lomonaaeren

Part One.

Title: Vellum Voices (2/3)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: PG-13
Content Notes: Angst, AU fifth year, present tense, torture, gore, minor character death, hurt/comfort
Pairing: Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini
Wordcount: This part 5000
Summary: AU. Voldemort cursed Harry in the graveyard so that he can only speak Parseltongue. Harry embarks on his fifth year alternately furious and despairing and trying to learn faster writing, British Sign Language, and nonverbal casting all at once. It turns out that not all Slytherins are Malfoy or Snape, and not everyone is frightened of Parseltongue.
Author’s Notes: Another of my July Celebration fics; this will have a second part, to be posted tomorrow.

Thank you again for all the reviews! This story will actually be a threeshot now, due to growing much longer than expected, with the third part posted tomorrow.

“Could you tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Potter?”

It’s an Auror from the Ministry, scowling at him suspiciously, because of course he would. None of the Aurors who are part of the Order of the Phoenix are here, and Harry doesn’t dare hope one might show up.

He touches his throat and looks up at the Auror questioningly. The man, who has slicked-back blond hair that reminds Harry a little of Malfoy, sneers and starts to say something that’s probably disparaging, but his less slick partner leans in and murmurs something. The Auror gives both of them a sour look.

“Yes, yes, we’ve been told about the curse that compels you to speak Parseltongue, Mr. Potter. We simply want to know as much as you can—write down.”

Harry nods and reaches for the parchment, ink, and quill that Madam Pomfrey left beside his bed. That brings his heavily bandaged hand into view, and the other Auror, the one with brown hair and brown skin and a kind smile, mutters, “Fuck.”

“Not in front of children, Brandon!” his partner says back.

Brandon pays no attention, reaching out and gently turning Harry’s arm towards him. “What happened with that?” he asks in a low voice.

Harry tugs on his hand until it’s free, then braces the parchment against his knee and writes down, A quill that made me write lines in my own blood.

Both Aurors recoil, even the slick-haired one apparently revolted. Harry watches them under his fringe, and ignores the pounding in his hand and the back of his head. Madam Pomfrey did her best, but she couldn’t heal all the damage from his self-inflicted concussion right away.

“That’s sick,” Brandon manages to say. “Do you think she—”

“Why were you writing lines in your own blood?” the slick-haired Auror interrupts.

It was detention. From Professor Umbridge. That was what she wanted me to do.

The Aurors exchange glances again. Then Brandon clears his throat and asks softly, “So you were in detention with her when the—accident happened?”

Harry wants to laugh aloud. Yes, it was an accident that Umbridge ended up dead with an enormous fleshy purple flower growing out of her back.

But that’s exactly the lie he was going for when he damaged his hand and flung himself down on the floor, so Harry nods and writes carefully, in sentences as short as he can make them, because his hand does hurt. She made me really angry. I thought she was going to cast the Cruciatus on me. She already did it one time before. I just—got really angry. He carefully underlines the word “really,” and is reminded of how Zabini wrote to him. I remember yelling at her, and then things kind of seemed to snap and pop around me. I think I fainted then? I woke up in the hospital wing.

“That’s all you can remember?” The slick-haired Auror is turning bright red.

“She cast the Cruciatus on you?” That’s Brandon, horrified.

Harry nods in response to both of them, and writes, I think—was it accidental magic? I blew up my Muggle aunt once when she made me really angry. Before my third year of school.

“I did read about that,” the slick-haired Auror says slowly. “The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad had to go out there.” He squints at Harry. “But aren’t you a little old for accidental magic?”

“When she tortured him?” Brandon is on his side now, Harry knows. It feels oddly wonderful, to know that he can manipulate an experienced Auror to consider that, although not as wonderful as knowing that Umbridge is dead. “You think he should have held back and been more restrained when she tortured him?”

The slick-haired Auror raises his wand without answering and casts a charm. Harry flinches and cowers before he can stop himself.

Oh, well. That will probably make the lie seem more real.

“He has been subjected to the Cruciatus recently,” the slick-haired Auror says when he’s done looking at the dark purple glow manifesting around Harry’s body, “within the last week.” His voice is a lot more subdued. “Shit,” he adds then, seeming to forget that he scolded Brandon about swearing in front of children. “If this gets out…”

“I don’t think Harry wants it to get out,” Brandon says, holding both Harry’s eyes and his arm this time. “Right?”

