FIC: Seven
May. 15th, 2003 01:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ivyblossomTitle: Seven
Pairing: Harry/Draco, but only a little
Rating: PG
A/N: This may be the most depressing thing I've ever written in my life. And not in a very interesting way, either. But I did get to play with tenses and stuff, which is pleasing, and it kept me from writing snarky lj posts, which is just a bonus in general. I had never considered the fact that love is actually not a virtue until just now. Does that strike anyone else as rather sad? So consider this a bleakness warning: this fic is very bleak.
Seven
For months Harry Potter has dreamed of nothing but Voldemort. Voldemort in flames, disembodied and screaming, undead and spitting blood, tearing out of portraits, his dormitory ceiling, Ron's Transfiguration textbook, and out of Hermione's stomach like a razor-clawed fetus desperate for air. Harry doesn't wake up screaming because in his dreams his mouth is sewn shut, has been sliced off, or never existed in the first place. He dreams that he is a deaf mute and the things he sees make him wish he were blind.
Harry has never felt more powerful, or more alone. He knows that his dreams are an intimation of something far more sinister; he knows that Voldemort is at Hogwarts. He's been there for months, laughing at how easy it was to sneak in undetected, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Harry has seen him many times walking through dusty corridors, falling asleep in armchairs, searching through ancient libraries in the forgotten wings of the school. Harry's scar aches all the time now but he has learned to ignore it. It's almost comforting, a throbbing reminder that he is still human and still alive. For the moment.
Voldemort can do whatever he wants as far as Harry is concerned. He knows that only one person will die because of Voldemort's presence in the school, and Harry knows that it will be him. He even knows when it will happen. He's got a few weeks to go and it feels like a luxuriously long time.
Harry has developed a gift. All his life he thought that if only he knew what would happen in the future everything would be okay, that if only he could anticipate, if he could know people's heart of hearts, he would make all the right decisions and he would be happy. He would rest easy knowing the outcome, knowing who was pure and good and who had the seeds of betrayal in his heart. But he was terribly wrong.
He first looked into smoke and crystal balls with so much hope; Hermione was cynical, but Harry secretly wished Divination were possible, that the future could be so neatly anticipated and prepared for. Harry was sorely disappointed. There was nothing to it, it was all stupid tricks and games. Trelawney is a fake, she's a charlatan and a fraud. She was right once and never again. She never predicted this.
Harry knows he should talk to Madame Pomfrey, but he doesn't trust her anymore. She would mean well but would tell the wrong people, and Harry's life would be even shorter than it's already fated to be. Even the all-knowing Dumbledore seems to suspect nothing, and Harry knows that this is what will kills him in the end. Trusting the wrong people, hapless obliviousness, resting certain in the knowledge that he has done all he can, that Hogwarts is safe, that there is no more work to be done.
It was Dumbledore who allowed Voldemort into the school in the first place, gave him the key to the front door. The complacency that comes with self-satisfied certainty, the weight of so many years of experience and knowledge made Dumbledore careless. He never bothered to ward the forgotten wing, he plucked all the wrong memories from his brain. In that pensieve somewhere is a glaring warning, the memory of a stranger slipping into the stronghold, the niggling feeling that something is amiss. So Dumbledore lounges comfortably, he eats candies while Voldemort strolls the grounds and laughs at him.
It never occurs to Harry to warn anyone. His visions of the future don't include that.
Harry doesn't tell Ron that he knows (he knows) that their friendship will end in betrayal and death, that Ron will turn away from him because he can't bear not to, because he can't avoid the fact that more than anything he wants to see Harry fail. Ron can't understand that Harry didn't want to be famous, no matter how obvious that is. He doesn't understand that it wasn't Harry's fault that he became a hero. He watches Ron's face sour every time one of the first years looks up at Harry with awe, or fear, or adoration. That twitch around his eyes will be there the very last time, too, when Ron's jealousy overcomes him at the wrong time, in the wrong place. Harry isn't sure what form it will take, but he knows it will happen.
