Harry Riddle || Harry potter

Chapter 38: Posturing Is Key

"And me?"

"I'm rather neutral when it comes to you. I can't say I like you-"

"Thanks," he muttered.

"-but I don't hate you, either. All I want is for you to take this potion with breakfast, and then this other one as soon as you-"

By the time Madam Pomfrey had finished explaining the proper application and doses of each and every vial of potion she prescribed him, it was nine o'clock in the evening and the rest of the students had retreated to their respective common rooms.

Harry hurried through the halls, his limping gate and socked feet combing to make swishy padded noises against the stone floor. It was so unlike the usual, slightly imposing click-click of his boot soles that he felt oddly out of place, and quickened his pace.

All he wanted was to get back to his dorm, choke down the potions Pomfrey had forced on him, and sleep. Yes, crawling in between the covers of his own bed (which was infinitely more comfortable than those in the hospital wing) and resting his head on his fluffy feather pillow was possibly more appealing than anything to him at the moment.

He'd never been overweight, but he'd never been one to actually exercise, and supposed he was slightly soft around the edges as a result. That was perfectly fine, usually, but facing down a villain and contracting mild frostbite had drained his energy. It may have been more emotional than physical, even, but he didn't care to wander down that train of thought.

All he wanted was to rest, and forget about Grindelwald and his ugly, deformed face.

Though, upon turning a corner and stopping only several centimeters short of Ronald Weasley, he knew that it was going to be awhile before he reached his dorm.

Forcing his mouth to contort into an arrogant, holier-than-thou smirk, he tilted his head up slightly, straightened his back, and leaned slightly into Weasley's personal space, just enough to make him uncomfortable, and effect the feeling of a noble looking down at a peasant.

Which, he supposed, given the Weasleys' unfortunate financial state, wasn't that bad of a metaphor.

"Weasley," he said, drawing out the syllables of the name as best he could. Draco was better at projecting arrogance and superior breeding through his voice, because while the Riddles had plenty of the former, they were more than lacking in the latter, as Pomfrey had so kindly pointed out. "Fancy meeting you here."

Weasley's eyes slowly took in Harry's unusually ruffled appearance, stopping to linger at his shoeless feet.

Harry pressed on. "Where's Finnigan? I thought you couldn't even breathe without him telling you to."

Ron's face reddened in anger. "Where's Malfoy and Granger?" he demanded. "I thought you were too scared to go anywhere without your brawn and your brains!"

Harry's smirk didn't falter. "Ah, you've finally learned that I am not, in fact, a lackey, but the one in command of them. It only took, what? Ten months? Bravo, Weasley. Or, may I call you 'Ronald'?"

Weasley gritted his teeth. "No, you may not, Harold!"

Harry shook his head. "No, not 'Harold'. Or 'Harrison'. Or 'Henry' or 'Harlow'. Just plain Harry, Ronald. My mother was obviously an uncreative woman."

Weasley clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. "What have you done, Riddle? What's the school been talking about? Did you kill Quirrell?"

Harry couldn't summon a condescending laugh, and settled for an inelegant snort. "Quirrell . . ." He paused and tried to arrange a suitable sentence. "Quirrell was . . . already dead."