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Part 37 of Slytherin Love Moodboards
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jiji's hp fic collection, Alternative Universes of Fandoms I enjoy.
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2022-12-23
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Hand In Hand, With Fairy Grace

Summary:

To Harriet, the moments she stole every night, moving to the soulful tunes, were her everything. That, and the wizard who wouldn't step from the shadows and embrace her heart.

Or When Heir Marcus Flint knew that he had to confront his sweetest desire and let his soul dance for all eternity.

Notes:

Thank you for the prompt Bookfreak31, hopefully you'll enjoy the twists I made💖

This is a Canon Divergence. The Fourth year happens differently.

There are hints from Swan Lake and some Ballet Terminology.

Enjoy❄️

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The music increased in speed and the ballerina lost herself to the beat, her soul drowning in elation.

She was dancing the part where the evil sorcerer, Rothbart, was making himself felt and Siegfried was hurtling about between the swans, seeking his Queen…

He found her and now as dawn broke, they danced their farewell while the swans stood sadly by, their arms crossed over their breasts.

Demi-plié… grand plié… tendu devant … pull up… dégagé… demi-plié…

The relentless, repetitive steps continued and Harriet, emptying her mind of everything except the need to place her feet perfectly, to stretch her back to its limit, did not even realize that while she worked she was once again completely happy.

She embodied Odette, her imagination supplying her with the Corps that was supposed to frame the scene and carry forward the emotions.

Harriet closed her eyes, ignoring her reflection in the mirror and danced.

She danced fully, absolutely, danced as if she was on the stage of Sadler’s Wells Theatre and the Queen was in her blue and golden box, watching her.

No, better than that; she danced as if she was alone in the world and had only this gift to pour into the heartbreaking emptiness that never left her heart.

She performed her crisp double fouetté turn and lowered her arms softly.

The music swelled and then each instrument faded until only a soft, synthesized beat remained. 

The music ended and Harriet’s chest heaved in the final pose of her révérence.

Her toes screamed abuse but she emulated her dear teacher, Madame Innessa’s conviction that the dance was the important thing; everything else was secondary.

Her unwillingness to compromise, she believed, made her a promising dancer.

Yes, she was talented, like Aunt Petunia discovered years ago, but ballet teemed with talented artists.

The difference was that Harriet had both talent and drive, and that made her an outstanding ballerina.

She might be a witch, Wizarding Britain’s Savior and the Heiress of two Noble and Most Ancient Houses, but her unrevealed talent was what set her apart from the others, what made her unique and underlined her identity.

She was sick of this world that saw nothing but a shiny trophy.

She celebrated her magic, followed the ways of her ancestors and did her best in her studies, always ranking among the top three.

However, to Harriet her real passion was the secret hours she stole every night in the solitude of the abandoned classroom she claimed as her personal studio.

Ballet was the first thing she loved and was allowed to pursue. It was a testament to the day her shackles were broken and her wings were freed to unfold.

She remembered how life had been before that eventful day.

She had spent nights laying awake in her cupboard, trying to comprehend the complicated upleasantness of what she had heard, of how her guardians described her parents with crudity and disdain.

She had always known that she was different, be it the disturbing dreams that haunted her sleep, the strange accidents or the feeling of the flame living inside her soul, coming to the rescue whenever she was in dire need.

Later, she identified it as her magic.

Soon, too soon, she taught herself to read and vanished for long hours into her cupboard with a book, to be discovered by her aunt shivering with a cold she had been too absorbed to notice.

If she spoke, it was to her invisible playmates, some unidentifiable creatures her mind had conjured solely for her entertainment or to the small snakelet she had befriended later in that loveless house.

Everything changed one day with an impromptu visit from two strangers.

Harriet had not been allowed to attend the meeting, however, she could still remember the greed in her Uncle Vernon’s eyes while he ushered them inside the living room.

They were people of power, of that she sure.

After that fateful night, it would be wrong to say that Harriet was neglected.

Even if Aunt Petunia found it impossible to love her niece, she never showed it again. She was determined to do her duty.

Harriet was conveyed to music lessons and to dancing classes which her guardians recommended. She was supposed to become a young lady, always proper and perfect.

She suspected that her aunt knew of her fascination with ballet and how her eyes widened whenever an act of Swan Lake, Giselle or La Sylphide was broadcast on TV.

It was how she was thrust into the alluring and intimidating world of ballet at the tender age of seven.

There was so much to learn: how to put on makeup, how to allow space at rehearsal between herself and the others which later the tutus would fill, how to anoint and darn and squeeze and thump the ballet shoes which seemed to be as often on the girls' hands as on their feet.

