Part the Thirteenth—
“Lovers may be – and indeed generally are – enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.”
—Lord Byron
Harry didn’t know why, but he loved the fact that Octavian was now showing how pregnant he was. There was only a bit of a bump that was easily hidden by robes and almost contained by black pureblood garb, but Harry loved running his hands over it by night.
“We have the crown,” he whispered into Octavian’s blond hair, “and your reading of the swords helped us realize how to destroy both it and the locket.”
He kissed a trail down the length of Octavian’s neck and Octavian reached back to clutch Harry’s head to him. “My Henri Jacques,” he whispered. “You know I don’t want specifics. Being a Clairvoyant for you personally is risk enough. If the Dark Lord ever finds out—“
“He won’t find out,” Harry promised. “No one knows but you and me. Dumbledore just thinks that I’m coming up with really good ideas.”
Octavian laughed. “Well, I’m glad I could be of service then.”
Harry ran his hand over the bump. “Do you think Trixie will have the wizarding coats done in time?” he questioned.
“She has all our measurements,” Octavian argued. “She took them to Fairy Woven Silk with our specifications. By the old gods, it was difficult to choose a style to hide my pregnancy.”
“I’m certain you’ll look handsome in your wizard coat, Octavian,” Harry whispered, nuzzling against Octavian’s ear. “You look stunning in whatever you wear.” Ariel was curled up on the end of the bed, purring, and Octavian smiled.
“Thank you. It is the pureblood way.” Octavian and Harry chuckled together.
“This Slug Club Yule Party should prove interesting,” Harry mused. “I’ve been talking to Hermione, and ever since Ron started snogging Lavender Brown she’s rescinded her invitation to the party. Now she doesn’t know who to go with.”
“She better decide quickly. She only has two days left. Didn’t Smith from Hufflepuff ask?”
“And McLaggen. He took Ron’s place on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.” Harry shuddered. “He sent a bludger my way.”
“I remember. According to Draco, I didn’t stop screaming for a full three minutes. He had to cast a silencing charm on me because I was frightening poor Io.”
“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Harry said sarcastically. He still didn’t like any of the Malfoys. He knew Lucius Malfoy played some role in Octavian’s pregnancy and so he didn’t trust the lot of them. He didn’t trust Draco Malfoy before but this just took the cake.
Objectively, he knew that Iolanthe Malfoy was a small child so she held none of the blame, but he couldn’t help but tar her by association.
“What kind of a name is Iolanthe anyway? Or Lacerta?”
“Lacerta is a constellation,” Octavian informed. “The Lizard, I think. It’s much more beautiful in Latin. Iolanthe is ‘violet flower.’ Blacks are typically named for constellations and Aunt Narcissa and Io are the only two I know named for flowers, but it’s a custom among purebloods. Thank the old gods that Aunt Narcissa wasn’t given a traditional Black name like Dorea or Athenadora or Nymphadora. That would have been horrible.”
“Horrible, yes,” Harry agreed absently.
“Did you know that most of the Blacks think that Aunt Narcissa is illegitimate?”
Harry raised his head at that and nestled it atop Octavian’s. “What do you mean?”
“Only that she has fair coloring and is the only Black in known history to have it. Everyone else had dark brown or black hair. The only aspect of her that suggests she is a Black is her gray eyes. Still, that doesn’t stop the rumors that her mother had an affair with a fair-haired wizard.”
“How horrible,” Harry murmured. “Well, at least we have Lavinia Rose covered. I have dark hair like Tom Riddle and you have dark eyes like he has. If Lavinia Rose is devilishly handsome like he was, we can just chalk it up to combined genetics.”
“Sometimes I wonder what he would name a child,” Octavian whispered, tracing circles on the bed sheet. “I know it’s silly, but still.”
“It’s not silly,” Harry argued quietly, noticing that Ariel was curled up in the crook of Octvian’s free arm now. The Siamese had taken to his new owner like kelpie to water. Harry was only sorry they couldn’t let him into the castle to roam and had to lock him into Octavian’s study when guests came to visit. “There will be many ‘what ifs.’ It’s only natural.”
“I think he would make a horrible father,” Octavian whispered quietly. “He would hate that the child was a girl and would ignore her and try to get me pregnant with a male heir. He’d probably use a potion on me again.”
“That’s not love,” Harry whispered. “That’s ownership.”
Tears leaked from the corner of Octavian’s eyes and Harry brushed them away. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Hermione, it turned out, ended up going to the party with Cormac McLaggen in order to “make Ron angry.” Octavian had simply looked between her and McLaggen and sighed. She was hiding with them because apparently McLaggen had been dragging her under the mistletoe.
