Chapter Text
"You look horrible, know?"
Ron just nodded repeatedly, as if unaware that Harry had stopped talking. His face was pale and worn, his knees together, shivering under the covers. His gaze was fixed on the white wall, as if the slow wear of the paint was the most compelling event in the world. He looked like a mental patient.
"I can't say I look better on you." He took a moment to inspect Harry. "Are those scars new?"
"Not at all" Harry laughed.
"Did you need an excuse to see me?" Ron asked, somewhat spaced. "Or to see her?" he turned around.
Hermione's inert form was, without a doubt, a haunting image. Stiff, tense legs and puzzled expression; next to Ron's bed, he lay.
They had not yet cured the petrification. They wouldn't, at the very least, until before the end of the year. They were safe from the basilisk, their victims were no longer a priority, because they no longer carried what could be valuable information; they had no more use for a set of muggleborns and a cat.
And, being from Muggle families, there was no parental pressure. They were left thinking that their children were safe, enjoying their little fantastic and magical world, not turned into the target of a horrible child, who had hatred for what he himself sinned to be.
Half-Blood.
He couldn't imagine being the son of a Muggle father. He felt sorry for the poor wretch who had to suffer it.
"The Hat fell on my head in the Chamber”. He said suddenly.
"Ah" was his friend's intelligent reply, although Harry did not feel entitled to demand anything better.
He had killed his sister, after all.
"And he put me in Slytherin." He saw Ron blink.
"I see".
Harry had expected a scream, a gasp of indignation, even a whispered and spiteful "bloody traitor". But the Gryffindor looked like he'd been told this would be a cloudy day.
He fought the urge to growl at that.
He hated when people were unpredictable and his best friend was proving himself in the worst ways.
"Slytherin, you know." Harry pressed him "House of dark wizards, Snape's, Malfoy's" the redhead frowned slightly at the last mention, but otherwise nothing.
"Come on Ron" he snorted, puffing out his cheeks like a little boy. "Just give me a hint."
Ron muttered something, too low to be heard, as if the air was draining from his lungs.
"We can't fix it" he buried his face between his knees, letting out a light sob. "She's dead and we can't fix it."
Was that a challenge?
Interesting.
Harry put a hand on his shoulder; his eyes cold, bright, and disgustingly happy. He sat on the edge of the bed and his gaze, as crazed as it always looked, showed not a speck of hesitation.
"Can't we, huh?" Harry leaned against him; an odd smile split his face. "Then we will."
Ron flinched.
****
He couldn't say that his conversation with Ron had gone as well as it could have. But, being aware, He shouldn't have had such high expectations.
He hated seeing his friend like this, even if his understanding of the situation did not go beyond the merely intellectual. He never had someone whose death he could mourn; h couldn't imagine suffering for someone else.
But Harry could fix it. He was the one who always did the best.
Halfway to the table, the entire Great Hall had already noticed. As expected, this whole affair turned him, once again, into the Hogwarts’ pink elephant.
"Did you sleep well, Potter?" asked one of the Slytherins, Nott, whom Harry considered tolerable.
He sat in the chair across from Nott, next to Zabini, another Slytherin with whom he was on neutral ground. Malfoy was more than five places away, and from the way he kept his gaze fixed on the opposite direction, he most likely didn't want to start a fight this early.
"Very good" he said, his face twisted into a warm smile. "The beds are much softer than those in Gryffindor and the sound of the water is extremely relaxing."
Suddenly, it seemed to have evolved from "pink elephant" to "purple nundu," since even Malfoy had turned to keep an eye on it, though he was trying, without much success, to hide it.
Harry just snorted. Did they really think he was going to complain about his beloved House on the first day? He wasn't stupid; He knew that continuing to act like a lion would result in some kind of social suicide, even if it was the simplest way to keep on good terms with the other three parts of the student body.
It was like being in elementary school again. In Surrey, the teachers had waited for a would-be criminal, abuser and spoiled brat, so much so that it took years of excellent behavior and brilliant grades to banish that idea. Here, instead, his only reference image was his bad relationship with Malfoy, who, as he could hear from his roommates, was not nearly as powerful in Slytherin as he seemed.
So, in hindsight, he had chosen to play the good boy, at least for the moment.
"Potter, what the hell?"
Harry wanted to drink ammonia.
He looked up, only to find Oliver Wood, who stood in front of him with crossed arms and glassy eyes. If he were wrong with himself, he would say that, from his face, he was about to burst into tears.
"The Hat fell on my head again and put me in Slytherin" he faked a tremor and lowering his head, he murmured: "I'm sorry".
The entire Great Hall erupted in hateful whispers.
"But tell me you can still be the Gryffindor Seeker!"
It took all of his self-control not to frown. This was one of the most disconcerting and annoying things about living surrounded by Gryffindors: his legendary reluctance to keep private matters private, along with his propensity to create scenes with a wide audience. As someone who hated unnecessary attention, this was something of a personal hell for him.
"I do not think so"
Of course not.
"It is not allowed for someone to play for another House."
"Gryffindor is your House!"
Harry knew, in that instant, that this would be a shitty day.
****
"How do I revive the dead?"
Corvinus turned suddenly pale, his eyes wide and his solemn posture forgotten with a simple question. Harry saw his hands tremble and the snake painted around his neck gave an unintelligible hiss.
"What do you mean?" the portrait asked, as if it had not heard him correctly or, more precisely, as if he did not wish to believe those words.
Harry looked at him in bewilderment, assuming he had expressed himself adequately. A great holdover from his time as a Gryffindor was his tendency to be too direct about what he wanted at times. Still, he was always the type of person to keep his cards close to his chest. He knew when to be discreet.
"We are wizards" he made an ambiguous gesture. "We have Trolls, Goblins, and Cerberos; we travel on brooms and turn desks into pigs. You can't tell me that no one has really thought of curing death."
The portrait shot him an intrigued look, as if the enigma that made up his existence was suddenly taking on new layers; somewhat armed, but undone, broken, precise and too conscious.
"It exists" Corvinus said. His icy face did not let anything escape. "But it's not the kind of magic you want to get caught doing."
That would set your average Gryffindor back but, as illustrated above, Harry Potter was far from ordinary and even when he was dressed in gold and red, no one sensible would call him a lion.
"Dark like a Locomotor Mortis or 'Dark' like an Avada Kedavra?"
"More than any Unforgivable."
Harry gave a thoughtful sigh, considering his options. Then, with his eyes focused and deadly, he nodded.
"Tell me more".
Necromancy, it was called.
It was the art of giving movement to the immobile, of animating the inanimate, of life and death, of the words whispered on the left side of the Veil. It was a black science, not even dark, black; it finish coined by the blood wizards to define what crossed the limit of the depraved. The kind of magic that idiots like Malfoy or Parkinson would never dare to play, cowards as they were. There were no records of a Black ever going beyond a couple of spells, an Inferius for the most gifted and brave. Corvinus could not name a wizard who did not fear drowning in that Darkness.
Nobody except Gaunt themselves.
Not all, it should be clarified. Corvinus, for example, never strayed from the basics; he had no reason to. He was the type of person who rarely thought about the dead. In that sense, they were alike.
But Harry had a mission, something that could keep him entertained for years to come. Yes, maybe his motivations were twisted; not always being able to differentiate remorse from compassion.
Still, he knew this would be fun.