Shells of Men ( IV ) -- The Memory (pt.b)
Title: Shells of Men ( IV ) -- Concluding the Memory
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Written for: AWDT challenge
Prompt: "I like your pants around your feet."
Word Count: 1201
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. I figure what I'll do is use the AWDT prompts ONLY to tell the story. I have NO IDEA how this will turn out. I'm basing it off of the prompts only.
“-I have the droit and the mandate of judge, jury, and executioner,” the Minister continues, unfazed by the Dark Lord’s scorn.
“Do your worst, gnat,” he snarls. “I have guaranteed my immortality, rest assured.”
Lord Voldemort’s eyes fix on Potter, who straightens up, matching the derision with a taunting leer of his own.
“Oh, you mean this?” Potter asks, holding up a locket. There’s a hint of smugness in his air as Voldemort’s eyes widen.
“Or maybe this?” Granger continues; holding a dirty, rusty chalice.
“Or perhaps,” Ron Weasley adds, “this... filth?”
He shows Voldemort the old Hogwarts award plaque with the name ‘Tom Riddle’ stamped on it while one of his brothers reveals the dead carcass of Nagini.
“We have them all, Voldemort,” Potter proclaims.
“You... you cannot destroy them,” the Dark Lord claims. He’s hard pressed to hide the desperation in his voice; he hopes we believe his lie.
As if on cue, the memory of me steps out of the shadows. I shake my head at my image; bloody hell, I look horrible! Gaunt and grey, dark circles under my eyes. It’s a wonder someone hadn’t mistaken me for an inferi and lopped my head off to put me out of my misery. Instinctively, I run fingers through my hair under the pretence that it will fix my mirror-image’s hair. In case you’re wondering, it doesn’t work that way.
The ‘me’ of the memory raises an ancient Nordic battle horn for all to see. Its smooth, varnished wood curves into a loop before jaunting out with an eloquent bell-shaped opening at the end. It looks remarkably unremarkable.
“Do you know what this is, Voldemort?” the memory of me asks. I’m almost taken aback at how angry I look, how vengeful my voice is.
“Mjoriinn,” Voldemort whispers. His gaze remains locked on the object even as his eyes widen.
“Quite,” the memory of me replies. “Legend has it that Odin himself used it to vanquish his enemies.”
Part of me wants to deliver a historical lecture worthy of Professor Binns. Instead, I can only muster, “This is for my mother and father, you piece of shite.”
My voice cracks. For a moment, I’m a child, again; calling for my mother after scraping my knee in our garden or hiding from my father in his study, watching in awe the man I once considered a god. I bring the horn to my mouth as I lick my lips, cast a Never Ending Breath charm, and blow.
I’ve never heard so deafening a silence. It’s as if there was no such thing as sound, as if it hadn’t been invented yet. The ambience of the rustling of trees; the nearby river; or the scuttering of beasts, magical or otherwise, cannot seem to penetrate the invisible walls that surround those of us inside the pentacle.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a Weasley, -- Ron, I think... it’s hard to tell - running to my side. He’s screaming at me, his brow furrowed in anger. I can’t hear him; I hear nothing, in fact, but I can piece together the gist of his yelling. He thinks that the plan has failed because he doesn’t see explosions or flashes of lightning or blood or any tell-tale signs of devastation. He wouldn’t understand that the most powerful magic works beyond our senses, not within them. Were he blowing into Mjourinn like I was, he’d be able to see that something was indeed happening.
A rift begins to form directly above Lord Voldemort, as if the air was a thick, fibrous cloth being ripped by the hands of a child. The image of our surroundings look as though there were dozens of copies stacked on top of each other, yet slightly displaced. The five items we nicked from Voldemort begin to levitate and tremble as the energy from the OtherRealm inside the rift resonates through them. Energy flares from the pilfered artefacts and shoot towards the rift, spiralling into it much like water draining in a sink. The same happens to Voldemort, his soul being ripped from his body and sucked into the aperture. As for his physical body? It stands transfixed, locked in time with an expression that reeks of pain, fear, and disbelief. To the onlookers, it seems as though the image of Voldemort is being smeared along a sheet of paper, almost to the point where part of him loses cohesiveness and dissolves into nothingness. I continue to blow the battle horn.
