Pity Not Icarus
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: As always, my oddity warning. A bit of slash indicated between Harry and Draco.
Disclaimers: Yes, of course I own Harry Potter. That's why I'm writing _FAN_fiction instead of the actual thing.
A/N: Why does it seem like all my one-shots are death fics? Ah well. This one was written because I realized I have not focused enough on Harry that I envision and instead have developed Draco's character immensely. However, when I was done with this one, I realized that this story was _still_ about Draco. I'm hopeless.
Anyway, onto Pity Not Icarus.
===
The morning's headline read: "Prominent Death Eater Killed." Words in bold large font that immediately screamed for his attention. He already knew the news, but it couldn't hurt to read the reporter's take on the story. He unfolded the newspaper with sure pale hands, the fingers and palm rather square against the gray flecked paper.
Ordinarily, he always skipped the first few pages of the Daily Prophet. Life was depressing, and he believed headlines and news stories were even more so. His little Rita Skeeter episode- "It was only 7 years, Harry." "It was long enough, Hermione."- was enough to last him the rest of his life, and he was usually in no mood to read about the misgivings of some other public figure. Not to mention the massive reports of death after death after death.
He had enough of deaths to last him a life time too.
He believed in an abtruse way that Death, once it touches you, marks you for life. Not literally marked, although he often lifted a hand to touch his scar in a curious manner, but marked as that you were chased by it continually. He also believed he was marked. And who can deny him that? As Trelawney- "Your dark hair.. your mean stature... tragic losses so young in life... I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in midwinter?" "No, I was born in July."- had once pointed his misfortunes out in short irritated phrases, he had recited his sob stories to reporters often enough to know that he was indeed touched by something, if not Death.
Once during his sixth year, Dumbledore had thought he was going into shock because of all his 'tragedies'. That had been the time period where he had started withdrawing and becoming absent, not letting much of any emotion or thought on his face. And people worried.
Especially Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, of the silver white gray hair- "Do you understand, Harry?"- and dewdrop blue eyes, piercing edged eyes full of too much emotion. Dumbledore, of the millions of students and half moon spectacles- "Do you, Harry?"- that watched him leave and always paused to contemplate his answers. Dumbledore, who never believed his half-hearted replies- "Yes, Headmaster, I do,"- and never stopped trying to understand him.
Yes, Headmaster, I do.
It had been, of course, Draco's fault. Everything eventually always leads back to Draco- "He's using you, Harry. Jesus, everyone uses you." "Even you?" "Especially me."- Malfoy, of ancient latin and bad faith. Draco, of the pale platinum silver blond hair and sea gray eyes. Draco, of Christmas carols and an obsession with flying. Not broomstick Quidditch type of flying, but of butterfly wings and sparrow songs.
Draco, who always tried too hard and thought too much and never ever stopped to consider.
"Prominent Death Eater Killed."
What was little known about the two self-proclaimed feudal enemies was that they were each other's determination. Both he and Draco had felt it during their first days together, and over the years it had grown until it became their entire reason to achieve. With Draco, everything became so easy. Life was simply the struggle to be better than those insinuating raw eyes. It was the race to always fly higher, score better, run faster, do better than ashen skin and ruthless hands.
It was the search for a walk in the rain where he had forgotten to say something.
And it was the quest to find what he had forgotten.
He loved symphonies. He loved the sound of straining string instruments colliding with the wafting wind instruments. There was something about composers, Muggle or not. Music, the ultimate denominator. Or was that Death?
"Prominent Death Eater Killed."
He used to hate sleeping with the lights on. The artifical sunlight bothered him with his eyes closed, and he used to complain when Ron- "You're not serious." "No, I'm Harry." "Harry! Don't change the subject." "I thought I was Sirius?" "You're so dead."- teased him by shoving his wand in his face and saying "Lumos."
But Draco Malfoy liked sleeping with the lights on. He said it made him feel safe, to know that if the world ended, he would at least be aware of the lights going away. He liked having the reassurance of the daylight he could never had enough of.
He also slept with the lights on now. To pay tribute to a person not really dead.
He had had a dream once, of Draco dying. It was a really vague dream, full of fog and smoke and dark alleyways. In the dream, he chased a robed figure down one of the alleways until he trapped the figure in a dead end. He drew out his wand and muttered something, stunning the other. And when he reached out with solid hands to draw back the cloak, he revealed bloody silver strands and feathery winter eyelashes against equally pallid skin.
Of course, he wasn't really sure if the prey had indeed been Malfoy. The point was he had a dream about killing someone who bore a remarkable resemblance to Draco Malfoy. In consciousness, he had no fantasies of killing Draco. But his subconsciousness- "It's just REM, Harry. Don't worry about it." "Yeah, well, it's disturbing REM, Hermione."- spoke otherwise.
Perhaps his dream had been a metaphor. Chasing after Draco, just as he had always been trying to surpass him. Finally being able to catch up with his archenemy simply because Draco had run into a dead end. And beating him.
Draco Malfoy always tried too hard.
He mechanically folded the paper together with sharp neat creases and set it down on the table, the headline "Prominent Death Eater Killed" showing on the top. With practiced clean movements, he picked up his cup of coffee- "Vitality, Potter, that's why you should drink coffee." "I like tea better." "That's why you're such a knob."- and placed it against his lips, tasting the steam.
He was not bothered by the fact Draco died. In fact, the thing that bothered him the most was how long it took Draco to die.
He took a sip of his coffee.
A/N: Yes, this is actually the end. Just my usual strangeness.
Feed me! Feed me! Review! If only just to say that you hated it!
