Shells of Men ( I )
Title: Shells of Men ( I )
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: "What good would it be to kill you if we're both already dead?"
Word Count: 775
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. It's actually for the one last week. 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.
This story arc is now beta'd by the wonderful and talented diclare, who has my eternal graditude!
Once upon a time, there was a Boy who Lived.
And once upon a time, there was a boy who hated him.
That seems such a long time ago, a lifetime ago. I think of those memories and it seems like I’m remembering a bad Muggle movie that I’ve seen with that young blonde boy performed by some horrible actor playing a warped version of Draco Malfoy.
Harry Potter vanquished the Dark Lord, just like he was supposed to. He ripped a piece of himself that was connected to that madman and sent him to meet his Maker. He didn’t know that it would leave him powerless, a shell of a man, and more dead than alive.
He might as well be dead.
Maybe I should kill him, put him out of his misery?
He lays on my bed, like a rag doll tossed aside by an errant child. A fitting analogy; that is exactly what happened to him. Now that his task is done, it seems that no one cares if he lived or died. In fact, many had hoped he would die, lest we run the risk of a new Dark Lord.
I stand in the doorway, holding a tray of food. He hasn’t eaten in days; he’s barely stirred.
“Potter, it’s time to eat,” I call, steady and firm.
Surprisingly, his eyes open, even if just barely. He surveys me before rolling over on his other side, his back facing me.
I set the tray on the nightstand beside the bed and sit beside him.
Now, keep in mind... I hated Harry Potter. Ever since I was young I knew who he was. When I figured out that we would be attending Hogwarts together, I yearned for his friendship. He spurned me, refused me. I never forgave him for that. I still don’t think I have.
Never let it be said, however, that I didn’t respect him. I did. I respected him in ways that the Mudblood and the Blood Trai- er, I mean Weasley... sorry, old habits die hard. I respected him in ways that Granger and Weasley would never - could never - understand. Not that they ever tried, mind you.
“I brought you some herbal tea and hot broth. It’s an old...” I was about to say ‘an old family recipe’, but he hates my family. And with good reason: they tried to kill him more times than not.
“Anyway,” I continue, my hands folded in my lap. I scarcely know what to do with them. “I bet you’d like it. You should try some.”
There’s no answer, no movement. I can see his chest moving, but just barely.
“Sod it all, Potter,” I scream. “You need to eat! You can’t just lie there and waste away!”
I grab him by his shoulders and lift him bodily until he’s sitting up. His head simply lolls around and he gives me little-to-no resistance. He doesn’t even have the decency to look put-off by the sudden movement.
“No, I take that back... you will not lie there and waste away! Not on my sheets!”
I shake him.
Nothing.
“Fine!” I shout, letting him fall back on the bed. “Have it your way, then. Die all you want, coward! See if I care!”
I draw my wand, resolute in my decision. I point it at this shell of a man that’s lying on my bed, the Killing Curse on the tip of my tongue. My teeth gnash. My upper lip curls. My eyes narrow. But my voice fails.
“I could do it,” I spit. “Don’t think that I couldn’t - or wouldn’t!”
No response; not a flinch, not a mumble.
I take my anger out on tray of food; screaming ‘Exploditus’ and watching, with some satisfaction, the bowl of broth explode. Waves of warm soup and broken glass splatter the walls, the floor, the nightstand, and the sheets. Some even manage to spill on Harry’s exposed skin. I take some pleasure knowing that, finally, he’s taken notice, cringing as if to protect himself. It was a shadow of a movement, really, but it was more than he’s moved on his own for days.
“Potter!”
Nothing.
I stomp my feet.
“Potter!”
Still, nothing.
"I should do it... But what good would it be to kill you if we're both already dead?"
I storm out of the room, too angry to see straight. But it’s not that he’s lying on my bed, deteriorating to nothingness right before my eyes. It’s not even because he resists every attempt for me to help or because he’s inconvenienced my already hectic life. No, I’m angry because, for the first time in my life, I actually pity him.
And I hate him for that.
