Blaire Harrowgate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blairewhich) wrote2021-09-14 12:50 am
blairewhich) wrote2021-09-14 12:50 am
Entry tags:
- bad times with blaire harrowgate,
- blaire harrowgate,
- blaire totally cries in this one,
- could he be more dramatic,
- distant relations,
- harriett wiseacre,
- hurt/comfort fic,
- mama harriett is soff and good,
- rating: pg,
- sadge,
- soft found family feels,
- u can take the warlock out of d&d but,
- u can't take the drama queen out of him,
- vignette,
- what a downer ending man
{HP AU: ‘Tea With The Enemy, A Second Serving’}
~
HP AU: ‘Tea With The Enemy, A Second Serving’
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was never the warmest location, even at midday in the hottest summer months, nor was it the most cheerful or inviting. A fine layer of dust seemed to settle on everything the moment you turned your back, regardless of how many cleaning rampages Harriett went on or how many feather-dusters were enchanted to keep the place clean. Even the resident house-elf, a young-looking little thing named Flit, couldn’t seem to make much headway, and the result was a gloomy, muffled sort of atmosphere that was often only just short of spooky.
The rising steam from the cup of tea curled up like a hand reaching out to caress his face as Blaire stared down into the dark liquid, eyes unfocused, his attention turned inwards. It was late enough that having tea likely wasn’t the best idea if he intended to get a few more hours of sleep, but that was the trouble, really. Many nights he couldn’t seem to sleep, at least not well, his mind too full for him to relax into restfulness. It was nights like this when even his skill at Occlumency failed him, when all he could think about was every awful thing he’d said to Corrin, every horrible thing he’d sent his lackeys to do. Every time he’d looked away when Jayden or Eliza Nesmith and their disgusting little group of sycophantic hangers-on had descended on his best friend, hell-bent on making their housemate’s life one long, unbroken string of nightmarish misery after misery.
Then his mind would wander to how terrible Corrin’s condition had been after escaping from Lyra, or to the first of many nights when the younger boy had sought his company out of desperation, fear of the nightmares and an intense desire to simply not be alone driving him to find Blaire, the only person available who wouldn’t press him with questions, who understood. Even now, he remembered how conflicted he’d felt as Corrin had clung to him, crying out his misery and shame, everything they’d been through regarding Lyra enough to swing the balance of trust back in Blaire’s favour despite that hellish year at Hogwarts. Even then Blaire hadn’t been certain that he deserved that trust, regardless of how much he wanted it; but Corrin needed comfort, and that was what had been important at the time, not whether or not Blaire was really the proper person to hold him until all the shaking and tears subsided. Then again, when it came down to it, Blaire had been close to desperate himself. He had been in pain as well, and every bit as lonely as Corrin, if not more so; at least Corrin had his family, while Blaire had no one, no one who truly knew who he was or cared for him beyond his bloodline and his family’s status. It had destroyed him piece by agonizing piece to push his only friend away, to cut ties with him coldly and completely, but everything he’d done, he’d done for Corrin’s sake. Even though the younger wizard hadn’t asked for it, even though he didn’t want to be protected that way, Blaire had made that choice; and while he regretted it being necessary, and was deeply remorseful about the actions he took (or didn’t take) during that horrible year, he couldn’t fully regret anything that kept Corrin alive.
He still didn’t. He couldn’t.
And even if I did regret it...there’s nothing I can do to change it now, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily, an atypically casual action thoroughly at odds with his usual careful, poised behaviour; but tonight, he had drifted too far into despair to be either careful or poised. Nothing I can do to change any of the things I regret...even if I had what seemed like good reason to do them at the time.
Regret couldn’t change what he’d done, how he’d overstepped a boundary he never should have. How he’d ignored Corrin’s request that he not go back to see a certain memory of a certain dream. How even before that, he’d been hovering too much and straining whatever thin tendrils of reclaimed friendship had managed to reform between them when he’d been helping Corrin reorganise his mind after the wake of destruction Lyra had left in her stead. Corrin had already been uncertain about whether or not he wanted Blaire in his life--the Slytherin knew from reflexive uses of Legilimency that Corrin felt like he needed Blaire around to feel safe, and needed to know that Blaire was safe as well...but even so, Corrin wasn’t certain that he wanted to try to reclaim--repair?--their former friendship. He wasn’t certain that he wanted Blaire that close to him again. Not after everything he’d done, regardless of the reasons.
That was an outcome to his initial decision that Blaire had foreseen--the complete, total, permanent loss of that friendship, the one bright point of light in his dark and dreary world--as well as one that he’d accepted, though not without sorrow. The problem was...the problem was, Corrin had let him in close again, had let Blaire start to hope for something that he hadn’t dared to even dream of before he’d helped rescue Corrin from Lyra’s clutches and been there for him during those awful nights afterwards. He shouldn’t, he’d known that then and he knew it now, he shouldn’t hope for any sort of renewal of the former companionship they’d shared...and yet, the warmth of the younger wizard drew Blaire in yet again, just like it had before, and the goodness in him kept him there.
