[From Samhain to the Solstice]: Pariahs, gen, R, 4/8

[lomonaaeren]

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Part Four

“And the winner of the second duel this morning is once again…Harry Potter!”

Harry half-bows his head and scoops up his opponent’s wand. She’s a fifteen-year-old, part-Veela witch from France, and her nails briefly flicker into claws. But she bows her head in the next moment, long blonde hair hanging down, and turns and leaves the dueling ring with no more than a sigh.

All of Harry’s opponents know what he’s going to ask for as his forfeit going into the ring. Some of the others ask for money—that’s the most common—or the cloaks their opponents are wearing, or rings or jewels, or to see their soul-marks. That last one always gets people gasping, but they do it anyway.

Harry shrugs a little as he thinks about it. Yeah, they’re pretty stupid, but then, they don’t know the things he does. And here, on the international underage dueling circuit, his markless state doesn’t matter so much. Other countries pay less attention to that than to the fact that he can win his duels each and every time.

Harry is only thirteen now—soon to be fourteen—but two years of tutelage with Albus have made him formidable. That’s what he concentrated on his last two years at Hogwarts, dueling, doing just enough work in his classes to pass them. Albus agrees with him that his projects with the house-elves and the goblins are more important than school, but he insisted that his tutoring would stop immediately if Harry outright failed his exams.

Harry considers that a fair enough price. He’s learning too much to want to abandon their bargain.

He hasn’t got far out of the dueling ring before a man bustles up to him. Harry narrows his eyes a little. The way the man eyes him but subtly leans back from Harry says that he’s British, and Harry doesn’t particularly consider most British wizards or witches worth dealing with anymore.

“Ah, Harry Potter, is it?” The man gives a theatrical cough. “If I could speak with you?”

“What do you want with my great-nephew?”

Used to it though he is by now, Harry has to bite his lips to keep from grinning at Albus’s creaky voice when he’s in disguise, and how different it sounds from his normal one. Albus stumps up to the side of the dueling ring—they’re in one of the large buildings the tournaments always take place in, this one an old Muggle cathedral placed under Unplottable spells ages ago, and the duels are held on small floating platforms ringed with silver thread—and pokes at the British wizard with his blackthorn cane.

“Who are you, young man? Eh? Eh?”

Albus’s illusory disguise has a bristling grey beard so big that it takes up most of his face, and an entirely bald head, and a tattoo on his forehead of a dagger dripping blood. People stare at the tattoo and the beard—and sometimes the cane, the way the man backing away is doing now—and forget everything else about him.

“I, er. My name is Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports in the British Ministry of Magic.” The man pauses and clears his throat. “We, ah, we are looking to bring dueling tournaments into Britain. We’d be delighted to host an extensive one this year at Hogwarts, for example, and give the Hogwarts students who don’t usually have the money to travel abroad the chance to compete.”

Right, Harry thinks, keeping his face still without an effort even as his mind drawls out the sarcastic response. He’s had a lot of practice in that vital skill the last few years at Hogwarts.

“Mr. Potter here is quite good,” Bagman says, and beams at Harry, as if he thinks that will make up for the way that he’s still keeping some distance between them. “I was thrilled to watch you, Mr. Potter! Do you think you would consent to participate in the tournament?”

“I don’t think I’d be allowed,” Harry says, and raises his eyebrows a little when Bagman starts to splutter out a protest. “Really, Mr. Bagman, think about it. Most people in Britain think I’m a dirty monster who shouldn’t be attending school with pure children. I don’t even sleep in the same room as the rest of my yearmates because they insisted I be moved. Why would they consent to dueling me?”

Only two people at Hogwarts have, in the years since Draco Malfoy. Both of them tried to ambush Harry later to get their wands back. One of them, Harry saw coming, and she only had to spend a week in the hospital wing.

The other, he didn’t see coming, which meant Misty took care of the seventh-year Slytherin boy who tried to use the Killing Curse with a borrowed wand. As far as everyone else is concerned, it was a mysterious disappearance. Misty hid the body well.

“I, well.” Bagman tugs on the collar of his robes. “It would bring much-needed attention to Britain, as I said.”