But it was class that made Harriet into a dancer. 

Class...that unfailing daily torture to which ballerinas came every morning no matter what.

Class in the freezing studio.

Class with streaming colds, class after bad school days, on days when older girls would give anything to be spared.

Class for the Prima ballerina selection.

It was in class that Harriet learned what it cost the muscles to warm up, yet learned too about the marvelous authority she carried over her body.

It was in class that she sweated, got exhausted, cried out with the pain of a wrenched muscle, achieved the grace and spirituality emanating from a good ballerina.

"She is a true artist." Madame Innessa had once said to Aunt Petunia and Harriet's eyes shone with veneration while her heart almost burst with joy.

Everything changed when she received her Hogwarts’ letter and stepped into the magical world.

She learned more about her past, her roots and her power.

To the world, she was Harriet Potter, a little short, thin girl who was a bit of a bookworm and an aspiring ballerina, but to Wizarding Britain she was Heiress Potter-Black, the most coveted and cherished witch.

A year ago, her godfather was mysteriously exonerated and he took his role as her guardian seriously, renewing the Blood Oath and teaching her all there was to know about the Potters and the Blacks’ history and customs.

She left 4, Pivet Drive but still visited her aunt on the odd occasion.

Sirius was startled when he learned that she didn’t care about Quidditch that much, even though she was a gifted flier.

He bought a Firebolt as her birthday gift anyway and she accepted it gracefully, trying wild maneuvers that made Remus curse his best friend for days.

This year however came with a great surprise, The Triwizard Tournament.

Hogwarts was filled to overflowing with boisterous students from all over Europe.

At first, she was excited and looked forward to the prospect of meeting young witches and wizards from other schools, of learning about their traditions, the difference in the curriculum and maybe forge a new friendship or two.

Her dreams were doused like a flame by a raging downpour when everyone looked at her differently as soon as she introduced herself.

She saw the rapacity in their eyes, the way they didn’t really see her, Harriet the fourth year Hogwarts’ student, but the Savior and the Heiress.

Any hope that she could have other friends, than the precious ones she already had, was crashed brutally.

Nevertheless, she was thankful. She had Hermione, Luna and Neville and they were more than enough.

Things transcended to disastrous when The Yule Ball was announced.

She was pestered by hordes of admires who wanted to win the privilege of escorting her to her first official ball as her date, and maybe more in the future.

None of them piqued her interest, even the ones who truly harbored pure feelings.

Sirius would chuckle with glee, knowing that his beloved daughter was not interested in wizards yet and eluding all attempts at courting.

She shook her head as she remembered  how he moaned and pouted for days when a dress was acquired this year.

He was definitely aware of what was about to take place this year, being Lord Black, but opted to hide the news anyway.

It would serve him right if she accepted an outrageous invitation and attended in the arm of Ron Weasley or Draco Malfoy for the sole pleasure of teaching him a lesson.

However, she would never do something so profane.

Her heart was already given willingly, only she was waiting for him to emerge from the shadows and bless her offering with his acceptance.

Even if she was oblivious most of the time to the male population of Hogwarts, like Hermione never ceased to repeat, she was consistently aware of him.

He was always watching her from afar and making sure that his housemates didn’t hustle, annoy or Merlin Forbid, jinx her.

She wondered why he was so reluctant to show himself, she longed for that moment like flowers longed for the sun.

Even in her most vitriolic moments, Harriet believed that they shared a special repartee.

She liked his sense of humor, dry and understated.

He was only out to impress those clever enough to be impressed.

He was unapologetically himself; honest and self-assured but they were traits that, Harriet had discovered, were rarer than unicorn blood.    

The memories of his brawls with Oliver Wood made her smile like a cat on a sunny windowsill.

He did everything with passion and never shied away from getting what he set his eyes on.

Why was he taking his sweet time, then?

Harriet sat on the floor and started taking off her pointe shoes.

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, and her eyes danced as if keeping a funny secret.

He made another mistake and looking out of the corner of her eye, she discerned his shadow.

She changed her mind hurriedly, flicked her wand again and directed it at the enchanted record player she bought this summer from Paris.

The fourth scene of Swan Lake started playing and she closed her eyes and lost herself to Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece again.

She danced with her soul, with her body seared with curls of fire and waiting for him.

Midway through a pas de bourrée though, she looked up at her reflection in the mirror, stopped and felt her heart rate spike.

A feeling of unreality crept through her as he strode to the center of the classroom with intent and looked at her with wistfulness in his deep blue eyes.

She was more than a little amazed by what she did.

Step by step, she met him in the middle and her greedy eyes drank him in and the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up the entire breadth of the space as he stood still, looking down at her.

