the view outside of the windows, the various rooms and furnishings of the house and, for some odd reason, a couple of old newspapers.
Once the memory had ended and the two Hogwarts students came up for air, Malfoy stared at him vacantly. Then she threw her arms around him and cried again. Apparently stroking her hair made Lyra settle down quicker - Harry noted that for the future - and once she found her voice again she sought to pester him with more questions, mostly about the Dursleys and why he never felt the need to tell her about how badly they treated him. After he explained that they had not started off at Hogwarts on the best of terms, and that, "no," he would not in fact feel anything at their funerals, given that Vernon and Petunia had both specified in their wills that he was not to be allowed within three hundred feet of the venue.
"Once the Payback War commences, those filthy, negligent muggles will be the first to go..." Or, at least, that was what Harry thought whatever Malfoy whispered into his chest had sounded like.
Wait... Payback War? Was there something he should know?
"What?" Harry asked.
Lyra looked up at him, her mascara mostly down her cheeks at this point, but her face had gone blank again like it had in Little Whinging. "I have decided that you do not need to explain yourself, or attend to me further unless you wish to, Pottah. Now, I am going to clean myself up. I suggest you do the same."
The subject appeared closed, so much for that.
"Then what about the memory bowl?" He asked, "I don't feel like leaving my past out like this."
"Ordinarily, to clean a Pensieve, whoever's memory it is has to drink it all back up in one go." Malfoy explained, while fishing in her trunk for her toiletries.
Harry sighed. Of course it was going to be the usual brand of Hogwarts oddity.
"Bottoms up."
--
Malfoy Manor - August 1st, 1995
--
Lyra checked her enchanted sports bag for all of her supplies. Two times thirty-foot rope, pre-charmed, check. Muggle duct tape, full roll, check. Lightweight carpentry mallet, pre-charmed, check. Fire axe; twenty-eight inch handle - hickory, six pound hardened steel head with four-and-three-quarters-inch blade and five-inch pick, check. Ladder, check. Invisibility cloak, check. Current map of England, locations of Malfoy Manor and Little Whinging marked, as as well as bearings for both the initial and return trip, and estimated travel time based both on what her 2001 could do quiet, and how fast it could go if she buried it in the red the whole way, check. Compass, phosphorescent markings, check. Wristwatch, freshly wound, also phosphorescent markings, check.
Then she looked at her outfit. Boots, black, four sizes too big, transfigured to add an additional two-and-a-half inches rise and genericize the soles, each weighted with a dozen extra pounds, pre-charmed with silencio, like the hammer. Socks, thick, double-layered to fill up the space in the boots. Pants, black, with tape wrapped around the ankles to keep the boots fast to her feet. Shirt, dark brown, old pillow taped to the front. Full robe, black, pointed hood that gave an extra foot of height, shoulders padded like an American footballer's. Gilt porcelain skull mask, embellished to look like a skull with its mouth sewn shut. Enchanted to obscure wearer's identity from magical scrying, and serve as dual-purpose face protection against both magic and physical attack, check. Wand & Wand holster in case things went pear-shaped, check.
Now all she needed was her Nimbus 2001, and Father's shotgun.
There was an advantage to being seen first and foremost as 'Lucius Malfoy's daughter, who I sometimes see around the manor,' by the Dark Lord and every other Death Eater besides Father, Professor Snape, and Aunt Bella while Potter was thought of as the arch-enemy.
That being that nobody really paid Lyra any mind, so if she just walked into the drawing room to ask Father to borrow the shotgun while she went flying during a meeting where he and the Dark Lord were bringing Azkaban's most recent escapees up to speed, nobody batted an eye.
"Exactly why do you need your father's shotgun, young lady?" Narcissa Malfoy asked her daughter.
"There are a few certain Muggles who offended me that I want to terrorize and kill. Now is as good a time as any." That earned Lyra smiles from everybody in room except for the woman who had asked her the question.
"And why do you need to present yourself in such ridiculous, ill-fitting clothes to do so?" Mother was still not pleased. "And why use a muggle weapon instead of Old Reliable?" Aunt Bella decided to help her sister out.
"In order, Mother, I would rather have my identity obscured such that nobody in this room can be precisely identified. I will not look like Lyra Malfoy in such ill-fit robes that someone could only tell is stuffed up close or in good lighting, and I intend to be back by sun-up. As to the muggle weapon, Aunt Bella, there are two reasons. The first is the Trace. I'm not 17 yet. I have to be choosey about magic outside of school, I know that. Purebloods and wizarding families get a lot of leniency for things like flying, but if I start throwing Unforgivables in a muggle neighborhood, the Ministry is going to start snooping through the trash, and Fudge is merely useless. If he sends the wrong underling, said underling might find something I would not like for him or her to find." The Death Eaters all nodded, it would be bad if someone like Bones or one of the Aurors who could actually justify their salary gave a murder scene a once-over.
"The second reason, Aunt Bella, is fear." Lyra said, and the smiles that everybody in the room except for Narcissa Malfoy had been wearing widened.
"Muggles don't know what Old Reliable is or what the bright green flashes mean. Muggles know what a shotgun is, what a shotgun does, and how. Which means, once they see or hear it, the only question they will be asking themselves is 'Why?' Because they will know exactly what is going to happen. I also have an axe in my bag in case I want to draw it out."
After she had gotten out of the tackle-hug from Aunt Bella, and received both the Dark Lord's and her parents' blessing to absent herself for the night, Lyra departed for the rear entrance - Father's 12-bore and half a dozen spare hulls in her bag - as conversations about what to do in reply to various tactical and strategic scenarios would have to wait for assessment until Professor Snape with actionable intelligence in hand faded into the distance.
A bit more than an hour of flying a few degrees off true East later, and Lyra Malfoy was over a particular neighborhood in Surrey. Years as a seeker gifted her with excellent high-altitude observational skills, and the ability to make snap-judgments. The park, in Potter's memory, was northwest of his address, so if she put down in... was that a covered alley between the crescent shaped road, and the road immediately south of it? What a perfect runway. It would mean a little more walking on her part, but there would be fewer muggles, not that there would be many out past midnight anyway, but it was best not to chance. Lyra put down in the alleyway. Then she unzipped her bag, dropped her broom in, and pulled out her invisibility cloak, zipped the bag back up, draped it over herself, and began her walk.
Lyra's entry plan was roundabout, but direct. The ladder would get her on top of the garage. From there, she would drop into the backyard. The back door was wooden, but its upper half was dominated by a large window. If it were feasible she'd tape up the window to keep it from completely shattering, and then apply the mallet. From there she'd move through the house and explain to those horrid Dursleys that Potter was not to be treated like an Elf... except maybe if he wanted to wait on her hand and foot... 'down girl,' Lyra reminded herself, only for her mind to answer back 'but what if he wants to..?'
Thankful for the skull mask that covered her very pink cheeks, Lyra let the mallet strike the taped-up window all across its edges. The charm prevented the strikes from making any noise, but there was something of a clatter when the glass hit the ground. Lyra reached her hand through and unlocked the door.
And just like that, a Death Eater (Prospect) had let herself into 4 Privet Drive.
