Shells of Men ( III ) -- The Flashback (pt.a)
Title: Shells of Men ( III )
Author: physixxx
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Written for: AWDT challenge
Prompt: "You're never going to find one who doesn't make you cry."
Word Count: 937
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. I figure what I'll do is use the AWDT prompts ONLY to tell the story. I have NO IDEA how this will turn out. I'm basing it off of the prompts only.
The moment I step completely into the centre of the pentacle, the scene around me changes. The familiar walls and windows fade out, though not entirely, as the dark backdrop of the Forbidden Forest comes into view. As used to this as I am, it is still; I can see faint traces of my Atrium, like wisps of motionless smoke shaped into the recognisable fixtures of my home. My musings are interrupted - as I knew they would be - by a thunderous explosion, the sound of war.
Harry Potter limps into view, walking backwards into a clearing of the forest that is amazingly, if not conspicuously, devoid of trees. He looks surprised and angry more than hurt, despite his flesh being torn a good deal more than his tatty clothing. Walking backwards into the clearing with one hand holding the shoulder of his wand arm, he gnashes his teeth as he fires a series of hexes and curses deep into the forest. Finally, a force bolt strikes him square in his chest, sending him flying to the ground a mere stone’s throw from me. He tries to pull himself to his feet. His movements are belaboured and his breathing shallow; he’s dying.
Voldemort comes into view and you could not see a happier man. It was as if it were his birthday, Christmas, and the anniversary of his first shag all rolled into one. His wand isn’t even at the ready, though it is still drawn. The smile on the Dark Lord’s thinned lips bespeaks of confidence - the kind you get from being told you could not win, believing it, and then defying the odds.
“Wh-why are you doing this?” Potter asks, his words mere gasps for breath as he clutches at his chest where the curse struck.
“Must you ask?” Voldemort replies. He saunters to the fallen hero and kneels within arm’s reach. As if cosseting a pet he just finished disciplining, Voldemort runs his fingers through Potter’s hair before wiping blood and tears from the boy’s cheeks. “I could give you a thousand reasons, and a million more excuses. Pick one, any one. You’re never going to find one that doesn’t make you cry.”
His laugh bellows from deep in his stomach. The trees seem to rustle at its resonance, as if the thought of him shook the world.
“You knew this would happen, my pet. It was written in the stars,” he says as his head tilts to the sky, as if reading the heavens at that very moment. “Your mother knew, as well, even though she tried with all her might to deny me.”
He leans in closer to Potter, whose eyes filled with fear, and whispered, “But there is no denying me, Harry.”
“Harry? But I’m not...”
He stands erect, a new resolve colouring his face as he points his wand at Potter’s heart. (Now, pay close attention to the detail - I’m particularly proud of this). Even as Lord Voldemort whispers the Killing Curse, the air around Potter shimmers and ripples, like tranquil waters being disturbed by thrown stones. The image of his fallen enemy is replaced with that of his most devoted servant - Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes open and vacant, unseeing. I must admit, the sight of her dead body innerves me, still - she is family, after all.
“W-what is this trickery?”
The Dark Lord looks more than befuddled. He spins on his heels as the entire clearing fades from view. He finds himself on a dais, a large slab of rock elevated high from the ground. “Trees” along the inner edge of the glade turns into staves that shoot up high above the ground. On its ends are metallic globes, glowing with a light that feels older than time. On the ground, stones and boulders of varying shapes and sizes are lined in a manner to form a pentagram, with Voldemort dead centre. Aurors step out from the forest, simultaneously firing curses at the Dark Lord, who barely has time to realise he’s been had.
And why would he believe such a thing? He had already fought Potter twice and soundly defeated him, almost killing him. When the Death Eaters got wind that Bellatrix had severely injured Potter, Voldemort believed it was time to face him again. It was one of the Weasleys’ idea to use my sweet aunt as the Potter ruse, a surprisingly brilliant plan.
Shaken by the turn of events and the sheer magnitude of the Aurors’ attacks, he is quickly brought to his knees, wheezing in aspiration. His eyes dart around the forest, looking for help. He’ll find none; they’ve all been dealt with. Instead, he finds a small cadre of Weasleys (Bill, Charlie, and Ron), Granger, Shacklebolt, Tonks, Theodore Nott, Scrimgeour himself, and, of course, Potter, whose rage matches Lord Voldemort’s own.
“In the name of the Ministry of Magic,” Scrimgeour announces, as if presiding over some official precession. “I hereby charge you with crimes against humanity, wizarding and otherwise. You are hereby sentenced to-”
Voldemort’s laughter is high-pitched and strained between bouts of coughing. “Do you... plan to... arrest me, then, Minister?” He extends his arms, crossing his wrists and pouting, mockingly, before continuing his mix of chortling and hawking.
A sneer stretches along Scrimgeour’s battered face. “As Minister of Magic in this time of war, Riddle-”
“You dare call me that!” Voldemort spat, no longer smiling.
“-I have the droit and the mandate of judge, jury, and executioner,” the Minister continues, unfazed by the Dark Lord’s scorn.
“Do your worst, gnat,” he snarls. “I have guaranteed my immortality, rest assured.”
Lord Voldemort's eyes fix on Potter.
