Dabble in Drabble, Element: Malfoys, Tone: Dark & Angsty
Pairing: None
Summary: I asked my f-list to provide me with elements for some drabbles. This was the result.
Rating: R (for mature themes)
Author's Note: This is a combination of elements from peki (Malfoys, Good! Lucius) and fallenwitch (well, you know what she wanted). And I made it a la Cormac McCarthy, just for her too.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The man handed the boy a gun.
"Take it. Take it, for Circe's sake," he demanded, spitting.
"What do you want me to do with it?" The boy asked, letting the man drop the gun in his hand. It felt like Death resting on his palm.
"You know what to do."
The boy shook his head. "No." He wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that.
"You will and you can if you have to." The man reached out and wrapped the boy's cold grimy fingers around the gun. "Remember. If they catch us, put the gun in your mouth and point up. You remember how to shoot it, right?"
The boy nodded and grimaced. "Why can't I just use Ava-" He couldn't say it. He said instead, "Why can't I use the Killing Curse?"
"Because you have to mean it. And you won't mean it." The man's eyes glinted silver in the dark. "Even though you know what they will do to you if they caught you, you won't mean it."
"What if the Aurors catch us instead?"
"Are they any better now?" The man barked.
The boy shook his head. They wouldn't show them any mercy, even if they had defected, even if they didn't serve Him any longer. "But what if, what if it's - you know?"
The man was about the snarl again but then he looked into the boy's wide grey eyes and knew that he couldn't stomp out that last glimmer of hope. It was all there was in his world. This last hope. In the boy's eyes. In his boy's eyes.
"Maybe. Maybe the right people will catch us then." He looked down. He took the gun once again, but only to push it into the waistband of the boy's trouser, held up by a strip of torn cloth. "C'mon, let's go."
***
They were running. They were running and it felt like their lungs would burst. The boy wanted to cough. He had been coughing blood for days, weeks. He wasn't sure. He could not keep track of the days and the nights anymore. He was sightless. All there was, all there ever was, was his father. That was all he could see, all he could understand.
He stumbled. But he did not fall. He could not fall now or he would be caught - his father would be caught.
The man and the boy kept running. But then, there was no place to run.
The man knew this. He pushed the boy, pushed him behind a broken wall, hidden in shadows, hidden from view, his bright white hair too dirty to reflect the light anymore.
And the man turned, turned to see his former allies, now his enemies, now his executioners. The black hoods. The white masks. Swarming. Their evil grins, laughing, laughing. It was never meant to be like this. It was never meant to be like this.
He hoped it would be quick. He knew it would not be.
The boy. His boy. He didn't want to hear the shot go through his precious skull. He didn't want to hear it. But he hoped he would do it.
The boy saw the others close in on the man. They used to be the man's friends. They used to sit in their parlor and smoke cigars. The man stood tall, straight, he would not go down without a fight, as someone - someone less than a man - joined the circle, slithering forth.
"Kill him - slowly," it hissed.
No. The boy wouldn't allow it. Before the first curse fell, the boy cocked the gun, squeezed the trigger, fired his only bullet. Then the boy sat back - with his father's face - and waited for them to come for him.
Drabble Index
Summary: I asked my f-list to provide me with elements for some drabbles. This was the result.
Rating: R (for mature themes)
Author's Note: This is a combination of elements from peki (Malfoys, Good! Lucius) and fallenwitch (well, you know what she wanted). And I made it a la Cormac McCarthy, just for her too.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The man handed the boy a gun.
"Take it. Take it, for Circe's sake," he demanded, spitting.
"What do you want me to do with it?" The boy asked, letting the man drop the gun in his hand. It felt like Death resting on his palm.
"You know what to do."
The boy shook his head. "No." He wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that.
"You will and you can if you have to." The man reached out and wrapped the boy's cold grimy fingers around the gun. "Remember. If they catch us, put the gun in your mouth and point up. You remember how to shoot it, right?"
The boy nodded and grimaced. "Why can't I just use Ava-" He couldn't say it. He said instead, "Why can't I use the Killing Curse?"
"Because you have to mean it. And you won't mean it." The man's eyes glinted silver in the dark. "Even though you know what they will do to you if they caught you, you won't mean it."
"What if the Aurors catch us instead?"
"Are they any better now?" The man barked.
The boy shook his head. They wouldn't show them any mercy, even if they had defected, even if they didn't serve Him any longer. "But what if, what if it's - you know?"
The man was about the snarl again but then he looked into the boy's wide grey eyes and knew that he couldn't stomp out that last glimmer of hope. It was all there was in his world. This last hope. In the boy's eyes. In his boy's eyes.
"Maybe. Maybe the right people will catch us then." He looked down. He took the gun once again, but only to push it into the waistband of the boy's trouser, held up by a strip of torn cloth. "C'mon, let's go."
***
They were running. They were running and it felt like their lungs would burst. The boy wanted to cough. He had been coughing blood for days, weeks. He wasn't sure. He could not keep track of the days and the nights anymore. He was sightless. All there was, all there ever was, was his father. That was all he could see, all he could understand.
He stumbled. But he did not fall. He could not fall now or he would be caught - his father would be caught.
The man and the boy kept running. But then, there was no place to run.
The man knew this. He pushed the boy, pushed him behind a broken wall, hidden in shadows, hidden from view, his bright white hair too dirty to reflect the light anymore.
And the man turned, turned to see his former allies, now his enemies, now his executioners. The black hoods. The white masks. Swarming. Their evil grins, laughing, laughing. It was never meant to be like this. It was never meant to be like this.
He hoped it would be quick. He knew it would not be.
The boy. His boy. He didn't want to hear the shot go through his precious skull. He didn't want to hear it. But he hoped he would do it.
The boy saw the others close in on the man. They used to be the man's friends. They used to sit in their parlor and smoke cigars. The man stood tall, straight, he would not go down without a fight, as someone - someone less than a man - joined the circle, slithering forth.
"Kill him - slowly," it hissed.
No. The boy wouldn't allow it. Before the first curse fell, the boy cocked the gun, squeezed the trigger, fired his only bullet. Then the boy sat back - with his father's face - and waited for them to come for him.
Drabble Index