A Prayer for the Dying

A Prayer for the Dying

Part One: Chapter Two

"To see a world in a grain of sand

And heaven in a wild flower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour."

Alain, 1978:

A year... it's been a year. Strange... a year gone; yet I could go back to the moment I left. Louis is dead, has been dead for hundreds of years, but if I really wished to, I could go back as though I had never left. Time is a strange paradox.

I didn't want to go back. I had no reason to want to go back and every reason to want to stay right where I was. All I had to go back to was an overprotective cousin. Right where I was, I had Severus.

Severus. My Severus.

It was three o'clock in the morning, thereabouts; I didn't feel like rolling over to look at the clock. Watching Severus sleep was much more entertaining.

Until he woke up.

"What in the hell are you doing, Alain? It's three o'clock in the morning." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"I was just watching you sleep for a minute, I woke up." I smiled innocently.

"Ah." And there was an entire conversation in that one word.

"You can go back to sleep," I offered helpfully.

He sighed but smiled slightly. "Sometimes I wonder, Alain, but then I decide that it's better not to ask."

I smiled back at him and settled into his arms. "It's probably better that you don't ask anyway."

"But now, of course, you know I will." He pulled me closer. "But not tonight."

"I love you, Severus," I whispered as he fell back to sleep, confident that he wouldn't hear me.

"You shouldn't, I'm certain that it's bad for your health."

I grinned and buried my face in his shoulder. "We can discuss it in the morning."

One year.

-

Harry, 1998:

I really, truly, dearly wanted to strangle someone.

It wasn't just annoyance. It wasn't just people being stupid. It wasn't just bad plans that the planner refused to give up. Of course not, that would have been too easy. No, instead it was a mixture of all three.

"You-Know-Who and his followers think they're right!" Ron said somewhat shrilly. I made concessions for this; we had, after all, been in discussion for several hours by that point, and with no end in sight.

"Those who believe themselves to be exclusively in the right are generally those who accomplish something," Blaise said pointedly, opening his eyes just long enough to meet Ron's gaze.

I sighed heavily and rested my forehead in my hands.

As of right now, I hate you all.

Blaise leaned against my arm and muttered, "Can we end this torture now?"

"Zabini, don't do that!" Ron said, the shrillness still present in his tone, "It's disturbing!"

"What?" Blaise asked sharply, instantly irritated.

"You... draping yourself all over Harry like he's your property or something. Don't do that!" Ron looked as though he was going to be ill.

"I'm leaning on him." Blaise's eyes gleamed wickedly. "Now, if you'd care to know what else I do with him..." he let the sentence hang suggestively.

"No!" Ron pushed his chair back, as though close proximity to Blaise and I was going to infect him with some disease.

"Ron? Shut up." I rubbed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a week. I let my arm fall around Blaise's narrow shoulders after I did so.

"Oh, God, Harry, not you, too!" Ron looked completely disgusted. "It's so...ugh!"

"Congratulations. You're even more naïve than I gave you credit for," I replied lightly, finding the entire situation more amusing suddenly.

"Well," Hermione said dryly, "This meeting has degenerated since we started three and a half hours ago. I think some of our people have begun to de-evolve."

"It's been three and a half hours?" Dean asked. "Wow, I lost track of time about, oh, two hours ago."

"I say we all go to bed," Blaise said, stifling a yawn.

"Bed?" Ginny repeated. "It's only four thirty!"

"So?"

"Has anyone besides me noticed that we do all the work and Zabini just sits around watching and commenting every few minutes?" was Ginny's reply.

Blaise sniffed haughtily. "There are only two kinds of people in this world: the hardworking and those smart enough to exploit them."

I laughed quietly and hugged him. Everyone was just a little worse than usual due to fatigue, reactions were a bit over the top, everyone was either taking things too seriously or not seriously enough. It was definitely time to adjourn the meeting.

"And on that happy note, I am leaving." I shook Blaise off and stood up.

Unfortunately, I didn't make it to the door, because at that moment, McGonagall burst in with bad news.

"There's been an attack on Hogsmeade," she said breathlessly, "There are six dead and twenty seven injured. The headmaster said to bring you all to help. You have had some medical training, come and prove that you have learned something." She spun on her heel and went back the way she had come.

"Fuck," Blaise said, completely deadpan.

That summed up all our emotions for that moment as we got up and, with sudden renewed energy, rushed to the Hospital Wing to help.

"Six dead," Blaise muttered as we ran through the halls, "Six dead and twenty seven more injured. Fucking nuisance."

"Agreed," I muttered in response, skidding my way around a corner and almost falling down the stairs.

