A/n: Written for round 5 of QLFC for the Chudley Cannons. Main prompt for Beater 2: Unfairness. Opt prompts: (restriction) no female characters; (quote) "Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness."- Poppy Z. Brite. Team challenge: include an epigraph in the beginning.
Word count: 2353
The Harbinger and the Master
Death is unfair
Death is unjust
Death is when iron
Has turned into rust
Death is so bleak
Death is so cold
Death is when warm bread
Has begun to grow mold
That's what we think
It's what we believe
But do you ever wonder
What Death truly feels?
Draco sets his quill down with a flourish and admires his handiwork. There's a sense of melancholy to this short poem as there is to anything he's ever written. In fact, he often wonders if he even knows how to write anything that isn't pensive or wistful. He'd attempted a humorous piece once, but it had taken a dark, twisted turn that had frightened even his rather morbid sensibilities. And any attempt at romance often had undertones of tragedy or, at the very least, heartbreak.
He looks out through the wall-length windows behind him, brooding—the only mood he can ever be in, these days—and wonders at his inability to write even fictional happiness. It says a lot about him in life, and would say far more in death, he's certain. The stars twinkle down at him, and he can practically hear their tittering laughter at his self-inflicted plight. He turns back to the lengthy piece of parchment and picks up his quill.
What is life
If not a journey
Whose destination is
A burden of Death
Draco smiles ruefully at the pun. He finds a strange fascination in personifying Death. It adds dimension to an otherwise intangible entity—adds reason to the unreasonable and logic to the illogical in an attempt to make sense of something wholly terrifying. It placates him somewhat, when he looks at Death as just another creature patrolling the mortal world, seeking resolution to a seemingly never-ending fate. Whether that fate was Death's or someone else's was besides the point.
Leaning back in his plush armchair, he allows that train of thought to take him along a winding path of what-ifs and may-bes. He twirls his quill absent-mindedly as he broods, taking no notice of the ink splattering his trousers. The stains on the woven fabric of his trousers will be easy enough to erase, he knows. The stains on the woven fabric of life, however, is a whole other ordeal…
As though sensing the shift in his thoughts, three sharp raps sound on the door to his study. He doesn't bother looking up as a head pokes in and a deep, booming voice echoes through the room.
"It is time, my lord."
Draco sighs and rises to his feet lethargically, still twirling the quill between his pointer finger and thumb. He decides he quite likes the texture of the engraved silver.
Without looking up at the one who had rudely interrupted his ruminating, he exits the room. The sound of cloven hooves clip-clopping across the marbled flooring behind him makes him smile despite himself. Quite a sight to behold, he imagines, although staring for too long would be far more uncouth than having his moment of melancholy interrupted. It's a good thing Draco has such an avid imagination.
"Sire," his companion begins, and Draco clicks his tongue.
"I keep telling you to drop the honorifics. It's too proper even for the likes of me."
A strained silence follows his rebuke, then a soft cough. "As you wish."
Draco nods. He gazes at the portraits hung along the walls, all the way up to the invisible ceiling that disappears into the clouds. That they are unmoving gives him as little pleasure as the stark-white walls they attempt to distract from do. He would've appreciated any sign of life in the otherwise barren hellscape.
"So," Draco begins once he'd had his fill of famous dead people, "what made you interrupt a perfectly depressing night?"
A hesitant silence follows, causing Draco to glance over his shoulder suspiciously. Every time he lays eyes on the colossal form of the minotaur, it never fails to startle him. Draco tries very hard to swallow down the panic that rises in his throat at the thought that one step could break his back like a twig.
Then, his gaze flits up to those big, nervous eyes, and his fear melts away like the shadows do at his approach. In a gentle yet reproachful voice, Draco says, "Menahem," forcing the minotaur to look him in the eyes, "what is it?"
"You won't like it," comes the hesitant reply.
Draco scoffs. "When do I ever?"
Menahem—aptly named the consoler—nods meekly. "Yes, but this one… is the one."
Draco stops mid-stride, his breath catching in his throat. He closes his eyes and swallows down a sigh. He'd always known the day would come. He'd just hoped he'd be long gone by then.
