Glee, Harry Potter 1. I Meeting of Shadows

Title_:__Swan Heart_

Author_: Lilith Duvare _

Fandom_:__ Glee/Harry Potter_

Word Count_: 2,700+_

Pairings_: Kurt/Blaine, OC/Harry, Harry/Kurt, Warbler/Kurt_

Rating_: T_

Genre: _Romance, Drama, Angst, General_

Warnings_: AU!, Non-magical, Slash, some cursing, awkwardness, and unhealthy jealousy_

Summary_: Dalton Academy was his prison, the golden cage he had been confined to, because his mother wanted nothing to do with him while his godfather couldn't even look into his eyes anymore. He had no one, but it was okay because he had ballet and the chance to get away from everything... until one late afternoon he met with a dark silhouette in the deserted Senior Commons thanks to his ridiculous curiosity._

Disclaimer_: Nothing is mine except for the whole Ballet Club and its members, aside from Harry of course. I still don't earn money for writing and especially not for writing this._

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**Swan Heart**

**I. Meeting of Shadows**

Harry hurried down the sacred halls of Dalton Academy, more than ready to get away from the sheer madness of the Warblers and their petty little fights with the Ballet Club. He groaned at the remembrance of Bradley's puce coloured face as he screamed at Wesley Johnson, one of the head Songbirds, for something or another. If Harry remembered correctly it was about the Warblers performing on the Annual Dalton Charity Weekend, just before the Ballet Club. Harry couldn't have cared less if the screaming match hadn't interrupted his practice time.

To Harry, the Dapper Douchebags – as Arnold, Harry's super geek roommate called them – were insignificant. Of course he knew who the leaders were; it was hard not to when all freshmen and sophomore panted and prattled about them constantly in the hallways, but their choreography and dance skills were so pitiful that the only time Harry was actually persuaded to attend one of the Impromptu Warblers Gigs, he lost interest in their performance and left the Senior Commons before they could have even started singing. It didn't mean he couldn't see Brad's point and hate, because he could. After all, the Warblers were the kings of the school even though they couldn't even win Sectionals last year, while Brad and the Ballet Club had won Nationals for three years in a row now and frankly no one gave a shit.

He let out a sigh and chased away the useless thoughts; they were well known and respected in circles that counted, and that was the only thing that mattered to Harry. In a year he would get out of this freaking golden cage and forget he ever attended here. The blind and snooty prats with a pole so high up their ass that it almost came out on their mouth would be left behind, nothing more than blurry pictures amongst the pages of his memory, their lack of support as meaningless as it always had been.

Harry smiled a derisive smile; those words sounded so good in his head, but they couldn't lessen the bitterness that spread and eaten away his heart more and more with each passing they. He knew he was going to be famous. Both the Royal Ballet School in Britain and the Bolshoi Ballet Academy in Moscow sent their agents to him after Nationals last year, but not even his accomplishment took away the fact he was alone. The fact no one wanted him. The fact no one cared what would happen to him, if he lived or died...

He sped up his steps, wanting to get back to his room to hide away from the world or just watch Arnold as he lived his virtual life, playing time consuming and addicting games, never getting out or mingling with people except if they belonged to the Computer Club, but even then they tended to communicate through their avatars, doing a much better job in hiding from reality than Harry did. If he wanted to be honest, he found their devotion and insanity fascinating; they were experts and geniuses of another kind, brilliant but always invisible even to their friends.

Yes, that sounded like a good idea. Watching as Arnold held his weekly Halo or World of Warcraft marathon with his virtual friends, listening to the inane and scathing curses Arnie would shout off in the weirdest moments and forgetting how pathetic he actually was for not having a social life or skills for that matter.

The door of the Senior Commons were ajar, something unusual in the World of Primness, as Harry walked by the room, and his steps already faltered to a stop before he knew what he was doing, the oddity of the phenomenon raising his curiosity without his intention. And he thought he grew out his knack for sticking his nose where it didn't belong! Still he crept closer, catching a choked noise that very much could have been a trick of his imagination too, but really, anything imperfect at this place was worth his nosiness.

There it was again, that choked sound, was it a sob? Harry's brows furrowed in confusion, he had never seen or heard anyone crying at Dalton. Not even the ickle firsties, because such a plebeian act as crying was simply beneath any respectable gentleman. Or at least that was what Ericson Marlow told him and his classmates during his lengthy welcome speech on Harry's very first day. So, it couldn't be one of the boys crying, right? But he heard it again this time accompanied with an even softer sound... a sniffle?

Harry bit into his lower lip in contemplation. Should he check on whoever was in the room? There was no light coming from he Commons despite the darkness outside, which indicated that the boy inside wanted to be alone. _But no one cried at Dalton. _He thought, knowing very well he shouldn't do this, nonetheless his hand was already pushing the door open, his head sticking through the gap seeing nothing and no one at first.

Harry blinked a few times, his eyes getting used to the lack of light and soon enough he caught the sight of a crouched figure on the couch next to the Warbler Council's desk. Harry didn't recognise the slumped form, his green eyes narrowing as if it could help, but even after staring for minutes he wasn't closer figuring out who was the boy with the hunched back and subtly shaking shoulders.

He thought about what he should do, vetoing the getting the hell out of the place after the sounds of chattering and footsteps reached his ears; it wouldn't do anyone any good if he got caught spying on a fellow student who was most certainly _crying_. However, the steps grew closer and the voices louder, making Harry tense up and without a second thought slip into the room and close the door behind him.

"Who is there?" It seemed his lack of tact managed to rouse the crying guy out of his depressed little world.

"Eh... Sorry, man... I saw the door was open and heard... erm..." Harry's voice faltered, not knowing what to say. "I just wanted to check out what's going on... I guess."

"I don't know you." Big surprise there, he wanted to retort, but caught himself in time and only gave a noncommittal shrug, he was pretty sure the other didn't see.

"Neither do I. You, I mean. I don't know you either." Was he really this terrible when it came to talking to other people? But the guy only huffed, a strange soft between a chuckle and another sniffle. "You're okay though?"

"I'm fine, of course," came the cool reply, and Harry noticed that the boy's voice was oddly high, almost like a girl's.

Hadn't a guy with a girl's voice come just recently to the school? The black haired boy frowned, trying to remember if there was such a case, and after a few seconds his mind supplied him with snippets of rumours about some new guy in the Warblers, that was attached to that hobbit Anderson... oh and the new guy was in some of Harry's classes too. Harry remembered of him being introduced on the first day as Cory? Carl? Or something like that.

"Sure," he said finally, tone carefully impersonal. "Then I guess you just like to sit in the darkness? You're not a vampire are you? I mean a real one not those sparkling freaks everybody is gushing about these days." This earned him a disbelieving snort and it strangely made him feel proud.

"I'm not a vampire, I can assure you. My name is Kurt. Kurt Hummel." Ah, Kurt then, well he was always bad with names.

"I'm Harry, Harry Potter," Harry offered, his hand itching to turn the lights on. "You're that new Songbird, huh?"

"Songbird?" Hummel sounded taken aback.

"Well I could call you a Dapper Douchebag too, but I'm not so keen on insulting people I don't know," Harry shrugged awkwardly, his back still pressed against the door. "And the Warblers own a real, living songbird so... it's a lame name, I know..."

"Oh yeah, Pavarotti was mine until a few weeks ago when Flint joined the Warblers."

"Uhum... So why are you sitting in the dark if you're not a vampire? Don't you have homework? Or something better to do at least?" Harry asked, changing the topic. He really didn't want to talk about the Warblers.

"You're really hung up on vampires..." the other boy commented, giving him the impression Kurt was rolling his eyes at him.

"They're cool. I even met one last year. Name was Sanguini and he was a vampire, I'm 99% sure of it." The sparks in the green eyes remained unseen, concealed by the darkness of the room, but Harry felt himself almost relax into the weird conversation he was having with Kurt Hummel, a total stranger. "Of course he wasn't sparkly, what self-respective vampire sparkles in the sun?"

It felt invigorating and gave him some false hope that he wasn't a lost case even if he had the feeling he was making a fool of himself. But the guy wasn't crying anymore, so it meant Harry did something right, right? And Harry liked vampires. They were great, aloof, darkly seductive... magical.

Hummel's shadowed head cocked to the side, as if he was considering something. "You don't like the Twilight saga." It wasn't a question, and there was no apparent emotion behind it, still that single sentence filled Harry with unease.

"You do?"

"God no!" Harry let out a long relieved sigh. "I might find supernatural romance endearing, but a clumsy and tragically plain girl's obsession with a... thing that wants to drain her of her blood holds no appeal to me."

"Exactly. Not to mention that Edward character is the absolute disgrace of everything vampire," he added. "Bram Stroker is probably rolling in his grave now. And Angelus is laughing his ass off."

"You like Buffy too?"

"Who doesn't? She was so kick-ass!"

"And David Boreanaz is smoking hot– Shit." Kurt swore, before stammering out some barely comprehensible words, "I... er no... didn't..."

"I liked James Masters more. Despite the bleached hair," Harry interrupted, causing the other boy to shut up. "Spike was sexy. Hey, you're okay?"

Kurt didn't answer, making Harry nervous. What happened? Did he say something? Or was Kurt offended by his exclamation? But no, the other boy just said he found David Boreanaz hot–

"You're gay?"

The raven haired boy blinked. Hadn't he just said he thought Spike was sexy? "Erm... Yes?"

"Oh... I see," Kurt whispered, his head lowering and hands balling into fists. Was he angry?

"If you have a problem–"

"What?" Hummel's head shot up in shock. "Of course not! I was only surprised... You're the third gay guy I've ever met."

Ah. Harry didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't really comfortable when it came to talking about serious topics. He had no friends at the school, the guys in Ballet Club either watched him with envy or worshipped him, depending on if they belonged to Bradley's harem or not, and the other students never seemed to notice him. Maybe it was the glasses and his messy hair that frightened them off. Or Harry was just too socially inapt, not to mention useless when it came to climbing the social ladder.

"Well... I'm pretty sure there are more than a few even in the Warblers," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thad for sure–"

"Thad?" Kurt nearly shrieked. "Council Member Thad?"

"Yeah, Thad Walberg." Actually Thad was one of the only guys, aside from Arnie, who talked to Harry occasionally. They weren't friends per se, but Thad loved ballet and he admitted he liked watching Harry dance. "And the hobbit Anderson, but you knew that, I guess? You're friends or something, aren't you?"

Kurt didn't say anything, his fingers once again clenched into fists on his knees, and Harry swore he heard the other's breath catch in his throat. The urge to switch on the lights became almost unbearable, Harry wanted to confirm his suspicion that Kurt was fighting back his tears, but out of respect for Kurt's privacy, he didn't move.

He didn't speak either.

"Yeah, we're friends," the Warbler finally admitted, before adding with burning resentment. "But it seems, Blaine is not as gay as he let everyone believe."

"Huh?" Harry blinked stupidly. Anderson not gay? Yeah, the kid had a horrible sense of fashion, no question there, but he was gayer than those Rainbow Ponies in that traumatizing cartoon.

"I'm pretty sure you heard about the New Directions party last Friday? Wes screamed for almost an hour with Blaine for not coming back to school in time, this morning. Or so that was what Blaine told me," Kurt supplied, but before the green eyed boy could say anything he was continuing. "In short, everyone got drunk, bar Finn my brother and I, and we played Spin the Bottle. And it happened that Blaine had to kiss Rachel and now he decided to go out with her, because he liked the kiss!"

Harry didn't ask what New Direction or who this Rachel person was. It was irrelevant. Because what mattered was that Anderson was a gay guy, who decided he liked his drunken kiss with a _girl_ and, from what Harry gathered now was having some kind of identity crisis. And if the lost and broken sound of Kurt's voice was anything to go by, the boy felt more than friendship toward– Wait. Harry heard about this story. Not the hobbit's crisis, but Kurt confessing his feelings to said hobbit.

Harry felt sorry for Kurt, he really did. Not because he could understand what he felt, Harry never liked anyone before, at least not long enough or in a way that would matter. Hell he only knew he was gay, because of Spike from Buffy. But he felt for Kurt, because the boy seemed so depressed and uncertain, and that was something Harry could relate to.

Which was why he asked, "You have friends, right?" Okay, that didn't come out as he intended to.

"Yes, of course." The boy sounded slightly offended making the ballet dancer cringe inwardly.

"Stupid question. What do they usually do to cheer you up, when you're unhappy?" Harry corrected himself, shifting his feet in anticipation.

"What do you mean?" This was really not turning out as he thought it would, because Kurt sounded more than a little angry now. And a tad bit defensive. "Who said I was unhappy?" he questioned sharply.

"Face the facts," came the reply, and Harry was surprised by his own calmness. In any other case he would have left by now, like ages ago. "You are sitting in a dark and cold room, all hunched and practically oozing dejection. Not to mention your gay friend who you're in love with decided to have a sexual identity crisis and started to date a girl, you know–"

"Who told you I'm in love with Blaine?" Kurt screamed and leapt to his feet.

"Everyone was talking about it, even I heard it, but only made the connection now..."

"Oh my Gaga." The Warbler slumped back down the couch, hiding his face in his hands. "Could a lightning bolt strike me down now? I would really appreciate it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Look, Kurt." How to proceed from here? Probably going with the truth would be the best. "I'm crap at comforting people. But from what I gathered from the chick flick craps my roommate loves to watch to gather information about girls, when you're heartbroken, you need a friend, one of those chick flick craps, a great amount of chocolate and tons of tissues. So call one of your friends and have a sleepover or something like that, curse the King of the Dwarves and list his bad qualities."

"It's Monday."

"If these people are your friends, they will be more than willing to comfort you. And you probably can get over Anderson too... or not. But it's worth a try, no?"

"You're right. Thank you." The concealed head bobbed in agreement and Hummel stood up once again. "I'll call Mercedes... no, not Mercedes, she would tear Berry a new one..."

Harry nibbled on his lip, trying to decide if he should stay, but it wasn't any of his business. Usually he didn't even meddle with other people's problems. "I'll leave you to it," he said, hand on the door handle and ready to go, when Kurt's voice stopped him.

"Thank you... really." The Warbler sounded tentative but grateful, causing him to smile.

"It's cool. Have a good night," the black haired boy answered, opening the door and effectively blinding himself with the sudden boost of light.

"See you around?"

"Sure." Harry knew they wouldn't.

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_**A/N:**__ This was intended to be a one-shot. A long one, mind you, but a one-shot none the less. However, I'm currently writing Part 5 and nowhere finished with the story, so I decided to post it to see if anyone is interested. This is not going to be updated every day like __**The Show Must Go On**__, however I plan to update every week, until it's finished. In the mean time, you can check out my __**tumblr **__(link is on my profile) where I constantly ramble about the story and even post deleted scenes. Hope you liked it..._


	2. II Keeper of Secrets

_A/N: This is still not properly edited, but I changed a few things and corrected a few mistakes, that was essential for later chapters._

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**II. Keeper of Secrets**

"We are going to perform the Final scene of Swan Lake at Nationals," Bradley announced to the group of sixteen boys causing an instant uproar.

Harry suppressed a sigh, not reacting to the smug smirk the senior sent his way; there was no doubt who would play Odette. Pale pink lips pressed together and green eyes flashed with loathing, but the younger boy remained silent, allowing the others to do the screaming and swearing for him.

"Let me guess, you're going to be Siegfried," Michael, another senior member and Brad's biggest rival asked, his tone scathing and full of hate.

Harry's gaze slid to the broad shouldered eighteen-year-old, taking in the familiar features of his thin face; the sharp cheekbones, the strict nose, the dangerously gleaming gray eyes, the drastically thinned lips and pointy chin. He was attractive and unapproachable as he leaned against the wall separated from everyone, arms folded in front of his chest. Harry never said more than two words to him before.

"Director Cameron wants me for the role, yes," Brad replied arrogantly, brushing a strand of bleached blond hair out of his light brown eyes nonchalantly. "I'm the best dancer in this group, aside from our dear _Odette_, of course."

"Yeah, and you getting the role doesn't have anything to do with the blow job you performed on Director Cameron," Michael sneered disdainfully.

"Are you calling me a whore?" the blond yelled in outrage causing everyone else to shut up immediately.

"You just did it yourself." Harry had to admit, Michael was good.

He watched as the two seniors glared at each other hatefully, Brad's fist clenched by his side while Michael's arms were still crossed in front of his chest, his stormy eyes daring the slightly shorter boy to do something rash. Brad's followers scowled at the brunet, their glowering faintly amusing to Harry, who ignored the eager looks his own supporters, or whatever they were, shot at him.

"So you think you can get the role?" Bradley finally asked, a cold smirk appearing on his face. Harry was instantly on his guards.

"I want an open audition," came the equally frosty response.

"Harry will assist us."

"No, I won't," Harry interrupted from his sitting position. "You want to decide who is the King of Ballet Shoes, do it. But I'm not getting in the middle of this petty fight."

Everyone was staring at him, but he didn't care. Probably this was the longest he had ever spoken in front of his teammates, and he outright went against Bradley's order. Well they could go and fuck themselves, because not even the lethal glares of the almighty Mr. Leader could change his mind. Especially not after he blatantly announced Harry would play the only _female_ role of the performance.

"I agree with Potter. Or do you need his assistance to win against me?" Michael taunted mercilessly. "Or is it possible the rumours are actually true?"

What rumours? Harry looked at Bradley's unnaturally pale face, noting the light sheen of sweat on his forehead and his frightened brown irises. What rumours had Michael been talking about?

"You are disgusting."

"You bastard! How dare you?" Brad screamed and without anyone could react he lunged forward, ready to hit the other boy, but instead of landing a punch he found himself on the floor, with Michael's knee digging into his chest and his long fingered strong hand encircling his neck.

"Shut up O'Meyer, before I forget myself and kill you," Michael snarled. "You're a screwed up creep that wears his brain cells in his dick, and if I hear even a whisper about you trying to play your dirty little games to get into Potter's pants, I'll destroy you."

Harry was pretty sure, his brain stopped functioning altogether. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine at the thought of Bradley trying to molest him during practices, but now as he thought about it, it didn't seem so surreal. He vaguely remembered of the crude leers and the barely there accidental touches he always filed away as mocking and taunting, but could it be that in reality, they were signs of attraction and desire?

He repressed a second shiver and turned his attention to the fact Michael Farchild was acting as his dark knight in shining armour, however, after a second thought he decided not to explore that either, and attempted to regain his composure instead. He concentrated on collecting his self-control, therefore he was more than a little startled when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Do you think we should do something?" It was Eddie Lindgren, a sophomore who joined the club in the beginning of the first semester, if Harry remembered correctly, although with the rounded face and big worried greenish-blue eyes he didn't even look old enough to be in high school. "Call Director Cameron, perhaps?"

