Chapter Eleven of 'Ancient and Noble Houses'- Fashion Advice
Chapter Ten.
Title: Ancient and Noble Houses (11/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, past Harry/Ginny
Warnings: Angst, violence
Rating: R
Summary: Harry finds out that being the heir to the Black fortune-at least once he’s of age and residing in Grimmauld Place full-time-is a lot different than just inheriting some vaults and property. He’s changing in ways he doesn’t understand, both body and mind. Even with Draco Malfoy to help him, the chance that Harry can resist becoming the perfect Black heir, with all that implies, seems slim.
Author’s Notes: This story came from wondering exactly what the house part of “The Ancient and Noble House of Black” might mean. This fic will have short chapters, and update every Friday and Saturday.
Chapter One.
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Chapter Eleven-Fashion Advice
“Are you all right, mate?”
Ron’s cautious question nearly set off Harry’s temper again. He wanted to turn around and ask if Ron feared him. He wanted to ask if Ron knew about what had happened to Kreacher yesterday, and whether he would dare approach Harry if he knew.
But the thought contained its own answer, so Harry glanced up, and sighed, and said, “Yeah. Sorry for snapping at you. I just-the pressure of being back in Hogwarts made me remember everything we lost, you know?”
That wasn’t it at all, and the same part of Harry that had wanted to flare out with temper sneered when Ron smiled at him and nodded. “I understand.” His voice sank. “When I look at the part of the school where Fred died…”
Harry made soothing noises and patted Ron’s shoulder, because it was what was expected of him, but his gaze drifted across the room and sought out Malfoy. He was sitting at the Slytherin table, so straight-backed that Harry wondered he didn’t hurt his spine. He caught Harry staring and grimaced, ducking his head and looking away.
Yes, he should, Harry thought, remembering the way Malfoy had looked at him in bed last night. He had fallen silent at Harry’s command, because he had to. He had agreed to help him, because he had to. Harry had forced or tricked him into it. He knew that Malfoy would never have taken such a risk on his own.
“…And it makes me understand what you’re going through,” Ron said with a sad little sigh, and Harry snapped back to the present.
The person he wanted to be was the one Ron thought he was talking to, Harry reminded himself sternly. Not the one who had wounded Kreacher, or knelt on Malfoy’s bed and ordered him around. If he remained under the house’s influence, then the person Ron was talking to might die, and Harry might never realize exactly where he had gone.
He needed to remember that.
“I can’t believe we have Potions first,” Ron was groaning now, ruffling his schedule as though the words would change if he shook it hard enough. “At least it’s not so bad under Slughorn as it was under Snape, right, mate?” He nudged Harry in the ribs with his elbow, making him grunt a little.
“You shouldn’t say that, Ron,” Hermione immediately jumped in. “Snape was a brilliant teacher, and he died defending us, and even though he had to do some horrible things because he was pretending to be a loyal Death Eater, he…”
Harry turned the conversation out. It was one of Hermione’s more frequent obsessions ever since they had got back to the castle. Harry half-wanted to tell her to go and ask Snape’s portrait in the Headmistress’s office if he thought of himself as a hero, but the problem with Hermione was that she would think it was a brilliant idea and promptly go do it.
Now Malfoy was drinking a cup of tea. He glanced up at Harry, met his eyes, and looked away again, a faint pallor stealing down his cheeks. Harry reckoned it was less revealing than a blush, but still. He wondered that he should have better control of his emotions than Malfoy, who had presumably been trained in doing that.
Harry glanced at his schedule, but what he wanted to know was when their free period arrived. Then he would go to the library. He could hardly wait.
*
“One of the first things you need is a haircut.”
Draco had arrived in the library to find Potter hunched over a table, reading a book that looked like it came from the Restricted Section. His scowl had already sent a few younger students hurrying away. Draco shook his head as he slid into the seat across from him. He was immune to the fearsome aura Potter was trying to project because he had to help the idiot, and meanwhile, he could take advantage of that to speak a few sensible words on the subject.
