Harry Riddle || Harry potter

Chapter 6: The Hogwarts Express

"So the Dark Lord actually hugged you," Draco said in amazement, looking almost as if his world had just been monumentally changed. Harry supposed that it was very shocking (he himself was still trying to wrap his mind around it). The Dark Lord was not emotional (except when it came to anger, of course; he frequently felt that and usually inflicted pain on others because of it) and he was certainly not sentimental or affectionate. In fact, it was just absurd to even imagine it.

Harry uncomfortably leaned back against his seat and glanced out the window at the rapidly passing scenery, a blur of green trees and blue sky. "Yeah. He . . . hugged . . . me."

"Hugged you. Like . . . wrapped his arms around you?"

"Yes, Draco," he snapped, "I do believe that's the definition of the word."

"Has he ever done anything like that before?" Draco pressed, unruffled at the outburst.

"No," he said slowly. "Never."

"The Dark Lord . . . hugging someone." Draco shook his head in disbelief. "What was it like?"

Harry hesitated, only to frown when the correct word came to mind.

"Awkward."

Yes, it was amazingly . . . awkward. Harry had never truly had that much affection-Bellatrix doted on him almost manically, but she never really hugged him or kissed him, never once told him 'I love you'. His father never had either, though it wasn't as though Harry ever wanted him to say it. Draco's parents weren't overly demonstrative, either, but on occasion they did put their arms around him or otherwise expressed their affection-Harry always watched with mild interest and some embarrassment. Such warm emotions in general just seemed . . . awkward . . . to him, something that should be kept behind closed doors. It just didn't feel right to watch. Then again . . .

"But he is my father. I suppose he should do things like that."

Draco shrugged, but kept shaking his head in shock. "Whatever. I just wonder if he's been Imperio'd."

The conversation fell into a strained silence for a long moment as each waited for the other to speak. But, when it became apparent neither had anything to say, their minds started to drift off in different directions.

Harry chewed his lip, his thoughts turning to the Sorting Ceremony and what a horrible disaster it could very well turn out to be. He glanced at Draco, tried to picture his reaction if the Hat decided to say 'Gryffindor' instead of 'Slytherin', and discovered that he couldn't. And even after the initial shock and horror (which would, he very well knew, inevitably be on his face) faded, when they took seats at separate tables, what would life be like? They wouldn't share a dorm, they wouldn't sit on the same side of the room in classes, their very House mates would be in constant competition . . . and then, of course, even when Draco wasn't factored in, Harry himself just hated Gryffindors. It would be like being among the enemy. No one would know who he was, who his father was, and if they even found out, they would not react with the worshipful awe that the Slytherins would. Gryffindor was the House Albus Dumbledore recruited from; Slytherin was the House Voldemort found supporters in.

And, to top it off, being sorted into Gryffindor would be . . . incredibly humiliating. The Slytherins would talk about him behind his back, mock him, he knew they would.

He glanced at Draco, who was busy twiddling his thumbs and trying to look out the window. They'd been friends for almost as long as he could remember, but he'd never really broached the subject of his mother. Draco's parents had pedigrees stretching back to almost the time of Hogwarts' founding; there was not a muggle to be seen on his family tree, and all of his relatives had been Slytherin.