Harry frantically shakes his hand and writes down on the parchment, I did something horrible, but I don’t remember it! I just want to go on and live my life.

“That’s right,” Brandon says soothingly. “No one can punish you for accidental magic. And we did find that vial, remember, Corwin? The one in Umbridge’s office?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Corwin mutters. “No way a student could have brewed something like that.”

But maybe a woman who’s murdered seven of her husbands could have.

Harry buries that thought quickly, just in case one of the Aurors is a Legilimens, although he has to admit it’s not likely. He lies back on his pillow and tries to look as exhausted as he can. Brandon gently touches his shoulder.

“Rest,” he says. “It was accidental magic, exacerbated by torture and by a definitely illegal potion that Professor Umbridge shouldn’t have had in her quarters. You’re not going to be charged, Mr. Potter. I’ll testify for you myself if I have to.”

Harry gives him an honestly tired smile and closes his eyes. His hand does still hurt, although he also feels himself slipping closer and closer to sleep as the Aurors quietly leave the hospital wing.

However horrible he should feel, he doesn’t. Guilt for Umbridge is not going to haunt his dreams like guilt for Cedric does.

I wish Zabini could come visit, he does think as he drifts away again.

*

When Harry wakes up, his wish has come true. Zabini is sitting in a chair next to his bed, reading a book with the aid of a Lumos Charm on his wand. The rest of the hospital wing is dark, which tells Harry something about how late it is.

He sits up, and Zabini is focused on him even before he manages to get all the way up. He studies Harry for a second, as though he has to count his limbs, and then focuses back on him. His face breaks out in a smile that—

It takes Harry’s breath away more than the potion would have, to be honest.

“You did it,” Zabini says softly. “You came through. I knew you were more of a survivor than all of those rumors about you running recklessly into danger suggested.” He shifts a little. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more potions right now, but I think Pomfrey would notice something off about how fast your hand healed now that she’s treated it.”

Harry shakes his head. Zabini doesn’t need to give him more potions. He gave Harry the means to earn his own freedom, to strike back at his enemies. That’s something no adult has ever done for Harry that he can remember, except for Remus teaching him the Patronus Charm in third year.

“You’re looking at me as though I’m your savior.”

And Harry is grateful that he’s managed to convey that just with a look, because he can’t use English right now, and putting it down in writing would feel stupid. He ducks his head and nods instead.

Zabini reaches out and gently lays a hand on the back of Harry’s undamaged one. Harry turns his over to catch Zabini’s fingers.

“I would be honored,” Zabini says, “if you would call me Blaise.”

Harry smiles at him and points to himself. Zabini nods. “I already called you Harry in my thoughts, but I have to admit, this is going to make it easier.”

Harry holds Blaise’s eyes and mouths, What next?

“The school is celebrating, and you might have gone back to being a hero again, at least until the next time you hiss at them,” Blaise says, and rolls his eyes to show his own opinion of that. “The Aurors already said it was accidental magic. Pretty brilliant, Harry.” His admiration envelops Harry like a warmer version of the Invisibility Cloak. “I’m not sure I would have thought of something like that.”

Harry wants to clear his throat, but that would only result in a dry hiss, so he touches the Gryffindor crest on his robes and hopes Blaise will know what he means.

“Your friends have visited you more than once.” Blaise curls his lip. Harry thinks it’s his right. Whatever Blaise’s reasons for getting close to Harry, it’s not like he knows Ron and Hermione. “They argued all the time about what they should tell you when you woke up and how Umbridge died and whether it had something to do with the curse that makes you speak in Parseltongue. Weasley, in particular, is ready to attribute everything evil that happens to you to that curse.”

Harry blinks hard. Blaise shrugs without an ounce of shame. “Yes, I followed them and listened to their conversation from outside the hospital wing.”

Harry does laugh, and even if he does it soundlessly, Blaise obviously recognizes it. He gives Harry a smile of slow delight that’s nearly as beautiful as his other one.