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: As always, my oddity warning. A bit of slash indicated between Harry and Draco.
Disclaimers: Yes, of course I own Harry Potter. That's why I'm writing _FAN_fiction instead of the actual thing.
A/N: Why does it seem like all my one-shots are death fics? Ah well. This one was written because I realized I have not focused enough on Harry that I envision and instead have developed Draco's character immensely. However, when I was done with this one, I realized that this story was _still_ about Draco. I'm hopeless.
Anyway, onto Pity Not Icarus.
===
The morning's headline read: "Prominent Death Eater Killed." Words in bold large font that immediately screamed for his attention. He already knew the news, but it couldn't hurt to read the reporter's take on the story. He unfolded the newspaper with sure pale hands, the fingers and palm rather square against the gray flecked paper.
Ordinarily, he always skipped the first few pages of the Daily Prophet. Life was depressing, and he believed headlines and news stories were even more so. His little Rita Skeeter episode- "It was only 7 years, Harry." "It was long enough, Hermione."- was enough to last him the rest of his life, and he was usually in no mood to read about the misgivings of some other public figure. Not to mention the massive reports of death after death after death.
He had enough of deaths to last him a life time too.
He believed in an abtruse way that Death, once it touches you, marks you for life. Not literally marked, although he often lifted a hand to touch his scar in a curious manner, but marked as that you were chased by it continually. He also believed he was marked. And who can deny him that? As Trelawney- "Your dark hair.. your mean stature... tragic losses so young in life... I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in midwinter?" "No, I was born in July."- had once pointed his misfortunes out in short irritated phrases, he had recited his sob stories to reporters often enough to know that he was indeed touched by something, if not Death.
Once during his sixth year, Dumbledore had thought he was going into shock because of all his 'tragedies'. That had been the time period where he had started withdrawing and becoming absent, not letting much of any emotion or thought on his face. And people worried.
Especially Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, of the silver white gray hair- "Do you understand, Harry?"- and dewdrop blue eyes, piercing edged eyes full of too much emotion. Dumbledore, of the millions of students and half moon spectacles- "Do you, Harry?"- that watched him leave and always paused to contemplate his answers. Dumbledore, who never believed his half-hearted replies- "Yes, Headmaster, I do,"- and never stopped trying to understand him.
Yes, Headmaster, I do.
It had been, of course, Draco's fault. Everything eventually always leads back to Draco- "He's using you, Harry. Jesus, everyone uses you." "Even you?" "Especially me."- Malfoy, of ancient latin and bad faith. Draco, of the pale platinum silver blond hair and sea gray eyes. Draco, of Christmas carols and an obsession with flying. Not broomstick Quidditch type of flying, but of butterfly wings and sparrow songs.
Draco, who always tried too hard and thought too much and never ever stopped to consider.
"Prominent Death Eater Killed."
What was little known about the two self-proclaimed feudal enemies was that they were each other's determination. Both he and Draco had felt it during their first days together, and over the years it had grown until it became their entire reason to achieve. With Draco, everything became so easy. Life was simply the struggle to be better than those insinuating raw eyes. It was the race to always fly higher, score better, run faster, do better than ashen skin and ruthless hands.
It was the search for a walk in the rain where he had forgotten to say something.
And it was the quest to find what he had forgotten.
He loved symphonies. He loved the sound of straining string instruments colliding with the wafting wind instruments. There was something about composers, Muggle or not. Music, the ultimate denominator. Or was that Death?
"Prominent Death Eater Killed."
He used to hate sleeping with the lights on. The artifical sunlight bothered him with his eyes closed, and he used to complain when Ron- "You're not serious." "No, I'm Harry." "Harry! Don't change the subject." "I thought I was Sirius?" "You're so dead."- teased him by shoving his wand in his face and saying "Lumos."
But Draco Malfoy liked sleeping with the lights on. He said it made him feel safe, to know that if the world ended, he would at least be aware of the lights going away. He liked having the reassurance of the daylight he could never had enough of.
He also slept with the lights on now. To pay tribute to a person not really dead.
He had had a dream once, of Draco dying. It was a really vague dream, full of fog and smoke and dark alleyways. In the dream, he chased a robed figure down one of the alleways until he trapped the figure in a dead end. He drew out his wand and muttered something, stunning the other. And when he reached out with solid hands to draw back the cloak, he revealed bloody silver strands and feathery winter eyelashes against equally pallid skin.
Of course, he wasn't really sure if the prey had indeed been Malfoy. The point was he had a dream about killing someone who bore a remarkable resemblance to Draco Malfoy. In consciousness, he had no fantasies of killing Draco. But his subconsciousness- "It's just REM, Harry. Don't worry about it." "Yeah, well, it's disturbing REM, Hermione."- spoke otherwise.
Perhaps his dream had been a metaphor. Chasing after Draco, just as he had always been trying to surpass him. Finally being able to catch up with his archenemy simply because Draco had run into a dead end. And beating him.
Draco Malfoy always tried too hard.
He mechanically folded the paper together with sharp neat creases and set it down on the table, the headline "Prominent Death Eater Killed" showing on the top. With practiced clean movements, he picked up his cup of coffee- "Vitality, Potter, that's why you should drink coffee." "I like tea better." "That's why you're such a knob."- and placed it against his lips, tasting the steam.
He was not bothered by the fact Draco died. In fact, the thing that bothered him the most was how long it took Draco to die.
He took a sip of his coffee.
A/N: Yes, this is actually the end. Just my usual strangeness.
Feed me! Feed me! Review! If only just to say that you hated it!