[ACxHP] Like Pillars Four!verse
Rating: PG
Characters: Altair, Ezio, Malik
AU: Assassin's Creed/Harry Potter - lp4 [start] >> [ more]
There was once a boggart Altair had to fend off in his third year in front of the entire class. He remembers that split-second of fear, the desperate scramble to think of what would be the most ridiculous, stupidest thing to turn the illusion of Professor Al Mualim into, and then the moment where he had to grin, laugh and shout out the spell. The boggart never stood a chance, naturally, but memory of fighting the thing had always left Altair unsettled when he thinks back to it. And while it has been some time since he had to face a boggart, he is pretty sure that his Worst Fear is still the same, despite that Al Mualim is long gone from Hogwarts and probably doing time in Azkaban.
Altair starts to doubt this when he wakes from a nightmare in cold sweat, the image of Malik saying no lingering in his mind and keeping him from falling back asleep for several minutes.
It’s dumb, he knows, because he’s doing well enough in Divination to figure that Malik is probably just a bigger symbol for something like rejection or failure, manifesting itself into a more relatable and recent anxiety-induced nightmare since, for the past few days, Altair has been trying to come up with a way to ask the Ravenclaw out.
The problem is - he’s already asked Malik once before, but he realizes a little too late how much they already hang out without the context of dating, so when Malik arrives at the appointed spot by the lake in his Quidditch gear with both their entire teams in tow for an unofficial practice match, Altair guesses that he should have clarified something between them first.
It’s also difficult because, on the other end of the spectrum, they are making out in odd places that are usually tiny and dark and as private as they are going to get in a magical school full of professors and students and ghosts and living portraits. Not that Altair minds the making out, but it’s more like an enjoyable day-to-day routine and less like a specifically planned out occasion of official romantic intent.
This makes more sense in Altair’s head than it does when he tries to explain his situation to Desmond.
Desmond, who is still angry at Altair for That Incident is getting a headstart in his rebellious teenage years at eleven. He ignores Altair and scampers away into his dormitory room, locking it with a surprisingly complex charm, and shouts through the door, “I don’t wanna hear about your kissing problems!”
“It’s not about kissing, it’s about dating! And it’s not even a problem!” Altair hisses indignantly, lowering his voice so that the rest of the Gryffindor common room doesn’t hear. It’s not a problem. It’s a dilemma. A little setback of something that is going to happen anyway. Definitely not a problem.
But Desmond isn’t answering, and Altair has no choice but to go look for Ezio, who should have been his first choice in hindsight, but Desmond has the convenience of being nearby, if not the experience or interest.
After asking a few key people, Altair heads over to the DADA chamber where he learns that Ezio is giving tutoring lessons under the supervision of a professor. Ezio would make a good professor himself, Altair thinks, and wonders where Ezio gets the patience to teach when it frustrates Altair to even help Rauf’s own student-tutoring sessions.
Swinging open the door, Altair is just in time to see Ezio demonstrate the boggart-banishing spell. The creature already out of its trunk and has taken the form of a thick noose, coiling itself around Ezio’s neck. Altair pushes past the gawking viewers (mostly girls), and watches with a critical eye.
Smirking, Ezio points his wand at his own neck and says, more loudly for the benefit of the students, “Riddikulus!”
The boggart writhes and the noose shifts into a harmless chain of daisies that breaks easily under Ezio’s hand. With a little quiver, it slides through the air, looking for its next victim, and of course it heads towards Altair.
Altair has to admit that he is relieved when the boggart morphs into multiple illusions of Al Mualim, murmuring how useless Altair is, how pathetic and weak-willed and all sorts of other things that still send a chill up his spine. But at least it’s not Malik, which would have humiliated him beyond belief if Ezio and the other younger kids saw.
“Riddikulus,” he shouts, and the spell hits the boggart so hard that a conga line of Al Mualims squeal and dance back into the storage trunk, slamming the lid shut.
The students clap, and Ezio blows out his cheeks, looking irked by the way Altair had stolen his thunder.
They wait until the last of the lower-years leave, since Altair had apparently banished the boggart so thoroughly that it refuses to come out of the trunk, even when Ezio opens the lid and tries coaxing it out with a few of the more timid students. It doesn’t work, and the lesson ends early.
“Great,” Ezio sighs, shutting the door of the classroom. He leans a shoulder against it and crosses his arms. “You broke our boggart. Now we need a new one.”
Altair regards the trunk, shaking his head. “Ask Erudito.”
Ezio shrugs, not dismissing the suggestion, but doubting that the poltergeist will want to help with finding new boggarts when asked. He pushes off the door and motions for Altair to help him carry the trunk back to its proper place in one of the many closets of the room.
“So what is it that you want?” Ezio asks, waiting for Altair to grip the handle. On a silent count of three, they heft the trunk and start walking.
“Malik-“ Altair begins.
“Well,” Ezio drawls. “I don’t think anyone but Malik can help you out there.”
Altair contemplates his extensive repertoire of hexes before he grits his teeth and continues, “No. I’m asking Malik out.”
“You have my blessing,” Ezio says immediately. “I hope for a dozen adopted nieces and nephews and-“
“But it’s not working,” Altair finishes, talking over his younger brother. He swings the trunk so that it jostles against Ezio’s knees. A faint, distressed yell comes from the trunk, but it goes ignored.
Ezio winces. “How many times did you ask?”
“Once.”
Ezio winces again. “He said no?”
“He said yes, but he misinterpreted it as having a practice Quidditch match with our teams. Listen, I’m just really -” not desperate, not out of ideas, not wanting to screw this up, “-starting to realize how dense Malik is since he’s usually smart, being a Ravenclaw and all.”