“You’ll live. Do.” He squeezes Harry’s hand. “Live, Harry. Live. Grow stronger. I’m going to help you as much as I can, still, but I’m likely to be the one that needs help when I start to position myself openly as a Slytherin opposed to the Dark Lord.”

Harry squeezes Blaise’s hand hard enough to make him gasp and then lets his hand go so he can reach out and touch Blaise’s cheek. This time, he projects his thoughts through his eyes as hard as he can, although he probably isn’t lucky enough to have Blaise be a Legilimens and just read it out of his mind. I’ll protect you.

“I know,” Blaise whispers, hoarse, and then he shakes his head and all but flees the hospital wing, as if he thinks he might do something stupid if he stays.

Harry lies back, his wounded hand cradled on his chest, and closes his eyes. Blaise’s face is in a lot of his dreams that night.

*

“But what really happened with Umbridge, mate? We’re your best friends! You can tell us!”

Ron and Hermione have obviously been dying to talk to him, but up until now, they’ve been at meals or classes or walking through public corridors with other fascinated people trailing after Harry, so they haven’t been private enough to do it. But Hermione finally dragged all of them into the Room of Requirement, and they’re sitting in a comfortable set of chairs before a roaring fire, a smaller replica of the Gryffindor common room.

Harry gestures for parchment and quill. Hermione passes them over. Ron slumps back a little when he remembers that Harry can’t talk in English.

Harry does smile at him. It’s oddly endearing, the way Ron keeps forgetting about that, even if it’s also irritating that he flinches when he hears Parseltongue.

He writes down, Umbridge held me under the Cruciatus last week. I was so angry at her I could hardly think, but I also hurt too much to do anything that evening. Then, when she acted like she was going to do it to me again this week, I snapped. You remember I told you about blowing up Aunt Marge? Well, this time I used so much accidental magic I actually passed out. I honestly don’t remember anything from the time that the world started turning blurry around me. Maybe a little about seeing the flower burst out of her back.

And that’s all Harry intends to tell them. He isn’t going to risk Blaise, or the help that Blaise gave him. He doesn’t know if Ron and Hermione would actually turn him in to Dumbledore or something, but he knows they wouldn’t approve.

Harry isn’t going to put up with arguments that try to argue him into feeling guilty about Umbridge’s death or the method he used to take care of her. Or that try to argue Blaise is evil.

Perhaps especially not that last.

“The Cruciatus? Mate.” Ron’s face is white as he reaches out to pat Harry shakily on the shoulder.

“Accidental magic?” Hermione pounces on that. “Is it really that strong? That’s not what really happened, is it?”

Harry stares blandly back at her. Hermione might be pretty good at detecting his lies, but she’s not a Legilimens and he’s not speaking them right now. Another minor advantage of the curse, he supposes.

No, it is, he writes. I mean, as far as anyone can determine. The Aurors certainly believed me, and how could I make a giant purple flower grow out of Umbridge? I don’t know a spell that can do that.

He tenses for a second, wondering if Hermione will think to ask about a potion (not that Harry thinks the crystals were a potion, either, just that they come closest to that out of magical objects he knows), but Hermione doesn’t even seem to think that’s a possibility. “Accidental magic can’t do that!”

“Accidental magic isn’t supposed to inflate a Muggle like a balloon and float her around, either,” Ron points out. “I actually never heard of that before Harry told me about it. Most accidental magic is just things like fetching toys or getting a kid out of danger. Affecting objects at the most. Not actually affecting other people like that.” He beams at Harry. “But Harry here is powerful.”

“Ron, doesn’t it bother you that Harry murdered someone?”

Harry flinches. Ron doesn’t. “Considering the amount of havoc she was causing? Not in the slightest.”

“But she’s dead.”

“Yes, and she tortured Harry. Honestly, Hermione, you’d think you’d be more upset about that.”

Hermione then rants at both of them for a while. For once, it’s nice not being able to talk. Harry leans back and lets Ron do all the talking. And Ron does, pointing out that Umbridge was giving detentions to other people and Harry did a good thing by stopping her, and no one else is going to mourn her, and the Ministry isn’t bringing charges against Harry, and they might actually get a decent Defense professor because of this now, and Merlin, Hermione, will you shut up about how this is murder when Harry is sitting right there?

