Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Written for Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Holyhead Harpies, Beater 2.
Mandatory Prompt - I used NeonDomino's Title, That Last Second, as inspiration.
Optional Prompts - 4. Eternity / 8. Every cloud has a silver lining. / 14. Pacing nervously
Word Count - 1714
Beta'd by the lovely Sam and Lizzy
Endless Cycle (History Repeats Always)
He waits, unseen, as they stumble up the street.
"Look, our house! The lit's light—the light's lit!"
He shakes his head. Drunken fools. How many times has he seen this very scene? The man who spoke, the one who is being held up by his fellow idiot, will not see the morning.
According to his list, the man will not see the clock strike the next hour.
Death followed them along the street, his scythe in hand. While he was sure that the people who insist on depicting him in a flowing cloak holding his scythe do it because they think it makes him look more deadly, it actually did have a purpose.
It was his weapon, he supposed, though it actually brought more relief than anyone could imagine. Death reaped souls in the last second before the last breath was taken. It made for a painless death. Of course, he didn't always get there on time, especially when the idiocy that was humanity decided it was time to wage yet another war.
History, Death knew, was an endless cycle of pain and stupidity, of pride and greed. He'd hoped humanity would get a clue and stop such senselessness. Even those with magic, those who were supposed to be of a higher caliber couldn't help themselves. Death had memories of a millenia depicting proof that wizards were as stupid as those without magic.
In the last half century alone, two wars had been waged, each one started by the same man with delusions of grandeur. The crazed man who thought he could defeat death by splitting his soul.
Fool.
Each war had been won by those with morals and strength.
It made Death sad to know that many of those with morals and strength had fallen to Death's scythe. Not that he had much choice in the matter, but on the odd occasion, he would want to breathe life into a human, rather than pull them away from the lives they could have lived.
…
The little girl, for that was all she was, was just trying to help.
Death watched her shooting spells desperately, shouting at those around her to go, to run. They didn't, of course, not a single one of them.
Only someone with the morals of an amoeba would leave a child to fight an adults war.
Still she fell, and Death was deeply saddened when the name on his list, Mary McDonald, gained the familiar strike through that said his job was done.
A few decades later, the situation was repeated, only with another name, this time Colin Creevey getting the silver line.
Each of them courageous children, and each of them dead because of wars they should never have been involved in.
Those souls weighed heavily on Death for the time he was in possession of them. He was thankful that, for all their good, it didn't take long for the angels to claim them for their own.
…
Death couldn't help his amusement when he watched the drunken fool fall to his knees. This man didn't have magic, and he was getting on in age, but he was a good man. A fool, certainly, but a good man at heart. Even if it had taken a turbulent youth to get him there.
Sometimes, the swell of instinctual knowledge of his 'victims' took a toll on Death, but other times, times such as this, he was glad to know that the man would likely get a happily ever after once Death had liberated his soul.
He watched the other help him up, and his amusement left him quickly when he thought about the grief that the other would feel.
After so long doing his job, Death was weary of it. The never ending cycle with which he was faced was truly never going to be over, and sometimes, he wished for a break.
A conversation. Death very rarely spoken aloud, because there was nobody there to hear him.
It had been many years since he'd had the joy of a conversation. It took a very special person to even sense his presence, let alone be able to speak to him. The last time Death had had a conversation had been with the Peverells, and that was oh so long ago.
Occasionally, he thought that someone could sense his presence, but as often came with the territory, they were dead before he could find out.
…
Dorcas Meadowes paced nervously. Death leant back against the wall, watching her move back and forth. Whenever she neared him, she shivered, rubbing her arms against the non-existent cold. It was a warm evening.
Whatever was making her shiver had little to do with the temperature.
The fool who'd split his soul killed her with high laughter and cruelty in his eyes, his taunt of, "You'll never make it," ringing in Death's ears, even as he collected Dorcas' soul.
Amelia Bones was another whom Death thought could sense him. She stared at the spot in which he stood for eighteen seconds, before she was murdered with the same green light as had taken Dorcas Meadowes.
Death wondered what would have happened, had he tried to speak with either of them. Would he have been answered?
He'd never know now.
