Morituri (te salutant). [Harry Potter, fanfic100.]
Well, I'm back with more HP fic.
I feel as though I've written this story a dozen times, only...it's rather from a different angle this time, eh?
[Funnily enough, it's based on a dream I had, which seems to suggest that heavy French novels about Algerian wars do not make good bedtime stories.]
A bit dark; warning for torture-related unpleasantnesses.
Being used to fill o71: broken for fanfic100.
Title: Morituri (te salutant).
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: genfic, Frank & Alice + Crouch, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Bellatrix
Alice is swooned across Barty Crouch’s lap. The dark waves of her hair spill over his leg, trail on the floor - and Barty’s laughing notes of wicked glee into the silence that evolved when all the screaming stopped. He leans over her, whispers those unforgivable syllables again, but this time he’s only rewarded by a twitch and a whimper.
“I say, you’d best take it a bit easier,” murmurs Rodolphus, looking from the notebook in which he’s carefully been recording notes of the night’s proceedings, as if the whole thing was nothing more than a particularly difficult scientific experiment. “Research shows that torture’s best done in moderation, if you’ve any intention of actually uncovering useful information.” He purses his lips, stares almost clinically at Alice. With one finger, he prods gently at one of her eyelids, but there’s no reaction. “Oh dear,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Perhaps I should have said something sooner.”
“Idiot,” snarls Bellatrix, stepping delicately over the prone form of Frank Longbottom as she crosses the room. She snatches the notebook from her husband’s unresisting hands. “It doesn’t matter anyway. These two never knew anything useful to begin with, just look at them.” Her fingers whiten as she grips the book. “They’ll come for us, you know. Aurors don’t let anyone get away, especially not after doing this. I don’t know why I ever agreed to this idiotic…”
“They were coming for us anyway,” says Rabastan in a small childlike voice. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get the sound of the screams out of his head; he’s thrown up three times today. “Frank found me. He was going to bring me in,” he adds, but it doesn’t matter, because no-one’s listening. He looks down at Frank, at the other man’s glassy blue-eyed gaze, and shakes his head. “This is barbaric. I’m ending it,” he says, louder, decisively, and he takes his wand, points it towards the almost-corpse, says “Avada”.
“Wait! Wait, you imbecile, he’s saying something!” Bellatrix’s eyes gleam. “Listen,” she hisses.
Rabastan watches Frank’s lips moving, kneels beside the body. For a moment, he fancies a spark of recognition in the Auror’s lifeless eyes. Frank’s voice is soft, whispering “Human on my faithless arm, time and fevers burn away individual beauty from thoughtful children and the grave proves the child ephemeral, but in my arms until the break of day,”
“What is it?” Bellatrix demands, and Rabastan shakes his head.
“It’s nothing. Just a poem,” he replies. For the first time he’s actually feeling guilty. It’s foolish to feel guilty, he knows that. It’s not as though Frank would have done anything different. Frank was going to turn them it. It’s not as though the Aurors would have shown them any mercy.
“A poem? I should note that…Bella, my book?” asks Rodolphus.
“No, no more books…it’s evidence, we’ll have to get rid of that for when the Aurors come,” she replies. Her husband looks crestfallen. “Barty, this is - without a doubt! - the single worst idea you have ever had. You’d better hope they get here before I kill you myself.”
Barty is stroking Alice’s hair, almost lovingly. At Bellatrix’s threat, he merely laughs. “Would you rather go down like cowards, honestly, would you? They were coming for us anyway. They always were. It’s been a losing battle from the very beginning, let alone since Halloween. Without Him we’re nothing.”
“He’ll be back. He will return and He will conquer,” declares Bellatrix, proudly. (Rodolphus takes this opportunity to grab his notebook back, so he can make note of the poetry before he forgets, as that must be a telling detail.) “He will reward those of us who have believed.”
“No,” says Barty, airily. “We’re all going to die, but at least now we’ll have made a stand. Do you think they’d have given us a real trial? They’d have put us away for nothing. Would you have had that one,” he nodded towards Rabastan, “been sent to Azkaban for writing pamphlets and scheduling meetings and making tea? At least now we’ve done something to be proud of.” He gathers up Alice into his arms.
“This is something to be proud of?” wonders Rabastan. He prods at Frank’s shoulder with his toe, but gets no reaction. The other man’s quieted; his eyes have once again fixed gazed unblinking on the ceiling. Rodolphus scribbles notes in something of a frenzy. Bellatrix paces circles around the room.
Quiet falls again.
Everyone is startled by Alice’s shrill scream.
