Story: "Avada Kedavra", Gryffindors#5
Title: Avada Kedavra
Prompt: Corruption
Rating: PG-13, for dark imagery
Pairings: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Harry reflects on the war and the loss of loved ones, as he attends the trial of one he once called a friend. written for hpfanfic10x10
Warnings: Post-war, multiple character death, damaged!Harry, traitor!Gryffindor(I won't say who..)
Word count: ~1550
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
RF's note: All comments appreciated!
Harry Potter, Slayer of Voldemort, Savior of the Wizarding World, stood, naked from the waist up, before a mirror in his bedroom.
It was an hour before dawn.
Harry ran a careless hand through his unruly locks, and leaned his elbows on the tall shelf sitting in front of the mirror.
The mirror tutted. “Surely, Mr. Potter, you mean to use a comb on that,” it murmured.
“Shhh,” Harry whispered, sending a glance toward his sleeping fiancée, “you’ll wake her up.”
He could almost imagine the mirror shaking its head sorrowfully. “She’s not asleep, the poor dear,” it whispered. “Such a terrible ordeal it’s been, the poor girl must be exhausted…”
Harry sighed. The mirror, a birthday present from Minerva McGonagall, was as talkative as the stern professor was not.
A small voice riddled with anguish sounded from the bed. “Harry?”
Quickly, the Man Who Lived came to kneel, with some difficulty, before his love. “Hey, Gin,” he whispered. “How you doing?”
“Can’t sleep right,” she mouthed. “D-dreams,” she stuttered, and Harry saw that her pillow was soaked with tears.
His heart clenched painfully as he kissed her forehead gently. “You sure you don’t want to come today?” he asked.
A gleam of pain went through the redhead’s eyes. “I’m sure,” she whispered, curling into a fetal position among the covers. A single tear escaped her eye and joined its comrades on the pillow. “I have nothing more to say to the bastard.”
Harry nodded.
A single tiny hand emerged and Ginny grasped his forearm tightly. “Will you hold me?” she mouthed. “Will you help me fall asleep?”
Wordlessly, Harry climbed onto the bed, spooning behind his love. His hand went to her forehead and he hummed softly, sending soothing magical vibes into her pained soul. Ginny sighed, slowly relaxing into her protector. Silence fell, as Harry simply held her close.
He watched as the shadows in the room slowly lost their depth. Dawn would be breaking soon. Frowning, Harry put a finger on his fiancée’s temple, softly speaking an enchantment. She would sleep until the day was over, no matter what went on around her. There was no point in needlessly torturing her.
He relinquished his hold on his love, and got out of bed. Ginny only mumbled something and pulled the covers up closer to her ears, and Harry noticed that her pillow had dried. With a sigh, he pressed a kiss to her messy red locks. “I love you, Gin,” he whispered. Don’t you ever forget that.
Turning away, Harry limped toward the mirror again. What would be the dress appropriate for this occasion? What would express the quiet dignity, the heartfelt sorrow, and the soul-deep rage he had so often felt over the past two years?
He stared at himself contemplatively. Long gone were the times in which his eyes held that boyish innocence, that Gryffindor(though he loathed using that word) foolishness that had so perfectly defined his early years.
He chuckled humorlessly. Indeed, his right eye now held nothing at all. Lifeless and colorless, it was one of the reminders he had of the final battle.
There was one good thing to this. He smirked. Since his right eye had been the weak eye in the first place, he no longer had a need for glasses. And without them, as Witch Weekly had rushed to assert, his eyes, though no longer both so blatantly emerald, were still striking - striking with their quiet wisdom, dignity, and silent sorrow about the ways of the world.
Gone were the days of things infallible.
Gone were the times when he had so foolishly believed that Gryffindor values - nobility, bravery, morality, honor - were undermined by nothing.
Long vanished were the times when he thought friendships, true Gryffindor friendships, were unbreakable.
Jealousy, he had learned, was a force to be reckoned with.
Jealousy, he had discovered, could corrupt anyone. The thirst for power it prompted was simply unquenchable.
Light was now streaming into the room, as the sun rose above Hogwarts grounds. It was time to move quicker.
Harry limped towards the closet. Suddenly, he tripped, and his left leg gave out, and he crumbled to the floor, howling in rage at his crippled, useless limb. It was another relic of the war. Wordlessly, he summoned his cane. A faint bitter-sweet feeling went through him as he remembered the many times he’d stumbled in the past and was held up by Malfoy junior.