Setting the glass pane to one side, Lyra reached into her bag again and traded her mallet for the shotgun. There was nobody on the lower floors, except, obviously, for Potter, his handsome Seeker's body no doubt cramped into that little cupboard barely big enough to accommodate an Elf. So Lyra made doubly certain to ascend the stairs as quietly before moving toward her first target by the dim lights of the night that seeped in through the house's windows. She noted the locked, bolted, and barred door that had not been locked, bolted, or barred in Harry's memory. A recent addition? It didn't matter, it could not possibly house anything of real importance to her.
She opened the door silently and drew a bead on the lumpen mass in the bed. It did not quite look like Crabbe's outline, nor like Goyle's it was not quite large enough for each of them, but large enough for the buck.
The consequences of firing a shotgun in a home so miniscule came immediately. As Lyra departed the room, the hall lights came on and she saw a man older and wider than Potter's memory had made him out to be with a waifish poor whose bearing suggested that she spent her whole day pretending that she'd be anything but. Professor Severus was different. Lyra knew that he came from the exact opposite of means, but he strived, he tried, he bore himself with dignity, and he spent his days being what he chose, rather than what circumstances he existed in or what had previously happened to him. It was a skill few people, and very fewer outside of the Sacred Twenty-Eight than within, by her best guess, truly possessed. That was what made Lyra their better.
The black-clad girl let the Dursleys take in the image. A Death Eater walking out of their son's room with a shotgun that had smoke rising from the left barrel. She waited until realization widened their eyes before she shouldered it and fired again. The great big pudding of a patriarch ate the whole of the blast, or at least Lyra thought he had. She heard a squawk of pain, or fear, both perhaps? She did not know which.
'Oh, well.' Lyra thought as she exchanged Father's shotgun for the axe and followed Petunia Dursley into her bedroom.
Lyra found the upjumped daughter of a chimney sweep slumped against her atrociously poster-less bed clutching a wound about the shoulder and collarbone that added some color that would not most appropriately describe fish guts to the Dursley house, and trying to get air.
"Hello, mud. You know, your house looked better in the dark." Lyra began.
"Who are you, Dumbledore promised we'd be safe from you freaks!" The half-dying woman rasped. "If you want Potter, he's in that room, the one with the locks and the bars..." The woman's blubbering turned incoherent as she rambled on, asking Lyra why she chose to kill her husband and her son.
"Did he prove too formidable for the cupboard under the stairs. You are right, in a way. I do want Pottah, and I will have him. I love him. That makes him mine. AND YOU DARE TREAT HIM LIKE MY GREAT-AUNT WALBURGA'S HOUSE-ELVES! YOU MUGGLE-BORN SWINE!"
When Lyra was done shouting and her focus came back, her axe, robe, mask, right boot, and everything else around her were red, wet and sticky. Meanwhile the upper half of what had once been Petunia Dursley was rendered down to something that resembled a very large pound of raw beef, lightly seasoned with hair, nightgown, and pulverized bone.
Lyra regarded the barred door and let her heart yearn for her noble Potter for a brief moment. Unless he was being clever, it was clear that he could sleep through anything. "Be still my beating heart." She whispered to herself, as she rounded back toward the Dursleys' nightstand, there was one last matter to attend to before the quarter-mile slog back to the alley.
Nevertheless, as she took off on her broom Lyra Malfoy let out a witch's cackle that even Morgana would have acknowledged with the slightest of nods.
--
7 Privet Drive, seconds later - August 2, 1995
--
Arabella Figg had been roused by the tremendous thunderclap that had upset all of her cats. When cognizance dispelled grogginess and she turned the light on, she realized that there was no sound of rainfall to lull her back to sleep with its soft, rhythmic tapping.
Then she checked outside, only to see no rain whatsoever. It was a bright, clear summer night. No rainfall, no wetness, not a cloud in the sky. It was the kind of night that was made for a lovers' rendezvous. The Dursleys had their lights on, and the lights in Number 6 had come on too. Then there came another thunderclap. Confused curiosity was morphing into worry. What had happened? Knowing what he did of the magical world, Arabella Figg was forced to contemplate options that no sane Muggle would. Had a Death Eater somehow subverted the barrier and struck Harry with a pair of lightning bolts?
Fearing the worst, Arabella reached for her telephone. First she'd call Dumbledore's panic number. Then, she'd call 999 and report the suspicious activity, it was only polite. She dialed as she watched the house. She may have been a lady of respectable age, but she was not in her dotage nor anywhere near it. That was when she saw the front door open, she saw the front door open, but she did not see anybody leave through it. She did, however, see that shoeprint that appeared on the Dursley stoop. And the one that appeared after it. She might not have been able to see the ones that came after that, they went through the grass, after all. But the one on the step was enough. It was red.
"Hello?" The other end of the line replied.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS DUNG!" Arabella bellowed.
--
12 Grimmauld Place, Minutes before midnight, August 2, 1995
--
"MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, YOU LITTLE SHIT! DID YOU ABANDON YOUR POST TO GET FUCKING CABBAGED AT THE LEAKY CAULDRON AGAIN?!?!" Dumbledore asked calmly, as the repeated impacts of the back of Fletcher's head against the kitchen wall that reminded Harry a little too much of the trophy room at Hogwarts.
After Lupin, Moody, and quite a number of Weasleys finally pried the Headmaster's hands from the shabby-dressed wizard's throat, he answered in the affirmative, before sinking to the ground to catch his breath.
Harry did not know until today that he had a bodyguard, nor that said bodyguard regularly flunked his duties to get piss-drunk in London. Although the second fact went quite a way in explaining the first.
Harry had not had a good day today. And now seemed as good a time as ever to mentally clock out of the Order's war council.
Last night's nightmare hadn't just been Pettigrew killing Cedric again. Malfoy had been there too. And that maniac, shotgun-wielding Death Eater had killed her. Why couldn't he ever just dream about Malfoy's Malfoys? Tonight, Harry James Potter was going to have a very long talk with himself, regarding exactly what he felt about Lyra Malfoy. And maybe a shorter talk with Sirius to both make himself feel better, and see the look on his Godfather's face.
He was awoken that morning when he was shaken awake by a pair of bobbies who had broken down the door to his bedroom. 4 Privet Drive had become a crime scene as he slept. It shouldn't have been possible. Dumbledore had brought him up to speed with his mother's blood wards. So long as he was homed with his mother's blood, Voldemort could not touch him there, neither bodily, nor magically, nor via proxies. The Death Eaters should not have been able to set foot onto 4 Privet Drive, even if, supposing, Lyra's father had, indeed, heard about it.
Which brought Harry back to the facts. The upper floor was a bloodbath, and the lower floor had been ransacked. Things from his aunt and uncle's nightstands and jewelry from his aunt's dresser had gone missing. Tables nearest the door had been turned out. A lot of money and small valuables were missing. It looked like a robbery-gone-violent.
Which was the problem. It looked like a robbery-turned-murder. It felt like a robbery to cover up a murder. The police pressed Harry on whether or not he knew anybody who wanted to hurt his aunt's family or whether they owed, or lent, someone money. Especially if that person was a little over six-one, and a medium-to-husky built male. The interest came from the heavy, bloody steps in the grass and the dirt that the killer apparently thought would wipe most of the blood off of his foot gave his approximate height and weight away by their depth and stride.