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall over the door and shrugged. "He's going to be here any minutes now, and aside from Frank, none of us is strong enough to separate them."

"You're so calm and collected!" Eddie gushed causing the older boy to realise he was one of his unwanted admirers.

"Disinterested, there is a difference," Harry replied, moving away from the hand still touching his shoulder. "It's none of my business..."

"But it concerns you!" another boy piped in, probably a freshman, because Harry didn't remember his name. "Haven't you heard that swine O'Meyer wants to... you know," the kid finished lamely, gesturing toward the still struggling seniors.

"Whatever Bradley O'Meyer's intentions are, it's his business, however, you should not call him names, especially when it can get you kicked out of the club faster than you could say _tutu_." The green eyed boy scolded, causing the kid to flinch back and shut up.

"Well they're fighting over you! I'm sure you enjoy it immensely, don't you, Potter?" Alex Montgomery, Arnold's twin brother, hissed from his place in the middle of Bradley's cronies.

"Your pitiful jealousy is not even worthy of my response." Harry sneered in distaste at the slightly older boy. "If you're so concerned about your master, why don't you go and save him?"

"You think you're so much better than us, don't you, Potter? Just because Brad deluded himself that you're worthy of his attention..." He stopped listening at that point and because Michael just whispered – more like growled – something into Bradley's ear, something that caused the blond's face to redden, then stood up and took his previous position as if nothing had happened.

Thundery gray eyes met with dull emerald ones, but the moment passed before Harry could have deciphered what Farchild wanted from him. Bradley picked himself up from the floor and with a last glare of pure hatred he staggered over his lapdogs and let Montgomery fawn over him, while the others chatted animatedly and gushed with admiration.

Harry wanted to throw up, but two minutes later Director Cameron arrived and announced with an eager and all too sadistic grin playing on his lips, waving the list of roles in front of him teasingly. Harry felt dread filling his stomach; there was no chance he could get out of it now, unless he wanted to ruin his chance to secure his place at BBA, which was of course something Harry didn't want to do.

"As you probably heard from Brad, I decided to do something new and daring for Nationals." Cameron started, his grin widening even more. "We are the only all-boys group which means we have to work extra hard to win Nationals, and after three years of choosing great but predictable pieces, we have to renew ourselves, show a fresh and shocking side no one has ever seen before."

"I told them we're doing Swan Lake," Bradley cut in, sounding bored and earning a pointed look from the director.

"Very well then. I'll post the list on the wall, then I want you to form–"

"Not so fast, Mr. Cameron," Michael spoke up, pushing himself away from the wall. "I want an open audition for Siegfried's role."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Farchild?"

"Don't play deaf, you heard me perfectly. I want a chance to get to dance Siegfried."

"I want to audition for it too," Frank added, stepping forward with a sheepish smile. "Siegfried is kind of an idiot, but it's a lead role."

"Not to mention we're sick and tired of O'Meyer always snatching the leads," Michael sneered and some of the boys nodded.

Cameron was openly gaping, something that never happened before. "Bradley is the president of the Ballet Club–"

"But that doesn't mean he is the best, does it?" Michael interrupted the man once again.

"You never give us a chance to prove ourselves, you just give O'Meyer the leads or solos the moment he–"

Harry cut in before Frank could say something he would regret, "What Michael and Frank mean is that you heavily favour Bradley without thinking about whether his figure fits the role or not."

"You're one to talk," Montgomery spat. "You always get the second lead too!" He turned to the still flabbergasted director. "I, for one, want to audition for Odette's role."

The man broke out in laughter, guffawing as if he just heard the best joke of the year, causing Alex to flush unattractively. "You? You want to play Odette? With those pear hips and spongy legs? Please, boy, practice some self-criticism. Your pirouettes are sloppy at best not to mention you can barely raise your leg further than 100°, so next time before you make demands like this, use your head," Mr. Cameron said, his chocolate gaze now focused and held no mercy or playfulness. "As for you two, you want to audition? Have it your way. But if you make a fool out of yourselves on stage you're out of this group, am I understood?"

"Perfectly," Michael and Frank chorused.

"Excellent, now shoo and pair up for the warming-ups!"

Harry got Odette's role, and of course no one was surprised. His admirers shot besotted looks at him during the entire practice session, which was not only irritating but also distracting, because the little cretins just had to be in his way whenever he paused for a moment to drink some water and to wipe away some of the sweat off his face and neck. And if the puppy like kids hadn't been enough he could feel Bradley's eyes burning into the back of his head.

So understandingly it was a very irritated and frustrated Harry who left the practice hall, trying his best to get away from the leech-like morons as quickly as he could. What he hadn't expected though was to literally run into someone upon turning around a corner. His body collided with a smaller, but somewhat broader one causing them to topple onto the carpeted floor of the Songbird Hallway, as Harry tended to call the section of the school that belonged to the Warblers.

He felt disoriented and his right hipbone hurt where it collided with the floor, but otherwise he was okay, at least okay enough to try to disentangle himself from the other boy who moaned softly, murmuring something about bumps and ruined clothes. Harry looked at the stranger's face, not recognising despite having the feeling he should have known the boy who had soft features with a little upturned nose, perfectly plucked eyebrows and a slightly mussed chestnut coif. His eyes were closed for another moment and two before they blinked open, revealing a pair of disgruntled blue-gray-green irises.

"Would you get off me?" Harry froze in mid-move; he knew that voice.

"Erm, Kurt Hummel?" he asked hesitantly.

"The one and only. Now move, because your bones are digging into my flesh. What are you, anorexic?" came the irritated reply, causing Harry to grit his teeth and stand up.

"I'm not anorexic," he said with an irritated curl of his lips. "I just work hard to destroy any trace of fat in my body."

"Are you calling me– Now wait a moment, I know your voice." Kurt's brows furrowed and his glasz eyes narrowed as he took Harry's tall and very lean for in. "You are Harry Potter. The vampire obsessed guy from yesterday."

"Yes." Harry felt awkward, although he couldn't decide if it was because the lack of darkness or because they really didn't have anything to say to each other. "And sorry. For running into you."

"Next time, don't run around like a headless chicken and incidents like this won't happen." Hummel's tone was supercilious and Harry kind of wished the boy was still heartbroken, because then he wouldn't be such an obnoxious bitch.

"It won't happen again, don't worry," he answered scathingly, then picked up his bag from the floor, ready to get as far from the other boy as he could. "Goodbye."

"Wait!" Kurt called after him, and for some reason, Harry paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you. You were right, watching movies with my friends and eating lots of ice cream made me feel better."

"I'm glad and you're welcome." They stared at each other for a few more moments and this time it was Harry who uttered those meaningless words, "See you around!"


	3. III Apple of Knowledge

_A/N: _Hey guys, sorry for the delay, but being an American Studies major sucks great time. I have to learn a bunch of useless things and the freaking tests just keep popping up, but I only have one month left of school so, hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly after my last exam in the middle of May. Until then I'll try to keep up with the weekly updates.

Now enjoy and just know you guys rock!

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**III. Apple of Knowledge**

Harry was prepared to never talk to Kurt Hummel again; after all no one ever really want to talk to him, why would Hummel have been different? However, the very next day after their second encounter Kurt surprised him with calling after him just as Harry was leaving AP French, one of the classes they apparently had together.

"Harry!" Kurt greeted him with a polite smile, causing the green eyed boy to realise how well adjusted he was to the school's frigid atmosphere. "I didn't know you take AP French too."

Harry tilted his head slightly, wondering if they were about to have some meaningless chat to keep up the image of acquaintanceship, just because they managed to have two very uncomfortable conversations before. Nonetheless, he knew he had to respond, because it was the right thing to do, so after a moment of hesitation he nodded. "Yes I do."

They stared at each other, Kurt's lips pursed for some reason Harry couldn't and didn't really want to explain, before the shorter boy opened his mouth again, saying, "I'm really grateful for your advice."

"You're welcome," Harry replied with a shrug. "It always works in those movies."

"Well they always have a happy end too," Kurt murmured, his voice filled with bitterness.

The ballet dancer sighed and wondered if it hadn't been better if he didn't stop when he heard his name. He thought about offering some excuse and fleeing, because standing in the busy hallway and getting stared at, while talking about broken hearts with a stranger – or talking about broken hearts in general – was not something Harry wanted to do. Yet he didn't say anything, opting for an awkward shoulder pat instead, because Hummel seemed too lost and hurt to be left alone, no matter how uncomfortable Harry felt.

"So I guess you still haven't made up?" he asked, pulling back his hand and letting it fall to his side.

"You know, the worst is that I actually know he _is_ gay." Kurt sneered derisively earning a few curious glances from some of the freshmen walking by them.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this in a busy corridor," Harry spoke up softly, nibbling on his lip in indecision.

The other boy's head shot up in realisation and a rosy blush crept onto his cheeks showing his mortification. "You're right..." Kurt agreed, his gaze shifting to the hurrying student body around them. "Um... would it be alright, if we met for coffee after school?"

"I can't," Harry replied and the hopeful expression was instantly wiped from Kurt's face, causing the black haired boy to groan inwardly at how insensitive he must have sounded. "Sorry, it didn't come out right. I have practice after school, that's why I can't meet up with you."

"Oh... I see." Kurt looked down at the floor, hiding his face from Harry which didn't help him to feel better at all. "Well, maybe some other time then..." And with that he was turning away, ready to leave.

Harry sighed in frustration and run a hand through his messy hair; why did he felt like he had to fix something that wasn't even ruined? "Maybe we can have lunch together?" he asked hesitantly making his classmate look back in surprise. "If it's alright with you, of course."

"My lunch break is in an hour," Kurt said after a moment of contemplation, a tiny smile gracing his lips.

"Okay."

"See you in the cafeteria!"

"Sure," Harry nodded, only realising he made a mistake after the other boy's figure had long disappeared in the crowd.

Having lunch with a Warbler would bring unwanted attention to him, not to mention all the shit Brad and his cronies would load on him when they heard about his little escapade – if one could call being reduced to an emotional trashcan an escapade –, not that Harry cared what others thought, but unwarranted attention was something he loathed wholeheartedly.

Well he couldn't back out of it now.

Hummel hadn't been in the cafeteria yet when Harry walked in and took his usual place in the farthest corner, away from everyone, and for a moment Harry hoped Kurt would change his mind or forget about their little meeting. However as he was about to take off the lid of his lunchbox full of apple slices, a tray was put down on the table next to him causing Harry to look up and meet with Kurt's falsely confident bluish-gray gaze.

"You don't mind, do you?" Kurt asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

"Of course not." Harry gestured toward the chair, watching as the other boy sat down, before his eyes slid over to the tray that was packed with a bottle of mineral water and some Cesar salad with grilled chicken. He averted his eyes and plopped a slice of apple into his mouth; it had to be enough until dinner. "So..."

But Kurt wasn't paying attention to him, opting for staring at his little container of apples in something akin to silence horror and blurting out the first thought in his mind, "You only eat that?"

Harry pursed his lips and answered in a clipped tone, "You wanted to talk about you and Captain Midget." Kurt's lips twitched at the name and he finally tore his gaze away from the apples, a faint blush adorning his cheeks.

"Sorry, and you're right," he agreed, pushing the lettuce leaves on his plate. "I just don't know what to say."

"You said, you know Anderson is gay," Harry started, biting into another slice and savouring the sweet and sour taste of the fruit. "How?"

"Aside from the fact Vogue is his Bible and he loves Patti LuPone?" The brunet's tone turned almost biting. "He loves shopping and musicals, not to mention the Disney classics. He's understanding and caring and just–"

"I'm not really interested in the Blaine Anderson canticle and from what I know, the things you listed don't make anyone gay, even though they might make one suspicious," Harry interrupted with a roll of his eyes.

"Well, he doesn't look at girls," came the cool reply, but Kurt wasn't looking at him. "Ever. But I don't know what I should do anymore..."

Green eyes blinked slowly, following the other's gaze and landing on a familiar head full of slicked back black hair. Anderson was sitting with the other Warblers and had a blinding, but a painfully fake smile on his face, his eyes occasionally darting around the cafeteria, as if looking for someone, but never finding his target. For some reason the knowledge that the person the hobbit wanted to see so much was sitting next to him made Harry smug and satisfied.

"Do you want to hear the truth?" he asked glancing at his perfectly shaped apple slices, feeling anxious and uncertain at the same time, wondering if he had any right to tell what the boy next to him should or should not do.

"Is it going to be another chick-flick reference?" Kurt inquired with a half-hearted smirk, but leaned closer.

Harry's own lips curled upwards a bit. "They worked the first time, didn't they?"

"I have you know, I have probably seen every romantic comedy, be it teenager or otherwise, but aside from the chocolate and sleepover therapy I don't think anything that happens in them ever works," Kurt huffed and sipped his water, but after a second he gestured to Harry to continue.

"Look, I don't know much," he started, stopping to gather his thoughts even if that never helped before. "But from what I gathered, you act like some kind of desperate classless slag." The colour drained from the Warbler's face and he realised he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Excuse me?" Kurt hissed, his voice shrill and high, but there was no turning back now.

"You act like a desperate bitch, latching yourself at the dapper dwarf, because he showed some compassion toward you or something similar," Harry said, ignoring the bristling singer next to him. "Look, I know I'm shit at this whole being considerate to others' feelings and talking in general. But have you ever thought of dating someone else? For fun?"

Kurt looked positively livid now and Harry wanted to kick himself for offering a metaphorical shoulder to cry on. But then Kurt was talking, his tone low and scathing, "Of course I've never thought about dating, and always slam the door on every Prince Charming's face when he arrives on his white pony to swipe me off my legs."

Harry sighed and pushed away his lunch, congratulating himself for being a total moron. He wanted to stand up and leave Kurt alone, forgetting they ever talked, but he'd never really run away from confrontation even if he normally tried avoid it with all his might.

"Okay, stupid question."

"Obviously you're full of them," Kurt snipped, glaring at him and causing Harry to clench his teeth before he blurted out something he would regret. "Are you able to put together one sentence that doesn't make you sound like an utter retard?"

"You're a condescending and obnoxious bitch," Harry offered with a cold smile. "Did that sound right?"

"And you are a low-class, socially inept, pathetic asshole who has no idea what the word hair brush means," Hummel countered venomously. "And now if you excuse me, I have better things to do than listening to your clumsy attempts to insult me."

The boy stood up, head held high and Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to think and think fast, before Hummel created a spectacle in front of the whole junior and senior student body of Dalton, unnecessarily bringing attention to Harry and himself.

"What I meant with the dating comment is that you should open your eyes and make yourself available to others too, instead of following Anderson around like a lovesick puppy," he said, just as Kurt picked up his tray, successfully gaining the shorter boy's attention once again even if for only a moment.

"Thanks for the brilliant and insightful advice," he sniffed and stalked away, leaving Harry alone with his half finished lunch – if one could call a bunch of apple slices that – and a long forgotten burning feeling in his throat.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on calming his breath that quickened without him noticing it. He felt unreasonably shaken and hurt for a reason he couldn't understand at all, even if his rational mind drew the conclusion that he should never try to make friends with others again. Or give advice for that matter.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he opened his eyes, almost falling out of his seat at the sight of his frowning roommate across from him. "Arnold?" he asked incredulously, not really comprehending what the redhead was doing at his isolated table.

"Sup, sweetcheeks?" Arnie offered a toothy grin, lowering his ever present sunglasses that intended to hide the dark circles under his eyes. "Did you hook up with Canary Boy and dumped his ass after a night of luscious gay sex?"

Harry choked on the apple juice he just sipped from his bottle. "You're hilarious, Montgomery."

"And you are gloomier than ever. Were _you_ dumped by Glitter Guy?" Green eyes shot a lethal glare at the redhead who held up his hands in defence. "Sorry, sorry. So what's up?"

"Nothing. And I have to go."

"Don't even think about it, Pretty Boy." Arnold put a surprisingly strong hand on Harry's shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. "You're going to finish your yummy rabbit food and tell my humble self, what's the problem. Aside from the fact, Brad the Vile wants into your frilly knickers."

Harry choked the second time, his eyes becoming huge and screaming of astonishment. "How do you know about that?" he managed to wheeze out between two coughing fits.

"About your frilly panties?" Arnold asked, flashing his usual sly smirk only to make Harry blush.

"No, you bastard. About O'Meyer," the brunet snapped, his emerald orbs practically blazing.

"You know Alex, my oh so sweet twin?" Harry grunted and half-heartedly bit into another apple slice. "Oh yeah, I've forgotten he is in your little Tutu Group."

"You've forgotten, my ass," he mumbled, earning a suggestive grin. "Move on."

"Don't need to be prissy," Arnold waved his hand dismissively. "What I meant is that, Al decided to pay _you_ a friendly visit today morning, but you've been long gone for your daily torture session and he decided to enlighten me, what a disgusting little slut you are."

Harry felt as his hand froze in the air before his hand was smeared with sticky apple juice and the remnants of the fruit, as his fingers clenched around the slice he was about to plop into his mouth. He should have known that Alex wouldn't leave him alone, not after being humiliated by their director and learning the love of his life was panting and lusting after his biggest rival. Although the rational part of Harry's mind had no clue, how could Alex think Harry as his biggest rival, when Harry was clearly on another level entirely when it came to skills and talent. And he wasn't being arrogant or supercilious; neither BBA nor RBS would have sent agents to him if he were a lousy dancer.

Still, calling him a disgusting slut... It was not only insulting but somewhat hurtful too, even if he didn't care what the other boy thought about him. Although to tell the truth in a way it was amusing too, especially because Harry didn't have a love life while Alex tried to get into anyone's bed that could help him getting higher on the ladder.

He looked up from his work of wiping the squished apple off his hand, his gaze landing on his still smirking roommate, who was eagerly waiting for his reaction, and sighed. "What did you do to him?"

"Me?" Arnold put his right hand over his heart in a very bad act of betrayal. "How can you–"

"You hit him, didn't you?"

"More like bruised his ribs with my kick, but yeah." The redhead shrugged, looking completely undisturbed. "The little shit deserved it and no one picks on my favourite cupcake."

"What if he goes to the headmaster?" Harry asked slightly worried, but strangely touched too. No one had ever stood up for him before. Not even his parents when they were...

But Arnie just waved away his worries, saying, "Nah, he won't do anything. Because unfortunately for him, I am the older brother and the heir of the family business. Not that he has any clue how to control a multinational IT company; calling himself an artist or whatnot, thinking I'll support his whims until he dies, just because he is a fucking useless moron–"

The older boy's rant was interrupted by the warning bell, which meant they had five minutes left before their next class started.

"You're free tonight." It wasn't even a question, but why would it have been? Harry never went anywhere, opting for spending his free time in the dorms or in the practice room. Still he nodded his head causing Arnold's smile to widen. "Sweet! Then we're having a _Queer as Folk_ marathon!"

