Writing Tomes

Title: Writing Tomes
Author: caffinated_quoter
Pairing: H/D, implied R/He
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don\'t own Harry Potter, or any of the affliated characters... oh but if I did *drifts into wistful thoughts of the pornographic empire that could have been*...sigh.

Writing Tomes

It was cold, and rainy. It was another bitter day, just like the day before, and the day before that and the day before that. The ground was soft with the excrement of clouds, it was thick and muddy, grabbing hold of ankles and shoes and refusing to let go.

A few people plodded amongst the raindrops, squelching their way through the mud and filth. They traveled in pairs, slowly working to find a dishevelled mass of rotting flesh and peering into its muddy face, searching for an identity.

“Jordan, Lee.” A pause and a grimace, “Dark Mark.”

“Moody, Alastor. The Order.”

“Malfoy, Lucius. Dark Mark.”

They rattled off the names as they found the bodies and marked down what tattoos they had, whether it was the blocky Ministry issued M, the red phoenix feather of the Order, or the skull and snake of the Death Eaters. It was all copied down into a small notebook each team carried, charmed to be water resistant. A flag, lit with a dull moonshine glow, marked the places where the people had fallen and they’re remains remained. Each was carefully identified, examined, and recorded. And so the pairs moved on.

Harry shivered as he looked behind him. The path they had followed was littered with minute flags. They held a grim sfactfaction for him. Fifty or more people found, fifty families no longer wondering what happened to their loved ones. And at the same time, fifty families who could no longer pretend that this wasn’t happening to them. Then again, it was happening to everybody; take it or leave it, but reality is har lea leave behind.

They found twenty-six injured as well. Ten seriously, eight with only breaks or sprains, Harry couldn’t successfully classify the condition of the rest. He and Ron repaired as many injuries as they could when they found the few survivors who hadn’t managed to stumble off the battlefield, but they often died.

You can’t save everyone. Sometimes you just get there too late. Harry reminded himself.

It was hard, watching people die. It was hard enough identifying the dead, but watching them die was worse. Holding their hand as they fought vainly for the oxygen they needed so badly. Or as they bled uncontrollably. The worst was when Harry found someone he thought he could save, and told the victim that it would be alright, that they would be fine in a minute, and then they just died. Those were the worst ones. False hope: it’s the bitch you love to hate.

Harry had always had issues with lying. Not little white lies, but important lies. He couldn’t lie about important things.

“Don’t worry, I can help you. I promise.” He stopped telling people that after the first few days. He couldn’t promise anything, so he stopped trying to.

In the end, the only thing that saved Harry was the work. The work was hard. He supposed that that was a blessing of sorts; he worked so hard during the daylight hours that as soon as the sky was dark, he would collapse onto his lumpy cot in his patched tent and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Each morning he would wake up again, amazing though it was to him some days. He would splash some cold water across his body to rinse away the night’s sweat and get dressed carefully. Ron would help him tie his sling up snugly against his chest and they would set off again.

“Glenmoore, Abbey. Ministry.”

“Coombs, Roger. The Order, and Dark Mark.”

“Weasley, Percy.n han had fallen to the ground when they found him. Well, not fallen, sunk. His knees had slowly given way until he was sitting in the mud, soaking in the water and staring at the dirty corpse of his brother. Harry wasn’t sure whether being estranged brothers made it any easier or harder for Ron. He didn’t bother to ask.

“Ministry.” Harry checked while Ron stared. “And-”

“Don’t say it.” Those were tnly nly words Ron ever uttered over Percy. Don’t say it.

But Harry did anyway, not to hurt or spite or prove anything, just because he needed to. For the record. “And the Dark Mark.”

Ron’s head had dropped, and his fists had clenched. And then he stood, and wiped a wet hand across his face. Harry remembered the disgusted look that Ron hadn’t even been able to throw at the corpse before he marched away and onto another death.

Harry didn’t suggest quitting then. He wanted to. He wanted to just tell Ron to go back to camp and get his shit straight, but he didn’t, ‘cause Ron wouldn’t have listened. He was sure there was another reason, but he didnealleally know what it was, he only knew that it would have been the wrong thing to say.