The Potter Heart Curse unfolded, seeping blazing craving through her veins and she swallowed, denying her shaking hand the need to rub her aching chest.

“Heiress Potter-Black.” He whispered, his voice low and hoarse.

Her chest clenched with unnameable feelings and she wanted to yell and demand he called her by her given name.

She hazarded a glance up at him, even though she knew the dangers.

His face had that intensity again, freezing and melting her insides at the same time.

He parted his lips as if he was about to say something else, then pursed them.

Harriet leaned her face up and smiled. ”Heir Flint.”

 

*̣̥☆·͙̥‧❄•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥˟͙☃˟͙‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥❄‧·͙̥̣☆*̣̥

 

In her white tutu, her long ebony hair scraped back from her face and coiled high under a bandeau, she was transformed in a way which disconcerted his rigid equilibrium.

The neat and elegant head, the long, almost unnaturally slender throat, the delicate arms all signaled an unmistakable message; that here, in this place, was where she belonged.

That his little swan was perfection personified.

He watched the show unfold, and his heart began to pound like an Abraxan’s hooves.

She breezed through her routine with the swiftness of a feather, ensorcelling his senses and making him her most ardent captive.

Her ravishing smile was unimpaired by her exertions, her hips apparently hinged only most lightly to her torso.

Harriet performed movements that he had scarcely known existed.

She smoothed down her own waist, lifted her legs so high that it seemed as if the froth of lace must be torn most hideously asunder.

She did incredible things with her arms tossing them away so that they whipped out behind her and as the music grew softer, she wound them around her torso.

She bent forward to let her crossed hands dabble in the dimples of her knees, then backward and the tiny crystals embellishing her outfit shone like shooting stars.

The sight of her was the only thing of comfort in the bleak wilderness that his life was, for it did not occur to him to find solace in anything else.

She was the light that sprang from the shadows of his soul, equal part sweet and angelic, equal part dark and dangerous.

He was a brute and a thug according to many, so absorbed he was in Quidditch, he didn’t care much about the number of hurdles he smashed mercilessly.

Harriet Potter-Black however, was his delight and his deepest secret.

Marcus knew that he wasn’t the nicest guy in Hogwarts. He felt students shirk away when he gave them a certain look.

He had been called draconian, but that didn’t bother him. He saw no need to become best friends with everyone as pretty-boy Diggory did.

They were just schoolmates, and they would come and go. His Quidditch prowess, however, would be remembered, and he wanted it to be remembered well.

As such, he didn’t doubt himself and he didn’t feel guilty for some of the things he said and did in the pitch mainly when a certain nuisance called Oliver Wood was concerned.

The girls on the other hand were the plague of his life.

He was almost certain that they taunted him deliberately, for his detestation of female students was as well-known.

Most of them were witless creatures attracted mainly to physical beauty. They were silly and superficial and didn’t deserve his attention.

He knew he wasn’t handsome, far from it. He was plain and no witch would entertain the idea of choosing him solely for himself.

However, as he stood there, images of Harriet continued to jostle each other in his brain and he wondered for the umpteenth time if she would honor the contract their grandfathers drew years ago, if she was the one to ignore his unattractive shell and look beyond.

His grandfather Lord Galerius Flint had been a brother-in-arms with Lord Fleamont Potter. They fought Grindelwald together, bled and shed magic and sweat for the cause.

The link they forged outvied simple friendship and become brotherhood. They made a pact, an oath, to marry their Heirs and join their families together.

However, his grandmother birthed his father Flavius while Lady Euphemia Potter had James.

Both found love elsewhere but the contract signed by the Potter and Flint magicks remained.

His father visited the late James Potter the night Lily gave birth to Harriet and renewed his interest in honoring their fathers’ wish.

James agreed under the condition that his daughter was not to be forced at any time, she was free to make her choice.

Things went downhill when Voldemort murdered the Potters and Harriet disappeared.

His parents had spent years looking for her, that until the muggle private detective they hired located her.

She had been seven at the time, while he was ten, a year away from enrolling in Hogwarts.

The Flints were avowed for their Honor, their promises were their pledge and a Flint would never back away from one.

Marcus had known that he had to work hard to become the best option for Harriet.

He had no qualms about taking Harriet’s free will, he merely wanted her to consider him.

He remembered the night his parents returned from their trip to the muggle neighborhood. He couldn’t understand their words, but their tone was enough.

Lord Flavius Flint’s voice boomed like thunder, while his sweet, gentle mother uttered obscenities he wasn’t aware existed.