"Looks like it's not his lucky day," Draco mutters as he resumes walking down the seemingly endless hallway. "Or mine, for that matter."
Menahem whimpers behind him, and for the hundredth time, Draco wonders if he'd be better off with an iron-blooded satyr for a companion over a gutless minotaur.
Harry sits on the only bench at the top of the highest level of the terraced garden, watching the goings on below with detached interest. It's his favourite spot—one that no one dares occupy in the hours after the afternoon tea is served lest they suffer his wrath. Harry asks for very little in life, but he'd declared pretty early on that this was and would be his only demand for as long as he lived at the establishment. So the other occupants leave him to his devices as he sits atop the hillock and allows himself some respite from the harrowing monotony of old age.
A breeze rustles past, sending a shiver down Harry's spine despite the sweltering heat. He recognises the iciness in the air from a time long past and smiles wanly. He glances to the side, unsurprised to see the hooded and cloaked figure seated on a bench made of bright white marble. Harry finds the bench a more familiar sight than its occupant.
"Hello," Harry says cheerily. "You must be awfully hot under there."
A chuckle that's more of a wheeze comes from the other. "You are a strange sort, Harry Potter," says a voice that sounds like a whisper in the wind.
"This coming from you? Ha!" Harry retorts.
Another chuckle-wheeze. Then, "You seem content."
"Do I?" Harry looks back towards the other inmates—as he likes to call them—and scoffs. "That doesn't sound right at all."
"Perhaps not right, but certainly just."
Harry squints at the other. "Are you saying I got what I deserve?"
A cold silence, then a thoughtful quirk of the hood. "Perhaps so, for giving up a gift as great as the one you had as though it were a mere trifle."
Harry scoffs. "What you call a gift, I call a burden." He wags a finger. "And I know something about burdens, mind you."
"Quite so." The hairs on the back of Harry's neck rise as the cold voice continues, "But a burden only seems so great to those who bear it."
"Yes, yes. I know others have it worse," Harry says temperamentally. "That doesn't invalidate my own experience, however."
The hooded figure bows. "Hardly. But you must admit that you have some responsibility to bear towards the consequences of your actions."
Harry frowns. "How so?"
"Well," comes the cool response, "someone else must have taken your place in order for you to have what you wanted."
"So? Many quite literally have killed to gain what I had. I would hardly consider that a sacrifice."
A remorseful nod. The hooded form reiterates, "There is no greater burden than the one we bear."
Harry turns away, his patience wearing thin. Old age is perhaps the most frightening foe he has ever had to face. A mysterious harbinger of death can hardly faze him. "If you're only here to harass me," he says emphatically, "then I must ask you to leave."
A gentle rustling that Harry thinks is laughter is followed by a soft whisper as the cloaked figure says, "Consider my visit as you will, Harry Potter, but consider it you must."
A gust of wind nips past, cold and dry at first, then warm and sticky like the summer day that it is. Harry glances sideways again and frowns at the tulips standing erect beside him. He brushes the sweat from his forehead and decides he misses the coolness from before. He wonders when it'll come again.
Draco's gaze is fixed on the metal frame of one of the portraits across from him. If he shifts ever so slightly, he thinks he can catch his reflection in the narrow strip of silver. But even that small motion could pose a greater threat to his fragile psyche than he would've thought possible.
When was the last time he attempted to look at his reflection, he wonders idly. He wonders if he'd see the same face he always has.
Then a door opens, one so like the wall it is set in that it's impossible to know of its existence unless you knew it was there. Draco inadvertently sucks in a breath.
"Well?" he demands as Menahem approaches, looking grave. Draco knows what the minotaur will say before he can muster the courage to say it, but Draco needs to hear it.
It's the least he deserves, after all the unfairness meted upon him.
Menahem bows his head so low, his chin disappears into his chest hair. Draco would've been amused by the sight had it been any other day.
"Your request has been denied, sire."
"Stop calling me that!" Draco snaps. He spins on his heel and storms down the hallway.
