master of death .

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒,   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒,   𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐕𝐔𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.         a life taker,   really.   but he’s stepping forth regardless,   [  prone to follow that endless heart of his.   abiding by its very existence,   however oftentimes wishing he could disconnect completely.  ]   silence is held in the palm of his hand,   nursed there,   gaze wandering to catch the eye of raven flecked legacy-girl.   ❛  you don’t need to pretend you’re okay.  ❜   empathy of a child unmade,   stricken,   slashed,   as the history books would foretell.   but they didn’t proclaim everything.   no,   the hymns of those who clung beyond nightmares could not be scribed in ink and parchment.   records would not convey harry’s sweat strewn brow,   nor astoria’s shaken hands in a time they’d both prevailed.   endurance would do as it does:   leaving them merely to survive,   trying to reel back vibrancies stolen.

𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒,   𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐒𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐘,        thence those he loved were promised a future.   but look where it’s gotten you now.   lamb to slaughter,   caught in the lions den as it prepares to bare its teeth and swallow you whole.   cascading exertion begins at the base of his skull:   flashes of fire,   echoes of screams!   to distinguish between reality and the sweeping promises of own mentality all too easy.   there were no promises here,   not in the dark of the night where demons pry and boys are forced to go to war.

the rapid beating of his own heart thrums thunderously against his ears,   green pools stretched and stained in their sockets.   look to the right,   look to the left:  never assume nor allow deception to burrow.   even beneath a veil of invisibility,   where his back aches in the strain to assure his ankles weren’t displayed,   assumption or carelessness would never breach.   pastel panels reside in the crux of his core,   shrouded by the iniquity which landed him here in the first place.   darkness plagued youth   ( but he rises,   rises up like a daisy blooming for the first time.   but he would not be trampled nor picked apart  ).   slow and precise,   weaving ‘round twisted hallways,   shuddering throat,   untrusting of silence and its impeccable betrayal.   severity of his task all-too familiar in a life born to serve.   harry feeds on the slightest clue, only to find another artifact showcasing proof to where this house lies in loyalty.

breathe in,   and back out again.   a preprogrammed tide that came as naturally to the human body as the sea itself.   check over your shoulder.   count your blessings and forget the vices ---   count your friends too,   you’ll need those.   a spiral downwards he is taken,   ever the careful he does not trip over the cloak now trailing upon level changes.   a new dose of fear is chugged down the throat,   a thin trail of goosebumps lining the nape of his neck.   prepared but not.

no.   he was not prepared.   not for this.   oh-so selfish of him,   he knows:   he did not have the time to aid.   but that heart,   that heart of his which beats not for himself thrums erratically,   and harry is running.  

down those final few steps,   throwing the cloak away to reveal oneself,   immediate in crouching by this poor souls side.   room quiet save footsteps he tries to keep light.   so quiet that sometimes he doesn’t have a clue  ---    UNTIL HE WAS ANKLE DEEP IN CLOTTED,   JUST-DRYING VERMEIL OF SOMEONE ELSE’S LIFE.

❛  hey,   hey,   shit,   you’re gonna be fine.  ❜   jacket thrown from aching skin.   he cannot risk magic,   not here,   not now,   and the guilt of this practically bleeds.   whispering in the night,   gaze falters for the fraction of a second before he’s working.   quaking digits curl into the grime sheathing her clothes,   all-but colliding his jacket towards her bleeding torso.   he flinches at the harshness of this causing action.   [  was this the birthplace of her river of crimson?   harry can’t tell.   not in the dim light,   not with the stench threatening bile.   focus,   young champion.   focus on this new task at hand.  ]    ❛  i’m going to get you out of here,   okay?   ❜   meaningless,   lost in the fray,   the chaos.   left pushed upon material,   right treading through unknown tresses,   pulling them back,   assuring her vision is clear and his identity is comforting.

❛  can you tell me your name?  ❜  one way or another,   this new world got you.   the trick was to know it was all wrong;   to accept it,   get it done,   move on.   otherwise the sun would stop rising after the night,   and you’d stop with it.

𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒,           and harry can’t seek the origins of his uncalled interference.   alas,   here it is:   velvety and warm,   tinged with proper compassion.   the hint of a smile while voice travelled almost sweetly to blonde flecked teen,   fashioned in emerald,   perhaps shrouded by her own mind.    [  a song in the wind,   blink and you’ll miss it,   but harry steps into the fog and mist to see what can be uncovered  ].   ❛  i know we don’t always see eye to eye.   but you can talk to me...   if you ever wanted to.  ❜   harry himself drew back features regarding the dullness of expression,   original intentions shaping instead to poor execution.   regardless,   an offer not commonly made was settled,   should she decide to draw herself into it one day.

           she  waives  his  apology  away,  dismissing  it  with  a  casual  shrug  :  martha  knew  he  hadn’t  meant  anything  by  it,  he  would  be  the  last  to  ask  with  intent  to  cause  harm,  of  that  she  was  sure.  and  she  had  long  since  overcome  her  discomfort         she  would  still  hide  if  if  she  hadn’t,  if  the  sight  of  it  embarrassed  or  disgusted  her  as  it  once  had  :  she  displays  it  freely  now.  and  he  isn’t  the  first  to  ask.  others  had  as  well.  mostly  students,  the  younger  years,  who  had  been  far  too  young  to  live  through  the  war  and  remember  it  like  they  did.  so  sometimes,  they  would  ask,  and  she  would  tell  them  as  she  had  harry  (  albeit,  a  kinder  version  )  and  as  with  him,  she  would  be  quick  to  discourage  their  apology.          ❝     it’s  okay,     ❞          she  insists,  and  she  offers  him  a  gentle  smile  to  reiterate  her  point  as  she  brushes  her  thumb  over  the  rim  of  her  goblet.  expression  shifts,  brow  pinching  and  head  tilting  as  dark  brown  eyes  linger  on  the  deep  familiar  green  of  his  own,  and  she  stares  at  him  incredulously.          ❝     stop  apologising,  it’s  not  your  fault.  it’s  theirs.     ❞          head  juts  vaguely  as  if  in  gesture  towards  the  figurative  ghosts  of  alecto  and  amycus  carrow  that,  to  this  day,  haunted  the  halls  of  hogwarts.  they’re  gone  now.  but  she  would  be  lying  if  she  claimed  she  hadn’t  had  to  look  twice  whenever  she  turned  a  corner,  or  stood  upon  the  stairs.  the  non-magicals  had  a  word  for  that.  ptsd.  martha  suspected  they  all  suffered  from  it  :  everyone  who  had  stood  their  ground  that  day.

           lifting  the  goblet  to  her  lips,  she  hesitated  with  the  cool  metal  against  her  tongue  before  she  tipped  it  back  lightly  and  let  the  wine  pass.  her  eyes  remained  fixated  on  harry’s  and  her  brow  quirked  at  him.  a  tattoo,  really  ?  martha  smiled,  a  laugh  bubbling  at  her  throat  that  she  releases  once  she  had  swallowed  the  wine,  her  goblet  returning  to  the  table  and  martha  grinned.          ❝     probably  not  a  good  idea  if  i’m  trying  to  avoid  a  reminder,  yeah  ?     ❞          she  asks  him  rhetorically,  shrugging  once  again  as  she  shifted  in  her  seat,  turning  to  face  him  more  directly.  martha  had  always  been  small,  physically.  if  she  remembered  correctly,  and  she  usually  did,  she  had  been  one  of  if  not  the  smallest  in  her  year.  so  when  she  sits  at  the  staff  table,  it’s  not  uncommon  to  see  her  crosslegged  in  her  seat.  the  headmistress  had  long  since  given  up  on  breaking  her  of  this  habit.  truthfully,  martha  didn’t  think  minerva  had  put  much  effort  in  trying  to  scolding  her.          ❝     reckon  we’ll  be  done  soon.  the  firsties  look  like  they’re  about  ready  to  pass  out  in  their  pudding.     ❞          she  nodded  towards  the  student  body,  suppressing  a  smile.  she  remembered  being  exhausted  for  months  during  her  first  year  at  hogwarts.  but  then,  that  had  been  the  year  of  the  triwizard  tournament,  and  martha  had  been  caught  between  awe  at  the  mere  existence  of  magic  itself,  and  absolute  terror  when  she  first  saw  a  dragon.  honestly,  the  students  these  days  had  it  easy         and  for  that,  she  was  grateful.

