Archive of Our Own

The list was comprised entirely of Slytherins.

And Neville.

So Harry was just being a good mate when he magicked his name up right after Pansy Parkinson's.

So was Ron. He just didn't know it yet.

*

"You signed us up for what?"

Harry grinned. "Archery."

"And d'you mind telling me when this is ever going to be, ah, useful?"

"What if we don't have our wands?"

Ron snorted. "Right. Like I'd go anywhere without it."

"Oh, don't be such a snob," Hermione snapped, not looking up from her book, Archery: Sport, Art, Philosophy. "Honestly, sometimes you're as bad as--."

Ron set his jaw. "As bad as whom, Hermione?"

Hermione hesitated. "Sorry," she said, but then, because she was Hermione, "And it's 'who'."

Ron looked away.

Harry stood and brushed dirt and grass from his bum. "Right. Well, that's settled. So we'd best get going."

Ron shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at him. "Harry, promise me this has nothing to do with your weird Malfoy-fixation."

Now Hermione was looking up from her book.

Harry shrugged and hoped his blush wasn't too obvious. "I do not have a Malfoy-fixation. It's more about Neville, anyway."

Ron's face scrunched up in almost painful bewilderment, as though Harry had sprouted a Clabbert head from his neck, but he didn't say anything.

They set out for the Great Lawn in silence.

*

A person's fixation (if that was what it was which it wasn't, it was more of a piqued interest) couldn't actually alter space and time, not even if the person happened to be a wizard. It followed, then, that it wasn't Harry's fault that the professor looked like an older, broader Draco Malfoy. From the Slytherin-green tunic laced all down the front, to the matching gauntlets and breeches, to the knee high polished black boots. Even his beard and mustache looked fussy and overdone, like Harry imagined Malfoy would wear it, if he could even grow hair on his face. Not that Harry had ever imagined that before. Or was now.

Ron was glaring at him mutinously.

"Give it a rest," Harry muttered, averting his eyes to see Malfoy raising an eyebrow at Blaise Zabini.

The Professor was reading over a scroll, his mustache moving soundlessly with his lips.

Harry bumped shoulders (or, at least shoulder-to-upper-arm, since Neville seemed to have grown about three feet since last year) with Neville, smiling encouragingly. "All right, Nev."

Neville nudged back. "All right, Harry."

*

The older-Malfoy-only-not had a drawling American accent. Harry had never had any contact with Americans before, so every word was a completely fascinating mishmash of nasal vowels and weird consonants.

Malfoy made a comment -- not very well covered by a cough -- that sounded very distinctly like "Mudblood".

"Actually," the Professor said pleasantly, "I think I'm what you kids call a Muggle."

Malfoy looked horrified.

"Is that worse?" the man stage-whispered to Neville, whose cheeks flamed pink as he tried to stifle a laugh.

Harry was right. This had been an excellent idea.

*

Not-Malfoy's name turned out to be Oliver Queen. Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a wizarding name, don't you think?"

Ron shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in America."

"Most people call me Ollie, none of this professor crap." Ollie smiled. "I'm more what you'd call a mentor. But don't worry, I've been training kids in archery for a long time."

"And isn't that reassuring," Zabini murmured, and the Slytherins tittered.

"Trick arrows are my specialty," Ollie started out. "Black out bombs, extinguishers, bola arrows, magnesium flares, net arrows, grapling hooks, to name a few."

"How is a net arrow going to hurt anyone?" That was Pansy Parkinson, who was disinterestedly examining her nails.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. "Probably won't. Where I come from, we try to do the non-lethal thing."

There was a moment of silence, in which the Slytherins seemed to be processing this. Ron looked equally perplexed.

"But--"

"Anyway," Ollie interrupted, making Parkinson narrow her eyes and Ron snicker into his hand, "We're going to work our way up to those, after we've had some practice on something a little less complicated." He checked his scroll then eyed Pansy. "Parkinson? You wanted something to do damage?" He held out an arrow with a wicked looking tip. "Here you go."