Positive attention for Britain is in short supply at the moment, Harry has to agree smugly. Hogwarts elves can be devious when it comes to plans that disrupt trade deals, international meetings, interactions with the Muggle world, and trials. Sometimes all it takes is to cast a little spell all the elves know that will make the words coming out of someone’s mouth sound like something else.

The chaos is affecting some people whose families Harry has reason to be cautious about, like the Malfoys, and keeping their attention off him. But it also has the positive effect of showing elves what they’re capable of and enabling them to throw off servile behaviors. Now, in private, with Harry and Albus, they mostly behave as if they’re worth something.

They can’t break the binding that refuses to let them eat in the presence of humans, yet, but that’s all right. Harry’s sure they’ll be able to break it someday.

“Convince people at Hogwarts to duel me, for my usual forfeit, and I’d consent,” Harry says. He glances at Albus as he starts to poke Bagman with his stick again. “Great-Uncle Corvus, please.”

“Young man. Newfangled ideas. What does he think he’s doing, bringing up all these newfangled ideas? In my day, we dueled outside in the snow naked and we liked it.”

Harry conceals his laugh in his sleeve with difficulty. Albus really is hilarious when he gets going in his disguise as Corvus Redwood.

And even better, they’ve managed to establish Corvus Redwood, Harry’s unexpectedly Muggleborn great-uncle from Lily’s side of the family, thoroughly enough that the summer between his first and second years was the last time he stayed with the Dursleys.

“Yes, er.” Bagman stares at Albus as if hoping to come close to understanding him, gives that up as a bad job, and looks at Harry again. “We would have an easier time getting permission for you to participate if you would consent to claim some other forfeit than your opponents’ wands, Mr. Potter.”

“But that’s what I want,” Harry says pleasantly. “I demand to be allowed to claim wands as my forfeit and to participate fully in the dueling tournaments if they’re to be held at Hogwarts. Otherwise, I won’t enter.”

Bagman spends a moment fidgeting with his tie and looking around as if he expects someone to come up and help him make the decision. Then he straightens with a long sigh and nods at Harry.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says, and disappears in the crowd.

Harry glances at Albus, who is still having fun intimidating everyone around him with his beard and tattoo (which half the time people think is a soul-mark, and they obviously want to ask why he has a soul-mark on his forehead and is showing it to people, but they never dare). “Come on, Great-Uncle. Let’s go home.”

*

“Greetings, Griphook.”

Albus watches as Harry welcomes the goblin to their home. He knows so many wizards and witches who would have trouble with this, and not all of them purebloods. Muggleborns tend to absorb the attitudes of the world around them, especially if they’re “soulmates” with purebloods. Even those who aren’t tend to decide that goblins are impoverished by their lack of soul-marks, and avoid speaking with them as much as possible.

It’s obvious that Harry sees Griphook as a true equal, and that’s something he decided on his own, before Albus ever got the chance to teach him.

Harry is growing into a powerful young man, Albus thinks, as he waves his wand and gestures the goblin-sized chair they purchased some time ago over from the corner. (Harry can use his wand in the summer tournaments because of a special dispensation granted to all Hogwarts students who participate in formal underage duels, but not for something as simple as this, which amuses Albus to no end). He has a sharp look in his eyes, but a ready smile—magic that practically beats around him like wings, but a humility that draws his non-human allies to him.

Lily and James would be proud of him, Albus thinks, as he sits down and prepares to listen to the latest conclusions from the goblin research team.

“We have located the era when we believe the binding to hold the house-elves prisoner was cast,” Griphook announces, sitting in the chair and nodding as Albus’s tea set makes tea for him even stronger than Albus and Harry drink. “Within a span of a few years in the ninth century. However, there is a problem with attempting to get more information.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“The time and magic around that period are twisted.”

Harry blinks and turns to Albus for answers, which pleases him. He doesn’t have good news for Harry this time, unfortunately. “It’s something powerful wizards can do when there are enough of them working together, especially if powered by a ritual or a—sacrifice.” He clears his throat. He can’t say that word without picturing the remains of poor Elaina Fawcett, Tom Riddle’s soulmate. Albus was the one who found them, arriving too late to save her. “They do not want others to easily investigate the ritual or the sacrifice and find the means to reverse it. They twist both magic and time to protect themselves, so that history books that might report information concerning it are rendered blank or written in gibberish, and those who might attempt to find answers through spells discover that the spells simply fail.”