"You are straight," Harry deadpanned with a carefully blank face.

"Chicks are boring and too complicated," came the nonchalant answer as they headed out of the cafeteria.

"Arnold, you've never dated a girl."

"Neither have you."

"That's because I'm gay."

"And I'm not picky." Arnold shrugged. "And some guys are super hot. Like Angel or Spike, not to mention Morgan in _Criminal Minds_... So what do you say? A juicy _QaF_ marathon? I'll nick some cookies from the Canaries."

Harry refrained from pointing out that a week ago, Arnold was panting over Angelina Jolie and her plump lips, because what would be the point? After almost three years of living together he knew his roommate and his spasmic craziness very well; if he decided he wanted or liked something you could do anything, he wouldn't change his mind until he got bored or something else caught his fancy.

Harry gave him two weeks before he was back to his beloved girly movies and _Sex and the City_ marathons, although Harry had no idea where Arnold's sudden interest in men came from. He had never shown any sign of curiosity towards the more masculine side of sex before, but probably it was just another phase, like his interest in the Japanese music culture had been.

So instead of telling his roommate he was crazy, like he should have, Harry offered a rare half-smile and agreed to the _Queer as Folk_ marathon. After all what could go wrong with watching some very hot men getting their dirty on?


	4. IV Nature of Mothers

_A/N: Hey guys,_

_here is the next chapter, thanks for the reviews I'm gonna answer all of them today or tomorrow at the latest, but I've been busy with RL and my tests. So I hope you'll like this too and please review. I love hearing what you think!_

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**IV. Nature of Mothers**

It was still very much dark outside, when Harry's phone started to ring, waking both boys in the room.

"The fuck?" Arnold muttered, his only reaction before burying his head under his pillow entirely, hiding from the obtrusive sound that was Harry's ringtone.

Harry blinked his eyes open and instinctively reached for the devilish device, his brain not really comprehending what was happening, until he somehow managed to push the receive button and an awfully familiar feminine voice filled his ear, chasing any remnant sign of sleepiness out of his mind.

"What took you so long?" Lily Evans asked, her tone clipped.

"It's two in the morning," Harry replied frigidly, trying to figure out what the woman could want from him, when he could count on his one hand how many times she had contacted him ever since the divorce... Five years ago.

"What are you talking about? It's seven fifteen already– Let me guess, your good for nothing father let you party until dawn on a week day. Maybe you're even hung over–" she ranted, causing Harry to grit his teeth and cut in before he lost his patience.

"I'd appreciate if you refrained from insulting my father," he said curtly. "What do you want?"

"Mind your tone with me mister! I'm still your mother–"

"Wrong." It was one single word, yet the contempt and disdain behind it were enough to shut the woman up. "You stopped being my mother, when you decided to walk out on me and James to live for your experiments and your _lover_. Now case your indignant and unbecoming prattling and tell me what you want, because I have to get up in three hours."

"Harry, just because we had some disagreements it doesn't mean I don't love you or stopped thinking of you as my son," Lily tried, her voice suddenly soft and almost affectionate; how sad that Harry didn't believe her anymore. "How many times have I asked you to come and live with me and Severus? You need a mother and a _real_ father, not like that lazy, useless–"

"I asked you to refrain from insulting my father, Lily," Harry gritted out frostily. "And if I remember correctly, it was you who wanted nothing to do with me when I told you I was gay."

"Of course, you're not... _that_, silly. You're just confused because all the sodomy you were forced to watch, thanks to your father and his disgusting friends." The black haired boy could see her revolted sneer, even though her face was hazy even in his memories. "What you need is a loving and caring home and a nice girlfriend. I even know the perfect girl for you. You remember little Ginny Weasley, I'm sure, now she's becoming a fine young lady..."

Harry shut her droning voice out and glanced over at the other bed, noticing that Arnold's head was peeking out of his cocoon, his eyes silvery in the sliver of moonlight; the only source of light in their room. The redhead mouthed something to him, probably asking who he was talking to, but Harry just shook his head, the once soothing voice of his mother now grating on his last nerves making him want to end the call so desperately. Unfortunately, he still remembered Lily Evans enough to know she wouldn't stop calling him until she got what she wanted no matter what it was.

So instead of pressing the very inviting little red button, he sighed and cut off the seemingly endless rambling of his father's ex-wife, "I ask you one more time, Lily, what do you want?"

"I told you, I want you to come and live with us," she repeated forcefully, and a slow sardonic smile curled Harry's lips as he realised where this was heading.

"Even if I did, you wouldn't get a penny from James," he stated, his smile turning into a bitter and cruel smirk. "He is dead."

There was a moment of shocked silence, then, "Don't joke around about things like that! Of course James is not dead. I would have heard about it."

"Would you? You left us, Lily and called only twice since then. Both times your only goal was to get back at my father for cutting you off the family money because you cheated on him." Harry felt as cold and malicious satisfaction course through his veins, urging his heart to beat faster with the promise of causing pain to the woman who once meant more than anything to him. "You cheated then left, chasing your dreams and deliberately forgetting your responsibilities. Well now it's time to reap what you sow, Lily Evans."

"You're lying. James can't be dead."

"But he is," the boy whispered, swallowing the searing burn that clawed at his throat at the remembrance of his father's death. "He has been dead for three long years. _Three years_, Lily."

"Then it's one more reason for you to come and live with us." She sounded like an old broken record repeating the same times again and again, tearing up old long forgotten wounds, ripping Harry's heart to shreds once more with the old carelessness and imprudence. "We could settle the paper works for your transfer wherever you go to school now in a few days and the Weasley children would be more than happy to–"

"I'm not going anywhere and you're not getting your hands on my inheritance, because I have a rightful guardian and _his_ name is Sirius Black."

"See reason sweetie, you can't think that, that... cave man could know what's good for a teenager boy!" the woman exclaimed hotly, probably already counting the money she thought she would get if she managed to lure Harry to her side. What a foolish, foolish woman she was.

"He knew well enough to send me to one of the most prestigious institutes of America; knew well enough to pave the road of success for me," he countered, and at that moment it didn't matter if he resented Sirius for imprisoning him in this golden cage, refusing to show any sign of compassion towards him, because even Dalton was better than the pained looks his godfather sent to him whenever they met and a thousand times better than his mother's greed. "Now if you excuse me, I still very much liked to catch a few hours sleep at least."

"Harry, I'm not–" Harry ended the call and turned off his phone, thinking about getting a new number or simply getting rid of the cell phone.

He glanced over at Arnold one more time, hoping he fell asleep once again, but his roommate was sitting in the middle of his bed huddled into his blanket and steadily staring at Harry. Neither of the talked for a while, Harry not really having anything to say while Arnie looked like he was deep in thought, as if he was trying to figure out something.

"Sirius Black? The rock star? Really?" In the end it was Arnold who broke the silence, his curiosity winning over his compassionate side and Harry couldn't help but le a wry chuckle escape his lips at the typical reaction of his roommate.

"Really." He nodded with a careless shrug; he had only ever heard one song from his godfather and the silent and broken love confession to his father nearly sent Harry into hysterics at that time.

"Awesome... you're such a lucky bastard," the redhead gushed a sliver of envy seeping into his tone.

"Yeah, lucky," the green eyed boy huffed bitterly. "We should get back to sleep."

Arnold didn't reply and the room was filled with the noise of rustling sheets and fabric, Harry turning away from the other boy, hiding from his inquiry and his own memories too. "You can talk to me, sweet thing. You can always talk to me," Arnie whispered into the darkness, unintentionally deepening the wounds in Harry's heart.

**[Swan Heart]**

Harry pinched his lips together and wished he had borrowed Arnold's sunglasses, because the dark bruises under his dulled and slightly glassy green eyes gained just too much attention for his liking. The sophomores and freshmen openly stared at his less than perfect appearance in the hallways and even his classmates noticed his presence for once, only to quickly avert their eyes and start whispering when Harry looked up from his book.

Unfortunately for him, Arnie was using his shades, hiding his own even more prominent circles, which meant Harry had no other choice but endure the exasperated stares and whispering, but then again he betted none of the snobbish jackasses got a call from their _mother_ demanding them to give up their lives and move in with her and her lover so she could get her hands on their inheritance.

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to chase away the urge to let his head drop on the table top; he wouldn't have wanted to risk falling asleep in the middle of the cafeteria. The pear slices he hastily made that morning lay in front of him untouched, his appetite left him the moment he stepped through the double winged doors of the cafeteria, causing almost everyone's attention to zero on him for reasons he didn't want to know about.

He probably ogled his pathetic excuse of lunch for longer than he intended, because the next thing he realised was that a tray was slammed down across from him and a haughty yet somewhat uncertain looking Kurt Hummel was staring down at him inquiringly.

"Can I?" the boy asked and Harry cocked an unimpressed brow.

"Can you?" he responded, his tone carefully empty just like his face was void of emotion, earning a slight blush and a fake sneer before Hummel sat down and crossed his legs elegantly.

"So I might have overreacted yesterday," Kurt started, mindful of keeping his eyes on Harry's face. "But you were right... again."

"What do you expect from me?" the black haired boy questioned, stabbing his fork into a pear, but not attempting to lift it to his mouth.

The Bitchy Songbird sighed and finally averted his gaze. "I don't know what to do," he admitted after a moment of silence. "I talked to Mercedes and she agreed with your suggestion, but I don't want to make a fool out of myself going up to someone and asking them out only to be laughed in the face."

"So what, the Hobbit King is still having a tea party with Mr. Tumnus?" Harry refused to feel bad when his companion cringed and shot an angry but at the same time pained glare at him.

"I don't know," Kurt gritted out through his clenched teeth. "From what I heard from Rachel, their _date_ was phenomenal, but in my opinion it was totally gay."

"Ah..." was Harry's very eloquent response as he run a hand through his messy hair. "And what is it that you want from me? I thought I was a low-class, socially inept, pathetic asshole," he added with a sardonic twitch of his lips making the other boy blush.

"As I said, I might have overreacted a bit. Not to mention you called me a desperate and obnoxious bitch, so that comeback wasn't totally uncalled for," Hummel answered, his greyish-blue eyes daring Harry to disagree.

He didn't. "Alright. So what now?"

"I need information..."

"You mean a list of the gay or bisexual guys in the school?"

"Don't be absurd," Kurt scoffed, but there was an almost expectant glint in his eyes that made Harry want to groan. "Just a few names."

"How should I know? I'm not exactly Mr. Popular, that title goes to Anderson," Harry replied with a shrug.

"You know that Thad plays for Team Gay," the shorter boy countered, his expression undeterred. "I think Jeff might too, but I'm not sure. And–"

"You're being rash again," Harry cut in with an exasperated sigh. "No one told you to jump the first available gay boy's bones."

"I haven't hit on you, have I?" Kurt shot back, his voice hostile, but upon seeing Harry's stony expression his anger deflated almost immediately. "I apologise, it was uncalled for."

"If you say so," came the nonchalant reply, but deep inside Harry felt hurt and even more reassured in his own lack of attractiveness. "What I meant was that, maybe you should start hanging out with the Twittering Tits? Get to know them? Have you really watched every chick-flick movie? Because you sure seem clueless..."

"And how will that help to forget Blaine? Maybe it'll make him jealous!"

Harry refrained from banging his head into the table. "Would you forget Perfect and Almighty Anderson for a second?" he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

"Sorry," Hummel murmured looking down at his barely eaten lunch. "But it's hard; he is my best friend and I..."

"Damn it," Harry cursed, hoping the other boy wouldn't start crying. "Just do as I said, okay? I'm bad at this, but the movies never lie... or they just do it in a very convincing way."

Kurt looked at him for a few moments, his gaze calculating as if he was considering his choices, before he nodded and said, "Thank you" and after another second of hesitation left to sit with his crooning buddies.

Harry didn't wait to see how his advice turned out, he felt worn out and more alone than ever, and if his self-pity wasn't enough, the audition was also planned for that afternoon which only reassured him that he should dig himself a hole somewhere far from everything and hide out until the end of the world. Or until he died of dehydration.


	5. V Dance of Swans: Interlude

_A/N: _Hey guys,

sorry for the long delay, but school drained me and I could only catch up with my writing in the last few days. Also I finally managed to answer every review and let me tell you, it made me feel so happy, that you love my story and my characters. This chapter is a little Interlude and written in Kurt's POV because _**Rosethorne **_pointed out that I may should show how Kurt feels about the changes in his life. There will be another Interlude before the end to show Blaine's feelings and to explain why he did what he did (or will, as it hasn't happened yet), but this fic is mainly about Harry and his life at Dalton. We see things through his eyes and feel things as he does, but with Kurt's help he's slowly changing even if he doesn't realise it yet.

Nonetheless, here is the next chapter, I hope you'll like it and I ask you to be a bit more patient, as there are 3 more weeks before school ends for me and I'll be able to concentrate on my writing.

And finally thank you for the hits, adds and reviews they always make me incredibly happy, even if I have a shitty day.

**_P.S.: I need a little help guys. I'm working on another Glee/HP story with a severely mentally scarred Harry and I just finished chapter two, but need someone who would tell me their opinion about it, because it's a bit intense or so I think. So if you're up to a little angst and angry Puck, leave me a PM or review with your mail addresses. Thank you! _**

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**V. Dance of Swans – An Interlude**

"I call this meeting to order." Wes rapped his gavel twice effectively silencing the chattering boys in the room.

Kurt repressed a sigh and stared at his tightly clasped hands even harder, refusing to look up and search out his best friend, if he still could call Blaine that after four days of stony silence. The day before Kurt even went to get as much information out of Rachel as he could while pretending to help her clean the last remains of the party, and the mere memory of her euphoric rambling about her and Blaine's dreamlike first date was enough to freeze his heart. And if it hadn't had been enough Rachel challenged him, stating that she would kiss Blaine once again, this time while both of them were sober, to show Kurt she was right and Blaine was perfect for her.

Kurt didn't want to think about the possibility of Blaine liking kissing Rachel while sober, but the other boy was still not talking to him, or at least not the way they used to before the whole insanity of alcohol and Rachel Berry. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on Wes' voice as he told them that their meeting for the day was cancelled because the Ballet Club was holding an open audition and every club was required to attend.

At the mention of Ballet Club and open audition, Kurt's head instantly shot up and looked around in barely concealed bewilderment, but instead of similar states of shock his gaze only met with exasperated eye-rolls and frustrated grimaces. He frowned, not really understanding what was going on, especially because while it was true that he was a tad bit less than masculine but an all boy school having a Ballet Club was a little too much even for him. How did they even compete against the art schools and normal co-educated high schools?

However, before he could have forgotten himself and looked at Blaine for some explanation, Alex spoke up, "Let me guess, O'Meyer told you we can use their practice room if we attend."

"I bet he even added a quick blowjob to the deal," Chris added with a disdainful sneer causing Kurt's head to snap in the direction of the blue eyed boy who usually was so soft spoken and nice.

"Or simply fell to his knees–" Trent was interrupted by Wes' gavel and Thad's harsh "That's enough!"

"We're not a herd of rampant animals and no gentleman speaks such vile words–" This time it was David who was cut off by Nick humourless laugh.

"When it comes to O'Meyer and his little harem of needy bitches in heat I feel the urge to be anything but a gentleman, so cut the crap David and get to the point," he said and Kurt started to believe that the door to the Senior Commons was a portal to an alternative universe, one where the Warblers badmouthed others and actually swore.

He timidly chanced a glance at Blaine, somewhat hoping that the other boy at least shared his shock, but Blaine was just sitting in his regular seat on the couch and watched as his teammates argued and cursed each other and this mysterious O'Meyer who must have been an important member of the Ballet Club.

"There was no bribery and especially not bribery that includes any kind of sordid act," Wes snarled, his knuckles white on the handle of his precious gavel. "From what Franklin told me, Farchild and Richardson demanded an Open Audition in order to get a lead role and such every club of Dalton is required to attend and vote. It's the rule, so case this disgraceful yapping and barking, because like it or not, we can do nothing but attend and vote accordingly." Almond shaped eyes glared at everyone in the room; the fire in the deep brown gaze were enough to cool the sudden aggression and anger of the Warblers who after another moment or two took their previous places waiting for the Council to carry on.

Kurt caught Blaine's searching gaze for a second before he dropped his eyes back to his lap and pressed his lips together. He had no idea what they were talking about, and it made him feel even more lonely and isolated from the others. He had never heard of this O'Meyer or the other guys, no one bothered to enlighten him about the rules concerning the clubs even though he had been a member of the Warblers for months now. He didn't belong and it actually hurt more than he expected it to, because once again he was foolish enough to believe he could find a place to belong and be a part of, a place where people understood him...

Apparently that was not the case.

David was going on about some songs that would compliment Blaine's range perfectly and a part of him wanted to stand up and scream, telling the stuck up assholes where to shove their upstart haughtiness and utter blindness. He wanted to stand up and just storm out leaving this farce of a team behind, because how was this different than the New Directions where Her Highness Rachel Berry had to get all of the solos not even giving a chance to anyone else even though there was a great chance their voice suited the actual song better? He even wanted to resent Blaine, because he always got the chance to shine and devoured the glory and fame without thinking of anyone else, never declining or sharing, but it was childish and ridiculous to be angry at someone for snatching a chance to become greater even if he was still angry with said someone.

So instead of getting his diva on, Kurt just sat in the comfortable armchair that became his place in the last few days and thought about the strange, wiry boy with a shock of curly black hair and the most piercing green eyes who gave advices from romantic comedies and dared call him a desperate bitch without batting an eye. The boy who called them Dapper Douchebags and disliked Blaine with a detached passion for no apparent reason.

Harry Potter was unlike anyone Kurt had ever met and was even more isolated than Kurt. The boy had his own table in the cafeteria apart and away from everyone else, an obvious separation line between himself and the whole school which indicated Harry decided to segregate himself from the others and not the other way around.

Kurt sensed the movement from his right and looked up only to meet with the sheepishly grinning face of Jeff who looked hopeful and weirdly nervous at the same time. "Can I help you?" he asked, not raising his eyebrow and making sure his tone was polite and mildly interested.

"Yeah... well, actually... I was wondering if you'd like to sit with us?" Jeff replied and Kurt's eyes widened at the sight of the hot blush that crept up on to the blonde's cheekbones. "I mean in the auditorium."

Kurt was shocked and didn't know what to say at first, because the reflexive answer of "I'm sitting with Blaine" was both a lie and nothing more than his wistful wish. Blaine was already out of the room without even thinking of asking Kurt to join him, and yes it hurt like hell, but at the same time Kurt remembered what Harry told him during lunch as well as Jeff who budged over and made place for him when he finally went over to the Warblers table.

