Nil Carborundum Illegitimi
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,942
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,942
Reviews:
3
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.
Suffering is Permenant, Obscure
"Sandinista! For goodness sake! You break one of the most strictly applied school rules of not having or consuming alcohol on the premises and you not only break it but shatter, smash and grind it into little pieces." The head of Slytherin crossed robed arms over thin chest and scowled at the pale form sitting in front of his desk. "Are you going to explain why?"
No answer.
"Are you going to answer me, boy?" Black clad fingers started drumming a rumba on scratched French polish.
Still no answer.
Dark eyes glared at emerald from under lowering brows. "If you do not tell me why, Sandinista, I will have to call Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps he will be able to prise an answer out of your stubborn mouth."
Not a squeak.
"Very well. I will summon the headmaster and he will get an answer out of you, by whatever means he sees fithe bhe black hand seized a pinch of powder from an ancient, badly blown Roman glass jar and tossed it into the greenish flames that flickered and crackled in the low stone hearth. A face, undoubtedly Dumbledore, twisted into view as the fire created the visage.
"Ah, my dear Doctor, how may I help you?" asked the face.
"It's this matter about Sandinista. He is saying nothing. How can I punish him if I have no reason for this behaviour, however idiotic?!"
Dumbledore smiled into the irate face of the Slytherin. "I will come and try to wheedle the reason from him, if you would like?"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dumbledore clambered out of the hearth, brushing ash and debris from his clothing, and surveyed the room. The Doctor, lips thin and fingers now performing a can-can, looked stressed. His hooded and dark eyes glittered with ill-will as he stared at the slouched Arwarn, and he whistled tunelessly through his broken teeth; always a sign that he should be approached with caution.
"Dumbledore. Get the truth out of him before I start to become really angry." The headmaster understood. The Doctor was known by both students and teaching staff as a someone not to be crossed. He was rumoured to have beaten a student to death in the previous century for chewing, then using the corpse to show how the dead could be animated as zombies. The Doctor had a bizarre liking for the voodoo, which extended from his mother who had been the greatest practitioner of the art on Haiti in 1793 She had been awarded a certificate to prove it, which now hung in pride of place over the Doctor's fireplace, and he polished it every day.
"Arwarn? You have to tell us why you were drunk."
The boy crossed his arms, sighed, and turned his head. His face, an Monet of purples, blues and blacks showed that he had been beaten, and beaten badly. The boy's broken nose had been extremely difficult for her to set, as it had been pulverised, almost shattered beyond repair, by the ferocity of blows that must have rained down upon him. Even now, after the administrations of the school nurse, his once formerly straight nose had a much more aquiline curve. Dumbledore had made discreet inquiries into who the perpetrator was, and even knew who had done this, but Arwarn's silence was preventing him from taking action. As he looked at the boy more closely, he could see the suggestion of more violence underneath the highly buttoned collar of his midnight robes.
"Arwarn? Are you listening?" Emerald eyes gazed into space, apparently unaware of Dumbledore calling his name. His face, immobile and impassive at most times, looked like the smoothest, most skilfully carved Grecian statue which had been set about with a hammer. Like those masterpieces of the ancient world, there was no expression -t blt blankness. Dumbledore's eyes were troubled. This was not an ordinary situation. No-one can be so catatonic without a reason, and he flicked a finger at Arwarn's left eye. Not a quiver of an eyelid greeted him.
"I told you, Headmaster, that to bring one of these ... things ... to the school would be detrimental to both houses and those within. Their kind never can cope with all the information that they have to learn. They are sub-human, of course..."
Dumbledore left the Doctor whittering away and gently touched Arwarn on the shoulder. The boy flinched violently, already huge, terrified eyes widening and nails digging into his thighs. His mouth looked awfully sore, thought Dumbledore. His lower lip, still swollen, had taken much magic to repair.
Dismissing the Doctor, who looked most upset at missing the punishment that was going to occur, Dumbledore pulled a chair forward, sat down before Arwarn, and tried to catch his eyes. The few glances that he did catch made him think that they looked as raw and painful as the bruises upon his mouth. "Arwarn, let me help you."
He shook his head. "No. You can't. I don't need help."
"How do you know I cannot until you tell me what is wrong?"
"Wrong? There is nothing wrong. Nothing could be better, thank you headmaster sir." He giggled, a hysteric air to the sudden sound, and dropped his face into shaking hands. Choked sobs wrought the still air.
"Arwarn..."