Potter begins to convulse and cough blood. When he doubles over, the Mudblood runs to his side. All three of the Weasleys are on me, now, trying to get me to stop; but I can’t - I won’t. Suddenly, an image of Voldemort - a translucent ghost of an imprint - is ripped from Potter’s scar. The rift begins to draw it in but not before it reaches back and grabs at Potter’s head and shoulders, refusing to let go. Indeed, the phantom is corporeal enough to drag Potter with it towards the rift but not strong enough to keep hold. Drawn into the mystic scissure, the apparition loses its grip and finally coalesces with the rift.
Potter remains dangerously close to the outer edge of the tear in reality, as if dangling on a string. I can see the rift beginning to collapse on itself. Once it reaches magical singularity, there’s an explosion of energy the tosses us to the ground and Potter towards the nearby ravine. I Apparate to the river where I find Potter laying face-down in the waters, drowning. I trudge through the waters until I reach him and drag him back to land.
Potter’s shirt has been torn in the explosion; tattered remains of it cling to his wet body. Even his pants have loosened, bunched around his ankles. He’s always had a Seeker’s body, smooth and slender, yet soft. However, war has tightened his muscles and given them shape. Now, his frame is that of a refined swimmer, taut and firm. Why is it, Potter, that even in the middle of this horrible betrayal, the only thing I can think of is how much I like your pants around your feet?
“You... you saved him,” one of the Weasleys - Charlie, I think (the cuter one) - says from behind the memory of me.
There’s a flash of white light and the Forbidden Forest ebbs from view; I see the fixtures of my Atrium quite clearly, now. I can ‘feel’ another presence in the room, disrupting the delicate calibration of my Ruminari. I turn around to find Potter - the real Potter, not a memory - standing just inside the doorway. He has the bed sheets, stained with sweat, wrapped around him. His eyes are expressionless, empty, and unblinking. His hair is beyond dishevelled, worse than any time I saw him at Hogwarts, worse even than when he returned with a dead Cedric Diggory during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
“That was hardly an act of kindness, Malfoy,” he says, turning his back on me and walking out of the room. “You should have let me drown.”
His voice was cold and void of life, dead. Reliving the most horrid night of his life couldn’t even strike the slightest emotion. There was no anger in his tone, no shaking desperation or shattering angst. But his last words reverberate in my mind: ‘You should have left me to drown.’
And he’s right.
§
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Written for: AWDT challenge
Prompt: "I like your pants around your feet."
Word Count: 1201
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. I figure what I'll do is use the AWDT prompts ONLY to tell the story. I have NO IDEA how this will turn out. I'm basing it off of the prompts only.
“-I have the droit and the mandate of judge, jury, and executioner,” the Minister continues, unfazed by the Dark Lord’s scorn.
“Do your worst, gnat,” he snarls. “I have guaranteed my immortality, rest assured.”
Lord Voldemort’s eyes fix on Potter, who straightens up, matching the derision with a taunting leer of his own.
“Oh, you mean this?” Potter asks, holding up a locket. There’s a hint of smugness in his air as Voldemort’s eyes widen.
“Or maybe this?” Granger continues; holding a dirty, rusty chalice.
“Or perhaps,” Ron Weasley adds, “this... filth?”
He shows Voldemort the old Hogwarts award plaque with the name ‘Tom Riddle’ stamped on it while one of his brothers reveals the dead carcass of Nagini.
“We have them all, Voldemort,” Potter proclaims.
“You... you cannot destroy them,” the Dark Lord claims. He’s hard pressed to hide the desperation in his voice; he hopes we believe his lie.
As if on cue, the memory of me steps out of the shadows. I shake my head at my image; bloody hell, I look horrible! Gaunt and grey, dark circles under my eyes. It’s a wonder someone hadn’t mistaken me for an inferi and lopped my head off to put me out of my misery. Instinctively, I run fingers through my hair under the pretence that it will fix my mirror-image’s hair. In case you’re wondering, it doesn’t work that way.
The ‘me’ of the memory raises an ancient Nordic battle horn for all to see. Its smooth, varnished wood curves into a loop before jaunting out with an eloquent bell-shaped opening at the end. It looks remarkably unremarkable.
“Do you know what this is, Voldemort?” the memory of me asks. I’m almost taken aback at how angry I look, how vengeful my voice is.
“Mjoriinn,” Voldemort whispers. His gaze remains locked on the object even as his eyes widen.
“Quite,” the memory of me replies. “Legend has it that Odin himself used it to vanquish his enemies.”
