Warning(s): Slash context.
AN: I wrote this while listening to Hannibal's version of Aria da Capo.
His Last Words
And he said, "Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you.
Come close to me and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. "
- Kahlil Gibran, Death XXVII
September 30, 1970 A.D.
The dawn came benedictory, after a long night.
Soft light crept on the meadows, breeze rustled the green blades, and Marvolo Gaunt loathed the peaceful atmosphere with ferocity he never experienced.
It was as if the nature itself, so ancient and terrible, is most unaffected by the passing of one man.
But to him, and maybe to hundred others, today was the worst day one could wake to.
He reluctantly dragged himself from his seat, gave an uninterested glance at the state of his room - once he prided himself in its pristine condition in the whole manor - and decided that he ought to change into something more respectable. He opened the wardrobe and chose a nondescript black robe, which underneath he wore a black suit and a white tie, groomed his hair to perfection and summoned his wand from the coffee table and put it in its holster.
The hallways before his bedroom were unnaturally silent, and while the Gaunt Manor was by no means raucous, it still had the random sounds of its residents; Eliza's playful harp he usually woke to, Rigel Black's momentarily screeches at being rudely awakened by Elara, Prewett's usual greeting through his horrid owl, carrying his niece's, Mrs. Weasley, mouthwatering goods.
But today, it was eerily silent. And he was immensely thankful for that.
.
Lord Peverell-Potter is Dead
By Stephan Orwell
The Wizarding world of Great Britain and beyond wakes today to the most somber news. The Daily Prophet is regretful to be the bearers of the saddest and latest updates regarding Lord Peverell-Potter.
As many of our readers know, His Lordship has been ill for many years due to an unfortunate case of the incurable magical disease 'Vas Corruptionem', and on last Tuesday eve, Lord Peverell-Potter was finally relieved from his prolonged suffering.
Friends and acquaintances of the late Lord are respectfully invited to
attend the funeral services of His Lordship, which will be held today at the Gaunt Manor in Little Hangelton at afternoon.
The Prophet's family offers their condolences to His Lordship's kin and the whole Wizarding world.
Lord Peverell-Potter: Accomplishments and Awards Over the Years pg.2
Peverell-Potter, The Familiar Face In Every Scene: A Biography pg.4
Legacy of House Gaunt, Restored pg.6
The Passing Of The Equality Law pg.9
Vas Corruptionem and the similarities with Muggle cancer pg.13
.
Rigel hesitantly entered the dining room, expecting it to be empty, but was mildly surprised to find it already occupied. He eyed the young women siting primly on the long mahogany table, face awfully pale and eyes bloodshot, and instantly scolded himself when he almost felt relieved that he wasn't the only one with grief apparent on his person.
Elara gave him a half-hearted smile, and waved at the untouched full-breakfast spread on the table, "Tuck in." He almost snorted at her horrible attempt at normalcy, but wisely kept his tongue.
A fleeting glance at the head table, perhaps assuming the usual forbidding figure to be already seated, eyes bearing on him disapprovingly for being late, but Rigel unsurprisingly found it vacant.
He bit into the normally delicious-looking bacon and tasted stale instead, so he put it down, wiped his mouth with a napkin and quietly asked, "Lord Gaunt?"
Eliza uncharacteristically sniffed, and he eyed her with horror, don't cry, he almost pleaded, but mercifully she just took a sip of her tea with a grimace and responded with a hoarse, "In the master bedroom," and Rigel silently acknowledged the 'still' hanging there.
And so they sat, the three (uninvited, but accepted) additions to the glamorous Gaunt family, and reminisced.
His Last Words
Afternoon came too soon, with Heir Marvolo being the only one decent enough to step out of the manor, and it was then they heard the ominous creek of the master bedroom's door, signaling that the Lord of the manor left his private solace.
Thomas Marvolo Gaunt had a forbidding presence, alluring and impossible to ignore, but today he was but a wisp of his usual aura. He walked with uncommon slouch in his gait, as if he simply forced himself out of his abode by sheer will, a grief-filled will, but enough to allow him the dignity of not dragging his feet aimless in the vast manor.
And his eyes; typically clear dark brown - almost red - now weary, shrouded ones. As if the Gaunt Lord was trapped in a distant memory, reviving it again and again.
His grasp on his dark cane was loose as he distractedly nodded to his heir, and stepped out to the cheerfully sunlit entrance with an air of graceless resignation.
.
"The murderer of my parents once told me this; 'there is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it."
He stilled, hand tightening on the flask of a Pepper-Up. He was startled by the sudden revelation, as his savior was usually reserved regarding his past.
He turned to face the figure seated near the hearth, the merrily crackling fire illuminating his face, and his half-lidded emerald eyes gazed at the fire with disquieting detachedness. Thomas silently approached his chair and sank to his knees, took hold of the wine glass loosely held between pale fingers and replaced it with the potion.