Ezio raises a brow. “Nice save.”
Altair glances up. “What?”
“Never mind,” Ezio sighs, setting the trunk down. “All right. Here’s what I think you need to do.”
-
Later that day, Malik approaches him before the start of Quidditch practice for the Gryffindors. Altair is eager to get started, having fought all the other captains, Malik included, to reserve the field for the afternoon. He glances up from his spot at the bench, frowning at the other boy.
“Malik, I reserved this timeslot fair and square. I even had to punch Robert in the face for it,” he says, looking past the Ravenclaw to sure his team flies the warm-up laps he assigned.
“I was there,” Malik reminds, and he smirks a little. “It was a good hit.”
Altair grins, pulling tight the laces of his right glove. “Thanks,” he says, and then he adds, “But don’t think I wouldn’t do the same to you. I’m not going to cut practice short.”
Malik scoffs, throwing a look over his shoulder before he turns to Altair. “I figured, but I’m not here for that,” he says, and abruptly takes Altair’s hand just as he stands.
At first, Altair thinks that Malik wants to help tie the laces of his gloves, but their palms settle against each other, warm and familiar, and stay suspended between their bodies. It’s intimate, and Malik looks a little flustered, but also determined. Altair stares in horror, not because they are holding hands (which is not exactly a new thing), but because Malik looks like he’s about to ask something and Altair thinks he knows what that something is.
“I was wondering if you’d like to spend next Hogmeade trip together,” Malik says without a single stutter, though his face colors as the rest of the words rush out. “Maybe not for the entire day, if you don’t want to, but at least for lunch or something.”
There is a long pause in which Altair can only squeeze Malik’s hand in what seems to be an affirmative gesture, except for the way Altair opens his mouth and blurts out, really loudly, “No!”
And it’s a definite no, because that was supposed to be him asking Malik out, not the other way around, and it isn’t as if he hasn’t spent the last few nights having nightmares of rejection and has wasted an hour of his life sitting through Ezio’s ludicrous advice and awful suggestions like flowers or chocolates or poetry, only to find out that Ezio had been teasing him the entire time. It had taken less than five minutes (after Altair had soundly cursed Ezio all the way up the ceiling) for them to settle on an Acceptable Plan - simple and straight to the point and maybe even a bit charming if Altair can pull it off, with no gaudy gifts or costumes or singing or love potions involved. It had been a good plan, one that Altair had sworn he’d complete. Tomorrow.
“No,” he says again, because, at that point, Malik is giving him a look that is soconfused and shocked, and Altair knows that he doesn’t have much time to say something else before Malik’s brain registers that little word in conjunction with all the times they had snogged after class. And, being the brilliant person that he is, Altair starts out again with, “No, no, wait, I-“
Malik stares at him like he can’t quite believe it. His hand falls back to his side and he steps away. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. All right.”
He doesn’t even sound angry about it, just utterly perplexed, and Altair thinks he’d rather have Malik yell at him so that he can at least yell back an explanation. But Altair has said ‘no’ four times, and Malik seems to get the message without needing a reason.
“That wasn’t what I-“ Altair starts, but Malik’s temper seems to have caught up with the situation and he puts a hand up, though it’s his hurt expression alone that stops Altair from speaking.
“Your teammates are waiting,” Malik says, voice clipped and brusque as he walks away, angry enough that Altair is surprised his footsteps doesn’t set fire to the grass. “Don’t cut your practice short on my account.”
-
“How did practice go?” Ezio asks when Altair strides into the Gryffindor common room with the rest of the team.
Altair doesn’t say a word, but the broken trail of Gryffindor’s finest Quidditch players collapsing all over the floor in a sweaty, exhausted, and sobbing heap is answer enough.
“Righto,” Ezio replies, and goes back to doing his homework. -
The good news is that Malik is still talking to him. They are, after all, partners in Advanced Potions. The bad news is that when Malik does speak to him, he does it so violently that Altair might as well have physical bleeding wounds after every conversation. Malik doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise, unless it has to do something with how many grams of acorn powder goes into the cauldron or the number of snake tongues they need to chop.“You’re being immature,” Altair finally snaps, and nearly slices his own finger off while knifing the snake tongues.
Malik blinks, and ceases to speak to Altair at all.
-
“It’s your own fault, you know,” Ezio says, sneezing as he drags a dusty cover from a lump of furniture, revealing an antique cabinet decorated with ominous skulls of an unknown creature. “You did reject him four times.”
With a growl of frustration, Altair throws open the cabinet doors, holding his wand out. It’s empty, just like the other drawers and trunks and other closets they had looked in. The underground level of Hogwarts is a dank and lonely floor of old and abandoned classrooms that do nothing but gather dust and dark-dwelling creatures. It hasn’t even been an hour since they had started checking the rooms, but both Altair and Ezio are already chilled and dirty and maybe slightly spooked by their dismal surroundings.
“Boggart?” Ezio asks.
“No,” Altair says, closing the miniature doors and latching it shut. “This is the fifth room we’ve checked. Erudito must be hiding them from us!”
Ezio gives a loud sniff, pulling the covers back in place. “It’s not always about you, Altair. Erudito has thousands of other students to bother! You can’t blame him for everything.”
Rolling his eyes, Altair slumps into one of the broken chairs, balancing on the last of its remaining two legs while he idly brushes the cobwebs from his robes. “It’d be easier if I could,” he mutters.
“Four times,” Ezio repeats helpfully.
“I was talking about the boggart.”
Ezio snorts, walking around the room one last time to search for more boggart nooks. He uproots a few small crates without much success, though he does find an interesting wolf pelt. Lifting it in the air for inspection, he waves a floppy paw towards Altair. “Have you tried apologizing?”
