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lomonaaerenTitle: Betrothal Song
Pairing: Harry/Blaise
Content Notes: Angst, temporary character death, AU beginning from sixth year
Rating: PG-13
Potter scanned the piece of parchment he was unrolling so carefully that Blaise couldn’t help the way his eyes narrowed, or the comment that made its way up his throat.
“You know we’re not trying to trap you with this, Potter.”
“I know.” Potter glanced up at him. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this at all if I thought you were.”
And that shut Blaise up, the reminder that he and his mother were the ones asking Potter for a favor and not the other way around. He folded his arms and tried not to pace around the odd room on the seventh floor Potter had brought him to. For some reason, it was decorated with a mixture of red and green chairs that made it look like a Gryffindor and Slytherin married couple had had a quarrel here.
Married couple.
Blaise darted a glance at the parchment Potter held, with golden seals at top and bottom, and decided not to think about it.
Potter finally finished reading the contract and looked up at him. “How does it help keep you safe if it’s a secret betrothal contract?”
Blaise almost wanted to slump at the sensible question. Being betrothed to Potter wouldn’t be that painful after all if he wasn’t a moron. “It’s for producing at the last minute if I get arrested as a Death Eater on general suspicion,” he explained. “I’m not Marked.” Potter nodded. The contract, in fact, promised that Blaise would never take the Mark. “It’s a legal protection for me with our Ministry.”
“But it doesn’t protect you from the Death Eaters, does it?”
“It would at least buy me some time while they try to figure out what to do with me instead of killing me immediately.”
“Or it will get you killed immediately.”
Blaise straightened his shoulders. “I’m a target already because my mother won’t brew for them, Potter. And Dumbledore is dying now, which destroys our initial plan of going to him. Are you going to sign it or not?”
Potter took one last searching glance at him, and then nodded. “Just making sure you knew the consequences of being betrothed to me,” he muttered, and signed the contract. The flare of light that surrounded them made Blaise put his hand over his eyes, even though he’d expected it.
Well, not expected it, actually. He’d been sure that Potter was only playing for time and would dither around or find some other reason to never sign the contract.
“Here.” Potter held out the betrothal contract to him. Blaise took it and averted his eyes from the signatures on the bottom.
“I wasn’t sure you would sign it,” Blaise said, and breathed out. “Why did you?” The rumors going around the school recently seemed to indicate that Potter was dating Weasley’s sister.
Potter gave him a faint smile. “If I can protect you, I will And I don’t expect to survive the war, really. Then you’ll be free.” He slipped out of the room before Blaise could find the right words to answer.
*
Blaise hadn’t bothered to explain the magic of the contract, other than that it would be binding and stop either of them from dating or kissing other people. Potter hadn’t seemed to care about that.
But another thing the contract did was change color depending on the physical and emotional state of the last person who had signed it. Potter hadn’t asked for his own copy, so he didn’t see it. Blaise could, though.
Near the end of sixth year, on the night of the awful battle that saw Dumbledore’s death and could have seen Blaise turned into a werewolf thanks to Malfoy’s carelessness, the contract turned a deep indigo. It remained like that through much of the weeks and months that followed, although sometimes it acquired red streaks that Blaise knew meant physical injury or spring-green shoots of determination.
Blaise spread out the contract before himself sometimes, if he had a private moment in the crowded Slytherin common room or the library when he was hiding from the Carrows, and stared at the color of it, touching the fine indigo parchment. His and Potter’s signatures blazed on their lines, bright enough to be seen despite the dark color of the contract.
The indigo, the color of despair, never varied, except for those brief additions of other colors.
Blaise wondered what it was like for Potter, to feel despair all the time and then keep walking around and bearing forwards anyway. If maybe, if they’d signed a contract before sixth year, it would have been indigo most of the time, too.
*
Potter returned to Hogwarts near the end of Blaise’s mockery of a seventh year, and his eyes were wide and shining in a way that Blaise didn’t like. Potter took the time to look briefly towards him, as if checking Blaise for wounds. Then he nodded and looked away.
Not singling him out. Keeping him safe.
Blaise didn’t understand the resentment burning in his chest, the sensation that Potter should have given him some greater acknowledgment. This keeping their betrothal a secret was exactly what he had requested, after all.
Then the Dark Lord commanded everyone to deliver Potter to them, and Pansy made her absurd comment, and Blaise caught himself snarling at her. He snatched his emotions sharply back and looked around from beneath lowered eyelids. Luckily, no one seemed to be paying attention to him. They were all too concerned with their own survival, their own fates.
Which I should be, too. What the hell is wrong with me?