Harry’s eyes narrow a little. “Voldemort did that to obscure how he broke his soulmate bond and became immortal.”

Albus nods. “Otherwise, I would have put an end to him long before I became a Headmaster and found myself trapped by the political consequences of the position. I swear to you.”

Harry smiles at him. “I never doubted that, sir. It’s not your fault my parents died.” He turns back to Griphook. “Is there any way to pierce through that twisting and see the truth?”

“It will take a combination of goblin and wizard magic.” Griphook leans forwards and stares at Harry intently. “We have never tried it before because we had no wizard or witch we trusted enough, but we know the theory.”

“Let me serve—”

“I can do it as well.”

Griphook looks at Albus with faint surprise. Then he turns back to Harry. “You are the only one we trust enough to do it. And frankly,” he looks at Albus again, this time with a harder glint in his eyes, “the fact that he has a mark and no one else in the group would might make the ritual impossible.”

Albus winces. It’s not the first time that his soul-mark has been a liability. You’d think he would be used to it by now.

“Well.” Harry’s eyes are shining. “Tell me what we need to do.”

*

Hermione stands on her tiptoes so she can read the sign about the dueling tournament. It’s pretty high up on the wall, but with so many students surging between them and it, it’s a miracle she can make out what she does.

“A dueling tournament!” Ron smiles next to her. He’s shot up again over the summer, and his eyes have deepened, or Hermione thinks they have, to a color like the sky after sunset. Hermione glances at him softly. She loves him so much, this destined part of her soul. “Do you think anyone can enter?”

“It says anyone fourteen or above,” Hermione repeats breathlessly. “Different set of rules for of-age students and underage ones, of course.”

“Of course.” Ron rubs his hands together. “I think I know just how to win this…”

A loud laugh interrupts them. Hermione scowls over her shoulder at Draco Malfoy. He’s hand-in-hand with Astoria Greengrass, a second-year who apparently has his soul-mark. Hermione feels sorry for the girl. No one should be condemned to share every day and night with such a git.

But if Astoria loves him…

“Listen to Weasley, bragging about winning a dueling tournament, as if he could even afford the forfeit!” Malfoy taunts, which sets Ron off, but Hermione finds her eyes locked on Greengrass’s face. It’s deathly pale, and come to think of it, she’s rather thin.

Does she eat regular meals in the Great Hall? Hermione tries to think about it, and can’t remember the last time she saw Greengrass there. Then again, she doesn’t regularly pay attention to the Slytherin table.

Greengrass seems to realize Hermione is looking at her. She averts her eyes and tugs on Malfoy’s arm. “Come on, Draco,” she whispers. “The presence of all these people is making me nauseated.”

“Anything for my future bride,” Malfoy says at once, turning around and smiling at her with something that really does soften his face. “It’s probably the presence of these Mudbloods.”

Hermione feels a hot flash of anger as Malfoy and Greengrass strut away. It seems that Greengrass is a blood purist just like her soulmate—which would make sense, of course. They wouldn’t be so well-matched otherwise. Hermione should just forget about her. Even if there is something really wrong, the girl obviously won’t thank Hermione for interfering.

Yet Greengrass’s haunted face remains in Hermione’s thoughts for weeks afterwards. There’s something haunting itself about that vision, one she can’t shake.

*

Harry smiles a little as he steps into Snape’s classroom. The man glares at him, but gives him plenty of room. So do Harry’s classmates, given that Harry has turned taking offense into an art form, and they know he’ll use any excuse to fight a duel and claim their wands.

Malfoy’s second wand still doesn’t work well for him, which Harry thinks is funny as hell.

The other students trickle into the class. They avoid him, but at this point, it’s almost kind of an instinctive thing. Harry sits down and takes out his Potions textbook, which always has clearer instructions than the ones Snape barks at them and flails about.

“Put that book away, Potter!”

