[Fic] "Quietus" -- Harry Potter, G/H/D, Theme 21
Author: Elizabeth Culmer edenfalling
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter, Ginny/Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Theme: #21 - Naptime
Warnings: Darkfic. Very, very dark. Also, character death, non-traditional sexual arrangements, and extremely dubious moral choices.
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Quietus
---------------------------------------------
November 16th, and the war is going badly.
The Spanish Ministry has signed a treaty of alliance with Voldemort. He now holds England, and France, and Germany, and Poland, and most of eastern and central Europe. Via Russia, his grip extends -- albeit tenuously -- across northern Asia and is encroaching upon China and various former Soviet republics. Switzerland remains obstinately neutral. Italy will fall soon, Greece is desperate enough to make common cause with Turkey, and North Africa is being undermined from within. Wizards from the Americas have no experience fighting Voldemort's style of war -- they expect battles, not terrorist strikes, and they are, in any event, ultimately helpless to chop off the serpent's head.
We destroyed the last Horcrux, and discovered that Voldemort had created more. Seven is not the only magically powerful number. Nine is, as well. So is thirteen. His body is more snake than human these days, but he lives -- or is animate, in a ghastly parody of life -- and his power is as great as ever.
More times than I can count, Harry has barely escaped certain death. One day, mostly likely soon, his luck will fail. He will die, and our hope -- already a beaten, tenuous thing -- will perish with him.
This must not happen.
I have an idea. It first occurred to me a year ago, but I held my tongue; it is reprehensible, and unthinkable, and carries far too great a cost. And yet...
No. We fight a monster. We must not become him. We must not let him reshape the whole world in his image.
---------------
November 23rd, and the war is going badly.
Hermione lost three fingers yesterday. She forced a smile through the numbing potions and said it balanced the half a foot she left in Venice two years ago. Now, she says, all she needs is a scar on the back of her neck to match the one that slashes over the bridge of her nose, and she will be perfectly asymmetrically symmetrical.
I told her to sleep and notified Ron.
They are still so young, all of them, who took up the fight after the collapse of the Ministry and the destruction of the Order. What sort of lives can they make for themselves after this horror? How can they still hope, after losing their childhoods to this war, this struggle that our generation unforgivably failed to finish?
Already they abandon some of the structures of our society. Ron and Hermione are together, but the one time I raised the question of marriage, they treated me to blank stares. Since Neville's death, Luna has taken to visiting the wounded as a very earthly angel of mercy; she claims sexual intercourse is useful in stimulating her attempts to divine the location of Voldemort's latest Horcruxes and targets -- life energy to resonate in contrast to death. The Patil sisters and Cho Chang host ritual orgies every new moon -- to raise power, they say, to woo the dark spirits to us instead of Voldemort. And Harry...
I could understand Ginny. I suppose I could even understand Draco Malfoy, though he is male, a master of Dark Arts, and a traitor. (Sirius, rest him, was given to certain experiments and I learned not to judge.) But how the three of them fit together is beyond me. It is even more beyond me that nobody any longer thinks to protest Harry's involvement with an imperfectly reformed Death Eater.
Perhaps...
No. Luna has discovered a Horcrux -- the twelfth -- and the Italian wizards are standing unexpectedly firm with aid from America and Brazil. I will say nothing.
---------------
November 27th, and the war has gone to hell.
Forgive me.
We lost Luna. She destroyed the Horcrux, but it erupted in clinging flames, and none of our efforts could douse them in time.
She smiled as she burned. I will remember that smile until I die.
That may not be much longer, now.
Without Luna, we have no way to find the thirteenth Horcrux.
The children have withdrawn to the comfort of each others' bodies, in the old instinctive urge to assert life in the face of death. I stumbled across Harry and his lovers on top of Luna's divination table, knocking her charts and cards to the floor. They noted my presence, and dismissed me, untroubled by any observation. They scratched and bit each other like wild things, like birds of prey tearing into steaming corpses.
This is not my world.
The full moon is in three days. I have asked Harry to Apparate me to one of Voldemort's strongholds and release me to do what damage I may while my reason sleeps and the beast has free reign. He refused.
I will not speak against him. Not now. But I do not want to see more of them die.
I have seen my fill of death, and more. I want peace.
Tomorrow, I will tell Harry my idea.
---------------
November 28th, and the war is, perhaps, in flux.
Harry accepted.
