[This Lordship Business]: Seeking Whom He May Exasperate, 13/?, Harry/Theo

[lomonaaeren]

“Do you know why enchanted tridents were originally taken from the merfolk?”

“No.”

“Then how could you take it on yourself to return them?”

Harry blinks at Dumbledore. Theo is standing next to him, and so is Hermione, who did so much glaring that Harry thinks the Headmaster let her into the office out of pure intimidation. The rest of his followers got told to wait outside. If Harry knows them, they’ve managed to cast charms by now that have wormed through any protections Dumbledore has on his office to prevent eavesdropping, since the Headmaster bustled around with tea and lemon drops for ten minutes before asking his first question.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Harry asks slowly. “I mean, the school had old brooms when I first became Lord Slytherin, and maybe it was for a reason. But I didn’t go around asking anyone the reason. I just sold enough basilisk skin that I could get the money to buy new brooms. It was a problem, and I solved it.”

“Fawkes is so pretty today,” Ahalam sighs from Harry’s shoulder. “Look at the glorious bird.”

Fawkes, who flew above them on the way into the school and is now sitting on his perch near Dumbledore’s desk, twists his neck around in a way Harry didn’t know phoenixes could. It makes him look more like an owl. Then he ducks his head and croons.

“Please stop flirting with Fawkes in front of me,” Harry tells Ahalam.

“Lord Slytherin, are you paying attention?”

“I don’t know if I should, sir,” Harry says, and turns back to him. “Until you start making sense, anyway. Have you started making sense?”

Dumbledore takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. If Harry listens, he thinks he can hear Dumbledore counting to himself. It sounds like he might be going backwards from ten.

It’ll probably take more numbers than that for him to start making sense, honestly.

“There are delicate political considerations at play that you cannot understand,” Dumbledore says finally, opening his eyes. Harry’s not sure if this is the man making sense or not, but he’s willing to listen. “I told you that when you opposed the Tri-Wizard Tournament. We are on the verge of war with Voldemort.” He pauses, then looked disappointed when neither Theo nor Hermione jumps. But he plows on. “The last thing we need is to start making violent changes that will surprise and upset the magical population.”

“You mean the human magical population, sir?” Hermione asks, in a voice filled with sweetness.

“The human magical population, yes. That’s the way the Ministry thinks of it. That’s the way Hogwarts and the average person in Diagon Alley thinks of it. Trying to expand the definition is going to make them unwilling to support the war.”

Harry stares at Dumbledore, but he does seem to be serious. “If they’re unwilling to stand up against Voldemort because merfolk and goblins are getting some rights back, sir, I’m not sure they deserve to be saved.”

“Harry.”

“It’s not even that,” Theo says, leaning an elbow on Harry’s shoulder. Harry leans back. “They’re unwilling to stand up against Voldemort now. They were unwilling to stand up against him in the first war. It’s the only reason he was able to nearly win with as small an amount of Death Eaters as he had. People cowered in fear. Is that actually going to be different now?”

“It could be different. If you would stop pushing forwards and making such violent changes.”

“The average witch or wizard doesn’t even know about that, though, sir. I haven’t seen any stories in the Prophet about goblins using wands. And of course there won’t be ones about merfolk using tridents, when we just gave them one. I think your fears are getting the better of you.”

“Why would you do something so unnecessary and crushing now, Harry?”

“Unnecessary,” Harry says softly. “Sir, how many centuries have they been without tridents? Or wands, in the case of goblins?”

“It could still happen later.”

“And how many times have they heard that? How many times have humans promised something like that, only to turn their backs on other magical people when the time came or laugh at them or just forget? Or even attack them?”

“There are—there are reasons for that.”

“Of course. Someone who promised it dies, and the other people don’t want to keep their promise. Or they get tired and think the next generation can do it. Or they’re afraid, like with Voldemort. But it doesn’t matter, sir. For whatever reason, the promises haven’t been kept until now. I’m keeping them.”

“This isn’t the right moment for it.”

“Then it never will be,” Harry says, and stands up. Theo immediately moves to his side. “Thanks for the conversation, sir. I don’t think we need to have another one.”

“Harry, you must listen to me.”

“Or what?”

“You think—you think I brought you here to threaten you with consequences, instead of talk to you.”

“That’s the way you’ve spoken so far. Sir.”

Dumbledore clasps his trembling hands on the desk. He looks far older than he ever has, and his cursed hand looks as if it might start falling to pieces any second. “I did not mean to threaten you, my boy. Only provide you with another perspective that your ranks won’t have because they don’t include anyone as old as I am. Please. Think about it. Think about the disruptive influence you’re spreading, and how we need a calming one instead.”

Harry just sighs. “I’ll see you later, sir. But not for another conversation like this one. We’ve said all we have to say.”

When they leave the office, Theo starts to shut the door, but Fawkes flies out before he can. He lands on Harry’s free shoulder. Harry grunts from the weight. Then he feels something tickle behind his neck, and rolls his eyes.