Harry did not have any time to think about what didn't add up before the awkward questions came. He had already been walked through every defiled room of the house thrice, and positively identified what had been left of three people who were nominally his kin. But after the coppers had gotten into his confidence by consulting him about how somebody could have forced the back door without forcing the gate, they abruptly switched to why his room had been locked from the outside? Why was there seemingly no evidence of his residence or occupancy in the home. It was his first time being sweated by muggle authorities and the unfortunate truth came out before Shacklebolt and Tonks arrived sporting phony hats and badges. And the not-as-brief-as-he-wished-it-was overview of Harry's personal history that he had to give convinced both of the constables that the Dursleys must have been involved in, or at least covering up, a great deal of bad business.
But when Shacklebolt and Tonks did show up, in muggle police regalia, they - with faces completely straight - fed the constables a line about a circle of kidnappers in Scotland seemingly pivoting to grave-robbery earlier that year, with the Dursleys being kin to one of the known witnesses, and that the two had apparently driven all night with hopes of questioning Mrs. Dursley or her husband today and making sure that nobody was following them.
Harry had been in the middle of asking himself exactly which dragon's arse the two Aurors had pulled that one out of, and whether or not it was related to the Hungarian Horntail from the tournament, when the Dementors arrived. Shacklebolt and Tonks fought them off, along with Lupin, Moody, and everybody else that Dumbledore had sent along to ensure that he would get to 12 Grimmauld Place with no further incident. Harry did not blame the old man. He was grateful, he thanked the Headmaster, and the entire Advance Guard quite profusely. It felt very nice, for once, having nine trained adult Witches and Wizards swarm the Dementors before they got within a hundred yards of Harry. The obviation and memory alteration process was long and exhaustive, but not sufficient to remove Harry from the muggle person of interest in connection with an ongoing investigation list, meant both that Harry would likely be contacted later to give statements to the police, and that the Order of the Phoenix, as they were called, were going to have to get clever.
Then Harry got a letter from the Minister of Magic's office. One saying that on or about 9:23 PM that day, he had used underage magic in a muggle neighborhood (furious use of the Patronus charm, apparently) and therefore, was to appear at Ministry Courtroom Number 10, ten days from now, to be formally expelled, Kissed, and sent to Azkaban.
'Don't the Malfoys own the Ministry now?' Harry's brain silently asked him.
'No, Harry, you are not going to use your relationship with Lyra 'Malfoys' as a cudgel.' Harry said back into his head. 'Lyra's Malfoys.' His heads parroted to him.
"Bed." Harry half-announced, to much agreement, before crumpling to the ground and holding his head. He had not had any time to eat during the police investigation, nor when he and the Order were bringing each other up to speed, and he was not ready to deal with this horseshit.
As his Godfather, and Lupin picked him up, and bore him upstairs, Harry used his last embers of lucidity to pray to whatever god would hear him to sic the fat-arse that did in the Dursleys on whoever sent that letter. Maybe then, he could dream of bratty blondes whose robes did nothing to hide their figure.
Anyway, Count fic roundup to cap off this latest pile of insanity.
Since all of the pictures in my prior posts seem to have died horribly, so I am linking this Youtube video and saying 8:00 to 8:36.
Also everybody else's image links are kind of fucked up too.
But, anyway, as I typed this, Malfoid's 'Tsun' turned into 'Yan' and she basically became an emanation of Yuno Gasai.
Nevertheless, I tried to keep Malfoid within the specific flavor and tone of anime girl insanity that I have given her.
And I did try to work in more British slang and logisms. I know arse, and a couple of words for drunk, but not much besides.
On that note, Lyra can call Harry 'Potter,' at year 3+ anyway, but she calls him 'Pottah' when she is either feeling: too tsun, too dere, tantruming, calling him any English equivalent of 'baka' or really anything else that compromises her calm.
Now, as to explanations.
I figured Lily's blood wards wouldn't protect against anyone who is purely motivated by love for Harry and wishes no harm upon Harry.
Number 2, in reading about how the trace works in order to plan how Lyra would subvert it, I came across a theory to explain away its inconsistencies that basically states that it tracks all underage Wizards/Witches. It tracks all unsanctioned use of magic outside of Hogwarts/magical settings or in muggle areas. Then it cross-references the two. And if there is any overlap, the nearest kid gets blamed.
So works about as well as everything else in the Wizarding Worldbuilding if it sits in your thoughts too long, and I had to share.
Anyway, I will try to reply to a few of the more talky talk posts before I post Lyra's encounter with the woman whose name means 'To take severe exception to,' or rather, the aftermath of it, because I think I can make that funnier.
Okay, that is enough editing for a meme-post done.
But be honest with me guys, should I have titled this one: Harry Potter and the Clearly Not Okay -dere
The Payback War Begins, or; Grizzly Murders in the House of Dursley
February 1995 - The Hogwarts grounds, a few hours after the second Triwizard Task
"Potter? What exactly am I looking at." Lyra Malfoy asked him.
"Guuurr..." Harry stared at Lyra.
When the Malfoy heiress had regained consciousness after the events of the tournament, and air was in her lungs again, she immediately put it to use to shriek herself blue in the face whilst bodily dragging him off the pitch. From what Harry heard or, thought he had heard, he would be awarded second place, for arriving first, and staying behind until the others were rescued.
Which had not gone over particularly well with his date.
Lyra Malfoy was displeased, more than usual, at the fact that he did not grab her as soon as he could, pull her to dry land, and give her another foot rub like the one she had badgered him into giving her after the ball itself when she claimed that dancing with an ox made her feet hurt to much and he owed her. He had acceded then after she proved a joke that he told Ron and Hermione in their second year ended up being right. Being that if Lyra wanted something - it had been to brag or gloat, as they had told it but demanding to be waited on hand and foot worked just as well - then she was perfectly willing to follow you into the loo over it without an ounce of shame. At least he was able to get through his business before she decided to climb over the stall door.
But today, Lyra had frog-marched him, berating him all the while, down to the Slytherin dungeons, and into the bedrooms where she threw him onto a bed that was larger and more luxurious than the other two and pulled a silvered bowl, about eight inches across, and six deep, up from the trunk at its foot. "Do you know what a Pensieve is, Potter?"
"Wipe that stupid grin off your face and answer the question, Stupid Pottah!" The still somewhat soaked woman said, depositing herself on his left thigh and leaning in close.
Harry smiled, whenever Lyra lost control of herself she started pronouncing his name as if she were still eleven, with that thunderous pop of the 'P' and the snobbiest prelude to a sneeze, or something that sounded like it, that he could imagine in place of the '-er.' He didn't dare correct her. The Yule Ball had seen her become... something in the same county as bearable. A and for a woman as easy on the eyes as Malfoy had become, the eyes, the face, the long blonde hair and the curves that made him desire so badly to put up with her.
"No, I don't know what a Pensieve is exactly. Might you enlighten me, Miss Malfoy?" Harry made sure to use the moody young witch's favorite word at the end.
"Hmph," her cheeks puffed up as she smiled and went smug, "Well, Potter, a Pensieve is a silvered basin like this one here that lets you view copies of your memories in the third person. So we're going to go step by step through the last day so you can explain to me why exactly you felt the need to deviate from getting me out of the water."