This is my idea: until we find and destroy his final Horcrux, Voldemort cannot be killed. Harry, on the other hand, is constantly vulnerable. Furthermore, Voldemort can still split his soul and create more insurance against his death.
Since only Harry can kill Voldemort, we need to ensure his survival.
The obvious solution is a Horcrux.
Voldemort will never expect the move; he considers us too squeamish to even think of the idea, let alone consider and implement it. Even six months ago, I would have agreed. But now... I cannot see any other way. One crack in Harry's soul seems little enough against the cost of Voldemort's rule and eventual victory. And Harry has people to bandage his wounds, to shore up any gaps in his conscience that appear after the ritual. They should be enough to keep him from sliding further toward the dark.
I am to be the victim.
We perform the rite tomorrow, on the eve of the full moon.
---------------
November 29th, and the war...
I find I no longer care about the war. Oddly, the act of sacrifice has removed the lingering sense of responsibility I felt toward the children, the national resistance fronts, the collaborators who slip us the little aid they can eke past the Death Eaters, and all the others who struggle, in ways great and small, against Voldemort.
I am going to see Sirius again, and Tonks. I am going to see James and Lily. I am going to see my parents. I am going to see Dumbledore, and Minerva, and even Snape and Peter.
The room is dark, lit only by a ring of candles surrounding a clean patch of concrete. I stand in the center of the circle; Harry faces me, flames lighting his face from beneath. Ginny and Draco flank him, and Ron and Hermione stand behind, ready to catch him if magical or spiritual backlash overcomes him.
Harry asked me for a personal possession to use as the repository of his soul, so he would remember.
I have no personal possessions. I gave him a hoof pick Sirius used on Buckbeak, and which Tonks stole to use as a hairpin. It is the only memento I have managed to save through these past years, and that only because it makes a handy lock pick in situations where magic would be detected. I explained its significance. Harry nodded.
He draws his wand.
I close my eyes.
This world has become hell; Voldemort has made it so, and too often we cooperated or did not resist. I want no part of it any longer. Let those who inherit the earth find ways to heal both it and themselves.
I renounce my guilt, and my shame.
I am finished.
I am going home.
---------------------------------------------
End
---------------------------------------------
Full moon dates are accurate for 2001, unless I screwed up my research.
Also, edited 11/2/06 because I forgot Tonks. I cannot believe I forgot Tonks. *thwaps self*
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter, Ginny/Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Theme: #21 - Naptime
Warnings: Darkfic. Very, very dark. Also, character death, non-traditional sexual arrangements, and extremely dubious moral choices.
---------------------------------------------
Quietus
---------------------------------------------
November 16th, and the war is going badly.
The Spanish Ministry has signed a treaty of alliance with Voldemort. He now holds England, and France, and Germany, and Poland, and most of eastern and central Europe. Via Russia, his grip extends -- albeit tenuously -- across northern Asia and is encroaching upon China and various former Soviet republics. Switzerland remains obstinately neutral. Italy will fall soon, Greece is desperate enough to make common cause with Turkey, and North Africa is being undermined from within. Wizards from the Americas have no experience fighting Voldemort's style of war -- they expect battles, not terrorist strikes, and they are, in any event, ultimately helpless to chop off the serpent's head.
We destroyed the last Horcrux, and discovered that Voldemort had created more. Seven is not the only magically powerful number. Nine is, as well. So is thirteen. His body is more snake than human these days, but he lives -- or is animate, in a ghastly parody of life -- and his power is as great as ever.
More times than I can count, Harry has barely escaped certain death. One day, mostly likely soon, his luck will fail. He will die, and our hope -- already a beaten, tenuous thing -- will perish with him.
This must not happen.
I have an idea. It first occurred to me a year ago, but I held my tongue; it is reprehensible, and unthinkable, and carries far too great a cost. And yet...
No. We fight a monster. We must not become him. We must not let him reshape the whole world in his image.
---------------
November 23rd, and the war is going badly.
Hermione lost three fingers yesterday. She forced a smile through the numbing potions and said it balanced the half a foot she left in Venice two years ago. Now, she says, all she needs is a scar on the back of her neck to match the one that slashes over the bridge of her nose, and she will be perfectly asymmetrically symmetrical.
I told her to sleep and notified Ron.
They are still so young, all of them, who took up the fight after the collapse of the Ministry and the destruction of the Order. What sort of lives can they make for themselves after this horror? How can they still hope, after losing their childhoods to this war, this struggle that our generation unforgivably failed to finish?