Hermione knows something is up, she knows Harry is lying when she asks what's wrong. He sighs and says that he's tired and won't tell her anything else. She's dead curious and he can see her staring at him, trying to pry into his brain with just her sheer will, thinking without even really realizing it that she believes it can work. She's smart, but not smart enough; she's overconfident, they always say that's the killer in the end. Harry knows she will be at the top of their class, at the top of every class, the smartest person in every room. Everyone will trust her and she will never doubt herself, she will never question the possibly that she's wrong. She won't mean to leave Harry bleeding and dying alone, she won't mean to ignore his last cry for help. She'll feel terrible about it afterward too. But in the end, his death will be her fault too, as if she killed him herself. She refills her glass of juice at dinner and reads Socrates as if somehow that will help her in the end. It won't.
Ginny is in love with Harry, and everyone knows it. Even Harry does. It was reassuring for a while, back before he saw the afterimages that follow her everywhere, the photo negative copy of herself that floats along behind and mocks everything she does. He knows that she has been stealing money from him since she was twelve. He also knows that someone is paying her to keep him away from certain parts of the school, though she thinks it's Sirius or Dumbledore or maybe McGonagall who signs those cheques. While she mostly thinks she's doing it for Harry's own good, that she's helping to protect him, there's a part of her that worries this might not be true. But the galleons keep her from worrying about it too much. She has a secret vault at Gringott's where the money is deposited every month, and she gets a receipt by owl that no one but Harry ever notices. Harry knows that Ginny is planning to buy him something beautiful one day when they're in love with each other.
He makes out a will and leaves everything he's worth to the Weasleys.
Harry has lost his appetite, but he thinks he's passed it over to Neville. In the last few weeks he has been eating and eating like it's his last meal, and Harry realizes that it's because he thinks it is. Neville is not stupid, he can feel it too, the omnipresence of death, the dead weight of destiny shackled onto Harry's ankle. He knows something is coming, he can feel Voldemort in the air even if he doesn't know the truth. He ignores them all and eats until he makes himself sick. Harry suspects that this is Voldemort's way to shut down Harry's only possible ally, the only person who would stand by him in the last battle. The only person who wouldn't turn against him will be too busy eating for fear of going hungry in the burning recesses of hell. Harry dreams of Voldemort and Neville dreams of hunger.
The nights are cold, and Harry can never warm up. The summer is long over and winter is approaching; it's drafty in his dormitory and he wishes he could see spring again, but knows he won't. He doesn't even give excuses anymore, he just walks down to the dungeons in full view of everyone and crawls into Malfoy's bed. Malfoy is always warm, and there's nothing he wants more than Harry's cold body. Harry is not certain if he sleeps with Malfoy because he wants to or because his visions of the future told him he had to. There is something strangely reassuring to Harry about taking comfort in arms that are going to betray him so plainly; even in his own fantasies Malfoy is not certain if he wants Harry in his bed dead or alive. Harry finds that he doesn't care either way.
One day Harry knows that he will grow angry. He will be overwhelmed by his own fate and will try to fight it. He will scream and shout and burn things down. He will cry and his desire to live beyond that day will grow so strong he won't be able to contain it. It will be raining and he will damn the sky for never been blue again, he will pull off his robes even though he's cold, he will get drenched and shiver and swear. And while he's not paying attention, when he's wrapped up in his own anger and frustration, that's when Voldemort will strike.
For now he just feels resigned to it. Ginny is smiling at him across the dinner table; she received a receipt today and she will look through catalogues tonight for perfect gifts. Hermione is still reading Socrates and Ron is joking around with Seamus. Malfoy is staring at him from the Slytherin table with that smoldering look that is both a request and a promise. Harry isn't sure if Malfoy will be conflicted about his part in Harry's death or not; sometimes he suspects that Malfoy might really love him, or could if Harry gave him the chance. There might even be time left for that, but Harry doesn't see the point. Love is no virtue, in the end. It's not hope, or faith, or courage. Dumbledore is drinking wine and feeling magnanimous, and Neville is reaching for another spoonful of potatoes. Everything feels absolutely normal.