Harry made a face that did not look too unlike one he would have made had he swallowed a lemon. But the way that Lyra giggled when she saw his grimace did register. There was just one problem.
"How, am I supposed to do that?" He asked.
Lyra's face went red like a hunk of metal drawn from the fire at a smithy, and the quivering of her expression gave Harry the distinct impression that it would be just about as hot to the touch.
Then she started cackling.
"Isn't it obvious, Stupid Pottah? Take your memory out with your wand and drop it in the basin. Then when the runes turn it into a liquid, you stick your head in."
Harry Potter was not a mind reader. He knew that the mental arts existed and what they could, in theory, do. But he didn't need to be. Years of protracted exposure of Lyra Malfoy had enabled him to gauge roughly how full of shit she was by her tone of voice and exactly how her head moved based on when her haughtiness was warranted - at least in her head - versus when it was all bluster. And right now he was perfectly willing to bet his entire legacy that Lyra had little if any idea on the mechanics of how to do that.
The fact that her face was now radiating enough excess heat that Fawkes might reasonably mistake it for a mating call - there was an unpleasant thought - told him how right he was.
"Why... why it's very simple, Stupid Pottah, you take your wand," she held hers up to his head, "and you just pull the memory..." nothing happened.
"Erm... Malfoy..." Harry said.
"SHUT UP! I'm trying, I've only ever seen this done twice." Lyra shouted back.
"Sorry." Harry apologized as Lyra growled and her expression pursed in concentration.
"Now, your memory..." Lyra said before another pause. Another very drawn out pause... Were... were those tears starting to well up in the corners of her eyes..?
"This one, ohohoho, yes, this one feels right." Lyra said triumphantly and exceedingly smugly as she pulled a mote of white light from his temple and plopped it into the basin.
"There, perfect. You might want to pocket your glasses, Potter." Malfoy said as she put on her headband, and Harry obliged while contemplating whether or not his early tenure at Hogwarts had seared a taste for spoiled-rotten bratty girls into his subconscious.
They both sucked in a full breath of air and plunged their heads into the foggy soup.
Hence the current problem. "This isn't the lake." Lyra Malfoy said, looking over a street, or to her it was probably something more akin to a dung heap, that was very familiar to the shocked, and currently nonverbal Harry. "Four Privet Drive?" She continued, with the sort of disgust that made Harry wonder if she had previously caught the Dursley address pleasuring itself in public.
"My family's house." Harry replied flatly.
"Oh." Lyra brightened up, before she skipped into the Dursley domicile. 'No doubt eager to watch me be miserable,' Harry thought to himself.
That was a judgment that Harry forced himself to reconsider. While watching 'An average day in the life of Harry Potter before Hogwarts,' Lyra went from smug, mostly about the "impoverished squalor" that the Dursley family allegedly lived in to shocked at the way that the family treated like a House Elf, a House Black House Elf to be specific. That prompted Harry to make a mental note to inquire with Sirius about exactly what she had meant, and to inquire with Dobby to see whether it was true or not that Lucius did not beat the House Elf as often or as hard as Vernon and Dudley did to him - as Lyra had claimed - during his servitude. Then Lyra had gone from shocked to appalled, once she realized that it was not a one-off and she had seen the cupboard under the stairs. He thought that one was public knowledge in the Wizarding World, given that was the address that all of his mail was sent to.
He tried mollifying her and getting her to settle down, but perhaps saying that this particular day had not actually been so bad, but going through what usually happened to him on Halloween was, in hindsight, wrong move, given that she responded by blowing her nose into his shirt twice and throwing a tantrum on the floor.
After about a minute of flailing her limbs, rolling around whilst crying, and screaming "Pottah!" Lyra got up, disengaged from the goings-on of the memory completely, and started moving about the house like a robot. Harry followed her, and tried to make her talk again, but she was dead to the world, completely entranced. Her attention seemingly occupied entirely by the view outside of the windows, the various rooms and furnishings of the house and, for some odd reason, a couple of old newspapers.
Once the memory had ended and the two Hogwarts students came up for air, Malfoy stared at him vacantly. Then she threw her arms around him and cried again. Apparently stroking her hair made Lyra settle down quicker - Harry noted that for the future - and once she found her voice again she sought to pester him with more questions, mostly about the Dursleys and why he never felt the need to tell her about how badly they treated him. After he explained that they had not started off at Hogwarts on the best of terms, and that, "no," he would not in fact feel anything at their funerals, given that Vernon and Petunia had both specified in their wills that he was not to be allowed within three hundred feet of the venue.
"Once the Payback War commences, those filthy, negligent muggles will be the first to go..." Or, at least, that was what Harry thought whatever Malfoy whispered into his chest had sounded like.
Wait... Payback War? Was there something he should know?
"What?" Harry asked.
Lyra looked up at him, her mascara mostly down her cheeks at this point, but her face had gone blank again like it had in Little Whinging. "I have decided that you do not need to explain yourself, or attend to me further unless you wish to, Pottah. Now, I am going to clean myself up. I suggest you do the same."
The subject appeared closed, so much for that.
"Then what about the memory bowl?" He asked, "I don't feel like leaving my past out like this."
"Ordinarily, to clean a Pensieve, whoever's memory it is has to drink it all back up in one go." Malfoy explained, while fishing in her trunk for her toiletries.
Harry sighed. Of course it was going to be the usual brand of Hogwarts oddity.
"Bottoms up."
--
Malfoy Manor - August 1st, 1995
--
Lyra checked her enchanted sports bag for all of her supplies. Two times thirty-foot rope, pre-charmed, check. Muggle duct tape, full roll, check. Lightweight carpentry mallet, pre-charmed, check. Fire axe; twenty-eight inch handle - hickory, six pound hardened steel head with four-and-three-quarters-inch blade and five-inch pick, check. Ladder, check. Invisibility cloak, check. Current map of England, locations of Malfoy Manor and Little Whinging marked, as as well as bearings for both the initial and return trip, and estimated travel time based both on what her 2001 could do quiet, and how fast it could go if she buried it in the red the whole way, check. Compass, phosphorescent markings, check. Wristwatch, freshly wound, also phosphorescent markings, check.
Then she looked at her outfit. Boots, black, four sizes too big, transfigured to add an additional two-and-a-half inches rise and genericize the soles, each weighted with a dozen extra pounds, pre-charmed with silencio, like the hammer. Socks, thick, double-layered to fill up the space in the boots. Pants, black, with tape wrapped around the ankles to keep the boots fast to her feet. Shirt, dark brown, old pillow taped to the front. Full robe, black, pointed hood that gave an extra foot of height, shoulders padded like an American footballer's. Gilt porcelain skull mask, embellished to look like a skull with its mouth sewn shut. Enchanted to obscure wearer's identity from magical scrying, and serve as dual-purpose face protection against both magic and physical attack, check. Wand & Wand holster in case things went pear-shaped, check.
Now all she needed was her Nimbus 2001, and Father's shotgun.
There was an advantage to being seen first and foremost as 'Lucius Malfoy's daughter, who I sometimes see around the manor,' by the Dark Lord and every other Death Eater besides Father, Professor Snape, and Aunt Bella while Potter was thought of as the arch-enemy.