“Stewart, Graham.” Pause. “Ministry.”

“Pille, Edward. Ministry.”

“Bones, Susan. The Order.”

“Teller, Veronica. Dark Mark.”

“New, James. Dark Mark.”

And so the list went on.

Harry paused finally, taking a break from his detached mindset and let the numbness, that might’ve had something to do with the driving rain, and then again might not have, slip away.

He bent down carefully, and flipped the body over with his good hand. He caressed the face even as he pushed the mud away from its features. And when he was satisfied that there could be no mistake about the identity, he sat back on his heels with a sigh. Almost defeated, almost sad, almost resigned, and easily relieved.

“Malfoy, Draco. Dark Mark.” Ron had sneered, ironically in Harry’s opinion. He jotted the notes down in the notebook, set up Draco’s marker, and walked away. He didn’t check for the Mark, just assumed it was there, but Harry checked.

He gently rolled up the soggy sleeve, and there it was. In vivid tones of black on the distinct colour of the dead, a paling, greying, pink, was the Dark Mark.

There could be no mistake. Father and son, apple and tree, death to Mudbloods and power to the Pure Bloods. A pair of Death Eaters. Dead Death Eaters.

And Harry had finally known the truth.

An answer to the question he had never asked. Panting it out in the sweaty confines of a makeshift bed in the deserted Charms classroom had never seemed appropriate. So he had never asked, and Draco had never told.

But his body defied his wishes, and in death, the stark black ink said everything Draco never had.

And it actually hadn’t hurt Harry at all. It was common knowledge that the truth hurt, and sometimes it did, but not then. Surprising really.

And Harry wondered why it hadn’t hurt to know that Malfoy might have been plotting his death even while he was mapping out every sensitive curve of Harry’s body. Maybe he had been looking for the perfect spot to hex, or the right place to sink a knife. Well, if that was the case, Draco had missed Harry’s heart.

He didn’t even feel betrayal. Not even betrayal.

Harry supposed it was because he never really expected Malfoy to do any different. Frankly, he might have been more hurt if Draco turned up with an Order tattoo. That would have meant a lie, and a deception. Harry’s influence might have forced Draco to change. But in the end, that hadn’t been the case, because Draco, being Draco and not able to stop being Draco for even the briefest of moments, had gone and done what everyone expected him to do.

Harry hadn’t expected that to make him feel better.

But it had.

And Harry had smiled.

And then he let himself imagine that Draco hadn’t died, that he was, in fact, lying in the mud. For some unknown reason.

“It’s good for the comion ion you know.” Ah, Harry smiled, biting sarcasm. So fitting.

He had to smile as he watched Draco pull himself out of the mud with a thick squelch and settle back on his elbows casually.

“Actually, I’m conducting an experiment. I’m trying to figure out what if feels like to be a Mudblood. Quite disgusting actually.” Draco smirked, then squinted at Harry’s arm, settled into its support.

“Who were you trying to save this time, Oh Brave One?”

He glanced down at his right arm, cradled snugly in its sling. “The world.” He gave Draco his patented Boy Wonder smile.

“Idiot. So what did you do now? Get a few scratches? Blow off a few fingers? Scrape off all the skin? Break it again?”

An embarrassed wrinkle wiggled its way onto Harry’s brow as he mumbled something.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. You’ll need to speak louder, there’s mud in my ears.”

“My hand got hexed off.”

“Hexed off?”

“Ya.”

“As in ‘gone’ off?”

“As in severed-so-I-now-longer-have-my-right-hand off.”

Draco peered at the bandages a worried look on his face.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Harry muttered.

Draco just stared at him for a second, dumbstruck. And then, to Harry’s complete surprise, he had started laughing. Laughing so hard that he was clutching his hands to his sides and rolling in the mud. Tears were making clean tracks in the mud that was splattered on his face, and his heels were drumming in the muck.

Harry had only been able to blink.

He waited until Draco’s laughter subsided. Harry was silent for a moment; he looked contemplative. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, “Why did you do it?”