§
( Next Chapter >> The Memory Continues )
Author: physixxx
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Written for: AWDT challenge
Prompt: "You're never going to find one who doesn't make you cry."
Word Count: 937
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. I figure what I'll do is use the AWDT prompts ONLY to tell the story. I have NO IDEA how this will turn out. I'm basing it off of the prompts only.
The moment I step completely into the centre of the pentacle, the scene around me changes. The familiar walls and windows fade out, though not entirely, as the dark backdrop of the Forbidden Forest comes into view. As used to this as I am, it is still; I can see faint traces of my Atrium, like wisps of motionless smoke shaped into the recognisable fixtures of my home. My musings are interrupted - as I knew they would be - by a thunderous explosion, the sound of war.
Harry Potter limps into view, walking backwards into a clearing of the forest that is amazingly, if not conspicuously, devoid of trees. He looks surprised and angry more than hurt, despite his flesh being torn a good deal more than his tatty clothing. Walking backwards into the clearing with one hand holding the shoulder of his wand arm, he gnashes his teeth as he fires a series of hexes and curses deep into the forest. Finally, a force bolt strikes him square in his chest, sending him flying to the ground a mere stone’s throw from me. He tries to pull himself to his feet. His movements are belaboured and his breathing shallow; he’s dying.
Voldemort comes into view and you could not see a happier man. It was as if it were his birthday, Christmas, and the anniversary of his first shag all rolled into one. His wand isn’t even at the ready, though it is still drawn. The smile on the Dark Lord’s thinned lips bespeaks of confidence - the kind you get from being told you could not win, believing it, and then defying the odds.
“Wh-why are you doing this?” Potter asks, his words mere gasps for breath as he clutches at his chest where the curse struck.
“Must you ask?” Voldemort replies. He saunters to the fallen hero and kneels within arm’s reach. As if cosseting a pet he just finished disciplining, Voldemort runs his fingers through Potter’s hair before wiping blood and tears from the boy’s cheeks. “I could give you a thousand reasons, and a million more excuses. Pick one, any one. You’re never going to find one that doesn’t make you cry.”
His laugh bellows from deep in his stomach. The trees seem to rustle at its resonance, as if the thought of him shook the world.
“You knew this would happen, my pet. It was written in the stars,” he says as his head tilts to the sky, as if reading the heavens at that very moment. “Your mother knew, as well, even though she tried with all her might to deny me.”
He leans in closer to Potter, whose eyes filled with fear, and whispered, “But there is no denying me, Harry.”
“Harry? But I’m not...”
He stands erect, a new resolve colouring his face as he points his wand at Potter’s heart. (Now, pay close attention to the detail - I’m particularly proud of this). Even as Lord Voldemort whispers the Killing Curse, the air around Potter shimmers and ripples, like tranquil waters being disturbed by thrown stones. The image of his fallen enemy is replaced with that of his most devoted servant - Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes open and vacant, unseeing. I must admit, the sight of her dead body innerves me, still - she is family, after all.
“W-what is this trickery?”
The Dark Lord looks more than befuddled. He spins on his heels as the entire clearing fades from view. He finds himself on a dais, a large slab of rock elevated high from the ground. “Trees” along the inner edge of the glade turns into staves that shoot up high above the ground. On its ends are metallic globes, glowing with a light that feels older than time. On the ground, stones and boulders of varying shapes and sizes are lined in a manner to form a pentagram, with Voldemort dead centre. Aurors step out from the forest, simultaneously firing curses at the Dark Lord, who barely has time to realise he’s been had.
And why would he believe such a thing? He had already fought Potter twice and soundly defeated him, almost killing him. When the Death Eaters got wind that Bellatrix had severely injured Potter, Voldemort believed it was time to face him again. It was one of the Weasleys’ idea to use my sweet aunt as the Potter ruse, a surprisingly brilliant plan.
Shaken by the turn of events and the sheer magnitude of the Aurors’ attacks, he is quickly brought to his knees, wheezing in aspiration. His eyes dart around the forest, looking for help. He’ll find none; they’ve all been dealt with. Instead, he finds a small cadre of Weasleys (Bill, Charlie, and Ron), Granger, Shacklebolt, Tonks, Theodore Nott, Scrimgeour himself, and, of course, Potter, whose rage matches Lord Voldemort’s own.
“In the name of the Ministry of Magic,” Scrimgeour announces, as if presiding over some official precession. “I hereby charge you with crimes against humanity, wizarding and otherwise. You are hereby sentenced to-”
Voldemort’s laughter is high-pitched and strained between bouts of coughing. “Do you... plan to... arrest me, then, Minister?” He extends his arms, crossing his wrists and pouting, mockingly, before continuing his mix of chortling and hawking.
A sneer stretches along Scrimgeour’s battered face. “As Minister of Magic in this time of war, Riddle-”
“You dare call me that!” Voldemort spat, no longer smiling.
“-I have the droit and the mandate of judge, jury, and executioner,” the Minister continues, unfazed by the Dark Lord’s scorn.
“Do your worst, gnat,” he snarls. “I have guaranteed my immortality, rest assured.”
Lord Voldemort's eyes fix on Potter.
§
( Next Chapter >> The Memory Continues )