Disclaimer: All characters and situations are the intellectual property of J.K Rowling. I do not make any money for writing this.
Notes: The next chapter of Junior is coming (slowly!) but I had the sudden urge to write this. Heavily, heavily inspired and influenced by the wonderful work of Noldo. I have got hooked on her stories. Just for the record, I do not believe Regulus died, but this is how I would have liked it to be if he did. And yes, it does win pretentious fic of the year award. I'm still not settled into a writing style.
The last day of all.
This is how it is on the last day of all. Sitting, waiting. He used to be anxious, but is now quite calm. The lamp light shins in a corner, there's a book on the table at his feet. He's ready. Ready for death.
What is it like, death? Death. To end, to die, or…to continue? To feel nothing. What does nothing feel like? Will it be like going to sleep? They say it is, but in that case, why is Avada Kedavra so bad? It doesn't hurt, does it? A short, painless slip into endless sleep.
He has seen the death faces before. Lying in front of him. Stiff and terrified. It's strange to think that he'll be like that soon.
He pours a glass of wine. He notices that his hands don't shake. Yesterday they had been. Yesterday had been running and shaking and the fear gnawing inside him. Yesterday his insides had writhed in red-hot wire. Today he was calm.
He holds the wine up to the light, admiring the dull ruby red at it's heart. The glass he's using is one of his mothers finest. There used to be two, once upon a time, but one was broken in a childish game.
Running, chasing, in a half-hidden mockery of childish fear. And a young hand swipes at a table, and a glass goes falling, tumbling to smash by the fireplace in a thousand fragments.
Funny. He'd been more terrified then than he is now.
This is how we face death. Not hidden, not terrified, but sitting in a chair with a glass of wine. Staring at the fire. Staring at the shapes in the fire. Wondering what really happens in the green glow of death. Because the running is over. Maybe it was always over.
There's a sound from behind him. A door creeks open. He raises his glass in acknowledgement.
'Did you think you could hide?' The voice is familiar.
'No.' He drains the glass and sets it down on the table next to the book. His hand is not shaking. Neither is his voice.
'I hope you're not going to try any last minute...theatricals.'
He gets up. It is several days since the last minute. He knows that. He's living on borrowed time now. In reality, he died the moment he entered the cave. Everything since then has been fear and terror and now, finally, release.
'You will face death then.'
He's hidden his wand. He's hidden a lot of things. And he knows that his death will ensure their secret is kept. He turns to face his murderer. Death wears a mask.
'How brave.' But the last word isn't a compliment. It's an accusation. And then the green light flames, and the young man falls, his head tumbles against the side of the chair and his hand swipes the table, knocking the glass.
Tumbling, falling, still with a drop of wine in the bottom, to shatter by the fireplace.
This is how it is on the last day of all. As death leaves and all that is left is a table, a chair, a book, a shattered glass and a young man. A man who was far to young to die.
O.K. Now go to the little 'review' button and write 'this is good' or 'this is bad'. Takes three minutes. There you go I even wrote them out for you, all you have to do is copy/paste. :p