That last brings a bright ink flush to Hermione’s cheeks, and she turns to Harry and swallows at him. “I’m sorry, Harry. I—forgot.”

Harry shrugs. He’s too happy Umbridge is gone to care, and it’s not as though he didn’t anticipate Hermione reacting this way. It’s one reason he didn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” Ron says, leaping back to his feet, “I think this has gone on long enough. We’ll miss curfew if we don’t hurry.”

And they do hurry back to Gryffindor Tower, but Blaise is walking with a few older Slytherins from the library to the dungeons, and Harry manages to catch his eye and smile. Blaise gives him a cool smile in return, nodding to Ron and Hermione in a way that neither of them seem to notice.

Maybe trying to bridge Harry’s two worlds is going to work after all.

*

“Harry, my boy, thank you for indulging me in my request for a moment of your time.”

Fat lot of good it does me now, Harry thinks, but he keeps his eyes on the silver trinkets whirring around Dumbledore’s office rather than the Headmaster’s. He knows Dumbledore is a Legilimens now. Harry doesn’t want anyone to see his thoughts.

“It’s come to my attention that you have been avoiding your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape.”

So that’s it, then? No apologies for ignoring me all year? No questions about Umbridge’s demise or the way she tortured me? No explanation of whether he’s been working on breaking the Parseltongue curse?

But Harry keeps it all inside, not like it’s that hard with the curse. He nods.

Dumbledore waits for more, and then sighs hard enough that Harry would have been blown away on the wind of his disappointment last year. But that’s last year, this is this year. “Harry, if you knew how important the Occlumency lessons are for the war…”

Harry shrugs. He hasn’t been going to Occlumency lessons because he thinks that Snape would probably find out about the crystals Blaise gave him. Harry could bear his own part in Umbridge’s death being discovered that way; they need him for the war, they can’t just throw him away. But Snape and Dumbledore might hurt Blaise if they realize he helped Harry.

That is something Harry cannot allow. Every beat of his heart and every thought in his head are in complete agreement. No.

“Professor Snape is being extremely indulgent—”

Harry whips his head up, and he gives Dumbledore a glare stern enough that the man actually pauses. Then he turns away before Dumbledore can read his thoughts. He’d only find curdled poison if he tried.

Yes, it’s all about him indulging himself in his sadism while pretending that I actually get to learn anything.

Dumbledore gives another sigh that seems to fill the office with wind—or maybe hot air. Harry is leaning more and more towards that interpretation. “Harry. You must learn to block the connection with Voldemort.”

Harry turns around and pulls the piece of parchment he actually came prepared with out of his satchel. Then give me another Occlumency teacher.

“There is no one else who can do this, Harry.”

Harry points straight at Dumbledore.

“I cannot, my dear boy, for the same reason that I have been forced to ignore you all term. Voldemort could learn too much if he managed to peer out of your eyes and into mine.”

Harry stares at him incredulously. That strikes him as a pretty poor excuse. After all, if that could happen, then Voldemort could learn that Snape is a spy the same way, and whatever secrets of the Order of the Phoenix Snape knows.

Dumbledore frowns and laces his fingers together. “I must say, Harry, that I have become concerned by your behavior this past term. I did not know that you carried so much anger inside yourself that you could kill someone with accidental magic. That rage is most likely a product of your connection with Voldemort. I urge you to control it. You may strike an innocent victim the next time.”

Harry turns over the parchment he’s holding about his desire for another Occlumency teacher and looks around for a quill. There isn’t one in reaching distance, but he spots a small stack of them on a shelf near what looks like a silver globe on a thin stand. He gestures with one hand. “Come here,” he hisses in Parseltongue.

The whole stack of quills levitates over to him, which was not what Harry planned on, but okay. He dumps the other five of them back on Dumbledore’s desk and dips the quill into a convenient inkpot.

Why would someone innocent make me angry enough to kill them?

He turns the parchment around so Dumbledore can read it, but Dumbledore is watching him with his eyebrows furrowed instead of his writing. “Harry, my boy, how long have you been casting spells in Parseltongue?”

Harry gives him a stare. What a supremely useless question. Since the beginning of the term, he writes anyway.

