Of Monsters, Of Men

Chapter 13

Internally, he grimaced. Social niceties.

During Dippet's speech about staying strong during the war, Harry struggled to keep his eyes awake. If he listened intently, he was afraid of how he would respond.

"—as Grindelwald continues his death march across Europe, we must remain united. We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided," Headmaster Dippet said quite solemnly.

Dippet doesn't know a single damn thing. He sits pretty in his throne at the High Table and sips from his golden chalice but yaps about unity and perseverance. He doesn't know shit!

Harry seethed inwardly, but Tom must have caught on. A nudge to his foot beneath the table sent awareness flooding back into him.

"Listen," Tom said, his glance at Harry a warning. Don't push it.

Fine! Narrowing his eyes, Harry straightened his posture and adopted a sincere, engaged pose.

"—On a happier note," Headmaster Dippet continued, "I am pleased to welcome a new teacher to our ranks this year. Please welcome Professor Yates, who will teach General History of Magic."

Indeed, there was a man Harry had never seen before at the staff table. The man was average in every sense of the word: he was of average height and age, his clothing was of average quality. For all intents and purposes, he seemed to be an average middle-class wizard.

A light smattering of applause burst across the Hall, but Harry kept his arms folded as the other Slytherins gave polite claps. Some gave him subtle side-eye. Harry ignored it, as he was wont to do with most things nowadays.

Tom elbowed him, and Harry glared back. Frustration, red-hot and boiling, threatened to burst from him.

Don't you get it? He wanted to scream at Tom. He was so sick of it; sick of the stupid games Slytherins played among themselves, sick of the petty drama, sick of the inane power plays. What was the point?! Like stupid naive children, they continued to plot, secure in their arrogant assumption that Grindelwald wouldn't dare touch Britain, disbelieving that war would ever touch a single hair on their heads.

But Harry knew better. War came for everyone, regardless of individual wishes, wants, and prayers.

Open warfare loomed over them, yet the purebloods were too idiotic to see what was right in front of their noses, instead choosing to squabble and argue among themselves. Those issues were trivial. Nothing mattered when he had seen the horrible, terrible face of death and come back to tell the tale.

Clambering up from beneath those flimsy tables to find the world bombed to bits around him was his rebirth. That night, Harry was reborn from the ashes, the dust, the smoke, the flames as someone, something entirely new. An entirely new entity.

He and Tom stared each other down with hidden hostility, but the only thing Harry wanted was for Tom to understand. Harry refused to be the only one. And as they held eye contact, Harry knew that Tom did understand. But Tom pleaded in his gaze, too. Falling back into those petty games and hierarchical power plays was Tom's way of dealing with everything. He lived in a perpetual state of pretending; pretending that It had never happened, that It had never affected him. That It had never affected Harry, either.

But you can't live a lie forever.

When they entered their dormitory, they unpacked their bare necessities with the dread of a long night ahead. The silence in their shared room was loud; both of them were subdued and unsure of what to say and how to say It.

Tom tried to break the silence. Clearly, he was just as unused to the ever-widening gap between them as Harry was.

"At least Yates should be better than Binns."