To Dare
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Fred/George
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
25
Views:
11,555
Reviews:
47
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Fred/George
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
25
Views:
11,555
Reviews:
47
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Prologue
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books,
Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or
trademark infringement is intended.
Additional disclaimers: No hippogriffs or kneazles were harmed during the writing of this
fic. No house-elves were exploited, either. The NC-17 rating applies to events in later chapter/s. AU after Deathly Hallows (as if it wasn't before, given that there are OCs in here).
A/N: Thanks to Stuart, Dave and Mike for getting me hooked on the Harry Potter series to begin with. Thanks to Mel S. and Amber P., my offline Betas and A_Kizzy from Fiction Alley for Britpicking and additional Beta Services. This work is dedicated to gktyro, who told me that he thinks I’m sexy when I write. Every writer should have someone that supportive in their life.
To Dare
Prologue
The twelfth of June dawned grey and unseasonably cold. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the students shivered through breakfast and speculated about the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. Though everyone else seemed excited, Thalassa Hartwell viewed the maze of hedges growing up on the Quidditch pitch as a particular eyesore. The strain of her final year at school was hard to bear without the distraction of Quiditch. Owls from home were no comfort either, only bringing progressively worse news. She shifted her books into the crook of one arm and pushed her dark blonde hair back from her round face with the other hand. She didn’t want to think about the news from home just now. Her first lesson today was Arithmancy and she needed to focus. Professor Vector lectured very rapidly and had forbidden dicta-quills in her classes. There was no help for it; Thalassa would just have to cope as best she could.
The weather turned nasty and by the time Advanced Potions met at midmorning, a steady drizzle of rain outside made the dungeon even more clammy than usual. The students huddled close to their cauldrons for warmth as they worked on the final stages of a very complex antidote. According to the sands in the large glass at the front of the room, Thalassa’s potion only needed to simmer another five minutes before she could stir in the final ingredients. Until then, she was free to warm her fingers near the flame and turn her attention to other, more personal matters.
In another couple of months, she’d be through with N.E.W.T.s and lessons and she’d be able to take over her father’s duties at the apothecary her family owned in Diagon Alley. Trithemius Hartwell suffered from a wasting illness that had so far confounded the Healers. Of late, his condition had degenerated to the point where he needed around the clock care at St. Mungo’s. Thalassa’s mother, Euryale, had sent word that she’d had to close the shop as she now spent every day with him at the hospital.
A knock at the dungeon door dragged Thalassa’s thoughts back to the present. She didn’t need to look at the big hourglass to know her potion was ready for the final ingredients, she could tell by its milky green appearance and smoky odour. She busied herself with the familiar tasks of sifting and stirring, barely noticing the dry rustle of robes as Professor Snape stalked to the back of the classroom. Potion brewing was an unforgiving art and Thalassa had learned to shut out all distractions while working patiently and steadily. Completely absorbed with the precision that the last few steps her preparation required, she didn’t hear the words exchanged at the door.
Potion finished, she doused the flame under her cauldron and set aside her glass stirring rod. Without constant heat, the decoction cooled quickly. She poured the thick liquid, now a clear indigo, into a beaker and inhaled an experimental sniff. Judging by the aroma, (forget-me-nots and burnt vanilla sugar overlaid with a slight tang of ammonia) she’d completed her potion properly. She began putting away unused supplies and took her cauldron to the basin to wash it out. Some of the other students were still frantically trying to complete their work when Professor Snape slammed the dungeon door.
“Time is up,” he snarled. “Leave your potions on your desks. For tomorrow I want three feet of parchment from each of you on the indications, contraindications and actions of this draught.”
The students gathered their belongings and began to file out.
“Miss Hartwell, a moment if you please?” No one made simple courteous phrases sound menacing better than Severus Snape. Thalassa mentally reviewed her actions from the last hour and a half, wondering what fault he had detected.
“Yes sir?” She scooped up her books and approached his desk, nervously pushing her hair back from her face.
“You’ve had an urgent owl from home.” The flat statement was bare of any emotion whatsoever. The lack of Professor Snape’s customary disdain told Thalassa that it must be very bad news indeed.
She swallowed the knot of dread that threatened to choke her and nodded slowly, once. “My father?” she whispered.
“Died this morning. Professor McGonagall will meet you in your House common room shortly to apprise you of your travel arrangements.”
Thalassa clutched the corner of Snape’s desk as she tried to absorb the shock of the news. Her brain seemed to have slipped its moorings, floating loose and disconnected in her skull. She couldn’t feel the desk beneath her hand, though she watched her knuckles gradually turn white. Glancing up at Professor Snape, she saw his mouth forming words she couldn’t hear.
“Miss Hartwell.” He drew out the syllables of her name as he cast a pointed look at her bloodless fingers. His sharp tone cut through the anaesthetizing fog protecting her from harsh reality.
“What? Oh yes.” She would not fall apart in front of him. Dredging up what seemed like her last ounce of will, she lifted her chin, stiffened her spine, and let her hand drop to her side. “My apologies, Professor.”
