fic: Courage
underlucius encouraged me to post this over here. I hope you all enjoy it! :)
Title: Courage
Author: sioniann
Pairing: implied Albus/Harry
Rating: PG-13
Warning: HBP spoilers
Summary: Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear. - Mark Twain
A/N: written for tinkerpixy in the sweetsaddiction Albus ficathon. Thank you to bluerose16 for help with the plotbunny and to alittlewhisper for the quote.
'''''
You know what it is you must do. The potion. It’s the reason you’re here, but it’s hard when Harry’s trembling at your side. He can’t understand that this is your burden, not his. You can’t tell him that he is Harry Potter, the hero (yours), and that this is a task for someone disposable. You are. He would agree, you reassure yourself.
You gag down the first gobletful, and it stings your throat, but you don’t grimace. You focus. The horcrux. That’s the only thing on your mind. As the liquid settles, you know that’s not true.
Harry. Your eyes are closed but you see him still, patterned across your memory. You know he’s watching. You sense his fear, can imagine his expression, the curve of his mouth. Your lips remain firm and pressed together and you say nothing. You aren’t afraid.
You swallow another goblet of the green, swirling liquid, and then another. It tastes bitter and strange and you want to retch or gag, but you cannot. Will not. You refill your goblet, and feel your hands brushing Harry’s. His fingers are cold and clenching. He’s scared.
You put the goblet to your lips and swallow quickly. It goes down quick and burning, and you feel yourself slipping, slipping away from reality, from Harry.
Then it begins.
'''''
At first, it’s just darkness. You’re surrounded by the pull of a black canvas, pinpricks of light eluding the corners of your vision. You can faintly hear yourself speaking, protesting, your words disjointed and foreign. You can hear Harry’s voice, ragged and very far away, and you wonder what he’s saying. He’s so far away, and then suddenly he’s screaming and this time he’s so close. He’s right next to you, at your side, all over you. He’s against the inside of your eyelids, pressing into the curve of your mind, and you tell yourself things like potion, and not real, but Harry is one year old, and the screaming is no longer his.
Lily Potter is desperate, and you can do nothing. You are vaguely conscious of liquid sloshing down your throat, and you shiver, even though the Potters’ house is warm. It’s only bringing you in deeper, and Voldemort’s words are shrill and caustic and the carpet sinks under your toes and Harry’s eyes are wide as he watches his mother slump to the floor. It’s not real, your logic whispers, but now Harry is eleven years old, and Voldemort is close, so close, and you are not there to stop him.
You are not even there at all. But you are. You hear the spell, you see him fall, and it’s real even though it can’t be. The stone is hard and the room smells like dust and decay and a darkness too old for Harry’s years. You think the architecture is wrong, but the mirror is the same, and you see yourself there, your children at your side, listening and understanding in the way they surely never care to, really. It’s not real, though. Just like the vision in the mirror, this scene is fractured and wrong and Harry is alive, beside you. But he can’t pull you back from this, and you are lost in the darkening green of his lifeless eyes. He’s just eleven. He’s too young, and even though he didn’t die at Voldemort’s hand, you see him falling, falling a dozen times, over and over as his eyes grasp for yours. You cry out, but your voice is helpless above Voldemort’s cackling. The memories are imperfectly modified, and you’re just a wisp in the corner, but they feel real and you can do nothing but watch, because now he is twelve.
He is there, lost in a chamber deep underground. It’s watery and dark, but Harry isn’t afraid of darkness, and he isn’t afraid of snakes, and he isn’t afraid of Voldemort, because he knows you will save him. Hopes. He isn’t afraid, can’t be. Oh, but he is. You see his hand trembling, and you are not there to hold it. You didn’t send help in time. There is no flutter of wings, no phoenix tears to save him. You are running toward him but you weren’t ever in this memory, so it feels just as wrong as his death is, and you can do nothing but freeze in the moment and wait. The sound of his limber body crushing on the pavement echoes.
Harry dies a thousand times in a thousand ways in your mind. The visions fracture and pixilate and overlap with one another until they’re indistinguishable. Everything is indistinguishable once Harry dies. Everything just goes black behind your eyes because that’s wrong. Harry. Dead. It’s wrong. Each time is more real, more vivid, more terrible than the last. Each time, Harry dies with his eyes open. Each time, you are too late. Each time, your screams fall on unhearing ears, and everything goes quiet as a piece of you dies along with Harry.
'''''
When you surface, you are choking. You are choking and you are thirsty. But Harry’s alive. Harry brings water, and it’s cold and reviving, and Harry’s eyes are gleaming, scared and bold in the night, and he is alive.
With fire around you, encircling the two of you, with Harry at your side, you think he is safe. You will care for him and keep him warm, and nothing will harm him now. It’s a lie, but he looks so much like the child he was, the baby sleeping soundly in his cradle, the boy sitting cross-legged in front of a mirror in the middle of the night. You remember seeing him in the mirror, too. You can picture his face there, his smile as he looks up at you, like you’re a friend, a mentor, a father. He’s never alone there, joined by Severus and Tom and all your children, those you could never save and those you still wish to.
Tonight you will lose another, you sense. Tonight you will let go.