             she  smiled  at  them  wistfully,  lifting  a  hand  to  wave  at  one  of  the  third  year  gryffindors  who  had  caught  her  and  then  rolling  her  eyes  when  they  nudged  their  friends,  who  all  started  waving  too.  this  was  most  definitely  not  the  place  for  the  kind  of  talk  they  were  having  :  even  if  it  never  went  further  than  this,  the  consequences  had  already  reared  their  head,  and  martha  was  itching  for  a  burning  throat.  the  memories  were  still  fresh,  even  years  later  :  they  always  would  be  here.  her  eyes  had  been  drawn  by  the  dwindling  energy  of  their  students,  amusement  touching  the  corners  of  her  lips  as  she  watched  them  hit  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  day,  when  she  turns  her  eyes  back  on  harry.          ❝     me  ?  never.     ❞          and  she  narrows  her  eyes  at  him  playfully,  pointing  at  him  with  a  single  digit  beneath  the  table,  her  hands  neatly  folded  in  her  lap.          ❝     it’s  healer  jones  to  you,  professor.     ❞          martha  teases  him  haughtily,  before  she  breaks  in  to  a  wide  grin  and  allows  a  breath  of  laughter  to  pass  her  lips.  that  laughter  drifts  but  though  the  grin  softens,  the  smile  doesn’t  fade.  she  eyed  him  knowingly  as  she  shrugged  once  again.          ❝     hello  pot,  i’m  kettle.  i’ll  talk  if  you  do,  yeah  ?     ❞

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐀 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒,         harry found,   was her complete lack of self obsession.   oftentimes his gaze will falter when perception lies upon her...   shifting instead to forbidden nights under the witching hour,   where all involved would practically tower over in physicality.   however she was constantly on the highest pedestal of knowledge and power.   a smile crept when eyes shifted towards the arc of her posture,   cross legged and tiny,   but that mighty voice of hers,   her booming persona...   he’d never tire of it.  

exhaustion wreaks and sorrow is a bubbling sensation,   halting only in their tracks when the great hall is alive,   or the face of a friend grins a genuine smile his way.   he’d always been the noblest fool,   and plainly unstable;   apt to lash out,   or break neath the heft of his own mentality.   [  though would never dare to admit past own clenched teeth...   or would he?   possibility tugged at his otherwise silent reign regarding martha’s later offer.  ]   so easy to let go of morality,   to spiral into a hell you could never claw back out of;   therein losing a sustaining part of yourself.   ❛  oh,   of course!  ❜   eyes glowing cool with embers of the past,   heated with hope for the future.   ❛  healer jones,   my sincerest apologies,  ❜      his aroma,   without much distinction,   bathed in warmth and comfort.   he bows his head in a false mimic of praise,   glancing to her through the furrow of his brows with the same humour she’d employed.

sheet of stars outside fade behind the spreading fog of darkness.   the hours way of calling students to their slumbers,   despite consistent shrill of excitement floating;   excitement that a four poster was not able to dwindle.   the feast soon concludes,   clambering of feet against grounds,   [   the group of third years bidding martha farewell through an erratic wave of hands  ].   harry finds himself remaining until the house elves enter,   prepping for nightly duties.   candles begin to fade in proper instinct,   remaining souls coated in a slight shade of darkness.   them,   alongside a few other staff members scattered in lingering conversations.

HONESTLY BLARES OUT LOUD AND UNMAINTAINED.   born from a discarded handshake,   [  an offering never to be forgotten,   whims of destiny putting him elsewhere.   consciousness often travels to the pathway of what could have been.  ]   shriveled alongside endurance,   to the point where bitterness is a familiar coppery taste on his tongue.   company to the blood residing there.   ❛  you don’t want to live in a society like this,   yet you won’t do anything about it!  ❜   legacy child expels fragmented pieces,   all he has left,   truth resounding because he knows it is just that:   the truth is a capricious acquaintance,   hardship to confess,   harder to admit.