“Are Fawkes and Ahalam touching each other behind my back?” he asks loudly.

“Yes,” Theo confirms.

“Oh, great,” Harry mutters, and walks quickly down the moving staircase, hoping to disrupt the kiss, or Ahalam’s tongue touching Fawkes’s beak, or whatever it is. “The two of you don’t need to be doing this.”

“You and the thin boy have done it in front of me many times. We are doing it where you cannot even see it.”

Harry wants to clap a hand over his eyes, but he’s coming in sight of Susan and Blaise and Ron and the others, who all look innocent in a way that guarantees they overheard Dumbledore’s stupid warning. He nods to them and ignores the way that some of them are looking at Fawkes and Ahalam. “Just another attempt to make me stop doing the right thing because something something frightened people, something something war with Voldemort.”

“And instead you’re going to keep doing the right thing,” Susan says, with sharp eyes.

“Of course.”

“Then what’s next on the agenda?”

“Sirius is pretty sure that he wasn’t the only person in Azkaban who was there wrongly, or without a trial, or just because someone paid enough money to someone else to ensure the trial was rigged.” Harry turns to Justin, who’s lounging against the wall next to Ron and watching him with his own sharp eyes. “How do you feel about going to the Ministry Archives again and searching for thin trial records? Or ones that should be there and are missing?”

Justin gives him a beatific smile.

*

LORD SLYTHERIN GIVES TRIDENTS TO MERFOLK!

Harry snorts at the Prophet headline. He would bet almost anything that Dumbledore blabbed. The paper probably doesn’t have contacts among the merfolk, and few of Harry’s people would talk to them for any reason, and most students wouldn’t be aware of what happened at the lake even if they saw it.

Although there is the traitor among my followers who claimed to the Ministry I was in a war against them.

Harry frowns pensively and tries to feed Ahalam a sausage. Ahalam turns his head away. “Cheese.”

“Look at that huge ball of cheese in the middle of your body. Once you digest that, then we can talk about more cheese.”

“When one has tasted the perfect food, all others pale in comparison.”

“Seriously, where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Phoenixes are immortal and they know many things.”

Harry starts to respond, but a barn owl suddenly dives at him, out from its safe place among the dozens of birds bringing in the morning post. Harry dodges on instinct. The bird slams into the table and rolls.

“It’s not a relative of Errol’s, is it?” Seamus asks, leaning over Harry’s shoulder to examine the bird and the letter strapped to its leg.

“Oi!” Ron says indignantly from down the table.

“I’m just saying that Errol is the only owl I know who did suicide runs on a regular basis—”

“He was old, he didn’t do suicide runs!”

“When a bird comes diving at your head, mate, it doesn’t really matter how old or young they are.”

Harry tunes out the argument and reaches for the letter. The owl is bouncing up and down, fluttering his wings. Harry frowns at him. He thinks he would remember any bird this excitable, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this owl before.

When he opens the letter, he does recognize the handwriting. He sighs and sits back, shaking his head.

Dear Harry,

I keep reading stories in the Prophet about things you’re doing and plans you’re making and how you’re going to go into politics after Hogwarts because it’s the only career that makes sense for Lord Slytherin. It’s really making me wonder how literate the average wizard is. Everyone knows that you’re going to become the greatest professional Seeker the world has ever seen, and play in every World Cup until you die.

I was wondering if you could give an interview to the Prophet where you explained that. I really think it would clear things up! They would stop writing some of their stupid articles about you then.

I hope that you take my advice! This is one of the best things you could do.

Also, I’ll be free next weekend to come to the school and run some drills with you. Tell me what time you want me to come.

Warm regards from one player to another,
Oliver.

“Who’s it from?” Hermione asks, leaning over Harry’s shoulder, and then gives a deep and heartfelt sigh. “Do you think he’s going to manage to accept it if you do anything other than play Quidditch?”

“No,” Harry says, and shakes the letter out on the table. “But that’s a problem for the future.”

He tries to start eating again, but the owl hops up and down next to him excitedly, flapping and hooting and hooting and flapping. Then it reaches into a small pouch slung under its wing that Harry didn’t see before and pulls out a quill, which it drops on the table.

“You really want me to respond right now?”

More hooting and flapping.

Harry rolls his eyes and picks up the quill. Then Hermione shoves an inkwell at him and a scroll of parchment. He blinks at her. “Ah—thanks?”

“I was saving them to take notes on, but you need them more than I do. The sooner Oliver sees that you’re not going to just do whatever he wants, the better.”

Hermione speaks with a slightly bitter note in her voice before she turns away and attacks her porridge. Harry blinks, then shrugs and starts writing the letter. Maybe Hermione and Oliver had an argument about something.

Dear Oliver,

Sorry, but I really don’t have time for Quidditch drills right now. Being Lord Slytherin is taking up a lot of my time. And so are NEWT classes, of course. I’ll write to you when I do have more time, and we can do a bit of insane practice. I’m sure the other Gryffindor teammates I have left would love to join in!

