Warning: Rated an R, due to a slash pairing. Please avoid this fic if you
are not comfortable with the idea of a same sex romantic pairing. Also
there is death, more death, depression and general unpleasantness.
Disclaimer: If the characters were mine they wouldn't wear those tacky Quidditch robes. Alas, they're JKR's and she dresses them in gold and red and silver and whatnot.
*
Metamorphosis
The night guard has a face that might have been kind once and the milky, unfocused eyes of the blind. But he can still find his way around the Museum of Magic, because the old building has developed this delicate, this terribly delicate way of resounding every movement, magnifying every echo. He can hear the fine teeth of moth sawing into the wood, the flapping of wings of little nameless insects, the crackling of ancient magic electrifying the air. The Museum is not haunted, he knows that much, the museum is alive.
Every night he follows the same path, walking along that maze of endless corridors, with his fingertips brushing lightly along the walls on either side, towards the central hall where the most prized exhibit of the museum is kept, the two boys. They call them 'the Twins'.
He can feel their presence as he moves closer, the weight of old death in the air about him. He always thought it was disrespectful, the way they were treated, their fragile bodies exposed to the curious eyes of visitors that clustered around the glass box every day. Decades of public death, their tombstone a small bronze plaque at the foot of the vitrine: THE TWINS. DATE OF DISCOVERY-
They were discovered five years after the destruction of Hogwarts, when the level of radioactive magic in the air had fallen enough for the first excavations to begin. They were found trapped inside one of the underground shelters that were built to protect the Hogwarts students from the dragon air raids.
The shelter was painted white, there was no ventilation grill in the room, as the witnesses testified, and the air smelled of dust, urine and flowers. The final explosion that destroyed Hogwarts smashed thousands of potion vials, broke thousands of wands and unleashed a torrent of old spells. For years the air was thick like mercury with magic, a possible explanation for the pristine condition of the bodies.
The boys were found sitting on a mattress, with their backs resting against the wall, clutching each other like children. The left one was staring ahead, his dull eyes focused to the direction of the door, so when the first wizard broke into the room he though they were alive and rushed to them with oxygen masks.
The one to the right was curled up in a ball, knees to ribs, his arms linked around the shoulders of the other boy, face buried in the curve of the neck, lips touching the exposed skin over the collar. Two heads of black hair leaning against each other, dark tendrils blending together. A kiss. 'A possible sign of friendship, affection or a sexual relationship. Perhaps an instinctive reaction caused by the fear of death and negative psychological state of the deceased', said the History of Magic encyclopedia. 'Eww, disgusting' said the school boys with the chocolate- stained mouths as they pressed their faces on the vitrine and elbowed each other grinning. 'Eternal love' sighed the old spinster with the bag and head full of romance novels.
There were no suspicions of anything unusual at first. Seven hundred students had died at Hogwarts and so had they. But when they were transferred to the labs for further inspection it was impossible to separate them. The skin crackled loudly on their bones and the limbs refused to disentangle. Their faces were smooth as if they had been glazed with wax, their bodies hard like the ones of stuffed animals. One of the scientists noticed that one of them was clenching something in his fist. Carefully they forced the stiff cold fingers apart and the vial fell to the floor.
The old guard can't see but he knows they're there. He rests his forehead against the glass and places his cane by the wall. At night, in blindness, it all comes undone. In the absence of what is real, he can fool himself and turn his illusion into his reality. He can imagine them looking at him, their eyes piercing through the glass. The milky light of the moon seeping around the edges of the room, illuminating their faces. Their chests, rising and falling. He can imagine how their bodies begin to move, coiling around the box as they try to break free, exile themselves from their glass coffin.
He can imagine them crawling towards him, hissing and mumbling enchantments, their breath moist, fogging the glass beneath his fingertips. He can imagine them showing him their wrists, where square centimetres of skin and flesh were removed for lab experiments. Their mouths red and liquid, bleeding kisses.
'There's nothing I can do' he says to the two boys that have not moved or spoken or breathed, buried for years underneath someone else's skin. 'I'm nothing but an old man now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'
The scientist examined the dried-up contents of the vial for hours. A though crossed his mind and he bent over the boys to examine their faces. Their eyes were green. When he pushed the hair away from their foreheads, he saw the scars.
The effect of the polyjuice transformation freezes in the case of death. Illusion sinks deep into the cracks of reality, and in the absence of anything else that is real, it becomes reality in itself. Therefore it was impossible for the men in the white coats, down at their science labs, to determine which one of the two had been the real Harry Potter, if even one of the two had been the real Harry Potter and if Harry Potter had been real after all.