Indeed, during the final years of the war, lasting a year past Harry’s graduation, it was the Slytherins who were his most ardent aides. Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, even Crabbe and Goyle, Parkinson and Zabini - all had converted to his side and stood steadfastly by him, face to face with the bastard of a snake and his minions.
Slytherin loyalty, it seemed, was more durable than Gryffindor honor.
Dressing quickly now, Harry cast a final glance at his fiancée, and left their quarters.
Snape and Malfoy were waiting for him. There was no need to speak. Mutely, Draco took his left side, and Severus his right as they exited Hogwarts castle. Harry watched as, with ease of long practice, Severus’ eyes scoured the road ahead for possible traps, while Draco, wand in his left hand, had his right ready to push their Savior behind him should danger materialize ahead. Harry knew that somewhere behind him Zabini was walking, invisible, keeping their backs covered. Even six months after the war’s end, attacks were still very, very possible.
They left Hogwarts grounds. The walk to the Apparition point in Hogsmeade was long and trying for his leg, but Harry would never let anyone help him along. They made the painstakingly slow journey in patient silence; the Slytherins were long accustomed to Harry’s limp. Harry once again fell into his musings.
In retrospect, Harry felt he should have known.
Should have paid heed to the red gleams of hatred he’d seen in the young man’s eyes during the Triwizard Tournament.
Should have noted the rage he’d felt directed toward him when he, Harry Potter, had reached his majority and had been declared the most powerful wizard in the world.
He should have understood the slow change in appearance, the hollowed out look of jealousy and hatred which he had before seen in young Tom Riddle himself.
But, he had not, and now−
Harry winced as he relived the memory once more, heard the traitor’s fervent hiss, and Harry’s own panicked shout.
"Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus et Immobulus!”
Hermione Granger’s body crumbled lifelessly, and Ginny stared in horror at the scene, and at the man disarmed and bound only a second too late.
Harry’s heart clenched painfully as he remembered Neville, rushing into the common room.
“Harry! Ron! Ginny! Dumbledore’s asked me to send word… The Burrow, it’s been attacked. Someone let the Death Eaters in through the wards. I… I’m so sorry…T-they were all there…”
Harry stumbled, and was grateful for Draco’s steadying hand. “We’re almost there,” murmured the blonde. “Hang on.”
Harry nodded shakily. Soon they were past the wards, and they Apparated out.
~*~*~
Two years had passed since Hogwarts had lost its most brilliant student, and the wizarding world had said farewell to its most-loved family. And finally, today, was the trial for their murders.
Harry sat on the witness bench in the Wizengamot courtroom as the trial unfolded blurrily before his eye. He made conscious effort not to look at the man chained in the middle of the room, knowing he’d be sick if he did.
And then it was done.
“For the murder of Hermione Granger,” sounded the minister’s voice, “and for crucial assistance in the murders of Arthur, Molly, Charlie, Bill, Percy, Fred, and George Weasley,” the minister paused significantly, “Ronald Weasley is found guilty, and sentenced to death. As the dementors no longer serve us, an Auror of my choice will perform the Killing Curse, immediately.”
“Let me do it,” whispered Harry.
“Let me do it,” he repeated louder as he rose heavily from his seat. “I am your most tried and hardened Auror, Minister,” he called out, straightening proudly. “One more kill will do nothing to my soul.”
The minister paled, but nodded uncertainly, knowing he could not, would not argue. “Mr. Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class,” he announced, “will perform the Killing Curse.”
A collective gasp traveled through the room as Harry stepped down onto the floor of the courtroom. He shook his head jerkily when Draco Malfoy made to follow. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered, and the blonde sat back.
With measured steps, he approached the seat to which the traitor was bound. Ron’s face was twisted with rage and fear. “Harry!” he stuttered. “Harry, it’s just me! We’re mates, aren’t we? Weren’t we?”
Harry nodded slowly. “Yes,” he whispered. Out of the depths of his mind, a forgotten saying came to him, one he would have once, with no hesitation, called the Gryffindor slogan. He fixed his eye on the pale face of the one he had once called a friend, and raised his wand. Ron squirmed under his gaze. “Yes,” Harry murmured again. “But let justice run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.”
“Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, and the squirming was no more.
-------
Please click on the tag for more Gryffindor-centric stories!