So maybe, just maybe he should give this whole getting to know the other glee members as well a chance. "Thank you, it's very nice of you."

"Great! Then come on, Nick's saving the best seats in the second row. You don't want to miss O'Meyer's expression when he learns he lost his position as lead dancer!" Jeff exclaimed grabbing Kurt's hand and pulled him out of his armchair, ready to break out in a full run.

However, Kurt was far from ready to go. "Okay, so, who is this O'Meyer guy?" he inquired, making sure they were the only ones in the room.

"I'll tell you everything on the way, but we gotta hurry," was everything he got before he was dragged out of the double doors and down on several corridors.

**[Swan Heart]**

The auditorium was full of neatly dressed boys when they got there; the different groups were sitting together murmuring quietly and sneaking glances at Blaine, who was quietly talking to Wes, and the Warblers, eyes shining with unconcealed interest and admiration. Even after months spent at Dalton, the obvious popularity was still something incomprehensible to Kurt, but he decided to ignore the giddy excitement that bubbled in his chest in favour of observing the other clubs.

"That's the Astronomy Club," Jeff said from Kurt's right side, indicating to the group of boys in red vests and irritated expressions across from them. "Their heads are always in the clouds... okay that was lame."

Kurt chose to not comment on that, instead he took in the smallest party of Dalton's Club Entourage, before his gaze slid over to the first row on its own accord, dismissing the Astronomy Club and any of the other groups altogether as being boring. It wasn't hard to figure out who they were, after all they were the only ones who dumped the uniform for baggy t-shirts and wife-beaters, not to mention they seemed the most excited amongst the whole student body.

"So that's the Ballet Club?" Kurt asked casually, but his eyes didn't move from the broad shouldered boys and the mostly attractive profiles.

They looked hot, Kurt wasn't ashamed to admit this. Even the younger looking ones seemed strong and lean at the same time, from what he could see of course, their grins cheerful and full of enthusiasm, however, even from the middle row, Kurt was able to decipher a kind of structure amongst the group.

"Yeah, but neither O'Meyer nor Farchild or Richardson are there," Jeff replied. "I guess you noticed that they're sitting in an order?"

"Yes," Kurt nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. "Which ones are O'Meyer's fans?"

"You mean worshippers," Jeff scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "Those little bitches are panting after Bradley like he is one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World." When Kurt kept staring at him with his trademark raised eyebrow, he sighed and pointed out six boys huddled together in the middle of the row. "That's them. O'Meyer's personal harem. Head Bitch in Command, Alex Montgomery. The redhead."

"Okay, what's with the hardcore hating?" Kurt inquired after a moment of examining the mostly sophomore and freshmen made supporters. "Blaine said no bullying is allowed at Dalton."

Jeff outright laughed at him. "We are not saints, Kurt."

The brunet repressed the urge to sneer at that statement; he perfectly knew the Warblers were many things but saints were not amongst them. If they were saints, Blaine would still talked to him instead of giving him the cold shoulder and betrayed looks over an argument they had. Sure it was an important one and Kurt realizes he acted too rashly and hurt Blaine's feelings, but a part of him was full of always coming second to everyone else. Blaine told him he didn't want to mess things up between them, but he did none the less and then blamed Kurt for it, accusing him of being insensitive and just like the bully who threatened his life.

"I'm aware of that," he answered finally, pulling himself out of his depressing thoughts. "Believe me, I know you are far from holy beings. But up till today I never heard you badmouthing anyone and I've been going to Dalton for nearly three months now."

"The thing is, no one really likes the Ballet Club and its members mostly because O'Meyer and his cronies," Jeff sighed staring ahead of himself. "They have the best practice room of the school, it's full of mirrors and way bigger than the Senior Commons where we're forced to practice, but they would never share it with us."

"Can't the Council do something? You just said no one likes them, not to mention the Warblers are the most popular group of the school..." Kurt didn't want to sound arrogant or supercilious, because he had very little work in making the Warblers cool, but still, if they were on the top of the hierarchical pyramid, they must have had the power to get what they wanted, right?

"Unfortunately for us and the whole school, the Ballet Club has been National Champion for three years now, which gives them the power even us Warblers don't have," Jeff shrugged awkwardly, lips pressed together. "And they are actually brilliant, as you'll see. I heard their second lead was offered places in both that fancy school in Russia and the Royal Ballet School in England last year after Nationals."

Kurt felt dumbstruck by that revelation and not only because Bolshoi Ballet Academy was the most prestigious dance school in the world, but because someone who danced _second_ lead in an all boy group was offered a spot there. It was as if Kurt got a role in a Broadway musical because he sang backing vocals to Rachel's shrill soprano. Okay, maybe that was a bit too farfetched, because Dalton _won_ the Ballet Nationals and this kid was second _lead_, while New Directions hadn't even got to Nationals last year, but still.

"I'm a little surprised..."

"You mean shocked as hell? Because your expression is priceless," Jeff offered with a cheeky smirk. "But I understand, don't worry. Especially because this kid is only a Junior and doesn't have the best social skills. But from what I've seen of him so far, he's fucking talented. Not to mention Thad has been in love with him for three years now, which is a feat in itself, considering how hard it is to get Thad's attention."

"Thad's in love with him?" Harry sure didn't inform him about this little fact when he recommended Thad as an available and possible love-interest. But then again, Harry wasn't famous of knowing many things about the students of Dalton altogether.

"Funny huh? Wes and David are constantly teasing him about being a chicken and not daring to confess the guy, but I kinda can understand it." He looked at Kurt with an earnest expression in his usually puppy-like brown gaze, causing the shorter boy's face to heat up.

He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and averted his gaze; anything to avoid the fluttery butterflies that appeared in his stomach. Jeff was not gay. Sure he had silky hair, though his dye job was only a little better than Sam's, but Kurt was not going to fall for the same trick twice; he was done with crushing on straight guys, not that falling for a gay one did any good for him, but still. Jeff might have been cute and funny and great when it came to the gossip mill – yes, apparently it also existed at stuck up places like Dalton – but he was only nice to Kurt because he felt sorry for him being all alone. It was simple camaraderie, nothing more.

So, instead of acknowledging the beginning of something that wasn't there, he turned back to the stage and let out a relieved sigh when the lights were being turned off. "What do I have to do?" he asked, lowering his voice to match the sudden silence that fell over the room.

"Watch then vote," came the less than helpful reply. "But don't worry, I'll help you when it gets to that. Now just enjoy the show. Farchild is an awesome dancer and despite being the most disgusting freak on Earth O'Meyer is pretty good too."

"And this Richardson?"

"I dunno, usually he dances in the background..."

A broad shouldered, middle-aged man walked out from behind the closed curtains, his imposing form enlightened by the sharp white light that illuminated the whole stage area. From what Kurt could see from his seat, he had dark eyes and a heavily receding hair line that was also dark. His features were strong and masculine, his nose slightly croaked giving him a stern air without making him handsome. His charcoal grey shirt looked expensive, Kurt would bet it was _Roberto Cavalli_, and his slacks properly fitted enhancing his still narrow hips and long legs.

"Who's that?" Kurt whispered leaning closer to Jeff, accidentally catching a whiff of the boy's scent – a pleasant mix of spices, probably _Armani_, and salty skin – that caused him to blush hotly, despite his mantra that the blonde was straight and wanted nothing from Kurt.

"Mr. Cameron, the Ballet Club's director," Jeff whispered back, their heads getting dangerously close to each other. "He's an okay guy, I guess."

"You guess?"

"O'Meyer is his favourite..."

"Oh..."

"Yeah." Kurt could practically feel as Jeff shrugged before leaning back against the back of his chair just as the Mr. Cameron flashed a quick, shark-like smile and raised the microphone to his lips and started speaking.

"Welcome everyone to this special event. We, the Ballet Club, decided to hold an open audition for the lead role of our next performance and we hope you will help us decide who is the best suited for the role," he said, his voice deep and cheerful, but Kurt could feel something darker underneath all that kindness and it made him wary of the man. "Your only task is to enjoy this rare show of passion and talent, and judge justly. Now that the formalities are done with, please welcome our first participant, Frank Richardson!"

The boy could have been Finn's twin if Finn had light brown hair, blue eyes, fuller lips, higher cheekbones and a washboard abs... Okay so, they looked nothing like, except for the freakish tallness and sheepish grin that made both of them look like a lost puppy. Not an eager and playful puppy, like Jeff, but a slightly confused and shy puppy... at this point Kurt decided to stop compare people to dogs all at once. Frank looked also older, eighteen at least, which meant must have been a Senior and wore thighs that left nothing to the imagination.

Kurt's fingers twitched and he felt as his face heated up for the millionth time that afternoon, which was simply ridiculous, because Kurt Hummel was above blushing like an infatuated preteen girl especially over boys and _very_ formfitting breeches.

The music started, he recognized it from Swan Lake, and Frank started his routine. He was a good dancer; his steps were precise and measured, his movements concentrated which was great, but nothing spectacular. He seemed to enjoy what he was doing but his posture was too stiff his expression bordering on anxious and so out of place. Nonetheless it was a good performance, better than some of Kurt had seen over the years and Frank deserved the applause he got when he was bowing at the end of his routine.

Kurt chanced a quick glance at Jeff who in turn was looking at him, and grinning widely while clapping his hands eagerly. "I hope if not Farchild at least he can beat O'Meyer," he said causing Kurt to roll his eyes.

"I doubt that he will win. He was good, but not that good," he answered honestly.

"You dance?" The blonde sounded surprised.

"Used to." Kurt shrugged nonchalantly, remembering his mother's fond smile as his five years old self showed her his perfect plié he got prised for instead of Rachel Berry. "But I still very much love watching any show I can catch. Unfortunately, there is not much of a chance especially when you have no one to go with," he added with a mournful sigh before he could have stopped himself.

"Hmm..." Was everything he got before Mr. Cameron came out again and announced the next performer as "Bradley O'Meyer."

The president of the Ballet Club was very light blonde, a colour that shouldn't have come from anywhere else than a bottle, however, Kurt was almost 100% sure O'Meyer was a natural blond. He was extremely handsome, but even before he started his routine – the same one as Frank had done mere minutes ago – he oozed an arrogance Kurt only ever seen in Santana and Puck and the countertenor could understand why people hated him without the need to talk to him. Maybe it was shallow to judge the boy without getting to know him, but if he wanted to be honest the not so subtle aggression that entwined O'Meyer's movements was enough to make Kurt feel not only intimidated, but more than eager to avoid meeting with the leader of the Ballet Club.

There was no question that Bradley was a very talented dancer, however, it was like watching the Vocal Adrenalin all over again with Jesse St. James as lead singer. The whole performance could be described as unnecessarily provocative and borderline fake. If it had been performed in front of judges it might have won the first place, but it might have not. After all perfection was demanded from every artist, but too much perfection was not only daunting but also kind of boring and unbelievable.

This time the applause was noticeably more subdued clearly showing O'Meyer's lack of popularity amongst the student body, however Kurt's attention was drawn from the audience when Jeff patted his shoulder and asked, "So what do you think?"

"Are he and Jesse St. James relatives per chance?"

"I take it you didn't like it?"

"I agree that he is very good, but it was extremely overachieving and the radiance of his smile outshone the headlights that's for sure," Kurt said with as much neutrality as he could.

"Well that means he lost one more voter," Jeff snickered maliciously.

"Let me guess, none of the Warblers vote for him."

"Bingo." Kurt rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the tiny smile that curled his lips as he turned back to Mr. Cameron who was announcing the last performer, Michael Farchild.

Kurt's eyes widened upon seeing the boy, or man, really, he would never accuse the chestnut haired dancer of being a mere boy. He was gorgeous with his messy brownish-red hair and grey eyes, not to mention he had a chiselled body with biceps even Noah Puckerman would be insanely jealous of.

The treacherous part of Kurt's mind pictured those arms around his waist lifting him up without effort and holding him tightly against that toned torso while Kurt's hands gripped Michael's strong shoulders– And the music started once again, bringing him back to reality and spreading another blush over his whole face and neck. Even his slacks felt uncomfortably tight, something he chose to ignore in hope it would disappear in time, like it always did when he concentrated on something else.

He tried to analyze Michael's routine instead of his body and decided that while it was way better, in his opinion, than Bradley O'Meyer's fake perfectness, there was still something missing. It wasn't the movements or gestures, more like the air and the lack of passion in his eyes. It seemed like Michael himself knew he was missing something, or more like someone; the Odette to his Siegfried. Which was the moment, Kurt also realised that for him there was no other choice than Michael Farchild for the role, and not because he didn't like O'Meyer or found flaws in Frank's dancing. It was because Michael was the only one who didn't forget that the part they were performing actually required a female role too and the whole part was built around her and not Siegfried's character.

"Totally getting my vote," Jeff exclaimed while clapping his hands enthusiastically just as Michael bowed. The lights were turned back on and Kurt looked at his fellow Warbler with a raised eyebrow who grinned widely at him. "They're going to give us slices of papers and we have to write our favourite on it," he answered the unasked question just as a short, skinny boy stepped up to their row, handing seventeen pieces of papers to him.

"Thanks," Kurt said, taking one and passing the others to Jeff.

"You're welcome," came the soft reply before the boy stepped away continuing his work.

Kurt looked down at the watermarked little card, examining it for a moment or two. It was white and blank except for the Dalton coat of arms watermark on it, waiting for to be filled with the name of the winner of the audition.

"How do they make sure no one cheats?" The question was out of his mouth before he knew it.

"We're separated by clubs with one seats left empty between each group," Jeff explained while fishing for a pen in his bag. "The administration staff has the number of members each club has and we have to report if someone's absent of course. So it's simple, really. They count the members of clubs then compare it to the number of votes."

"Not to mention a gentleman never cheats," Nick piped in with a little smirk, surprising Kurt.

"Who's cheating?" This time it was Trent, who was sitting next to Nick.

"No one, that's the point."

"Of course not, we're not uncultured animals driven by selfish desires," Trent huffed, folding his card into half.

"Don't listen to them," Jeff cut in copying Trent's movements. "We might not cheat, but it doesn't stop anyone from favouring someone for personal reasons instead of judging by the actual performance." Brown eyes looked pointedly at Nick, who muttered something and folded his own paper.

"And as you know we _all_ despise O'Meyer," Alex stated with a smug smile, as if already knowing the results of the voting.

Kurt wisely kept his mouth shut and quickly scribbled Michael's name onto his own card and giving it to a different boy appearing by his side with a glass bowl in hand. He felt a little bit awkward, especially because he had no idea how to interact with most of the Warblers. The council was indifferent and basically hung on Blaine's every word – maybe that was a little harsh, but giving him every solo without really considering others perfectly showed where the council's favour lay – and Kurt never managed to get closer to the other members thanks to his constant worshipping of Blaine.

He started to understand what Harry meant by telling him to try mingling with his other teammates. Yes, he was pretty sure he was in love with Blaine, but apparently the feeling was not mutual. It hurt of course, but it didn't mean he had to turn into a hermit and wait for something that would never happen; he had always been independent and headstrong, he was proud to be outstanding and different and just because Karofsky fucked up his life, he shouldn't have forgotten who he was. Blaine was his friend, or at least Kurt hoped they were still friends despite their fight, but he was no god and certainly didn't have all the answers, and that was okay, because he didn't need to.

Kurt was his own person who always solved his own problems and he didn't need a personal Spiritual Leader or whatever to live his life. He looked at the bickering boys next to him, cursing himself for his obsessive nature and pure stupidity for shutting them out without even trying to get to know them. They seemed cool and funny, and while Kurt wanted to get Blaine back, he realised he wanted Jeff, Nick and the others to be his friends too.

Just like he wanted to learn more about Harry... who was just appearing on stage? Kurt felt his eyes widen in shock as he took in the tall, willowy boy with his curly hair in a little bun and wearing white sweatpants and green top that left one of his pale shoulders naked. He was standing next to Director Cameron, face emotionless as O'Meyer, Farchild and Richardson lined up on his left side.

"Oh, that's him!" Jeff quipped. "He's the one I was talking about... damn, but I forgot his name..."

"It's Potter, you cheese head," Trent scoffed. "Harry Potter. He's even in your English Lit class."

"Harry..." Kurt breathed feeling lightheaded, unable to rip his eyes off of the silent, elegant boy who was his biggest help in the last few days and apparently the Ballet Club's prodigy.

**[Swan Heart]**

Kurt was still dazed when they left the auditorium, earning concerned glances from Jeff who decided to stick to his side and walk him to his car. If his head hadn't been full of the mystery of Harry Potter and his stoic frame that was dwarfed by the other boys next to him as their director thanked everyone their help then promised to announce the winner in two days alongside with a little performance, he might have found the blonde's behaviour strange and maybe even a little suspicious.

It also would have prepared him for what happened next, or at the very least it wouldn't have taken him off guard when Jeff turned to him, touching his arm, just as he was opening the door of his car, ready to get home and mull over some more and figure out how to handle what happened back in the auditorium. "Are you okay?" Jeff asked tentatively.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked back, feigning confusion only to get a pointed look. "Everything is fine, Jeff," he said with a little sigh. "It was just... different from what I'm used to."

The blond still didn't look convinced, but let it go and offered a friendly grin. "Yeah our traditions can be a bit overwhelming, but you'll get used to it in no time, don't worry."

Kurt doubt the truth behind that statement, but refrained from telling that to Jeff; the boy was so eager and actually seemed to like him and Kurt didn't want lose the chance to become his friend because speaking his mind unnecessarily. "Hopefully," he agreed with a half-smile glancing at his hand on the door handle before looking back at Jeff who in turn was staring at him, his lower lip worried between his teeth. "Well, see you tomorrow?"

"Ah... yeah," Jeff nodded, chuckling awkwardly and averting his gaze. "Look," he spoke up not a moment later, talking to his shoes. "I know this will sound lame and probably ridiculous but... you like ballet and I thought if I can find a show in Westerville or Columbus by Friday... would you consider going with me?"

Kurt's breath hitched, not really believing to his ears even his mind was screaming at him to say yes, because Jeff just asked him on a date... or did he? "You're asking me out?" he inquired, inwardly wincing at how pathetic and cliché that question sounded.

"Yeah..." Jeff nodded smiling with uncertain hope. "Though I don't know if there is any ballet show running at the moment."

"A simple movie would be enough, you know," Kurt blurted out, blushing as the other boy's face lit up with happiness.

"So is that a yes?"

He nodded, trying to gather the remnants of his dignity, raising his chin and steeling his nerves before saying, "Pick me up at six on Saturday."

"Sweet!" Jeff cried with a grin so wide it almost split his head in half. "I mean, sure," he corrected himself, ducking his head shyly. "I'll be there."