But it had been need and desperation, not friendship, that had caused Corrin to come to Blaire that night, and all the nights afterwards. The same was true of the Occlumency lessons: Corrin had agreed to them because he knew he needed them, as little as he wanted them. He did trust Blaire to an extent--he had to, or he wouldn’t have let the older wizard into his head, no matter how dire the situation or how high the stakes--but trust and friendship were not at all the same thing, though one was necessary for the other to exist. And if Corrin still couldn’t even fully forgive him for everything that had happened--another thing that Blaire didn’t expect, had never expected--then there was precisely zero chance of Corrin being willing, much less able, to attempt something as heavy and difficult and rebuilding their friendship.
At least he fully understands now...and at least he accepts my apologies, Blaire thought, still making no move to actually drink from the cup cradled between his hands. But despite that understanding, despite the acceptance, there was still so much anger there, so much hurt and frustration and fear permeating Corrin’s thoughts regarding the older boy. All fully justified, and all things that Blaire had no idea how to ease or alleviate, if there even was anything that he could do.
It was still hard not to blame himself for so many things. Some things, like the Occlumency incident, were entirely his fault; but while he knew that his guilt over Lyra, over her being able to do everything she did to Corrin, over bringing that damned hidden portkey into Scarlett HQ and placing it within his curious and clever best friend’s reach, wasn’t truly something he should have to bear...he couldn’t help but feel responsible for it all, at least partially.
That promised trip to Spain and Italy seemed less and less likely to ever happen with every passing day, the Slytherin spy ruminated, a faint downwards pull to the corners of his mouth leaving his expression not quite as carefully blank and bland as usual. Closing his eyes, he gave into his weariness, his heartsick sorrow at everything he’d done, everything he’d had to do, and simply let himself sag in place, shoulders slumped as he rested his arms on the table, hands still curled around the cooling teacup.
Despite the jarring, too-loud ticking of the clock in the parlour next door, time melted into an indistinct blur for a while as worry and weariness caught up with the Slytherin spy. He was almost drowsing there over his cup of largely untouched and long-cold tea when there was a quiet step on the staircase. Normally Blaire would have jolted up, jerking awake to turn a wide-eyed and wary look at whomever was there; but here in the relative safety of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, he had let his guard down, and was so lost in his exhaustion and misery that he scarcely registered the sound of approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until Harriett Wiseacre had come to a stop beside the table that he even realised that she was there.
Harriett hadn’t expected to find anyone downstairs either, but she had taken one look at those hunched shoulders and Blaire’s atypically slumped posture and her motherly instincts had risen within her, overriding any scoldings about staying up too late, not getting enough rest, not taking care of himself properly. She paused for a moment at the end of the table, her expression one of compassion as she studied him, because much as part of her wanted to be angry at this boy for causing her youngest child pain...she understood why he’d done it. She had done something much the same, after all, keeping secrets from Corrin in order to protect him...but they had both overstepped. They had both overstepped badly. It had taken her a long time to admit that to herself, but after having Corrin go missing for over a month and all the soul-searching she’d done during that agonising, anxiety-ridden time, even someone as stubborn as Harriett Wiseacre had been forced to realise that she regretted how she’d handled it. She would’ve done it differently if she could do it over, and once her son, her precious baby boy, had come back to them (thanks to Blaire, she knew that it wouldn’t have happened if not for Blaire Harrowgate, that once again her son likely would have died if not for the older boy’s intervention), she had done her best to make it up to Corrin, even going so far as to sit him down over tea and biscuits and honestly, openly apologise--something that, proud and strong-willed and Gryffindor as she was, was a rare thing.
She had overheard Blaire apologising to Corrin on more than one occasion, quiet and broken and desolate, and it had always caused her to shake her head and retreat for the time being, not wanting to listen in on their conversation, not wanting to hear how angry her son was at his (former?) friend. How angry he likely was at all of them still, but Blaire bore the brunt of it. She couldn’t blame Corrin for that either, not really--her Gryffindor’s sense of justice told her that it was only fair, that regardless of the reasons for it, Blaire’s behaviour was more than deserving of her son’s outrage and whatever sort of punishment Corrin settled on.
That had been before Corrin’s kidnapping. After that, after Blaire had brought him back to them, all the anger had seemed to have drained out of Corrin, leaving a desperate sort of gratitude in its place. He had forgiven them, his whole family and all their friends, for keeping the truth about that prophecy from him, for not telling him why von Cromwell was so interested in him, why Death Eaters had tried to kidnap him at school, why he had to be shut up in Number 12 Grimmauld Place for months and months.
In direct contrast, Harriett wasn’t at all certain that he’d forgiven Blaire. It made sense--Blaire’s offenses, even what little she knew of them, were more numerous, and worse than simply withholding information. And yet...seeing the shape that Blaire was in after Corrin’s rescue had shifted Harriett’s opinion of the Slytherin spy even more in his favour. She had accepted him as a member of the Order after that talk they’d had over tea one afternoon; she had even taken a liking to him for his obvious soft spot for Corrin, and even more for the bravery he showed in what lengths he’d go to in order to protect her youngest child. But even so...she hadn’t been certain that a renewal of their friendship would be good for Corrin, or for Blaire either, not after all that they’d clearly been through.