"And?" He gazed up at him, silently willing the lovely face to turn to him. Harold blinked, then slowly looked down at him, something unfathomable in his eyes. "And I took his life twice in return…"
Thomas shivered. The usually kindhearted, flawless and gently smiling savior in his memories suddenly enhanced by the newfound darkness reflected on the beloved face.
Graceful fingers grasped his chin, and he willingly raised his head to meet the mesmerizing eyes. "But Thomas," Harold began, as his fingers caressed his cheek. "He thought that power was enough to achieve his ends, and while power is a necessary component, it's never enough alone. "
And perhaps Thomas had imagined something unnamed in Harold's eyes when he softly continued, "With no goodness, no morality, he committed the unforgivable. Then perished, robbed of his so-called invincibility, and his ruined soul allowed no entry in the afterlife."
And then they sat, still and unmoving in the darkening room, gazing in each other's eyes, till the fire died down, engulfing the lounge room with complete darkness.
His Last Words
Adrian Prewett met Harold thirty years ago, back when the Wizarding world was on the brink of falling into a civil war. The German wizard Grindelwald being the spark to the fire that would have swallowed many witches and wizards, had the bizarrely merry and occasionally cranky Harold Peverell-Potter not stopped him.
Adrian holds the late Lord in high regard, as most other wizards do, but the bitter taste of mortality still took him by surprise. He supposes that he almost fancied Harold to be invincible, as his feats may lead anyone to believe so, even with the terrible illness that plagued him for innumerable years.
But still, even when he glimpsed the Peverell-Potter lord leaning on his once-ward, seemingly a fortnight ago, body whacked with coughs and handkerchief stained with dark blood, he merely noticed the thrumming magic swirling around his person. He was entirely blinded by its sheer power so much that he thought that if Harold's body withered then surely his soul would still live on.
Sadly, he was mistaken. But not for the first time, as old Harold had this frustrating habit of doing the utterly unexpected.
Now, he stood with his weeping niece Molly in the vast hall, filled to the brim with mourning witches and wizards, a delegation of Ministry officials - including the Minister of Magic herself - and even the stoic traditionalists, known for their disagreements with the late Lord were in attendance. Adrian allowed himself a sardonic smile; even his enemies could not keep themselves from getting drawn to the irresistible, warm-hearted and occasionally mischievous being.
After every attendant paid their respects, said their piece or simply transfigured a lily or a rose and laid it upon the artfully ornamented coffin, Adrian took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and stepped up to say his farewells to his dear friend.
Harold, the smug bastard, still looked good even when lying lifeless in his coffin.
He was politely reminded of the passing time when someone pointedly coughed behind him after he spent what felt like ages simply gazing at his friend's slack face, he resignedly shook his head; even in death Harold still captivated him.
He turned and faced the Gaunt Lord, now looking terribly like his namesake, and found himself filled with pity.
He's extremely aware of the adoration the lad once, and apparently still, harbored for his friend, and knew in that moment that he should perhaps reassure Gaunt that it was not completely unrequited.
He might withhold the information when his friend was alive, out of respect for his wishes, but now he will do it to reduce the terrible grief in the usually aloof eyes.
"Here," he sighed, tugging a particular memory from his head and stuffing it into a hastily transfigured vial for the sake of Lord Gaunt's sanity, while inwardly cursing his bleeding heart. "A gift for you."
It was later, as he prepared for sleep, that it fully downed on him that old, grouchy and possessor of terrible humor Harold passed away, and fortunately his household was sound sleep to not hear his soft keens.
.
"You're fond of him," he dared to point out, eyes tracing the fleeting pain that flashed through Harold's face when his adolescent ward angrily stormed off to Merlin knows where.
Harold chuckled despairingly. "Exceedingly, Adrian."
"Then why…" He stopped, when Harold shook his head, and gulped down his Firewhisky. "Surely you can see why, I do not wish for him to be tied down to a fading man, Adrian."
"I thought that it was perhaps due to the age disparity," Adrian forcibly refused to acknowledge the pervious remark, and Harold eyed him wearily, but did not call him on it. He laid back on his seat and nodded, "That too, my friend. I practically look like his sire beside him."
Harold's eyes refocused, and Thomas stilled as they looked right at him. "The lad's got a bright future ahead of him, and I'm not going to ruin that. He will have to marry a suitable lady, restore his bloodline legacy, spawn a few kids that will torment old grandpa Harold …" A familiar benign smile appeared on his face, emerald eyes twinkled madly, and they winked at him. "But eventually, all will be well."
Thomas raised his head from the Pensieve and closed his eyes in dismay.
"No, my dearest, all's not well."
.
.
AN: I'm not sorry. That being said, thank you for reading.
The concept for the fic was this: Harry paid the price for going back in time by slowly dying, saved Tom from the orphanage in 1930 after four years of debating whether he should kill him or not. The illness is fake, 'the vessel decay' awfully translated by Google to Latin.
Edited on 26 Jul, 2018.