Harry looks up at Snape evenly. All the other students have their books open (or at least, they do if they’re smart and not too occupied with smiling soppily at their soulmates). “Why? I thought we needed the instructions for the potion.”

“Put that book away, Potter,” Snape snarls, nice and low, the way he does when he doesn’t want to admit Harry has a point. “Otherwise, I’ll make sure that you can’t participate in the dueling tournament.”

That would be a punishment worth obeying Snape for, but Harry has a secret weapon. “Well, that will disappoint Mr. Bagman,” he says.

Snape freezes, his eyes on Harry as if he thinks Harry is about to turn into smoke or something similar. “What?”

“Mr. Bagman came and found me when I was in the middle of an international dueling tournament to tell me they were considering holding one at Hogwarts.” Harry leans forwards a little, smiling easily. “And he asked if I would be the main attraction. He did promise that he would change things a little bit so I could participate. He’ll be so disappointed if he hears that I can’t.”

Snape trembles for a moment with what Harry thinks is helplessness and rage both. Harry watches dispassionately. A lot of people are miserable in the hellscape that their obsession with soul-marks turns the magical world into, but Snape could have done things like find someone to help, or work for freedom. Instead, he just bullies people, and adds to their misery.

“Detention on Saturday night, Potter,” Snape says at last, and turns away.

Parkinson is predictably laughing and saying something about how Harry is the Slytherin even Snape agrees shouldn’t be in their House, since he’s the only Slytherin Snape ever gives detention to. Harry smiles at her.

“Still not over Malfoy finding his soulmate in someone else?” he asks, audibly.

Parkinson’s face pales, and she turns away from him. That’s all Harry wants, and he goes back to brewing his potion.

He wonders how their faces will change, on the day house-elves gain their freedom, and they find out goblins are wielding wands. Harry is petty enough to hope that both things happen at the same time, and that he can ask the elves to walk around with cameras and take pictures of purebloods’ faces.

A lot will depend, of course, on the ritual he’s going to perform with the goblins over the Christmas holidays.

*

Hermione is washing her hands after using the loo when she hears a noise that doesn’t seem to be running water. She turns off the faucet and draws her wand with a little frown. For all that she’s Ron’s soulmate, there are some people who consider her soul-mark not legitimate but somehow a consequence of Dark Arts, and they’ll hex her if they catch her alone.

But the sound isn’t someone creeping up while muttering spells under their breath, the way Hermione first thought. It’s someone softly crying.

Hermione hesitates, but she can’t just leave the girl there to sob, whoever it is. She walks over to the cubicle with the tears coming from behind it and knocks hesitantly on the door.

There’s the sound of someone trying to stifle her sobs, but it apparently doesn’t work. That just strengthens Hermione’s resolve to help. “Can I come in?” she asks. “Please? I won’t hurt you.”

There’s a pause this time, and Hermione does her best to wait patiently, a skill her parents have said she has to cultivate. Then the cubicle door swings open, and a small girl with wet eyes peers around it.

“Greengrass?” Hermione asks in astonishment. It’s true that she looked haunted on that first day Hermione really noticed her and has every day since, but Hermione somehow didn’t think of her as the kind of person who creeps away to cry in the loo.

Greengrass wipes her hands across her eyes. Feeling awkward, Hermione takes out her handkerchief and offers it. Greengrass carefully wipes her eyes and blows her nose, which takes a long moment.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks.

Greengrass wavers, and Hermione tries to look as open and helpful as she can. Then Greengrass finally breathes out and says, “You’re Muggleborn, maybe you’ll understand better than a pureblood.”

Hermione wants to be offended at the remark about her blood status, but she doesn’t know for sure that it’s an insult, so she just nods and waits. Greengrass takes a deep breath and says, “It’s Draco. It’s—my mark.”

“But he should be your perfect match, right?” Hermione wonders for a second if Greengrass thinks she should be matched with someone else instead. Then her mind jumps to a possibility that makes her sick, but which she has to name. “Is he—hitting you? Hurting you?”

Greengrass looks up at her with wide eyes, then shakes her head frantically. “Oh, no, no! You must see how gentle and careful he is with me whenever we’re in public.” She closes her eyes.