The chair creaks under Altair’s weight as he shifts in his seat. There is a locked chest in front of him and he props his feet against it. “I’ve tried talking to him! He either ignores me or walks away before I get the chance to do anything,” Altair says with enough feeling that the chair starts to tilt dangerously. He swings his arms, and the chair thumps back on its two legs and his feet sends the chest rolling over in a broken clatter. “Unless you meant the boggart.”
Ezio is silent, mouth open and eyes wide. The wolf pelt drops from his hands and he fumbles for his wand. “Boggart!“
Altair frowns. “I doubt apologizing to it would get it to come back. It’s not sentient-” and he chokes, feeling the roughness of sturdy rope circling around his neck. Twisting around, he sees the upturned chest with a gaping crack in the middle, black wisps of smoke drifting out from it. The rope tightens and before Altair can gasp, another form takes shape and he finds himself face to face with Al Mualim.
Ezio’s banishment spell flashes near him, but Altair can hear the waver in Ezio’s voice, over and over as the younger boy tries to think of something funny about seeing his brother hanged. Altair grips his own wand, croaking out the same spell.
Al Mualim suddenly goes down, tripping over the length of rope and giving an undignified shriek. At another shout from Ezio, this time stronger, the rope turns into a harmless garland of flowers. Altair claws the boggart out of the way, stumbling back.
Meanwhile, the chest continues to leak out an entire family of boggarts. Altair is starting to run out of hilarious things to think of; he makes the mistake of picturing Al Mualim in pink undergarments, and when one of the boggarts turns into just that, Altair legitimately panics and grabs Ezio’s arm to keep from falling over.
Heart pounding, Altair shouts out spell after spell. Each time, his ideas become slightly less creative and more childish. By the time he and Ezio finally clear a path towards the classroom door, they leave behind a party of Al Mualims dressed in silly hats and suits, and nooses that turn into streamers, curtain tassels, and licorice rope.
They bump into Malik just as they step outside. Altair jumps at least three feet into the air, raising his wand and ready to Riddikulus the bloody hell out of him, but the Ravenclaw shoves past, his prefect badge snagging on Altair’s loose tie.
“I heard a lot of noise coming from down here,” Malik says, peering into the classroom. He stops, and, very quickly, points his wand at the door, muttering, “Colloportus,” and then, more to himself than anyone else, “what the hell.”
The door slams shut in the face of a very dejected looking Al Mualim with a wig of yarn, and the lock clicks.
“I’ll just take twenty points from Gryffindor and not ask,” Malik says, only looking at Ezio when he speaks. “Sound fair?”
Ezio nods, wiping a dust-covered hand over his brow. “It’s reasonable,” he agrees. Looking from Malik to Altair, he hesitates in a rare show of being uncomfortable. “Uh, Malik. I think Altair has something to tell you.” He nudges Altair forward with a forceful pat on the back.
“Does he now,” Malik says. His gaze finally settles on Altair.
“Go on, explain it to him,” Ezio hisses.
Altair glances at Ezio then at Malik.
“We were trying to catch a boggart,” he explains. “Because I broke the other one.”
The silence that stretches out is deafening. Ezio throws his arms up in the air, not even trying to stop Malik from leaving them alone in the dim hallway. Without bothering to wait until Malik’s footsteps fade away, Ezio rounds up on Altair, making elaborate gestures, so frustrated he can’t even speak for the full minute in which he spends pantomiming several versions of Altair’s agonizing death.
“Did I just happen to inherit all the social graces and sense in this family?” he eventually garbles out.
“You should have clarified! You told me to explain! Explain what? We just fought a roomful of boggarts, what else did you think I had in mind?” Altair scowls, slapping Ezio’s hands away from his face.
Ezio pounds a fist into his own head, as if hurting himself would ultimately feel better than listening to older brother’s excuses. “You wanted clarification? Oh, my mistake! I didn’t know I had to say, ‘Malik, Altair wants to apologize for being an idiotic git and for saying no, not once, but four times to your face because, like I said, he’s a complete git’-“ Ezio takes a deep breath to continue, but freezes. The air rushes out of his chest and he gasps in sudden realization. “Shit. You wanted me to say it, all of it- you wanted me to apologize for you! Am I right?”
Altair thinks that Ezio is giving him a little too much credit. (It’s not a bad idea, actually.) He starts to shake his head and partly deny what Ezio is accusing him of, but Ezio is already looking away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I knew you were scared before, but you’re bloody terrified, aren’t you?” Ezio says.
And Altair finds that he can’t do anything but shrug his shoulders and frown at his feet. “I just need to get him to listen.”
Leaning his back against a grimy patch of wall (since it’s not like their robes could get any dirtier), Ezio crosses his arms, looking thoughtful. “Well, you do have a certain way with words.”
Altair narrows his eyes. “Was that sarcasm?”
“An insult. And a compliment,” Ezio says, grinning. “You’re good at writing. You don’t come off as much of an asshole in your essays.”
Altair doubts Malik would even open any letter or read any note he sends. The thought must have shown on his face because Ezio shrugs.
“Yeah, he probably won’t read your letter right away. It’ll take some time,” he says, with all the relationship experience he has acquired in his fourteen years of life. “But you don’t have much of a choice anyway.”
“Yes, but I don’t have the time to wait,” Altair replies, which is a blatant lie. It’s more like he doesn’t want to wait. He’s wasted enough time as it is. “I just need to be more direct and honest. Plan out what I have to say first.”
Ezio nods encouragingly.
“Like a Howler,” Altair finishes, determined.