Seeing the way they had interacted after Corrin’s rescue had changed that. Though things were still somewhat strained, Harriett could see a shadow of what their former friendship must have been like, and it simultaneously warmed her heart and made her chest tighten in grief over the loss of something so innocent, so pure and precious. Corrin had struggled to make friends at school, he hadn’t ever really admitted as much, but she’d still known it in that intuitive way good mothers instinctively used to pick up on otherwise unknowable details; and having been a part of a pureblood family herself, having seen the darker side of the wizarding world’s high society, Harriett knew that the same could easily be said for someone in Blaire’s position. The fact that they’d managed to build a solid friendship despite their age difference and House division...that meant something, and the obvious pain the loss of it caused both boys was heartbreaking.
Even more heartbreaking was the way they’d been the past few days. Something must have happened between them, something serious, because while they had been awkward around each other at times, there had been a touch of hopefulness there as well, warmth and a hint of openness, however tentative and uncertain. But now...now Corrin wouldn’t even look at Blaire. Wouldn’t sit beside him at meals, wouldn’t stay in the same room as him any longer than necessary, and certainly wouldn’t speak to him. And Blaire had simply withdrawn into himself, seeming to wither away in the face of Corrin’s renewed anger, making no attempt, however slight, to regain whatever had remained of their friendship.
Much as Harriett wanted to get involved, wanted to know what had happened, wanted to help them fix it, if that was even possible...she knew that she couldn’t. She’d very nearly spoken up about it over dinner one night, but Ozzy had laid a hand on her arm and given her a meaningful look in his mild, softhearted way, and she had been forced to admit that her husband was right. It wasn’t her business, much as she wanted for it to be. It was something that her son and his friend had to settle themselves, and meddling in it would likely only make things worse.
Still, it hadn’t been easy for someone as outspoken (and as much of a well-intentioned busybody) as Harriett Wiseacre to sit silently by and watch both of them continue to hurt.
Which was a large part of why, as she continued to stand beside the table until Blaire blinked and turned a bleary, questioning gaze up at her, she just smiled down at him wider, softer, before stepping forward. Wordlessly she came alongside him and gently pulled him in, resting the side of his head against her middle, a motherly embrace she’d given to all of her children at some point, even the more standoffish ones.
Blaire’s instinctual reaction was to stiffen. Being touched in this way by anyone was unfamiliar, unexpected. His own mother had never been particularly demonstrative--no one in his family had been, save Lyra, and her attentions had always been far from comforting, or comfortable--and while he’d seen Harriett’s displays of maternal affection for her children many times, being on the receiving end of such a thing himself was an unforeseen event. He wasn’t her child, and she wasn’t his mother, never mind that he’d felt more familial warmth from her over the past few months than the full sum of what he’d received from both of his birth-parents over his whole lifetime combined. Blaire and Harriett were distant cousins--her grandmother had been a Harrowgate--but their families had never been close, and a blood-tie that tenuous certainly shouldn’t mean that she felt that she owed him anything.
Particularly after all the terrible things that had occurred between himself and one of her actual children.
And so as her hand rubbed a soothing arc across his upper back, Blaire almost pulled away. After everything he’d done (everything he’d done to Corrin), he didn’t deserve this sort of comfort, and he didn’t know how to handle it, how to process this sort of gratuitous kindness. The only person who had ever offered him any sort of familial-feeling consolation (aside from Harriett after their first real talk over tea) was Corrin himself. Corrin, who had put an arm around Blaire’s shoulders even though he was still angry at him, even though he’d just exhausted himself by manipulating the Weave to save Blaire’s life. Corrin, who hadn’t cared that the older boy was getting blood and tears on his sweater.
...Corrin, who was now justifiably angry with him once again, this time over something that he might not ever be able to understand, much less forgive.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Corrin Wiseacre. Not now, and not ever again.”
“Okay. I...I trust you, Blaire.”
The memory of those words, of that delicate, invaluable exchange he’d shared with his best friend on their initial discussion of the (unfortunately) necessary resumption of Occlumency lessons suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. Corrin had met his eyes straight-on for what felt like the first time in ages and carefully studied his face, taking in the small, warm smile that Blaire hadn’t been able to keep from surfacing again, then he’d swallowed thickly and nodded his agreement. He’d been terrified enough to collapse, had descended into a panic when Blaire had so much as mentioned Occlumency, and yet...and yet, despite the way his too-thin body had quivered with anxiety, despite his obvious distress...he’d still chosen to trust the older wizard.
A decision that Blaire had caused him to regret bitterly in the end. So much so that they hadn’t exchanged so much as two words since that day.
