30 Days of Writing – 22: Mad

Mad

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

“You have this… loyalty,” Harry says, and the Dark Lord looks at him with an amused expression.

“Loyalty,” the man repeats. “Now that’s something no one else has ever accused me of having.”

“Loyalty to an idea,” Harry continues. “Loyalty to an insane idea.”

“I see,” the Dark Lord murmurs, and leans closer to the chained boy. “And what do you think of me, Harry Potter? Am I insane as well?” The Death Eaters behind him shift nervously, and he knows what they think. Has always known.

“No,” the boy says, his eyes narrowed. “That’s why I don’t understand you. You’re not crazy. But this… thing you’re doing. The whole idea of it. That’s crazy. That’s insane. That’s mad.”

“Says the necromancer. From other people’s point of view, raising the dead is madness. To you, it is simply a fact – a part of you.”

“Something I was born with. Something that has always been a part of me. What you are, though. Your…”

“Immortality, dear. You can say it.”

“It’s not right,” Harry says, and resist the temptation to lean closer to the power sorcerer, whose magic – as sick and twisted as it is – is also alluring beyond reason. Harry swallows nervously, and continues: “It’s like an extra limb that you insist on having. You shouldn’t… want that.”

“Oh, Harry,” the Dark Lord sighs, and his mouth stretches into a grin that reminds Harry of fear and ice. “Don’t be like other people. People who are good at pretending to know what you want better than you do. I’m more than you can comprehend. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you understand me. I am beyond you.”

“Self-praise is no recommendation.”

“You know this is no simple self-praise.”

Harry knows that. Of course he knows, is painfully aware of it. He bites his lip, unsure of what to say next. The Dark Lord does not seem to mind his silence, though, and after a few minutes, Harry is in his cell alone once more.

The Dark Lord isn’t mad – not in the ways other people think he is.

And that’s precisely, Harry thinks, why he will lose.

30 Days of Writing – 21: Sunset

Sunset

(If Them’s the Rules)

Drabble contains possible spoilers.

–

Harry’s cold.

He’s lying on his back on the cold ground, the organge rays of the setting sun doing nothing to make him warm. He knows it’s going to be less than an hour before the darkness takes over. He knows he should move, stand up, go somewhere else. He doesn’t have the energy for any of that, though.

The fight he had with Tom was horrible, and left him feeling the kind of hurt he has not felt for years. It’s strange how emotional pain could feel so physical, and yet the illogicality of it does not ease any of Harry’s pain. The nausea. The ache.

He hears footsteps approaching, but doesn’t move to look. He knows it’s not Tom. It cannot be Tom. Tom’s away. Tom left, in a fit of anger, not understanding Harry’s reasons. Not understanding Harry.

Harry closes his eyes as the sunset paints everything red. He wants to cry but he doesn’t. The footsteps don’t stop until he feels someone looking down at him. Feels the steely points of the shoes dig into his right side, hears someone sigh. Harry doesn’t react. Doesn’t open his eyes. He might as well be asleep, as he has no energy left to move.

The stranger – who might not be a stranger at all – lifts him and carries him inside. Harry knows then who it is – only one person aside from him and Tom has the keys. He should have guessed.

There’s only one who sees the sunset and cares not for appropriate visiting times.

30 Days of Writing – 20: Tremble

Tremble

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains possible spoilers.

–

“You’ve been a good friend,” Harry says, holding the trembling body of Truls, who’s gasping for air. “Far better than I have been for you.”

“Don’t,” Truls tells him, before the magic tearing at his body forces a pained whimper out of him. He’s pale and sweating and in pain, but there’s nothing Harry could do to make him feel better. This – all this agony – is part of the healing process.

“Even if you will not stand the sight of me after this,” Harry continues quietly, “you will always find a friend in me.”

“Won’t ever… hate you,” Truls hisses through clenched teeth. “I could not.”

Oh, how Harry wished for those words to be the truth and nothing but. He knows better, though. Knows that magic as it unwinds from the mind could nudge things on its way out. Knows that the sudden absence of the magic of a life debt that has been there for years will change things. He cannot let himself count on Truls’s heart to remain unchanged.

He hopes, though, that Truls’s affections will not disappear with the web of the life debt.

Truls trembles in pain, and Harry holds him tighter.

30 Days of Writing – 19: Transformation

Transformation

(Yours, In Murder)

–

There has been no transformation. No sudden – or slow – change. Tom hasn’t become a saint, and everything that he is, is not something to be cured. He knows that Harry, despite his studies and knowledge, thinks that something fundamental in Tom has changed. That he has mellowed out, seen the error of his ways.

Harry is wrong.

Not that Tom doesn’t love the man – he does. He really does. But it hardly matters, really. Loving Harry has nothing to do with getting horny while dreaming of the things he could do to a person, given a knife and fifteen minutes.

Tom sighs and turns on the bed to look at Harry, who’s asleep and oblivious to what’s keeping Tom awake.

‘I could do it,’ Tom thinks, touching Harry’s shoulder lightly with his fingertips. There’s an abundance of knives in the kitchen. He’d have more than just fifteen minutes. He could really get into it, do all the things he has ever wanted.

