Lady Lazarus

by Rubberduckie713

A postwar oneshot based on the Sylvia Plath Poem of the same title. As normalcy returns to the wizarding community, Harry only appears to be handling things well. Dark little piece.

Disclaimer: So totally not mine. Try and sue—I'm just a soon-to-be broke college student. Turns out education is expensive. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and Co; Lady Lazarus belongs to Sylvia Plath's next of kin (or something…whoever it is, it's not me).

A/N: I apologize that the poem, which isn't necessarily a part of the story, takes up so much space, but I feel that it is fairly important, considering it inspired this little foray. Also, anyone wondering about any of my older stories, check my profile. I don't need to take up the space explaining it again here ;) . Also, for some reason, page and stanza breaks are failing here; in the poem, the slash / indicates a stanza break.

Summary: A post-war one-shot based on the Sylvia Plath Poem of the same title. As normalcy returns to the wizarding community, Harry only appears to be handling things well. Dark little piece.

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it----/

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot/

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen./

Peel off the napkin

0 my enemy.

Do I terrify?----/

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day./

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me/

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die./

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade./

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see/

Them unwrap me hand and foot

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies/

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,/

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident./

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut/

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls./

Dying

Is an art, like everything else,

I do it exceptionally well./

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call./

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

It's the theatrical/

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:/

'A miracle!'

That knocks me out.

There is a charge/

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart----

It really goes./

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood/

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy./

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby/

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern./

Ash, ash ---

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----/

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling./

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware./

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

-Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"

xXxXxXx

At twenty-three, you are an old man. You see it every morning when you look in the mirror. Your eyes are dull and shadowed; the skin on your face stretches tightly over prominent cheekbones. You look a bit like a Holocaust survivor, and you suppose that in a way, you are.

The others, of course, do not see this. How could they, when you've worn a glamour for the past 3 months? They somehow remain convinced that you have returned to normal, that the lapse you suffered after the final battle was just that—a brief slip.

You think Snape might not be fooled. The bastard is too shrewd for his own good. You've noticed him studying you—not in his usual Snape-ish way, but with a clinical interest. Perhaps he fancies playing Doctor—poking at you and screening your mind, probing your memories and laying your history bare for examination. The thought makes you snort. Not in this lifetime, Snivellus.

He is the only one, thankfully, who seems to be even mildly aware of your descent. The rest of the world is content to watch your every move with rapt fascination, as though you are some sort of morbid freakshow. "Come!" a voice like Scrimgeour's or perhaps Delores Umbridge's shouts in your head. "See the boy who survived unspeakable horrors!"

This reminds you that you are due at the Ministry for another ceremony later today.

xXxXxXx

You aren't sure what this event is supposed to commemorate. At this point, you're fairly certain that the Ministry is simply making up excuses for you to appear for publicity's sake—you are their best ticket seller. You've already attended an official acknowledgement of Voldemort's demise, a formal pardon for Sirius (a little too late for it to be of any use), a ceremony in memory of the countless dead, and some half dozen other events merely intended to keep you in the public eye and garner support for the Ministry. The reasons for the ceremony don't matter; your performance will be the same. Scrimgeour will deliver some blunt remarks pertaining to the day's significance, and anywhere from one to four speakers will follow, all overfed, long-winded, and self-indulgent. You will be called forward and perform flawlessly, reading whatever sentimental drivel they thrust under your nose as you feel a thousand eyes piercing into you. There will be a painful reception in which you pretend not to be haunted by your memories. You will leave as quickly as decorum allows, return to your modest flat, and drink tea heavily laced with Firewhiskey and stronger things until you are able to sink into an uneasy sleep, one you know will be interrupted in a few hours by painful flashbacks.

Your dark musings are cut short as the crowd begins to applaud. The fat, pompous speaker whose name you don't know is waving in your direction; you realize it must be your turn to speak. Slowly, robotically, you walk to the podium.

You read the speech handed to you in a dull, flat voice. The audience seems not to notice—they are all busy staring at you, transfixed. As you continue speaking, failing to even comprehend the words passing your lips, the air takes on a flickering quality, as though you are surrounded by a wall of smoke or the kind of intense heat that causes the air to shimmer and distort. You are vaguely aware of the audience's mad applause as you end the contrived, uninspired address. In a haze, you shake hands with a few dignitaries, pose rigidly for a few photos, and make your way home.

Entering your flat, you check your Muggle telephone for messages—you keep it because Hermione prefers to call, and you do have to make contact with the occasional Muggle authority. Surely enough, Hermione's voice berates you from the machine, sounding disappointed.