Blaise’s mother had assured him, when they came up with the plan, that there was no way the betrothal contract could influence him, Blaise. It wouldn’t magically alter his feelings or force him to protect Potter or do anything else. Blaise’s mother had even predicted, accurately, that it wouldn’t need that kind of influence on Potter, although some contracts could. Potter would want to protect Blaise because that was just who he was.
Now Blaise was finding out that he was apparently that kind of person, too.
He did not enjoy it.
*
Blaise went with the other Slytherins, of course. The whole point of the contract and the gambit he and his mother had undertaken was so that he could survive the war. Staying behind and getting involved in the battle would have been worse than useless.
But Blaise took the contract with him. As the Slytherins milled about just outside the grounds, grumbling and discussing whether the ones who could Apparate should take the younger ones, Blaise looked at his contract, keeping it rolled up, simply tracing the parchment.
Then the indigo color abruptly all bled out of the contract.
Blaise narrowed his eyes, wondering what in the world could have happened to alleviate Potter’s despair. Then he saw a bit of light shining from inside the contract. He unrolled it.
Potter’s signature was gone.
Blaise felt numbness pulse through his body. There was only one way that could have happened without the utter destruction of the contract.
And I don’t expect to survive the war, really. Then you’ll be free.
Blaise dropped to the ground. He wasn’t aware of doing it. He ignored the way that Pansy was touching his shoulder, asking him in a hushed voice if he was okay. He didn’t want to deal with her right now.
I don’t expect to survive the war, really.
Potter had gone out and surrendered to the Dark Lord. Blaise knew it with every fiber of his being. He would have done it to save everyone, the same way he had signed the contract to save Blaise. Maybe it had never even occurred to him to do anything else.
Blaise didn’t know he was crying until a tear splashed on the contract, and then he wiped at it furiously. This was stupid. He and Potter had never even kissed. It had been purely a political contract, meant to keep Blaise safe. Potter had agreed to that.
The tears came anyway.
*
When someone told Blaise that Potter was actually alive, he didn’t believe it.
He was one of the few Slytherins who had gone and hidden in Hogsmeade instead of Apparating somewhere else. He saw a few people going back to the battle, but honestly, Blaise didn’t know why. There wasn’t anything they could do to help, nothing that a few people could add to the resistance against a triumphant Dark Lord.
Blaise wouldn’t have been able to help, anyway. His (stupid, misplaced) grief was distracting him too much.
Someone tapped him heavily on the shoulder, and Blaise looked up. There was a fire blazing away in front of them in a small hearth, and Blaise blamed that for the hazy circles of light forming in front of his eyes that didn’t let him see the person’s face.
“War’s over,” said a hoarse voice. “Potter won.”
“How can you say that when he died?” Blaise snarled, words he hadn’t known he was going to speak until he said them, either.
The figure stepped back and seemed to evaluate him for a second. “Didn’t hear, did you?” they said at last. “Potter was dead, sure, but he came back to life. He fought You-Know-Who and You-Know-Who’s the one who died. Potter’s up at the castle right now, arranging things, I’m sure.”
There might have been more to hear, but Blaise never heard it. He had already flung himself to his feet and onto the path that led up to the castle.
*
Blaise walked into the Great Hall, and Potter was there. Alive.
Maybe the stupid contract had had some effect on Blaise after all, because he seemed to feel the radiant warmth of Potter’s magic, and he knew exactly what direction to walk in to get there. Potter was standing and talking with the Weasley girl he’d dated for part of sixth year. He looked up warily when Blaise came up to him, gripping his wand for a moment.
Then he recognized Blaise, and he dropped his grip on his wand and stepped forwards with his hand held out.
“You survived,” he breathed. “I’m glad.”
Those words were no excuse for what happened next, but maybe Blaise had got tired of excuses. He seized Potter’s hand and hauled him into a hard, messy kiss.
Potter’s nose smashed into his. Then the rims of his glasses dug into Blaise’s cheeks. Blaise could not have given less of a shit. Potter’s lips were against his, warm and tingling, and his free hand was flailing around for a second before it settled on Blaise’s shoulder, and his magic beat against Blaise’s skin like a fire.
Alive.
Blaise pulled back and ignored the gawking of the people around them, setting his hands on Potter’s shoulders. “I want another contract, Harry,” he said.
Harry studied him for a second. “The one we had was just political, though.”
“This one,” Blaise said, leaning close to him, “won’t be.”
And from the way Harry’s eyes lit up, Blaise had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t the only one who might have found a symbol of hope in what “should” have been an ordinary political gesture.
Harry reached up to touch the side of his face.
And this time, he was the one who leaned up to kiss Blaise, ignoring the squabbling that had broken out around them.
Mine, Blaise thought, smugly, even if he shouldn’t have been, he is now, and kissed him back.
