Famous Last Words
He's not very old. If he had to hazard a guess, Albus would judge the man as being somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Even so, he looks younger than his years. Albus chalks that up to the fact the man's clean-shaven and wears his hair in a fashion where his fringe dips into his eyes. In fact, the haircut makes him appear almost adolescent. While spinning his wand round and round like a baton, the young man asks, "What was it like? Growing up, I mean."
"Do you really want to know?"
The man stares back steadily, unperturbed by the mocking tone of Albus's words.
Albus steps back and takes full stock of the man once more. He sees more there than before. Not only is there courage squaring his shoulders, but there's intelligence in his gray gaze. Perhaps he was a Ravenclaw, instead of a Gryffindor like Albus first assumed. That would make him far more interesting. So few Ravenclaws ever become aurors. He wished there was time to hear that story. "Alright, then," says Albus, shrugging as if what he's about to say means little. Perhaps it does. An intelligent fellow or not, most think Albus little more than a raving madman these days.
He starts to pace; ponders where to start. After a moment, Albus begins, "It was like this: when you were little, you didn't think it was strange that people's eyes followed you everywhere you went. It was just how things were. When you were at this event or another with Dad or just in a shop picking up a Pepper Up with Mum and people said, 'You look just like your daddy. I bet you'll be just like him when you grow up.' You thought it was the truth. You thought you would be just like him. But what did you know? You were a stupid kid." Albus stops for a moment, a sneer pulling at his lips. Thinking of his childhood self's naivety always makes him want to scoff. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back in time and slap that little bugger and make him see sense sooner. Perhaps it would have made his time at Hogwarts smoother. Perhaps he wouldn't be here.
Shaking his head to rid himself of his thoughts, Albus goes on, "It doesn't last, though. You figure it out eventually. You're not just like your Dad. You're not a Gryffindor. You don't have his talent on a broom. Godric's sword, you don't even get into the same kind of mischief he did. No, you pick fights. Because people are always asking why you're not more like your dad. Why do you spend all your time reading transfiguration theory? About Merlin? You're not Hermione's son. Shouldn't you be better at Defense? Your Dad survived an attack from Voldemort as a baby!
"It just goes on and on. That's how your whole time at Hogwarts goes. No one ever lets you forget you're fucking-Saint-Potter's son. You can't always take it, either. So, you break a few noses, split a couple of lips. Once, you even turn a girl eyeless. No one ever forgets that one. People leave you alone mostly after that. No mates, though. They all think you're mental by that point." Voice drawing quieter, he thinks of the woman who once stood tall beside him. His partner. His queen. Closing his eyes, he pictures her clever blue eyes with the clarity only a lover possesses and remembers the feel of scorching red curls twisted around his fingers during the throws of ecstasy.
With his back to the young man, he whispers, "All you have for company is a cousin who's usually too busy trying to make people forget who her parents are." Turning to face the other once more, Albus locks him in place with a fierce stare. "And someday, you help her realize that dream."
The young man blinks, obviously not having expected the ferocity he saw in Albus's gaze. Satisfied with the reaction, Albus sneers once more and concludes, "So, yeah. That's what it was like."
"No one compares you to your father anymore," the man says slowly.
"No, they don't," Albus agrees lightly. Smirking in a way that he knows infuriates others, he says, "Perks of being a failed Dark Lord, I suppose. When your dad's a hero and you're the villain, people tend to forget you were ever his son to start with."
His gray eyes are dubious, but the young man concedes, "I guess you're right."
Silence fills the air between them for a time.
Finally, antsy, and tired of waiting, Albus asks, "So, how much longer before they parade me up there for my execution?"
The young man pushes up the sleeve of his robe and checks the fine leather watch that decorates his narrow wrist. "Oh, I'd say another five minutes."
Albus nods. Then, after a pause, he tilts his head in an inquisitive manner. "…Any other questions?"
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