“It is an affectation that Voldemort often indulges in. I do not wish to see you become caught up by the power that this curse seems to promise. You should rather be working on ignoring the temptation.”

That’s enough. Something inside Harry breaks into small cold pieces. Have you been researching ways to fix the curse? he demands.

“It has not been a research priority, my boy—”

Harry stands up and walks out. Dumbledore doesn’t stop him. He thinks the Headmaster might just be too stunned that a student is ignoring his authority like that. Some of the portraits do call after him, but their voices fall silent when the door to the staircase shuts behind Harry.

On the way down the moving staircase, Harry leans against the wall and shakes. He knew, he tells himself, that of course Dumbledore was worried about his connection to Voldemort and wanted to use him as a tool in the war. But it still hurts to know that Dumbledore is more worried about secrets and the Order of the Phoenix and whether Harry is giving Snape a “chance” than whether he’s ever going to speak fucking English again.

Harry walks out of the staircase and nearly runs straight into Blaise. He jerks himself still and manages to avoid it, but he still gives Blaise a Look.

Blaise tilts his head. “Simple Emotion Monitoring Charm,” he murmurs. “It lets me know when you’re upset, and it tells me where you are when that happens.”

Harry supposes it would be consistent of him to feel angry about that when he’s angry about the way that Dumbledore keeps tabs on him, but he isn’t. Blaise explains it, for one thing, and he cares enough to come and see what’s the matter when he knows that Harry’s upset.

For another, Harry is just feeling a lot more charitable to Blaise right now.

He nods, and they walk towards Gryffindor Tower for a second before Blaise seems to realize where they’re going and plants his feet. “Oh, no, you don’t, Harry,” he tells Harry firmly. “You’re going to tell me what happened to get you that upset.”

Harry hesitates, then nods and aims for the library. Classes are done for the evening and curfew is an hour away. He’s already working out how he’s going to express some of his displeasure without telling Blaise about the Occlumency lessons, though.

As it turns out, when he explains that Dumbledore isn’t working on the curse and thought Harry might accidentally kill an innocent, Blaise still gives him a narrow-eyed look, leaning across the table to see the parchment, and says, “There’s more.”

It’s the kind of secrets that would put you in danger of being captured and tortured by Voldemort. More than you already are for being seen with me.

Harry thought that would put Blaise off, but Blaise only asks, “Do your friends know?”

Bewildered, Harry nods.

Blaise’s expression turns cold. “After what I helped you do, I think you owe me those secrets.”

Harry bristles. Blaise waits a second, and then adds, “I want to know them. And they’re not that incredibly dangerous if people as open as Weasley and Granger know them.”

Harry licks his lips. Yes, he wants to tell Blaise. And come to think of that, he decides, Blaise knowing that he’s trying to practice Occlumency with Snape’s “help” has to be less damaging than Blaise knowing Harry murdered someone.

So Harry writes down a brief explanation of his connection with Voldemort, the dreams and the emotions he seems to get, and then that he’s trying to learn Occlumency to combat them, and he’s refusing to go back to Snape’s lessons because he knows Snape would figure out Blaise helped him.

Blaise reads the words rapidly, but then goes back and does it again. When he looks up, his eyes are full of rage. Harry sits back instinctively, his hand rising to summon some books with a Parseltongue word.

“Not at you,” Blaise breathes out. “Never at you. But—how in the world does the Headmaster think someone can teach you Occlumency when there’s no trust between you? Snape has to be hammering and ripping at your mind!”

He is. Only your potions helped with the headache.

“That day I found you when you looked like something a snake had thrown up. It wasn’t just the curse from the blood quill, then?”

Harry shakes his head, and watches in silence as Blaise sits there, his face still, his body so absolutely still that he almost looks like a statue. But Harry has the feeling that he’s witnessing Blaise’s own kind of cold anger. He just doesn’t explode with it the way Harry does.

Blaise looks up after a second. “Did you have a plan to end the Occlumency lessons other than just avoiding Snape forever?”

Going in and making him so angry that he throws me out, so he’s the one ending them.

Blaise’s face warms again. “Yes, that’ll do it. But then you’ll still need a qualified teacher. Harry, I can do this, although only basic Occlumency. I don’t know any more than that. It should block a connection like this—I think. To get more advanced Occlumency training, would you consider coming home with me over the summer? My mother’s a strong Legilimens. She can help you make and test the right kinds of shields.”