“Yes. Exactly- no. No. Altair, no,” Ezio begins, and catches his expression. He swallows the rest of his words and looks pained. “I only suggested a letter because you are eloquent and sometimes even intelligent when you write. You can’t be any of those in a Howler.”
“Malik’s going to throw away any letter I’ll write to him anyway. A Howler will force him to hear what I have to say,” Altair reasons.
“I don’t think a relationship founded on threats and yelling is a good… you know what. Never mind,” Ezio groans, shoving off the wall. He walks down the hallway, towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. “Unlike you, I’ve got a date after dinner with a very lovely and charming Hufflepuff girl who is a million times prettier and doesn’t give me half the trouble Malik gives you.”
Altair grins wearily. “Exactly.”
-
Agreeing to Ezio’s only condition that he would not, under any circumstances, send the Howler during breakfast in the Great Hall, Altair clutches his owl in his hands, waiting beneath the empty stands in front of the Quiddtich pitch for the Ravenclaw team to arrive. The only reason why he is here at all is because you can’t tell an owl when you need it to deliver a letter at a specific time. Though Altair’s owl has a good habit of being swift and prompt, right now he wishes that it would quit squirming and stop hooting with impatience. He shushes it with a piece of meat and clamps its beak shut with a pinch of his index finger and thumb, craning his neck to look through a space between the floorboards of the bleachers.
Malik and his team arrive on time on the opposite end of the field, already geared for their practice. Altair ducks back down and holds his owl at eye level, expression grim.
“I doubt Malik is the type to kill the messenger,” he assures the bird, stepping outside but still keeping out of sight. “But just in case - requiescant in pace, animosus.”
He sets the owl on his gloved arm, poking one corner of the Howler in its beak, and gives it an encouraging lift off. The owl dutifully flies to the field and it only takes a moment before Altair can hear the sound of his own voice, starting with a pissed-off and promising shout of, “MALIK, QUIT IGNORING ME BECAUSE I AM TRYING TO APOLOGIZE-”
As the letter picks up momentum, the rest of the world becomes eerily silent to him. He cannot hear the wind or the rustle of grass beneath his feet, and if anyone on the Ravenclaw team speaks a word, it is lost over the Howler’s (furious, pleading, desperate, sincere) rant.
“-AND IF YOU WOULD HAVE JUST WAITED FOR ME TO EXPLAIN, I OBVIOUSLY MEANT YES AND MUST HAVE MEANT IT SO HARD THAT IT BROKE GAMP’S LAW OF ELEMENTAL TRANSFIGURATION AND THE YES TURNED INTO A NO, BUT IT’S YOUR OWN DAMN FAULT ANYWAY BECAUSE I HAD BEEN PLANNING TO ASK YOU OUT FOR A REALLY LONG TIME AND YOU GO AND RUIN IT BY ASKING ME FIRST.”
There is also a footnote about that time at the lake, which adds vehemently that Malik is not as clever as he thinks he is. It goes on for several seconds before returning to the point.
“-BUT THAT ISN’T THE POINT. THE POINT IS I WANT TO GO TO HOGSMEADE WITH YOU TOO. BUT WHAT IS WITH THIS ‘JUST FOR LUNCH’ RUBBISH BECAUSE WE ARE GOING TO SPEND THE ENTIRE DAY TOGETHER AND IF YOU DO AN ACCEPTABLE JOB I WILL LIKELY HAVE TO ASK YOU OUT AGAIN.”
Altair tunes out the rest of the letter, since he knows that it will be another minute before it wraps up. It is honestly the most he has ever said in his life-barring any argument he has had with his brothers-and it really did not look so long on the original five sheets of paper. In fact, now that he is aware of how close the Howler is to finishing, Altair starts to make good on his escape since even the bravest Gryffindor will not want to risk hanging around for the aftermath, and, contrary to popular belief, stupidity is not an official trait of their house.
He jogs far enough to be another indistinct black-robed figure from a distance, but he can still hear the Howler scream the last sentence and fall silent. Counting the seconds it takes for the letter to crumble to soot, Altair waits for any kind of noise, and idly wonders if Malik will cancel the whole practice to find Altair and fling an Avada Kedavra Curse at him.
The sound of a voice rising from the practice field is reassuring; Malik does not swear murder on Altair at all, but instead on any of his teammates who’d even think of speaking a word of the Howler to anyone else.
On that optimistic note, Altair breaks into a run all the way back to the castle.
-
The next morning, Altair finds an old dresser outside the Gryffindor common room. It blocks the portrait of the Fat Lady, making it almost impossible for the students to leave except for a few of the smaller first years who wiggle through. Altair, always a bit of an early riser, helps Ezio levitate the piece of furniture out of the way before dragging it back in the common room.
A note is tacked on to one of the handles, written in what Altair knows to be Malik’s slanted handwriting.
Heard you were for looking this.
“Oh no,” says Ezio, peering over Altair’s shoulder. He quickly waves off the curious onlookers with little success. “At least wait until after breakfast.”
Hardly listening to a word, Altair takes out his wand and opens the drawer with a smirk. Two things emerge; a boggart, of course, and a Howler, already burning and hissing with indignation.
It zips in front of Altair, and Altair swears he isn’t nervous- and even if he was, it is only because Al Mualim has manifested itself right next to him, whispering something about never ever going to get a date and being socially inept and dying alone and owning a dozen cats and, and, and-
The Howler opens its gaping maw and screams at him; “YES, FINALLY, WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG AND WHY THE BLOODY HELL WAS IT SO HARD FOR YOU-”
And Altair is grinning through the whole thing, even as he finally turns around to face Al Mualim with the Howler yelling right in his ear..
