Scales of Green and Silver
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. It's all property of JK Rowling.
Summary: A collection of snippets, mostly involving Slytherin characters. Multiple pairings. Rated M for latter chapters.
The funeral.
August, 1998.
It should have been easier.
He'd just assumed that standing before what they all knew to be an empty tomb would be easy.
But somehow, it is not. Somehow, it just feels entirely wrong.
Theodore is a practical man, he's always been. He appreciates logic as much as he appreciates himself and that's saying much. He'd always known it was very unlikely that they would all survive a war. The probabilities of them dying were always high, considering that three out of the seven of them were real, marked Death Eaters.
He'd always thought it would be Draco, though.
He supposes he never gave Crabbe credit enough. Who would have thought that gigantic boy would actually know how to cast a perfectly lethal Fiendfyre?
"Fuck, I can't do this," says Pansy, her bony fingers stealing the cigarette he was about to lit with his wand. She's the closest to him, having positioned herself at his right.
"Just shut up, Pans," snaps Zabini.
Theodore's eyes search for him in the dim light of the mausoleum. True to his nature, he's the one standing the farthest from Vincent's grave. He's practically just leaning against the entrance enormous doors, hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles.
The selfish prick probably fears to get dust on his sleeve.
"He's not even here," Pansy goes on, blatantly ignoring Blaise's words.
"Of course he's not. He's dead."
"I know he's dead, you idiot. I meant his body's not here!"
"His body burned to ashes."
"Stop being such a dick!"
"Language, Parkinson. Show some respect for the place you're in."
Theodore knows Pansy's about to whirl on Blaise to punch him in the face. Wouldn't be the first time she's tempted to do so; they all have had the urge at some point.
"Quiet," he hears himself say, his tone flat. "Give me back my fag."
To be fair, Theodore is surprised that no Draco nor Daphne had spoken out at all. The first was standing tall right in front of Vicent's empty tomb. The second was busy lighting a torch.
In a way, he could understand Draco's distress: he'd been surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle's enormous frames for as long as he could recall. He'd somehow trusted them both when he couldn't say a word to the rest. Now, despite being almost as tall as Theodore himself, he looked rather small.
Goyle wasn't there with them either. He'd been arrested and sentenced to Azkaban just days after the war. Apparently, some Auror had caught him torturing a sixth-year boy right outside a classroom on the fifth floor.
Theodore takes yet another drag off his cigarette.
"This is absurd," says Daphne's velvety voice. She's the only one wearing black, despite the fact that Vicent's been dead for almost four months now. "None of us should have died."
Blaise huffs. "We should go."
In front of him, Draco nods. "We should."
Under the pale glow of Daphne's torch, Malfoy looks almost green. Perhaps watching a mate immolate himself did take a toll on a guy.
They had known each other for most of their lives. Like it or not, for as long as Theodore could remember, Draco was always there. Crabbe and Goyle as well, though not as early on. Daphne and Pansy were old acquaintances, but mostly he'd tried to avoid them until he'd been forced to share meals and a Common Room with them. Blaise had been the last one to join.
Out of the seven of them, only five remained. One imprisoned, one turned to dust.
Despite the silence, Theodore can barely hear Daphne's hushed 'Nox'.
Blaise is the first to exit the vault, shoulders proud, chin high, dark eyes fixed to the skies.