A look of hurt, of despair, passed over both their faces when he rushed to ask about the meeting and from what they conferred in low agitated voices, he came to the conclusion that Harriet’s childhood hadn’t been a happy one.

Flavius threatened her guardians with the darkest of curses if they didn’t start taking their charge seriously.

He remembered the night she entered Hogwarts for the first time.

He recalled the way she had smiled at him across the table, her eyes luminescent, and felt that maybe there was a sliver of a possibility that his mother was right.

However, he quickly dismissed the thought.

Who would choose him willingly?

After the events of her second year, he reported his suspicions to his father and with the help of his longtime allies, Lords Greengrass, Warrington, Pucey and Fawley, they started investigating.

They managed to intercept Lord Black before he committed a huge mistake and prepared for a sound trial.

Remus Lupin caught the filthy rat and his best friend was exonerated.

The following summer was taxing and nerve-wrecking.

The newly formed alliance unveiled Voldemort’s darkest secret and started tracking the priceless items, sullied by pieces of the Dark Lord’s soul.

They knew that the chase was far from being over, but with the help of Lord Black’s spies, they tracked down and disposed of the hideous monster hiding in Little Hangleton, alongside his devoted servant, Barty Crouch.Jr.

These were things he would never tell her for if her acceptance would sprang from gratitude, he didn’t want it.

Before coming back for his seventh and last year, he intended to ask Harriet for a courting chance and abide by her choice, yet the bloody Tournament burst apart his carefully laid plans.

And so, he pursued his self-inflicted torture and watched from the shadows.

He learned of her secret talent last year.

He was returning from an arduous Quidditch training session when a soulful piece of music drifted to his ears and he followed, looking for the perpetrator.

It was foreign and heartfelt, something he never heard before despite his vast knowledge of Wizarding Bands.

The sight was unforgettable, a face of such unalloyed love and happiness.

The dance had seemed saucy and titillating at first but as he watched raptly, strange feelings started stirring in his stony heart and his mind started linking the pieces and conjuring a magical story he had never heard before.

It was the night the term obsession found home in his heart.

Before, courting then marrying her seemed like a duty, a task he was honor-bound to accomplish, but then he really saw her for what she was and the blurry mages of Harriet were replaced by others more lurid, more feverish and more raw.

She became his little swan.

And now, as he looked down at her expectant eyes, he wondered what to say.

At least she didn’t seem startled or aggrieved, which was a good start.

He had imagined this meeting a thousand times: the happiness, the magic that would flow between them, the joy with which they would laugh at his cowardice, but the reality was more intense, more vigorous.

“I…I’ve been…” He cleared his throat and searched for the appropriate words that wouldn’t humiliate him further.

“You’ve been watching me perform for a year.” She offered complacently and he crammed away any nervousness he held under a veneer of admiration.

She was a Gryffindor indeed and the Sorting Hat wasn’t senile like many claimed.

Absorbed in every minute variation of her expression, he swirled his Heir ring in his finger and stood tall, with pride of course; the fierce pride the Flints were known for.

“I apologize if you feel slighted or if I interrupted your sport.” He said.

Her voice was velvety chiding. ”You didn’t. I was aware of your presence all the time and you don't hear me complain.”

“But…You knew?” He didn’t move, stunned by the savage rush of pleasure that had begun to overwhelm him. It had nearly stopped his heart.

She knew…

She knew all this time and didn’t admonish or confront him.

He took a step forward and bowed deeply.

Harriet gasped and he couldn’t blame her.

She was well taught and knew what the formal greeting meant.

“Heiress Potter-Black, would agree to accompany me to the Yule Ball as my date?” His tongue felt swollen and his breath caught as he lowered his eyes, waiting for her reply.

“I agree, Heir Flint.” She smiled, then reached up to curl her hand around the back of his neck, her caress as light as silk gauze being pulled across his skin.

Standing on her toes, she drew his head down and whispered. ”I will always chose you, you have my heart.”

Her lips were smoother than petals, all clinging silk and tender dampness as they caressed his feverish skin and he had the curious sensation of surrendering, some terrible soft sweetness invading him and rearranging his insides.

Her words catapulted his mind as their meaning sank in and his eyes flared when she let her hair down, cut a strand and offered it willingly.

With shaking hands and something akin to reverence, he accepted the priceless gift, anxious to send a letter home asking for The Flint Locket, where he would store her offering until his last day.

“Take care of it Marcus.” She whispered, her voice faltering with thick emotion.

His lips tilted with a faint smile. ”Always, my little swan.”

Notes:

If you're interested in HP x Jack Sparrow pairing, you can check my new series: Without A Single Drop Of Rum😉

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