The boy leaped to his feet, hands frantically rubbing tears from inflamed emerald eyes. "There is nothing the matter! Everything is fine - why don't you go away and find someone else to preach to, Dumbledore! There are humans" he hissed the word, "that need hell of a lot more counseling than I will ever need. I'm used to this." His face, crumpling as salt trickled down his white face, registered a mixture of sneer, terror, and agony as great as Dumbledore had ever seen.
"Who beat you, Arwarn? Who put the bruises on your face and throat?"
"Someone who enjoyed it very much and got very excited when it finished. Now if I may, I think I must away to class. Professor McGonagall is teaching us how to turn our mortal enemies into horrible things, and I have the urge to turn mine into battered cod and see how he likes it."
Arwarn turned, the frozen look upon his face returning, as he picked his textbooks up. Dumbledore was calling at him, pleading with him to stop and talk about what had happened, but the words slid into his brain unheeded. Grasping the handle of the thick ebony door, he did not even notice when the iron handle burned a pink weal into his flesh, and on autopilot he managed to find the Transfiguration classroom.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Sandinista? Why are you late - I hope you have a reason for this?" McGonagall adjusted her glasses and peered sternly at her pupil. She was still not very welcoming towards the boy, especially as he showed no aptitude for transfiguration whatsoever. The Professor had felt sorry for the boy after he had been beaten, but she did not think a pounding was sufficient enough an excuse to miss classes.
"Talking to Dumbledore," he muttered, eye not looking at her but scanning the entire classroom.
"Mr. Sandinista! Professor Dumbledore to you, and I must take five points off Slytherin for your impertinence. Go and it down before I remove any more."
Arwarn, spied the malevolent form of Malfoy, who was giggling with his equally odious friends towards the back of the hall. He grinned back, wiggling his tongue lewdly, and whispered something in his best friend's ear. The smirk of both was unbearable. The pressure gauge in the half-blood's mind, rising steadily since his interview with the headmaster, indicated boiling point. Snapping around from eye contact with Malfoy, he returned Professor McGonagall's gaze.
"You seem to be saying that the removal of points is a punishment. How can the damage of something I hate be something that you think will hurt me," he asked, matter-of-factly. He hated Slytherin; why should he worry if points were removed from them. Maybe they would all stop beio ino insufferable when they realised that they were not as infallible as they thought.
"That is ten points and rising, Mr. Sandinista," replied Minerva. "Sit down otherwise..."
"Otherwise what?" Arwarn's lip curled from sharp canines and started to bleed from a reopened wound. "Fifty points? One hundred? Perhaps all of the points - will that hurt me? The hell it will!" He took a pace forward, fingers rippling as he stretched his fingers and eyes narrowing to slits of hatred. The professor stepped back, bumping her hip on her desk. "I don't care if everything is taken off this house and given to Gryffindor. Just leave me alone!"
Pushing past her, Arwarn slumped into his seat and looked out of the window, across the lake to the moors.
Professor McGonagall, more than a little shaken, split the house into twos to work on their spells. They had to think of the most horrible thing they wanted to turn their foe into and practice it on a wooden mannequin.
Arwarn, ears sharp, could hear Malfoy from across the classroom. "Of course, it is going to be an Elf! You can't get anything more distasteful than one of those! Anyone would be ashamed of being one of them." His cronies chuckled their rather dense way. Arwarn tried to concentrate on turning his puppet into a bowl of semolina with watery milk and a rubbery skin on top, but the spell wouldn't work.
"Of course, if one was transfigured into an Elf, imagine how one would feel. I wouldn't want to show my face again, not after being one of them. I would probably kill myself rather than face the disgust that I would feel," trilled Malfoy, making his voice loud enough for Arwarn to hear every word.
"I wish you would go and kill yourself, make my life hell of a lot better and I bet your parents would feel happier" muttered Arwarn, trying to focus on rubbery skin and changing the mannequin into a rubber bicycle tire instead.
Malfoy chuckled nastily. "Look, it's a little Sandinista. It even looks like the half-breed did at the ball last night." Spinning, Arwarn saw a little figure a few inches high, staggering across the tabletop and looking very ill. Mo pok poked it, pushing it over, giggling. His eyes, glittering with malice, locked with Arwarn's hate and pain-filled ones. "Just showing what a push-over you are, Sandinista. How easily I can control you. What fun I can have with manipulation."
The whole room cringed as Arwarn spun, his wand clattering to the floor, and screamed something in Elvish. Green lightning flashed around Malfoy and turned him into a large piece of excellently cooked Chateaubriand with Sauce Bernaise. Everyone looked at the steak, then, in perfect synchronisation, gaped at Arwarn. A strange rictus passed over his face. Gasping "someone eat him - I bet he'd love that," An fln fled from the stares of class and teacher and slammed the door on the way out.