He won’t, though. Because he loves Harry.

And that’s what love is, to him. It isn’t about sex or dates or being domestic with someone. It isn’t about sleeping in the same room, showering together and eating breakfast while dressed in practically nothing. Love isn’t flowers and kisses and a series of embraces.

Love, to Tom, is a chain. The chain that stills his hand and keeps it from wrapping around Harry’s throat. Love is what keeps his mouth shut when he knows just the right words to cause pain. Love is what keeps him from all the things he desires to do.

No, there has been no transformation. Nothing has changed.

Something new, however, has been added into the equation, and that matters.

30 Days of Writing – 18: Summer (Seasons 1/2)

Summer

(Creative Cruelty)

–

Sasuke dislikes summer.

The heat that makes him sweat. The ever-decreasing layers of clothing on other people that ends up showing more than he wants to see. The lethargy. The insects. The sun that keeps shining so brightly. The long days, the short nights.

And the thought of getting a tan. It irritates him. He’s not like Naruto, whose tan suits him. Naruto, who’s always cold. Naruto, who seems somehow more alive during the summer, surrounded by sunlight and everything even remotely summery.

“I hate you,” Sasuke says, pressing his cheek against Naruto’s shoulder. He’s sitting behind the other boy, leaning against his back, and the coldness of the blond’s skin sweeps easily through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, and Sasuke can feel the chuckle before he hears it.

“Sure you do,” Naruto says. “Come sit in front of me.”

“Why?”

“It’s hot and you’re pink and sweaty and your hair is a mess. I want to stare at you.”

“Fuck you.” Maybe that’d actually be a good idea, considering how cold Naruto’s body is.

“Do you ever think of anything else?”

“Do you ever want to do anything else?” Sasuke asks, wrapping his arms around Naruto. “I hate summer.”

“We can go to the beach,” Naruto suggests. “And you can drown your whiny ass in the sea and leave me alone.”

“Fucking asshole,” Sasuke says, and stands up. “Fine, let’s go.”

30 Days of Writing – 17: Look

Look

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

She recognizes him instantly.

Even through the rain, she can see him clearly. He’s shorter than Dudley, and very, very skinny. Doesn’t Lily feed her child enough? The boy’s hair is just as black and unruly as his father’s, and when he turns, Petunia sees a familiar pair of green eyes.

The child – well, he’s Dudley’s age, isn’t he? Hardly a child anymore – looks lost. He’s dressed in a black suit with a green tie, and looks like a wealthy, respectable young man.

Wealthy he might be, Petunia thinks, but respectable? He’s one of them. The other folk.

It’s no coincidence that the boy is in Surrey. Is he looking for her? Why? Does Petunia want to be found by him? The boy hasn’t seen her yet, and she really should stop staring, but that child right there is her nephew, and it feels so strange.

He looks tired. Exhausted. And not particularly happy. And then he sees her.

Maybe he would have turned away and went to look somewhere else, had it not been obvious that Petunia was staring at him. After a few moments of hesitation, he walks towards her. He’s nervous, it’s clear. He isn’t sure if Petunia is his aunt or not, and Petunia knows that she could, should, lie.

“Excuse me,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and tired and miserable, and Petunia says:

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

He swallows, his green eyes looking at her with too many emotions for her to name. He gives her a quivering, tearful smile.

“A long time ago,” he says.

“I’m not surprised,” Petunia tells him, and moves the umbrella to cover them both. The words tumble out of her mouth, as if she waited for years to say them aloud. “I told her, before she went off with your father. I told her that a fish may love a bird, but where would they live? She told me she’d learn to fly for him, but how long can a fish be out of water before it dies?”

Petunia then takes in a deep breath and pulls her nephew towards the car she had parked nearby. The boy comes with no resistance, and once again Petunia wonders if she should be doing this.

Only today. Vernon is on a trip anyway, he won’t even know about this. She’d take this boy home, feed him, see what his business is and then send him on his merry way.

And then forget about him, for good.

30 Days of Writing – 16: Thanks

Thanks

(Creative Cruelty)

This drabble contains mild spoilers.

–

“I never got around to saying it, did I?” Naruto starts, touching lightly the blindfold he was wearing. “Thanks.”

“I don’t really see the point in you thanking me,” Kyuubi tells him. “Unless you’re trying to be sarcastic.”

“My life is so different from what I thought it would be,” Naruto says. “And I just… I owe you a lot. So in case I get killed sometime soon, I just want to say thank you. For, you know… being useful and shit.”

“Useful and shit,” Kyuubi repeats. “How flattering.”

“And even though you got me into trouble quite a few times–”

“You got into trouble all on your own.”

“–sometimes gave fucking lousy advice–”

“You failed to understand what I meant and acted according to what you wanted.”

“–but overall I’m really happy with how everything turned out–”

“At least someone is.”

“–and that’s why I wanted to say thank you,” Naruto says, and smiles. “I just wanted to get this off my chest, you know. Since some people seem to prefer me dead. Mainly because of you.”

