Disguised Affections

It was official. Nearly all of Gryffindor house hated Constantine Prince. He’d only been at Hogwarts for a week and the only people who treated him with any courtesy were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The rest of the house (and school) ignored him completely, and he seemed content with that. Truthfully, he probably would have been equally happy if the Golden Trio didn’t speak to him either. He only replied to their queries with single syllables, never deigning to look up from the ever-present book that sat on his lap.



Hermione chewed on a lock of hair and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Con had been cool but polite the first night, engaging her in a civil discussion of Potions. Ron and Harry had come downstairs after seeing him settled and seemed hopeful that Constantine would fit in well in Gryffindor. From that point, things had gone downhill drastically.



She could pinpoint the exact moment when Con and the majority of Gryffindor had parted ways.



It wasn’t the evening in the common room when he had told a shameless Lavendar and Parvati that their new perfume was reminiscent of a hippogriff in heat. Half of the females and all of the males in their house had secretly thought it amusing because Lavendar and Parvati rather needed to be knocked down a peg.



It hadn’t even been the time when Dean Thomas clapped Constantine on the shoulder and found himself flipped over and held to the ground with a deadly black-haired seventh year kneeling on his back. Con had realized his mistake nearly immediately, and let him up with a quiet caution to “keep his bloody hands to himself in the future.” After all, the majority of the house had played some small part in the war, and Ron and Harry had quietly commented that it could wreak havoc on a bloke’s nerves.



No, the defining moment had come when Constantine had attended the first Quidditch game of the season. He sat quietly in his red and gold scarf, ignoring most of the ruckus around him, preferring instead to study the players. Gryffindor was playing Slytherin, and Harry and Draco were flying elaborate serpentines over the pitch searching for the glint of sunlight off of gold. Halfway through the game, the two seekers dove through the air at the exact same moment chasing the snitch through a cloud of red and green players. Harry dove straight through with a tremendous burst of speed, trusting the other players to get out of his way. Draco followed him at a slower pace, but with an amazing show of grace in flying, he executed a precise loop that allowed him to exit the mass of players slightly closer to the snitch than Harry. Neither one emerged with the prize, but Constantine sat back looking thoughtful. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and charmed his scarf green and silver.



Yes, that was the exact moment.



There was a collective indrawn gasp from the Gryffindor stands and news of the affront spread like a virus through the ranks of the other three houses. Slytherin could be heard sniggering at the traitor in the sea of scarlet.



“Here now! What are you about?!” Seamus asked, furious.



“I’m supporting the stronger team,” Constantine replied calmly, never taking his eyes off the game in front of him.



“What are you talking about? Harry’s a bloody dynamo on a broomstick. You know, he was the youngest seeker in a hundred years,” Dean interjected. Seamus nodded vigorously.



“Harry’s got a lot of speed, but he barrels around the pitch like an elephant. Malfoy, although not as fast, is a much better flier.” Con was matter-of-fact in his analysis. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy watching Slytherin beat the pants off our illustrious house.”



Even this insult could perhaps have been overlooked and chalked up to his being a Durmstrang alum (a school roundly denounced by Hogwarts students as being full of odd birds), except…



Except just a few moments after Con put a period on the end of his conversation with Dean and Seamus, Draco Malfoy caught the snitch and ended the game decisively - with 190 points to Gryffindor’s 70.



It was a beautiful maneuver. The tiny, winged ball was hovering by the side of Millicent Bulstrode’s head, keeping pace with her as she beat a particularly nasty bludger away from Gregory Goyle (and coincidentally put it on a collision course with Ron Weasley). Potter saw the snitch a fraction of a second before Malfoy and leaned forward on his broom, urging it to ever greater speeds as he closed the gap between himself and Bulstrode. The platinum-haired seeker was closer, but if he sped up to outrace Harry, he’d run the risk of knocking Millicent off of her broom.



The crowd gasped in horror when they saw Malfoy streak towards Bulstrode.



“Why that no good… Slytherin!” Colin Creevey choked.



Constantine held up a finger. “Wait.”



At the last moment, Draco’s fingers closed around the snitch and he executed a perfect barrel roll that spun him over the top of his teammate. He skidded to a stop and held the golden ball above his head. The Slytherin stands erupted.