"…another reception at the Ministry, Harry? God, you're just being their lapdog! You could be making a difference with your influence. I thought I knew you, but the Harry I knew would never play pawn to the Ministry…let me know when you've come to your senses…"

Her rant continues, but you hit the erase button and head for your cabinets. You're all out of tea, so you grab a bottle of Firewhiskey and settle yourself before the suddenly roaring fire, drinking the alcohol straight. You don't know how long you sit, staring into the flames, scarcely moving save to bring the bottle of liquor to your lips. When the bottle is empty, you douse the fire with a wave of your wand and stumble drunkenly to your room, noticing that the air continues to waver around you.

You pass out nearly before your head hits the pillow. Unfortunately, your dreams are less than sweet.

xXxXxXx

You've lost count how long you've been stuck in this hellhole. For awhile, you tried scratching lines into the wall, but that method was rendered ineffective, as you're never sure what time of day it is when you wake up after the Death Eaters are through with you. You think you've been here about four and a half weeks. You started losing hope of being rescued around week three.

Voldemort has noticed your apathy; it both frustrates and delights him. He cannot stand the fact that you no longer care what happens to you, and it seems to take the fun out of torturing you. However, he is practically beside himself with the idea that he has finally broken the great Harry Potter.

He hasn't broken you, though. Not really. You have decided that the Order will not be rushing to your side anytime soon, but Voldemort has, as usual, underestimated you. He still pictures you as the fifteen-year old boy stricken with grief over Sirius and unable to cast even the Cruciatus curse, let alone the Avada Kedavra he is certain you will need to beat him.

He does not realize that you have developed a propensity for anger, that you can appear calm—lethargic, even—yet boil beneath the surface. He is not aware that, if properly provoked, you are likely to explode with raw magic. Every blow to the head, every kick the Death Eaters deliver to your broken body, every dark curse that is thrown at you—you bear it without whimpering or screaming, allowing the hot anger to swell within you. It's not exactly healthy, but it's your only chance.

Today, the Death Eaters are experimenting with the art of mutilation. Lucius is playing the ringleader and quite enjoying himself—he is absolutely merciless. He has already carved an intricate series of patterns into your chest and back, and is now taking his time selecting the most painful knife he can find. He chooses a deadly-looking serrated blade, casting a heating charm on it.

Despite your best efforts, you shudder. The Death Eaters holding you feel it and laugh sadistically. Lucius approaches, a nasty smile on his face, and touches the hot blade to your face, along your jaw line. You force yourself to remain calm, even as the sick bastard slices into the skin, running the blade from your jaw to your eyebrow. If you manage to survive, you know you will have another scar, one much more visible that the famous one on your forehead.

Clearing your mind, you breathe deeply and remain calm, letting the anger and pain pool in you stomach, waiting for it to build.

xXxXxXx

You sit up abruptly, shaking slightly. Tonight, by all standards, was fairly mild.

xXxXxXx

Several weeks after your latest Ministry exploit, a nondescript wizard with an official air shows up at your door. Always the perfect model of hospitality, you invite him in after waving your wand to dispel the faint odor of alcohol and stale laundry--you've found that the stupors induced by liquor provide a lovely reprieve. He explains brusquely, after you offer him a cup of tea (he declines, which is fortunate, as you haven't any), that the Ministry will be holding a press conference regarding you. The media will come, gawk over you, take their photos and ask their questions, and leave you in peace for the rest of your life.

You give the man a sardonic smile. You know that the likelihood of the press leaving you is less than zero, but you have little choice in the matter. You agree to appear tomorrow, and shortly after the man leaves you succumb to another turbulent night.

xXxXxXx

You haven't spoken for three days, since the day that Voldemort died once and for all. Everyone you know has tried to coax you out of this silence, but you simply stare blindly in front of you, rarely even acknowledging the presence of another in the room. Molly Weasley tries to convince you to eat a bowl of soup; it sits, untouched, and grows cold. Remus attempts to talk to you, but you don't even look at him. Nevertheless, he continues on, as though you are a person in a coma and will benefit from aural stimulation.

Even Snape has made an effort, and he is surprisingly the only one who garners any reaction--or perhaps not so surprisingly. At first, he shouts and yells, calling you a selfish, melodramatic little boy. When this tactic proves useless, he falls back to Occlumency. You feel him trying to slime his way through your memories, seeking your recollection of that night. You shield yourself and turn to stare directly at him, your eyes burning into his.

"So you are awake under there, Potter." He leaves immediately after.

The next day, you resume speaking and eating, and before long everyone is competely convinced you've returned to yourself.

xXxXxXx

You are regretting ever having agreed to this fiasco. There are more reporters here than you've ever seen gathered in one place, which is saying something, considering the press heyday that immediately followed Voldemort's demise. They're not holding back, either, asking questions regarding your childhood and your personal life; questions which cannot possibly pertain to the war. You answer dutifully, like the good little Ministry representative that you've become, as a mess of photographic flashes blind you.