Hermione has seen that, which makes Greengrass’s remark make less than no sense. She says lamely, “Well, I—I don’t know. What is it about your mark?”

“Draco should be my perfect match,” Greengrass says bitterly, and wipes her eyes again. “I know that. Our marks are exactly the same. That means we’re one soul in two bodies. I know all the stories.” Her eyes well up again. “But—but—I d-don’t—I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Hermione says, more concerned than ever. It has to be something extreme if Greengrass can feel this way even though she knows the marks are exact matches. “You can tell me.”

“I don’t like boys!” Greengrass wails, and begins to sob again.

Hermione’s mouth falls open. She has no idea what to do with that. It’s true that Muggles are probably more accepting of lesbian women than purebloods are, but in the magical world, Hermione had the impression that—

Gay people don’t exist. They—just don’t. Everyone knows that men who match with men or women who match with women must have used Dark Arts on their marks.

Hermione holds out her arms, helplessly, and Greengrass crawls into them and clings to Hermione as she cries. Hermione smooths her hand down Greengrass’s tumbling blonde hair and tries to say soothing things, while her mind is half-blank and half-reeling.

Even if people can use Dark Arts to alter their marks, does that mean there’s never anyone born who has the wrong mark? Who wants girls but is matched with a boy? Does the force that makes people have soul-marks ever get it wrong?

Hermione pauses. It’s disturbing to her that she’s never even questioned this before, that she believed what people told her without question. Sure, she has a bad habit of just deciding books and adults are right, she knows that, but this isn’t even books and adults! It’s Ron and other girls in Gryffindor who told her that marks always match exactly or nearly exactly and there are no gay people in the magical world.

Hermione sits there with Greengrass in her arms, still crying, and feels stupid, something she hasn’t felt very often in her life.

I didn’t even question where soul-marks came from. I just thought mine was a weird birthmark until Professor McGonagall came and talked to me, and that was enough of an explanation for me and my parents. Why can’t soul-marks have more than one explanation? Why do they have to mean one soul in two bodies, or the only person you can ever date and love? I don’t know why people think that. Who determined that?

What makes soul-marks, anyway?

Greengrass’s tears are winding down, and she’s starting to sit up and start back from Hermione, as if she thinks Hermione will make fun of her. Hermione touches her chin until Greengrass looks up. “Listen,” Hermione whispers. “I’ll keep this a secret, if you want—”

Greengrass nods fervently.

“But I want to tell you that it’s not wrong. Liking girls isn’t wrong, even if you’re a girl. It’s just something that happens.” Hermione doesn’t know all that much about gay people, honestly, and Greengrass looks utterly unconvinced. Hermione takes a deep breath and decides to share some of her other thoughts instead. “Think of it this way. Who made the marks?”

“They’re not made,” Greengrass says blankly. “You’re born with them.”

“I know,” Hermione says, and tries to hold down her impatience. It’ll just alienate Greengrass if she doesn’t. “But just, what determines them? Is it magic itself? I’ve never heard anyone say that. Is it fate? That’s what some people say, but they don’t seem to agree with each other about how it happens. What if—what if the force that made the marks also makes a mistake, sometimes? You shouldn’t be Malfoy’s. Or he shouldn’t be yours. Sometimes it can make a mistake.” Hermione watches Greengrass’s mouth fall open, and tries to smile encouragingly. “If you think of that, it might help you to be a little happier.”

“Thank you,” Greengrass says in a dead voice. “But it’s not going to help. No matter what made a mistake or that I don’t—” She shudders. “I still have to marry him.”

“No, you don’t!”

Greengrass looks up, shaking her head a little. “Don’t you think I know my choices? My parents and his parents both want it. And Draco’s in love with me. He thinks I’m in love with him.” Greengrass blows her nose with Hermione’s handkerchief again and holds it out. “Here. Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t dry it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” Hermione tucks the handkerchief away into her robe pocket. “And I promise, Greengrass, I’ll make it so you don’t have to marry him. I’m going to find out what’s making the mistakes and set you free. And other people free. Have you ever considered that there must be other people out there, who are matched with the wrong people or have the wrong marks?”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes, it does! I’ll change it!”