Harry sits frozen, staring at him with shock. Blaise seems to understand that it’s not a rejection of his offer. He gives Harry a smug smile. “You aren’t used to people doing nice things for you, are you?”

It’s a lot harder to stutter on paper than it is in English, which saves Harry from being embarrassed, and he finally manages to write, I’d love to, but Dumbledore makes me go back to the Dursleys every summer.

“I’ve never heard of that last name.”

They’re Muggles. My aunt and uncle.

Blaise goes still again. Then he says, “I thought you lived with a wizarding family who took you in. This—makes no sense.”

My blood family. They’re the only ones left.

Blaise gives him one of those incredulous looks that warms Harry down to his toes, because he knows that Blaise is being incredulous for him, not at him. “But all pure-bloods in Britain have interbred with each other to the point that it should be easy to find someone with some Potter blood. Or the blood of some other family that’s shared with them.”

Well, as you know, my godfather went to Azkaban for betraying my parents, otherwise he would have adopted me. Harry doesn’t think he’ll tell Blaise about Sirius’s innocence for the moment. It doesn’t have any bearing on the possible Occlumency lessons and the other secrets they share right now.

“Still.” Blaise thinks about it for a second, then shakes his head. “This is completely ridiculous. You can’t get the training that you need in the Muggle world, and all it would take is a Death Eater doing some research through the Ministry to discover who your mother’s relatives were listed as being. There’s some varieties of Dark Arts that focus on names and tracking people born to those names down. I don’t know how to use them, but I know they exist. I doubt you have powerful enough wards on your relatives’ Muggle house to warn you when a Death Eater is nearby and you shouldn’t leave it. We do have those wards. Coming back to Italy with me and my mother is for your safety.” Another smug smile in Harry’s direction.

Harry can barely breathe through the dizzy hope. Maybe it’s just the way that so many people have been ignoring him and wearing him down this year, but he barely has any concern about the question he asks next. Are you sure your mother would welcome me?

“Don’t worry, you’re too young for her to marry.”

Harry recoils a little. Blaise laughs at him, low and soft. “Relax, Harry. No, you’re not going to be a target. My mother does have a method to her madness, if that comforts you. Every single one of them was either involved in my father’s murder or involved in the affairs of the business for which he was murdered in the first place.”

Harry blinks. There are probably still people who would find fault with that, but he just can’t right now. His life has been hell for months. He wants to be free of this curse and free of the pain, and no one but Blaise has offered to help him.

“Now,” Blaise says, and leans forwards to take hold of Harry’s chin and tilt it gently. “Hold my eyes. I’m going to probe into your mind and see what you need the most help with when it comes to Occlumency.”

Harry holds still. Blaise’s eyes seem to become bigger and darker and overwhelm the world, and he jumps when he feels a sensation like someone swimming through his mind. Blaise raises an eyebrow, and Harry sighs and holds still again. This time, the swimming sensation is less ticklish.

Blaise looks around calmly, then pulls back with a nod. “There are wounds in your mind that will need to heal first. Only time and rest will do that. Once you’ve healed those, we’ll begin with ordinary Occlumency.” His voice is shaking a little, and Harry looks curiously at him.

Blaise catches his eye. “Snape tortured you no less than Umbridge did,” he whispers. “I—Harry, I would have already tried to kill him if it was me. How could you put up with this?”

Harry immediately shakes his head and reaches across the table to clasp Blaise’s hands. He squeezes them twice, then pulls back and writes, No killing on the parchment in front of him.

Blaise swallows, then says, “Okay. That was kind of hyperbole, anyway. I only had that weapon in the first place because my mother sent it to me when she heard about Umbridge.” He sighs. “You’re stronger than anyone I know. How can they not see it?”

Harry feels his heart warm. He writes, And you’re a great friend.

“Great, yes. Friend, we’ll see about.”

Harry is a bit confused about that, but maybe Blaise means that Harry won’t think he’s a friend once they begin practicing Occlumency. Which he’s wrong about. Harry is always going to think that Blaise is pretty bloody awesome.