That being that nobody really paid Lyra any mind, so if she just walked into the drawing room to ask Father to borrow the shotgun while she went flying during a meeting where he and the Dark Lord were bringing Azkaban's most recent escapees up to speed, nobody batted an eye.
"Exactly why do you need your father's shotgun, young lady?" Narcissa Malfoy asked her daughter.
"There are a few certain Muggles who offended me that I want to terrorize and kill. Now is as good a time as any." That earned Lyra smiles from everybody in room except for the woman who had asked her the question.
"And why do you need to present yourself in such ridiculous, ill-fitting clothes to do so?" Mother was still not pleased. "And why use a muggle weapon instead of Old Reliable?" Aunt Bella decided to help her sister out.
"In order, Mother, I would rather have my identity obscured such that nobody in this room can be precisely identified. I will not look like Lyra Malfoy in such ill-fit robes that someone could only tell is stuffed up close or in good lighting, and I intend to be back by sun-up. As to the muggle weapon, Aunt Bella, there are two reasons. The first is the Trace. I'm not 17 yet. I have to be choosey about magic outside of school, I know that. Purebloods and wizarding families get a lot of leniency for things like flying, but if I start throwing Unforgivables in a muggle neighborhood, the Ministry is going to start snooping through the trash, and Fudge is merely useless. If he sends the wrong underling, said underling might find something I would not like for him or her to find." The Death Eaters all nodded, it would be bad if someone like Bones or one of the Aurors who could actually justify their salary gave a murder scene a once-over.
"The second reason, Aunt Bella, is fear." Lyra said, and the smiles that everybody in the room except for Narcissa Malfoy had been wearing widened.
"Muggles don't know what Old Reliable is or what the bright green flashes mean. Muggles know what a shotgun is, what a shotgun does, and how. Which means, once they see or hear it, the only question they will be asking themselves is 'Why?' Because they will know exactly what is going to happen. I also have an axe in my bag in case I want to draw it out."
After she had gotten out of the tackle-hug from Aunt Bella, and received both the Dark Lord's and her parents' blessing to absent herself for the night, Lyra departed for the rear entrance - Father's 12-bore and half a dozen spare hulls in her bag - as conversations about what to do in reply to various tactical and strategic scenarios would have to wait for assessment until Professor Snape with actionable intelligence in hand faded into the distance.
A bit more than an hour of flying a few degrees off true East later, and Lyra Malfoy was over a particular neighborhood in Surrey. Years as a seeker gifted her with excellent high-altitude observational skills, and the ability to make snap-judgments. The park, in Potter's memory, was northwest of his address, so if she put down in... was that a covered alley between the crescent shaped road, and the road immediately south of it? What a perfect runway. It would mean a little more walking on her part, but there would be fewer muggles, not that there would be many out past midnight anyway, but it was best not to chance. Lyra put down in the alleyway. Then she unzipped her bag, dropped her broom in, and pulled out her invisibility cloak, zipped the bag back up, draped it over herself, and began her walk.
Lyra's entry plan was roundabout, but direct. The ladder would get her on top of the garage. From there, she would drop into the backyard. The back door was wooden, but its upper half was dominated by a large window. If it were feasible she'd tape up the window to keep it from completely shattering, and then apply the mallet. From there she'd move through the house and explain to those horrid Dursleys that Potter was not to be treated like an Elf... except maybe if he wanted to wait on her hand and foot... 'down girl,' Lyra reminded herself, only for her mind to answer back 'but what if he wants to..?'
Thankful for the skull mask that covered her very pink cheeks, Lyra let the mallet strike the taped-up window all across its edges. The charm prevented the strikes from making any noise, but there was something of a clatter when the glass hit the ground. Lyra reached her hand through and unlocked the door.
And just like that, a Death Eater (Prospect) had let herself into 4 Privet Drive.
Setting the glass pane to one side, Lyra reached into her bag again and traded her mallet for the shotgun. There was nobody on the lower floors, except, obviously, for Potter, his handsome Seeker's body no doubt cramped into that little cupboard barely big enough to accommodate an Elf. So Lyra made doubly certain to ascend the stairs as quietly before moving toward her first target by the dim lights of the night that seeped in through the house's windows. She noted the locked, bolted, and barred door that had not been locked, bolted, or barred in Harry's memory. A recent addition? It didn't matter, it could not possibly house anything of real importance to her.
She opened the door silently and drew a bead on the lumpen mass in the bed. It did not quite look like Crabbe's outline, nor like Goyle's it was not quite large enough for each of them, but large enough for the buck.
The consequences of firing a shotgun in a home so miniscule came immediately. As Lyra departed the room, the hall lights came on and she saw a man older and wider than Potter's memory had made him out to be with a waifish poor whose bearing suggested that she spent her whole day pretending that she'd be anything but. Professor Severus was different. Lyra knew that he came from the exact opposite of means, but he strived, he tried, he bore himself with dignity, and he spent his days being what he chose, rather than what circumstances he existed in or what had previously happened to him. It was a skill few people, and very fewer outside of the Sacred Twenty-Eight than within, by her best guess, truly possessed. That was what made Lyra their better.
The black-clad girl let the Dursleys take in the image. A Death Eater walking out of their son's room with a shotgun that had smoke rising from the left barrel. She waited until realization widened their eyes before she shouldered it and fired again. The great big pudding of a patriarch ate the whole of the blast, or at least Lyra thought he had. She heard a squawk of pain, or fear, both perhaps? She did not know which.
'Oh, well.' Lyra thought as she exchanged Father's shotgun for the axe and followed Petunia Dursley into her bedroom.
Lyra found the upjumped daughter of a chimney sweep slumped against her atrociously poster-less bed clutching a wound about the shoulder and collarbone that added some color that would not most appropriately describe fish guts to the Dursley house, and trying to get air.
"Hello, mud. You know, your house looked better in the dark." Lyra began.
"Who are you, Dumbledore promised we'd be safe from you freaks!" The half-dying woman rasped. "If you want Potter, he's in that room, the one with the locks and the bars..." The woman's blubbering turned incoherent as she rambled on, asking Lyra why she chose to kill her husband and her son.
"Did he prove too formidable for the cupboard under the stairs. You are right, in a way. I do want Pottah, and I will have him. I love him. That makes him mine. AND YOU DARE TREAT HIM LIKE MY GREAT-AUNT WALBURGA'S HOUSE-ELVES! YOU MUGGLE-BORN SWINE!"
When Lyra was done shouting and her focus came back, her axe, robe, mask, right boot, and everything else around her were red, wet and sticky. Meanwhile the upper half of what had once been Petunia Dursley was rendered down to something that resembled a very large pound of raw beef, lightly seasoned with hair, nightgown, and pulverized bone.
Lyra regarded the barred door and let her heart yearn for her noble Potter for a brief moment. Unless he was being clever, it was clear that he could sleep through anything. "Be still my beating heart." She whispered to herself, as she rounded back toward the Dursleys' nightstand, there was one last matter to attend to before the quarter-mile slog back to the alley.