"Good," Kurt nodded, stifling the ridiculously girlish giggle that threatened to escape his lips. "See you tomorrow," he added and climbed into his car, trying not to scream in ecstasy and feel guilty at the same time, though he had no reason to feel guilty at all.

He was going to go on his first real date ever, with a _boy _who liked _him_ and not just like a friend and he had every right to feel happy, because even if he loved Blaine and basically confessed his feelings to him, his friend only wanted to be friends and probably wouldn't even care who Kurt wanted to go out with.

He stifled another giggle of excitement, already planning several different outfits in his head; he couldn't wait to tell Mercedes! And maybe thank Harry too... after asking some questions of his own of course.


	6. VI Value of Friendship

Author's Notes: I'm not going to bore you with my excuses, I just hope you'll enjoy this chapter. It's filled with drama, Arnold who is devious and sweet, Michael who is an awkward Knight ing Shining Armour and Kurt who wants answers but doesn't get them.

And please let me know if I answered your reviews, because I'm really not sure and I only know that I wanted to answer them, but don't remember if I did or not. Thanks. Also thank you for the hits, adds and reviews as always! They really make my day!

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**VI. Value of Friendship**

O'Meyer cornered Harry in the bathroom, not an hour after the audition, long arms pressed against the counter and effectively preventing him from escaping. Bradley's body was more muscular than his, hard pectorals pressing into Harry's back, that so familiar smug smirk back in place. Harry looked at the arrogant bastard's reflection in the mirror, that half a head difference blaringly obvious from such a close proximity, and tried to suppress the urge to break the older boy's face. Scum like O'Meyer wasn't worth expulsion and missing the chance to join BBA.

"I see your status as an uncultured brute with no manners whatsoever hasn't changed," he drawled and forced his body to relax.

"Your words are music to my ears," Bradley purred, his hot breath tickling Harry's ear causing his grip on the edge of the counter to tighten. "And now that you can't play the oblivious little virgin, maybe we should get to know each other better."

"Brainless attention craving sluts are not my type, but thanks for the offer." Harry had no idea where his steel-like confidence came from, especially when he felt like his knees would stop supporting his weight any time now.

His skin crawled at the other boy's close proximity and he hated that the knowledge of Michael's accusation had been proven right made him shivery and excited under the desire to throw up. It didn't help when he tried to tell himself it was perfectly natural to enjoy someone else's attention, how could it help when every fibre of his brain despised the conceited asshole who had been molesting him under the pretence of practice for the last two years? He felt violated and furious for being so naive and ignorant to never notice what was happening around him; where was his perceptiveness he always prided himself with?

Bradley nuzzled his neck and Harry jerked forward violently, trying to get away from the feeling the hot breath and chapped lips created on his skin. "You try that again, O'Meyer and I will rip your guts out with my bare hands," he snarled, ignoring the dismaying blush that crept over his cheekbones betraying his coolness.

"Don't be like that." The asstard had the audacity to grin wolfishly at him through the mirror, even though he stopped his assault. "Look at us, sweetheart, we would be brilliant together both on and off stage."

Searing, mind boggling rage blurred Harry's vision as he realised what was going on. He whirled around, knocking the other boy back in the process, and glared at the arrogant, egoistical son of a bitch with pure hatred and hands balled into fists. "Now listen to me, because I will only tell you this once," he started, his tone barely containing the fury that was cursing through his veins, making his heart sing with the demanding need to hurt, to destroy the scumbag in front of him. "If you ever try to hit on me again, and I don't care for what reason, Farchild will be the last of your worries, because I'm going to burn you alive then force your parents to watch the recordings of your pathetic screams and realise what a worthless piece of shit their son was."

By the end of his speech, his chest was heaving and Brad stumbled away from him, his eyes wide and full of fear, showing what a coward he actually was. "I–"

"I don't fucking care!" Harry snapped, green eyes blazing. "I'm not your goddamned ticket to the wagon of fame and I sure as hell will not let you continue your daily harassment of my body! And even if you got the role, I would not be your partner." He didn't wait for a response, just stormed out of the bathroom, his whole body practically spasming to the point where his legs gave out under him made him collapse to the carpet covered floor of a long deserted hallway.

Harry didn't understand where the hurricane of emotions came from, wrecking his mind and soul, not when he had barely felt anything for a long time. He closed his eyes, letting his body to shake and shiver as he sagged against the nearest wall, waves of shock nearly suffocating him.

Why did it have to happen now? Nothing even happened between him and O'Meyer, the bastard just pressed his body against Harry's back and teased him; no one in their right mind would have flipped out just because a tiny bit of manipulation and touching. But maybe when you have only the barest hints of memories of others touching you in any manner, when you have long forgotten what the words affection and attraction mean, you have the right to flip out and scream and cry.

But Harry didn't cry. He just sat there in the empty corridor listening to faint whispers of footsteps from way below the floor he was on and creaks of the old building that told tales of ancient history of boys that probably had to experience the same things Harry did. It was strangely comforting and familiar, being alone and being forced to deal with his own problems like he always had since his dad's death.

Funnily enough not even the remembrance of his father's smiling face and sparkling hazel eyes could make him cry anymore. He was long gone and would never come back, and Harry learned to not bother fighting for... anything. Arnold used the word apathetic when they met for the first time, then jokingly accused him of being a dementor, a creature that sucked the joy and happiness out of people as Harry later learned, before clapping him on the back once and declaring they were going to be best friends.

Harry's trembling lips twitched, but the shadow of the smile disappeared before it could have even formed fully as the sound of soft footsteps reached his ears. His shaking shoulders tensed and he would have done anything to be able to hide his misery, but it seemed his body and brain cased cooperating with each other, and he could only watch in frozen dread as the tall muscular form got nearer and nearer to his huddled body.

It wasn't Bradley, Harry noticed with irrational relief, the chestnut coloured hair alone was a dead giveaway. He turned away, not wanting to see as the other boy's expression changed from the mildly concerned frown to something... more severe. But then out of nowhere a hand touched his shoulder and Harry flinched back like he was burned, inwardly cursing himself for his blasted weakness.

"What did he do, Harry?" Michael's voice was as soft as his steps had been, but it was clear that beneath the careful gentleness his blood was boiling.

"I-I'm fine," he stuttered out, even though he knew no one would believe that wretched half-whimper he managed to force out of his mouth.

Gentle fingers slid over his face, the gesture so timid and cautious, coaxing him into looking at his fellow dancer who was kneeling next to him, dark grey eyes alit with wrath and a shocking amount of concern. "I asked, what did he do?"

"Nothing... nothing at all," Harry breathed, realising that he was telling the truth, rubbing his own stupidity deeper into the bleeding wound of his pride.

He averted his eyes once again, unable to stand the scrutinizing gaze; there was nothing to say, nothing that wouldn't enrage Michael for some surreal reason, Harry couldn't fathom. He stared down at his still quivering thighs, the shocks lessening with each moment those long fingers spent curled around his jaw and face, half-buried into his black hair.

Michael heaved a heavy sigh causing Harry to ready himself for another round of meaningless interrogation, but instead of commanding answers, the senior only asked, "Can you stand up?"

Harry thought about it, slowly stretching out his numb and heavy legs that finally stopped shaking and pushed himself into a wobbly standing position. His back was still pressed against the wall and he wished it hadn't been the only thing keeping him on his feet; he didn't want to admit his inability to walk.

There was no need to, because one of Michael's arms wound around his waist without a question while the older boy offered him a tight-lipped smile. "It's okay," the brunet murmured. "It's okay."

Harry didn't remember the walk back to his room by the time he woke up the next morning, the only thing he could recall was a strong arm and warm, hard body that cocooned him, protecting him from the world, proving that it must have been nothing more than a wistful dream.

"Everything is alright?" Arnold asked after shooting several concerned glances in his direction while they were getting ready for their classes.

"Why wouldn't be?" Harry asked back, acting oblivious and angering his best friend with it.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that you haven't been slaving away in that prison of yours since 5 AM or maybe it's the total lack of response, although I just offered to suck you off–"

"You what?" Harry felt his face heat up while Arnie smirked devilishly wrapping his slim milky white arms around his neck.

"Gotcha!" he chuckled, grinning at him mischievously. "You totally want my body, don't you?" he purred exaggerated his sultriness. "You want me so bad you would do anything to get it. Anything, like... telling me what the hell is going on."

"It was nothing, Arnie."

"Yeah, I'm sure that nothing is the reason, Farchild had to carry you into our room last night. Now cut the bullshit and spill, sweetheart, because I can't help if you don't let me." The redhead was still practically wrapped around Harry's body, and green eyes dropped in guilty happiness, basking in the closeness only another body could gave him.

It was so different from the invasive pressure O'Meyer forced onto his back and even different from the protective cocoon Michael created around him with his heat and strength. Arnold felt like the memories of James, soft and caressing, so familiar and alien at the same time. And Harry couldn't help, but reciprocate the feeling, getting lost in the jungle of limbs and body parts until they were half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, both of them half-naked and already late from breakfast.

The knock on the door broke the magic, causing Arnold to raise his head from the crook of Harry's neck, calling whoever was outside to crawl through the keyhole if they can, because the door is locked, but the handle turned none the less, proving him wrong not a second later. "Ah the Knight in Shining Armour," Arnie smirked at a slightly surprised looking Michael, tightening his hold around Harry who in turn sighed in exasperation. "Can we help you?"

"That's enough," Harry said, green eyes flashing in warning as his roommate opened his lips to argue. "We're going to be late."

"Don't think this conversation is over, sweetheart." But Arnold was already getting up, buttoning his shirt without even looking at what he was doing, his gaze trained on the figure in the doorway. "So Farchild, what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I just wanted to make sure everything is okay," the senior said in his usual impassive tone, stormy eyes staring at the small redhead. "And to ask if Harry wanted to sit with me at breakfast."

"Hey that's rude!" Arnold exclaimed in mock outrage. "What am I, a lifeless accessory to the room?"

"You have your friends," Michael said with a twitch of his lips.

"Meh, those bitches can kiss my ass, they don't deserve my fabulous presence at their table anyway after what they did yesterday," the redhead huffed haughtily. "So feel privileged to have the chance to dine with me."

"I'm deeply honoured." If Harry hadn't been sure it was impossible, he would have thought that his teammate was laughing at Arnold. But it was totally impossible, because Michael Farchild never laughed or smiled. Actually the only expressions he knew were the stony and the furious, when he had to deal with Bradley and his posse.

"Of course you are, Goliat." Arnold scoffed, still playing his role as a stuck up asshole. "Now shoo and get a table for us. And I want hot coffee with extra cream, two cube of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon."

"Anything else, Your Majesty?" Harry's eyes widened in shock and confusion. Just what the hell was going on?

"Nah, I'm good. We'll be joining you in ten minutes." An arm wrapped around Harry's waist as his best friend waved after Michael's retreating form. "He's keeper." He cocked his head to the side for a second making Harry realise he was ogling the older boy's ass. "Yup, totally a keeper."

Green eyes stared in horror induced bewilderment at his roommate, but he managed to sputter out, "What the hell was that?"

Arnie just smirked smacking a wet kiss against his jaw. "Nothing, sugarplum, nothing at all."

"Arnold–"

"No, no, Harry. No growling. We have only eight minutes left to meet with that dear Knight of yours."

"He is my nothing!" Harry snapped even though he could feel the heat flooding his cheeks. "And I'd appreciate if you forgot any nefarious plan you had in mind, because whatever they are, not going to happen."

"So you like him!" Arnold grinned triumphantly.

"_This_ conversation is over Arnold." Harry pried the clutching fingers off of his hipbone and walked over to his closet to change into his uniform, ignoring the quiet snickers and obscenely happy humming coming from the redhead's direction. He had no time for insane assumptions and nonexistent romances, not when he needed to concentrate on more important things like perfecting his moves and practicing for Nationals.

By the time they reached the cafeteria the room was full of chattering boys who were shovelling food into their mouths as fast as they could. It seemed they weren't the only ones who were running late. A few students looked up from their plates, eyes sliding over Harry and Arnold before turning back to their food, dismissing them as nothing important. Harry donned his best emotionless expression, scanning the tables and taking in the groups sitting together, until his gaze locked with an oddly darkened hazel one.

"Why does the Emperor of Dwarf Land look like he wants to off you with the nonexistent superpowers of his eyes?" Arnold muttered under his breath; it seemed he noticed the strange looks too.

"I have no idea," Harry whispered back, never breaking eye contact with the hobbit. "We never talked before."

"Then it must be about your little Coiffed Canary," his friend sniggered, then sent a cheeky grin in Anderson's direction and managed to drag to Harry's usual table by their linked arms. "I told you, you shouldn't mingle with those birds, they are freakishly possessive little things."

"Thank you for your insightful and heartfelt advice, I'll just tell Thad and Kurt to clip their wings and beaks off before our next weekly spa session," the raven haired dancer retorted dryly.

They reached the table and Michael who was contently sipping a glass of milk pushed a white mug in front of Arnold before he could pull his chair out. "Thanks!" the redhead actually sounded a bit surprised.

"You're welcome," was the solemn answer as thundery irises settled on Harry. A golden hand reached out, silently offering something to him making Harry accept it without a second thought.

"Apple juice," he murmured staring at the cool glass bottle in his grasp.

"Your favourite," Michael said as if it explained everything causing shocked green eyes to snap up and meet with smouldering gray clouds.

They looked at each other until a badly concealed snort snapped Harry out of his daze and made him quickly avert his eyes. "Thank you," he said cheeks flushed pink.

"Aw, tell me, my dear Knight, isn't he the most precious?" Arnold cooed in an overly honeyed voice. "You just want to smother him with hugs and kisses, although he is a bit bony–" Harry's hand slapped over his best friend's mouth, mortification flooding him in tidal waves.

"Would you shut up?" he hissed, his words sounding barely human anymore. "Just because I haven't shared my fucking sob story with you first thing in the morning, you don't have to go out your way and humiliate me into submission."

Arnold's face paled then filled with remorse and guilt. His fingers slipped over the tabletop seeking contact with Harry's hand, wrapping around his white knuckles in comfort and asking for forgiveness. Harry looked down at their intertwined digits, wondering if the little touches Arnold always bestowed upon him were the only reasons he didn't turn into a soulless monster. His gaze continued to wander, noticing the now empty glass in the embrace of tanned fingers on the other side of the table and he couldn't help but follow them up all the way through the blazer covered arms and broad shoulders until he saw the closed up face of Michael Farchild who they both had forgotten about.

"I'm sorry," he apologised quietly clinging to the remnants of his dignity to not look away like a guilty child waiting for parental admonishment.

"It's fine." The senior's tone was impersonal, nothing like the almost easy banter he had with Arnold. They sat in stiff silence until the warning bell rang prompting everyone to leave the cafeteria and head for their first classes.

Harry put his still full bottle of apple juice into his bag, somehow knowing he would not drink it during the day, and was ready to join the flow when a tanned big hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced at Arnold, but his roommate only smirked and sped up to catch "his bitches" leaving Harry alone with the senior dancer.

"I'll escort you to your class," Michael said, his expression still stony.

Harry on the other hand could barely stop himself from gaping like an utter moron and felt more than accomplished when he managed to stammer out a weak, "I don't need a bodyguard."

"Good."

**[Swan Heart]**

Harry didn't react when a shadow fell over his desk, thinking it was one of his classmates who decided to sit in the back of the room in order to have a quick nap during History. Then Kurt Hummel's voice flooded his ears causing his head to shot up in surprise. "Is this seat taken?" the Warbler asked with a polite smile.

A few boys immediately started whispering, but Kurt just rolled his eyes and raised a questioning brow. "Well?"

"Do you see any 'reserved' card?" Harry replied with his own question, offering a meaningless smirk, and watched as the countertenor sat down, his spine straight and stiff. "Should we just skip the niceties?" he added when Kurt continued to watch him in silence for another few minutes.

The stares and murmurs were becoming more and more annoying, and it was something, Harry wasn't used to. He hated the limelight and this unwanted attention was getting on his already frayed nerves. He could practically feel the burning gazes on his body, his classmates taking interest in him for the first time ever, just because Kurt Hummel, the Warblers' newest addition decided to sit next to him.

Didn't these idiots have their own lives?

Well apparently they didn't, and Harry could only hope that Anderson wouldn't decide to finally grow a pair and act all possessive and manly just to prove that Kurt belonged to him and his little Parakeet Posse.

Kurt smiled a polite but miserably forced smile, offering the most pathetic lie Harry ever heard, "I just thought it would be nice to join you."

"Sure," he replied, suppressing a sneer. "I know my ability to stare at my book with glazed eyes is irresistible."

Somebody gasped, while Kurt's smile turned into a smirk even when his cheeks stained. "The sharpness of your wit is astounding."

Harry was about to retort, anything to avoid the confrontation he just knew was coming, when their teacher walked through the door, his almost transparent, ancient face ghostlike and uninterested. Professor Binns was legendary amongst Dalton students, he was the oldest member of the faculty and despite his age, he still stayed year after year to keep lulling his students into coma-like state with his droning voice and boring, useless details about wars and revolutions.

However, with his arrival, there was no chance Kurt would risk continuing their barely started conversation, if one could call those few meaningless sentences that. Or so Harry thought until a neatly folded slip of paper landed on the corner of his desk, its pure whiteness baiting his curiosity until he couldn't ignore it anymore and reached for the note without really meaning to.

_**Have lunch with me.**_

It was not a request and it was what irked Harry the most. He had known Kurt Hummel for barely a week and the boy was already making demands, basically ordering Harry around like he was some kind of lapdog. Harry closed his eyes to calm himself a bit; he was overreacting and while it was true that Kurt could act like a despicable bitch – he learnt as much during their second encounter – he was a nice boy who was still getting used to the traditions and mechanics of Dalton. Not to mention the lack of friends, because of the now infamous fight with Frodo's black haired alter ego.

Of course Harry was in no way fit to replace Anderson, but in the last few days Kurt managed to worm his way into his life and penetrated the massive wall of seclusion he built around himself. It didn't mean they were friends – Arnold was the only one who earned the privilege to use that title to describe their relationship –, but the Warbler was amusing and easy to rile up and maybe if things were different...

Green eyes blinked open and stared at the neatly written words in front of them. Maybe he should give this thing, whatever it was, a chance. No matter what Arnie thought, not every Warbler was a snob, stuck up asshole... The mere thought made him snort in disbelief. Of course they were stuck up, arrogant jerks, just some of them were more tolerable than others.

Like Thad or Kurt.

With that thought in mind, Harry grabbed his pen and quickly scribbled down his answer; his chicken scratches a grotesque parody under Kurt's curved and precise letters.