The Prophet does print silly stories about me. You’ll see another one today. But rest assured, I know what I’m doing, and I’ll know how to get them off my back if I ever need to. Your suggestion was great.

Thanks,
Harry.

Harry barely gets to cast a drying charm at the parchment. The owl is trying to snatch the letter, hooting and bouncing desperately. Harry takes it away from the bird and frowns at him. “You can just calm down.”

The owl’s rapidly beating wings seem to indicate that, just like Oliver, he doesn’t exist in the same world as the word “calm.”

Harry rolls his eyes and hands the parchment over as soon as the ink has dried. The owl soars back into the air and nearly crashes into the one of the floating candles, dark during breakfast, before he manages to find the window.

“No, I was wrong,” Seamus says thoughtfully, staring after the owl. “It’s not Errol he reminds me of.”

“Ha!” Ron says, through a mouthful of food, pointing a baguette at Seamus. Hermione swats the back of his head.

“It’s that little owl Black got you,” Seamus says. “What’s its name? Pig?”

“Oi!”

*

“We will be undergoing a duel-like situation today.”

Harry blinks, and then shoots hard glances at Hermione and Theo. Theo smiles at him like an innocent angel. Hermione looks ready to cast spells at Darius through her quill, the way she’s aiming it.

Just don’t kill him, Harry mouths at both of them.

“Mr. Potter, you’re up first.”

“Why’s that, sir?” Harry asks, giving Darius a narrow-eyed disapproving look that he’s been practicing with Susan. “And I think if we’re entering any sort of formal situation, then you should address me as Lord Slytherin.”

There’s a lot of blinking on Darius’s face. Harry continues to sit there and radiate the kind of disapproval he thinks Amelia Bones would be proud of.

“Ah—well, I don’t think that’s the case, Mr. Potter.”

“Why not, Professor Umbridge?”

“The duel-like situation is not formal, not in the way a regular duel is. Instead of running through all the steps of a true duel, we will merely be demonstrating forms. And I would need to correct some of your forms, of course.”

“You would put your hands on me?” Harry asks, letting his voice rise just a little into the lower regions of a shriek. “Merlin, sir!”

“What are you talking about? Of course I’m not going to do that!”

“But you said you’d correct some of his forms, sir.” Theo’s smile is pure poison, although no one would know that who doesn’t know him well. “That’s what it sounded like to me, that you would manhandle him so he’s standing in the correct posture. Or that you would move his wand arm around so it’s pointing in the right direction.”

“That’s how it sounded to me,” Hermione calls out.

“And me!” Draco’s eyes are shining with enjoyment.

“And me,” says Blaise, with a slow, sad shake of his head. “I understand that you want to court Lord Slytherin, sir, but for Merlin’s sake, have a little dignity.”

Darius’s face is so red that it looks as though he’s worked outside in the Dursleys’ garden for hours. “You can’t possibly believe that! I would never do something so inappropriate with a student!”

“How do we know that? All we know is that you got hired this year and you commit logical fallacies and you want to court Harry.” Hermione pounds her fist a little on the desk. Harry thinks that she’s more upset about the logical fallacies than Darius trying to court him, honestly, but he lets her have her say. “It sounds as though you want to touch him inappropriately.”

“No! Of course I don’t!”

“Then prove it, sir,” Susan says, all sugar and sweets. “Let someone else correct his form instead.”

“Or just choose someone else for the duel-like situation,” Theo says, his voice sweetness on the surface. Like one of those poisons he’s read about in some Potions books, Harry thinks absently.

“Very well, Mr. Nott. I think you just volunteered.”

Harry is the one who bristles now, but Theo just catches Harry’s eye and winks. Then he stands up and saunters confidently to the front of the room.

“Now, Mr. Nott, we’ll begin with the bow that duelists give each other.”

Theo sweeps flawlessly into a bow so deep that Harry almost thinks he’ll bump his nose on the floor. Darius shakes his head, looking regretfully triumphant. “I am saddened to say, Mr. Nott, that’s not the right kind of bow as detailed in the Dueling Conventions of 1815—”

“I’m surprised at you, sir,” Theo says with gentle malice as he stands up. “It’s entirely proper under the Conventions of 1690. Which I was, of course, using.”

Darius visibly wavers. Harry thinks he knows why. Some problems aside, Darius will always prefer something that’s older.

“Very well,” Darius agrees after a moment, with a small nod of his head. “We will use the Conventions of 1690.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But now please sit down, Mr. Nott. It seems a lecture on the Conventions and their different uses is in order.”

“Of course, sir.”

Theo heads back to his seat with another wink for Harry. Harry smiles. Then he snaps his face back into a neutral mask as Darius turns and waves his wand at the chalk, making it dance along the board in intricate notes.

“The main difference between the Conventions is the level of respect afforded one’s opponent, and therefore the depth of the bows…”

Harry obediently takes notes, although he can already feel boredom creeping in on the borders of his mind. At least that’s highly preferable to Darius’s hands creeping along the borders of his body.

But he’s made up his mind.

Something will have to be done about Darius Umbridge.