Author: tigersilver
Rating: PG
Word Count: 400; drabble
Prompt: Fraternal.
Dedication: aydenclare and a_execution. A little Dark, darlings.
Warnings: Not my usual.
HD 'Hymn'
I've seen it, you see? I've seen them.
There's only one them. Them. It should be capitalized, for all that they do—all they don't do, don't say—are not. All that they aren't. Because there is no.
Them.
He walked; He strolled. It was a non-conversation, a non-combative Wizarding Duel. Civilized. Like. Brutal. They insulted me; I take it personally. Didn't even draw wands, at the end. Didn't bother, but I knew. I knew.
I watch, y'see. My brother watched; I watch for him. And we're sharp. We need to be. It's all in the black-edge rectangle and I'm their fourth fucking Wall.
I hate it, hate them. Hate that Weasley girl, despise that whole family. Everything my brother wanted, they had. Everything he died for, they took as their right. And He—He let them. Sodding hero.
…I think she's the one that chased Him off. I think it was her, her that got in the way. Because I watched, you know, and I listened, and it was never meant to be this way and they both know it—you know they do. You know They do.
Even if you don't, I do. M'brother did. He was smart, though you'd never know it, not now. As a whip, though all he's remembered for is maybe the dying—and that tragically.
'So young,' they said. 'Poor thing." Couldn't stand for that. He died for Him—for both of Them, because they couldn't settle it. Because for all they spat and wrestled, hexed and glared, they walked away, in the end. They let Him down. It was the one thing he wanted, and They!…They let him down.
Threw it away. Tossed every chance, every turn, every opportunity—rubbish heap—and you know, I made some of those. Opportunities, chances. I created them, with m'brother's camera. Sent them right off to the Prophet—the Weekly—to whomever would buy 'em, a Galleon a shot, and I set the stage, and I raised the curtain and I—
I watch them. You know I watch Them. Always, and one fine day they'll slip up. One fine day it won't be nods. It won't be two middle-aged men on the Platform—it'll be back alley one-off's and divorce and scandal. And it'll be all for m'brother.
All of it, as every single solitary photograph I take is for memory of Him. And Him. And Him.