Con sighed with deep satisfaction, and stood. “Excellent. Very well played.” He charmed his scarf back to its original colors and sauntered off while the rest of his house was still sitting in horrified silence.



Hermione felt sad for Harry and Ron. They loved quidditch an obscene amount, and it was a horrible blow to lose the first game of the season to the Slytherins. However, that being said, she rather admired Con’s blithe disregard for house politics. It was a refreshing change from the blind subscription offered by the other Gryffindors.



She watched him walk away, his black school robes blowing in the wind. He reached up and tied his long, inky hair back with a ribbon, and pulled a book out of his pocket. Con strolled casually out towards the lake, and settled at the edge. Hermione admired his long, lean form as he reclined on his elbows, and she ran her fingers over her hair to smooth the wayward curls.



Suddenly, as if feeling someone’s gaze upon him, his head jerked around and his black eyes captured Hermione’s warm brown ones. She shivered slightly before nodding at him solemnly. He held her regard for another long moment before tipping his head in recognition.

---

“I don’t care. Con’s a bloody prat,” Seamus exclaimed at dinner. “Harry, he was rooting for Draco.”



Harry sighed and rubbed his scar absently. “So what, Seamus? I wanted to win, but I’ll be the first to admit that I was not flying my best, and Draco was… well, Draco was bloody amazing today.”



“Nice to hear you finally admit it, Potter. I am amazing, and today I flew circles around you,” Draco was using his Pureblood voice – the one that screamed ‘I can trace my ancestors back to the time when we crawled out of the primordial soup’ – but it was lacking the malice that had warped it before the fall of the Voldemort. Harry grimaced, but turned around to face his Slytherin counterpart.



“I wasn’t talking to you, Draco and it’s bad manners to butt in on a conversation. However, I have to admit it. You did fly circles around me today.” His voice was dry, but humor lurked there, and I saw a smile play at the edge of his lips.



Malfoy’s jaw dropped at the admission, and he temporarily seemed at a loss for words. “Yes, well… I, uh… I’ve just gotten a new broom – the Firebolt 2X. It’s supposed to have greater maneuverability.”



“I thought that looked like a new broom.” Harry hesitated for a moment. “If you have the time, I’d love to take a look at it.” He swallowed as if unsure why he had said that.



Draco nodded solemnly as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “Sod off, Potter. You’re looney.”



Harry sighed. “Still a git, I see.”



Draco smirked and turned away. As he was walking back towards the Slytherin table, Con entered the Great Hall and made his way to a seat on the edge of the knot of Gryffindors. Hermione saw Malfoy give him a small salute in what she could only assume was recognition for his support on the pitch.



“Very precise flying today, Malfoy.” Con made as if to continue towards his seat, but Draco waylaid him.



“Thanks, Prince. My dad bought me a new broom – best on the market… not that I need it to fly circles around the likes of him.” Harry rolled his eyes when Draco pointed in his direction. “Prince is an old pureblood name. How is it that someone of obvious quality like you got saddled with the likes of them? You should be in…”



“Stop talking.” Con’s expression was impassive. “You don’t have to, of course. It’s your decision. However, the more you talk, the more you seem to embarrass yourself. Take this as a suggestion from a Prince to a Malfoy. You understand – pureblood courtesy.” He continued walking and sat down next to Dean and across from Hermione.



Malfoy’s face flushed a furious red, and he gritted his teeth together hard. Hermione watched his fist open and then clench tightly before he spun on his heel.



“Hmm. Watch your back with that one,” she murmured to Con. He waved her concerns aside with a negligent hand.



“That one’s like a snake in need of dentures. No real bite to speak of.” She snorted in laughter, before covering her nose and mouth with her hand, mortified. He looked at her with surprise and smiled. No, to call it a smile would be to make more of it than it actually was. Constantine’s thin lips didn’t move an inch, but his eyes crinkled at the corners and warmed to a smoky grey.



“You think the Slytherins are so bloody wonderful, why don’t you go sit with them?” Seamus asked rudely, leaning around Dean so that he could stare at Con.



And just like that, Con’s eyes darkened to black and became icy. He pulled his book out of his pocket and opened it carefully, his fingers sliding between pages marked with a scrap of paper. “Because I’m a Gryffindor,” and his voice was firm and unapologetic. “Not a Slytherin.”



“Here, here,” Harry replied taking a bite of his potatoes.