	7. VII Heat of Dining

**Author's Note: **_Hey guys,_

_so I've been busy and had a bit of a problem with this chapter, but I'm finally done and it's actually the last part of the First (or BIOTA) Arc! It's shorter than the previous chapters, but while I could have written more to it, I decided it was a good part to end the chapter. It's not actually how I wanted it to turn out, but my characters decided to have their own minds and Arnold might have come across like the bigges tool on Earth to Blaine, but you have to remember that Arnold hates every Warbler. _

_I don't know what to say on the Harry/Kurt front, I just hope you won't hate me, I guess. _

_Now have a good time and join me on **Tumblr **if you're interested in some discarded parts and inane ramblings about the chapters!_

_P.S.: Thanks for the reviews (I answered every one of them except for two because Erroneously has forbidden PMs and jengawii sent an anonymus review - to you guys thanks here and I hope you'll like the new chapter too!), adds and hits!_

_P.P.S.: I put the story to the Crossover folder, because I plan to bring in more Harry Potter characters as the plot progresses._

_P.P.P.S.: So I made a** new Banner** for the story as well as a collage of **Michael's photos** if you're interested you can find the links on my profile!_

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**VII. Heat of Dining**

By the time lunch break came around Harry was regretting his decision of accepting Kurt's invitation and cursed himself for drawing unwanted attention to his existence. He wasn't naive enough to think that people would forgot his encounter with Kurt and Arnold's quiet snickering next to him didn't help soothing his nerves.

"Would you shut up?" he hissed, glaring at his best friend who simply shrugged and offered a smug smirk; obviously, he was enjoying the situation.

"You have to admit, this is hilarious," the redhead deadpanned, his gaze hidden behind canary yellow, heart-shaped sunglasses. "Stealing Anderson's porcelain boy-toy from under his nose while he plays tonsil hockey with a banshee-hobbit hybrid... erm... thing."

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the other boy in flabbergasted disbelief. "Don't tell me you hacked into Anderson's cell," he whispered urgently, his fingers curling into his palms anxiously to prevent himself from touching his friend, but the look of indignation on Arnold's face didn't calm him in the least.

"Don't be ridiculous," Arnie scoffed, and Harry just knew he rolled his eyes behind his shades. "I hacked that chick's computer through Helmet Hobbit's phone. She is dreadful and probably the reason why so many guys turn gay."

"Arnold, you don't turn gay–"

"Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean," Arnold cut him off with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Anyway, are you interested in what I found or–"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I don't want to get involved in this mess."

"Too late," Arnie grinned throwing an arm around his waist. "Thank your misfortune of becoming Dalton's newest celebrity to your new sex-slave."

Harry wanted to punch his best friend for that comment, especially when his face heated up like a boiling kettle, showing his embarrassment to everyone who happened to walk by them. Fortunately most students were already in the cafeteria or using more popular corridors to get to their next class, but still Harry noticed the few inquiring looks he got from the boys who they came across.

"I will burn your entire DVD collection of _Queer as Folk_," he murmured with a scowl, but didn't move away from the thin arm that was still curled around his waist and Arnold just laughed at his threat, like always. "Then punch you in the face." The redhead only laughed harder, his fingers digging into Harry's blazer covered flesh in a silent show of affection causing the black haired teen to sigh in defeat and question his own sanity for accepting the crazy and evil Montgomery heir's friendship.

Harry was in no hurry to reach the doors of the cafeteria, even if it meant that Kurt had to wait, however, he wasn't prepared for an unfamiliar voice to call his name out of nowhere, making him stop and instinctively turn in the direction of the sound. He felt Arnold's arm tense around him as they noticed the figure walking toward them with a determined and strangely serious expression on his admittedly handsome face.

"Harry," Anderson repeated and Harry couldn't suppress the frown that creased his forehead at the casual usage of his given name. "May I have a word, please?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Arnold cut in before he could utter a word. "You had. More than one, now get lost," he said in his best snooty tone, sneering derisively at the Lead Warbler.

"Montgomery." Anderson pursed his lips, his hazel eyes flashing in annoyance. "I'm sure Harry is capable of speaking for himself."

"Obviously," the redhead retorted, his expression ruthless. "But why would he lower himself to your astoundingly low level and sully his pure talent, when I'm here to rip your bloated ego a new one?"

Anderson's mask of tepid politeness slipped showing the first true emotion Harry ever seen on his face, and he had to admit that despite his own less than positive feelings toward the short singer, he could see the appeal that probably caught Kurt's interest and later his heart. Anger and mortification suited Anderson, lighting up and turning his usually mild brownish eyes to an almost gold colour while his cheeks flushed to an attractive shade of pink as he tried to work around his clenching jaw to counter Arnolds blatantly offensive words.

"And now that you've been finally rendered speechless, we have a date with your discarded puppet, so if you excuse us–" Arnold threw in another punch, but the other boy found an ounce of his composure before he could finish his sentence and interrupted, staring intently at Harry.

"What are your intentions with Kurt?"

Green eyes narrowed dangerously, every slightly positive thought disappearing in an instant at the question. "It's none of your business, Anderson," he gritted out frostily. "No matter how much you'd like to think otherwise, Hummel has the capacity to think for himself and can decide who he wants to spend his time with."

"Not to mention, you gave up your right to dictate his caged and miserably repressed life when you became the Mayor of Douchery Town and appointed the _lovely_ Rachel Berry as your first lady," Arnold piped in, causing Harry to roll his eyes, wondering if his best friend had been practicing this little speech in front of the mirror. "By the way, how is life going back in the closet?"

"That's enough, Arnold," Harry sighed, shooting a look at his roommate in warning, before he looked back at the unnervingly pale and slightly shaking lead singer. "I suggest you try solving your own problems before butting into others' lives. Good luck, Anderson."

**[Swan Heart]**

"I know I look irresistible and half of these morons are constantly sucking up to me, but this is ridiculous," Arnold snapped, baring his teeth in agitation. Harry could feel the ever silent Michael stiffening next to him, his large hands flexing around his utensils. "Don't give me that look, Farchild, I have the right to be pissed."

"Arnold!" Harry scolded, sending a quick sideway glance in his fellow dancer's direction. "There is no need to be rude."

"Well, I don't fucking care!" the shorter boy snarled running a hand through his artfully messy reddish locks. "It's all those Screeching Sparrows' fault, dragging you in the middle of their melodramatic and totally stupid shit!"

"And what do you want me to say?" Harry countered before he pursed his lips, glaring into the tinted glass covered eyes. "I'm not going to worsen my situation by throwing an infantile tantrum; they are not worth the energy or the acknowledgement."

Arnold scoffed and folded his arms in front of his thin chest. "You can't possibly say that you're not bothered by the stares and whispering. They are basically discussing your life like you're not even here! And that squeaking voiced– So that boy doesn't even have the grace to show up when he put up all that theatrics and invited you basically in front of your whole class."

"Montgomery." Michael's tone was mild, but was laced with a quiet force that made the redhead shut his mouth without any further argument. "I don't think Harry needs your insufferable bitching above all the highly uncomfortable attention he is getting."

"How very insightful of you," Arnie drawled, his smile feral and far from amused. "But, I guess you're right," he added more placidly.

The senior didn't answer just turned back to his plate and continued his lunch as if nothing had happened. It was still somewhat surreal to see the reserved young man eating at his table, their bodies almost touching under the polished wood and linen white tablecloth. Not to mention the fact that Harry was almost sure that there was something going on between Michael and Arnold; the strange camaraderie between them caused an uncomfortable feeling to settle in his stomach.

It was not something he wanted to dwell on about, just like he tried to ignore the strange tightness in his chest at the realization of Kurt standing him up. Not that Harry didn't expected it, especially after his last jibe to Anderson, but still it was more than a little disappointing that the high-pitched Warbler would ignore Harry in favour of the greasy haired hobbit just because the other boy finally decided to find his balls and apologise.

So it was understandable that he wasn't in the best of moods when he was heading towards his afternoon practice. He was alone for a change which must have been the reason Kurt stopped him in the middle of the empty hallway not far from the Warblers practice rooms with a delirious smile on the porcelain-like face.

"So, I guess Dapper Dwarf decided he bats for Team Gay?" he asked casually, immensely proud of the nonchalant tone he used.

Still Kurt's happiness was replaced by a guilty frown, gaze dropping to his intertwined fingers. "I'm sorry, Harry. I–"

"It's cool." Of course it wasn't, but Harry just shrugged it off, pulling up his emotional walls as if they had never disappeared to begin with. "You were panting after Captain Helmet Head far too long to not get your happy end."

"But Ha–"

But Harry didn't want to hear it. There was nothing Kurt could have said that would have made things better and less humiliating, especially after the stares and rumours that followed him all day. "Just spare me the details, 'kay? I had to endure enough of Anderson today to last me a dozen lifetimes. Now that we cleared the air between us, I really have to go, I can't be late from practice," he said already turning around to continue his journey to the practice room; he really didn't need all this drama in his life.

Unfortunately the Warbler seemed adamant on having a say in the matter, even if there was nothing to say anymore. "Would you wait for a moment?" he snapped, catching up with Harry and glaring at him fiercely.

"I said, it's okay, Kurt. There is nothing else to say." Dull green eyes flashed in the shorter boy's direction for a second, before they turned back to watch the empty hallway.

"Stop acting like a lifeless robot!" Kurt exclaimed and Harry was sure he only refrained from stomping his foot because he thought it was too childish. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to leave you hanging when it was me who asked you–"

"You don't owe me anything."

"Shut up!" The brunet's shout rang through the hallway causing them to stop. Kurt's breath was heavy and his gaze burning with desperation and so much guilt, Harry almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "I like you, Harry. Like really like you, and I'm really sorry I didn't show up for lunch when it was me who asked you out, but I had to know see with my own eyes. I had to know... and I was right... And Blaine apologised... and would you say something?"

Harry struggled to hold onto his mask of indifference, but it was damn hard when the invisible lump in his throat was basically chocking him. He knew he wasn't in love with Kurt or even that attracted to him; he wasn't naive enough to believe he could fall in love with someone after a few days, but it still hurt; the betrayal – no matter how small it seemed to be –, because it was Kurt who asked _him_ to have lunch together, it was Kurt who made the first move and now he was breaking a promise, discarding Harry like he was useless trash for someone who was too blind and stupid to see what was before his very eyes.

What was Kurt expecting from him? Redemption or blessing? Should he have been happy that he was told he would never be as good as Saint Anderson the Newly Returned gay Samaritan? It wasn't anything new, after all he had great experience in being forgotten by others, but he sure as hell wasn't happy and didn't even try to be.

"What do you want me to say? It's your life and I can't tell you how to live it. However, next time when your heart is broken I won't be there to catch you," he said, his tone impassionate and stoic, then he picked up his pace and walked away from the shell shocked Warbler and friendship that was never more than a figment of his imagination.


	8. VIII Pleasure of Wars

_A/N: So here it is. I hope you'll enjoy the chapter and it was worth the wait. Now the action wouldn't subside, but the emotional drama and teenage angst will become less daunting in the next chapter. Also, this is totally unbetaed, so sorry for the mistakes. I'll comb through the whole chapter soon. And look out for the review replies later today (hopefully I'll have internet connection when I get back from the beach!). Also thanks for the immense amount of reviews and adds and hits. You've blown my mind! *hugs every one of her readers*_

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**VIII. Pleasure of Wars**

Falling back to the routine where Harry had next to no contact with the Warblers was relatively easy. Kurt was once again glued to Anderson's side, smiling plastic smiles and acting all prim and proper, nothing like the bitchy little queen that practically forced his way through Harry's walls only to leave in the same manner not a full week later.

Maybe Harry was being unfair to the other boy and had taken his bailing on their friendly lunch harder than most people – maybe every sane person – would have, but if there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was abandonment. He had had enough of that to last a lifetime, and he rather let Kurt Hummel and his promise of friendship go now before they became more dependent on each other than watch as the slim brunet left him later for some reason or other.

He scoffed at his pathetic thoughts; he was acting like a tragic hero of some South American soap opera whose spouse just left him for the pool boy. If Hummel preferred Mr. Dapperfuck and his destructive chase to find his destiny, well good for him. Harry had other problems, like O'Meyer's lurking in the shadows and the impending announcement of his partner for Nationals. And on top of it all, there was the situation with Michael and Arnold who had been acting more and more strangely in the last few days.

Green eyes narrowed as Harry examined his pose in the mirror in front of him. His posture was perfect as always, yet he had no idea how one should hold the position without the fucking barre, not to mention walk on his toes when his whole feet was on fire after only a few seconds. He pursed his lips, shoving his intruding thoughts of the budding romance between his best friend and Michael Farchild to the deepest pits of his mind.

He knew Odette's choreography; he had been practicing it for endless hours since his first rehearsal with Mr. Cameron, however, this was already the third time trying the steps in his newly tailored Pointe shoes, yet he still couldn't walk – not to mention dance – on his toes. He growled menacingly, knuckles turning white on the barre, while his legs trembled and screamed in agony. But no matter the pain or the alarm bells in his head, he didn't give up. It was his only chance to earn a place at BBA a year early, and nothing could stop him from achieving this goal and keeping his promise.

It took seven more seconds before his legs gave out and caused him to collapse onto the floor, yet in Harry's eyes the pain and exhaustion were simply part of the price that needed to be paid for becoming the best. Just like the uncontrollable convulsion of his muscles that prevented him from getting up, not to mention repeat the exercise was nothing more than a small set back on his way to become the best.

He stared at his reflection impassively, absently noting the dark shadow of stubble on his face as well as the paleness of his skin. Maybe he was overworking his body, however, with barely a month and a half left until the National Ballet Gala, he had no time to rest and laze around. Not when he was nowhere near as graceful and dignified as Odette in her grief.

He still remembered the first time he'd seen Swan Lake. He was five and his father surprised him with the tickets to make forgetting his mother's betrayal easier for him. His father reserved a whole balcony just for the two of them and they were treated like kings, but to Harry, nothing could compare to the sheer beauty of the dancers and the story.

"_I had been one of them once,"_ James whispered later that night, when he was tucking Harry in.

A smile – Harry's childish mind could only describe it as sad – played on his lips, and his hazel eyes seemed exceptionally bright and soft. Now, more than a decade later, he understood that his father's expression had been wistful and longing, but back then he could only see the sadness and feel the need to chase it away.

"_I'll be the best dancer daddy, and you'll come to my shows and be a king like tonight,"_ his five-year-old self vowed and Harry remembered the determination he felt. _"I'll be the best, daddy you'll see!"_

His father smile turned light and he laughed softly, nothing like Uncle Sirius' bark-like laughs. No, it was kind and quiet and loving, embracing him with warmth Harry hadn't felt since... his father died.

What had been his answer? Harry wondered, raking his mind for the whole memory, because it was too important to forget. _'What had dad said?'_

"_If you repeat it one more time, it'll become an Unbreakable Vow, my Prongslet."_ Yes, that was it. And Harry remembered that his younger self grinned and repeated his promise one last time, sealing his fate forever.

"I'm almost there, dad," he whispered to the empty room, but of course no one replied.

Instead, there was a knock on the door, and a moment later Thad Walberg, one of the three Warbler Bosses, walked in, only to stop and stare at Harry's sprawled out form.

"Good morning, Harry," Thad uttered, collecting his composure in a matter of seconds, while keeping his gaze on Harry's twitching legs. "Is everything alright?"

"Thad." Harry didn't move from his half-sitting, half-lying position. The convulsion of his muscles subsided somewhat, but hadn't stopped fully yet. "Everything is just fine. What do I owe the pleasure?"

His tone might have been colder than he intended, because the older teen cringed guiltily. "I guess, I deserved that," he said rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Should I come up with a mysterious excuse full of confusing twists or would you excuse my simple 'I've been busy?'"

Brown eyes sparkled slightly, and Harry's lips quirked upward in a whisper of a smile. Thad and he weren't friends – Warblers and Ballerinos, as some students mockingly called them, didn't mingle with each other –, but Thad was the only Canary Cream Creeper – Arnold's newest invention – Harry could tolerate for more than five minutes. And as no actual friends, Harry didn't have the right to hold their lack of contact against the senior.

"Only if you continue it with the truth as always."

Thad sighed and nodded. "This is not a social call."

Harry bit back a huff and sat up fully. He expected this of course; the Great Council always sent Thad when Wesley and his Holy Gavel got fed up with Bradley and his dickheadedness and wanted to have their way. And conveniently, it was always Harry Thad visited; sadly for Thad, their previous "transactions" never meant that Harry had to make things easier for them.

"The usage of this hall is still out of question."

"I heard that you and O'Meyer had a... fall out," Thad said, ignoring Harry's jibe and causing him to stiffen. "I'm here to make a proposal."

Harry raised an inquiring eyebrow, ready to decline another request to work with the Warblers, but he decided to play along. "What could my "fall out" with Bradley have to do with a proposal coming from the _Brethren_?"

Thad's jaw clenched, he obviously and surprisingly recognised the literary reference, however, he quickly maintained his mild and sheepish expression he'd been wearing since he walked into the room. "As I said, I heard the rumours about Farchild's accusation and just yesterday Montgomery was ranting about a supposed argument between you and O'Meyer," he began, his gaze locked on Harry's legs. "According to Dalton's Policy of–"

"Just cut the crap, Walberg, and say it." Thad shot him a glare and started from the top.

"Every club at Dalton has the right to suggest an anonym mid-term election if the current president is proven to be unsuitable for filling the position."

Harry's eyes widened in shock as he worked out what those fancy words meant. "You must be kidding."

"I just recited a section of Dalton's _Code of Ethics_."

"Don't give me this shit!" Harry struggled to his feet, grateful for not falling on his face despite his wobbly knees. "You just asked me to undermine O'Meyer and take his place," he gritted out, anger sizzling in his chest at the suggestion. Bradley might have been an egoistic spineless bastard, but Harry wouldn't lower himself to his level.

"I did no such thing," Thad argued, and technically he was right, which made things even worse in Harry's eyes.

He sneered snidely; wondering if the short council member only carried out another one Johnson's brilliant plans of if the outrageous idea came from his own head for a change. "Please leave, and tell Wesley that the Ballet Club deals with its issues without the need of help from _outsiders._

Thad's flinch was almost unnoticeable, and he restored his haughty mask he wore all day without an effort. However, it was enough for Harry to know that he was right. He saw the doubt and worry in the chocolate irises that seemed darker than usual. The senior the unvoiced threat just as he should and that was okay; maybe this time Wesley and his limited, nefarious little mind would understand that Harry Potter detested power games.

"Harry–"

"Save it, Thad," Harry interrupted, his tone was calm and carried no trace of the power of volcano it had just moments ago. "However, from now on, the Warblers might want to handle their business through the Arts Department."

He smirked at the other's groan. It was a well known secret that Mr. Lestrange despised the Warblers and used every method to make their life a living hell. To Thad's credit, he didn't start complaining and simply nodded his head in acceptance.