(And then, the Aurors.)
I feel as though I've written this story a dozen times, only...it's rather from a different angle this time, eh?
[Funnily enough, it's based on a dream I had, which seems to suggest that heavy French novels about Algerian wars do not make good bedtime stories.]
A bit dark; warning for torture-related unpleasantnesses.
Being used to fill o71: broken for fanfic100.
Title: Morituri (te salutant).
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: genfic, Frank & Alice + Crouch, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Bellatrix
Alice is swooned across Barty Crouch’s lap. The dark waves of her hair spill over his leg, trail on the floor - and Barty’s laughing notes of wicked glee into the silence that evolved when all the screaming stopped. He leans over her, whispers those unforgivable syllables again, but this time he’s only rewarded by a twitch and a whimper.
“I say, you’d best take it a bit easier,” murmurs Rodolphus, looking from the notebook in which he’s carefully been recording notes of the night’s proceedings, as if the whole thing was nothing more than a particularly difficult scientific experiment. “Research shows that torture’s best done in moderation, if you’ve any intention of actually uncovering useful information.” He purses his lips, stares almost clinically at Alice. With one finger, he prods gently at one of her eyelids, but there’s no reaction. “Oh dear,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Perhaps I should have said something sooner.”
“Idiot,” snarls Bellatrix, stepping delicately over the prone form of Frank Longbottom as she crosses the room. She snatches the notebook from her husband’s unresisting hands. “It doesn’t matter anyway. These two never knew anything useful to begin with, just look at them.” Her fingers whiten as she grips the book. “They’ll come for us, you know. Aurors don’t let anyone get away, especially not after doing this. I don’t know why I ever agreed to this idiotic…”
“They were coming for us anyway,” says Rabastan in a small childlike voice. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get the sound of the screams out of his head; he’s thrown up three times today. “Frank found me. He was going to bring me in,” he adds, but it doesn’t matter, because no-one’s listening. He looks down at Frank, at the other man’s glassy blue-eyed gaze, and shakes his head. “This is barbaric. I’m ending it,” he says, louder, decisively, and he takes his wand, points it towards the almost-corpse, says “Avada”.
“Wait! Wait, you imbecile, he’s saying something!” Bellatrix’s eyes gleam. “Listen,” she hisses.
Rabastan watches Frank’s lips moving, kneels beside the body. For a moment, he fancies a spark of recognition in the Auror’s lifeless eyes. Frank’s voice is soft, whispering “Human on my faithless arm, time and fevers burn away individual beauty from thoughtful children and the grave proves the child ephemeral, but in my arms until the break of day,”
“What is it?” Bellatrix demands, and Rabastan shakes his head.
“It’s nothing. Just a poem,” he replies. For the first time he’s actually feeling guilty. It’s foolish to feel guilty, he knows that. It’s not as though Frank would have done anything different. Frank was going to turn them it. It’s not as though the Aurors would have shown them any mercy.
“A poem? I should note that…Bella, my book?” asks Rodolphus.
“No, no more books…it’s evidence, we’ll have to get rid of that for when the Aurors come,” she replies. Her husband looks crestfallen. “Barty, this is - without a doubt! - the single worst idea you have ever had. You’d better hope they get here before I kill you myself.”
Barty is stroking Alice’s hair, almost lovingly. At Bellatrix’s threat, he merely laughs. “Would you rather go down like cowards, honestly, would you? They were coming for us anyway. They always were. It’s been a losing battle from the very beginning, let alone since Halloween. Without Him we’re nothing.”
“He’ll be back. He will return and He will conquer,” declares Bellatrix, proudly. (Rodolphus takes this opportunity to grab his notebook back, so he can make note of the poetry before he forgets, as that must be a telling detail.) “He will reward those of us who have believed.”
“No,” says Barty, airily. “We’re all going to die, but at least now we’ll have made a stand. Do you think they’d have given us a real trial? They’d have put us away for nothing. Would you have had that one,” he nodded towards Rabastan, “been sent to Azkaban for writing pamphlets and scheduling meetings and making tea? At least now we’ve done something to be proud of.” He gathers up Alice into his arms.
“This is something to be proud of?” wonders Rabastan. He prods at Frank’s shoulder with his toe, but gets no reaction. The other man’s quieted; his eyes have once again fixed gazed unblinking on the ceiling. Rodolphus scribbles notes in something of a frenzy. Bellatrix paces circles around the room.
Quiet falls again.
Everyone is startled by Alice’s shrill scream.
(And then, the Aurors.)