DEAD STILL
(2nd part-draco prov.)
"Do you feel bad, Nigel? About the kid?" brew sloshed onto the table as bugler No. 1 set his drink down on the lop-sided table.
"Nah," Nigel said tossing a nut into his mouth and winking at the waitress, "'e was a weird one tho' eh?"
No. 1 stared down into his mug and watched as the cup tripled and spun in a funny dance.
"I'm pissed, sah. Think…" he drifted off trying to focus on the form of his boss, "think I'll head home…"
He pushed away from the table and stumbled for the door.
" 'ere wait, take Billy with yah, he's pissed enough to drown in the puddles on the table if we're not careful."
No.1 swung around and heaved the fat arm of said passed out Billy and stumbled his way out the door and into the damp alley.
Nigel watched them leave, snorting when Frank smacked Billy's head on the doorframe. He threw back a few more nuts and a shot, watching the waitress from the corner of his eye to see if she saw the smooth motion. Fuck he needed to get laid.
The night wore on, the shot glasses pilled higher and Nigel's mind began to drift. It was around the time the bar tender is eyeing you up to kick out and the waitress is making her last round before calling it a night when somebody suddenly took the chair across from him. Everything was a little hazy around the edges and seemed to drift to the right so focusing to see the face was too hard for the effort.
When the three images finally did converge into one Nigel's eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out across the bar.
Harry Potter looked down at his unconscious form and frowned.
The bartender waved the waitress over and they both heaved Nigel up and took him outside.
I used to think my life was on fast forward, speeding through the moments so that I barely had time to react let alone feel. But now I realize that was just a childish outlook of a fool. I believed I'd have the time later to enjoy the laughter with my friends, the love of flying, the anger of fighting, and the fear of school. Staring down at his see-through hands, Harry realized he was all out of time.
At the sound of the thump and distant moan, the bartender and waitress came back inside and set about cleaning up before closing. The waitress swept around the room, spinning around the tables like a top, leaving nothing but clean shiny tables behind her. She whipped right past him and Harry watched as his knee passed right through her hip. It wasn't painful or nauseating. It was more like a reminder of his non-existence that caused the grimace of pain to cross his face as her arm reached through him and swiped at the counter with her cloth.
So many emotions filled him, so many he had kept locked in his chest and now they had no where to go but out. So much that he just couldn't handle it. The need to cry, break, scream and laugh was so strong he was locked in place; one movement would break him he was sure. It was as if without the physical barrier of his ribs and chest there was nothing to keep him from drifting away.
He supposed he should go get help, perhaps Remus wouldn't mind him hanging around for a while, at least until he figured out what he was supposed to do.
He stood up and watched as the bartender and waitress shut off the lights and locked up. When he was doused in the darkness it was as if he wasn't even there.
Bloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodbloodblood
You're supposed to feel something at a funeral right?
Guilt,
Sorrow,
Confusion,
Loss.
Even anger,
Hate,
Happiness, for goodness sake!
But not nothing, never nothing.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked, the lack of love in my family has never been a secret. But they were my parents, the fed me and sheltered me. They raised me.
I'm supposed to feel something.
… Anything.
Everyone has gone, and I'm left alone in my confusion, alone to flounder though my pool of disjointed thoughts.
The fresh dirt over the graves gives me no chills up my spine, no tears to spill from my eyes. How can I be so cold and indifferent to them when they are now dead and buried under the earth?
I make note that the gravestone is crooked.
Should I fix it?
Was that right?
I just didn't know anymore…
No one was around to help, but I kneeled down by the block of granite anyway.
I don't need help.
They were my parents; I should be able to do this for them. Myself.
I braced myself against the cold hard stone, and pushed.
Nothing happened.
I pushed again.
Still nothing.
It's to strong.
I'm too weak.
I should be able to do this, damnit!
I have too!
What is wrong with me?
Why am I so weak?
Pale blonde strands of hair fell into my eyes, wet.
I'm imperfect. Small. Weak. Good.
….. Crying.
Why do I hurt?
I glance down and see I'm still pushing against the tombstone, my nails digging into the resilient stone, my clothing stained with dirt. Sobs wracked my body till it hurt to move, to breath, to live.
I lost my footing.
I'm on hands and knees, staring into the dirt of my parents graves through my tears. My hands sunk into the overturned dirt of the fresh graves, defacing the perfection.
I couldn't even fix a fucking crooked stone for the people who raised me!
What kind of a son was i?
The dirt was so rich, it was black; black like hatred, like their hearts.
…. Like mine.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I sob out, tears spilling from my eyes in a torrent, into my mouth and nose, I tasted salt.
"I'm sorry."
I was apologizing to the horrible people I called parents, the demons who stole my life. Admitting that they mattered to me, why?
"I'll be ruthless, I'll marry rich, I'll hate life."
My chest was on fire, breath sucked into me with the flame, burning, and burning.
"I'll become a death eater, I'll marry Pansy, I'll hate Potter."
Why? Why am I saying this? Its not how I feel, it's not what I'll do, but I'm saying it, why?
Do I love them?
"Just… just…. just love me…. Or hate me…. Or... or… see me, damnit!"
My eyes hurt to close, my mouth felt like it was made of lead, and my heart, my heart ached like it had been stepped on and kicked and beaten within an inch of breaking. My fingers are submerged in the dirt.
How did I get here?
What was I waiting for?
They're dead, they can't just come back and say all the things I need them to say, do all the things I need them to do.
What am I waiting for?
… An answer?
I sat back and buried my hands in my hair, turning pale sliver, to black in seconds. I pressed my palms to my eyes, pushing so hard all I saw was shiny dots dancing in my vision to a song I can't hear.
I was hiding from what I knew would happen.
… nothing.
Remus Lupin found me and took me to his house. He wrapped me up in a fluffy towel and served me a warm cup of tea. We sat in old tattered leather chairs in front of a large fireplace and he rummaged through a battered trunk to pull out a small blue book. When I opened it was filled with pictures from my parents wedding. Remus explained that Sirius had been invited to the wedding by accident but showed up anyway and had taken the pictures. All of them were of my mother in an icy white dress that clung to her slim form, her hair up in a diamond tiara. My father in a pristine white dress robe embroidered in silver on the cuffs and collar. They were smiling as they walked down the isle, ate cake, danced on the ballroom floor and kissed under the alter.
Remus didn't mind that I cried myself to sleep in his study.