I want a warning label.
There are those days where you really wish someone would have clued you in. You know, took you aside and laid it out plain: 'Gonna be some bad shit coming your way, better keep your head down 'til it blows over.' In my head it sounds vaguely like Bobby Singer. Not that life is ever that cooperative.
So in between frantic calls to check on my cousin, one of my friends getting arrested, and one of my dogs getting hit by a goddamn car, I wrote this:
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title: out from under
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em.
fandom: Harry Potter
summary: This is how it ends.
notes: no excuse for it really. 2nd person (Harry) pov.
You were stupid. You got caught. But really, you're not so sure that's not what you wanted in the first place. Not that you'll admit it out loud.
They don't waste any time; two Death Eaters drag you into the chamber, and another one fastens your hands behind your back. You've given up trying to keep a count of who is behind those masks. By now, it doesn't really matter.
The one who tied your hands kicks your feet out from under you. You fall hard on your knees, the stone floor catching on the legs of your trousers. You don't make a sound. After all, this is hardly the worst thing you've had to endure, and it's certainly not going to break you. That happened a while ago; you've gotten used to the hollow feeling in your chest. The ropes around your wrists burn.
You can feel him the minute he steps in the room. He stops in front of you and puts his hand on the top of your head. Your scar has long since stopped burning around him; his touch doesn't hurt at all. He sends the Death Eaters away. You thought he would look rabid, triumphant at least. Finally, he has the saviour at his feet. There will be no rescue from this, no portkeys, no Dumbledore, no Order. You thought he'd laugh, taunt you with your failures, but he doesn't.
His eyes are still red, but they have lost some of the flat, reptilian look that haunted you in your dreams. His hands are thin. He keeps one hand on your head and uses the other to draw a symbol on you forehead with his fingertips; his skin is dry and papery. He looks more like an old man than the monster you've spent half your life trying to defeat.
You remember what Dumbledore told you all those years ago about the simularities between you and a boy named Tom. You can still see the memories in the pensieve as clear as your own, the damning way orphanage echoed in your head. There is no way to forgive him for what he's robbed you of - your parents, your friends, your safety. But you can still understand him, better now than at fifteen when you were angry and grieving. Ready to strike out because you'd lost so much. He'd never had anything to lose.
You spent so long trying to prove what you weren't that you forgot, really the two of you are the same boy. Who no one cared about. Who no one wanted.
He chants something low and ancient; you can just make it out above the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. It's a curse you have read about, but never seen used. The words are almost beautiful. They slide together effortlessly, a silk noose that tightens around you with every vowel.
Twenty-four isn't too young to die, not when every day you wake up feeling like you're four times that old, weary in spirit if not in bone. And the thing is, you've been wondering if he felt the same way. After all the years you've fought each other, all the years he fought before you were born. Surely he had to be just as tired as you.
Looks like you were right.
When he finishes this curse, both of you will be gone. This won't be another Avada. No acid-green light, no magical backlash like when you were only a baby. This is for good. It's doubtful either of your deaths will end the war, at least not at first. But either way, this is how it ends.
He meets your eyes on the last syllable. You don't feel his hand slip from your head.
The last thing you see is a young Tom Riddle holding his hand out to you.
- end
Apparently I cope by writing fic. Though now that I think about it, I guess I already knew that.
So in between frantic calls to check on my cousin, one of my friends getting arrested, and one of my dogs getting hit by a goddamn car, I wrote this:
---------------------------------
title: out from under
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em.
fandom: Harry Potter
summary: This is how it ends.
notes: no excuse for it really. 2nd person (Harry) pov.
You were stupid. You got caught. But really, you're not so sure that's not what you wanted in the first place. Not that you'll admit it out loud.
They don't waste any time; two Death Eaters drag you into the chamber, and another one fastens your hands behind your back. You've given up trying to keep a count of who is behind those masks. By now, it doesn't really matter.
The one who tied your hands kicks your feet out from under you. You fall hard on your knees, the stone floor catching on the legs of your trousers. You don't make a sound. After all, this is hardly the worst thing you've had to endure, and it's certainly not going to break you. That happened a while ago; you've gotten used to the hollow feeling in your chest. The ropes around your wrists burn.
You can feel him the minute he steps in the room. He stops in front of you and puts his hand on the top of your head. Your scar has long since stopped burning around him; his touch doesn't hurt at all. He sends the Death Eaters away. You thought he would look rabid, triumphant at least. Finally, he has the saviour at his feet. There will be no rescue from this, no portkeys, no Dumbledore, no Order. You thought he'd laugh, taunt you with your failures, but he doesn't.
His eyes are still red, but they have lost some of the flat, reptilian look that haunted you in your dreams. His hands are thin. He keeps one hand on your head and uses the other to draw a symbol on you forehead with his fingertips; his skin is dry and papery. He looks more like an old man than the monster you've spent half your life trying to defeat.
You remember what Dumbledore told you all those years ago about the simularities between you and a boy named Tom. You can still see the memories in the pensieve as clear as your own, the damning way orphanage echoed in your head. There is no way to forgive him for what he's robbed you of - your parents, your friends, your safety. But you can still understand him, better now than at fifteen when you were angry and grieving. Ready to strike out because you'd lost so much. He'd never had anything to lose.
You spent so long trying to prove what you weren't that you forgot, really the two of you are the same boy. Who no one cared about. Who no one wanted.
He chants something low and ancient; you can just make it out above the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. It's a curse you have read about, but never seen used. The words are almost beautiful. They slide together effortlessly, a silk noose that tightens around you with every vowel.
Twenty-four isn't too young to die, not when every day you wake up feeling like you're four times that old, weary in spirit if not in bone. And the thing is, you've been wondering if he felt the same way. After all the years you've fought each other, all the years he fought before you were born. Surely he had to be just as tired as you.
Looks like you were right.
When he finishes this curse, both of you will be gone. This won't be another Avada. No acid-green light, no magical backlash like when you were only a baby. This is for good. It's doubtful either of your deaths will end the war, at least not at first. But either way, this is how it ends.
He meets your eyes on the last syllable. You don't feel his hand slip from your head.
The last thing you see is a young Tom Riddle holding his hand out to you.
- end
Apparently I cope by writing fic. Though now that I think about it, I guess I already knew that.