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Of energy and links (1/2)
Title: Of energy and links
Author: randomicicle
Archive: IJ
Rating: R
Pairing/Main Character: Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini
Warnings: Slash M/M. Some spoilers. Fanon!Zabini. Slightly AU
Time Period: Post-war, last year.
Summary: Harry Potter was dying. They needed a way to keep him alive. To give him energy. Life energy. They needed a battery and Blaise Zabini was the only one who could do it. Compatibility was always there.
Disclaimer: Don’t own any character.



Part I

It was after the war. Harry Potter, savior of the world, was dying on a bed at Saint Mungo’s. His heart was giving up, his brain was giving up. His whole body was screaming for release, but the mediwizards wouldn’t let go. Nobody would let him go. He wasn’t going to die on them. He was going to live. He had to live. For he was the hero here, he couldn’t die. Not after the war, on a bed at Saint Mungo’s.

That was the reason Blaise was sitting there. Lonely and scared. Nobody would look at him though because they knew. Harry probably wouldn’t approve of it. Especially if he knew he was being blackmailed into it. His mother wasn’t going to trial so he would do it. And he had given in, like Harry’s body. He had accepted, of course, since he couldn’t bear the thought of his mother rotting in jail. But he wasn’t happy, of course, for he knew what this meant. What the impact this would have in his life. That was what scared him the most. His life was about to be taken from him. Taken so he could be Harry Potter’s lifetime battery.

*

Harry wasn’t sure what was happening. He just remembered waking up surrounded by doctors. And a boy next to him. He could barely see him, but he recognized his hair. So pretty it was. So pretty he thought it was a girl at first, if he hadn’t seen him before the war and remembered him from those times. For, during the war, he actually didn’t see many people. But he thought it was pretty. The hair, of course. It reminded him of his mom’s in the picture. Straight and long and reddish. Brown reddish. Such a pretty color, Harry thought.

And then, he fainted again.

*

The next time he woke up, he stayed up. Sleep wouldn’t welcome him again. And now he couldn’t see the boy. Nor the light that surrounded him the last time. There was only McGonagall on the room, looking at him surprised; then, beaming. She stood up and went to the bed, flicking her wand on the way. He heard footsteps. He felt fear. He was scared suddenly, but didn’t know why exactly.

And then the door opened. McGonagall’s hand was on his shoulder. He trembled a little, feeling apprehensive at her, feeling uncomfortable. He wondered why really because she always made him feel fine. Well, not really, she actually hadn’t had any effect before, only when he was eleven and she was intimidating.

Harry looked at the door and saw two men walk in. Shacklebolt, he recognized, and someone else he couldn’t see very well. And there he was. Behind them, looking as if he was hiding. The boy. The man, really, for he was his age. Even when he looked much younger, very slim and child-looking. And he looked scared. So scared that Harry wondered if he himself was safe here. The small smile in McGonagall’s face told his brain he was, but his heart felt something different. He tried to sit, but the hand on his shoulder forced him down gently.

“No, Harry. It’s better for you to lay down. You still have to rest, your heart rate has increased and you’re just recovering,” said McGonagall.

Harry didn’t feel like that. He didn’t feel sick. He just felt as if waking up from a very, very long night.

He glanced at her, asking her what was happening. He found that using his voice was hard, as if he hadn’t spoken for ages. Probably he hadn’t. Now that he thought about it, the last thing he remembered was Voldemort. Voldemort’s wand. Pointing at him under a smiling reptilian face. A horrible face. And then light again. A light so blinding that he had closed his eyes and lunched forward. He remembered his scream. More screams, more voices that didn’t belong to him. A crash. A red light. Sparks.

And darkness.

“You’re safe now, Harry. We made you come back now.”

Harry wasn’t sure where he had come back from, but he wasn’t going to ask. He glanced at the intriguing man, the boy behind the Aurors. He didn’t look like one and Harry was sure he wasn’t since it couldn’t have been that long as for him to graduate as one. The man looked at him for a second, but then avoided his eyes.

“This here is Blaise Zabini, a schoolmate of yours.” The unknown man spoke when he saw where his sight was set. Harry didn’t even look at him. He was feeling furious. He wanted to know what had happened to him. Why it was so hard to talk? Why couldn’t he sit up? Why was he still on a bed? What had happened to his friends? What happened with the war? With Voldemort?

He knew of course. The war was over. If not, he wouldn’t be here. He would be on the field. Unless…

That’s why they’re so happy I’m back, he thought. They want me to keep fighting.

“The war is over,” said the boy.

Harry looked at him more intensely. He seemed to be shivering. Everyone in the room looked oddly at him and Blaise blushed faintly. He wouldn’t raise his face. It was McGonagall who broke the silence.