I didn’t deserve that trust. I never did. I still don’t. Even though...even though I wish...I wish that...
A strangled sob was building inside of him, and despite how emotionally drained he was, he almost despaired of being able to swallow it down this time--when Harriett spoke, her voice quiet and gentle, and so understanding that it made his eyes burn and blur with tears.
“Go on, dear. This is more than worth having a good cry over, I’d say...and there’s no shame in it.”
Just as she had before, when he’d had a similar almost-breakdown during their first real conversation, she rubbed and patted his back consolingly, and once again it pushed him dangerously close to the edge of doing just that. The temptation was there to fully break, to sob like he’d done in the Room of Requirement after Corrin had confronted him in the dungeons the first night of the last year they’d both been at Hogwarts. But although the sorrow was there, an unfathomably deep sea of it...the energy wasn’t. After all he’d been through over the last two years, after all he’d done, after rescuing Corrin and working to help him put his mind back together, all the while halfway hoping that their friendship might still have the slimmest margin of a chance, only to lose that tiny glimmer of hope due to a stupid, impulsive miscalculation...Blaire was tired. He simply didn’t have it in him to howl and wail and gush out tears with the abandon of a child.
After living as a Death Eater for the past year, after all of the pain and violence he’d been party to, after all the torture and death he’d seen, Blaire Harrowgate was even less of a child than he’d ever been, not that that was saying much.
But even so, the comforting weight of Harriett’s hand on his back, the way her other hand rested atop his head protectively, the warmth of her soft, motherly midriff pressed against the side of his face, the maternal kindness she practically radiated...all of it was just a little too much--or perhaps instead, it was just enough.
The tension seemed to drain out of him all at once, and Blaire sagged against her, letting his eyes fall closed as he leaned into her hands, soaking up the concern and affection like a long-dry desert drinking in the rain, every tiny droplet precious and important. He didn’t embrace her in return, didn’t loop his arms around her waist and pull her closer like Corrin and his brothers did--that still felt like too much, too soon. This, just as they were already, was more than enough, more than he’d expected, and certainly more than he felt he deserved.
Harriett simply continued to pat his head and rub his shoulders and upper back, murmuring soft, soothing little nothings every so often, behaving just as she would have if it had been Corrin, Garrett, or one of the twins here instead. And Blaire was more than content to simply sit there and accept that motherly affection, the only real comfort that anyone had gladly, unquestioningly given him in years. He had long since given up on trying not to cry, resigned to letting a slow but steady trickle of quiet, exhausted tears leak from beneath his closed eyelids and draw their damp trails down his cheeks. It was consolation of a sort he’d never even hoped to find, a familial warmth that was nonetheless still somewhat painful. This couldn’t last, couldn’t be a regular sort of thing, wasn’t a relationship that had any chance of becoming anything even semi-permanent. Harriett had children of her own to look after (or deal with, in the twins’ case), and plenty of them; besides, he had a family already, and even if he didn’t, he was too old to be adopted in any way, even in spirit.
In any case, the whole family certainly wouldn’t welcome him, at least not any more, and Blaire didn’t want to do anything to cause any sort of strife between the members of the Wiseacre family.
It was somehow even worse that the way that Harriett rubbed his shoulder every so often was strikingly familiar, precisely the way that Corrin had done it not long ago. Blaire knew that it was yet another thing that Corrin had inherited from his mother, and being reminded of that exchange, of the way Corrin had risked so much to save him, sent even more cracks through the half-shattered remains of his already painfully-fractured heart. The urge to release that horrible sob from before rose once again, but when he finally let it out, it left him as little more than a weak sigh, and he wondered idly if all the Occlumency practise he’d gotten lately, plus all the years of repressing and ignoring and doing his damnedest to eliminate his emotions, was more of a blessing or a curse.
It worked for Astor. Perhaps it can work for me also. Perhaps...it’s meant to be this way. I’m meant to be this way: alone. It’s how I was before, and I can be that way again. It’s not so bad, really. Better than...than how things are now, in any case.
Those thoughts felt heavy and hollow, but not untrue. It was a dark path that offered little in the way of light, but he was used to the darkness by now. Perhaps it was time that he simply accepted it, and stopped letting himself hope for anything more, anything better or brighter.
You’re a spy, after all. Regardless of which side wins in the end, they won’t really trust you, and the thanks you get for all the risks you took might very well be your own personal cell in Azkaban.
Even so. Even so, he didn’t regret most of what he’d done, and wouldn’t do anything differently...save one thing. That most recent mistake, the straw that broke the camel’s back. But there was no way to take it back now, or change it, so he simply had to live with it, just like everything else. And really...perhaps it was better this way. For both of them, and Corrin in particular...which was what Blaire was most concerned about, then, now, and always.
...Yes...it’s better this way. It’s time to let this go. It’s time to stop trying to fix something that can’t--shouldn’t--be repaired. Time to stop hurting him simply by being too close. Time to stop making things worse.