You tighten your arm on Harry’s shoulder, and tell him you are not worried.
'''''
Title: Courage
Author: sioniann
Pairing: implied Albus/Harry
Rating: PG-13
Warning: HBP spoilers
Summary: Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear. - Mark Twain
A/N: written for tinkerpixy in the sweetsaddiction Albus ficathon. Thank you to bluerose16 for help with the plotbunny and to alittlewhisper for the quote.
'''''
You know what it is you must do. The potion. It’s the reason you’re here, but it’s hard when Harry’s trembling at your side. He can’t understand that this is your burden, not his. You can’t tell him that he is Harry Potter, the hero (yours), and that this is a task for someone disposable. You are. He would agree, you reassure yourself.
You gag down the first gobletful, and it stings your throat, but you don’t grimace. You focus. The horcrux. That’s the only thing on your mind. As the liquid settles, you know that’s not true.
Harry. Your eyes are closed but you see him still, patterned across your memory. You know he’s watching. You sense his fear, can imagine his expression, the curve of his mouth. Your lips remain firm and pressed together and you say nothing. You aren’t afraid.
You swallow another goblet of the green, swirling liquid, and then another. It tastes bitter and strange and you want to retch or gag, but you cannot. Will not. You refill your goblet, and feel your hands brushing Harry’s. His fingers are cold and clenching. He’s scared.
You put the goblet to your lips and swallow quickly. It goes down quick and burning, and you feel yourself slipping, slipping away from reality, from Harry.
Then it begins.
'''''
At first, it’s just darkness. You’re surrounded by the pull of a black canvas, pinpricks of light eluding the corners of your vision. You can faintly hear yourself speaking, protesting, your words disjointed and foreign. You can hear Harry’s voice, ragged and very far away, and you wonder what he’s saying. He’s so far away, and then suddenly he’s screaming and this time he’s so close. He’s right next to you, at your side, all over you. He’s against the inside of your eyelids, pressing into the curve of your mind, and you tell yourself things like potion, and not real, but Harry is one year old, and the screaming is no longer his.
Lily Potter is desperate, and you can do nothing. You are vaguely conscious of liquid sloshing down your throat, and you shiver, even though the Potters’ house is warm. It’s only bringing you in deeper, and Voldemort’s words are shrill and caustic and the carpet sinks under your toes and Harry’s eyes are wide as he watches his mother slump to the floor. It’s not real, your logic whispers, but now Harry is eleven years old, and Voldemort is close, so close, and you are not there to stop him.
You are not even there at all. But you are. You hear the spell, you see him fall, and it’s real even though it can’t be. The stone is hard and the room smells like dust and decay and a darkness too old for Harry’s years. You think the architecture is wrong, but the mirror is the same, and you see yourself there, your children at your side, listening and understanding in the way they surely never care to, really. It’s not real, though. Just like the vision in the mirror, this scene is fractured and wrong and Harry is alive, beside you. But he can’t pull you back from this, and you are lost in the darkening green of his lifeless eyes. He’s just eleven. He’s too young, and even though he didn’t die at Voldemort’s hand, you see him falling, falling a dozen times, over and over as his eyes grasp for yours. You cry out, but your voice is helpless above Voldemort’s cackling. The memories are imperfectly modified, and you’re just a wisp in the corner, but they feel real and you can do nothing but watch, because now he is twelve.
He is there, lost in a chamber deep underground. It’s watery and dark, but Harry isn’t afraid of darkness, and he isn’t afraid of snakes, and he isn’t afraid of Voldemort, because he knows you will save him. Hopes. He isn’t afraid, can’t be. Oh, but he is. You see his hand trembling, and you are not there to hold it. You didn’t send help in time. There is no flutter of wings, no phoenix tears to save him. You are running toward him but you weren’t ever in this memory, so it feels just as wrong as his death is, and you can do nothing but freeze in the moment and wait. The sound of his limber body crushing on the pavement echoes.
Harry dies a thousand times in a thousand ways in your mind. The visions fracture and pixilate and overlap with one another until they’re indistinguishable. Everything is indistinguishable once Harry dies. Everything just goes black behind your eyes because that’s wrong. Harry. Dead. It’s wrong. Each time is more real, more vivid, more terrible than the last. Each time, Harry dies with his eyes open. Each time, you are too late. Each time, your screams fall on unhearing ears, and everything goes quiet as a piece of you dies along with Harry.
'''''
When you surface, you are choking. You are choking and you are thirsty. But Harry’s alive. Harry brings water, and it’s cold and reviving, and Harry’s eyes are gleaming, scared and bold in the night, and he is alive.
With fire around you, encircling the two of you, with Harry at your side, you think he is safe. You will care for him and keep him warm, and nothing will harm him now. It’s a lie, but he looks so much like the child he was, the baby sleeping soundly in his cradle, the boy sitting cross-legged in front of a mirror in the middle of the night. You remember seeing him in the mirror, too. You can picture his face there, his smile as he looks up at you, like you’re a friend, a mentor, a father. He’s never alone there, joined by Severus and Tom and all your children, those you could never save and those you still wish to.
Tonight you will lose another, you sense. Tonight you will let go.
You tighten your arm on Harry’s shoulder, and tell him you are not worried.
'''''