Simple

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

“Leave us,” Lord Voldemort orders, and after a moment of hesitation only he and Harry remain in the room. The bruised necromancer takes a deep breath, and pushes himself to sit up.

“I suppose those fools were a tad too eager to get their hands on you,” Voldemort says, sounding nearly sorry. “But if it makes you feel any better, you scare them quite a bit.”

“I know,” Harry replies and tries to wipe some of the blood off his face. “I gave them all the reasons to. They deserved it.”

“Oh yes, revenge. So many you’ve known are dead now, I believe,” Voldemort tells him with casual nonchalance. “My condolences. Truly, it must be terrible to be such a mortal. And get attached to other mortals. The more I think about it, I suppose you might as well blame yourself. Everybody dies, after all. Except me.”

“Is that so,” Harry says with a grimace. “So many dead and even more are being tortured by your people. Does that really make you feel nothing? Not a twinge of pity? You enjoy their pain, don’t you?”

“Quite,” Voldemort drawls. “Dumbledore has this theory, dear Harry. He thinks my past made me a monster. He believes that due to my childhood, I picked the wrong path and got helplessly lost somewhere on that road. All the bad things I do, I assure you, are because my life as I grew up was dreadfully void of hugs.”

“Your choices made you a monster.”

“I deal with pain by recycling it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry grunts, and Voldemort shrugs. “I had… My childhood…”

“Oh yes,” Voldemort cuts in, and leans forward. His red eyes gleam with almost childish joy and he smiles with genuine amusement. “Your childhood. I’ve seen the minds of the people you hold close, and I must say I’m impressed. Your parents have managed to ruin your life in a manner so spectacular that you will never recover. This knowledge keeps me happy.”

Harry clenches his eyes shut and groans. This encounter wasn’t going the way he thought it would. “What do you want?”

“I’m a Dark Lord who needs a dead and deadly army, and you’re a Necromancer,” Voldemort says almost cheerfully, and Harry cannot help but feel that the man would have been much easier to deal with if he had turned out to be a raging megalomaniac with no sense of humour. “You do the math. It’s simple.”

Simple, he says.

Harry opens his eyes and stares at the man.

‘I’ll show him simple.’

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.

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.

Move

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains mild spoilers.

–

Harry doesn’t like dancing with Draco.

It has nothing to do with whether or not he likes dancing. It has, also, nothing to do with whether or not Draco dances well (he does, of course he does). Perhaps rather than to say that Harry doesn’t like dancing with Draco, it would be more correct to say: Harry doesn’t like to dance with other boys. He isn’t sure how to hold, how to move – he feels clumsy and out of his depth.

Draco is confident in his movements, and Harry envies him for that. Then again Draco is not adverse to being the centre of everyone’s attention. It’s yet another thing that is so different between them.

“Relax,” Draco murmurs, his pink lips forming a small grin. Harry tries to offer a smile in return, and knows before Draco’s slightly disappointed expression that he failed in conveying the illusion of enjoyment.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. Draco shrugs.

“It’s alright. I just… I just wish I knew how to make you have fun, Harry.”

“I do have fun,” Harry replies. “Sometimes.” When he’s with Ron and Hermione, that is.

“Is it me then,” Draco asks, his voice suddenly sad. “Is it me who keeps you from being happy?”

“No,” Harry assures him. “I just. Draco, it’s so crowded and noisy and bright here. I’m just not used to this. I’d rather…” Be at home, alone. “…spend time with a considerably smaller number of people.”

And Draco – sweet, delusional Draco – once again reads more into Harry’s words than he ever meant. The Malfoy heir’s expression brightens, his smile turns into something akin to tender, and he slips his hand into Harry’s own.

“Come, then,” he breathes, and starts pulling Harry off the dancefloor. “I know where we can be… I know a private place, if that’s what you prefer.”

Haze

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

The sigh of haze covering the woods and hills surrounding Mordred’s Mend is unsettling. The air is cold and the sky is grey, and the cloak Theo is wearing does not keep him from shivering.

He coughs, the illness overwhelming his body, making him bow down and fight to breathe. When he manages to stand up again, he’s very nearly sobbing.

“I see the house,” he says aloud, to the emptiness that keeps him company. As he is now, more dead than alive, he could perhaps make his way through the woods to the house faster than an ordinary person could. He knows he won’t last for long, but survival was not his aim any longer. All he wanted to do – needed to do – was to deliver the information to Harry.

Harry would know what to do with it. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not years from now on. But one day, some day, he’d be perhaps pacing through the dark and shadowed hallways of his house and look for a solution only to think of Theo, because Theo has finally managed to be of use. Useful. To Harry, like he never was to his own father.

The folded parchment, hidden between the skin of his throat and the tight collar of his shirt, would be valuable. He’d need to tell Harry this. He’d need to tell him to not lose it, never lose it, because Theo is dying for it. Dying in an attempt to be significant somehow. To someone.

The haze parts before him, and he sees the front door of Mordred’s Mend now. Not long, now. Soon he’ll be there, knocking at Harry’s door. And Harry would open, pull him inside and Theo would, Theo would-

Theo would die, like he always knew he would, too soon. But he wouldn’t spend his last moments alone, and that, that was more than he had believed to have.

“Forgive us where we fail in truth,” he whispers, pressing his shaking hands against the wooden surface of the closed door. “And in thy wisdom make us wise.”

Accusation

(Post Mortem)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

“You don’t love him,” Narcissa Malfoy says. She does not bother to put up a pretense of pleasantry, and Harry knows that she dislikes him. Hates him, even. Wishes him gone.

“I don’t,” Harry replies. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? He hasn’t left me with many options.”

“My son deserves to be with someone who loves him,” Narcissa all but hisses, leaning forward. Harry sneers, and the rage welling inside him stirs the dead beneath his feet.

“And what do I deserve?” he asks. “To be trapped by the love of a person who wants me and has me despite my own wishes? To be forced to remain with a constant reminder of the madness that destroyed my mother, knowing that if I ever left him, that’s the fate that awaits him? Do I deserve to be burdened with the love of a person who gives me no options but to accept, bear with it?”

“Mr. Potter-”

“No, Mrs. Malfoy. Don’t try to pretend that your loving son is the victim here. He did what he did to get what he wanted, and he succeeded in that.”

“You’re not even trying to make it work,” Narcissa accuses him, and Harry almost smiles. Almost. He shakes his head.

“I try every day to keep him happy,” Harry replies. “But I cannot try to love him. I do not want to.”

“You will never be happy you do not change,” Narcissa says, and Harry wonders if she expects him to feel hurt.

“I gave up on my own happiness years ago,” he told her instead. “Perhaps my happiness was never an option.”

“Draco could make you happy if you let him try,” the woman insisted. “And you can do that in return, as well. He knows you’re not in love with him. He lies to himself excellently, but a part of him knows and it’s killing him.”

“I don’t think your words affect me the way you wish they would,” Harry says, and finally smiles. “Death is far more pleasant than madness, ma’am.”