But regardless of that grim decision, of his resolve to accept a present and future of solitude...Blaire didn’t quite have it in him to pull away from Harriett’s warm, comforting presence. No matter how much he wished it could be otherwise, he was going to be alone from now on, with no expectations of anything different; but that didn’t stop him from enjoying this moment as best he could, for as long as he could, or from feeling profoundly grateful for the warm, nurturing presence of Harriett Wiseacre.
HP AU: ‘Tea With The Enemy, A Second Serving’
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was never the warmest location, even at midday in the hottest summer months, nor was it the most cheerful or inviting. A fine layer of dust seemed to settle on everything the moment you turned your back, regardless of how many cleaning rampages Harriett went on or how many feather-dusters were enchanted to keep the place clean. Even the resident house-elf, a young-looking little thing named Flit, couldn’t seem to make much headway, and the result was a gloomy, muffled sort of atmosphere that was often only just short of spooky.
The rising steam from the cup of tea curled up like a hand reaching out to caress his face as Blaire stared down into the dark liquid, eyes unfocused, his attention turned inwards. It was late enough that having tea likely wasn’t the best idea if he intended to get a few more hours of sleep, but that was the trouble, really. Many nights he couldn’t seem to sleep, at least not well, his mind too full for him to relax into restfulness. It was nights like this when even his skill at Occlumency failed him, when all he could think about was every awful thing he’d said to Corrin, every horrible thing he’d sent his lackeys to do. Every time he’d looked away when Jayden or Eliza Nesmith and their disgusting little group of sycophantic hangers-on had descended on his best friend, hell-bent on making their housemate’s life one long, unbroken string of nightmarish misery after misery.
Then his mind would wander to how terrible Corrin’s condition had been after escaping from Lyra, or to the first of many nights when the younger boy had sought his company out of desperation, fear of the nightmares and an intense desire to simply not be alone driving him to find Blaire, the only person available who wouldn’t press him with questions, who understood. Even now, he remembered how conflicted he’d felt as Corrin had clung to him, crying out his misery and shame, everything they’d been through regarding Lyra enough to swing the balance of trust back in Blaire’s favour despite that hellish year at Hogwarts. Even then Blaire hadn’t been certain that he deserved that trust, regardless of how much he wanted it; but Corrin needed comfort, and that was what had been important at the time, not whether or not Blaire was really the proper person to hold him until all the shaking and tears subsided. Then again, when it came down to it, Blaire had been close to desperate himself. He had been in pain as well, and every bit as lonely as Corrin, if not more so; at least Corrin had his family, while Blaire had no one, no one who truly knew who he was or cared for him beyond his bloodline and his family’s status. It had destroyed him piece by agonizing piece to push his only friend away, to cut ties with him coldly and completely, but everything he’d done, he’d done for Corrin’s sake. Even though the younger wizard hadn’t asked for it, even though he didn’t want to be protected that way, Blaire had made that choice; and while he regretted it being necessary, and was deeply remorseful about the actions he took (or didn’t take) during that horrible year, he couldn’t fully regret anything that kept Corrin alive.
He still didn’t. He couldn’t.
And even if I did regret it...there’s nothing I can do to change it now, he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily, an atypically casual action thoroughly at odds with his usual careful, poised behaviour; but tonight, he had drifted too far into despair to be either careful or poised. Nothing I can do to change any of the things I regret...even if I had what seemed like good reason to do them at the time.
Regret couldn’t change what he’d done, how he’d overstepped a boundary he never should have. How he’d ignored Corrin’s request that he not go back to see a certain memory of a certain dream. How even before that, he’d been hovering too much and straining whatever thin tendrils of reclaimed friendship had managed to reform between them when he’d been helping Corrin reorganise his mind after the wake of destruction Lyra had left in her stead. Corrin had already been uncertain about whether or not he wanted Blaire in his life--the Slytherin knew from reflexive uses of Legilimency that Corrin felt like he needed Blaire around to feel safe, and needed to know that Blaire was safe as well...but even so, Corrin wasn’t certain that he wanted to try to reclaim--repair?--their former friendship. He wasn’t certain that he wanted Blaire that close to him again. Not after everything he’d done, regardless of the reasons.
That was an outcome to his initial decision that Blaire had foreseen--the complete, total, permanent loss of that friendship, the one bright point of light in his dark and dreary world--as well as one that he’d accepted, though not without sorrow. The problem was...the problem was, Corrin had let him in close again, had let Blaire start to hope for something that he hadn’t dared to even dream of before he’d helped rescue Corrin from Lyra’s clutches and been there for him during those awful nights afterwards. He shouldn’t, he’d known that then and he knew it now, he shouldn’t hope for any sort of renewal of the former companionship they’d shared...and yet, the warmth of the younger wizard drew Blaire in yet again, just like it had before, and the goodness in him kept him there.
