Disclaimer: Yes well, not mine, duh, if it were, the books would be a lot more like this ficlet. Yeah. And, of course, there would be pretty boys screwing each other if at all possible! .
Summary: They asked for it. They asked a poor boy to do the unspeakable. To kill. They asked an Angel to take up his sword and avenge them all for the wrongs done to them no matter the cost to him. No matter that the blade may be to heavy and his wings not strong enough. No matter he may fall. The forsaken Angel, they asked him for death, they asked him to kill. They didn't realize what they were asking. Potter breaks. Potter burns. Potter is torn between heaven and hell. He is an Angel. He is the Devil. And the forsaken forsakes everything else when sanity departs. They've finally pushed Harry Potter too far.
AN: Yes, well, I'm me, and being me, this is a bit repetitive and unclear but good nonetheless and of course I just had to slip in the slash because I love the Harry and Draco goodness even if it's sick and twisted and sadistic.
Story not told in a normal point of view.
Any one who stumbles upon this story should read it even if it isn't exactly your cup of tea. Broaden your horizons dears, you may be surprised at what you find.
Written By: Slice
Green Death
"From behind these walls I hear your song, oh sweet words
The music that you play lights up my world
The sweetest that I've heard
Could it be that I've been touched and turned, oh Lord please
Finally, finally things are changing. . .
". . .for all the days I've traveled alone
In this cold and colorless place till now
It's what I had to pay. . ."
-Dido "This Land Is Mine" from the album Life For Rent
He watched that man with his greasy oily hair and sallow skin. With glittering cold malicious eyes and coldly amused twisted smirks.
Watched the man even as he walked up to him where he sat, waiting, waiting for the ridicule to begin, the sneers and jibes he knew would come.
The hate that had no reason. No reason but a schoolboy grudge on a person who wasn't even alive. No reason. No reason.
No reason.
No. Reason.
And finally the poor boy snapped, he couldn't take it anymore. Got sick of all that anger and spite and cold cruelty from a man who judged unfairly by something he did not do. Could not control. Judged by a father whom he could not remember.
A father who he was not.
So shut up!!
And the class went cold. Colder than it had ever been. Funny, he thought, he didn't think that Hell was supposed to feel like ice. Thought it was supposed to be burning and bright and hot.
Like the fire in his chest.
The fire in his eyes.
Those eyes that glowed like the killing curse.
Death and pain and torture and they were haunted and feral and half past insanity.
Maybe more?
No more. He would take no more.
I told you to shut up stupid sniveling man. Crawling dirty disgusting filth. You who crawled before darkness and flinched away from light. You who say you fight to stop the war but live for the sick pleasure the war gives you and your kind.
Your kind.
And with a suddenness he wasn't expecting a cold long-fingered hand balled up in fury crashed across his face and tossed him to the floor and he cracked his head upon the floor.
Cold freezing floor. Cold hand. Cold fury. Cold death.
The cold was numb. And that numbness was spreading, from where that freezing fist had touched, blossoming out, seeping into his back and eating at his core where he laid across the floor.
He was becoming numb. He didn't seem to care anymore. He felt calm. Peace.
Serenity.
His friends were shocked. They didn't move. No one moved. Paralyzed to place. No one dared make a sound. And it was so cold. He lay there on the ground the numbness sinking claws deep within him and settling down for a long rest, watching the wide shocked eyes of everyone staring at him.
But no one said anything. No one did anything. No one touched him. No one spoke to him. And he was numb.
Was this Heaven?
Then the Hell must be within him. That burning fiery ball of seething snarling mass that made his eyes light up like green death. Made him ache and hurt and burn and wish to stop the torment.
So this was heaven.
This cold freezing chill and there was that man who had hated him before he was even born for something he never even knew about, freezing cold and glaring with outrage.
Was the man an Angel then?
And he laughed at that. Laughed and curled up onto his side and laughed and he couldn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
And no one moved.
The cold settled in and he turned blissfully numb and was sheltered by hard unyielding ice.
And he laughed.
I must be the devil then. I must be the devil.
Because even that coldness, that Heaven, couldn't reach all the way into him. Reach the core of that snarling enraged anger and hatred and utter loathing that he harbored inside of him, it wouldn't let him go.
He could still feel, his eyes still burned and his soul still ached and he must have been an Angel once, once upon a time when he held no spitting anger but simply fallen like angels tend to do when they forget to fly.
And he laughed and opened glowing green eyes that gleamed like death and they settled on the black ice sculpture of a vengeful Angel and he smiled and spoke death to him.
He spoke death to all in that classroom.
The flaming burning orange red boy and the girl who smelled like books and knowledge and parchment and the boy who laughed like dancing shamrocks.
He killed them all.
And his eyes fell upon another Angel. Quicksilver and steel and frozen ice and he smiled at the pretty Angel with his pretty hatred and pretty coldness and he didn't just kill that Angel.
Oh no.
He played with the pretty Angel, did untold things to that glittering white being until the china doll boy cried out and fragile wings were broken and left glittering upon the floor and tears streamed from frozen silver morning eyes and winter touched already pale skin and the pretty pretty Angel was all the more pretty for it.
And he laughed and loved and hated that pretty Angel that was crumpled in a pretty mess of glitter and splintered ice and blood staining winter skin frozen pale pink at his feet, crying weakly, and smoothed a hand through pretty pretty pale snow hair.
Tasted his blood and drank from his wound and kissed him hard across the mouth making the quicksilver Angel bleed internally externally. Make his soul and heart bleed.
And that broken Angel was so pretty.
And then the Angel too died.
Because he was the Devil.
Because he was the forsaken Angel.
The one who had been left by everyone he loved, the one who was set upon the world to do great terrible things. The one expected to kill and yet not. Never be sullied, to never stoop so low.
But what did they expect? He had to kill. It was what they asked for.
It was what they'd get.
He was the Devil. And he was tortured and those around him were tortured and he would bring an end to it all. He would kill and destroy and forsake.
He was the Devil.
The Angel of Death.
End.
Mmm. What'd you think? Hope you review. Oneshot. The one it's talking about is Potter. Duh. That was Snape if you couldn't tell. We love our Sevie. And we worship our Draco. sigh Can't you tell?
Review please!
Slice