The boggart doesn’t stand a chance.
Characters: Altair, Ezio, Malik
AU: Assassin's Creed/Harry Potter - lp4 [start] >> [ more]
There was once a boggart Altair had to fend off in his third year in front of the entire class. He remembers that split-second of fear, the desperate scramble to think of what would be the most ridiculous, stupidest thing to turn the illusion of Professor Al Mualim into, and then the moment where he had to grin, laugh and shout out the spell. The boggart never stood a chance, naturally, but memory of fighting the thing had always left Altair unsettled when he thinks back to it. And while it has been some time since he had to face a boggart, he is pretty sure that his Worst Fear is still the same, despite that Al Mualim is long gone from Hogwarts and probably doing time in Azkaban.
Altair starts to doubt this when he wakes from a nightmare in cold sweat, the image of Malik saying no lingering in his mind and keeping him from falling back asleep for several minutes.
It’s dumb, he knows, because he’s doing well enough in Divination to figure that Malik is probably just a bigger symbol for something like rejection or failure, manifesting itself into a more relatable and recent anxiety-induced nightmare since, for the past few days, Altair has been trying to come up with a way to ask the Ravenclaw out.
The problem is - he’s already asked Malik once before, but he realizes a little too late how much they already hang out without the context of dating, so when Malik arrives at the appointed spot by the lake in his Quidditch gear with both their entire teams in tow for an unofficial practice match, Altair guesses that he should have clarified something between them first.
It’s also difficult because, on the other end of the spectrum, they are making out in odd places that are usually tiny and dark and as private as they are going to get in a magical school full of professors and students and ghosts and living portraits. Not that Altair minds the making out, but it’s more like an enjoyable day-to-day routine and less like a specifically planned out occasion of official romantic intent.
This makes more sense in Altair’s head than it does when he tries to explain his situation to Desmond.
Desmond, who is still angry at Altair for That Incident is getting a headstart in his rebellious teenage years at eleven. He ignores Altair and scampers away into his dormitory room, locking it with a surprisingly complex charm, and shouts through the door, “I don’t wanna hear about your kissing problems!”
“It’s not about kissing, it’s about dating! And it’s not even a problem!” Altair hisses indignantly, lowering his voice so that the rest of the Gryffindor common room doesn’t hear. It’s not a problem. It’s a dilemma. A little setback of something that is going to happen anyway. Definitely not a problem.
But Desmond isn’t answering, and Altair has no choice but to go look for Ezio, who should have been his first choice in hindsight, but Desmond has the convenience of being nearby, if not the experience or interest.
After asking a few key people, Altair heads over to the DADA chamber where he learns that Ezio is giving tutoring lessons under the supervision of a professor. Ezio would make a good professor himself, Altair thinks, and wonders where Ezio gets the patience to teach when it frustrates Altair to even help Rauf’s own student-tutoring sessions.
Swinging open the door, Altair is just in time to see Ezio demonstrate the boggart-banishing spell. The creature already out of its trunk and has taken the form of a thick noose, coiling itself around Ezio’s neck. Altair pushes past the gawking viewers (mostly girls), and watches with a critical eye.
Smirking, Ezio points his wand at his own neck and says, more loudly for the benefit of the students, “Riddikulus!”
The boggart writhes and the noose shifts into a harmless chain of daisies that breaks easily under Ezio’s hand. With a little quiver, it slides through the air, looking for its next victim, and of course it heads towards Altair.
Altair has to admit that he is relieved when the boggart morphs into multiple illusions of Al Mualim, murmuring how useless Altair is, how pathetic and weak-willed and all sorts of other things that still send a chill up his spine. But at least it’s not Malik, which would have humiliated him beyond belief if Ezio and the other younger kids saw.
“Riddikulus,” he shouts, and the spell hits the boggart so hard that a conga line of Al Mualims squeal and dance back into the storage trunk, slamming the lid shut.
The students clap, and Ezio blows out his cheeks, looking irked by the way Altair had stolen his thunder.
They wait until the last of the lower-years leave, since Altair had apparently banished the boggart so thoroughly that it refuses to come out of the trunk, even when Ezio opens the lid and tries coaxing it out with a few of the more timid students. It doesn’t work, and the lesson ends early.
“Great,” Ezio sighs, shutting the door of the classroom. He leans a shoulder against it and crosses his arms. “You broke our boggart. Now we need a new one.”
Altair regards the trunk, shaking his head. “Ask Erudito.”
Ezio shrugs, not dismissing the suggestion, but doubting that the poltergeist will want to help with finding new boggarts when asked. He pushes off the door and motions for Altair to help him carry the trunk back to its proper place in one of the many closets of the room.
“So what is it that you want?” Ezio asks, waiting for Altair to grip the handle. On a silent count of three, they heft the trunk and start walking.
“Malik-“ Altair begins.
“Well,” Ezio drawls. “I don’t think anyone but Malik can help you out there.”
Altair contemplates his extensive repertoire of hexes before he grits his teeth and continues, “No. I’m asking Malik out.”
“You have my blessing,” Ezio says immediately. “I hope for a dozen adopted nieces and nephews and-“
“But it’s not working,” Altair finishes, talking over his younger brother. He swings the trunk so that it jostles against Ezio’s knees. A faint, distressed yell comes from the trunk, but it goes ignored.
Ezio winces. “How many times did you ask?”
“Once.”
Ezio winces again. “He said no?”
“He said yes, but he misinterpreted it as having a practice Quidditch match with our teams. Listen, I’m just really -” not desperate, not out of ideas, not wanting to screw this up, “-starting to realize how dense Malik is since he’s usually smart, being a Ravenclaw and all.”