Very suddenly, as though you've just woken from a dream, you realize what is going on—what you have become. You can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into you, stripping you bare. It is too much. Your breathing begins to quicken, and the ever-present flicker has grown more intense: you can scarcely see through it. You know the air is warming, can feel the electricity of your own magic beginning to crackle around you. Everything is much too loud and much to close as the reporters continue to shout questions over each other.

"Harry—what about that scar?"

A dull roar pounds in your ears.

"Harry, tell us about the final battle!"

Colors and sounds begin to swirl together, the dull roar now approaching the volume of a shriek.

"Harry, is it true you grew up in a cupboard?"

It is too much. Your life—everything about you has been picked apart and ripped away until there is nothing left. You feel like a piece of carrion being devoured by hungry vultures.

"Harry, tell us about the Weasleys!"

It is too much. The kaleidoscope of color and sound begins to spin faster as your breathing nears hyperventilation. The magic in the air is palpable. Everything blurs; individual faces become indistinguishable. You fight to remain calm even as the screaming in your ears intensifies.

"Mr. Potter, can you tell us about Ginny Weasley?"

It is too much. Images begin to fly through you head, memories you've struggled to repress these last few months.

xXxXxXx

Voldemort stands before you, smirking with an undeserved smugness as a crew of five or six Death Eaters hold you back.

"We know the noble Harry Potter cares not for his own well-being," he pauses as his eyes flicker over your broken body, "but then, we all know Harry's true weakness."

You feel slightly as though you are watching a Muggle film, but the consequences are so much more real. To your horror, another group escorts in a pale-faced Ginny. You do take small pride in noticing that several of her guard seem to be sporting split lips, bloody noses, and black eyes. This vanishes, though, as Voldemort approaches her and runs a long, white finger along her neck.

"Don't touch her!" you spit, thrashing against your captors. They merely laugh.

"So pretty," Voldemort hisses, grabbing her chin. "In fact, she bears a striking resemblance to your Mudblood mother…"

Ginny spits in his face. He draws back abruptly and slaps her, hard. You feel the anger growing in your stomach, hot and ferocious. It grows stronger and stronger as you are forced to watch Voldemort place on torturous curse after another on her, curses far more exotic than the Cruciatus but, as you have learned over the course of your imprisonment, no less painful.

In between curses, Ginny manages to gasp, "Don't give in, Harry."

Voldemort's high, cruel laugh pierces the air. "Are you ready for another woman who loves you to sacrifice her life for you, Harry Potter? This one's hardly even a woman, just a foolish little girl."

You thrash harder against the brawny arms holding you to no avail, watching in horror as the torture becomes physical. Tears slide unhindered down your face as the Death Eaters deliver crushing blows to her already battered body.

"The fun is just beginning, Harry."

For the next several hours, you are held and made to watch as one Death Eater after another brutally rapes Ginny while the others laugh and cheer. Her screams tear through the chamber, and the hot anger in your stomach swells and burns.

Finally, the ordeal halts, the sudden silence punctuated only by your labored breathing and Ginny's choked sobs. You know, though, that this is not a good sign.

"Does it break your young heart to know that your girlfriend's death will mean nothing, Potter? Her sacrifice will have been in vain. Pity…she's such a pretty little whore."

The air wavers around you. As though in slow motion, you see Voldemort send the killing curse at Ginny.

At the same time, you hear your mother's voice in your ears.

"Please, not Harry…"

Without warning, the heat that has been building in your stomach explodes. You don't know how, but the room around you is suddenly aflame—as are Voldemort and his minions. The Order finds you two hours later, completely nude and standing stock-still in the very same spot, the wreckage of Voldemort's headquarters smoldering to ash around you, inhaling the smell of burned flesh.

xXxXxXx

"Ginny Weasley?" the reported repeats.

The previous tornado of activity stops; everything suddenly seems frozen rather than a blur. The hot, raw anger burns just as it did in that dark dungeon.

This mockery, this freak show is over. The very air around you, still shimmering dangerously, bursts into flames. In seconds, the blaze is consuming everything around you. Where you were earlier hyperventilating, an eerie calm no possesses you.

You simply stand and watch it burn.

A/N: Well, Here's the first writing sample I've put out there in awhile. I'm still not entirely satisfied—what writer is?—but I'm looking for constructive criticism here. Constructiveyou actually have something meaningful to say. Flames are not considered constructive. Chances are I will continue to revise this piece and put a better version up after I get a little feedback. Thanks for reading.