Harry felt a trickle of dread and warmth in his belly at the sharp look on her face as she took the arrow. She licked her lips. Harry shifted awkwardly and, because the world hated him, caught Malfoy's eye, who was smirking at him.

"We're going to start out with these. I want to see what level you're all at, but I want you all to understand that archery is a dangerous sport."

"Thought he said he did things non-lethally," Ron whispered and Hermione shushed him.

"Parkinson, take a shot at the target. Just go slow, size it up--"

She let fly and her arrow struck the center of the target, quivering with the force of it.

"Hey, now," Ollie said, beaming, and he clapped her on the back so hard she had to replant her feet. "Ain't beginner's luck, I'm guessing."

She blinked. "Of course not."

"Well it is the sport of kings, after all," Ollie said proudly.

"That's horse racing," Malfoy snapped, his arms crossed.

"Hm." Ollie rubbed his chin. "Are you sure?"

"I thought it was Mermecolion-hunting," offered Luna.

"It must be Quidditch," Ron said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't be simple."

Now Harry crossed his arms. "Why would kings races horses?"

Malfoy looked at him. "Because they can."

Ollie looked highly amused by the galleon-sized red spots Harry knew were now burning on his cheeks. "For our purposes, let's just say it's archery, okay?"

Parkinson looked cross. "The important thing is that I hit the target."

"Good perspective, Parkinson. Five marks to, uh," Ollie squinted at his scroll again, "Slytherin."

"Points," she said, almost warmly.

Ollie grinned. "Those, too. Now," he looked at Harry and Harry's stomach dropped. "Who's next?"

*

By the end of the lesson, Slytherin had racked up twenty points, while Gryffindor had five, and those were only thanks to Hermione and her book.

"She'll be impossible to live with now," Ron moaned dramatically and Harry frowned. It wasn't really fair, was it, for people to have gotten points because they had been taught already.

"I expect you all to practice," Ollie said as they were leaving. "The practice quivers are full of arrows with sticking," he waved one hand, "whatever-the-crap on them. No razorheads. I don't want you murdering each other on my first week."

Blaise tetched and plucked a blade of grass from the hem of his jumper.

"I'll catch you up in a tick," Harry said, looking back over his shoulder at where Ollie was bundling up the arrows.

Ron looked pained. "Forget it, mate."

Harry hiked his bag up his shoulder. "What?"

"I know that look."

"I don't have a look."

"You have a Malfoy's-Done-Something sort of look."

Harry snorted. "I don't."

"You sort of do," Neville said, coming up on his left.

"There's no look," Harry said firmly. "Make sure you save me some biscuits."

He headed back to Ollie, standing over him and crossing his arms.

"Something on your mind, Potter?" Ollie looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"You should know that that bunch is at an advantage over the rest of us."

Ollie looked thoughtful and pushed himself up. "I figured that."

"Just that..." Harry waved his hand at the arrows. "You're new. So I didn't know if you knew. And also, giving points on the first day isn't really..."

"Fair?"

Harry shifted his bag to his other shoulder. "Well. No."

Ollie looked at him for a long moment, and it looked sort of like he was trying not to smile. "You do have the saying about life being unfair on this side of the pond, right?"

Harry nodded jerkily.

"While you're here, you want to help me pack up?"

"I have to get back," Harry said, anger churning uselessly in his belly. "Lunch."

Ollie inclined his head. "Right."

"Thanks for your time, sir."

Ollie gestured across the lawn. "Door's always open, Potter."

*

It was drizzling, but Harry didn't bother with rain-proofing himself when he scooted out onto the curved lip of the Astronomy Tower.

Seamus and Dean were having some kind of argument that Harry couldn't follow and he needed somewhere to sulk in peace. Just for a little while.

Bloody great poncy archer.

Movement on the Great Lawn caught Harry's eye. There was someone down there with a green quiver slung over his back, making no attempt to shield himself from the fine mist that was soaking everything.