Prompt: Corruption
Rating: PG-13, for dark imagery
Pairings: Harry/Ginny
Summary: Harry reflects on the war and the loss of loved ones, as he attends the trial of one he once called a friend. written for hpfanfic10x10
Warnings: Post-war, multiple character death, damaged!Harry, traitor!Gryffindor(I won't say who..)
Word count: ~1550
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
RF's note: All comments appreciated!
Harry Potter, Slayer of Voldemort, Savior of the Wizarding World, stood, naked from the waist up, before a mirror in his bedroom.
It was an hour before dawn.
Harry ran a careless hand through his unruly locks, and leaned his elbows on the tall shelf sitting in front of the mirror.
The mirror tutted. “Surely, Mr. Potter, you mean to use a comb on that,” it murmured.
“Shhh,” Harry whispered, sending a glance toward his sleeping fiancée, “you’ll wake her up.”
He could almost imagine the mirror shaking its head sorrowfully. “She’s not asleep, the poor dear,” it whispered. “Such a terrible ordeal it’s been, the poor girl must be exhausted…”
Harry sighed. The mirror, a birthday present from Minerva McGonagall, was as talkative as the stern professor was not.
A small voice riddled with anguish sounded from the bed. “Harry?”
Quickly, the Man Who Lived came to kneel, with some difficulty, before his love. “Hey, Gin,” he whispered. “How you doing?”
“Can’t sleep right,” she mouthed. “D-dreams,” she stuttered, and Harry saw that her pillow was soaked with tears.
His heart clenched painfully as he kissed her forehead gently. “You sure you don’t want to come today?” he asked.
A gleam of pain went through the redhead’s eyes. “I’m sure,” she whispered, curling into a fetal position among the covers. A single tear escaped her eye and joined its comrades on the pillow. “I have nothing more to say to the bastard.”
Harry nodded.
A single tiny hand emerged and Ginny grasped his forearm tightly. “Will you hold me?” she mouthed. “Will you help me fall asleep?”
Wordlessly, Harry climbed onto the bed, spooning behind his love. His hand went to her forehead and he hummed softly, sending soothing magical vibes into her pained soul. Ginny sighed, slowly relaxing into her protector. Silence fell, as Harry simply held her close.
He watched as the shadows in the room slowly lost their depth. Dawn would be breaking soon. Frowning, Harry put a finger on his fiancée’s temple, softly speaking an enchantment. She would sleep until the day was over, no matter what went on around her. There was no point in needlessly torturing her.
He relinquished his hold on his love, and got out of bed. Ginny only mumbled something and pulled the covers up closer to her ears, and Harry noticed that her pillow had dried. With a sigh, he pressed a kiss to her messy red locks. “I love you, Gin,” he whispered. Don’t you ever forget that.
Turning away, Harry limped toward the mirror again. What would be the dress appropriate for this occasion? What would express the quiet dignity, the heartfelt sorrow, and the soul-deep rage he had so often felt over the past two years?
He stared at himself contemplatively. Long gone were the times in which his eyes held that boyish innocence, that Gryffindor(though he loathed using that word) foolishness that had so perfectly defined his early years.
He chuckled humorlessly. Indeed, his right eye now held nothing at all. Lifeless and colorless, it was one of the reminders he had of the final battle.
There was one good thing to this. He smirked. Since his right eye had been the weak eye in the first place, he no longer had a need for glasses. And without them, as Witch Weekly had rushed to assert, his eyes, though no longer both so blatantly emerald, were still striking - striking with their quiet wisdom, dignity, and silent sorrow about the ways of the world.
Gone were the days of things infallible.
Gone were the times when he had so foolishly believed that Gryffindor values - nobility, bravery, morality, honor - were undermined by nothing.
Long vanished were the times when he thought friendships, true Gryffindor friendships, were unbreakable.
Jealousy, he had learned, was a force to be reckoned with.
Jealousy, he had discovered, could corrupt anyone. The thirst for power it prompted was simply unquenchable.
Light was now streaming into the room, as the sun rose above Hogwarts grounds. It was time to move quicker.
Harry limped towards the closet. Suddenly, he tripped, and his left leg gave out, and he crumbled to the floor, howling in rage at his crippled, useless limb. It was another relic of the war. Wordlessly, he summoned his cane. A faint bitter-sweet feeling went through him as he remembered the many times he’d stumbled in the past and was held up by Malfoy junior.