Greengrass gives her a small smile. “That would be wonderful to believe, Hermione. I’m sorry I can’t believe it.” She hesitates. “You can call me Astoria.”

“Thank you, Astoria.” Hermione knows that’s a big deal. It’s not often that a pureblood grants a Muggleborn they’d not soulmated to the courtesy of a first name. “And I promise, I’m going to find a way to fix this. Before you have to marry him.”

Astoria touches her shoulder and then leaves the bathroom, clearly not believing her. Hermione stands up immediately and marches in the direction of the library.

She will fix this. She will find the research that convinces people. Part of her wants to say that if it exists, someone would have found it already, but that’s not necessarily true. People chatter about soul-marks all the time, but there aren’t that many books on the topic that Hermione has found.

Maybe the research is out there, in pieces, and Hermione is the one who can put it together and make people believe her.

She has to. Arranged marriages are barbaric. And if there really are gay people in the magical world, they don’t deserve to be married to people who they don’t want to marry, either.

*

“And the first duel is between…Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory!”

Harry smiles a little as he steps up onto the floating platform next to the Hogwarts lake. Bagman is doing his best to imitate the setup of the international dueling tournaments. The platform is perfectly steady, but the way it hovers looks to be making his opponent nervous.

Diggory is a sixth-year Hufflepuff, and not a bad bloke—and that’s about it for Harry’s limited knowledge of him. But he still has a soul-mark, and swans around with the girl who has the matching mark as if there’s no one else important in the world, and looks uncomfortable at being in an enclosed space with Harry.

Harry plays on that nervousness, looking thoughtfully at Diggory’s arms as if he’s considering the best way to destroy his soul-mark. Diggory clutches his wand, and completely misses the clanging bell that signals the start of the duel.

Harry flings himself at Diggory. Diggory yelps and dances backwards, and Harry’s conjured mud, already on the floor of the platform behind Diggory, catches the Hufflepuff’s ankles and trips him. Harry is on him in the next moment.

But Diggory is two years older, and apparently they’re not so much slouches in Hufflepuff as Harry thought. He Transfigures a golden knob on the wires around the platform into a small dog, who leaps barking at Harry and bites his ankles.

Harry kicks the dog away, but it gives Diggory a moment to jump to his feet. They circle each other, Harry being forced to Transfigure the mud back to normal platform surface and sacrifice a moment to undo the Transfiguration on the dog so that it’ll stop trying to bite him.

“Confringo!” Diggory shouts.

Harry appreciates having an opponent who takes him seriously, even though the spell speeding towards him now is a hard one to stop. Unless you’ve been trained by Albus bloody Dumbledore, of course.

“Protego Speculum!”

The shield that forms in front of Harry is gleaming and silvery and rather like a mirror. Diggory is seeing his own startled face, Harry knows, and most people who haven’t seen this spell before are disoriented for at least a second, not expecting it to look like anything but a normal Shield Charm.

Diggory is indeed silent, except for his panting, for a moment. Then he screams.

The shield is like a mirror in every way, and has reflected Diggory’s Confringo straight back at him.

There’s more than one murmur as Harry drops his shield and walks towards Diggory. He’s not dead, since the spell caught him in the shoulder instead of the chest or the head, but he’s whimpering as if he’s dying. Harry sneers a little. House-elves get worse than that from their “masters” in five minutes of punishment.

Diggory’s shoulder is obviously broken, and he’s pawing at his sleeve and moaning, which means his (rather small) soul-mark is visible. Harry memorizes it with a glance, just in case it’s useful someday. It’s a white tiger lying in green grass beneath a gleaming sun.

Diggory cringes some more when he sees Harry looking at his mark. Harry ignores him and scoops up Diggory’s wand.

“Winner of the first duel is Harry Potter!” Bagman announces jubilantly.

There’s not a lot of cheering, probably because most people bet against Harry or think it’s terrible that a markless boy won the duel. Harry doesn’t care. His eyes are locked with the eyes of a certain disguised old wizard in the second row of seats, and the shimmer in the air next to him that marks Misty’s presence.

Albus winks at him. Harry winks back, and wonders which goblin will bond with Diggory’s wand.