Harry hydrophobicked his glasses and squinted, even though he knew who it would be. Because no one ever did say life was fair.

After Malfoy made four perfect bullseyes, Harry clambered back into the Tower in disgust.

*

Parkinson volunteered to go first on Thursday. Her skirt was so short Harry was sure he could see ruffled knickers peeking out from the hem.

Not that he was looking. Even though Ron definitely was. Harry nudged him. Hard.

"Huh?" Ron said.

Hermione snorted.

"Parkinson," Ollie said, somewhere between amused and faintly horrified, as she took her stance. "Nice...uh," he cleared his throat, "form."

She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. "Thank you, Professor." Then she turned and shot a bullseye.

"Good, good." Ollie was studiously writing down points on his scroll when she trotted out to retrieve her arrow, her long, bare thighs above her socks looking downright pornographic. "Now for the rest of you, let's see if practice really does make perfect."

Harry found himself between Malfoy and Ron, fearing for his life. Malfoy, of course, was a nearly perfect shot, but Ron was terrifyingly awful. Harry himself wasn't so much better, which seemed highly...well, unfair.

He set his jaw and pulled so hard that his arrow flew off course and stuck into the side of Malfoy's target.

"One would think," Malfoy said with a sneer, "that with four eyes you'd be able to see better."

"Oh, you're a wit," Harry grumbled. His next shot hit. And when he looked in triumph at Malfoy, he found him aiming his bow at Harry, his hand drawing back an imaginary arrow on an imaginary string. Harry blinked.

Malfoy let go. 'Bullseye', he mouthed.

Harry threw his bow on the ground.

"Hey!" Ollie was there, between them, one hand on Malfoy's bow. "What the hell is this?"

"Practice," Harry said boldly, his face and ears burning hot.

Ollie turned on him. "No, it's not. Hate to break it to you, but this is the real thing, kiddo." He looked sharply at Malfoy. "No do-overs."

Malfoy didn't react.

Behind him, Ron whispered, "I don't think he's talking about archery anymore, mate."

He and Malfoy ignored each other for the rest of the lesson.

*

Malfoy, Harry noticed, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice, didn't put in an appearance at lunch.

Not that he was in the habit of keeping track of Malfoy's whereabouts.

Hermione nudged him. Hard.

*

Things got better with the introduction of trick arrows. Learning how to recognise and anticipate various methods of attack was exhilarating.

And they got to shoot at each other, besides.

Harry picked through the available arrows for his turn. He was up against Blaise Zabini and he wanted to make sure he got the jump on him. He gingerly selected a slender black arrow, the glass globe on the head filled with a thick black liquid. It seemed to swallow all the light around it, the glass itself not even glinting in the sun.

"What does this do?" Harry asked, and nocked it against his bow, lining up against Zabini, who was drawing back something with an odd claw at the end.

Ollie squinted, scratching his chin consideringly. "Oh, actually, that shouldn't be there, because we won't be using those for--"

Harry had already let go.

"Aw, crap," Ollie said, and the next moment everything went black.

*

"Ouch!"

"Oh, um." Apparently he wasn't knocked out. Unless he was knocked out and this was a very vivid dream. He stepped on the foot again.

"Fucking ow!"

"Sorry!" He blinked. Everything was still black. "Ron?"

"Harry?"

Harry flailed out in the dark and grabbed a hand.

"Was that you who stepped on my bloody toes?"

"I think that was me," Hermione said, from somewhere close by.

"No," Pansy Parkinson snapped. "That was me."

"You mistook her foot for mine?" Ron sounded aghast.

There was a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "It's okay, kids, just, uh. Follow my voice."

"Nice one, Potter."

"Stuff it, Malfoy."

Hermione sighed.

Harry's sweaty palm slipped against Ron's in the darkness, and a long thumb rubbed against his knuckles. "C'mon," he said, in harmony with Parkinson, who seemed to have gotten closer, and he gave Ron's hand a tug.