But it had been need and desperation, not friendship, that had caused Corrin to come to Blaire that night, and all the nights afterwards. The same was true of the Occlumency lessons: Corrin had agreed to them because he knew he needed them, as little as he wanted them. He did trust Blaire to an extent--he had to, or he wouldn’t have let the older wizard into his head, no matter how dire the situation or how high the stakes--but trust and friendship were not at all the same thing, though one was necessary for the other to exist. And if Corrin still couldn’t even fully forgive him for everything that had happened--another thing that Blaire didn’t expect, had never expected--then there was precisely zero chance of Corrin being willing, much less able, to attempt something as heavy and difficult and rebuilding their friendship.
At least he fully understands now...and at least he accepts my apologies, Blaire thought, still making no move to actually drink from the cup cradled between his hands. But despite that understanding, despite the acceptance, there was still so much anger there, so much hurt and frustration and fear permeating Corrin’s thoughts regarding the older boy. All fully justified, and all things that Blaire had no idea how to ease or alleviate, if there even was anything that he could do.
It was still hard not to blame himself for so many things. Some things, like the Occlumency incident, were entirely his fault; but while he knew that his guilt over Lyra, over her being able to do everything she did to Corrin, over bringing that damned hidden portkey into Scarlett HQ and placing it within his curious and clever best friend’s reach, wasn’t truly something he should have to bear...he couldn’t help but feel responsible for it all, at least partially.
That promised trip to Spain and Italy seemed less and less likely to ever happen with every passing day, the Slytherin spy ruminated, a faint downwards pull to the corners of his mouth leaving his expression not quite as carefully blank and bland as usual. Closing his eyes, he gave into his weariness, his heartsick sorrow at everything he’d done, everything he’d had to do, and simply let himself sag in place, shoulders slumped as he rested his arms on the table, hands still curled around the cooling teacup.
Despite the jarring, too-loud ticking of the clock in the parlour next door, time melted into an indistinct blur for a while as worry and weariness caught up with the Slytherin spy. He was almost drowsing there over his cup of largely untouched and long-cold tea when there was a quiet step on the staircase. Normally Blaire would have jolted up, jerking awake to turn a wide-eyed and wary look at whomever was there; but here in the relative safety of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, he had let his guard down, and was so lost in his exhaustion and misery that he scarcely registered the sound of approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until Harriett Wiseacre had come to a stop beside the table that he even realised that she was there.
Harriett hadn’t expected to find anyone downstairs either, but she had taken one look at those hunched shoulders and Blaire’s atypically slumped posture and her motherly instincts had risen within her, overriding any scoldings about staying up too late, not getting enough rest, not taking care of himself properly. She paused for a moment at the end of the table, her expression one of compassion as she studied him, because much as part of her wanted to be angry at this boy for causing her youngest child pain...she understood why he’d done it. She had done something much the same, after all, keeping secrets from Corrin in order to protect him...but they had both overstepped. They had both overstepped badly. It had taken her a long time to admit that to herself, but after having Corrin go missing for over a month and all the soul-searching she’d done during that agonising, anxiety-ridden time, even someone as stubborn as Harriett Wiseacre had been forced to realise that she regretted how she’d handled it. She would’ve done it differently if she could do it over, and once her son, her precious baby boy, had come back to them (thanks to Blaire, she knew that it wouldn’t have happened if not for Blaire Harrowgate, that once again her son likely would have died if not for the older boy’s intervention), she had done her best to make it up to Corrin, even going so far as to sit him down over tea and biscuits and honestly, openly apologise--something that, proud and strong-willed and Gryffindor as she was, was a rare thing.
She had overheard Blaire apologising to Corrin on more than one occasion, quiet and broken and desolate, and it had always caused her to shake her head and retreat for the time being, not wanting to listen in on their conversation, not wanting to hear how angry her son was at his (former?) friend. How angry he likely was at all of them still, but Blaire bore the brunt of it. She couldn’t blame Corrin for that either, not really--her Gryffindor’s sense of justice told her that it was only fair, that regardless of the reasons for it, Blaire’s behaviour was more than deserving of her son’s outrage and whatever sort of punishment Corrin settled on.
That had been before Corrin’s kidnapping. After that, after Blaire had brought him back to them, all the anger had seemed to have drained out of Corrin, leaving a desperate sort of gratitude in its place. He had forgiven them, his whole family and all their friends, for keeping the truth about that prophecy from him, for not telling him why von Cromwell was so interested in him, why Death Eaters had tried to kidnap him at school, why he had to be shut up in Number 12 Grimmauld Place for months and months.
In direct contrast, Harriett wasn’t at all certain that he’d forgiven Blaire. It made sense--Blaire’s offenses, even what little she knew of them, were more numerous, and worse than simply withholding information. And yet...seeing the shape that Blaire was in after Corrin’s rescue had shifted Harriett’s opinion of the Slytherin spy even more in his favour. She had accepted him as a member of the Order after that talk they’d had over tea one afternoon; she had even taken a liking to him for his obvious soft spot for Corrin, and even more for the bravery he showed in what lengths he’d go to in order to protect her youngest child. But even so...she hadn’t been certain that a renewal of their friendship would be good for Corrin, or for Blaire either, not after all that they’d clearly been through.