“Henri Jacques,” he said pensively, “you need to get into Gringotts, yes?”
Both Hermione and Harry nodded. Octavian wasn’t looking at them, though. He was looking at Draco Malfoy. “Whose vault?”
“Harry, don’t,” Hermione warned, but Harry went on and said anyway, “Bellatrix Lestrange.”
“I think I can get you some of her hair. Enjoy the party.” He then sauntered away and went up to Draco and began animatedly talking to him.
“He isn’t,” Hermione began. “No.”
“Octavian has a bit of a Gryffindor streak in him,” Harry shared. “I wonder what story he’ll come up with.”
The story was simple. He wanted to play a prank on Lacerta. Easy enough. He just needed some of Bellatrix Lestrange’s hair. Draco promised it to him by the end of the week.
And it came. Hermione donned the face of one of the most notorious Death Eaters, put on a cloak, and had access to the vault. Of course, it all went south from there, but they got out in one piece with the cup and it was destroyed by New Year’s Day.
“That’s it!” Harry declared. “Now we can kill him.”
“There’s one more, Henri Jacques,” Octavian whispered. He pointed to a spread on the small bedside table.
Harry carefully went over and looked at it. Strength reversed. A fairy petting a lion cub with wings. “It’s fear of facing a situation,” Octavian murmured. Five of Wands reversed. Octavian pointed to it. It showed a tree and a clown pointing wands at each other. “The situation is getting nasty.” Death Reversed. “The inability to deal with grief.” A ghostly figure flying on a bat toward a vortex.
Octavian sighed. “I did a reading for myself. I’ve been trying to understand your scar, how it pertains to the horcruxes, but again and again I come back to the same truth: you see visions of the Dark Lord through your scar. You have a connection with him. You have a piece of his soul inside of you and it must be destroyed.”
“How can you possibly destroy it?” Harry asked incredulously. “Without killing me?”
“I think,” Octavian began carefully, “that if I brand it with the Dark Mark, it will become overwhelmed. The connection will become so overpowered that it will break. Will you let me try? I don’t see what harm it could do. You’re already connected to the Dark Lord.”
“Are you certain, Octavian? I don’t want the Dark Mark on my forehead.”
“It’s all I can think of doing,” he answered reasonably. “It’s either that or the killing curse, and we certainly don’t want to try that.”
“N-no,” Harry agreed. “That would be a worse case scenario.”
“Exactly.”
Octavian took his arm, Ariel scampering between their legs. He now had free reign of Prince’s Pride, much to his delight, though he still slept curled up at the edge of the bed even after he and Octavian had made love.
“We should do it now,” Harry decided. “Get it over with.”
“Yes,” Octavian agreed.
Harry turned to face him.
Picking up his wand from the side table, Octavian touched the tip of his wand to Harry’s angry scar. “Morsmordre,” he whispered and there was a flash of green that erupted between them, throwing them to opposite ends of the room. Harry hit the window and felt a firefly jar break from being smashed by his elbow. Octavian fortunately landed on the bed.
“Octavian?” Harry gasped, righting himself and running over to his husband.
Pushing himself up, Octavian stood shakily. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted. “Nothing I’d read on the subject led me to believe there would be a magical recoil.” He glanced up at Harry and blinked, then blinked again. “Go look in the mirror.”
Harry quickly rushed over to the full length mirror and pulled back his fringe and gasped. The scar was completely gone. “How did you—what did—Octavian!” he cried, lifting up his husband and reigning kisses down his face. “You’re brilliant with your charms, did you know that? and to hell with your grieving that your cards talked about! By the old gods, the scar is gone!”
He set Octavian down and they kissed long and slow, Octavian’s hands finding their way into Harry’s hair. “I’m going to be taller than you,” he murmured, “I know I am.”
“Already you come up to my eyes,” Harry agreed, “but I’m not done growing yet.”
“Who says you’re not?” Octavian laughed. “And Father will be so angry. Your political capital is gone. He will wonder what was the point of this marriage to begin with!”
“Well, I think it’s because we’re such a good match,” Harry countered. “I think we’ve proven that over the past few months.”
Octavian pulled away. “Do you love me yet? Can you say that?”
Harry stilled, his heart stuttering, not allowing him to answer. The words were there, he had spoken them often enough, but now when he looked into Octavian’s waiting face, he just couldn’t—not now—why?
“What if I offered you the Dark Lord’s heart on a platter? Would you love me then?” Octavian’s black eyes were unreadable.
Harry could only stare at Octavian.
Octavian nodded. “Very well,” he intoned and he walked from the room.
“Octavian, wait!” Harry called out, but all he could hear was the sound of the floo activating, and he had no idea where his husband had gone.
Excentryke's Musings 