…
The drunken fool was at his home now. Death followed him in, watched him rebounding off walls as he found his way to the kitchen. When Death saw him turn the cooker on, he rolled his eyes because of course this death would be human fault.
Of course it would be idiocy.
Shaking his head, Death could only watch the man as he attempted to cook himself food. Why could they not just eat fruit when in such a state? Surely that would be a better option than cooking yourself? Death was quite sure that this was going to be a fiery death, which was irritating.
He did so hate to sweat.
The drunken fool was trying to crack a coconut, and Death chuckled despite himself. Perhaps he would knock himself out with the coconut? That would be a more interesting way to die, Death thought.
Fire, on the other hand, was often messy. Death had to time himself perfectly, or he'd lose the soul. He did so hate to lose souls.
Particularly when they were taken from him.
…
Regulus Black would have been an interesting soul, Death believed. He was such a tragic soul, brought up to want to cause murder and mayhem, yet gentle and fearful in many ways. It would have been a fight over who got the soul, and Death did enjoy listening to the arguments between Heaven and Hell.
The covenant between them was fragile at best, even on good days, and Regulus Black would have certainly tested that.
It would have broken the monotony quite nicely.
Instead, Regulus Black was captured by Inferi while attempting to destroy one of the fool's soul pieces. Death liked Regulus simply for that.
Interestingly, Death never got Regulus' lover's soul, either. Sucked away by one of the abominations before Death could get near.
He did so hate the Dementors, and yet, he could do nothing about them. How could he reap something which didn't have a soul to reap? Were they souled creatures, Death would have reaped every single one of them in a breath.
Still, he supposed that every cloud truly did have a silver lining. At least neither of them would ever spend eternity alone in whichever destination they had been bound for.
…
Death checked his list. Finally, the drunken fool's name had begun to glow, telling Death that the moment was upon him.
Sure enough, he watched the man fall into a chair in the close dining table. The man's eyes drooped, closing as his head fell to rest on the hard wood. The unwatched cooker still had flames licking around the gas hob, and a tea towel hung dangerously close to the flames.
The tiniest draft would direct the flame to the flammable material.
Death shook his head.
So needless. So pointless.
Still, he had collected this man's family before, and Death did so like collecting. He had endless time, after all, so he needed a hobby to keep himself occupied.
The drunken fool would finish off the set for this particular family.
…
Edgar Bones fought valiantly, Death couldn't help but admire. He watched from the sidelines, knowing he had more than one soul to collect from this particular skirmish.
Edgar and his wife, and their two sons, along with three who were almost certainly destined to spend the rest of their eternities in the seventh layer.
He collected them at their times, smiling briefly when he thought about the new name he could add to his completed collections.
Except… except, it wasn't complete. Edgar was survived by a sister. And a niece that he'd taken into his home upon the death of his brother, William.
It was only when he was leaving did Death realise there was a soul still in the house. He was curious despite knowing he had another appointment to keep, and upon investigation, he found a small baby hidden away in a cupboard.
Her name wasn't on his list, and he smiled. As much as he would like to complete his collection, he was proud of these people for managing to save the innocent soul.
(Death found himself sad to complete his collection of the Bones Family. He'd hoped for a long and fulfilling life for Susan Bones, but only seventeen short summers had passed by.)
…
Death collected the soul with his scythe just as the flames began to lick at the man. It would be painless, as was Death's job. The silver line striked through the name, and Death sighed.
Dudley Dursley was the last of the Dursley name to be collected.
As soon as the line was complete, another name appeared beneath it, and Death felt the familiar call to his next location.
Someone was always in a rush to die, it seemed.
He hoped for something more interesting.
And cooler. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Death left the house to go up in flames around the corpse.
There was nothing left for him there.
Also Written for;
Character Appreciation - 15. Courageous
Disney - Q4. "Look, our house! The lit's light—the light's lit!
Book Club - Curly: (word) crazed, (food) coconut, (word) rush
Showtime - 20. Covenant
Sophie's Shelf - V34. Weapon
Bex's Biscuits - Cookie - [word] Shooting, [Emotion] Amused, [Dialogue] "You'll never make it."
Hamilton Mania - Act 2, 11. Clue - Extra - 25. Deadly