The end
Disclaimer: If the characters were mine they wouldn't wear those tacky Quidditch robes. Alas, they're JKR's and she dresses them in gold and red and silver and whatnot.
*
Metamorphosis
The night guard has a face that might have been kind once and the milky, unfocused eyes of the blind. But he can still find his way around the Museum of Magic, because the old building has developed this delicate, this terribly delicate way of resounding every movement, magnifying every echo. He can hear the fine teeth of moth sawing into the wood, the flapping of wings of little nameless insects, the crackling of ancient magic electrifying the air. The Museum is not haunted, he knows that much, the museum is alive.
Every night he follows the same path, walking along that maze of endless corridors, with his fingertips brushing lightly along the walls on either side, towards the central hall where the most prized exhibit of the museum is kept, the two boys. They call them 'the Twins'.
He can feel their presence as he moves closer, the weight of old death in the air about him. He always thought it was disrespectful, the way they were treated, their fragile bodies exposed to the curious eyes of visitors that clustered around the glass box every day. Decades of public death, their tombstone a small bronze plaque at the foot of the vitrine: THE TWINS. DATE OF DISCOVERY-
They were discovered five years after the destruction of Hogwarts, when the level of radioactive magic in the air had fallen enough for the first excavations to begin. They were found trapped inside one of the underground shelters that were built to protect the Hogwarts students from the dragon air raids.
The shelter was painted white, there was no ventilation grill in the room, as the witnesses testified, and the air smelled of dust, urine and flowers. The final explosion that destroyed Hogwarts smashed thousands of potion vials, broke thousands of wands and unleashed a torrent of old spells. For years the air was thick like mercury with magic, a possible explanation for the pristine condition of the bodies.
The boys were found sitting on a mattress, with their backs resting against the wall, clutching each other like children. The left one was staring ahead, his dull eyes focused to the direction of the door, so when the first wizard broke into the room he though they were alive and rushed to them with oxygen masks.
The one to the right was curled up in a ball, knees to ribs, his arms linked around the shoulders of the other boy, face buried in the curve of the neck, lips touching the exposed skin over the collar. Two heads of black hair leaning against each other, dark tendrils blending together. A kiss. 'A possible sign of friendship, affection or a sexual relationship. Perhaps an instinctive reaction caused by the fear of death and negative psychological state of the deceased', said the History of Magic encyclopedia. 'Eww, disgusting' said the school boys with the chocolate- stained mouths as they pressed their faces on the vitrine and elbowed each other grinning. 'Eternal love' sighed the old spinster with the bag and head full of romance novels.
There were no suspicions of anything unusual at first. Seven hundred students had died at Hogwarts and so had they. But when they were transferred to the labs for further inspection it was impossible to separate them. The skin crackled loudly on their bones and the limbs refused to disentangle. Their faces were smooth as if they had been glazed with wax, their bodies hard like the ones of stuffed animals. One of the scientists noticed that one of them was clenching something in his fist. Carefully they forced the stiff cold fingers apart and the vial fell to the floor.
The old guard can't see but he knows they're there. He rests his forehead against the glass and places his cane by the wall. At night, in blindness, it all comes undone. In the absence of what is real, he can fool himself and turn his illusion into his reality. He can imagine them looking at him, their eyes piercing through the glass. The milky light of the moon seeping around the edges of the room, illuminating their faces. Their chests, rising and falling. He can imagine how their bodies begin to move, coiling around the box as they try to break free, exile themselves from their glass coffin.
He can imagine them crawling towards him, hissing and mumbling enchantments, their breath moist, fogging the glass beneath his fingertips. He can imagine them showing him their wrists, where square centimetres of skin and flesh were removed for lab experiments. Their mouths red and liquid, bleeding kisses.
'There's nothing I can do' he says to the two boys that have not moved or spoken or breathed, buried for years underneath someone else's skin. 'I'm nothing but an old man now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'
The scientist examined the dried-up contents of the vial for hours. A though crossed his mind and he bent over the boys to examine their faces. Their eyes were green. When he pushed the hair away from their foreheads, he saw the scars.
The effect of the polyjuice transformation freezes in the case of death. Illusion sinks deep into the cracks of reality, and in the absence of anything else that is real, it becomes reality in itself. Therefore it was impossible for the men in the white coats, down at their science labs, to determine which one of the two had been the real Harry Potter, if even one of the two had been the real Harry Potter and if Harry Potter had been real after all.
The end