Despite the stillness of the portraits, he can swear he hears their snide remarks and mocking laughter.
"Have I not been punished enough for my sins?" Draco yells. "Would any reasonable person consider this fair or just?"
"I blame myself," Menahem booms from overhead, and Draco is startled by his closeness. He sometimes forgets how quickly the minotaur covers space. Menahem continues, "My persuasiveness is pitiful at best; you've said so yourself, sire. Many times."
Draco clicks his tongue, rage coursing him through him like molten lava. Menahem continues speaking, as though not sensing Draco's unwillingness to engage.
"My lord, perhaps if you were to make the request yourself—"
"No!" Draco snaps, spinning around and lashing his arm out with such force that the minotaur actually flinches. "I refuse to beg!"
He turns and stomps down the lengthy corridor, burning with fury. Menahem clatters behind him.
"Forgive me for saying this, but His justification is that you chose this—"
"I did no such thing!" Draco booms. He gestures in frustration. "I chose to repent for my sins, not be Death's bloody slave!"
The portraits shudder with the force of his anger, and the corridor seems to retract until the door to the garden is right before them. Baring his teeth, Draco throws open the door and disappears into the darkness, leaving Menahem to call feeble consolations after him.
Harry is sitting at his bench again. He's hot and sweaty and breathless from the mile-long trek to the top, and he wishes he'd picked iced tea instead of hot tea earlier. Despite it being half-past nine at night, the sky is bright and cloudless. The air is still, without a single hint of wind. Harry finds himself wishing he can feel the same coolness from the last time he was there.
As though in answer to his silent plea, an icy gust tickles his skin and rustles through his short-cropped hair. Harry smiles wide, revelling in the welcome coolness. He glances sideways with eagerness, and is surprised.
It's not the appearance of the white marble bench or the cloaked form that's surprising; rather, it's the colour of the cloak that's unexpected. Instead of the usual impenetrable black, it's a sooty grey that seems to shift and change ever so slightly, as though storm clouds roiled within it.
"Hello," Harry says, more curious than afraid. "Who might you be?"
A long silence follows, and just as Harry wonders if the heat's melted his brain and is making him see things, the cloaked form pulls back the hood to reveal a face.
A face so familiar that Harry nearly falls over in shock.
"Hello, Harry Potter," a cool voice says in a cadence so nostalgic that Harry inadvertently tears up as memories from his youth flood through him.
Harry realises he's on his feet without knowing when he stood up. He notes his companion has risen as well. Harry feels a strange sense of anxiety niggle at the back of his mind—a long-forgotten tingle of alarm that alerted him of danger during his days as an Auror. But he can't seem to react to it. He feels oddly paralysed.
Strange, he thinks. Very strange.
He finally asks the most pressing question at the forefront of his conscious thoughts. "Are you… Draco Malfoy?"
The man—figure—creature—that resembles Harry's nemesis of old steps forward and holds out a hand as white as snow.
Is this the end? Harry wonders. Am I about to die?
"I was Draco Malfoy," the blond says in a voice that undeniably belonged to the blond menace from Harry's youth. "But now, I'm—"
"The Master of Death?" Harry interrupts, feeling giddy. He belatedly registers that he's placed his hand in the other's without intending to. A sense of panic tries to push past the strange haze that's settled over him, but he can't seem to get a grip over it.
Harry sees a scene flash before his eyes, where a similarly hooded form disarms him whilst he holds the Elder Wand one final time. Harry wonders if it's a real memory or simply a hallucination that his panicking brain is using to warn him.
The blond's hand is cold as ice, and Harry can feel the life slowly leave him.
"Are you?" Harry asks again, more urgently, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Master of Death?"
"No," Draco Malfoy says at long last, smiling eerily. "I am Death."
Note: my usage of the prompt is pretty subtle, but basically—Harry is "unfair" to Death by willingly giving up his title of Master of Death, Death is "unfair" to Draco by forcing him to take Harry's life, and Draco is "unfair" to Harry because he doesn't give Harry a choice and just takes his life away even though Harry's trying to fight to live.