Title: I Don't Do Goodbyes
Part: One-shot
Author: Under The Oak Tree a.k.a. Kelly
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None
Summary: As the Second War reaches its conclusion and The Boy Who Lived prepares to defeat the Dark Lord with power he knows not, Harry Potter sits with a friend and discusses Prophecies, sap, soap and how goodbyes mean nothing in the end.
"Are you ready?"
He paused, oiled cloth limp in his hand, wand gleaming and as of yet, unmarked by grease, dirt nor blood. But that would change, soon enough, he thought wryly. The worn, dragonhide wrist holster had received similar treatment and coupled with its battered, yet polished leather, it looked proud, ready to receive its partner and help him do battle this day, of all days.
The stress must be getting to him; he was waxing lyrical over wand and holster of all things.
With a small chuckle, he slipped his wand into position, length settling comfortably along his forearm. "Is it possible, to ever be ready for such a task?" he asked, musing.
A dry sound of amusement, his companion laughed softly. "No, I guess not."
The silence that fell then was easy; a pause between two friends who had seen each other through sweat, tears, blood and secrets and now saw no need to fill the space with meaningless blather. Not now. Not when distant screams rent the air and the copper-iron smell of fresh and old-spilled blood hung in the air like an ill-omened haze. Not when other friends lie dying on emerald green grass and ravens waited to feast.
"I still can't believe that this is what the Prophecy meant."
He shot his friend a quirky smile. "Please don't tell me you're going to get all sentimental and sappy with me," he teased lightly. "I got enough of that with Hermione."
A snort. "Please. I don't do sap."
"Nor soap, apparently."
For that, he was cuffed unapologetically around the head. "I'd like to see you try having a proper bath when someone's blasting down your bathroom door with an anullo."
"Point taken." He paused, then, "I'll miss you." Considering the current situation, he could be forgiven for that rather embarrassing gruffness in his voice, for the fact that his heart clenched briefly; flaring bright pain down to his guts and up to his brain, squeezing mercilessly despite the earlier tone of banter.
There was a shuffle of robes, made from the hide of a particularly vicious Hungarian Horntail, and a companiable arm settled around his shoulder. "I'll miss you too," came the murmured confession. He was given a reassuring one-armed hug. "Not that you'll have to miss me for long, since I'll be joining you as soon as I can."
He sighed. "There's no changing your mind, is there?" Not that he had harbored any hopes to. Not when almost a year of constant pleading and cajoling failed to move that stubborn conviction.
"Was there ever any doubt?"
His smile was rueful, tinged with a sadness that some had described as heart-wrenchingly painful. That expression was second nature by now, a result of the Second War. He didn't bother to answer what was meant as a rhetorical question and knew that if he did, he'd get cuffed again.
He basked in that moment of stolen peace for just a little more, just a few more minutes of precious calm amidst the insanity. They wouldn't begrudge him for it, would they?
"No, they won't."
But peace was never meant to last forever. With another sigh, he got up, adjusting his wand holster as he did even as his battle robes were fussed with, the creases smoothed away (not that it made much difference). At last, when dallying was no longer possible, they both looked up, staring into each other's eyes.
"What if the Prophecy was wrong?"
He shook his head slowly, never breaking eye contact. "It's not." He was proud that his voice didn't crack, that the resolve did not falter.
"But. . ." his friend gestured in frustration. "This is the so-called 'power the Dark Lord knows not'?"
A small shrug. "It's fitting."
"Dying is fitting?" he was asked incredulously. "That is the power you have? To die and take the Dark Lord with you?"
"Are you changing your mind?"
It was a dirty trick, meant to remind of a promise made in solemnity and he was rewarded with narrowed eyes and a glare. "I know what you're doing, Potter."
"Back to 'Potter' again I see," he grinned lightly. "I'm hurt."
"As if that would mean anything in, oh, I don't know, ten more minutes?"
He cocked his head to the side. "Possibly. What faith you have in me. I appreciate it," he said seriously.
"Yes. Well."
They both faltered then, wondering whether there more to be said but with shared, silent agreement, both knew that this was it. It was time.
"I don't do goodbyes," he was warned.
He nodded amiably. "I know." And that thought comforted him, here, now, this crux in time when the future would be decided, when The Boy Who Lived would fulfill his destiny and save the world who demanded of him this sacrifice.
Without fanfare, he spun lightly on his heels, heading out to the front lawns where Voldemort waited with sure death. But as he crossed the threshold, foot poised over the doorway, he glanced behind.
The figure was an imposing black, limned by the dying red glow of sputtering torches. A hand was raised.
He smiled.
The next step was easier, as was the ones after.
And when he lay on the ground, eyes gone dark and blind and his heart's blood staining his robes beyond repair, he smiled. Because in the darkness of waiting oblivion, he saw a figure in deeper black, and the hand was raised in greeting.
The End
Kelly: Yes, well. . .it needed to be told. Who was the friend? Well, who do you think it was? I'm not telling. Review?