No answer.
"Are you going to answer me, boy?" Black clad fingers started drumming a rumba on scratched French polish.
Still no answer.
Dark eyes glared at emerald from under lowering brows. "If you do not tell me why, Sandinista, I will have to call Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps he will be able to prise an answer out of your stubborn mouth."
Not a squeak.
"Very well. I will summon the headmaster and he will get an answer out of you, by whatever means he sees fithe bhe black hand seized a pinch of powder from an ancient, badly blown Roman glass jar and tossed it into the greenish flames that flickered and crackled in the low stone hearth. A face, undoubtedly Dumbledore, twisted into view as the fire created the visage.
"Ah, my dear Doctor, how may I help you?" asked the face.
"It's this matter about Sandinista. He is saying nothing. How can I punish him if I have no reason for this behaviour, however idiotic?!"
Dumbledore smiled into the irate face of the Slytherin. "I will come and try to wheedle the reason from him, if you would like?"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dumbledore clambered out of the hearth, brushing ash and debris from his clothing, and surveyed the room. The Doctor, lips thin and fingers now performing a can-can, looked stressed. His hooded and dark eyes glittered with ill-will as he stared at the slouched Arwarn, and he whistled tunelessly through his broken teeth; always a sign that he should be approached with caution.
"Dumbledore. Get the truth out of him before I start to become really angry." The headmaster understood. The Doctor was known by both students and teaching staff as a someone not to be crossed. He was rumoured to have beaten a student to death in the previous century for chewing, then using the corpse to show how the dead could be animated as zombies. The Doctor had a bizarre liking for the voodoo, which extended from his mother who had been the greatest practitioner of the art on Haiti in 1793 She had been awarded a certificate to prove it, which now hung in pride of place over the Doctor's fireplace, and he polished it every day.
"Arwarn? You have to tell us why you were drunk."
The boy crossed his arms, sighed, and turned his head. His face, an Monet of purples, blues and blacks showed that he had been beaten, and beaten badly. The boy's broken nose had been extremely difficult for her to set, as it had been pulverised, almost shattered beyond repair, by the ferocity of blows that must have rained down upon him. Even now, after the administrations of the school nurse, his once formerly straight nose had a much more aquiline curve. Dumbledore had made discreet inquiries into who the perpetrator was, and even knew who had done this, but Arwarn's silence was preventing him from taking action. As he looked at the boy more closely, he could see the suggestion of more violence underneath the highly buttoned collar of his midnight robes.
"Arwarn? Are you listening?" Emerald eyes gazed into space, apparently unaware of Dumbledore calling his name. His face, immobile and impassive at most times, looked like the smoothest, most skilfully carved Grecian statue which had been set about with a hammer. Like those masterpieces of the ancient world, there was no expression -t blt blankness. Dumbledore's eyes were troubled. This was not an ordinary situation. No-one can be so catatonic without a reason, and he flicked a finger at Arwarn's left eye. Not a quiver of an eyelid greeted him.
"I told you, Headmaster, that to bring one of these ... things ... to the school would be detrimental to both houses and those within. Their kind never can cope with all the information that they have to learn. They are sub-human, of course..."
Dumbledore left the Doctor whittering away and gently touched Arwarn on the shoulder. The boy flinched violently, already huge, terrified eyes widening and nails digging into his thighs. His mouth looked awfully sore, thought Dumbledore. His lower lip, still swollen, had taken much magic to repair.
Dismissing the Doctor, who looked most upset at missing the punishment that was going to occur, Dumbledore pulled a chair forward, sat down before Arwarn, and tried to catch his eyes. The few glances that he did catch made him think that they looked as raw and painful as the bruises upon his mouth. "Arwarn, let me help you."
He shook his head. "No. You can't. I don't need help."
"How do you know I cannot until you tell me what is wrong?"
"Wrong? There is nothing wrong. Nothing could be better, thank you headmaster sir." He giggled, a hysteric air to the sudden sound, and dropped his face into shaking hands. Choked sobs wrought the still air.
"Arwarn..."
The boy leaped to his feet, hands frantically rubbing tears from inflamed emerald eyes. "There is nothing the matter! Everything is fine - why don't you go away and find someone else to preach to, Dumbledore! There are humans" he hissed the word, "that need hell of a lot more counseling than I will ever need. I'm used to this." His face, crumpling as salt trickled down his white face, registered a mixture of sneer, terror, and agony as great as Dumbledore had ever seen.
