harry.exe has stopped working ━ hp x tmr || lv

chapter eleven

Chapter Eleven:

"The look on his face was priceless," Draco grins. There's a small hop to his steps as they walk towards the great hall, like he's happy about that particular predicament. His eyes stray to Harry's blue hair. "If you keep surprising everyone like this, it's going to be one hell of a year."

Harry can't help but sigh. He mutters a quiet, "why couldn't my hair just stay black?"

Draco snickers loudly. He quietens down when he spots something or rather someone in the distance. His lips quirk up into a smirk, his whole expression radiating smugness. Harry follows the blondes line of sight, only to see Ron stood at the end of the hallway, fidgeting with his black and yellow robes.

Amused, Harry halts to a stop and asks, "You feel pretty proud about that, don't you?"

Feigning an air of innocence, Draco lifts his head a little higher and stops as well. "Are you trying to imply something?" He asks.

Harry snorts. Internally, he thinks, only that you like the fact that you influenced Ron enough to be in Hufflepuff. He doesn't dare to say it out loud, lest Draco get mad. "Nothing," he answers instead, his voice bordering on teasing. He can't help but let a smile slip.

Draco looks like he wants to say something, a remark probably, but he gets suddenly cut off when Ron literally tackles him down to the ground. Harry watches with raised eyebrows as the two fall down. Draco lets out an 'oof' as he falls on his arse. Ron falls on top of him, half on the ground and half in the other boys lap. He's beaming, wide and bright. "Hey," he greets, out of breath.

"You're crazy." Draco says, grey eyes wide as he finds his bearings. He tries to shoo Ron off his lap, there's a scowl on his lips and a red tint to his cheeks. "You can't just—"

"Thank you," Ron interrupts, voice sincere and expression soft as he places his hand over the Hufflepuff logo on his robes. There are crinkles beside his brown eyes and a warmth in his smile.

Draco just stares at him dumbly, completely caught off guard.

Harry feels like he's interrupting a moment again. Here he was, the boy-who-third-wheeled. Clearing his throat, Harry catches both Ron's and Draco's attention simultaneously. "Are you two done?" He asks. "There's treacle tart waiting for me and I don't want to be held up any longer by your, er, thing."

At once, the boys on the floor turn red.

A little later, while Harry enjoys his morning share of treacle tart, Draco refuses to make eye contact with him whenever he talks. Nimmy tells him it's because he's embarrassed. Harry's grin is wolfish when he points it out to Draco and the blonde splutters over his words. He denies anything and everything. Harry isn't even surprised. He isn't surprised by the wide eyed stares other students send his way either. His blue hair is making everyone take a double take.

Their first lesson turns out to be Transfiguration. A simple turn this matchstick into a needle and then vice versa. Harry does his on the first try and then feels guilty when the rest of the class doesn't quite get it. Draco, who's sitting beside him, has turned his match into only half a needle. There's a dip between his blonde brows and a concentrating curl to his lips. Harry's green eyes wander around the room until they stop on Hermione. She's getting praised by Mcgonagall. It's not a surprise to know that Hermione has also turned her match into a needle on her first try. There's a small smile on her lips, pleased but polite. Her eyes on the other hand, have a weird sort of... hunger in them. Like she's not quite satisfied. Harry watches her for the rest of the lesson.

Charms with Professor Flitwick is spent trying to make a feather float. This time, Harry waits until Hermione is the first one to make hers float before he makes his own fly gently over his head. Draco's own feather stays level with his eyes but doesn't move any higher. Ron, who's sat behind Hermione, can only get his feather to lift itself a mere inch of the desk. He mumbles something quietly to himself and slumps his shoulders in defeat.

With a roll of her eyes, Hermione says just loudly enough for Harry to overhear, "it's leviOsa not leviosA."

Huffing out a puff of air, Ron waves his wand and pronounces the spell the right way. His feather shoots up towards the ceiling, way past any others in the room. Ron stares after it in awe, positivity beaming. Hermione stares at Ron with narrowed eyes and a clenched fist.

Harry merely observes.

During history of magic, Harry takes a well-deserved nap. He had been up all night after all. Flashes of red eyes and a cunning smile were all that he could see every time he closed his eyes, but now, it's nothing. Just darkness. He wakes up when Nimmy nudges him awake with her snout and tells him there's a mere five minutes left. He spends those last few minutes stroking her red and yellow scales, gaze held on Verde who's nestled in Ron's orange hair just a few seats ahead. The green and black snake is hissing quietly to himself, something about nosy rabbits and whatnot. Harry will have to ask him later about it.

In Defence against the Dark Arts, Harry along with the rest of the class fail to keep up with the stuttering Quirrell. Taking the notes that he can, Harry idly wonders about Voldemort. You see, Harry has a disease he can't quite get rid off. It's called a saving people thing. No matter how much Harry tries not to give a fuck and forget about eveything, the saviour in him just... comes out. He knows he shouldn't be helping Voldemort. That noseless asshat had killed his parents after all. And would eventually kill even more. Worrying his bottom lip, Harry absentmindedly caresses his scar. There's a gentle hum, like a quiet pulse, but other than that there's nothing. Smiling, Harry muses over giving Voldemort the philosopher's stone.

Pausing, Harry stills his quill over his parchment.

Hang on.

What would happen if Harry did give Voldy the philosopher's stone? Chaos, undoubtedly. With his potter luck, probably even an earlier War. Feeling his smile grow, Harry goes back to writing notes and plotting demise.

He avoids making eye contact with Quirrell during the lesson, even when his voice slowly starts evening out and lowers into a voice Harry knows all too well. He ignores the shiver it sends running down his spine and the fiery anticipation it burns through his veins. It lasts for a whole minute before Quirrell goes back to stuttering.

The weird feeling that settles over Harry's chest doesn't leave him until much later.