Harry knows that Voldemort is watching them from outside the window, that he is staring at the back of Harry's neck and fantasizing about the day he will finally end the life he tried to take sixteen years ago. But today isn't the day he'll do it.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, but only a little
Rating: PG
A/N: This may be the most depressing thing I've ever written in my life. And not in a very interesting way, either. But I did get to play with tenses and stuff, which is pleasing, and it kept me from writing snarky lj posts, which is just a bonus in general. I had never considered the fact that love is actually not a virtue until just now. Does that strike anyone else as rather sad? So consider this a bleakness warning: this fic is very bleak.
For months Harry Potter has dreamed of nothing but Voldemort. Voldemort in flames, disembodied and screaming, undead and spitting blood, tearing out of portraits, his dormitory ceiling, Ron's Transfiguration textbook, and out of Hermione's stomach like a razor-clawed fetus desperate for air. Harry doesn't wake up screaming because in his dreams his mouth is sewn shut, has been sliced off, or never existed in the first place. He dreams that he is a deaf mute and the things he sees make him wish he were blind.
Harry has never felt more powerful, or more alone. He knows that his dreams are an intimation of something far more sinister; he knows that Voldemort is at Hogwarts. He's been there for months, laughing at how easy it was to sneak in undetected, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Harry has seen him many times walking through dusty corridors, falling asleep in armchairs, searching through ancient libraries in the forgotten wings of the school. Harry's scar aches all the time now but he has learned to ignore it. It's almost comforting, a throbbing reminder that he is still human and still alive. For the moment.
Voldemort can do whatever he wants as far as Harry is concerned. He knows that only one person will die because of Voldemort's presence in the school, and Harry knows that it will be him. He even knows when it will happen. He's got a few weeks to go and it feels like a luxuriously long time.
Harry has developed a gift. All his life he thought that if only he knew what would happen in the future everything would be okay, that if only he could anticipate, if he could know people's heart of hearts, he would make all the right decisions and he would be happy. He would rest easy knowing the outcome, knowing who was pure and good and who had the seeds of betrayal in his heart. But he was terribly wrong.
He first looked into smoke and crystal balls with so much hope; Hermione was cynical, but Harry secretly wished Divination were possible, that the future could be so neatly anticipated and prepared for. Harry was sorely disappointed. There was nothing to it, it was all stupid tricks and games. Trelawney is a fake, she's a charlatan and a fraud. She was right once and never again. She never predicted this.
Harry knows he should talk to Madame Pomfrey, but he doesn't trust her anymore. She would mean well but would tell the wrong people, and Harry's life would be even shorter than it's already fated to be. Even the all-knowing Dumbledore seems to suspect nothing, and Harry knows that this is what will kills him in the end. Trusting the wrong people, hapless obliviousness, resting certain in the knowledge that he has done all he can, that Hogwarts is safe, that there is no more work to be done.
It was Dumbledore who allowed Voldemort into the school in the first place, gave him the key to the front door. The complacency that comes with self-satisfied certainty, the weight of so many years of experience and knowledge made Dumbledore careless. He never bothered to ward the forgotten wing, he plucked all the wrong memories from his brain. In that pensieve somewhere is a glaring warning, the memory of a stranger slipping into the stronghold, the niggling feeling that something is amiss. So Dumbledore lounges comfortably, he eats candies while Voldemort strolls the grounds and laughs at him.
It never occurs to Harry to warn anyone. His visions of the future don't include that.
Harry doesn't tell Ron that he knows (he knows) that their friendship will end in betrayal and death, that Ron will turn away from him because he can't bear not to, because he can't avoid the fact that more than anything he wants to see Harry fail. Ron can't understand that Harry didn't want to be famous, no matter how obvious that is. He doesn't understand that it wasn't Harry's fault that he became a hero. He watches Ron's face sour every time one of the first years looks up at Harry with awe, or fear, or adoration. That twitch around his eyes will be there the very last time, too, when Ron's jealousy overcomes him at the wrong time, in the wrong place. Harry isn't sure what form it will take, but he knows it will happen.
