MASTER OF DEATH.

rhaegar finds little comfort in the lythic hallways he once called his home; much has changed, more has remained the same, the same busy sounds of students rushing to and from their classes a meagre background noise to him now. gaunt tries hard, so very hard, to be the exchange student —– to play along with dumbledore's damage control. how else to explain a stranger to show up from the labyrinth together with harry potter and cedric diggory's corpse. and soon after the arrival of a dragon. a gargantuan beast believed to have gone extinct well over a century ago.

cobblestones scuff under the sluggish step of harry's dirty trainers, round-framed eyes (there's a deep purple beneath them) averted to the corridor's floor and the swish of his robes flapping against his legs. apprehension and the grit of his teeth mark each footfall, the slight locking of a knee in his listless stride. though it hadn't hurt even a bit since fawkes had shed his phoenix tears on the gash the spider had given him, he can’t help half-expecting it to with every step (are you still in the graveyard? you can see your blood on the grass. are you still in the graveyard? you left something there). why shouldn’t it be unchanged, a proper mess, like the rest? cedric was still dead. voldemort was still risen again. his leg should hurt. but it didn't — and that hardly seemed fair when ... harry blinked down as the tip of his shoe tripped slightly on a fold of the rug as stone turned into well-trodden fabric. maybe it'd be easier if it still hurt. if i had that to think about instead. he didn’t want to think about —

@boylived liked for a starter!

" the what? " round-rimmed eyes glanced up from the piece of parchment he had been reading, an uncomprehending expression accompanied by a rather befuddled blink. " moving picture frame, mister weasley? " messy-haired head turned to see what the other had been looking at, brows lifting. mister weasley had been asking a steady stream of questions ever since they’d strode into the supermarket — a decidedly muggle one (the man’s idea of a fun outing, and harry liked him too much to say he’d seen them loads as his aunt's trolley-on-legs as a kid) — while harry had looked over mrs. weasley’s list again and again, scratching the nape of his neck and thinking rather resignedly to himself, well, i don’t think any muggle store is carrying this … or that … but the mention of the muggle shoppers doing something hazardous (really?) had jostled harry out of his usual hmms and muggles like a lot of differently flavored crisps, mister weasley.

they had discovered that survival is no more than putting off the moment of death.

" i'm fine, professor. " that hardly sounded anymore convincing than his first try (he's going to need to practice this, too). a cold bead of sweat trickled down his nose, catching on the bridge of his glasses. " twenty minutes, " harry repeated determinedly. he would definitely be all right by then and they had to keep going — wasn't the silvery mist getting larger, or were his glasses smudged? it wasn't about to charge down any dementors, but he hoped it might at least befuddle like a foggy morning. a damp hand reached out, fingers gripping the edge of the table. don't ask. harry's mouth formed a thin line. don't ask, it'll only make it harder to not want to hear them ... " what — " and instead of saying nevermind again like he ought to, what tumbles out instead is, " d'you ... remember what my dad sounded like? " green eyes stared at the wood-grooves of the table. " when he wasn't ... afraid. " when he wasn't about to be murdered. " i know i look like him and all, but — do i ... do i sound like him? "

bangs sticking sweatily to his forehead, harry blinked blearily up at lupin's face. " m'fine, " he mumbled. it didn't sound nearly as convincing as he intended it to (much to his chagrin), but his hand grasped the professor's forearm, fingers splayed, grunting as he's pulled to his feet with a slight wobble. (lily, take harry —) harry pushed out a breath. his shirt clung to his back beneath his robes. " sorry. i-i — ... nevermind. can we go again? "