"For what it matters, I'm sorry," he sighed softly.

"Just inform David of his best friend's insanity and we're even." He didn't add '_And try growing a spine!_'. If they wanted to force him to play their stupid games, he would use their own forces against them.

Did that mean he was as bad as them? Possibly. He hated the games and liked to remain in the shadows, letting O'Meyer and the other boisterous people to cause the riots and explosions. But contrary to what Michael and probably even Thad believed, Harry wasn't a medieval maiden in distress. He had no need for a Knight in Shining Armour or Prince Charming to save the day. Only Arnold seemed to understand that he didn't need to be treated with kid gloves and that no amount of hatred and bitter avoidance could break him.

His gaze followed the Warbler as he left the room, and was about to turn back to the barre when someone else came in.

"O'Meyer." That one seemed to frost the hall over. The blond halted in his stride, causing the body behind him to crash into his back.

"Nice to see you without your sweet lapdog," Bradley retorted, but the barb fell flat because of the lack of heat and only made Harry grimace. "Are you ready to become my princess?"

"Odette dies in the end of the story," was Harry's come back. "And you're awfully sure in your victory."

"There is no chance in hell that Brad lost against those morons. Their combined talents wouldn't be enough to defeat him," a new voice butted in, the spiteful tone and pure loathing made it easy to figure out who stood behind the older dancer though.

"Until you proved _your_ talent, you should badmouth your betters, Montgomery," Harry commented, chasing the blood to the ginger's face.

"My betters?" Alex sputtered, outraged. "How dare you... you worthless slut? Or should I call you a _bastard_?"

Harry's entire body stilled. It wasn't the first time someone used that word against him, but up till that moment he'd only heard whispers and seen disgusted glances. To have it being spat in his face with the intent to cause as much damage as a single word could was eye-opening for sure, and Harry needed every drop of his self-restraint not to grab the petty little asshole by his neck and strangle him.

Instead, his lips quirked into a grotesque parody of a smile and pinned Arnold's idiot of a brother with a poisonous green glare. "A bastard, huh?" he asked deceivingly softly, his smirk widening when he saw that O'Meyer's stance turned wary and almost protective. "Have you been the one who started that lovely rumour about me?"

Alex lips quivered slightly, but he didn't back down. "Well it's true. You have no mother... or father for that matter."

"I knew I was God's gift to mankind, but to mean it literally?" Harry mocked cruelly, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms to keep him from punching the carrot headed rat. Yet despite all of his control the rage boiling in his veins was too great to ignore and he took a step forward to what Bradley's eyes widened.

"Don't do anything you'd regret H– Potter," he warned cautiously, obviously remembering their last encounter.

Harry ignored him and stare at the half-hidden little shit that dared slander his father's memory. "Step aside, O'Meyer," he ordered in a harsh whisper, a showing a side of him only the blond and Lily had ever seen. "I'm not going to do anything to him," he added when Bradley didn't move.

It took another few seconds of deafening silence and screaming glares, but in the end Bradley lost the battle of wills and after shooting a last worried glance at the younger Montgomery twin he moved the trembling son of a bitch to Harry's mercy. The redhead's pupils were blown wide in terror; he must have had realised for the first time that Harry was almost a head taller than him and could cause a lot of damage with little to no effort, the danger of expulsion be damned.

"Y-you'll get expelled," Alex stuttered, defiance all but left his voice and expression.

"For what?" Green eyes seemed to glow with an inner power in the sharp neon lights. "I have done and will do nothing," Harry promised softly, his forefinger reaching out and stroking the shorter boy's pale face, causing him to wince. "I've been raised to be a gentleman, Alexander, however, the next time anyone dares to suggest that my father was a less than honourable and respectful man, you might find out how gentlemen deal with obtrusive nuisances."

Alex swallowed thickly, and stammered out, "I-is that a threat?"

"Don't be daft, Montgomery," Harry tutted, patting his finger against the soft, lightly freckled skin. "We're at Dalton Academy for Boys and we're all friends here, aren't we, Brad?"

The tall blond gulped and after a moment of hesitation he slowly nodded. "We are."

"See? No one threatens others here, just like my words were intended as a friendly advice, nothing more." Harry flashed a sickly sweet, but cold smile before he stepped back and with a last look at the obviously shaken duo, he walked out of the practice hall.

**[Swan Heart]**

"You sent for me, Dr. Sinistra," Harry said doing his best to keep his tone polite even though their relationship had been far from flawless. He looked at the middle-aged woman, who was seated behind her grand, intimidating oak desk and immediately knew, he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. "Is this concerning my last assignment?"

"No, Mr. Potter, my reason for calling you to my office is concerning your guardian, Mr. Black." Cool, arctic blue irises bore into Harry's frozen orbs sternly, but the teen held his teachers gaze without any sign of submission.

"What do you mean?" Had Sirius contacted the school for some reason? Harry tried to ignore the empty pang in his chest at the thought of his godfather ignoring him once again, but even if he was mostly used Sirius' unintentionally cruel and petty act, it still managed to crush his already heart every time it happened.

Dr. Sinistra's reply confirmed his thoughts, making his stomach drop to the bottom of his feet. "His personal assistant called me today to forewarn me about Mr. Black's absence from the next teacher-parent conference. This is the fourth time in the last year alone."

"My godfather is a busy man, Dr. Sinistra, and currently is in the middle of his European Tour," Harry stated tightly, his fingers fumbling with the hem of his blazer. "And my GPA is a solid 3.9, there is nothing for him to worry about or come here at all.

"There is your severe case of antisocialism for one, and according to Dr. Vance, you stopped attending your sessions two months ago," the Geometry and Harry's Homeroom teacher reproached gravely, her glare accusing.

"I have no need for a useless shrink to pry my mind open and tell me I need to open myself and let others in," Harry shot back. "In a month and a half, Dalton's Ballet Club is going to win its fourth National championship in four years, and bring another big, fat cheque to the Board of Governors. I believe that should be enough consolation for my godfather's absence from this very important meeting."

Sinistra's lips pursed in anger, but her expression turned only more determined. Her mind was set on winning the battle. "This is not about money, Mr. Potter," she gritted through her teeth. "This is about that your guardian is unfit to take care of a child."

"I can assure you, I'm not a child. Also I would refrain from using such words if I were a teacher who wanted to keep both his job and reputation," Harry said in turn, his voice strained with the effort to remain collected.

"Is that a threat, Mr. Potter?" The woman's tone became shrill, her face nothing more than a ghostly mask of rage.

"Of course not, _Ma'am_," he answered easily, inwardly scowling with pure hatred. He perfectly knew where this was going the woman had been trying to dig up any crumb of information to prove Sirius an unsuitable guardian since the moment Harry signed up to stay at the school during summer holidays for the first time. She spouted ridiculous – but still incredibly painful and true – nonsense of naiveté about the importance of a warm home and loving family. However, obviously he had no idea how it felt to be the heir of an ancient noble family or to know that your whole life would be spent in the limelight whether you wanted it or not.

Naturally, Harry didn't share all of this with her. No, he just stood behind one of the over-compensating black leather armchairs, his lips curled upwards, and repeated the same words he just uttered that very morning, "We are at Dalton Academy for Boys and we are all friends here, Dr. Sinistra. No one would threaten others."

She sniffed irritably and spat frostily, "Well, I'm still not satisfied, Mr. Potter. If Mr. Black is not here next Thursday, I'll have to report his negligence to the Child Services."

Harry's lips thinned to the point where they disappeared in one white line, but he managed to grasp his self-control before he had exploded and even could use an almost cordial tone. "Very well, Dr. Sinistra."

"The meeting starts at five o'clock." The wench looked and sounded way too smug for her own good as she dismissed him, and Harry wished he had been able to remain the empty shell he was most of the times.

Unfortunately, his godfather and his family were sore spots for him. He was all too aware of his loneliness and the neglect Sirius bestowed upon him since the death of James. Deep down Harry even knew that the man loved him, but the love Sirius felt for Harry was nothing compared to his absolute devotion and love for James.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment as he shut the office door behind his back, only to have them snapped open when a large hand landed on his shoulder.

"Michael," he breathed in surprise.

"You missed lunch, and none of your classmates seemed to know where you are," came the solemn answer.

"Then how did you find me?"

"Arnold." The taller boy shrugged, his storm-like gaze shifting away from Harry's face in a rare show of discomfort.

Just what the heck was going on with these two? And why did he felt that strange twist in his chest again? It was almost painful and left a bitter aftertaste in on his tongue, and Harry just couldn't understand it.

So he simply chose to ignore it and simply said, "Ah," as if that one name had answered everything. And actually it had. "Makes sense."

But no matter his determination not to pay any mind to the feeling, it only sank deeper, squeezing his heart to the point it almost burst from the pressure, leaving him vulnerable and helpless in the face of the existence of his own emotions. It didn't care that Harry couldn't delve on the meanings behind said emotions, it simply pressed harder, but never explained anything.

Michael frowned at him, noticing the sudden curtness of his tone, but aside from a flash of frustration on his face, he chose not to comment on it. Instead he draped his long arm over Harry's shoulder and led him through the empty hallways of Langdon Wing, the building where the Science Department's offices resided.

"Dr. Sinistra didn't want to see you because of O'Meyer, did she?" Lightning stricken thunder clouds bore into the side of Harry's head, while his big cool hand somehow ended up on the little of his back.

"No." Harry let out a frustrated sigh; actually he would have preferred if the whole mess had been about Bradley O'Meyer. "Bradley has nothing to do with the reason that... woman ordered me to visit her in her lair."

"Can I help with anything?" Despite sounding oddly awkward – dare he say timid? – out of sudden, Harry silently appreciated the fact, Michael hadn't asked if everything was alright.

Still, Harry didn't understand why the older boy was so supportive and helpful. Being there when Harry needed a shoulder to lean on, fighting for his virtue without being asked, knowing his favourite juice... It was all too confusing, especially when Michael had never really interacted with him before, aside from some clumsy hellos and shy touches when they got paired together for a change during practice. But then again, the thing between Arnold and Michael seemed to be fairly new too, and if his suspicions were right, then it was possible that his fellow dancer only wanted to help out his boyfriend's best friend.

Boyfriend.

A nonexistent, acidic taste filled his mouth even though he didn't even say the word out loud, yet he could do nothing, but offer a shaky smile and be happy for his best friend. He didn't listen to the evil little sound in his head that tried to tell him that Michael and Arnold didn't make a good pair and that he would be alone forever; he would never jeopardise his friend's happiness, especially not because of an immature infatuation that started out as mere gratefulness.

"Aren't you going to be late from your next class?" Harry asked softly, that shaky smile still in place as he tried to get rid of the other as gently as he could without actually telling him just that. He was a big boy and could take care of himself.

Michael's eyes narrowed. "I'm not leaving you alone," he replied solemnly.

"That doesn't answer my question," Harry shot back, then decided to change his tactic. "Arnold must be waiting."

That finally got him a new reaction alright, just not one he would have expected. Because instead of lighting up and sizing the chance to go back to his boyfriend, Michael only blinked a few times in confusion. "Yeah," he nodded slowly, carefully; his gaze scrutinizing and strangely dark. "He's waiting by the practice hall. He said something about needing to have a "little chat" with his brother."

Was it possible that Arnold somehow learnt about his encounter with Alex? No, it couldn't be that unless... Thad had to meet with Bradley and Alex on his way out and technically he could have gone to Arnold–

Yeah, sure, Harry scoffed mentally, the mere suggestion that a Warbler would willingly seek Arnold Montgomery, the resident Geek King and biggest Anti-Warbler out was more ridiculous than the idea of the Ballet Club and the Warblers having a joined party.

"Something happened." Damn Michael Farchild for his observation skills.

"I have no idea what are you talking about," Harry answered, feigning confusion, but his abysmal acting skills only earned an sarcastic sneer from the older teen.

"Sure you don't. Your back muscles are wound so tightly that they feel like rocks under my palm," he retorted.

"No one asked you to touch me," Harry rejoined, and maybe it was uncalled for, because he hadn't done anything to shake Michael's hand off of him, even though he was unconsciously aware that he shouldn't let his best friend's boyfriend to touch him so casually. "Or to turn into a chatterbox for that matter," he added snidely, because he just didn't know when to shut up.

Michael's jaw clenched and his fingers dug into Harry's side, but Harry just couldn't care less anymore. "I'm not a soulless robot," Michael stated tightly.

"Are you suggesting that I am?" The numbing pain that spread out in his stomach was shocking and nearly left Harry breathless.

However, a low growl yanked him back to reality before he could have really start to lament on the fact that Michael was just like the others, seeing nothing more than the empty shell he pretended to be.

His eyes snapped up at the tension and anger coloured face of his companion just as Michael opened his mouth and snapped, "No!" He sounded so aggravated and his free hand shook with emotion as he raked it through his mahogany locks. His other hand was still curled around Harry's waist, in spite of Harry's previous comment, locking them into an awkward half-hug.

"Look," he took a deep breath before continuing, "I'm here and not going anywhere, and I don't give a fuck whether you like it or not."

"Shouldn't I have a say in this?"

Michael raised an unimpressed eyebrow in answer. "Why can't you simply accept it? I'm your friend." They were standing in the middle of Winston Hall – the Arts Department's building –, but Harry could do nothing more stare at the taller boy in open shock, all sense of anger gone. His rage was replaced by the urge to run and never look back. But at the same time he felt the disturbing need to hide in the circle of those strong arms. And wasn't that simply pathetic?

Terror, wonder and the need to stay strong filled Harry's mind. He was disgusted by his thoughts and refused to give in; he was done with being weak and vulnerable in front of this man or anyone for that matter. He didn't delve on why he wanted to prove his strength to Michael so desperately, he just wanted him to stop pitying him, to see him for the strong, individual person he actually was. He wanted Michael to see behind his mask...

His mind came to an abrupt stop, as that thought crossed it. No, he wouldn't go there. Not now, not ever. Michael was Arnold's boyfriend – the fact Arnold had been a fumbling heterosexual a mere week ago didn't matter – which meant that Harry didn't have the right to think of the grey eyed boy as more than a distant friend. He shook his head to chase the morose thoughts away; pondering about unchangeable things never solved anything, only caused more head- and heartache.

Neither did arguing with stubborn mules for that matter, but Harry was headstrong enough himself and never accepted advices. "My friend?" he mocked sardonically. "And for how long will you be my friend? A week? A month? Maybe two?" He hated that his voice became more and more bitter as he went on.

Michael's eyes turned deep charcoal and enraged for a second, before his whole expression softened. He raised his free hand and gently cradled Harry's left cheek into his palm, fingers disappearing in the semi-long raven curls. "I'll always be there–"

A long fingered hand slapped over think lips while Harry glared venomously at his companion, his wrath spiked even more than before. He leaned closer, and hissed into Michael's half-covered face, "Don't. Don't you dare say those words." His voice sounded almost snake-like and the colour drained from Michael's face. "Ever."

They stared at each other for endless moments before Michael, stunned but still resolute, slowly nodded in agreement. "I'm here," the brunette whispered, his lips and breath tickling Harry's palm and made him blush furiously. An odd, almost smug gleam appeared in Michael's eyes, and Harry snatched his hand back.

He also pulled himself out of the older boy's loosened embrace and lowered his head in embarrassment, muttering, "For now."

"I'm here."

"I never thought you were such an insufferable prat."

"You have to know one to be one," Michael retorted, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, and Harry couldn't really hide his own half-smile either. "What do you want to do now?"

Now that was a question, Harry didn't want to answer, or think about for that matter, because his insides froze just the mere thought of what he was about to do. "Arnold is waiting," he said instead. Michael's expression became confused once again, but this time frustration also flashed over his features.

"Yes, by the practice hall," he agreed dismissively.

"_You'_re making him wait," Harry emphasised, but the other still didn't seem to get it.

"He can wait." Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "Now stop avoiding the question. What do you want to do?" he pressed insistently, making Harry's head reeling.

Only Arnold was stubborn enough to pry and dig until Harry's resolves cracked and let him have his way. But now this usually stoic and aloof senior was acting like this... and it was simply too puzzling. Why was he doing this? Shouldn't he want to be with Arnold instead of pestering Harry with endless questions? Had Harry been wrong all way along, had he misunderstood the signs and the secretive way they were acting?

A part of him even wanted to lash out again, however, before he could have even opened his mouth, a menacing voice purred from behind him, "Just what's going on here?"

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_A/N: So here it is. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and it was worth the wait. Now the action wouldn't subside, but the emotional drama and teenage angst will become less daunting in the next chapter. Also, this is totally unbetaed, so sorry for the mistakes. I'll comb through the whole chapter soon. And look out for the review replies later today (hopefully I'll have internet connection when I get back from the beach!). Also thanks for the immense amount of reviews and adds and hits. You've blown my mind! *hugs every one of her readers*_


	9. IX Matter of Camaraderie

_**Author's Note:** Hey, I know it's taken a long time, but the new chapter is finally finished and I hope it was worth the wait. I also have a few deleted scenes you might be interested in, so check out my profile for the links. _

_And now, big thanks to hjamesp15, krynny, ravenclawseekergirl638 and rubberducky26 for reviewing! I couldn't answer them personally, but I appreciated them! Also you're the best guys! I got so many reviews and adds that I could barely believe it. Over 100 reviews for 8 chapters? You left me speechless, really. I love you guys and thank you! Now I can only hope you won't hate me for this chapter. _

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**IX. Matter of Camaraderie**

Strong fingers curled around his wrist, trying to prevent Harry from facing the owner of the voice, however he was having none of it.

"Mr. Crouch," Harry greeted the judo coach, inwardly shrinking back from the maniacal gleam that shone in the man's eyes. From what he had heard, Crouch was an absolute menace, but his borderline torturous methods had won the National Championship to the team for the last six year.

"I asked a question, Potter." The man licked his lips in a definitely creepy way, rolling the last "r" of Harry's name like an obscene caress, causing a shiver to run down Harry's spine. "Is this brainless cretin harassing you?"

"Michael and I were just leaving, sir" Harry managed to grit out, feeling violated even though Crouch made no move to get closer.

His skin crawled from the feeling of those dark eyes practically devouring his uniform clad body, yet he could do nothing and the feeling of absolute hatred, he felt when O'Meyer trapped him in the bathroom, came back full force. Michael's chest pressed against his back in silent support, but it only managed to fuel his rage. Still he did nothing to separate himself from the older boy and the small sheen of security his touch provided.

Crouch's eyes narrowed as he took in their new position, and he pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning against until that moment. "And how comes Farchild is not in class like a good little boy like him should?" he asked smoothly, a grotesque smirk twisting his features into a horrific mask. "Maybe a good month of detention would teach him a lesson..."