Already they abandon some of the structures of our society. Ron and Hermione are together, but the one time I raised the question of marriage, they treated me to blank stares. Since Neville's death, Luna has taken to visiting the wounded as a very earthly angel of mercy; she claims sexual intercourse is useful in stimulating her attempts to divine the location of Voldemort's latest Horcruxes and targets -- life energy to resonate in contrast to death. The Patil sisters and Cho Chang host ritual orgies every new moon -- to raise power, they say, to woo the dark spirits to us instead of Voldemort. And Harry...
I could understand Ginny. I suppose I could even understand Draco Malfoy, though he is male, a master of Dark Arts, and a traitor. (Sirius, rest him, was given to certain experiments and I learned not to judge.) But how the three of them fit together is beyond me. It is even more beyond me that nobody any longer thinks to protest Harry's involvement with an imperfectly reformed Death Eater.
Perhaps...
No. Luna has discovered a Horcrux -- the twelfth -- and the Italian wizards are standing unexpectedly firm with aid from America and Brazil. I will say nothing.
---------------
November 27th, and the war has gone to hell.
Forgive me.
We lost Luna. She destroyed the Horcrux, but it erupted in clinging flames, and none of our efforts could douse them in time.
She smiled as she burned. I will remember that smile until I die.
That may not be much longer, now.
Without Luna, we have no way to find the thirteenth Horcrux.
The children have withdrawn to the comfort of each others' bodies, in the old instinctive urge to assert life in the face of death. I stumbled across Harry and his lovers on top of Luna's divination table, knocking her charts and cards to the floor. They noted my presence, and dismissed me, untroubled by any observation. They scratched and bit each other like wild things, like birds of prey tearing into steaming corpses.
This is not my world.
The full moon is in three days. I have asked Harry to Apparate me to one of Voldemort's strongholds and release me to do what damage I may while my reason sleeps and the beast has free reign. He refused.
I will not speak against him. Not now. But I do not want to see more of them die.
I have seen my fill of death, and more. I want peace.
Tomorrow, I will tell Harry my idea.
---------------
November 28th, and the war is, perhaps, in flux.
Harry accepted.
This is my idea: until we find and destroy his final Horcrux, Voldemort cannot be killed. Harry, on the other hand, is constantly vulnerable. Furthermore, Voldemort can still split his soul and create more insurance against his death.
Since only Harry can kill Voldemort, we need to ensure his survival.
The obvious solution is a Horcrux.
Voldemort will never expect the move; he considers us too squeamish to even think of the idea, let alone consider and implement it. Even six months ago, I would have agreed. But now... I cannot see any other way. One crack in Harry's soul seems little enough against the cost of Voldemort's rule and eventual victory. And Harry has people to bandage his wounds, to shore up any gaps in his conscience that appear after the ritual. They should be enough to keep him from sliding further toward the dark.
I am to be the victim.
We perform the rite tomorrow, on the eve of the full moon.
---------------
November 29th, and the war...
I find I no longer care about the war. Oddly, the act of sacrifice has removed the lingering sense of responsibility I felt toward the children, the national resistance fronts, the collaborators who slip us the little aid they can eke past the Death Eaters, and all the others who struggle, in ways great and small, against Voldemort.
I am going to see Sirius again, and Tonks. I am going to see James and Lily. I am going to see my parents. I am going to see Dumbledore, and Minerva, and even Snape and Peter.
The room is dark, lit only by a ring of candles surrounding a clean patch of concrete. I stand in the center of the circle; Harry faces me, flames lighting his face from beneath. Ginny and Draco flank him, and Ron and Hermione stand behind, ready to catch him if magical or spiritual backlash overcomes him.
Harry asked me for a personal possession to use as the repository of his soul, so he would remember.
I have no personal possessions. I gave him a hoof pick Sirius used on Buckbeak, and which Tonks stole to use as a hairpin. It is the only memento I have managed to save through these past years, and that only because it makes a handy lock pick in situations where magic would be detected. I explained its significance. Harry nodded.
He draws his wand.
I close my eyes.
This world has become hell; Voldemort has made it so, and too often we cooperated or did not resist. I want no part of it any longer. Let those who inherit the earth find ways to heal both it and themselves.
I renounce my guilt, and my shame.
I am finished.
I am going home.
---------------------------------------------
End
---------------------------------------------
Full moon dates are accurate for 2001, unless I screwed up my research.
Also, edited 11/2/06 because I forgot Tonks. I cannot believe I forgot Tonks. *thwaps self*