"Who beat you, Arwarn? Who put the bruises on your face and throat?"
"Someone who enjoyed it very much and got very excited when it finished. Now if I may, I think I must away to class. Professor McGonagall is teaching us how to turn our mortal enemies into horrible things, and I have the urge to turn mine into battered cod and see how he likes it."
Arwarn turned, the frozen look upon his face returning, as he picked his textbooks up. Dumbledore was calling at him, pleading with him to stop and talk about what had happened, but the words slid into his brain unheeded. Grasping the handle of the thick ebony door, he did not even notice when the iron handle burned a pink weal into his flesh, and on autopilot he managed to find the Transfiguration classroom.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Sandinista? Why are you late - I hope you have a reason for this?" McGonagall adjusted her glasses and peered sternly at her pupil. She was still not very welcoming towards the boy, especially as he showed no aptitude for transfiguration whatsoever. The Professor had felt sorry for the boy after he had been beaten, but she did not think a pounding was sufficient enough an excuse to miss classes.
"Talking to Dumbledore," he muttered, eye not looking at her but scanning the entire classroom.
"Mr. Sandinista! Professor Dumbledore to you, and I must take five points off Slytherin for your impertinence. Go and it down before I remove any more."
Arwarn, spied the malevolent form of Malfoy, who was giggling with his equally odious friends towards the back of the hall. He grinned back, wiggling his tongue lewdly, and whispered something in his best friend's ear. The smirk of both was unbearable. The pressure gauge in the half-blood's mind, rising steadily since his interview with the headmaster, indicated boiling point. Snapping around from eye contact with Malfoy, he returned Professor McGonagall's gaze.
"You seem to be saying that the removal of points is a punishment. How can the damage of something I hate be something that you think will hurt me," he asked, matter-of-factly. He hated Slytherin; why should he worry if points were removed from them. Maybe they would all stop beio ino insufferable when they realised that they were not as infallible as they thought.
"That is ten points and rising, Mr. Sandinista," replied Minerva. "Sit down otherwise..."
"Otherwise what?" Arwarn's lip curled from sharp canines and started to bleed from a reopened wound. "Fifty points? One hundred? Perhaps all of the points - will that hurt me? The hell it will!" He took a pace forward, fingers rippling as he stretched his fingers and eyes narrowing to slits of hatred. The professor stepped back, bumping her hip on her desk. "I don't care if everything is taken off this house and given to Gryffindor. Just leave me alone!"
Pushing past her, Arwarn slumped into his seat and looked out of the window, across the lake to the moors.
Professor McGonagall, more than a little shaken, split the house into twos to work on their spells. They had to think of the most horrible thing they wanted to turn their foe into and practice it on a wooden mannequin.
Arwarn, ears sharp, could hear Malfoy from across the classroom. "Of course, it is going to be an Elf! You can't get anything more distasteful than one of those! Anyone would be ashamed of being one of them." His cronies chuckled their rather dense way. Arwarn tried to concentrate on turning his puppet into a bowl of semolina with watery milk and a rubbery skin on top, but the spell wouldn't work.
"Of course, if one was transfigured into an Elf, imagine how one would feel. I wouldn't want to show my face again, not after being one of them. I would probably kill myself rather than face the disgust that I would feel," trilled Malfoy, making his voice loud enough for Arwarn to hear every word.
"I wish you would go and kill yourself, make my life hell of a lot better and I bet your parents would feel happier" muttered Arwarn, trying to focus on rubbery skin and changing the mannequin into a rubber bicycle tire instead.
Malfoy chuckled nastily. "Look, it's a little Sandinista. It even looks like the half-breed did at the ball last night." Spinning, Arwarn saw a little figure a few inches high, staggering across the tabletop and looking very ill. Mo pok poked it, pushing it over, giggling. His eyes, glittering with malice, locked with Arwarn's hate and pain-filled ones. "Just showing what a push-over you are, Sandinista. How easily I can control you. What fun I can have with manipulation."
The whole room cringed as Arwarn spun, his wand clattering to the floor, and screamed something in Elvish. Green lightning flashed around Malfoy and turned him into a large piece of excellently cooked Chateaubriand with Sauce Bernaise. Everyone looked at the steak, then, in perfect synchronisation, gaped at Arwarn. A strange rictus passed over his face. Gasping "someone eat him - I bet he'd love that," An fln fled from the stares of class and teacher and slammed the door on the way out.