Chapter Text
It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.
The words engraved into the shiny gold placate under the painting lazily reflected the dim light of the candles from the Great Hall. The man forever eternalized within the heavy oak frame seemed to be asleep, his crescent-shaped glasses low on the crooked nose.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had been a great wizard. Since he had been murdered in the Second Wizarding War twenty years prior though, his painting had spent most days watching the students of Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry swarming around the castles thick stone walls, occasionally providing aid and confusing pieces of wisdom to those who did or didn't ask.
The hunched figure watching the old wizard sighed inaudibly. It was risky. He hadn’t anticipated the old man actually being in his painting that late. He had a choice to make. Trying and getting caught would mean missing the one chance a week he had, but he also wasn't going to give up and let it slip away that easily. Bracing his hold on the cold stone walls he stepped out of the corner he he had spent the last thirty minutes crouching in and almost tripped over his own feet when they gave out. The stone wall unfortunately didn’t absorb the smacking sound his hands made when they hit the wall in a desperate attempt to regain balance.
‘Mister Kogane, it is way past curfew if I'm not mistaken?’
He sighed again, this time very audibly. Curse his stupid knees and their need for blood flow.
‘I know, Sir.’ He replied, faced away from the wizard eyeing him from his position three meters above on the wall. He didn’t want to get caught rolling his eyes over his own stupidity.
‘Although contemplating over the possible success of this evening's undertaking in a cold corner sounds like a lovely way to spend the evening, may I direct you towards the Gryffindor tower?’
He could feel the icy-blue eyes in the back of his head, and wasn't surprised to see the old man smirk faintly with amusement when he slowly turned on the spot.
‘Sir...’ He didn't move. His jaw was clenched tightly while he tried to look for the right words to get him out of this situation. He couldn't miss this evening. It was all that had been keeping him going this week, and he needed at least a tiny supply of adrenaline to get through the weekend. Albus Dumbledore watched him curiously. It always felt like the old wizard could predict whatever shenanigans Keith had planned.
Hogwarts was said to be a second home for the students who went there from their eleventh summer onwards, but for Keith it had never been that. Partly that might have been because he hadn't felt that sense of security anywhere since he had lost his father. The main reason though was the hostility most people faced him with.
Despite the war having ended twenty years before, the occasional mudblood still followed him between classes. The occasional schoolbook being pushed from his desk in passing. The occasional black eye he tried to cover with cheap concealer in the morning. Those, to be completely fair, might be somewhat caused by his tendency not to mince his words when provoked. Be it puberty, the unprocessed trauma of losing his whole family or his general lack of concern for other people's opinions, he found himself more often than not in situations that made his whole living conditions within this ancient heap of sandstone and marble semi-ideal.
It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.
The flickering reflections on the plate seemed to mock his suffering. He felt like flipping the inscription off, but didn’t want to risk his chances of convincing the former headmaster how important his slipping out to the Quidditch fields in the dark of night way after curfew was for the sake of his sanity.
‘Sir…’ he tried again. ‘ I…I know it’s highly unusual, but I swear this is really important. I promise I’ll be back in the dorm by midnight!’
Dumbledore watched him with tired eyes and a knowing look on his face.
‘The consequences of our actions, Mr. Kogane, are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business.’, he said, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. And with that he leaned his head against the brocade background of the painting and went back to sleep.
Keith stood in the middle of the hall, dumbstruck. Did Dumbledore just almost literally turn a blind eye to him breaking the school rules? Hesitant at first, he started hurrying down the stairs. Confused and relieved at once, he didn’t catch Dumbledore lifting one eyelid to fondly watch another dark haired boy bending rules and chasing after a dream he had yet to figure out.
…………………………..
Takashi Shirogane.
The first time he’d seen him fly had been about a year ago. It had been the first tournament of the year between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and Keith had been thirsty for Quidditch. He had spent the whole summer being forced to care for orphaned Knarls and had longed for something a little more exciting than being followed by a herd of the hedgehog-like creatures from morning til nightfall like a mother-goose.
He got his wish the second the new Slytherin captain mounted his broom. The broom itself was a piece of art, the newest model of the Paladin series called Black Lion. Made out of Ziricote with silver plated details its agility and handling were unmatched by any other brand. What had ultimately fascinated Keith though was the skill the rider had maneuvered it with. He had only been that baffled by a Quidditch player once in his life before.
