(no subject)
And everytime I start off wanting to write FMA fic, I always end up in HP instead. It's a really hurried, post, I'm sorry, 'cos I have to go somewhere in ::checks watch:: 15 minutes. I'm late! A quick thanks to erushi and 18bipsout for the beta. Best betas in the world. <3 y'all. Will clean up this post later, but in the meantime, read on and enjoy (I hope). A abit of background info on this drabble: I wrote part of this in an IM conversation. It's still my favourite bit. Guess which?
Summary: War leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
Harry’s alone in the office, save for a cold cup of coffee that attempts to turn the same shade of drab grey as its surroundings. It doesn’t succeed - it hasn’t yet quite acquired the limp defeat of the rest of the objects in the room. The desk (once Sirius’) has begun to sag under the weight of countless papers and the endless stream of Aurors who beg to sit on it, rub it a little, for a touch of Harry’s luck. It never works, he wants to tell them, he can list the number of people who have touched it and gone to their deaths; there are more than he can count on his fingers, his toes even. But they never listen anyway, and he takes comfort that at least he sends them to their death with the joy of touching a piece of Saint Potter.
The yellowed notices are peeling off the walls, begging for escape. He touches one, a death notice (‘In memoriam of Pete Brock’); it flakes mournfully under his hands. Do the dead take comfort in victory, he wonders. But he whispers the news of their latest victory to them anyway, and he imagines he hears a sigh of relief rise from the stones, but it’s probably, sadly, just the murmur of the wind.
He picks up the mug. It leeches warmth from his hands as he scans the crowd of papers on the noticeboard. It’s mainly old news, and he makes a mental note to tell Ron that it’s time to remove some of the things. But wait, there is a photo hidden in between Herm’s memo and Lavender’s cheery Christmas invitation. It’s the 7th Year Slytherin House photo. They are leering openly at the camera (Harry can’t remember if the photographer was pretty; he stopped caring a long time ago). Millicent’s hands curls into a lewd suggestion and she smirks knowingly at Harry. They are a mass of movement, the Slytherins, slithering and worming around like a nest of vipers. Which they are, Harry muses.
Only Pansy is unmoving, a statue. It puzzles him for a moment, until he remembers that those who have been Kissed never move in photos, and then he wishes he didn’t remember, because now he feels guilt and there’s already enough guilt to make him to sink to the bottom of the lake. And for the Squid to get indigestion. He chuckles at the thought.
A flash of silver catches his eye and he blinks as he looks on his arch nemesis for the first time in two years, maybe three. They had drawn a circle around Malfoy's head to detach him from the sea of bodies: a halo. He looks dismembered. Inhuman. How inhumane, thinks Harry detachedly as he reaches out to wipe away the ink, but he succeeds only in smearing the beads of red ink across the glossy paper. Malfoy tilts a silver head to glance at his handiwork; a rust-red ring and a hint of red across once-pale cheeks, and he sneers at Harry's incompetence. Seized by a fit of pique, Harry takes a thumbtack and drives it through Malfoy’s forehead, right in between his eyes. In the picture, Malfoy flops about helplessly, twitches once, twice, and is still.
Harry takes a swig of the coffee and chokes on the bitterness of it.
He hopes Malfoy chokes on his defeat, too.
Summary: War leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
Harry’s alone in the office, save for a cold cup of coffee that attempts to turn the same shade of drab grey as its surroundings. It doesn’t succeed - it hasn’t yet quite acquired the limp defeat of the rest of the objects in the room. The desk (once Sirius’) has begun to sag under the weight of countless papers and the endless stream of Aurors who beg to sit on it, rub it a little, for a touch of Harry’s luck. It never works, he wants to tell them, he can list the number of people who have touched it and gone to their deaths; there are more than he can count on his fingers, his toes even. But they never listen anyway, and he takes comfort that at least he sends them to their death with the joy of touching a piece of Saint Potter.
The yellowed notices are peeling off the walls, begging for escape. He touches one, a death notice (‘In memoriam of Pete Brock’); it flakes mournfully under his hands. Do the dead take comfort in victory, he wonders. But he whispers the news of their latest victory to them anyway, and he imagines he hears a sigh of relief rise from the stones, but it’s probably, sadly, just the murmur of the wind.
He picks up the mug. It leeches warmth from his hands as he scans the crowd of papers on the noticeboard. It’s mainly old news, and he makes a mental note to tell Ron that it’s time to remove some of the things. But wait, there is a photo hidden in between Herm’s memo and Lavender’s cheery Christmas invitation. It’s the 7th Year Slytherin House photo. They are leering openly at the camera (Harry can’t remember if the photographer was pretty; he stopped caring a long time ago). Millicent’s hands curls into a lewd suggestion and she smirks knowingly at Harry. They are a mass of movement, the Slytherins, slithering and worming around like a nest of vipers. Which they are, Harry muses.
Only Pansy is unmoving, a statue. It puzzles him for a moment, until he remembers that those who have been Kissed never move in photos, and then he wishes he didn’t remember, because now he feels guilt and there’s already enough guilt to make him to sink to the bottom of the lake. And for the Squid to get indigestion. He chuckles at the thought.
A flash of silver catches his eye and he blinks as he looks on his arch nemesis for the first time in two years, maybe three. They had drawn a circle around Malfoy's head to detach him from the sea of bodies: a halo. He looks dismembered. Inhuman. How inhumane, thinks Harry detachedly as he reaches out to wipe away the ink, but he succeeds only in smearing the beads of red ink across the glossy paper. Malfoy tilts a silver head to glance at his handiwork; a rust-red ring and a hint of red across once-pale cheeks, and he sneers at Harry's incompetence. Seized by a fit of pique, Harry takes a thumbtack and drives it through Malfoy’s forehead, right in between his eyes. In the picture, Malfoy flops about helplessly, twitches once, twice, and is still.
Harry takes a swig of the coffee and chokes on the bitterness of it.
He hopes Malfoy chokes on his defeat, too.