𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒

chapter 4

Chapter Four -

Harry hummed quietly as he rolled his shoulder to work out the remaining kinks. He was probably late for dinner, but he'd been tied up with Madame Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing. It came as no little relief when the aging nurse declared him fit for classes. The joint would be tender for a few days, but Harry would take that over having his movement restricted by a stupid sling any day of the week.

Instead of interrupting the meal by walking in belatedly, he decided to head to the kitchens. Harry wondered if Blaise would meet him there yet again; true, he had spent the entire afternoon with the dark-eyed man, but he couldn't help but wish for more time in his shielding presence.

Harry bit his lower lip to suppress a smile as he remembered the events of the afternoon. Blaise had skipped his own classes to see to Harry's comfort, and listened as the troubled teen unloaded not only his involvement in his godfather's death, but the happenings of each of his years at Hogwarts.

It was startling, the way Blaise had been enraged on his behalf. Of course, he hadn't expressed it in the way that Harry was so prone to-with loud, angry words and explosive displays of magic-but there was a distinct frostiness to his features, and the air around them had seemed to darken and a chill had overtaken their small alcove. Harry had almost been frightened at the way the man's countenance had hardened; even now, he shivered in remembrance, though he wasn't sure it was in fear.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at Blaise's reaction. The Slytherin hadn't done anything to disprove that he was anything but genuine in his intentions; quite the contrary. But there was a part of Harry-the little boy that had grown up with the Dursleys, that had been so keen to latch onto Ron and Hermione-that had been buried, pushed aside, in the face of fame. That timid, eager-to-please child was still there, a constant presence in the back of his mind, a reminder of the loneliness of his previous existence. And with that little voice came fear-fear of losing his friends, of losing his magic, of being pushed aside, of being worthless-and now, of losing Blaise-his gentle hands, his patient gaze, the feel of being wanted for who he was-that sad, lost, lonely boy-and not his name.

The comfort Blaise brought him was strange and terrifying in its own way. He loved Ron and Hermione, and he always would, but Blaise was different than them-important to him in a way that neither Ron nor Hermione could ever be. It was a novel experience.

Perhaps it was the sliver of inherent darkness Blaise carried, or the way his sharp eyes looked at Harry and truly saw him. He knew, without a doubt, that it had something to do with the way Blaise handled him so carefully.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. As a result, the stubborn locks stuck up in comical disarray.

He didn't distrust that Blaise had no interest in using Harry for status or money-it was so against Blaise's character that the mere thought was laughable. And yet, a very large part of him was struggling to understand just where he stood with Blaise. Unlike his relationship with Ron and Hermione, he wasn't sure how to define what Blaise was to him. A friend, obviously-but he had told Blaise things that he wouldn't dream of sharing with a mere friend. A best friend? Maybe, but that term didn't seem to illustrate the odd intimacy they shared.

They weren't partners, or boyfriends, or lovers, or whatever people were calling it nowadays. Harry blushed at the thought, a bit mortified to find that he wasn't opposed to the idea. There was a part of him that felt a bit possessive of Blaise's companionship.