Ezio raises a brow. “Nice save.”
Altair glances up. “What?”
“Never mind,” Ezio sighs, setting the trunk down. “All right. Here’s what I think you need to do.”
-
Later that day, Malik approaches him before the start of Quidditch practice for the Gryffindors. Altair is eager to get started, having fought all the other captains, Malik included, to reserve the field for the afternoon. He glances up from his spot at the bench, frowning at the other boy.
“Malik, I reserved this timeslot fair and square. I even had to punch Robert in the face for it,” he says, looking past the Ravenclaw to sure his team flies the warm-up laps he assigned.
“I was there,” Malik reminds, and he smirks a little. “It was a good hit.”
Altair grins, pulling tight the laces of his right glove. “Thanks,” he says, and then he adds, “But don’t think I wouldn’t do the same to you. I’m not going to cut practice short.”
Malik scoffs, throwing a look over his shoulder before he turns to Altair. “I figured, but I’m not here for that,” he says, and abruptly takes Altair’s hand just as he stands.
At first, Altair thinks that Malik wants to help tie the laces of his gloves, but their palms settle against each other, warm and familiar, and stay suspended between their bodies. It’s intimate, and Malik looks a little flustered, but also determined. Altair stares in horror, not because they are holding hands (which is not exactly a new thing), but because Malik looks like he’s about to ask something and Altair thinks he knows what that something is.
“I was wondering if you’d like to spend next Hogmeade trip together,” Malik says without a single stutter, though his face colors as the rest of the words rush out. “Maybe not for the entire day, if you don’t want to, but at least for lunch or something.”
There is a long pause in which Altair can only squeeze Malik’s hand in what seems to be an affirmative gesture, except for the way Altair opens his mouth and blurts out, really loudly, “No!”
And it’s a definite no, because that was supposed to be him asking Malik out, not the other way around, and it isn’t as if he hasn’t spent the last few nights having nightmares of rejection and has wasted an hour of his life sitting through Ezio’s ludicrous advice and awful suggestions like flowers or chocolates or poetry, only to find out that Ezio had been teasing him the entire time. It had taken less than five minutes (after Altair had soundly cursed Ezio all the way up the ceiling) for them to settle on an Acceptable Plan - simple and straight to the point and maybe even a bit charming if Altair can pull it off, with no gaudy gifts or costumes or singing or love potions involved. It had been a good plan, one that Altair had sworn he’d complete. Tomorrow.
“No,” he says again, because, at that point, Malik is giving him a look that is soconfused and shocked, and Altair knows that he doesn’t have much time to say something else before Malik’s brain registers that little word in conjunction with all the times they had snogged after class. And, being the brilliant person that he is, Altair starts out again with, “No, no, wait, I-“
Malik stares at him like he can’t quite believe it. His hand falls back to his side and he steps away. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. All right.”
He doesn’t even sound angry about it, just utterly perplexed, and Altair thinks he’d rather have Malik yell at him so that he can at least yell back an explanation. But Altair has said ‘no’ four times, and Malik seems to get the message without needing a reason.
“That wasn’t what I-“ Altair starts, but Malik’s temper seems to have caught up with the situation and he puts a hand up, though it’s his hurt expression alone that stops Altair from speaking.
“Your teammates are waiting,” Malik says, voice clipped and brusque as he walks away, angry enough that Altair is surprised his footsteps doesn’t set fire to the grass. “Don’t cut your practice short on my account.”
-
“How did practice go?” Ezio asks when Altair strides into the Gryffindor common room with the rest of the team.
Altair doesn’t say a word, but the broken trail of Gryffindor’s finest Quidditch players collapsing all over the floor in a sweaty, exhausted, and sobbing heap is answer enough.
“Righto,” Ezio replies, and goes back to doing his homework. -
The good news is that Malik is still talking to him. They are, after all, partners in Advanced Potions. The bad news is that when Malik does speak to him, he does it so violently that Altair might as well have physical bleeding wounds after every conversation. Malik doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise, unless it has to do something with how many grams of acorn powder goes into the cauldron or the number of snake tongues they need to chop.“You’re being immature,” Altair finally snaps, and nearly slices his own finger off while knifing the snake tongues.
Malik blinks, and ceases to speak to Altair at all.
-
“It’s your own fault, you know,” Ezio says, sneezing as he drags a dusty cover from a lump of furniture, revealing an antique cabinet decorated with ominous skulls of an unknown creature. “You did reject him four times.”
With a growl of frustration, Altair throws open the cabinet doors, holding his wand out. It’s empty, just like the other drawers and trunks and other closets they had looked in. The underground level of Hogwarts is a dank and lonely floor of old and abandoned classrooms that do nothing but gather dust and dark-dwelling creatures. It hasn’t even been an hour since they had started checking the rooms, but both Altair and Ezio are already chilled and dirty and maybe slightly spooked by their dismal surroundings.
“Boggart?” Ezio asks.
“No,” Altair says, closing the miniature doors and latching it shut. “This is the fifth room we’ve checked. Erudito must be hiding them from us!”
Ezio gives a loud sniff, pulling the covers back in place. “It’s not always about you, Altair. Erudito has thousands of other students to bother! You can’t blame him for everything.”
Rolling his eyes, Altair slumps into one of the broken chairs, balancing on the last of its remaining two legs while he idly brushes the cobwebs from his robes. “It’d be easier if I could,” he mutters.
“Four times,” Ezio repeats helpfully.
“I was talking about the boggart.”
Ezio snorts, walking around the room one last time to search for more boggart nooks. He uproots a few small crates without much success, though he does find an interesting wolf pelt. Lifting it in the air for inspection, he waves a floppy paw towards Altair. “Have you tried apologizing?”