Hermione knows something is up, she knows Harry is lying when she asks what's wrong. He sighs and says that he's tired and won't tell her anything else. She's dead curious and he can see her staring at him, trying to pry into his brain with just her sheer will, thinking without even really realizing it that she believes it can work. She's smart, but not smart enough; she's overconfident, they always say that's the killer in the end. Harry knows she will be at the top of their class, at the top of every class, the smartest person in every room. Everyone will trust her and she will never doubt herself, she will never question the possibly that she's wrong. She won't mean to leave Harry bleeding and dying alone, she won't mean to ignore his last cry for help. She'll feel terrible about it afterward too. But in the end, his death will be her fault too, as if she killed him herself. She refills her glass of juice at dinner and reads Socrates as if somehow that will help her in the end. It won't.
Ginny is in love with Harry, and everyone knows it. Even Harry does. It was reassuring for a while, back before he saw the afterimages that follow her everywhere, the photo negative copy of herself that floats along behind and mocks everything she does. He knows that she has been stealing money from him since she was twelve. He also knows that someone is paying her to keep him away from certain parts of the school, though she thinks it's Sirius or Dumbledore or maybe McGonagall who signs those cheques. While she mostly thinks she's doing it for Harry's own good, that she's helping to protect him, there's a part of her that worries this might not be true. But the galleons keep her from worrying about it too much. She has a secret vault at Gringott's where the money is deposited every month, and she gets a receipt by owl that no one but Harry ever notices. Harry knows that Ginny is planning to buy him something beautiful one day when they're in love with each other.
He makes out a will and leaves everything he's worth to the Weasleys.
Harry has lost his appetite, but he thinks he's passed it over to Neville. In the last few weeks he has been eating and eating like it's his last meal, and Harry realizes that it's because he thinks it is. Neville is not stupid, he can feel it too, the omnipresence of death, the dead weight of destiny shackled onto Harry's ankle. He knows something is coming, he can feel Voldemort in the air even if he doesn't know the truth. He ignores them all and eats until he makes himself sick. Harry suspects that this is Voldemort's way to shut down Harry's only possible ally, the only person who would stand by him in the last battle. The only person who wouldn't turn against him will be too busy eating for fear of going hungry in the burning recesses of hell. Harry dreams of Voldemort and Neville dreams of hunger.
The nights are cold, and Harry can never warm up. The summer is long over and winter is approaching; it's drafty in his dormitory and he wishes he could see spring again, but knows he won't. He doesn't even give excuses anymore, he just walks down to the dungeons in full view of everyone and crawls into Malfoy's bed. Malfoy is always warm, and there's nothing he wants more than Harry's cold body. Harry is not certain if he sleeps with Malfoy because he wants to or because his visions of the future told him he had to. There is something strangely reassuring to Harry about taking comfort in arms that are going to betray him so plainly; even in his own fantasies Malfoy is not certain if he wants Harry in his bed dead or alive. Harry finds that he doesn't care either way.
One day Harry knows that he will grow angry. He will be overwhelmed by his own fate and will try to fight it. He will scream and shout and burn things down. He will cry and his desire to live beyond that day will grow so strong he won't be able to contain it. It will be raining and he will damn the sky for never been blue again, he will pull off his robes even though he's cold, he will get drenched and shiver and swear. And while he's not paying attention, when he's wrapped up in his own anger and frustration, that's when Voldemort will strike.
For now he just feels resigned to it. Ginny is smiling at him across the dinner table; she received a receipt today and she will look through catalogues tonight for perfect gifts. Hermione is still reading Socrates and Ron is joking around with Seamus. Malfoy is staring at him from the Slytherin table with that smoldering look that is both a request and a promise. Harry isn't sure if Malfoy will be conflicted about his part in Harry's death or not; sometimes he suspects that Malfoy might really love him, or could if Harry gave him the chance. There might even be time left for that, but Harry doesn't see the point. Love is no virtue, in the end. It's not hope, or faith, or courage. Dumbledore is drinking wine and feeling magnanimous, and Neville is reaching for another spoonful of potatoes. Everything feels absolutely normal.
Harry knows that Voldemort is watching them from outside the window, that he is staring at the back of Harry's neck and fantasizing about the day he will finally end the life he tried to take sixteen years ago. But today isn't the day he'll do it.