AIR SPRINKLED IN A LIGHT CHILL,   silence nursing between intertwined souls,   something so welcoming about it.   he’d come to discover,   rather suddenly,   the talent possessed in her framework,   knowledge of the heavens and their offerings like lines on the palm of her hand.  a talent he severely lacked.   these graceful hymns of quietude and comfort like swallowing warmth,   as digits fashion around telescope,  [  tended to share the same;   she akin to a teacher and he following blindly.  ]  confusion knitted upon those soft features of his.   not the first,   nor would it be the last time he asks her to repeat an explanation he initially couldn’t catch.   ❛  wait.   would you mind explaining that part again?  ❜   strained smile,   gifting a light tang of playfulness,   engulfing slight guilt due to his multitude of questions.

               he’s  made  of  everyone  he’s  loved,   he’s  a  patchwork  of  missing  pieces  they  took  with  them,   of  pieces  of  themselves  they  left  with  him,   he’s  the  behaviour  he  was  taught,   he’s  the  bravoure  he  was  born  with,   he’s  cissa’s  love  for  secrets      &&      bella’s  carelessness      (  he  has  his  brother’s  eyes  and  his  mother’s  strong  will  )         :         he’s  everyone  he’s  ever  loved      &&      his  heart  is  not  whole  for  all  the  pieces  he  gave  away.   not  gave,   not  really,   he  has  been  zealous  with  his  love  but  they  rip  it  from  him.   james  with  his  humor,   lily  with  her  empathy,   remus  with  his  kindness,   peter  with  his  joy         (  and  marlene  with  her  smile,   her  wit,   her  beauty,   with  her  wild  heart      &&      her  courage  ).   godson’s  laugh  brings  him  back,   harry’s  joy  pulling  back  in  the  moment,   pushing  the  ghosts  away.   but  he  can’t  ignore  the  slight  shake  of  fingers  that  reach  for  his  glass,         ❝  reg  did  not  like  to  be  told  what  to  do  when  he  had  not  decided  to  do  it.  ❞         his  brother  has  been  more  than  a  death  eater,   more  than  a  servant,   his  brother  has  thought  himself  king  in  his  kingdom,   bowing  to  another  could  have  never  been  natural         /         he’s  certain  of  it.         ❝  think  it  was  the  only  one  sadly,  the  only  serious  one  at  least,  ❞         and  his  smirk  holds  regrets,   deep  ones  that  turn  into  his  head,   like  her  ghost  that  sits  on  his  bed  at  night      &&      taunts  him.         ❝  there  was  a  girl  i  should  have  proposed  too  though.  i  was  too  late,  ❞         gaze  evades  harry’s,   he  can’t  stand  looking  at  the  same  eyes  that  had  urged  him  years  ago  to  go  after  what  he  wanted  but  he  had  been  scared      &&      marlene  had  slipped  through  his  fingers  like  water,   like  she  always  did.   that  thief  took  the  boy  he  was  with  her,   kept  his  love  close  to  her  even  in  death.