Nevertheless, as she took off on her broom Lyra Malfoy let out a witch's cackle that even Morgana would have acknowledged with the slightest of nods.
--
7 Privet Drive, seconds later - August 2, 1995
--
Arabella Figg had been roused by the tremendous thunderclap that had upset all of her cats. When cognizance dispelled grogginess and she turned the light on, she realized that there was no sound of rainfall to lull her back to sleep with its soft, rhythmic tapping.
Then she checked outside, only to see no rain whatsoever. It was a bright, clear summer night. No rainfall, no wetness, not a cloud in the sky. It was the kind of night that was made for a lovers' rendezvous. The Dursleys had their lights on, and the lights in Number 6 had come on too. Then there came another thunderclap. Confused curiosity was morphing into worry. What had happened? Knowing what he did of the magical world, Arabella Figg was forced to contemplate options that no sane Muggle would. Had a Death Eater somehow subverted the barrier and struck Harry with a pair of lightning bolts?
Fearing the worst, Arabella reached for her telephone. First she'd call Dumbledore's panic number. Then, she'd call 999 and report the suspicious activity, it was only polite. She dialed as she watched the house. She may have been a lady of respectable age, but she was not in her dotage nor anywhere near it. That was when she saw the front door open, she saw the front door open, but she did not see anybody leave through it. She did, however, see that shoeprint that appeared on the Dursley stoop. And the one that appeared after it. She might not have been able to see the ones that came after that, they went through the grass, after all. But the one on the step was enough. It was red.
"Hello?" The other end of the line replied.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS DUNG!" Arabella bellowed.
--
12 Grimmauld Place, Minutes before midnight, August 2, 1995
--
"MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, YOU LITTLE SHIT! DID YOU ABANDON YOUR POST TO GET FUCKING CABBAGED AT THE LEAKY CAULDRON AGAIN?!?!" Dumbledore asked calmly, as the repeated impacts of the back of Fletcher's head against the kitchen wall that reminded Harry a little too much of the trophy room at Hogwarts.
After Lupin, Moody, and quite a number of Weasleys finally pried the Headmaster's hands from the shabby-dressed wizard's throat, he answered in the affirmative, before sinking to the ground to catch his breath.
Harry did not know until today that he had a bodyguard, nor that said bodyguard regularly flunked his duties to get piss-drunk in London. Although the second fact went quite a way in explaining the first.
Harry had not had a good day today. And now seemed as good a time as ever to mentally clock out of the Order's war council.
Last night's nightmare hadn't just been Pettigrew killing Cedric again. Malfoy had been there too. And that maniac, shotgun-wielding Death Eater had killed her. Why couldn't he ever just dream about Malfoy's Malfoys? Tonight, Harry James Potter was going to have a very long talk with himself, regarding exactly what he felt about Lyra Malfoy. And maybe a shorter talk with Sirius to both make himself feel better, and see the look on his Godfather's face.
He was awoken that morning when he was shaken awake by a pair of bobbies who had broken down the door to his bedroom. 4 Privet Drive had become a crime scene as he slept. It shouldn't have been possible. Dumbledore had brought him up to speed with his mother's blood wards. So long as he was homed with his mother's blood, Voldemort could not touch him there, neither bodily, nor magically, nor via proxies. The Death Eaters should not have been able to set foot onto 4 Privet Drive, even if, supposing, Lyra's father had, indeed, heard about it.
Which brought Harry back to the facts. The upper floor was a bloodbath, and the lower floor had been ransacked. Things from his aunt and uncle's nightstands and jewelry from his aunt's dresser had gone missing. Tables nearest the door had been turned out. A lot of money and small valuables were missing. It looked like a robbery-gone-violent.
Which was the problem. It looked like a robbery-turned-murder. It felt like a robbery to cover up a murder. The police pressed Harry on whether or not he knew anybody who wanted to hurt his aunt's family or whether they owed, or lent, someone money. Especially if that person was a little over six-one, and a medium-to-husky built male. The interest came from the heavy, bloody steps in the grass and the dirt that the killer apparently thought would wipe most of the blood off of his foot gave his approximate height and weight away by their depth and stride.
Harry did not have any time to think about what didn't add up before the awkward questions came. He had already been walked through every defiled room of the house thrice, and positively identified what had been left of three people who were nominally his kin. But after the coppers had gotten into his confidence by consulting him about how somebody could have forced the back door without forcing the gate, they abruptly switched to why his room had been locked from the outside? Why was there seemingly no evidence of his residence or occupancy in the home. It was his first time being sweated by muggle authorities and the unfortunate truth came out before Shacklebolt and Tonks arrived sporting phony hats and badges. And the not-as-brief-as-he-wished-it-was overview of Harry's personal history that he had to give convinced both of the constables that the Dursleys must have been involved in, or at least covering up, a great deal of bad business.
But when Shacklebolt and Tonks did show up, in muggle police regalia, they - with faces completely straight - fed the constables a line about a circle of kidnappers in Scotland seemingly pivoting to grave-robbery earlier that year, with the Dursleys being kin to one of the known witnesses, and that the two had apparently driven all night with hopes of questioning Mrs. Dursley or her husband today and making sure that nobody was following them.
Harry had been in the middle of asking himself exactly which dragon's arse the two Aurors had pulled that one out of, and whether or not it was related to the Hungarian Horntail from the tournament, when the Dementors arrived. Shacklebolt and Tonks fought them off, along with Lupin, Moody, and everybody else that Dumbledore had sent along to ensure that he would get to 12 Grimmauld Place with no further incident. Harry did not blame the old man. He was grateful, he thanked the Headmaster, and the entire Advance Guard quite profusely. It felt very nice, for once, having nine trained adult Witches and Wizards swarm the Dementors before they got within a hundred yards of Harry. The obviation and memory alteration process was long and exhaustive, but not sufficient to remove Harry from the muggle person of interest in connection with an ongoing investigation list, meant both that Harry would likely be contacted later to give statements to the police, and that the Order of the Phoenix, as they were called, were going to have to get clever.
Then Harry got a letter from the Minister of Magic's office. One saying that on or about 9:23 PM that day, he had used underage magic in a muggle neighborhood (furious use of the Patronus charm, apparently) and therefore, was to appear at Ministry Courtroom Number 10, ten days from now, to be formally expelled, Kissed, and sent to Azkaban.
'Don't the Malfoys own the Ministry now?' Harry's brain silently asked him.
'No, Harry, you are not going to use your relationship with Lyra 'Malfoys' as a cudgel.' Harry said back into his head. 'Lyra's Malfoys.' His heads parroted to him.
"Bed." Harry half-announced, to much agreement, before crumpling to the ground and holding his head. He had not had any time to eat during the police investigation, nor when he and the Order were bringing each other up to speed, and he was not ready to deal with this horseshit.
As his Godfather, and Lupin picked him up, and bore him upstairs, Harry used his last embers of lucidity to pray to whatever god would hear him to sic the fat-arse that did in the Dursleys on whoever sent that letter. Maybe then, he could dream of bratty blondes whose robes did nothing to hide their figure.
Anyway, Count fic roundup to cap off this latest pile of insanity.
Since all of the pictures in my prior posts seem to have died horribly, so I am linking this Youtube video and saying 8:00 to 8:36.