~§~
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: "What good would it be to kill you if we're both already dead?"
Word Count: 775
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This came to me as an inspiration after looking at jamie2109 and nocturnali's AWDT post. It's actually for the one last week. 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.
This story arc is now beta'd by the wonderful and talented diclare, who has my eternal graditude!
Once upon a time, there was a Boy who Lived.
And once upon a time, there was a boy who hated him.
That seems such a long time ago, a lifetime ago. I think of those memories and it seems like I’m remembering a bad Muggle movie that I’ve seen with that young blonde boy performed by some horrible actor playing a warped version of Draco Malfoy.
Harry Potter vanquished the Dark Lord, just like he was supposed to. He ripped a piece of himself that was connected to that madman and sent him to meet his Maker. He didn’t know that it would leave him powerless, a shell of a man, and more dead than alive.
He might as well be dead.
Maybe I should kill him, put him out of his misery?
He lays on my bed, like a rag doll tossed aside by an errant child. A fitting analogy; that is exactly what happened to him. Now that his task is done, it seems that no one cares if he lived or died. In fact, many had hoped he would die, lest we run the risk of a new Dark Lord.
I stand in the doorway, holding a tray of food. He hasn’t eaten in days; he’s barely stirred.
“Potter, it’s time to eat,” I call, steady and firm.
Surprisingly, his eyes open, even if just barely. He surveys me before rolling over on his other side, his back facing me.
I set the tray on the nightstand beside the bed and sit beside him.
Now, keep in mind... I hated Harry Potter. Ever since I was young I knew who he was. When I figured out that we would be attending Hogwarts together, I yearned for his friendship. He spurned me, refused me. I never forgave him for that. I still don’t think I have.
Never let it be said, however, that I didn’t respect him. I did. I respected him in ways that the Mudblood and the Blood Trai- er, I mean Weasley... sorry, old habits die hard. I respected him in ways that Granger and Weasley would never - could never - understand. Not that they ever tried, mind you.
“I brought you some herbal tea and hot broth. It’s an old...” I was about to say ‘an old family recipe’, but he hates my family. And with good reason: they tried to kill him more times than not.
“Anyway,” I continue, my hands folded in my lap. I scarcely know what to do with them. “I bet you’d like it. You should try some.”
There’s no answer, no movement. I can see his chest moving, but just barely.
“Sod it all, Potter,” I scream. “You need to eat! You can’t just lie there and waste away!”
I grab him by his shoulders and lift him bodily until he’s sitting up. His head simply lolls around and he gives me little-to-no resistance. He doesn’t even have the decency to look put-off by the sudden movement.
“No, I take that back... you will not lie there and waste away! Not on my sheets!”
I shake him.
Nothing.
“Fine!” I shout, letting him fall back on the bed. “Have it your way, then. Die all you want, coward! See if I care!”
I draw my wand, resolute in my decision. I point it at this shell of a man that’s lying on my bed, the Killing Curse on the tip of my tongue. My teeth gnash. My upper lip curls. My eyes narrow. But my voice fails.
“I could do it,” I spit. “Don’t think that I couldn’t - or wouldn’t!”
No response; not a flinch, not a mumble.
I take my anger out on tray of food; screaming ‘Exploditus’ and watching, with some satisfaction, the bowl of broth explode. Waves of warm soup and broken glass splatter the walls, the floor, the nightstand, and the sheets. Some even manage to spill on Harry’s exposed skin. I take some pleasure knowing that, finally, he’s taken notice, cringing as if to protect himself. It was a shadow of a movement, really, but it was more than he’s moved on his own for days.
“Potter!”
Nothing.
I stomp my feet.
“Potter!”
Still, nothing.
"I should do it... But what good would it be to kill you if we're both already dead?"
I storm out of the room, too angry to see straight. But it’s not that he’s lying on my bed, deteriorating to nothingness right before my eyes. It’s not even because he resists every attempt for me to help or because he’s inconvenienced my already hectic life. No, I’m angry because, for the first time in my life, I actually pity him.
And I hate him for that.
~§~