              selfishness  has  been  beaten  out  of  him  in  prison,   what  little  pride  he  has  left  has  spread  to  his  every  bone  like  grapevine,   to  stand  tall  and  invest  himself  in  others  is  the  only  way  to  keep  from  the  edge,   the  ghosts  must  wait  for  his  loneliness,   for  the  darkness  of  the  night      &&      the  emptiness  of  the  house.         ❝  eh  ?  how  was  that  like  ?  received  your  letter  and  everything  ?  ❞         curiosity  is  a  flame  awoken  by  the  little  snippets  he’s  offered,   he’s  wondered  for  years  all  alone  in  azkaban         /         how  did  harry  learn  about  that  world  that  is  his  ?   he  wonders  if  he  would  change  a  thing  himself,   if  he  could,   would  he  do  it  ?   would  he  turn  back  a  time  and  save  a  life,   but  which  ?   and  looking  at  harry,   looking  at  that  boy  who  holds  his  head  high,   who  went  through  so  much  shit  and  still  walks  tall,   sirius  knows  he  would  turn  back  time  and  bring  back  the  kid’s  parents,   he  would  give  his  life  for  theirs         /         but  that  was  always  the  case.         ❝  that’s  cause  you’re  brave,  kid.  and  wise,  ❞         &&      he  hopes  the  kid  knows  how  proud  sirius  is  of  him,   though  he  did  shit  for  him,   he  still  feels  such  warm  pride  for  how  well  the  kid  is  handling  it  all.   but  where  he  should  see  love,   the  black  man  only  sees  the  hurt,   the  lack  of  affection  the  kid  suffered  from  because  no  one  fought  for  him,   because  no  one  loved  harry  enough  to  save  him  from  his  fate,   from  lily’s  family         :         he  knows  dumbledore’s  reasoning,   it’s  fucking  bullshit.         ❝  a  word  from  you  and  i  know  a  dog  who  wouldn’t  mind  scaring  them.  ❞         wink  is  conspiratorial  but  he’s  boiling  inside,   wishing  to  make  them  regret  how  badly  they  treated  a  kid  because  what  ?   he  was  not  like  them  ?   fuck  that  and  fuck  them.

WHEN YOU LOOK AROUND,   ALL YOU SEE IS DEATH.   certain company did cloud that perception,   allowing glimmers here and there to conqueror through,   even if temporary.   ringed digits,   tattooed skin,   a smile that didn’t quite reach all features shimmered in evidence.   harry is offered a glimpse into the boy sirius once was,   still clung onto in passing days,   and he ate it up.   oftentimes he will crave just to reach out,   place own blemished hands into godfathers and demand the world to spare them a moment.   the fraction of a moment,   even.   without the solemn interference of day-to-day life.   destined boy found own grin since faded,  standing in the doorway of elders memories,   reaching a gander of what lay beneath exterior.   he relished in such moments   [  not to bare witness to anguish or regrets of the past,   which hands of time ultimately destroyed and faded  ],   rather to note truth,   perhaps endure alongside the man.

aware he can always ask,   that sirius would never turn him away...   preference stood in being told,   though,   rather than prompted to confess.   at the puzzle of his core,   after all,   there is the deepest longing,   a constant,   weighted reminder:    HE IS THE ONLY FAMILY HE HAS LEFT.   and harry should be so lucky to have him,   alas he wanted to scratch more than the mere surface.   sirius is the flame of hope in harry’s eyes,   and the boy is but a moth desperately reaching.   ‘  why didn’t you,   then?  ’   harry contemplated wistfully,   deep glance of his furrowing brow,   and a light tang of seriousness alluded stronger than vague curiousity.   ‘  what happened to her?  ’   he converts question on its head,   wordlessly dismissing an almost accusation in the former,   shifting identity to the latter.   harry meant no harm,   rather expression contorted to a shape of desirable understanding,   the need to know.  a million possible answers and harry would listen to them all.  

this complicated boy who could very well be an emperor if he pushed himself to it,   was evidently frightened like a child.   perhaps because he’d never truly been one.  he’d been raised himself good boy,   a kind one!   [  but kindness was what killed you these days.   guards lowered enough for the bad to creep in  --   kindness a life taker.  ]   ‘  it was fantastic,   sirius,  ’   is all he could manage for the moment,   the way he’s voiced the simple answer is all that needs to be said.   difficult to believe he was once that kid with attempts in vain to curl fingers around one single letter.   ‘  just to get out.   knowing all those wasted years would mean something.   that i meant something.  ’   lips curl,   tongue retorting back to often used ease and wit.   jested,   [  or protecting that heart of his  ],   ‘  oh,   in case you weren’t aware:   the dursley’s aren’t what you’d call the brightest bunch.   it was more refreshing than anything,   to be around people with actual intellect.  ’   and he laughs then,   proper bells chiming,   bubbling in warmth.   ‘  well,   i mean,   i wouldn’t say no.  ’   mind flickers briefly to his first,   unofficial introduction to his godfather on the side of the street,   beneath the stars.   the offer was all the more intriguing.