Pairing: Harry/Blaise
Content Notes: Angst, temporary character death, AU beginning from sixth year
Rating: PG-13
Potter scanned the piece of parchment he was unrolling so carefully that Blaise couldn’t help the way his eyes narrowed, or the comment that made its way up his throat.
“You know we’re not trying to trap you with this, Potter.”
“I know.” Potter glanced up at him. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this at all if I thought you were.”
And that shut Blaise up, the reminder that he and his mother were the ones asking Potter for a favor and not the other way around. He folded his arms and tried not to pace around the odd room on the seventh floor Potter had brought him to. For some reason, it was decorated with a mixture of red and green chairs that made it look like a Gryffindor and Slytherin married couple had had a quarrel here.
Married couple.
Blaise darted a glance at the parchment Potter held, with golden seals at top and bottom, and decided not to think about it.
Potter finally finished reading the contract and looked up at him. “How does it help keep you safe if it’s a secret betrothal contract?”
Blaise almost wanted to slump at the sensible question. Being betrothed to Potter wouldn’t be that painful after all if he wasn’t a moron. “It’s for producing at the last minute if I get arrested as a Death Eater on general suspicion,” he explained. “I’m not Marked.” Potter nodded. The contract, in fact, promised that Blaise would never take the Mark. “It’s a legal protection for me with our Ministry.”
“But it doesn’t protect you from the Death Eaters, does it?”
“It would at least buy me some time while they try to figure out what to do with me instead of killing me immediately.”
“Or it will get you killed immediately.”
Blaise straightened his shoulders. “I’m a target already because my mother won’t brew for them, Potter. And Dumbledore is dying now, which destroys our initial plan of going to him. Are you going to sign it or not?”
Potter took one last searching glance at him, and then nodded. “Just making sure you knew the consequences of being betrothed to me,” he muttered, and signed the contract. The flare of light that surrounded them made Blaise put his hand over his eyes, even though he’d expected it.
Well, not expected it, actually. He’d been sure that Potter was only playing for time and would dither around or find some other reason to never sign the contract.
“Here.” Potter held out the betrothal contract to him. Blaise took it and averted his eyes from the signatures on the bottom.
“I wasn’t sure you would sign it,” Blaise said, and breathed out. “Why did you?” The rumors going around the school recently seemed to indicate that Potter was dating Weasley’s sister.
Potter gave him a faint smile. “If I can protect you, I will And I don’t expect to survive the war, really. Then you’ll be free.” He slipped out of the room before Blaise could find the right words to answer.
*
Blaise hadn’t bothered to explain the magic of the contract, other than that it would be binding and stop either of them from dating or kissing other people. Potter hadn’t seemed to care about that.
But another thing the contract did was change color depending on the physical and emotional state of the last person who had signed it. Potter hadn’t asked for his own copy, so he didn’t see it. Blaise could, though.
Near the end of sixth year, on the night of the awful battle that saw Dumbledore’s death and could have seen Blaise turned into a werewolf thanks to Malfoy’s carelessness, the contract turned a deep indigo. It remained like that through much of the weeks and months that followed, although sometimes it acquired red streaks that Blaise knew meant physical injury or spring-green shoots of determination.
Blaise spread out the contract before himself sometimes, if he had a private moment in the crowded Slytherin common room or the library when he was hiding from the Carrows, and stared at the color of it, touching the fine indigo parchment. His and Potter’s signatures blazed on their lines, bright enough to be seen despite the dark color of the contract.
The indigo, the color of despair, never varied, except for those brief additions of other colors.
Blaise wondered what it was like for Potter, to feel despair all the time and then keep walking around and bearing forwards anyway. If maybe, if they’d signed a contract before sixth year, it would have been indigo most of the time, too.
*
Potter returned to Hogwarts near the end of Blaise’s mockery of a seventh year, and his eyes were wide and shining in a way that Blaise didn’t like. Potter took the time to look briefly towards him, as if checking Blaise for wounds. Then he nodded and looked away.
Not singling him out. Keeping him safe.
Blaise didn’t understand the resentment burning in his chest, the sensation that Potter should have given him some greater acknowledgment. This keeping their betrothal a secret was exactly what he had requested, after all.
Then the Dark Lord commanded everyone to deliver Potter to them, and Pansy made her absurd comment, and Blaise caught himself snarling at her. He snatched his emotions sharply back and looked around from beneath lowered eyelids. Luckily, no one seemed to be paying attention to him. They were all too concerned with their own survival, their own fates.
Which I should be, too. What the hell is wrong with me?