The chair creaks under Altair’s weight as he shifts in his seat. There is a locked chest in front of him and he props his feet against it. “I’ve tried talking to him! He either ignores me or walks away before I get the chance to do anything,” Altair says with enough feeling that the chair starts to tilt dangerously. He swings his arms, and the chair thumps back on its two legs and his feet sends the chest rolling over in a broken clatter. “Unless you meant the boggart.”
Ezio is silent, mouth open and eyes wide. The wolf pelt drops from his hands and he fumbles for his wand. “Boggart!“
Altair frowns. “I doubt apologizing to it would get it to come back. It’s not sentient-” and he chokes, feeling the roughness of sturdy rope circling around his neck. Twisting around, he sees the upturned chest with a gaping crack in the middle, black wisps of smoke drifting out from it. The rope tightens and before Altair can gasp, another form takes shape and he finds himself face to face with Al Mualim.
Ezio’s banishment spell flashes near him, but Altair can hear the waver in Ezio’s voice, over and over as the younger boy tries to think of something funny about seeing his brother hanged. Altair grips his own wand, croaking out the same spell.
Al Mualim suddenly goes down, tripping over the length of rope and giving an undignified shriek. At another shout from Ezio, this time stronger, the rope turns into a harmless garland of flowers. Altair claws the boggart out of the way, stumbling back.
Meanwhile, the chest continues to leak out an entire family of boggarts. Altair is starting to run out of hilarious things to think of; he makes the mistake of picturing Al Mualim in pink undergarments, and when one of the boggarts turns into just that, Altair legitimately panics and grabs Ezio’s arm to keep from falling over.
Heart pounding, Altair shouts out spell after spell. Each time, his ideas become slightly less creative and more childish. By the time he and Ezio finally clear a path towards the classroom door, they leave behind a party of Al Mualims dressed in silly hats and suits, and nooses that turn into streamers, curtain tassels, and licorice rope.
They bump into Malik just as they step outside. Altair jumps at least three feet into the air, raising his wand and ready to Riddikulus the bloody hell out of him, but the Ravenclaw shoves past, his prefect badge snagging on Altair’s loose tie.
“I heard a lot of noise coming from down here,” Malik says, peering into the classroom. He stops, and, very quickly, points his wand at the door, muttering, “Colloportus,” and then, more to himself than anyone else, “what the hell.”
The door slams shut in the face of a very dejected looking Al Mualim with a wig of yarn, and the lock clicks.
“I’ll just take twenty points from Gryffindor and not ask,” Malik says, only looking at Ezio when he speaks. “Sound fair?”
Ezio nods, wiping a dust-covered hand over his brow. “It’s reasonable,” he agrees. Looking from Malik to Altair, he hesitates in a rare show of being uncomfortable. “Uh, Malik. I think Altair has something to tell you.” He nudges Altair forward with a forceful pat on the back.
“Does he now,” Malik says. His gaze finally settles on Altair.
“Go on, explain it to him,” Ezio hisses.
Altair glances at Ezio then at Malik.
“We were trying to catch a boggart,” he explains. “Because I broke the other one.”
The silence that stretches out is deafening. Ezio throws his arms up in the air, not even trying to stop Malik from leaving them alone in the dim hallway. Without bothering to wait until Malik’s footsteps fade away, Ezio rounds up on Altair, making elaborate gestures, so frustrated he can’t even speak for the full minute in which he spends pantomiming several versions of Altair’s agonizing death.
“Did I just happen to inherit all the social graces and sense in this family?” he eventually garbles out.
“You should have clarified! You told me to explain! Explain what? We just fought a roomful of boggarts, what else did you think I had in mind?” Altair scowls, slapping Ezio’s hands away from his face.
Ezio pounds a fist into his own head, as if hurting himself would ultimately feel better than listening to older brother’s excuses. “You wanted clarification? Oh, my mistake! I didn’t know I had to say, ‘Malik, Altair wants to apologize for being an idiotic git and for saying no, not once, but four times to your face because, like I said, he’s a complete git’-“ Ezio takes a deep breath to continue, but freezes. The air rushes out of his chest and he gasps in sudden realization. “Shit. You wanted me to say it, all of it- you wanted me to apologize for you! Am I right?”
Altair thinks that Ezio is giving him a little too much credit. (It’s not a bad idea, actually.) He starts to shake his head and partly deny what Ezio is accusing him of, but Ezio is already looking away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I knew you were scared before, but you’re bloody terrified, aren’t you?” Ezio says.
And Altair finds that he can’t do anything but shrug his shoulders and frown at his feet. “I just need to get him to listen.”
Leaning his back against a grimy patch of wall (since it’s not like their robes could get any dirtier), Ezio crosses his arms, looking thoughtful. “Well, you do have a certain way with words.”
Altair narrows his eyes. “Was that sarcasm?”
“An insult. And a compliment,” Ezio says, grinning. “You’re good at writing. You don’t come off as much of an asshole in your essays.”
Altair doubts Malik would even open any letter or read any note he sends. The thought must have shown on his face because Ezio shrugs.
“Yeah, he probably won’t read your letter right away. It’ll take some time,” he says, with all the relationship experience he has acquired in his fourteen years of life. “But you don’t have much of a choice anyway.”
“Yes, but I don’t have the time to wait,” Altair replies, which is a blatant lie. It’s more like he doesn’t want to wait. He’s wasted enough time as it is. “I just need to be more direct and honest. Plan out what I have to say first.”
Ezio nods encouragingly.
“Like a Howler,” Altair finishes, determined.