Indeed, during the final years of the war, lasting a year past Harry’s graduation, it was the Slytherins who were his most ardent aides. Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, even Crabbe and Goyle, Parkinson and Zabini - all had converted to his side and stood steadfastly by him, face to face with the bastard of a snake and his minions.
Slytherin loyalty, it seemed, was more durable than Gryffindor honor.
Dressing quickly now, Harry cast a final glance at his fiancée, and left their quarters.
Snape and Malfoy were waiting for him. There was no need to speak. Mutely, Draco took his left side, and Severus his right as they exited Hogwarts castle. Harry watched as, with ease of long practice, Severus’ eyes scoured the road ahead for possible traps, while Draco, wand in his left hand, had his right ready to push their Savior behind him should danger materialize ahead. Harry knew that somewhere behind him Zabini was walking, invisible, keeping their backs covered. Even six months after the war’s end, attacks were still very, very possible.
They left Hogwarts grounds. The walk to the Apparition point in Hogsmeade was long and trying for his leg, but Harry would never let anyone help him along. They made the painstakingly slow journey in patient silence; the Slytherins were long accustomed to Harry’s limp. Harry once again fell into his musings.
In retrospect, Harry felt he should have known.
Should have paid heed to the red gleams of hatred he’d seen in the young man’s eyes during the Triwizard Tournament.
Should have noted the rage he’d felt directed toward him when he, Harry Potter, had reached his majority and had been declared the most powerful wizard in the world.
He should have understood the slow change in appearance, the hollowed out look of jealousy and hatred which he had before seen in young Tom Riddle himself.
But, he had not, and now−
Harry winced as he relived the memory once more, heard the traitor’s fervent hiss, and Harry’s own panicked shout.
"Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus et Immobulus!”
Hermione Granger’s body crumbled lifelessly, and Ginny stared in horror at the scene, and at the man disarmed and bound only a second too late.
Harry’s heart clenched painfully as he remembered Neville, rushing into the common room.
“Harry! Ron! Ginny! Dumbledore’s asked me to send word… The Burrow, it’s been attacked. Someone let the Death Eaters in through the wards. I… I’m so sorry…T-they were all there…”
Harry stumbled, and was grateful for Draco’s steadying hand. “We’re almost there,” murmured the blonde. “Hang on.”
Harry nodded shakily. Soon they were past the wards, and they Apparated out.
~*~*~
Two years had passed since Hogwarts had lost its most brilliant student, and the wizarding world had said farewell to its most-loved family. And finally, today, was the trial for their murders.
Harry sat on the witness bench in the Wizengamot courtroom as the trial unfolded blurrily before his eye. He made conscious effort not to look at the man chained in the middle of the room, knowing he’d be sick if he did.
And then it was done.
“For the murder of Hermione Granger,” sounded the minister’s voice, “and for crucial assistance in the murders of Arthur, Molly, Charlie, Bill, Percy, Fred, and George Weasley,” the minister paused significantly, “Ronald Weasley is found guilty, and sentenced to death. As the dementors no longer serve us, an Auror of my choice will perform the Killing Curse, immediately.”
“Let me do it,” whispered Harry.
“Let me do it,” he repeated louder as he rose heavily from his seat. “I am your most tried and hardened Auror, Minister,” he called out, straightening proudly. “One more kill will do nothing to my soul.”
The minister paled, but nodded uncertainly, knowing he could not, would not argue. “Mr. Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class,” he announced, “will perform the Killing Curse.”
A collective gasp traveled through the room as Harry stepped down onto the floor of the courtroom. He shook his head jerkily when Draco Malfoy made to follow. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered, and the blonde sat back.
With measured steps, he approached the seat to which the traitor was bound. Ron’s face was twisted with rage and fear. “Harry!” he stuttered. “Harry, it’s just me! We’re mates, aren’t we? Weren’t we?”
Harry nodded slowly. “Yes,” he whispered. Out of the depths of his mind, a forgotten saying came to him, one he would have once, with no hesitation, called the Gryffindor slogan. He fixed his eye on the pale face of the one he had once called a friend, and raised his wand. Ron squirmed under his gaze. “Yes,” Harry murmured again. “But let justice run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.”
“Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, and the squirming was no more.
-------
Please click on the tag for more Gryffindor-centric stories!