Watching Shirogane fly gave him flashbacks of his father sitting beside him on their old carpet in the living room, cheering on the Bulgarian team which had made it to the Quidditch World Cup Finals yet another time. Keiths mouth had fallen open the second he had spotted the dark figure looming over the field, darting back and forth so fast the camera man hadn’t even been able to capture him completely. When he had caught the Snitch Keith had jumped up with glee, his little fists thrown high up in the air.
From that day on his poor Muggle Dad had spent their afternoons trying to teach Keith Quidditch with his knowledge of rugby, baseball and the huge volume of Quidditch through the Ages.
Takashi Shirogane was too perfect. He was like a shiny toy the whole of Hogwarts got to play with. Transferred from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts due to mysterious (and wildly speculated) reasons he had made Slytherin head-boy and Quidditch captain instantly. Because some people could have it all Keith had thought bitterly.
Besides Shirogane’s grades being straight E's, his unfaltering smile and polite friendliness had earned him the nickname Golden Boy throughout the school.
If spotted through unknowing eyes he could have almost been mistaken for a teacher. Grey hair, taller than average and eyes that betrayed his young face. The most prominent thing though was the huge scar that stretched from under his eyes over the bridge of his nose. Keith had been as curious as anyone about the him, but for very different reasons.
While the other students had swarmed Shirogane with goggly eyes and sappy compliments about his looks and Quidditch scores, Keith wanted to know about the scar. About the hair. About the reason why he looked years beyond his age as soon as he thought no one watched him. He knew it sounded like he was a fangirl from a sappy Young Adult Novel. He hadn’t cared though, still didn’t. What he had cared about was seeing him fly again.
Keith was as impressed by Shirogane as he was unnerved. He felt a lot of different things when watching Golden Boy. Envy wasn’t quite it, neither was it admiration. Inspiration might describe it best. He was utterly fascinated by the sheer skill the Slytherin handled everything with, from Quidditch to his studies and social skills. He was everything Keith would have secretly liked to be. There had to be a catch somewhere, every person had a catch, but again, he didn’t really care as much as long as he could watch him fly.
He had gone to every Quidditch mach. He had even secretly watched the Slytherin team train, which had earned him a good fistfight with his fellow dorm-mate. The biggest disappointment though had been discovering that Shirogane only attended two of the four training sessions a week. At first Keith had mocked him in the back of his mind.
Golden Boy needed only two training sessions a week because of course he was just THAT good.
Keith had almost felt guilty when he’d spotted a little silver head of hair hurrying down the castle grounds at nightfall, Black Lion in one hand and a chest in the other. Shirogane was training alone. At night. And boy, did he train. He was like a wrecking ball, smashing the little black Bludgers mercilessly into targets while evading them in neatly executed maneuvers. Why he didn’t train with his teammates Keith didn’t know, but it meant he could observe him more intently without the distraction of the others buzzing around him.
IF he could get past Albus Dumbledore’s painting, that was.
He had no way of getting around it if he wanted to sneak out of the castle. Usually the former headmaster spent the mornings and afternoons there, greeting students on their way to breakfast and dinner, telling cryptic stories. Sometimes he was there at night too, but never before when Keith had tried to sneak out.
The first time stealing himself out at night to watch Shirogane train alone had blown him away. It had been like nothing he’d seen before and had left Keith agitated, keeping him awake that night until the morning hours. From that moment on those training sessions had been a personal highlight he looked forward to during patronizing lectures and provocative comments. He found his mood lighten on the mornings he knew he could watch Shirogane train, and had even started to exchange a few words with classmates from time to time. Life had started to look a little brighter.
……………………..
The wood shattered with an ear-deafening crash, catapulting splinters all over a three meter radius around the pole where the target had been mounted mere seconds before. The small black ball wasn’t bothered at all by the obstacle it had just destroyed. It took a sharp turn to charge again at the silver haired figure dancing in the air above the bleachers. Keith kept his eyes focused on the person in the green and silver Quidditch dress with the number 1 printed on the back. His movements were equally fluid and controlled while he dodged and drove the Bludgers pin-pointedly at the different wooden plates with his bat.
Keith’s hand clenched a long forgotten notebook with illegible scribbles of flight maneuvers and moves he’d wanted to imitate at some point in the future, but Slytherin’s Captain had captured his attention completely at this point. He hadn’t been paying attention to the page for at least twenty minutes. At least the pencil was in use, if only for the purpose of being gnawed at absentmindedly. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to follow the movements.