“Yes. Exactly- no. No. Altair, no,” Ezio begins, and catches his expression. He swallows the rest of his words and looks pained. “I only suggested a letter because you are eloquent and sometimes even intelligent when you write. You can’t be any of those in a Howler.”
“Malik’s going to throw away any letter I’ll write to him anyway. A Howler will force him to hear what I have to say,” Altair reasons.
“I don’t think a relationship founded on threats and yelling is a good… you know what. Never mind,” Ezio groans, shoving off the wall. He walks down the hallway, towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. “Unlike you, I’ve got a date after dinner with a very lovely and charming Hufflepuff girl who is a million times prettier and doesn’t give me half the trouble Malik gives you.”
Altair grins wearily. “Exactly.”
-
Agreeing to Ezio’s only condition that he would not, under any circumstances, send the Howler during breakfast in the Great Hall, Altair clutches his owl in his hands, waiting beneath the empty stands in front of the Quiddtich pitch for the Ravenclaw team to arrive. The only reason why he is here at all is because you can’t tell an owl when you need it to deliver a letter at a specific time. Though Altair’s owl has a good habit of being swift and prompt, right now he wishes that it would quit squirming and stop hooting with impatience. He shushes it with a piece of meat and clamps its beak shut with a pinch of his index finger and thumb, craning his neck to look through a space between the floorboards of the bleachers.
Malik and his team arrive on time on the opposite end of the field, already geared for their practice. Altair ducks back down and holds his owl at eye level, expression grim.
“I doubt Malik is the type to kill the messenger,” he assures the bird, stepping outside but still keeping out of sight. “But just in case - requiescant in pace, animosus.”
He sets the owl on his gloved arm, poking one corner of the Howler in its beak, and gives it an encouraging lift off. The owl dutifully flies to the field and it only takes a moment before Altair can hear the sound of his own voice, starting with a pissed-off and promising shout of, “MALIK, QUIT IGNORING ME BECAUSE I AM TRYING TO APOLOGIZE-”
As the letter picks up momentum, the rest of the world becomes eerily silent to him. He cannot hear the wind or the rustle of grass beneath his feet, and if anyone on the Ravenclaw team speaks a word, it is lost over the Howler’s (furious, pleading, desperate, sincere) rant.
“-AND IF YOU WOULD HAVE JUST WAITED FOR ME TO EXPLAIN, I OBVIOUSLY MEANT YES AND MUST HAVE MEANT IT SO HARD THAT IT BROKE GAMP’S LAW OF ELEMENTAL TRANSFIGURATION AND THE YES TURNED INTO A NO, BUT IT’S YOUR OWN DAMN FAULT ANYWAY BECAUSE I HAD BEEN PLANNING TO ASK YOU OUT FOR A REALLY LONG TIME AND YOU GO AND RUIN IT BY ASKING ME FIRST.”
There is also a footnote about that time at the lake, which adds vehemently that Malik is not as clever as he thinks he is. It goes on for several seconds before returning to the point.
“-BUT THAT ISN’T THE POINT. THE POINT IS I WANT TO GO TO HOGSMEADE WITH YOU TOO. BUT WHAT IS WITH THIS ‘JUST FOR LUNCH’ RUBBISH BECAUSE WE ARE GOING TO SPEND THE ENTIRE DAY TOGETHER AND IF YOU DO AN ACCEPTABLE JOB I WILL LIKELY HAVE TO ASK YOU OUT AGAIN.”
Altair tunes out the rest of the letter, since he knows that it will be another minute before it wraps up. It is honestly the most he has ever said in his life-barring any argument he has had with his brothers-and it really did not look so long on the original five sheets of paper. In fact, now that he is aware of how close the Howler is to finishing, Altair starts to make good on his escape since even the bravest Gryffindor will not want to risk hanging around for the aftermath, and, contrary to popular belief, stupidity is not an official trait of their house.
He jogs far enough to be another indistinct black-robed figure from a distance, but he can still hear the Howler scream the last sentence and fall silent. Counting the seconds it takes for the letter to crumble to soot, Altair waits for any kind of noise, and idly wonders if Malik will cancel the whole practice to find Altair and fling an Avada Kedavra Curse at him.
The sound of a voice rising from the practice field is reassuring; Malik does not swear murder on Altair at all, but instead on any of his teammates who’d even think of speaking a word of the Howler to anyone else.
On that optimistic note, Altair breaks into a run all the way back to the castle.
-
The next morning, Altair finds an old dresser outside the Gryffindor common room. It blocks the portrait of the Fat Lady, making it almost impossible for the students to leave except for a few of the smaller first years who wiggle through. Altair, always a bit of an early riser, helps Ezio levitate the piece of furniture out of the way before dragging it back in the common room.
A note is tacked on to one of the handles, written in what Altair knows to be Malik’s slanted handwriting.
Heard you were for looking this.
“Oh no,” says Ezio, peering over Altair’s shoulder. He quickly waves off the curious onlookers with little success. “At least wait until after breakfast.”
Hardly listening to a word, Altair takes out his wand and opens the drawer with a smirk. Two things emerge; a boggart, of course, and a Howler, already burning and hissing with indignation.
It zips in front of Altair, and Altair swears he isn’t nervous- and even if he was, it is only because Al Mualim has manifested itself right next to him, whispering something about never ever going to get a date and being socially inept and dying alone and owning a dozen cats and, and, and-
The Howler opens its gaping maw and screams at him; “YES, FINALLY, WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG AND WHY THE BLOODY HELL WAS IT SO HARD FOR YOU-”
And Altair is grinning through the whole thing, even as he finally turns around to face Al Mualim with the Howler yelling right in his ear..
The boggart doesn’t stand a chance.