“People want you dead because you’ve become the walking definition of trouble,” Kyuubi points out. “You have never been subtle about your activities. Especially after… getting that Uchiha Sasuke thing that you’re keeping.”

“It’s pretty well-trained.”

“Careful, or it might be the one to kill you in the end.”

“Maybe,” Naruto says, and stands up to leave. “Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

30 Days of Writing – 15: Order

Order

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

The problem with the Dark Lord’s orders are that they become laws. And Ellis doesn’t like that.

It isn’t as if he isn’t loyal to the Dark Lord – he has certainly never done anything that could be considered as disloyalty. He just does not like to obey every order given by someone who refuses to listen to anyone else’s opinions. He doesn’t have any options, though. The Dark Lord’s methods to cure disobedience are very well known.

Ellis does not fear the Dark Lord, but is very wary of him. The man is intelligent, and charming, and it is so very easy to forget all the things he’s capable of doing. When the Dark Lord glides into a room full of people, pretends to be another pureblood with no greater agenda than upholding the family honour, it is hard to remember who he really is.

For a while Ellis had suspected magic to be behind that trick of his, but then realized that no – this is not magic.

The Dark Lord simply changes his behaviour depending on the situation. Changes it so well that despite the similar appearances, Dark Lord Voldemort is nowhere to be seen when Lord Gaunt turns up. It is a skill surprisingly hard to master, and yet…

He suspects that he should mention this to Harry. Who knows what the boy has gotten himself involved in, but the Dark Lord seems to be very interested, much to Dolohov’s displeasure and alarm. What Dolohov doesn’t understand is that magic like Harry’s is unique, and those with the power to sense it will see how extraordinary to boy is right away.

‘The things I do for him,’ Ellis thinks, reaching for a piece of parchment. He remembers fondly the days when he used to barely care about Harry. Now, he’s afraid, he cares far too much.

30 Days of Writing – 14: Wind

Wind

(Creative Cruelty)

This drabble contains mild spoilers.

–

“I hate the fucking wind,” Sasuke whispers. They’re side by side on Naruto’s bed, in a room too dark for them to see each other. It’s fine, though. Sasuke doesn’t feel the desire to see the idiot blond right now anyway. It’s enough to hear him breathing and feel his heartbeat.

“It’s not the wind that makes all the noise in this house, you know,” Naruto says quietly, and his hand finds Sasuke’s own. They hold hands in the darkness, like a secret neither wants to admit to knowing. It’s easy to ignore this other, better, side of them at moments like these.

“I know that,” Sasuke replies, just as quietly. “The wind doesn’t sing. I blame it anyway.” The haunting humming that floats from the world outside the room makes Naruto feel cold – colder than he has in a while, and he rolls to lie on Sasuke, who lets go of Naruto’s hand in order to wrap his arms around the other boy’s shoulders.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but this is nice. It’s nice to have Naruto’s weight on him, pressing him into the mattress.

“My brother keeps asking about you,” Sasuke finally says, and Naruto lets out a sleepy sound.

“I have no interest in him.”

Good, Sasuke thinks. Finally someone who sees Itachi for what he is – an uninteresting person, whose intelligence adds little dimension and no depth into his character. Of course if someone could see Itachi the way Sasuke does, it would be Naruto.

“The wind’s getting noisy,” Sasuke mutters when the humming turns from peaceful into frightened, rushed. “It’s disturbing me.”

“Hm,” is Naruto’s input. He’s nearly asleep, and Sasuke sighs.

“If I had any more energy right now,” he says, “I’d fuck you. Just to make you moan louder than that infernal wind.”

“Like I’d let you,” Naruto slurs, not moving an inch. “Fuck me? Like you have the fucking dick for it.”

“If you’re not going to feel it anyway, might as well fuck when you’re asleep,” Sasuke replies. “Spares me the trouble of dealing with you.”

“I’d fucking kill you. Skin you alive and set you on fire.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Naruto says, sounding more awake now. “I’d cut you to pieces and eat you.”

“Fuck you,” Sasuke says breathlessly. He’s turned on, and it makes him feel even warmer. “Like you could. Like you have a knife sharp enough.”

“Don’t need a knife,” Naruto murmurs, and kisses the corner of Sasuke’s mouth lightly. “Got the wind, remember?”

30 Days of Writing – 13: Denial

Denial

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

He wakes up, and the air is heavier in his lungs than it has ever been. His mouth is open and he’s trying to breathe, trying to surface from whatever swamp he unknowingly stepped into in his sleep.

He feels like he’s drowning, and there’s fear – irrational, unstoppable, uncontrollable fear – crawling beneath his skin, drinking his blood and squeezing his heart.

His whole body is trembling, shaking, and if there are tears, he surely would not care to notice them now.

Tom could feel his rusted clock of life ticking again, like a bomb waiting to explode. Each second makes his heart beat with a purpose Tom had witheld from it for decades. He knows what it means. He knows and yet he denies himself this knowledge. Turns away from it, refuses to acknowledge it. Pushes it away because it cannot be.

No, he tells himself.

No, he repeats.

No, he thinks.

No, he believes.

Harry would not do this to him. Not Harry.