Part of me wants to deliver a historical lecture worthy of Professor Binns. Instead, I can only muster, “This is for my mother and father, you piece of shite.”
My voice cracks. For a moment, I’m a child, again; calling for my mother after scraping my knee in our garden or hiding from my father in his study, watching in awe the man I once considered a god. I bring the horn to my mouth as I lick my lips, cast a Never Ending Breath charm, and blow.
I’ve never heard so deafening a silence. It’s as if there was no such thing as sound, as if it hadn’t been invented yet. The ambience of the rustling of trees; the nearby river; or the scuttering of beasts, magical or otherwise, cannot seem to penetrate the invisible walls that surround those of us inside the pentacle.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a Weasley, -- Ron, I think... it’s hard to tell - running to my side. He’s screaming at me, his brow furrowed in anger. I can’t hear him; I hear nothing, in fact, but I can piece together the gist of his yelling. He thinks that the plan has failed because he doesn’t see explosions or flashes of lightning or blood or any tell-tale signs of devastation. He wouldn’t understand that the most powerful magic works beyond our senses, not within them. Were he blowing into Mjourinn like I was, he’d be able to see that something was indeed happening.
A rift begins to form directly above Lord Voldemort, as if the air was a thick, fibrous cloth being ripped by the hands of a child. The image of our surroundings look as though there were dozens of copies stacked on top of each other, yet slightly displaced. The five items we nicked from Voldemort begin to levitate and tremble as the energy from the OtherRealm inside the rift resonates through them. Energy flares from the pilfered artefacts and shoot towards the rift, spiralling into it much like water draining in a sink. The same happens to Voldemort, his soul being ripped from his body and sucked into the aperture. As for his physical body? It stands transfixed, locked in time with an expression that reeks of pain, fear, and disbelief. To the onlookers, it seems as though the image of Voldemort is being smeared along a sheet of paper, almost to the point where part of him loses cohesiveness and dissolves into nothingness. I continue to blow the battle horn.
Potter begins to convulse and cough blood. When he doubles over, the Mudblood runs to his side. All three of the Weasleys are on me, now, trying to get me to stop; but I can’t - I won’t. Suddenly, an image of Voldemort - a translucent ghost of an imprint - is ripped from Potter’s scar. The rift begins to draw it in but not before it reaches back and grabs at Potter’s head and shoulders, refusing to let go. Indeed, the phantom is corporeal enough to drag Potter with it towards the rift but not strong enough to keep hold. Drawn into the mystic scissure, the apparition loses its grip and finally coalesces with the rift.
Potter remains dangerously close to the outer edge of the tear in reality, as if dangling on a string. I can see the rift beginning to collapse on itself. Once it reaches magical singularity, there’s an explosion of energy the tosses us to the ground and Potter towards the nearby ravine. I Apparate to the river where I find Potter laying face-down in the waters, drowning. I trudge through the waters until I reach him and drag him back to land.
Potter’s shirt has been torn in the explosion; tattered remains of it cling to his wet body. Even his pants have loosened, bunched around his ankles. He’s always had a Seeker’s body, smooth and slender, yet soft. However, war has tightened his muscles and given them shape. Now, his frame is that of a refined swimmer, taut and firm. Why is it, Potter, that even in the middle of this horrible betrayal, the only thing I can think of is how much I like your pants around your feet?
“You... you saved him,” one of the Weasleys - Charlie, I think (the cuter one) - says from behind the memory of me.
There’s a flash of white light and the Forbidden Forest ebbs from view; I see the fixtures of my Atrium quite clearly, now. I can ‘feel’ another presence in the room, disrupting the delicate calibration of my Ruminari. I turn around to find Potter - the real Potter, not a memory - standing just inside the doorway. He has the bed sheets, stained with sweat, wrapped around him. His eyes are expressionless, empty, and unblinking. His hair is beyond dishevelled, worse than any time I saw him at Hogwarts, worse even than when he returned with a dead Cedric Diggory during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
“That was hardly an act of kindness, Malfoy,” he says, turning his back on me and walking out of the room. “You should have let me drown.”
His voice was cold and void of life, dead. Reliving the most horrid night of his life couldn’t even strike the slightest emotion. There was no anger in his tone, no shaking desperation or shattering angst. But his last words reverberate in my mind: ‘You should have left me to drown.’
And he’s right.
§