Also everybody else's image links are kind of fucked up too.
But, anyway, as I typed this, Malfoid's 'Tsun' turned into 'Yan' and she basically became an emanation of Yuno Gasai.
Nevertheless, I tried to keep Malfoid within the specific flavor and tone of anime girl insanity that I have given her.
And I did try to work in more British slang and logisms. I know arse, and a couple of words for drunk, but not much besides.
On that note, Lyra can call Harry 'Potter,' at year 3+ anyway, but she calls him 'Pottah' when she is either feeling: too tsun, too dere, tantruming, calling him any English equivalent of 'baka' or really anything else that compromises her calm.
Now, as to explanations.
I figured Lily's blood wards wouldn't protect against anyone who is purely motivated by love for Harry and wishes no harm upon Harry.
Number 2, in reading about how the trace works in order to plan how Lyra would subvert it, I came across a theory to explain away its inconsistencies that basically states that it tracks all underage Wizards/Witches. It tracks all unsanctioned use of magic outside of Hogwarts/magical settings or in muggle areas. Then it cross-references the two. And if there is any overlap, the nearest kid gets blamed.
So works about as well as everything else in the Wizarding Worldbuilding if it sits in your thoughts too long, and I had to share.
Anyway, I will try to reply to a few of the more talky talk posts before I post Lyra's encounter with the woman whose name means 'To take severe exception to,' or rather, the aftermath of it, because I think I can make that funnier.
Okay, that is enough editing for a meme-post done.
But be honest with me guys, should I have titled this one: Harry Potter and the Clearly Not Okay -dere
Balorak146
They/Them of the Bullshit-Seeing Eye
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It truly is a glorious thing when a yandere who tries so very hard to be some semblance of 'normal' is finally let off the leash for the correct reasons.
Flirt 5
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AndrewJTalon
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The day of the Hogsmeade visit finally came. The main courtyard was already filling when Harry reached it. Carriages stood in a loose line along the far edge, the invisible creatures hitched up to them pawing at the ground. The morning was bright and cold enough that most people had kept their cloaks on. Harry had not. Mrs. Weasley's green jumper sat neatly over a collared shirt and the least-battered pair of trousers he owned. He had combed his hair. It had resisted, as it always did, and now stuck up in three places he had already given up on fixing.
Ron and Hermione stood with him near the front of the queue. Ron had his hands in his pockets and was watching the crowd with the wary interest of someone expecting disaster. Hermione had a small bag over one shoulder and the expression of a girl who had already decided the day would be long.
"You know," Ron said, "you could just run off under the cloak. Hide in the Forbidden Forest."
"What, living off Acromantula?"
"Would serve the bastards right."
"Ron. Language," Hermione admonished. Ron scowled.
"They tried to eat us, Hermione." He paused. "What do you think they taste like, anyway?"
Harry considered it. "Huh. Maybe giant crabs?"
"Never had crab."
"I got leftover boiled crab once. Actually pretty good."
"Okay, so you kill some Acromantula and boil them." Ron nodded as if this were reasonable. "I mean, you just have to wait three more years until Malfoy graduates. Then? Open your own Acromantula restaurant."
Hermione made a sound of pure exasperation. "You are both being ridiculous. I'm sure this date will go fine."
"I know it'll go fine," Harry said. He sounded more confident than he felt, which was the point. "Sirius trained me on it."
"He did tell you how to start this," Ron said, "which is why we're in this mess—"
"Ah, but this time he accounted for it. Now I know how to handle things properly."
Hermione's expression was deadpan. "Do you?"
"Sure. I've barely interacted with her all week. Just done some little touches here and there. She'll be super frustrated with me. And the date will be just frustrating enough she'll get sick of me."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache had already begun behind her eyes. Ron looked less certain.
"Um. You sure about that, Harry?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer and stopped.
Lyra Malfoy had appeared at the edge of the courtyard. She was difficult to miss. The red jumper was a clean, deliberate choice against the green of her house, worn over a short black skirt that left a long stretch of stocking-clad leg visible. A small, old-fashioned purse hung at her side, matched to the outfit rather than to any modern Muggle shape. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that moved when she walked and Harry's eyes locked onto every bounce of her platinum locks. She looked, Harry thought distantly amidst the heat that had flooded his mind, like she had put in a lot of effort into her appearance.
"There she is, Harry," Hermione said. Silence. She frowned in concern, and then lightly prodded his arm. "Harry?"
He was staring. Lyra's gaze found his eyes across the courtyard. Color rose in her face, quick and visible. She started toward them. The noise of the other students seemed to thin. Harry's carefully prepared confidence developed a sudden and inconvenient crack as she walked towards him, every movement of her hair catching the autumn sunlight.
She stopped in front of him, chin lifted, expression caught between irritation and something Harry couldn't quite identify. She looked over Hermione and Ron briefly. Both stared at her in mild disbelief. She locked her eyes back on Harry.
"Well, Potter. I'm here. So…?"
"…So…?" Harry managed, buying time.
Her eyes narrowed. "So?"
Remember, Harry thought. Remember Sirius's advice.
He let a cool, confident smile settle onto his face. It felt steadier than it had any right to. "Hey. You're looking nice."
"Just nice?"
"Hm?"
"Y-you were saying…" She looked aside, then back, irritated and shy at once. "I was… b-beautiful before."
"I said you were always beautiful."
She turned bright red. The color climbed past her collar and into her ears. Harry stepped forward and reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool. She tensed when he closed his own around them, but she did not pull away.
"You—wh-why are you—?"
"You hold hands on a date."
"B-but… I…"
"So we don't get separated."
A cacophony of emotions seemed to through her eyes, before she managed a stiff, "Y-yes. Well." She looked aside. "Don't hold my hand too tightly."
"Of course."
He guided her toward the carriages. Over his shoulder he caught Ron's eye and offered a grin and a wink he did not entirely feel. Ron watched them go, ears red, expression caught between admiration and deep foreboding. Hermione simply planted her face in both hands and stayed that way until they entered the carriage.
---
If Harry had known Legilimency, he might have read the following thoughts from the red-faced young woman as they sat together in the carriage, her hand in his:
AKKSKLLHSKJKBGNKA MY HAND HE'S HOLDING MY HAND THAT'S SO DARING I CAN FEEL HIS HEARTBEAT OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!
She kept her eyes on the opposite seat and attempted to restore order to her thoughts.
Keep control. Keep calm. You are a Malfoy. The future head of the House of Malfoy. Focus!
Harry shifted his grip, settling their fingers more securely together. She felt the change at once. Her eyes flicked down, then up to his face.
"Better grip," he said, easy, as if the adjustment were a practical matter of not losing her in a crowd.
"Oh," she managed. Heat climbed her throat.
Interlacing fingers? On the first date?! Don't we need to be engaged for that sort of thing?!
The carriage steps creaked under new weight. Crabbe and Goyle ducked through the door, filling the opposite bench with broad shoulders and identical, unfriendly stares directed at Harry.
"Hey, Lyra," Crabbe said.
"Lyra," Goyle added. He nodded once, then returned to glaring.
"Lads," Harry answered, unbothered. Lyra felt a sharp, inconvenient flare of admiration and immediately resented it.