Seeing the way they had interacted after Corrin’s rescue had changed that. Though things were still somewhat strained, Harriett could see a shadow of what their former friendship must have been like, and it simultaneously warmed her heart and made her chest tighten in grief over the loss of something so innocent, so pure and precious. Corrin had struggled to make friends at school, he hadn’t ever really admitted as much, but she’d still known it in that intuitive way good mothers instinctively used to pick up on otherwise unknowable details; and having been a part of a pureblood family herself, having seen the darker side of the wizarding world’s high society, Harriett knew that the same could easily be said for someone in Blaire’s position. The fact that they’d managed to build a solid friendship despite their age difference and House division...that meant something, and the obvious pain the loss of it caused both boys was heartbreaking.
Even more heartbreaking was the way they’d been the past few days. Something must have happened between them, something serious, because while they had been awkward around each other at times, there had been a touch of hopefulness there as well, warmth and a hint of openness, however tentative and uncertain. But now...now Corrin wouldn’t even look at Blaire. Wouldn’t sit beside him at meals, wouldn’t stay in the same room as him any longer than necessary, and certainly wouldn’t speak to him. And Blaire had simply withdrawn into himself, seeming to wither away in the face of Corrin’s renewed anger, making no attempt, however slight, to regain whatever had remained of their friendship.
Much as Harriett wanted to get involved, wanted to know what had happened, wanted to help them fix it, if that was even possible...she knew that she couldn’t. She’d very nearly spoken up about it over dinner one night, but Ozzy had laid a hand on her arm and given her a meaningful look in his mild, softhearted way, and she had been forced to admit that her husband was right. It wasn’t her business, much as she wanted for it to be. It was something that her son and his friend had to settle themselves, and meddling in it would likely only make things worse.
Still, it hadn’t been easy for someone as outspoken (and as much of a well-intentioned busybody) as Harriett Wiseacre to sit silently by and watch both of them continue to hurt.
Which was a large part of why, as she continued to stand beside the table until Blaire blinked and turned a bleary, questioning gaze up at her, she just smiled down at him wider, softer, before stepping forward. Wordlessly she came alongside him and gently pulled him in, resting the side of his head against her middle, a motherly embrace she’d given to all of her children at some point, even the more standoffish ones.
Blaire’s instinctual reaction was to stiffen. Being touched in this way by anyone was unfamiliar, unexpected. His own mother had never been particularly demonstrative--no one in his family had been, save Lyra, and her attentions had always been far from comforting, or comfortable--and while he’d seen Harriett’s displays of maternal affection for her children many times, being on the receiving end of such a thing himself was an unforeseen event. He wasn’t her child, and she wasn’t his mother, never mind that he’d felt more familial warmth from her over the past few months than the full sum of what he’d received from both of his birth-parents over his whole lifetime combined. Blaire and Harriett were distant cousins--her grandmother had been a Harrowgate--but their families had never been close, and a blood-tie that tenuous certainly shouldn’t mean that she felt that she owed him anything.
Particularly after all the terrible things that had occurred between himself and one of her actual children.
And so as her hand rubbed a soothing arc across his upper back, Blaire almost pulled away. After everything he’d done (everything he’d done to Corrin), he didn’t deserve this sort of comfort, and he didn’t know how to handle it, how to process this sort of gratuitous kindness. The only person who had ever offered him any sort of familial-feeling consolation (aside from Harriett after their first real talk over tea) was Corrin himself. Corrin, who had put an arm around Blaire’s shoulders even though he was still angry at him, even though he’d just exhausted himself by manipulating the Weave to save Blaire’s life. Corrin, who hadn’t cared that the older boy was getting blood and tears on his sweater.
...Corrin, who was now justifiably angry with him once again, this time over something that he might not ever be able to understand, much less forgive.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Corrin Wiseacre. Not now, and not ever again.”
“Okay. I...I trust you, Blaire.”
The memory of those words, of that delicate, invaluable exchange he’d shared with his best friend on their initial discussion of the (unfortunately) necessary resumption of Occlumency lessons suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. Corrin had met his eyes straight-on for what felt like the first time in ages and carefully studied his face, taking in the small, warm smile that Blaire hadn’t been able to keep from surfacing again, then he’d swallowed thickly and nodded his agreement. He’d been terrified enough to collapse, had descended into a panic when Blaire had so much as mentioned Occlumency, and yet...and yet, despite the way his too-thin body had quivered with anxiety, despite his obvious distress...he’d still chosen to trust the older wizard.
A decision that Blaire had caused him to regret bitterly in the end. So much so that they hadn’t exchanged so much as two words since that day.
I didn’t deserve that trust. I never did. I still don’t. Even though...even though I wish...I wish that...
A strangled sob was building inside of him, and despite how emotionally drained he was, he almost despaired of being able to swallow it down this time--when Harriett spoke, her voice quiet and gentle, and so understanding that it made his eyes burn and blur with tears.
“Go on, dear. This is more than worth having a good cry over, I’d say...and there’s no shame in it.”