“The war’s been over for over a month now. You won. You saved us. You killed Voldemort and finished that nightmare, Harry. That’s why we couldn’t lose you, we owed too much to you. We made you come back for that, we were very grateful. We love you, everybody does.”

The emotion in McGonagall’s voice hurt Harry. He knew he hadn’t done anything. Anything special, at least. Anything different from everybody else. He wasn’t any braver, any smarter than them. And they brought him back. Why? Why not bring back everyone then. And why this boy was here?

Blaise was now looking at him, shyly. And afraid. And ashamed. And extremely pained. Why was he in pain? Why was he here and in pain?

He tried to ask but couldn’t. The adults took his silence as a sign to leave. So one of them, Shacklebolt, turned to Blaise and whispered something. The boy looked slightly green and turned to Harry. He stayed when the three adults left. He stayed and sat next to Harry. And stared without blinking at the floor.

He seemed nervous.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked, voice hoarse and low.

“Because I have to,” answered Blaise, eyes still to the floor, voice almost as low as Harry's.

“Why do you have to?” asked Harry again, his voice so calm that it didn't reflect his inner confusion.

“We’re linked,” answered the boy. “They wanted you back, needed to have you back. That's why I have to.”

Harry didn’t understand, but it pained him nonetheless. For Blaise looked miserable, even when his voice was incredibly clear and sincere. He was still looking ashamed and hurt. Harry couldn’t bear it and it pained him too.

“Stop it,” said Blaise rather hard. “Stop feeling bad.”

Harry blinked.

“How do you–?”

“I can feel it. It’s part of the deal. Comes with the package,” he added rather viciously. “I act as your battery, so you can have part of my life energy. A side effect is me feeling whatever you're feeling.”

Now, Harry was horrified.

“What have they done?” he murmured enraged.

Blaise looked even more miserable, if that was possible. Harry had heard of this, but as far as he knew it was forbidden. There was a law that there was to be no magical bounds between two individuals to keep one of them alive. Unless, of course, both parts agreed on a written contract that they were performing the spell voluntarily and, even then, was hard to get the permit.

Harry hadn’t signed anything. He couldn’t have, being unconscious.

“They made an exception,” said Blaise, guessing once again what was going through his mind. “You were the savior of the world; they didn’t need your permission to save you because they assumed you wanted to be saved. They believe you want to live and I don’t doubt that either. So now you live. Be glad, you don’t have to plug me anywhere, I’m a battery that doesn’t need to be charged.”

Harry glared at the boy. His wit wasn’t funny and he could feel the bitterness on his voice.

“Can you read my mind?” asked Harry.

“No.”

He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he would believe him for the time being. He wasn’t sure of many things. He didn’t want this boy to be so near him. But he didn’t want him to leave either. He felt weird. A stranger on his own body. He raised his hand and took some of that brown reddish hair between his fingers.

Blaise looked at him oddly and retreated.

“Come here,” said Harry.

No answer.

“Come.”

Blaise moved near. He leaned forward on his chair, elbows almost on the bed. Harry touched that hair again and sighed, feeling suddenly a lot calmer. He wondered why he was so enthralled with it. Why Blaise was letting him touch him like this. Touch him almost like petting him. Almost. Not quite.

“There’s more to it, isn’t it?”

Blaise nodded but stayed silent. Harry sighed again and let go. The boy looked at him and it was painful again. So painful that Harry had to look away.

He tried to sleep but was too shocked to. And sad and furious for what had been done to him. To Blaise. And his anger rose when, pretending to be asleep, he felt Blaise’s form shaking. Little gasps at first. A sharp intake of breath. A sob.

The boy was crying.

Harry felt sick.

*

“I don’t get it!”

Harry sighed. Ron was so useless some times, especially when it came to this level of Spells. Hermione was glaring at him. It was the sixth time the redhead had said that in the last half hour and she was tired of explaining. She sighed rather annoyed and Ron looked offended.

“You don’t have to help me if you don’t want to, Hermione.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Ron. You’d never finish without my help,” she said arrogantly.

They started their usual banter and Harry stopped paying attention to them. He knew it was their way to let go of all their pent-up feelings for each other. So he wouldn’t intervene like he used to do. He went back to his own parchment but couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept drifting, as it had been doing the last couple of hours. To the boy.

The man, he reminded himself. Blaise was a man. A young adult, like he was. They were all back at Hogwarts to finish their last year. It wasn’t going to be so hard, after all. A couple of tests, less student body, more time the teachers had for each student. Harry felt a little cynic today, so he would say it was better.

But it wasn’t really. The halls were deserted, the castle looked grim. Empty. Devoid of life and joy and magic. Everyone mourning their losses, their casualties of battle. Everyone knew, at least, someone who had died on the war. Friend, family, lover. Teachers that died for the Light, some for the Dark, some because they were on the way. And Harry felt guilty.