“I trust you can find your way back to Gryffindor Tower without assistance?” he inquired dryly.
“Yes. Thank you.” She turned to leave.
“I expect your parchment on my desk the day you return.”
Thalassa nodded curtly, not trusting herself to speak. She supposed she should be grateful he didn’t want her to send it by owl for tomorrow. His apparent callousness roused such rage in her that her anger alone sustained her all the way back to her dormitory and through the process of packing her belongings. When she snapped the lock shut on her trunk, she realized she’d packed everything she kept at school. Hard on the heels of that realization trod the certainty that she would not be returning to Hogwarts as a student. Resignedly, she began shifting her luggage out into the common room.
“Oi! Thalassa, what’re you doing?” A brawny, redheaded young man stood just inside the door to the corridor.
She tried to force a smile but failed. “Hello, George. I’m going h-home,” she stuttered weakly, tears blurring her vision. “My father…” her voice trailed off. George Weasley covered the distance between them with a few quick strides. He pulled her shaking form into a comforting hug.
The portrait at the entrance to the tower swung open again. “What’s going on?” the newcomer demanded. “George, you oversized prat! What did you do to make our biggest Quidditch fan cry?” The elder Weasley twin stomped across the common room to confront his brother.
“Sod off, Fred.” George’s voice was a pleasant rumble against Thalassa’s ear and she felt guilty for feeling any pleasure at all. “Family emergency. She’s got to leave school.”
“Bollocks,” Fred muttered. “I’m sorry, Thalassa.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly.
She sniffed and let go of George. “Thanks.” She wiped the sleeve of her robe across her eyes and hiccoughed.
“All right?” George asked, concern in his brown eyes.
She nodded. “Oh dear, your robe.” She used her other sleeve to dab at the wet splotch her tears had left on his chest.
“It’ll dry,” he shrugged.
The portrait door opened to admit Professor McGonagall. “Miss Hartwell, I’m so sorry for your loss,” the starchy witch sympathized.
Fred and George shifted nervously under the stern gaze of the head of Gryffindor House, putting a bit of space between themselves and Thalassa.
“I know you’ll want to get home as quickly as possible. You may use the Floo in my office, if you’re ready.”
Thalassa murmured her assent.
“Very well, then. Come along. You two,” she fixed the Weasleys with a sharp glare over the tops of her square glasses, “off to your lessons.”
They offered Thalassa a last few words of sympathy and quietly made their way out past McGonagall into the corridor. Thalassa levitated her luggage to float after her and, with a leaden heart, followed Professor McGonagall out and down the staircase.
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books,
Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or
trademark infringement is intended.
Additional disclaimers: No hippogriffs or kneazles were harmed during the writing of this
fic. No house-elves were exploited, either. The NC-17 rating applies to events in later chapter/s. AU after Deathly Hallows (as if it wasn't before, given that there are OCs in here).
A/N: Thanks to Stuart, Dave and Mike for getting me hooked on the Harry Potter series to begin with. Thanks to Mel S. and Amber P., my offline Betas and A_Kizzy from Fiction Alley for Britpicking and additional Beta Services. This work is dedicated to gktyro, who told me that he thinks I’m sexy when I write. Every writer should have someone that supportive in their life.
To Dare
Prologue
The twelfth of June dawned grey and unseasonably cold. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the students shivered through breakfast and speculated about the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. Though everyone else seemed excited, Thalassa Hartwell viewed the maze of hedges growing up on the Quidditch pitch as a particular eyesore. The strain of her final year at school was hard to bear without the distraction of Quiditch. Owls from home were no comfort either, only bringing progressively worse news. She shifted her books into the crook of one arm and pushed her dark blonde hair back from her round face with the other hand. She didn’t want to think about the news from home just now. Her first lesson today was Arithmancy and she needed to focus. Professor Vector lectured very rapidly and had forbidden dicta-quills in her classes. There was no help for it; Thalassa would just have to cope as best she could.
The weather turned nasty and by the time Advanced Potions met at midmorning, a steady drizzle of rain outside made the dungeon even more clammy than usual. The students huddled close to their cauldrons for warmth as they worked on the final stages of a very complex antidote. According to the sands in the large glass at the front of the room, Thalassa’s potion only needed to simmer another five minutes before she could stir in the final ingredients. Until then, she was free to warm her fingers near the flame and turn her attention to other, more personal matters.
In another couple of months, she’d be through with N.E.W.T.s and lessons and she’d be able to take over her father’s duties at the apothecary her family owned in Diagon Alley. Trithemius Hartwell suffered from a wasting illness that had so far confounded the Healers. Of late, his condition had degenerated to the point where he needed around the clock care at St. Mungo’s. Thalassa’s mother, Euryale, had sent word that she’d had to close the shop as she now spent every day with him at the hospital.