Just as she had before, when he’d had a similar almost-breakdown during their first real conversation, she rubbed and patted his back consolingly, and once again it pushed him dangerously close to the edge of doing just that. The temptation was there to fully break, to sob like he’d done in the Room of Requirement after Corrin had confronted him in the dungeons the first night of the last year they’d both been at Hogwarts. But although the sorrow was there, an unfathomably deep sea of it...the energy wasn’t. After all he’d been through over the last two years, after all he’d done, after rescuing Corrin and working to help him put his mind back together, all the while halfway hoping that their friendship might still have the slimmest margin of a chance, only to lose that tiny glimmer of hope due to a stupid, impulsive miscalculation...Blaire was tired. He simply didn’t have it in him to howl and wail and gush out tears with the abandon of a child.
After living as a Death Eater for the past year, after all of the pain and violence he’d been party to, after all the torture and death he’d seen, Blaire Harrowgate was even less of a child than he’d ever been, not that that was saying much.
But even so, the comforting weight of Harriett’s hand on his back, the way her other hand rested atop his head protectively, the warmth of her soft, motherly midriff pressed against the side of his face, the maternal kindness she practically radiated...all of it was just a little too much--or perhaps instead, it was just enough.
The tension seemed to drain out of him all at once, and Blaire sagged against her, letting his eyes fall closed as he leaned into her hands, soaking up the concern and affection like a long-dry desert drinking in the rain, every tiny droplet precious and important. He didn’t embrace her in return, didn’t loop his arms around her waist and pull her closer like Corrin and his brothers did--that still felt like too much, too soon. This, just as they were already, was more than enough, more than he’d expected, and certainly more than he felt he deserved.
Harriett simply continued to pat his head and rub his shoulders and upper back, murmuring soft, soothing little nothings every so often, behaving just as she would have if it had been Corrin, Garrett, or one of the twins here instead. And Blaire was more than content to simply sit there and accept that motherly affection, the only real comfort that anyone had gladly, unquestioningly given him in years. He had long since given up on trying not to cry, resigned to letting a slow but steady trickle of quiet, exhausted tears leak from beneath his closed eyelids and draw their damp trails down his cheeks. It was consolation of a sort he’d never even hoped to find, a familial warmth that was nonetheless still somewhat painful. This couldn’t last, couldn’t be a regular sort of thing, wasn’t a relationship that had any chance of becoming anything even semi-permanent. Harriett had children of her own to look after (or deal with, in the twins’ case), and plenty of them; besides, he had a family already, and even if he didn’t, he was too old to be adopted in any way, even in spirit.
In any case, the whole family certainly wouldn’t welcome him, at least not any more, and Blaire didn’t want to do anything to cause any sort of strife between the members of the Wiseacre family.
It was somehow even worse that the way that Harriett rubbed his shoulder every so often was strikingly familiar, precisely the way that Corrin had done it not long ago. Blaire knew that it was yet another thing that Corrin had inherited from his mother, and being reminded of that exchange, of the way Corrin had risked so much to save him, sent even more cracks through the half-shattered remains of his already painfully-fractured heart. The urge to release that horrible sob from before rose once again, but when he finally let it out, it left him as little more than a weak sigh, and he wondered idly if all the Occlumency practise he’d gotten lately, plus all the years of repressing and ignoring and doing his damnedest to eliminate his emotions, was more of a blessing or a curse.
It worked for Astor. Perhaps it can work for me also. Perhaps...it’s meant to be this way. I’m meant to be this way: alone. It’s how I was before, and I can be that way again. It’s not so bad, really. Better than...than how things are now, in any case.
Those thoughts felt heavy and hollow, but not untrue. It was a dark path that offered little in the way of light, but he was used to the darkness by now. Perhaps it was time that he simply accepted it, and stopped letting himself hope for anything more, anything better or brighter.
You’re a spy, after all. Regardless of which side wins in the end, they won’t really trust you, and the thanks you get for all the risks you took might very well be your own personal cell in Azkaban.
Even so. Even so, he didn’t regret most of what he’d done, and wouldn’t do anything differently...save one thing. That most recent mistake, the straw that broke the camel’s back. But there was no way to take it back now, or change it, so he simply had to live with it, just like everything else. And really...perhaps it was better this way. For both of them, and Corrin in particular...which was what Blaire was most concerned about, then, now, and always.
...Yes...it’s better this way. It’s time to let this go. It’s time to stop trying to fix something that can’t--shouldn’t--be repaired. Time to stop hurting him simply by being too close. Time to stop making things worse.
But regardless of that grim decision, of his resolve to accept a present and future of solitude...Blaire didn’t quite have it in him to pull away from Harriett’s warm, comforting presence. No matter how much he wished it could be otherwise, he was going to be alone from now on, with no expectations of anything different; but that didn’t stop him from enjoying this moment as best he could, for as long as he could, or from feeling profoundly grateful for the warm, nurturing presence of Harriett Wiseacre.