"I'm coming," Ron answered irritably, "my feet don't move all that fast, after all, being so tiny."

Someone close behind him snickered and Harry bit his lip to keep from joining in.

They trudged slowly forward, Ron deliberately stepping on his heels. "Quit it."

"Quit it," Zabini imitated and Harry rolled his eyes. Or, at least, he thought he did.

He readjusted his grip on Ron's hand. Ron's thumb slid over his palm and Harry shivered a little.

"Small feet don't mean much," Luna was saying. "Take Neville, for example, his feet are rather small and his pri--"

"Oh god," Parkinson interrupted and someone else was making a gagging noise. Harry suspected it was Ron.

"Well," Neville said thoughtfully, "she's not entirely wrong."

"Guys," Ollie paused. "Well, no, she's not entirely wrong. In theory, that is."

Ollie's voice was very near and Harry blinked against a shaft of sunlight that fell into his eyes. The darkness was slowly turning less opaque, and it felt tepid and slick against Harry's skin.

"Naff," Ron said, with feeling and Harry blinked the newly watery stuff out of his eyes to see Ron dragging his shirt up and using the hem of it to wipe his face.

Hang on.

He looked down at the hand that was still tightly clasped in his. A pale, slim arm was attached to it, which, of course, led up to Draco Malfoy's shoulder, which in turn sloped into Malfoy's throat, up over his chin, and into his bemused face.

Harry dropped Malfoy's hand and scrubbed his own, still tingling, against his thigh.

Next to him, Ron rolled his eyes.

After, Harry noticed, holding onto Parkinson's hand a bit too long.

*

"Can I help?"

Ollie patted the grass next to him. "Pop a squat, Potter."

"Um." Harry hesitated, then settled down and took the proferred bow carefully. He watched Ollie wax the bowstring in his own hands for a moment, before taking up a stick of wax and mimicking his movements.

"He's angry," Ollie said, out of the blue. "And scared."

Harry didn't even pretend he didn't know who Ollie was referring to and he snorted. "And filthy rich."

Ollie squinted into the sun. "He reminds me a lot of--"

"Your son," Harry interrupted, surprised at the only slight pinch he felt in his chest.

Ollie furrowed his brow and quirked his mouth up on one side. "No, my daughter, actually." He quirked his mouth to the side in a half-smile. "At least the angry and scared part. I'm hoping it'll be a long time still before she comes into her inheritance."

Harry glanced at him, feeling his jaw gape a bit. "You-- you're--"

"Filthy rich? Hm, you do have the expression about books and judging them by their covers?"

Harry grinned despite himself and rolled his eyes, then stood and hefted the two bows onto his back.

Ollie chuckled and tipped his head back to squint into the sun. "I'll take that as a yes."

*

"Ollie."

Everyone looked up.

"Wicked," Ron breathed.

The man was floating, red cape billowing around his shoulders. The sun blazed behind him, obscuring his face in shadow, gilding his edges in gold.

For a second, Harry thought this was Godric come back to rally his troops.

Ollie crossed his arms. "Kal. Scotland's a long way from Metropolis."

Harry noticed Malfoy was staring at the floating man with a thoughtful look on his face. It made Harry's stomach feel funny, and he looked away.

"I just came from the Watchtower," the floating man, Kal, said. "We need to go. Now."

Ollie looked about to say something, but Harry could see him actually restraining himself.

"Ollie," Kal said again, his voice not as hard. He stretched a hand down, palm up.

Ollie hefted his bow and quiver onto his back and raised his hand in a salute. "Not the way I would have liked to leave it, guys, but duty calls." Harry could have sworn he winked at Malfoy as he grasped Kal's hand and was lifted into the air. "Don't do nothing I wouldn't do."

Malfoy, Harry thought, didn't seem to hear him, except for the tiny twitch of his lips, and the slow slide of his eyes toward Harry.

Harry felt that same twist of dread and warmth.

Non-lethal.

Next to him, Ron sighed resignedly.

Right.

*