A knock at the dungeon door dragged Thalassa’s thoughts back to the present. She didn’t need to look at the big hourglass to know her potion was ready for the final ingredients, she could tell by its milky green appearance and smoky odour. She busied herself with the familiar tasks of sifting and stirring, barely noticing the dry rustle of robes as Professor Snape stalked to the back of the classroom. Potion brewing was an unforgiving art and Thalassa had learned to shut out all distractions while working patiently and steadily. Completely absorbed with the precision that the last few steps her preparation required, she didn’t hear the words exchanged at the door.
Potion finished, she doused the flame under her cauldron and set aside her glass stirring rod. Without constant heat, the decoction cooled quickly. She poured the thick liquid, now a clear indigo, into a beaker and inhaled an experimental sniff. Judging by the aroma, (forget-me-nots and burnt vanilla sugar overlaid with a slight tang of ammonia) she’d completed her potion properly. She began putting away unused supplies and took her cauldron to the basin to wash it out. Some of the other students were still frantically trying to complete their work when Professor Snape slammed the dungeon door.
“Time is up,” he snarled. “Leave your potions on your desks. For tomorrow I want three feet of parchment from each of you on the indications, contraindications and actions of this draught.”
The students gathered their belongings and began to file out.
“Miss Hartwell, a moment if you please?” No one made simple courteous phrases sound menacing better than Severus Snape. Thalassa mentally reviewed her actions from the last hour and a half, wondering what fault he had detected.
“Yes sir?” She scooped up her books and approached his desk, nervously pushing her hair back from her face.
“You’ve had an urgent owl from home.” The flat statement was bare of any emotion whatsoever. The lack of Professor Snape’s customary disdain told Thalassa that it must be very bad news indeed.
She swallowed the knot of dread that threatened to choke her and nodded slowly, once. “My father?” she whispered.
“Died this morning. Professor McGonagall will meet you in your House common room shortly to apprise you of your travel arrangements.”
Thalassa clutched the corner of Snape’s desk as she tried to absorb the shock of the news. Her brain seemed to have slipped its moorings, floating loose and disconnected in her skull. She couldn’t feel the desk beneath her hand, though she watched her knuckles gradually turn white. Glancing up at Professor Snape, she saw his mouth forming words she couldn’t hear.
“Miss Hartwell.” He drew out the syllables of her name as he cast a pointed look at her bloodless fingers. His sharp tone cut through the anaesthetizing fog protecting her from harsh reality.
“What? Oh yes.” She would not fall apart in front of him. Dredging up what seemed like her last ounce of will, she lifted her chin, stiffened her spine, and let her hand drop to her side. “My apologies, Professor.”
“I trust you can find your way back to Gryffindor Tower without assistance?” he inquired dryly.
“Yes. Thank you.” She turned to leave.
“I expect your parchment on my desk the day you return.”
Thalassa nodded curtly, not trusting herself to speak. She supposed she should be grateful he didn’t want her to send it by owl for tomorrow. His apparent callousness roused such rage in her that her anger alone sustained her all the way back to her dormitory and through the process of packing her belongings. When she snapped the lock shut on her trunk, she realized she’d packed everything she kept at school. Hard on the heels of that realization trod the certainty that she would not be returning to Hogwarts as a student. Resignedly, she began shifting her luggage out into the common room.
“Oi! Thalassa, what’re you doing?” A brawny, redheaded young man stood just inside the door to the corridor.
She tried to force a smile but failed. “Hello, George. I’m going h-home,” she stuttered weakly, tears blurring her vision. “My father…” her voice trailed off. George Weasley covered the distance between them with a few quick strides. He pulled her shaking form into a comforting hug.
The portrait at the entrance to the tower swung open again. “What’s going on?” the newcomer demanded. “George, you oversized prat! What did you do to make our biggest Quidditch fan cry?” The elder Weasley twin stomped across the common room to confront his brother.
“Sod off, Fred.” George’s voice was a pleasant rumble against Thalassa’s ear and she felt guilty for feeling any pleasure at all. “Family emergency. She’s got to leave school.”
“Bollocks,” Fred muttered. “I’m sorry, Thalassa.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly.
She sniffed and let go of George. “Thanks.” She wiped the sleeve of her robe across her eyes and hiccoughed.
“All right?” George asked, concern in his brown eyes.
She nodded. “Oh dear, your robe.” She used her other sleeve to dab at the wet splotch her tears had left on his chest.
“It’ll dry,” he shrugged.
The portrait door opened to admit Professor McGonagall. “Miss Hartwell, I’m so sorry for your loss,” the starchy witch sympathized.
Fred and George shifted nervously under the stern gaze of the head of Gryffindor House, putting a bit of space between themselves and Thalassa.
“I know you’ll want to get home as quickly as possible. You may use the Floo in my office, if you’re ready.”
Thalassa murmured her assent.
“Very well, then. Come along. You two,” she fixed the Weasleys with a sharp glare over the tops of her square glasses, “off to your lessons.”
They offered Thalassa a last few words of sympathy and quietly made their way out past McGonagall into the corridor. Thalassa levitated her luggage to float after her and, with a leaden heart, followed Professor McGonagall out and down the staircase.