The smirk faded from Draco’s face and he quickly glanced at his bared forearm, the mark was smeared with muck but Harry could still see it and Draco could still feel it.

“What did I have to lose?”

“Me.”

Draco’s smirked returned, “Nah, I wouldn’t have lost you, I’m too good of a fuck.”

“Touch arrogant, are we?”

“No, we aren’t arrogant, we are self-assured. A vast difference.”

Harry let himself smile a little. Draco’s edge had never really worn down, Harry had learned that quickly, it never dulled but it did change. His verbal arsenal had grown up. It had taken a little while, but eventually all of Draco’s petty insults had evolved into a much more subtle form of torture. Sarcasm was his most obvious weapon; Harry had often assumed it was Draco’s favourite as well. It had grown into an art form, really. So slick and clever that sometimes it was easy to believe that Draco was a kind, honest, loving human being.

“Disappointed?”

Harry considered. Disappointed? Over Draco’s choices?

“No,” Harry had said, “not at all.”

“Good, cause I hate to disappoint.” Draco smiled; he had actually smiled, truly. And Harry had smiled as well.

“However, since my predicament doesn’t look like it’ll be improving any time soon,” he had looked around him at the muddy field with resignation and extreme distaste, “and yours doesn’t look like it’ll be getting worse, I suppose it’s over.”

Harry had sighed, “I guess so.”

Every great story had to have a great ending, and this one seemed to fit. Harry supposed this was the end after all. The thought dropped into his stomach like a lead weight.

“Harry, mate, we’ve gotta go.”

He startled and looked around, he saw Ron standing behind him, looking slightly confused and very annoyed.

Draco had glared over at Ron, not that Ron had noticed; he just kept staring expectantly at Harry.

Harry turned back to Draco and shrugged sadly.

Draco rolled his eyes extravagantly and started to settle himself back down into the mud, wedging his body into the forceful grasp of the wet earth. He gave Harry a small wink as he found just the right position in the mire and then stopped moving all together. Harry reached his hand forward and closed Draco’s eyes for him.

“The end.” He had said. He suddenly felt like crying, which he thought was a ridiculous idea as he had been talking to Draco just a second ago, but he bowed his head none the less and shed a small tear over Draco’s final departure.

He felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder.

“Hey, maybe we should just call it quits for the day. You know, go back to camp, and get everything sorted out.”

And Harry had suddenly known why he never said that to Ron, he knew why it was the wrong thing to say. Going back to camp wasn’t going to solve anything. It wouldn’t bring Draco back and it wouldn’t bring Percy back. Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep if they had gone back then, and he wouldn’t have been able to eat anything. He would have to sit and think about Draco. And then he would have had to think of ways to fill Draco’s spot, only to come to the grim conclusion that nothing could fill Draco’s spot, that’s why Harry called it Draco’s spot; it was for Draco.

“Come on Harry.” Ron had tugged a little at Harry’s arm, but Harry shook him off.

“No Ron, I’m alright.”

“Harry-”

“No, really. Let’s just get back to work.”

Harry stood and took one last look at Draco, lying very still in the mud, paling and greying. He looked very dead, and he was indeed, very dead. He really was never one to disappoint. Then he turned away and didn’t look back.

They had walked away together, not saying anything, until Ron finally couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“How did you do it Harry? Huh?” He had practically shouted. “How could you have been with that bloody prat and not known? How could you have trusted him and not known where he stood?”

“I didn’t need to know Ron.” Harry said calmly.

“He could have killed you!”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you pissed about it?”

“Apparently not.”

“But Harry, you don’t get it. He might have been using you!”

“Using me for what Ron?” Harry demanded, somewhat hotly.

“Power! Money! Information!” He grimaced, “sex…”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“I just don’t understand, how could you trust someone who might’ve been trying to kill you?”

“Didn’t you Ron?”

Harry stopped as they reached the next body blocking their path. He bent down and rolled up her sleeve.

“Granger, Hermione. The Dark Mark.”

When no one trusts, does it matter that everybody lies?