c is for cookie, that's good enough for me
There is a screen in the air. And in it, eyes watch; fearful, dull eyes. Eyes like slate, suddenly arousing a vibrant burst of color and calm, snuffing the screams in the man-boy’s head. A moan sounds, and as it echoes the screen swells, filling the man-boy’s vision. The eyes, encased in shadow and light, flicker, and shake. They are, very nearly, nearly almost, like the piercing ones, the eyes he felt in showers and cold tile. The eyes, with a voice, that say his name.
The man-boy; he stands. And slowly, he watches as his joints straighten. There is a darkness that shrouds, that surrounds him. If he was not trapped behind the screen, he would be suffocating. The eyes falter with every step he takes. The man-boy, he grows, and before him the walls bleed. The plants darken, droop, wither, seeping a green into the stone, and it flows in rivers. The screen is tainted dark green, like a forest at twilight, and the curtains fall soundlessly behind him as the windows creep open. Slow currents of energy are slinking, slipping, sliding into the room. There is, he hears, an early song-bird on the railing outside the window, and gradually its song fades, the notes and the melody losing pace, losing pitch.
And plummets, to stone and sleep.
The eyes watch, ever watching, and do not blink.
Suddenly an old screen, cracked and fading, invades the man-boy’s vision. Its edges are dull, chipped, and the picture within distorted. But in it, clearly, the same eyes watch. And the man-boy listens as a voice close to him cackles, close to him sneers;
“That’s what happens when you take your mind off your goal, boy.”
It is deep, and it is mocking, and he watches as a lone figure stalks down a hall, as the lone figure turns its head briefly and faces the eyes. And the eyes, they are shaking, they are dull, and in a flash of green light, the lone figure slumps mid-step, its face lost in bleak betrayal.
The eyes watch, ever watching, and do not blink.
“Are you happy?” The eyes are flooding. They waver as they move farther from him, from the figure on the floor. “My father’s dead. I killed him.”
The world, now red, blurs. Laughter, bubbles, bellows, bursts in and through him, and the man-boy is shriveling inside. The laughter, malevolent laughter, like a foreign virus, controls itself, controls its host, and as the eyes turn and flee the man-boy’s mind is dying, entrapped in screens and preserved with memories as his body flees.
But the laughter, and the screams in the screens, follow.
The aged screen disappears. And in its place the eyes are staring, staggering forward. The green that seeps from the walls, the plants, the bird, and now the eyes, is thicker than blood, and the eyes are closing, falling to the ground.
But the man-boy’s starting forward, and he sees his limbs; they are moving of their own accord and catch the eyes. And there’s a spark, a jolt of a curse, like muggle electricity, that runs through his arms as they come into contact with the eye’s… arms. The limbs and the folds of fabric, soft and slick against him. And there is something in him, something that is starting and moving, twitching. And now he knows, and he remembers.
The body, the boy with the eyes shudders as he whispers,
“Dr-draco.”
♥