Oh, he's so cool. So cool. But I thought I—
"I gave you two the day off," she said. The words came out cold and precise.
Goyle shrugged. "Well, we're all going to the same place, right?"
Crabbe nodded. "And your father told us to—"
Goyle's elbow caught him hard in the ribs. Crabbe wheezed.
"I—I mean your father told us nothing. Especially not about boys—"
"Well, I'm telling you," Lyra said, drawing her wand, "get out."
They hesitated. She did not lower the wand. After a moment of silent calculation they rose, edged past her knees, and exited. The door shut behind them. Lyra exhaled, short and controlled, and returned the wand to her sleeve. Her pulse had not yet settled.
"I apologize for that," she said, prim again. "Sometimes you must make things clear to your minions so they obey your will."
Harry nodded, slow, and smiled.
"You're gorgeous when you take charge like that."
The thought that rose in answer was not composed, and it was not quiet.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
Ron and Hermione stood with him near the front of the queue. Ron had his hands in his pockets and was watching the crowd with the wary interest of someone expecting disaster. Hermione had a small bag over one shoulder and the expression of a girl who had already decided the day would be long.
"You know," Ron said, "you could just run off under the cloak. Hide in the Forbidden Forest."
"What, living off Acromantula?"
"Would serve the bastards right."
"Ron. Language," Hermione admonished. Ron scowled.
"They tried to eat us, Hermione." He paused. "What do you think they taste like, anyway?"
Harry considered it. "Huh. Maybe giant crabs?"
"Never had crab."
"I got leftover boiled crab once. Actually pretty good."
"Okay, so you kill some Acromantula and boil them." Ron nodded as if this were reasonable. "I mean, you just have to wait three more years until Malfoy graduates. Then? Open your own Acromantula restaurant."
Hermione made a sound of pure exasperation. "You are both being ridiculous. I'm sure this date will go fine."
"I know it'll go fine," Harry said. He sounded more confident than he felt, which was the point. "Sirius trained me on it."
"He did tell you how to start this," Ron said, "which is why we're in this mess—"
"Ah, but this time he accounted for it. Now I know how to handle things properly."
Hermione's expression was deadpan. "Do you?"
"Sure. I've barely interacted with her all week. Just done some little touches here and there. She'll be super frustrated with me. And the date will be just frustrating enough she'll get sick of me."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache had already begun behind her eyes. Ron looked less certain.
"Um. You sure about that, Harry?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer and stopped.
Lyra Malfoy had appeared at the edge of the courtyard. She was difficult to miss. The red jumper was a clean, deliberate choice against the green of her house, worn over a short black skirt that left a long stretch of stocking-clad leg visible. A small, old-fashioned purse hung at her side, matched to the outfit rather than to any modern Muggle shape. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that moved when she walked and Harry's eyes locked onto every bounce of her platinum locks. She looked, Harry thought distantly amidst the heat that had flooded his mind, like she had put in a lot of effort into her appearance.
"There she is, Harry," Hermione said. Silence. She frowned in concern, and then lightly prodded his arm. "Harry?"
He was staring. Lyra's gaze found his eyes across the courtyard. Color rose in her face, quick and visible. She started toward them. The noise of the other students seemed to thin. Harry's carefully prepared confidence developed a sudden and inconvenient crack as she walked towards him, every movement of her hair catching the autumn sunlight.
She stopped in front of him, chin lifted, expression caught between irritation and something Harry couldn't quite identify. She looked over Hermione and Ron briefly. Both stared at her in mild disbelief. She locked her eyes back on Harry.
"Well, Potter. I'm here. So…?"
"…So…?" Harry managed, buying time.
Her eyes narrowed. "So?"
Remember, Harry thought. Remember Sirius's advice.
He let a cool, confident smile settle onto his face. It felt steadier than it had any right to. "Hey. You're looking nice."
"Just nice?"
"Hm?"
"Y-you were saying…" She looked aside, then back, irritated and shy at once. "I was… b-beautiful before."
"I said you were always beautiful."
She turned bright red. The color climbed past her collar and into her ears. Harry stepped forward and reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool. She tensed when he closed his own around them, but she did not pull away.
"You—wh-why are you—?"
"You hold hands on a date."
"B-but… I…"
"So we don't get separated."
A cacophony of emotions seemed to through her eyes, before she managed a stiff, "Y-yes. Well." She looked aside. "Don't hold my hand too tightly."
"Of course."
He guided her toward the carriages. Over his shoulder he caught Ron's eye and offered a grin and a wink he did not entirely feel. Ron watched them go, ears red, expression caught between admiration and deep foreboding. Hermione simply planted her face in both hands and stayed that way until they entered the carriage.
---
If Harry had known Legilimency, he might have read the following thoughts from the red-faced young woman as they sat together in the carriage, her hand in his:
AKKSKLLHSKJKBGNKA MY HAND HE'S HOLDING MY HAND THAT'S SO DARING I CAN FEEL HIS HEARTBEAT OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!
She kept her eyes on the opposite seat and attempted to restore order to her thoughts.
Keep control. Keep calm. You are a Malfoy. The future head of the House of Malfoy. Focus!
Harry shifted his grip, settling their fingers more securely together. She felt the change at once. Her eyes flicked down, then up to his face.
"Better grip," he said, easy, as if the adjustment were a practical matter of not losing her in a crowd.
"Oh," she managed. Heat climbed her throat.
Interlacing fingers? On the first date?! Don't we need to be engaged for that sort of thing?!
The carriage steps creaked under new weight. Crabbe and Goyle ducked through the door, filling the opposite bench with broad shoulders and identical, unfriendly stares directed at Harry.
"Hey, Lyra," Crabbe said.
"Lyra," Goyle added. He nodded once, then returned to glaring.
"Lads," Harry answered, unbothered. Lyra felt a sharp, inconvenient flare of admiration and immediately resented it.
Oh, he's so cool. So cool. But I thought I—
"I gave you two the day off," she said. The words came out cold and precise.
Goyle shrugged. "Well, we're all going to the same place, right?"
Crabbe nodded. "And your father told us to—"
Goyle's elbow caught him hard in the ribs. Crabbe wheezed.
"I—I mean your father told us nothing. Especially not about boys—"
"Well, I'm telling you," Lyra said, drawing her wand, "get out."
They hesitated. She did not lower the wand. After a moment of silent calculation they rose, edged past her knees, and exited. The door shut behind them. Lyra exhaled, short and controlled, and returned the wand to her sleeve. Her pulse had not yet settled.
"I apologize for that," she said, prim again. "Sometimes you must make things clear to your minions so they obey your will."
Harry nodded, slow, and smiled.
"You're gorgeous when you take charge like that."
The thought that rose in answer was not composed, and it was not quiet.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
RustedSands
Lost in the Fics
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The entire time she was freaking out about holding hands I was just imagining this.
Narcissa: To think out little girl is finally dating. Good thing you already gave her the talk.
Lucius:......I thought you gave her the talk?
Narcissa: I'm sure it'll be fine.....hopefully....
Narcissa: To think out little girl is finally dating. Good thing you already gave her the talk.
Lucius:......I thought you gave her the talk?
Narcissa: I'm sure it'll be fine.....hopefully....