“What do you mean?” Potter scowled at him in turn, but Draco noticed that he didn’t command him to be silent. His hand reached up and tugged at his tangled hair instead.
“You look more and more like a Black every day,” Draco said, shaking his head wisely. He didn’t know that that was literally true, but it sounded good. And there was the chance that someone might notice Potter’s resemblance to a Black if they had occasion to think about it in any depth. “The hair enhances it. Remember those pictures they had of your mental godfather when he got loose? The way his mane hung around his face and floated like he never had a comb? That could make people think of you as like him.”
He shut up then, because Potter’s wand was digging into his thigh under the table. Potter leaned nearer and whispered, “He never had a comb, and he had a mane, because he was in Azkaban. They don’t exactly give you grooming implements in there!”
Draco held his mouth open, breathing shallowly. Then he shrugged and extended his hands. “Remember, Potter, I’m the only one who can help you with this. If you make me bleed out in the middle of the library, I don’t think it’ll help much.”
Potter cursed raggedly and pulled his wand back, resting it on the chair beside him, from the click. He ran his hand through that shaggy hair and whispered, “What’s happening to me? All these emotions…they’re not my own. I would have got upset if you’d said that about Sirius, but not enough to make me want to cut your leg open.”
So that was what would have happened. Draco managed to hang onto his calm expression, although it took an effort. “It’s the house, of course,” he said. “And someone’s going to notice soon. When they do, we have to keep them from looking in the right direction for a while. That’s why I recommended a haircut.”
Potter stared at him. “Then you don’t think I can keep it a secret from people?”
“No,” Draco said. “No more than I think you can escape from the house.” He rolled his eyes when Potter gaped at him. “The important thing is that we’re going to try, right? And we have to stay safe and away from notice long enough to try. So you need to cut your hair.”
“Fine,” Potter muttered, looking away, after a staring contest that Draco thought for sure he would lose. “I’ll cut my hair the minute I’m back in my rooms and have a spare half-hour-”
“It doesn’t take that long,” Draco said, wanting to laugh when Potter slewed around again and gaped at him like a monkey. He managed to confine it to a quiet chuckle and a shake of his head. “Anyway, I know a spell that will take a few minutes. But you can’t use it on yourself, unless you have eyes in the back of your head. Has the house let you grow those yet?”
He looked inquiringly at Potter, who scowled at him. He could be attractive, if he modified the hair and some of his expressions, Draco thought idly. He stood up and circled behind Potter. Potter’s hands slammed together on the library table, but he sat there, hissing between his teeth, as Draco rested his wand against the nape of Potter’s neck.
“Good,” Draco whispered. This close, he could see the pallor of Potter’s skin under his hair, a more natural pallor than the kind the house had put on his face, and he could smell sweat. “Now. Tondeo.”
The hair that he had indicated with a sweep of his wand fell away from Potter’s neck, and Draco Vanished it before it could hit the floor. He wanted no awkward questions about what it was doing there, and Potter was about as secret as an earthquake.
Potter started to stir, and Draco shook his head. “I’m not done yet. Tondeo,” he added, and took off some of the wild locks that clung around the left side of Potter’s fac.
This time, Potter sat still like a good little boy as Draco trimmed the right side and then stepped back to consider. He didn’t think he could construct the exact birds-nest look that Potter had had last year; it would attract attention in a different but equally bad way even if he could, he thought. So he settled for doing something that would make Potter look good. He rested the wand in the middle of Potter’s nape again and whispered, “Tondeo circa.”
Potter shuddered as the magic moved over him, and Draco let his hand rest for a moment on the skin revealed as the hair fell to the floor. Then he Vanished that, too, and stepped back, nodding. “There you are.”
Potter turned in his seat and looked at him.
Draco fell back one step, then another. He had seen that look in one very particular Black portrait-that of Pollux Black, who, even though he had married a Crabbe, was said to have been interested in his own sisters.
And the Blacks had married cousins before…
Draco turned and walked away. He forced himself to walk, despite the throb of hungry magic coming from behind him. He maintained a prim little pace, with his head proudly lifted, until he got out of the library.
Then he ran.
Chapter Twelve.
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