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Title: Omen
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Draco dies, but he isn't alone: the Master of Death is waiting.
It’s been years since he shed his human skin, and yet Potter still looks the same. Still the same wild hair and crooked smile, although the glasses have changed and he has the decency to wear robes now instead of Muggle rags, and the same way of awkwardly shifting from foot to foot when under attention.
Draco is the only one there to see him, but apparently that’s enough to make his old rival twitchy. He can’t help but smirk a little at that, even on his death bed, and even though their rivalry was – in the end – utterly one-sided.
“Potter,” he whispers.
He’s glad his family aren’t here for this. Astoria died ten years ago, and he’d
sent his son downstairs to be with his family. He’d hated watching his own father die; he sees no reason to inflict the same on his own child, let alone his grandchildren.
“Malfoy,” Potter replies. His voice echoes in Draco’s ears and slips like cobwebs over his skin. He sits down in the chair by Draco’s bedside, crosses one leg over the other, and waits.
What he’s waiting for, Draco isn’t sure. Recriminations? Apologies? An engraved invitation to speak? They both know why he’s there, but Draco isn’t really in any hurry to die, and if Potter’s content to sit in silence then Draco will do his damnedest to have as many last breaths as he can. It’s the principle of the thing.
Potter’s lips twitch, but he says nothing.
Draco studies him out of the corner of his eye. Potter is slightly transparent, but unlike a regular ghost, he’s still in full colour. The silvery mass of his invisibility cloak is arranged on his lap, and there’s an old ring with a cracked black stone on his right hand. The Master of Death. He remembers how they’d all wailed after the Battle of Hogwarts when they’d realised that while Potter was back from the dead, he hadn’t come back entirely. Sunlight slanting through the holes in the great hall had passed through him, and he’d shone like some sort of stained glass window.
In the end, Potter had just been one more casualty in a long, long list. He was, however, the one that kept coming back. It was, of course, Granger who solved the mystery for all – Potter didn’t talk much anymore, and Draco had to admit that with his voice feeling like it did, that was definitely a good thing.
He’d forgotten just how green Potter’s eyes were.
It seems like a stupid thing to think about in the last few minutes of his life, but he had. Stupid and strange that he’d forgotten in the first place, given that when he’d been offered a contract with the Greengrass girls he’d chosen Astoria over Daphne just because her eyes were green. They weren’t the same, of course. Astoria’s eyes had paled in comparison to Potter’s unique shade (like the killing curse; like death) but that had been his reasoning nonetheless.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Potter says, and through the rush of cobwebs and echoes, Draco can still hear his Surrey accent. “Dying, I mean. It’s the struggle to keep going that’s the painful bit.”
Potter, he supposes, would know. That doesn’t stop him from claiming that he hadn’t noticed through the growing tightness in his chest.
Potter laughs. It makes Draco’s skin crawl, but it’s so damn familiar that it brings an answering smile to his own lips. “Are we really still in First Year?” Potter asks.
“Always,” Draco replies. It’s a lie, of course. The most Potter had ever spoken after the war had been at the Malfoy trials, and that – more than anything – had brought peace to Draco’s memories of him. After all, it’s hard to keep hating someone for not shaking your hand when they’re testifying on your behalf after their death. Potter seems to know that, though, so when he stands again, he stretches out his hand.
It seems more solid, all of a sudden.
“Come on then,” he says. “I haven’t had a good Quidditch match in forever. Or are you just going to lie there all evening?” He raises an eyebrow in a familiar challenge, and Draco wonders absently how closely Potter must have studied Draco’s mannerisms to mimic them so perfectly. “Scared, Malfoy?”
Yes. He is. A thousand times yes, but there isn’t any pain in his chest anymore, so Draco supposes it’s a bit too late for that.
“You wish,” he replies, and takes Potter’s hand as he sheds his human skin.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Draco dies, but he isn't alone: the Master of Death is waiting.
It’s been years since he shed his human skin, and yet Potter still looks the same. Still the same wild hair and crooked smile, although the glasses have changed and he has the decency to wear robes now instead of Muggle rags, and the same way of awkwardly shifting from foot to foot when under attention.
Draco is the only one there to see him, but apparently that’s enough to make his old rival twitchy. He can’t help but smirk a little at that, even on his death bed, and even though their rivalry was – in the end – utterly one-sided.
“Potter,” he whispers.
He’s glad his family aren’t here for this. Astoria died ten years ago, and he’d
sent his son downstairs to be with his family. He’d hated watching his own father die; he sees no reason to inflict the same on his own child, let alone his grandchildren.
“Malfoy,” Potter replies. His voice echoes in Draco’s ears and slips like cobwebs over his skin. He sits down in the chair by Draco’s bedside, crosses one leg over the other, and waits.
What he’s waiting for, Draco isn’t sure. Recriminations? Apologies? An engraved invitation to speak? They both know why he’s there, but Draco isn’t really in any hurry to die, and if Potter’s content to sit in silence then Draco will do his damnedest to have as many last breaths as he can. It’s the principle of the thing.
Potter’s lips twitch, but he says nothing.
Draco studies him out of the corner of his eye. Potter is slightly transparent, but unlike a regular ghost, he’s still in full colour. The silvery mass of his invisibility cloak is arranged on his lap, and there’s an old ring with a cracked black stone on his right hand. The Master of Death. He remembers how they’d all wailed after the Battle of Hogwarts when they’d realised that while Potter was back from the dead, he hadn’t come back entirely. Sunlight slanting through the holes in the great hall had passed through him, and he’d shone like some sort of stained glass window.
In the end, Potter had just been one more casualty in a long, long list. He was, however, the one that kept coming back. It was, of course, Granger who solved the mystery for all – Potter didn’t talk much anymore, and Draco had to admit that with his voice feeling like it did, that was definitely a good thing.
He’d forgotten just how green Potter’s eyes were.
It seems like a stupid thing to think about in the last few minutes of his life, but he had. Stupid and strange that he’d forgotten in the first place, given that when he’d been offered a contract with the Greengrass girls he’d chosen Astoria over Daphne just because her eyes were green. They weren’t the same, of course. Astoria’s eyes had paled in comparison to Potter’s unique shade (like the killing curse; like death) but that had been his reasoning nonetheless.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Potter says, and through the rush of cobwebs and echoes, Draco can still hear his Surrey accent. “Dying, I mean. It’s the struggle to keep going that’s the painful bit.”
Potter, he supposes, would know. That doesn’t stop him from claiming that he hadn’t noticed through the growing tightness in his chest.
Potter laughs. It makes Draco’s skin crawl, but it’s so damn familiar that it brings an answering smile to his own lips. “Are we really still in First Year?” Potter asks.
“Always,” Draco replies. It’s a lie, of course. The most Potter had ever spoken after the war had been at the Malfoy trials, and that – more than anything – had brought peace to Draco’s memories of him. After all, it’s hard to keep hating someone for not shaking your hand when they’re testifying on your behalf after their death. Potter seems to know that, though, so when he stands again, he stretches out his hand.
It seems more solid, all of a sudden.
“Come on then,” he says. “I haven’t had a good Quidditch match in forever. Or are you just going to lie there all evening?” He raises an eyebrow in a familiar challenge, and Draco wonders absently how closely Potter must have studied Draco’s mannerisms to mimic them so perfectly. “Scared, Malfoy?”
Yes. He is. A thousand times yes, but there isn’t any pain in his chest anymore, so Draco supposes it’s a bit too late for that.
“You wish,” he replies, and takes Potter’s hand as he sheds his human skin.