But he wasn’t really thinking about that because his friends made his time easier. They didn’t blame him for any of the deaths. He was the only one who blamed himself. He was the only one who saw himself guilty of all the losses. That’s why it was so hard for him to be at Hogwarts. And also because seeing so few students of his age reminded him that his generation was the one that suffered the most. And most of them because they were battling for him. Or against him, but he was the reason anyway. And it made him sick.

He glanced at Blaise. He was living in Gryffindor now. After getting out of the hospital and returning to school, where everyone was back almost at the same time they did, Blaise was transferred from Slytherin to his House. Why, he could only guess. Probably because of the link. They said it was because there weren’t enough Slytherins to keep it a House. They might dissolve it, they said, but of course they didn’t. There were still Slytherins, very few though. And Blaise looked sullen every time one of them greeted him. And it pained Harry, to see him bounded to him this way.

Harry looked at him and wondered if the Slytherin would he care so much for him if it wasn’t for the spell? Probably not, he guessed. Probably not enough to have his stuff in order just because Harry liked it that way but didn't like the cleaning in itself. Probably wouldn’t help him with homework whenever Harry needed it –for the Slytherin would stop everything he was doing to help him. Probably wouldn’t even have seen that smile that would only appear when they were alone, relaxed, talking about Blaise. Always about Blaise and his life and his friends and Slytherin. Because even when they argued about Slytherin, Blaise’s face looked so proud and happy that Harry would give in and agree with him. All the time.

But now Blaise was laying there on the couch, reading a novel. He couldn’t see the title, but it must be very interesting since the boy hadn’t stop reading for several hours now. Ever since they came back from lunch. That was almost 6 hours ago. And he hadn’t stopped once. At all. Harry was getting annoyed. Blaise would always glance at him whenever they were near, giving him a small nod, a faint smile. But nothing today. Absolutely nothing. As if Harry didn’t even existed. Every once in a while he would laugh softly and raise his eyes, but never looked at Harry.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore.

“Blaise,” he called.

The boy raised his head.

“Yes?” He answered with an arched eyebrow. “What is it, Harry?” He asked when Harry wouldn’t say anything.

“How come that book is so interesting? You never read anything before.”

Ron and Hermione had stopped their quarrel and were back at their assignments. They looked at Harry and, when Ron snickered, Hermione grunted.

“It’s about people like him, Harry.”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione

Harry didn’t get it, but it was enough the glare Blaise gave the redhead and the force with which he closed the book and stuffed it on his bag to make him really curious.

“What is it about?”

“Nothing,” snapped Blaise as he stood to go.

“Tell me, Blaise.”

The boy stopped and glared. He crossed his arms across his chest and glared. Ron snickered again. Hermione furrowed his brow and poked him.

“Stop being an ass, Ron. It’s stupid.”

“What is it?” asked this time Harry, more demanding. Hermione sighed and explained.

“It’s a novel, Harry. By Alexias Commery. The journey of Ellion?”

Ah. He got it now. A novel about servants and slaves and a journey for freedom. A classic epic in magical literature. Blaise was blushing fiercely, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or anger at Ron’s comment. His lips were on a tight line and his shoulders looked tense while he glowered at Ron, this one still grinning viciously.

“See, it’s about expendables like him.”

“Ron,” he snapped at the same time Hermione hit him in the head.

“Shut up, Ron. Blaise isn’t expendable at all; he actually made a big sacrifice. And he has more brains than you, and more tact than to say something like that!” Hermione said angrily. It was to be expected considering she even stood up for the house elves.

“Now you’re defending him? He didn’t sacrifice; he did it so his Death Eater mother wouldn’t go to Azkaban!”

“Ron!”

They all went silent. Blaise paled. Hermione looked agitated and Ron realized now that he’d screwed up. He said something he wasn’t supposed to. Something Harry didn’t know and now was making him see red. Harry turned to Blaise.

“Is that true?”

Harry felt some stares from the room and looked around. There were indeed some eyes, but they turned as soon as they felt his gaze. Blaise paled some more and started for the stairs. Hermione called him, but he wouldn’t stop. Harry followed him, angry. Mad. Furious. They got into the 7th year room and Seamus got the message when Harry looked at him. He and Dean fled from the room as soon as they could.

When the door closed behind them, Harry stood on the middle, waiting for Blaise to speak up. The boy wouldn’t. He had his back turned to Harry, he was looking out the window but Harry was sure he wasn’t really looking. He was tense. Stiff. His arms cradled against his chest, one hand near his mouth. His head down.

“Blaise,” he called. “Were you coerced?”

The boy said nothing. Harry saw red again.

