[Disclaimer: Nothing created by JK Rowling belongs to moi. Pity. You think she'd lend me Severus? Just for a little while? No?
Damn.]
[Other Disclaimer: I do not own 'Song IX' by W.H Auden, though I'd like to, it's purdiful. It's that lovely poem Matthew reads out at Gareth's funeral in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'; you know the one, with John Hannah in it…and that other bugger, Hugh Something or whoever. I have, however, listened to John Hannah's recitation of it waaaay too many times]
Actually, aside from a single mention of Hogwarts, there's like, nothing of JK Rowling's in this story…the only reason it comes under the heading of HP fanfic is because the characters (Hugh Paquette and William Davis, also mention of one of Hugh's flings and Bianca Davis, Will's sister) are characters I created for an ongoing HP role-play ('Canon Shmanon'…yes, we pretty much take canon and beat the shit out of it…now there's a weird mental image). Whoa, long sentence. With little ones inside. Purdiful.
Suppose this could be a companion piece of sorts to 'On A Crooked Path'.
Go me for writing this in under half an hour…but it's not actually all that great…
He Is Dead
Summary: 'Just a short cry that had been abruptly cut off when Will's neck snapped and ended his life.' A guilt-ridden Hugh mourns. (Slash, original characters)
By Adele Elisabeth
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Two weeks ago, Hugh had fought with William. It had been over some absurd, petty little thing, nothing of importance, but Will had stormed off in a huff, leaving Hugh to worry and wonder and…fall into bed with the next flavour of the month. One and a half weeks ago, Hugh had watched Will fall to his death and know that it was his fault. Yesterday, Hugh had attended Will's funeral and known that he was the reason Will wasn't with them anymore, that it was his fault and nobody else's and that he didn't even deserve to be there. He'd listened to others offer their condolences to Will's family, and to him, and forced weak, wan smiles. He'd tried to avoid Bianca's accusing, grey-eyed stare. He'd as good as killed her brother. He wished he'd died, too. He wished he hadn't had to be the one who carried Will's limp and lifeless body to the Infirmary, wished Madam Pomfrey hadn't been there to see him scream and rage at what was left of his lover, ordering Will to 'wake the fuck up'…
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He wished he'd never set eyes on Jason, or James, or John, whoever the hell it had been. Wished that they hadn't all fought there, at the top of the stairs. Wished he'd moved faster, stopped the stupid prick from giving that small, fatal shove that sent Will tumbling to his death. There had been no blood. Just a short cry that had been abruptly cut off when Will's neck snapped and ended his life. Will had died and it was his fault…his fault…
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
He didn't know what to do anymore. No matter what, Will had always been there, and now…he wasn't. Bianca, darling, darling Bianca…she had searched for him, but in vain. The girl was a Necromancer, and a powerful one, at that…he'd followed her as she ran through the halls of Hogwarts, listened to her heart-rending cries for Will to come back to her, and he'd held her when she finally crumpled to the ground and sobbed. If Bi couldn't find him, then he was gone. He'd been hoping that she'd find him, that Will's ghost would be there, somewhere, but she'd failed and he'd failed and…well, there had been a lot of failure involved.
I loved him and he's dead and I never told him…
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Yesterday, he'd put a single rose on Will's grave, and stared at the white marble gravestone.
Unknown and forgotten to some he may be,
it read, but the earth that enshrouds him is sacred to me."I'm sorry," Hugh whispered into the silence, knowing that it wasn't enough and that 'sorry' had never been enough and Will had always deserved better than him, a stupid prat who couldn't keep it in his pants. "I'm sorry."
He proceeded to get absolutely pissed.