untitled: pg, gen

Harry’s alone in the office, save for a cold cup of coffee that attempts to turn the same shade of drab grey as its surroundings. It doesn’t succeed – it hasn’t yet quite acquired the limp defeat of the rest of the objects in the room. The desk (once Sirius’) has begun to sag under the weight of countless papers and the endless stream of Aurors who beg to sit on it, rub it a little, for a touch of Harry’s luck. It never works, he wants to tell them, he can list the number of people who have touched it and gone to their deaths; there are more than he can count on his fingers, his toes even. But they never listen anyway, and he takes comfort that at least he sends them to their death with the joy of touching a piece of Saint Potter. 

reverie: pg, drabble

You know just what to say. Kill me like you did the first time–come on now. 

Harry knows what lies in wait behind the door, and he grips his wand just a little more tightly. His nails dig into the flesh of his palm, leaving faint half-moons that hurt just enough to remind him what he’s here for. The pain at least, is a constant in this strangely shifting emptiness. The silence whispers to him, promises him finality, and he’s almost tempted to turn around, walk away from the Manor, from this familiar door that mocks him with memories of sticky sheets and sweat-slick bodies. 

He is so caught up in reverie that he never notices someone sneak up from behind until he hears the sound of gravel hitting the step. Harry whirls around, his wand out and ready, but it is only Malfoy, pretending his still owns the place, his long hair tickling his neck and his back proud and erect. Malfoy has never been beautiful, his features too sharp and his lips too thin, but Harry’s heart has started pounding an unsteady tattoo against his ribcage and his mouth suddenly feels dry. He curses himself, but the low mutter fails to escape Malfoy’s sharp ears.

only the dead: pg, short

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
–Plato

They told him death would come in a blaze of colour. They beguiled him with tales of curses and weeping women and resting places under the willow tree. 

They didn’t tell him that death could lurk in skilled fingers, in kiss-swollen lips, or in dark corners away from prying eyes. Nobody dandled him on their knee once upon a timeand warned him that death came with beauty and a final flash of green. But nobody had to die – only the fools who believed in the lies. 

And in the end, it is Neville who saves the world; good, old, dutiful Neville, who bravely bears the prophecy on rounded shoulders and exits the world in the stolen blaze of glory. Fickle history doesn’t remember how many times Neville blew up his cauldron or got himself sent to the Hospital Wing; it forgets grubby hands and a nervous stutter. His portraits hang from distinguished establishments, all wrongfully steely eyes and white hands, and nobody notices his bitter smile. 

As consolation to the almost-hero, they dash off a condensed eulogy (he survived a curse by Voldemort in his youth…) and make him into yet another forgettable Chocolate Frog card. After all, he’s just an embarrassment, better to be overlooked and hidden away in cheap, dark packets, instead of marbled memorials that take up space and have to be paid for. 

He blinks now, bleary-eyed, as sunlight strikes his eyes (it’s been a long time) and the blurred image in front of him sharpens, focuses, so that he can just make out puzzled brown eyes. He smiles and waves, of course, to be polite, like he was taught so long ago.

Smiling brings out your eyes, boy.

“Who’s Harry Potter?” Brown-eyes turns to ask his companion.

A glimpse of a generously freckled nose and flaming red hair is a painful reminder and he shrinks into the frame, remembering disapproval and overdue regret. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Harry Potter! He’s the boy everybody thought was prophesied to save us from Voldemort, but it turned out to be Neville Longbottom instead.” 

The voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper.

“…he was a traitor, y’know, sleeping with the enemy and all that – but there wasn’t any proof after the war and they decided to close an eye. You can keep him though; what I want is the Longbottom one but I’ve never been able to find any.”

He mercifully lets himself sink back into the flimsy cardboard, ignoring surprised gasps at his disappearance well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day, and finds cold comfort instead, in dreams of power, glory and oblivion.