“Were you?!” he asked again, this time taking a step closer, raising his voice, seeing him tremble and shrink. “So you were,” he continued, “you traded yourself for your mother. You decided this prison for yourself instead of Azkaban for her. You sold yourself to them!”

“What was I supposed to do?” cried the Slytherin, turning around. “She wasn’t going to survive Azkaban! She was going to die, I didn’t mind that much!”

“You didn’t mind that much?”

Blaise looked ashamed.

“I do now,” he elaborated. “I mind now that I know how it is. I thought I’d be able to control it. That I could block your feelings and my anxiety to be near you. That I could cheat the spell. I can’t.”

Harry felt mad for some reason.

“I can feel you, Harry,” said Blaise a little weak. His voice trembled and faded. He was in pain. It was hurtful to admit this, Harry knew. He could see it on his eyes.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” asked Blaise, agitated, breathing faster and looking flustered. “Of course you don’t,” he snapped, “of course you don’t care. I don’t feel, Harry, I just don’t. Or didn’t. Don’t ask me why but it’s not something natural for me. Three months ago, if you asked me about my happiest moment, I’d have lied because I don’t have one. As I don’t have a saddest moment. I just don’t feel like that, my feelings are flat. They’re always the same. My emotions don’t vary, they’re stable, contained. Not because I want to or was trained to do so, like you must be thinking, but because they’re that way. I’m cold. I’m an emotionless person by nature.”

He stopped his ranting. Harry looked at him, eyed him carefully, looking at his trembling hands, his anxious eyes. Blaise touched his forehead and bite his lip. Fidget with his hands a little. He gave a sigh and kept talking, this time more agitated. This time, as if his mouth couldn’t catch up with his brain, with what he wanted to say.

“But now I feel,” he uttered, “I feel you. And your emotions are killing me. They're just.. so different. I’m devoid of emotions as you’re full of them and I don’t know how to handle that! You feel too much, you carry too much, most of the time for nothing… just to reassure your self-pity and self-disgust and self-anger and all the other things you feel for yourself. You are a feeler, I’m not. I never was. I don’t want to be one! But I have to be now, now that everything you feel bounces to me and makes me want to puke.”

Harry was offended.

“I’m scared.”

Harry was speechless

“I don’t want to feel them,” said Blaise in a much softer tone. Almost sad. Cute, Harry thought, surprising himself.

“I’m scared because I don’t know how to handle these emotions. I don’t know what to do with them. I can’t channel them, I can’t stop them. I can’t help you nor can I calm you when you’re too happy or too sad or too angry. I’m useless. I’m powerless. And it’s downright scary. It’s overwhelming. I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

And then Blaise sat heavily on the mattress. Harry wondered how he came here wanting to scold the boy for selling himself for his criminal mother and ended up hearing this painful confession. Probably Blaise needed to say it, needed him to help him carry this burden as he was somewhat carrying Harry’s.

“Blaise,” he said softly

No answer. So Harry sat next to him and carefully put a hand on his shoulder.

“Blaise,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

Blaise shook his head and sighed. He took a long breath and looked at him, his eyes glossy and reddish. As reddish as it was his hair.

“I shouldn’t have told you that. You’re a mess now.”

Harry realized he was indeed.

Blaise smiled a little sad smile and dropped his gaze again. Harry heard a sob. Like the one in the hospital. Blaise was crying. Again. In front of him. He didn’t know what to do, like the other time. But now he thought he was allowed to comfort. Now he had to comfort him, for he was the cause of all these emotions making a mess out of the other. So he did. He put an arm over Blaise’s shoulder and held him.

Blaise stiffened. And Harry held him. It was an awkward position but he didn’t care. His only concern now was the wreck of a boy that was in his arms. An eighteen-year old boy who didn’t know what was to feel before getting this link between them. And so, he held him. He held him as if his life depended on it. Until he’d calmed down. Until he felt Blaise giving in, holding him back, sobbing quietly on Harry’s shoulder as if his life also depended on it. And then, Harry felt it. The pain.

But it wasn’t his pain. It wasn’t his emotion. It was Blaise. Blaise’s feelings in him now. And he understood. The link wasn’t one-way. He could feel Blaise’s feelings too. He should have felt them before but he didn’t know what they were for they were too faint. Too subtle. They camouflaged behind his own feelings, his being stronger so they outshined the others. But now he felt them, for Blaise’s pain was bigger than his own anger.

He didn’t know if he should tell Blaise of this new discovery though. Didn’t want to make him fearful, anxious of him being able to feel him now and tell which his feelings were. Differentiate between them both, know what Blaise was feeling as well.

And this also meant something else. Now, Blaise could feel. He wasn’t so cold anymore. And Harry was somewhat happy for that.

Part II