Blaise’s mother had assured him, when they came up with the plan, that there was no way the betrothal contract could influence him, Blaise. It wouldn’t magically alter his feelings or force him to protect Potter or do anything else. Blaise’s mother had even predicted, accurately, that it wouldn’t need that kind of influence on Potter, although some contracts could. Potter would want to protect Blaise because that was just who he was.
Now Blaise was finding out that he was apparently that kind of person, too.
He did not enjoy it.
*
Blaise went with the other Slytherins, of course. The whole point of the contract and the gambit he and his mother had undertaken was so that he could survive the war. Staying behind and getting involved in the battle would have been worse than useless.
But Blaise took the contract with him. As the Slytherins milled about just outside the grounds, grumbling and discussing whether the ones who could Apparate should take the younger ones, Blaise looked at his contract, keeping it rolled up, simply tracing the parchment.
Then the indigo color abruptly all bled out of the contract.
Blaise narrowed his eyes, wondering what in the world could have happened to alleviate Potter’s despair. Then he saw a bit of light shining from inside the contract. He unrolled it.
Potter’s signature was gone.
Blaise felt numbness pulse through his body. There was only one way that could have happened without the utter destruction of the contract.
And I don’t expect to survive the war, really. Then you’ll be free.
Blaise dropped to the ground. He wasn’t aware of doing it. He ignored the way that Pansy was touching his shoulder, asking him in a hushed voice if he was okay. He didn’t want to deal with her right now.
I don’t expect to survive the war, really.
Potter had gone out and surrendered to the Dark Lord. Blaise knew it with every fiber of his being. He would have done it to save everyone, the same way he had signed the contract to save Blaise. Maybe it had never even occurred to him to do anything else.
Blaise didn’t know he was crying until a tear splashed on the contract, and then he wiped at it furiously. This was stupid. He and Potter had never even kissed. It had been purely a political contract, meant to keep Blaise safe. Potter had agreed to that.
The tears came anyway.
*
When someone told Blaise that Potter was actually alive, he didn’t believe it.
He was one of the few Slytherins who had gone and hidden in Hogsmeade instead of Apparating somewhere else. He saw a few people going back to the battle, but honestly, Blaise didn’t know why. There wasn’t anything they could do to help, nothing that a few people could add to the resistance against a triumphant Dark Lord.
Blaise wouldn’t have been able to help, anyway. His (stupid, misplaced) grief was distracting him too much.
Someone tapped him heavily on the shoulder, and Blaise looked up. There was a fire blazing away in front of them in a small hearth, and Blaise blamed that for the hazy circles of light forming in front of his eyes that didn’t let him see the person’s face.
“War’s over,” said a hoarse voice. “Potter won.”
“How can you say that when he died?” Blaise snarled, words he hadn’t known he was going to speak until he said them, either.
The figure stepped back and seemed to evaluate him for a second. “Didn’t hear, did you?” they said at last. “Potter was dead, sure, but he came back to life. He fought You-Know-Who and You-Know-Who’s the one who died. Potter’s up at the castle right now, arranging things, I’m sure.”
There might have been more to hear, but Blaise never heard it. He had already flung himself to his feet and onto the path that led up to the castle.
*
Blaise walked into the Great Hall, and Potter was there. Alive.
Maybe the stupid contract had had some effect on Blaise after all, because he seemed to feel the radiant warmth of Potter’s magic, and he knew exactly what direction to walk in to get there. Potter was standing and talking with the Weasley girl he’d dated for part of sixth year. He looked up warily when Blaise came up to him, gripping his wand for a moment.
Then he recognized Blaise, and he dropped his grip on his wand and stepped forwards with his hand held out.
“You survived,” he breathed. “I’m glad.”
Those words were no excuse for what happened next, but maybe Blaise had got tired of excuses. He seized Potter’s hand and hauled him into a hard, messy kiss.
Potter’s nose smashed into his. Then the rims of his glasses dug into Blaise’s cheeks. Blaise could not have given less of a shit. Potter’s lips were against his, warm and tingling, and his free hand was flailing around for a second before it settled on Blaise’s shoulder, and his magic beat against Blaise’s skin like a fire.
Alive.
Blaise pulled back and ignored the gawking of the people around them, setting his hands on Potter’s shoulders. “I want another contract, Harry,” he said.
Harry studied him for a second. “The one we had was just political, though.”
“This one,” Blaise said, leaning close to him, “won’t be.”
And from the way Harry’s eyes lit up, Blaise had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t the only one who might have found a symbol of hope in what “should” have been an ordinary political gesture.
Harry reached up to touch the side of his face.
And this time, he was the one who leaned up to kiss Blaise, ignoring the squabbling that had broken out around them.
Mine, Blaise thought, smugly, even if he shouldn’t have been, he is now, and kissed him back.