Another target shattered, the noise leaving Keith fired up to see the next match Slytherin would play. He was among the small crowd of students who watched not only their own house’s tournaments, but cheered on other teams as well. Another thing he regularly was being bullied about, albeit him sticking to back rows and neutral cloaks.
Bitter memories distracted him for a moment and he almost missed the boy landing his broom and wrestling the two Bludgers into the box. Hastily he stuffed his things into the black messenger bag by his side and sneaked back down the stairs to the exit gate.
The moment he stuck his head out behind the last post holding up the construction a small object swooped by his nose so close he could feel the air ruffle his bangs. He ducked back behind the post just in time to hide from the slightly cursing shape rushing after it a meter above ground. He had to suppress the urge to snort. He had never heard Golden Boy utter a swearword before, and it made him instantly seem more approachable.
Or it would have IF Keith were in Slytherin.
Which he wasn’t.
The ongoing house-rivalries had never really concerned him before, but the fact that he couldn’t casually strike up a conversation with the Slytherin frustrated him.
IF Keith were one to strike up casual conversations.
Which he wasn’t.
……………………………
Damn Albus Dumbledore. He couldn’t shake the thought that there would be some kind of aftermath of him breaking the curfew. With every passing minute the night air started to get colder than his cloak would protect him from, but he didn’t dare walk out of the Quidditch arena with Shirogane still on the lookout for the lost Bludger. Being caught sneaking out after curfew was one thing. Being caught after lightly stalking Golden Boy up until midnight was another.
The stars were barely visible and a light fog hung over the damp grass. His toes started protesting against the lack of socks with a painful sting. He had been out of clean pairs this morning since the house elves refused to do his laundry after the pineapple incident.
A noise disrupted his train of thought. The wooden chest still stood there at the corner of the Quidditch field, rattling lightly from the force of the lonely Bludger chained next to the empty space its brother was supposed to sit in. The big red Quaffle motionless next to it, and then the compartment of the Snitch. Lovingly decorated with golden swirls and runes Keith couldn’t help but stare. It might be the only opportunity to get that close to actual Quidditch balls ever again. He gulped down the anxiety that was starting to climb up his spine.
Before he could form another coherent thought he found himself walking over to the chest and opening the little doors containing the small golden ball. His fingers were shaking from the cold and anticipation when he touched the smooth surface. It felt like a little bird in his hand, buzzing intently to get away and let itself be chased. His heart was pounding up to his ears and he froze when a pillar close to him creaked.
What was he doing? He looked at the little ball in his hands and breathed out slowly. It wasn’t worth it. He would savor this moment and remember it when he needed to, but he didn’t want to imagine the consequences of stealing something so valuable.
As if the Snitch had heard him it unsheathed its little wings and started to flutter intensely. He shut his fingers around it before it could escape. Panic started to rise in Keith’s chest as he frantically tried to shove the ball back into its compartment, to no avail.
A distant sound announced the return of the lost Bludger, and all Keith could think of was closing the little doors as quickly as possible and hiding behind the nearest pillar again. His heart was beating violently against his fingers where he was clenching the Snitch unto his chest. A second later the Black Lion passed him, its rider still throwing inappropriate adjectives at the small ball tucked under his arm. Shirogane’s back was turned towards him while trying to fasten the second Bludger, and Keith bolted without a second thought, praying to all the gods he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t be noticed.
He only stopped running after the doors of the castle came into sight. His lungs were burning from the cold air and his hair was plastered to his neck and forehead. From his tightly squeezed fist two frail golden wings still fluttered in protest of the rough handling. He put the Snitch unceremoniously into the inner pocket of his cloak and slipped through the giant gates.
Albus Dumbledore was still sleeping in his frame. Keith didn’t trust the silence a single bit, but couldn’t have cared less in that moment. His heart was still trying to break through his ribcage, his thoughts racing around in a circle. He needed to give the Snitch back. The next Quidditch training would be in two days time with the whole Ravenclaw team, and he needed a strategy to get it back. He was almost out of the hall when a tired voice disrupted his minor panic attack.
‘What a curious turn the future can take because of the flutter of a wing, don’t you find, Mr. Kogane?’
A quick-witted answer already at the tip of his tongue Keith hesitated.
How had he known?
A small vibration against his heart pulled him back into his fear of getting caught and urged him to disappear into the next corridor without turning around for a response.
It was a minute past midnight.