Harry could barely withhold a wince as Michael's fingers tightened around his wrist; fortunately, the reaction was hidden by the blue uniform jacket he had forgotten to button up in the morning. It was obvious that Michael was beyond nervous, but Harry had no idea whether it was because of Crouch's near paralyzing craziness or because he had a history with the man.

Harry had never seen his fellow dancer anything but reserved or – when it came to Brad – downright hostile. Of course, now that he was constantly around Arnold and therefore Harry, he experienced a more open and playful side of the senior, but to see him afraid of someone; it was surreal.

Out of sudden, Harry's anger evaporated, leaving behind something forgotten, but at the same liberating and empowering; protectiveness. The feeling surprised him, yet gave him the power to raise his chin and ignore the perverse hunger in the judo coach's near black eyes.

He leant back into Michael's chest, giving him the support he was silently seeking and spoke up, "That is not going to be necessary, Mr. Crouch. I was called to Dr. Sinistra's office and I asked Michael to accompany me."

"Really now? And how is that an excuse for skipping classes?" Crouch countered, walking closer until he was practically invading Harry's personal space

"We are excused from our classes for the day. Director Cameron's orders," Harry replied as smoothly as he could while trying to get as far from the man before him as he could. Crouch didn't smell bad – he used some kind of spicy cologne that was quite pleasant and his breath carried the faint remembrance of mint and coffee – but the mere thought of having the crazed coach anywhere near his body almost sent Harry's brain overload with fear.

It was instinctual; Barty Crouch terrified him to his core without even trying. The rumours about him liking his partners young and less than willing didn't help either, although no one had been able to prove anything. At least Harry wasn't the only one affected, not that it made him feel better.

"Cameron is way too lenient with you lot," Crouch scoffed in disgust, licking his lips in that weird way once again. "Now if it was me..." He lifted one of his hands in an attempt to touch Harry's face, but before he could have touched his skin Michael grabbed the offending appendage in a vice-like grip.

"You don't want to do that, _sir_," he spat, barely concealed venom lacing his words.

Harry wanted to turn back and look at the other boy, however, with Crouch standing so close to him, he couldn't afford the distraction.

The heavily hooded, bottomless black-blue irises stared up at him with unsettling awareness, before they slid above his head and suddenly were filled with pure loathing. "You would do well unhanding me, boy," Crouch barked harshly, yanking his hand out of Michael's grip.

His pale fingers curled into fists as if he was readying himself to hit Harry's companion, but the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat prevented him from doing anything.

"Is there a problem, Barthemius?" Harry's attention was instantly drawn by the silky drawl of Rabastan Lestrange, who somehow managed to sneak upon them.

Crouch whirled around, earning a snake-like smile from the Head of the Arts Department. "Everything is just fine, Rabastan," he said evenly, although Harry noticed that his hands were still balled by his sides. "I was having a small chat with the boys."

An elegant eyebrow arched and violet eyes flittered over to Harry for a second before they settled back on the obviously uneasy sandy haired man. "Potter, Farchild, in my office, now. And close the door." Lestrange ordered not sparing a glance to the teens, his attention focused solely on Crouch.

Harry didn't question the Department Head's command. He waited until the other two disappeared behind another set of double doors before he dragged Michael into Lestrange's office and closed the door behind them as quietly as he could; he didn't want anyone to know they were there even if it was Rabastan Lestrange himself who gave them permission – or an order – to enter.

He was just about to turn around when a pair of arms twined around his stomach and pulled him snugly against Michael's front. Thick locks of auburn hair tickled the side of his face and his ear as the older boy buried his head into his neck, pulling a strangled sound from Harry's throat.

"M-Michael?" he stammered, cursing himself for his pathetic stutter and the hammering of his heart. "What are you doing?"

"Don't move please," Michael whispered weakly. "I just need a few minutes..."

Harry complied and didn't ask questions. He just stood there for endless minutes, existing in complete silence and detached harmony, and it robbed Harry of the willpower to fight the urge to melt into the strong, falsely safe embrace. Deep down, he knew it was him who should have give comfort, yet he felt small and lost and had no idea what he should do.

"Maybe we should sit down?" Harry suggested softly, breaking the silence, but Michael's only response was to pull him even closer, which in turn made Harry blush and wince at the same time.

It took everything in him not to start freaking out, because it was one thing to be close to Michael or anyone during a possibly dangerous situation, but it was an entirely different thing to do the same when no one was around. Harry could feel as his body started to stiffen; hazy memories of the last time anyone – anyone that wasn't Arnold who usually just jumped him and clung to him like some kind of ginger monkey – embraced him surfaced from the deepest, most hidden corners of his mind.

The images of jet black wavy hair that fell gracefully into broken grey eyes and the smell of cinnamon and musk pierced his heart. Harry refused to close his eyes, fearing he would remember more, but the memories came either way, causing him to shudder at the remembrance of large caressing hands and whispered promises that were always accompanied by desperate, sloppy kisses and oh so bitter tears...

Harry wrenched himself out of Michael's embrace and pressed his back against the door. He struggled to keep his impassionate facade, to hide the terror and nausea that slammed into his stomach, twisting and clenching it with a force that nearly sent him tumbling to the floor. It had been years since he had thought of those miserable months he had spent with his godfather after his father's death.

Back then, Sirius was driven by grief induced madness and was beyond delusional, not knowing where his hallucinations ended and where reality began. And Harry was too young to fight, too young to do anything but endure the sickening affections of the man who was supposed to take care of him...

"Harry?" Harry didn't look up, too shaken and still under the influence of memories, but he was aware enough to flinch back, when Michael reached out to touch his shoulder. "Talk to me, Harry."

"No," he breathed, his blunt fingernails drawing blood from the soft flesh of his palms. The pain helped to focus. He needed to focus and hide the evidence of his shame and humiliation. "Everything is fine."

"Harry–"

"No, Michael." Haunted green eyes clashed with anxious charcoal coloured ones, leaving no space for argument. "It is nothing."

It had been his mantra for years, those three simple words were the only things that made him keep going on, made him endure the agony and despair his godfather had been pushing him into. A part of him wanted to draw comfort from Michael, but he couldn't bring himself to admit such weakness, because it would have meant he failed being strong, like he did when O'Meyer assaulted him. He just couldn't bear the thought of opening up, and show how vulnerable he really was.

So instead of accepting the offered kindness, he schooled his features and stepped away from the door; his spine straight and his head held high. In answer, Michael pressed his lips into a thin line and stalked over to the flashy black leather armchairs that stood in front of Lestrange's desk. "Are you coming?" he asked, looking over his shoulder, but even with his face closed off, it was obvious he was sulking.

"No one forces you to talk to me, you know," Harry sneered, but sat into the armchair next to Michael who looked less than impressed by the way Harry was acting.

"I'm not going to argue with you, but remember this, Harry," here Michael paused to take a deep breath as if he was about to make a confession, never broking the eye contact, "no matter how much you try to push me away, I'm not going anywhere."

"How sweet of you, Mr. Farchild," an amused voice purred from the doorway and the velvet covered steely tone sent chills down Harry's spine. "Witnessing such chivalry warms my unfeeling, cold little heart."

Harry watched as the man strode into the room, the door closing with a sharp click behind him. He was an impressive figure; tall, dark and handsome with glittering ice like eyes that tore into your very core upon meeting them. He was young – in his early thirties – but had a presence that made even the most stuck up students and arrogant teachers look like innocent little kittens upon meeting him.

Rabastan Lestrange was a nasty bastard and was proud of that fact, but Harry knew that the man was a fierce protector when it came to his family and that in spite of his borderline ruthless behaviour, he cared for Harry and always looked after him in the only way he could; from afar.

"I'll be short," the man started, his almost translucent eyes pinning Harry to his seat mercilessly. "You have no business with Barthemius Crouch and if I ever see either of you anywhere near him in the future, it'll be me who puts you into the detention hall."

"I–"

"I'm not interested in your inane gibberish, Potter," Lestrange cut in, his glare even more intense, and Harry decided it would be wiser to shut up. "And now get out."

Harry's jaw clenched, but he was not insane enough to disobey Rastaban Lestrange's direct order. From the corner of his eye he saw as Michael stood up beside him; his whole frame vibrating with suppressed tension while his striking profile seemed even sharper and looked like it was carved from unyielding marble. He was one of the most attractive men, Harry had ever seen, and for a fleeting moment the all too familiar confusion was back again, questioning the older boy's motives and sanity for wanting to be friends with him.

The moment passed as it came; the office of the Head of the Arts Department was no place for musing about dysfunctional relationships. Returning to the present, Harry turned all his attention to Lestrange, meeting with the man's imploring yet undoubtedly amused gaze and said, "I had the most enlightening chat with Dr. Sinistra before we run into Mr. Crouch. Maybe you want to check a few things with her, before she gets ideas of her own."

"Ideas you say?" Lestrange hummed pleasantly, resting his chin on the top of his steepled fingers.

"Yes, _sir_, ideas." Harry didn't want to share his rather pitiful home life with Michael.

It wasn't even anything personal; no one, not even Arnold, knew why he lived on campus almost all year or why he never had visitors or at least phone calls from home. Knowing that neither his mother nor his godfather wanted him was humiliating enough in itself, but half-assed sympathy and full-blown pity coming from people who could never understand how it felt would have killed him.

Harry didn't need pity and pretty, soothing lies. He was used to taking care of himself, even if this past week and a half tried to prove him other wise. He shot a quick glance at Michael, but the senior was standing by one of the big French windows, politely giving him and Lestrange the illusion of privacy they needed. It was a thoughtful and very considerate gesture, and Harry couldn't help but smile at the back of the boy, who was slowly proving to be someone irreplaceable in Harry's life.

"Cut off the love-sick puppy eyes, Potter, and pay attention," Lestrange whispered acerbically, causing Harry's eyes to snap back at his glowering form. "What did that... woman say?"

"It's about the teacher-parents conference on next Thursday. Apparently, Sirius' PA once again cancelled," he replied equally lowly, not paying any mind to the invisible claws that dug into his heart. "I assume you know what that means."

"I have a pair of ears and a functioning brain thank you very much," came the sardonic response before Lestrange raised his voice to a normal level. "I'll look into it, Potter, but you'd do well if you took care of your own insignificant problems in the future. Now, get the hell out!"

"How gracious of you, Mr. Lestrange," Harry sneered, but he sounded almost sincere when he added, "Thank you for your help."

**[Swan Heart]**

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, not looking at Michael. They were only a few corridors away from the practice hall and Harry couldn't stand the strained silence that fell between them anymore. "For everything."

He heard as Michael let out a small sigh before the familiar long fingers closed around his blazer clad left arm and stopped him in his tracks. "You're welcome," came the soft reply, dark grey eyes desperately trying to convey a message, Harry couldn't comprehend no matter how much he tried to. "I can't deny that I wish you would talk to me, but I can't pressure you and I'm sorry if I was overbearing in my haste to–"

"Maybe, this is not the best place to discuss our regrets and feelings," Harry interrupted, trying to control the fluttering of his heart and the blush that was dead set on staining his cheeks. "And Arnold must be impatient by now."

Confusion and a dash of hurt flashed over Michael's face, but after a moment he nodded in agreement. "You're right," he said, a rueful smile curling his lips as he changed the topic. "I hope you're looking forward to working with me."

"I'm sure you will look magnificent in your little swan costume." Harry countered, his green eyes glittering at the mock outraged expression on the other boy's face. "Because that's the only role you will get once you fail to lift me."

"Is that a challenge, Potter?" Michael quirked one of his brows in question, but his dark smirk was full of dangerous promises.

Harry suppressed a shiver and put on his best impassive mask. "That was a simple prediction based on the puny state of your arms," he deadpanned and quickened his steps to avoid any repercussion that might have come from the clearly unimpressed senior.

"Oh no, you didn't..." Michael growled, however, Harry already turned around a corner and didn't hear the rest.

The first person he saw upon entering the practice hall was Arnold who was leaning against the wall next to the door, keeping a good distance from clearly excited dancers who were scattered all around the room, chattering and sending not so subtle glances in his direction. He wore a pair of orange sunglasses that clashed horribly with his uniform, but they also hid half of his face from the inquiring gazes of the Ballet Club.

Fortunately for Harry, he'd known Arnold well enough to see the shadows of a very smug smirk, however, before he could have even thought about approaching his best friend, Michael caught up with him and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. The scent of musk and oriental spices filled Harry's nose, but he couldn't tore his eyes away from Arnold whose head snapped up and was staring directly at them, his satisfaction quickly turning into annoyance.

"Finally showed your pert little butts, did you?" Arnold drawled, his smile anything but happy as his dark glass covered gaze bored into the hand clutching Harry's shoulder. "Next time, send a fucking text or some smoke signals so I'll know not to wait two goddamned _hours_ amongst this horde of raunchy vultures while you two have some alone time in one of the numerous janitor's closets."

"Stop with the dramatics, I'm sure you soaked up all the attention you got from these so called raunchy vultures," Harry shot back curtly, but he shot a warning look to the redhead.

He stepped away from Michael's hand disregarding the sudden flex of fingers that tried to keep him in place. Neither of them needed any more attention than Arnold's little comment had provided, especially mere minutes before the evil little bastard actually announced the winner of the audition.

"Sure did. I smiled prettily and thought about slitting their throats." Arnie's smile was beyond creepy, causing several freshmen to move closer to the other groups. "It would be fun, decorating these sacred but dead boring walls with some life, don't you think?"

"I can't believe I share DNA with a sicko like you," Alex butted in from a few steps away, his voice dripping with disdain. "Why don't you just announce that Brad won and go back to your Satanist cult to sacrifice a few more silly naive virgins on the altar of technology?"

"Nah, that's so last year. We switched to annoying and useless silly little boys who believe they're better than everyone around them," Arnold retorted waving his hand in a dismissive way. "As for announcing O'Meyer's victory? I'm afraid you have to wait a bit longer for that."

"You just admitted it, you moron, I–"

"That's enough, Montgomery!" Director Cameron cut in as he walked out of his office, effectively preventing Harry from panicking at the possibility of being forced to work with Bradley again. "You've been bitching at each other like a pair of classless harlots on the streets for hours, so do us a favour and shut the hell up, thank you." His tone was terse and lacked any of the sardonic humour that usually laced his harsher words. Then again if the twins had been bickering for hours, Harry couldn't really fault the man for venting his frustration on them.

"So, Arnold was about to tell us who got the role," Frank said from beside Sasha River, a sophomore who showed promising talent despite his disturbingly long torso and arms.

Harry's heart leapt into his throat even though he did his best to hide his nerves. It didn't matter that he felt like a nervous wreck, his future career depended on this competition and whoever got the role to play Siegfried, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and accept it. They needed to win and no one – especially not Bradley O'Meyer and the ghosts of a tragic past – could keep Harry from getting what he wanted this time.

He caught the naughty smirk Arnold sent him before his best friend pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to Director Cameron, pulling a neat, dark blue envelope with the crest of Dalton on it out of the pocket of his pants. "This is going to be fun," he declared, plucking his sunglasses from his nose and exposing the dark bruises that never seemed to fade from under his eyes no matter how much he slept. "May I have the honour, Director?"

"Be my guest," Cameron nodded in agreement.

"Splendid!" Arnold clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention. He was grinning like a maniac, increasing Harry's anxiety even more.

His attention was so focused on his friend's maliciously gleeful face as Arnold opened the envelope and pulled out a small white card that he barely noticed when Michael slid up behind him and bumped their shoulders together. "It's going to be okay," he breathed, however, the small tremor in his voice told Harry otherwise.

"You think so?" Harry whispered back, not turning away from Arnold who was just opening his mouth to take a deep breath, teasing his audience mercilessly.

"I know so," Michael replied only to be proven wrong the next moment when Arnold finally decided to stop playing with them and announced the name of the winner.

"Bradley O'Meyer," he stated loudly, but his voice was almost immediately drowned out by the ravenous cheers of O'Meyer's fans.

Bradley himself was smiling broadly and had the gall to send Harry a salacious wink before he was swarmed by Alex and his posse who all wanted a piece of him and didn't care about propriety or the presence of their director anymore. The younger Montgomery brother even went as far as yanking Bradley's head down to kiss him on the mouth, giving an eyeful for their not so appreciative audience.

Harry found the whole show distasteful and cheap, but with his mind refused to cooperate any further, leaving him helpless and numb. He could still sense Michael's presence next to him as well as the arm that wound around his shoulders, holding him close to the older boy's strong chest, but Harry couldn't find the energy to care at the moment.

No, his eyes were glued to the silently laughing form of his best friend. He expected Arnold to be outraged or at least moderately annoyed, after all, he hated Bradley almost as much as he hated the Warblers, yet here he was laughing his ass off like he just heard the best joke of the year.

Harry felt his eyes narrow at Arnold's behaviour and he chanced a quick glance at Michael who was also watching the redhead with growing suspicion. "What are you playing at, Arnie?" Harry murmured to himself, willing the laughing teen to look at him without success.

Instead, Arnold turned to Director Cameron – who up till that moment had been glowering at Alex and Bradley's entwined hands – and gave him the envelope and the card, smirking at the man whose eyebrows shot up in surprise after reading the contents of the slice of paper. Arnold said something that was once again muffled by the celebrating dancers and the man nodded after a few seconds of consideration, a matching smirk twisting his lips.

Harry didn't understand what was going on, and if Michael and even Frank's expressions were anything to go by they were just as confused, but just looking at the complacently smiling pair made his apathy and hopeless detachment lessen with every passing seconds. He watched as Arnold touched Director Cameron's arm, the touch lingering and almost looking like a caress – Harry decided to think about that later –, then turned and walked to the door and opened it before anyone could have noticed his sudden disappearance.

However, instead of slipping away like Harry thought he would, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, effectively shutting up everyone in the room. "Bradley O'Meyer," he repeated his earlier words, but this time instead of allowing Bradley's little slaves to start another riot, he carried on. "Congratulations, you're going to make an adorable little swan."

The door slammed behind him before anyone could have completely deciphered his words, but Harry caught the quick wink his best friend sent his way. He let out a long breath he didn't know he was holding and rested his head against Michael's neck who was laughing softly into his ear.

"Your little ginger psycho is a genius," he whispered, his tone carrying an almost fond note. "But it's not going to stop me from killing him after the show today."

Harry's only answer was a breathless chuckle; an emotion like relief and happiness coursed through his entire body, leaving behind pleasant tingles and goose bumps. A part of him couldn't believe that Arnold would play such a cruel prank, yet beneath the shock of not having to be near to Bradley O'Meyer and his twisted ways to show his attraction he knew he shouldn't have expected anything less from his friend.

The seconds ticked in endless silence until a deep throaty laughter coming from the other end of the practice hall shattered it to pieces and suddenly all hell broke loose.


End file.

Glee, Harry Potter, Drama, Romance