The Hospital Wing was a sad sight, immensely depressing. People, so many people, men, women, old, young, all hurt, many dying. The spectacle simply added to an anger in me that had long since begun to turn to icy hatred.

"All right," I said authoritatively, "Spread out, there are a lot of people here and too few of us. Follow Madam Pomfrey's instructions. Any questions can wait until we have this situation in hand."

For once, there was not a single complaint; everyone leapt to do as they'd been told.

It was a nightmare.

With all the calm years of dealing with madmen had given me in the face of trouble, I went around to the victims nearest me, giving medical attention to those who needed it and words of comfort to the ones beyond help.

By the time it was over and everyone who could be helped had been, I felt raw, as, by the looks of things, did everyone else.

"Ah..." I hesitated, unsure suddenly as to what to say. What did one say to the people who had just acted as clean-up crew for a massacre?

Blaise, mercifully, stepped in smoothly and dealt with the waiting group. "You've done your part for the evening, now go get some sleep, we all need it."

Hermione, ever-vigilant Hermione, spoke up, practical where the others wanted only to rest and forget. "What about the next meeting?"

It took me a moment, in my slightly numb state, to process the question. "Tomorrow, seven o'clock, evening, not morning."

Weary nods all around. I couldn't be sure about everyone else, but I felt strangely detached, as though I was viewing the room through foggy glass.

I made it five steps down the corridor before I vomited.

-

Severus: 1996:

"Mr. Potter, what are you doing in my office?" I asked quietly, greatly annoyed to find him there.

"I want to talk to someone, I need to talk to someone."

"So you came to me?" I ignored the desperation in his eyes and folded my arms coldly across my chest.

"You don't understand," more of the desperation came out in his voice, "You're the only person I can talk to. Everyone else would be sympathetic and caring, but they wouldn't listen, not really. They never really have. But you," he gestured at me half-heartedly. "You don't care enough about me to try to placate me, so maybe you'll actually hear what I've got to say. Someone has to."

I was forced to admit myself intrigued. I had never actually imagined that Harry Potter would have original thoughts in his head. Actually, I had never imagined that Harry Potter really thought at all.

"Well, sit down, then." I nodded towards the chair before the desk; he took it. "What is it you want to talk about?" I sat, too, leaning back in my chair.

"I just want to tell someone what I think. Not about anything in particular, just what I think. I suppose I just want to talk and have someone listen. Someone who will let me rant and rave without trying to make it coherent."

"And you think I am this person?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, and for no reason other than that you don't care."

I understood his logic, perhaps better than he thought I did. I had known, in my time, the need to talk to someone who would merely listen, without feeling, without interruption, without attempts to comprehend what was being told to them. I had known the need to speak and, by speaking, better understand myself.

It was because of this knowledge that I simply nodded silently for him to continue.

He hesitated for a moment, then, "You won't stop me when I ramble?"

"No, tell me what's on your mind."

Inwardly, I wondered why the fuck I was being so friendly. Deeper, I knew. I saw in him something like myself and it frightened me, I wanted to see if it was really there or just another shallow illusion caused by too many years of trying to look beneath the surface.

"I spend a lot of time by myself, you know, whenever I can get away, just sitting and thinking. Or walking and thinking, that, too. It helps, sometimes, to just be away from everyone else to think about the things that have meaning for me. And maybe it doesn't mean anything at all, but that doesn't matter. Everyone is either a giver or a taker, you know, you add to the world or you simply take away from it. The greatest peril to the one who gives is the force that takes. The greatest peril to the one who takes is the force that gives. It is as easy to be overwhelmed by giving as by taking. It's always been that way, and it always will be." He drew in a breath.

"At sixteen years old, I have already, many times, been called a great man. Did you know that? No, I don't think you did. But it's true. I know better; I am no great man, perhaps I will be, but I cannot claim to be that right now. I don't think I want to be. Every great man nowadays has his disciples, but it is always Judas who writes the biography. I don't ever want to be so great that people turn away from me. I don't want to deal with that betrayal. What I already have in my life is more than enough.

"Someone accused me of lying a while back. I just remembered it. You know what I did? I looked at him and I said 'I never lie, at least not to those I don't love'. I actually thought about it later, as it was just something I said, and I realised that it's true. It's so easy to lie to those you love, to save them from pain, from suffering, from the bitterness of reality. But those you don't care about? Lying to them doesn't matter because you don't care if they believe you or not. I suppose it is one of the paradoxes of life.

"You think I am an idealist. I'm sure of it. You think that I am a child who thinks that everything will be better tomorrow." He laughed cynically. "No, Professor, no, I am anything but an idealist. I know better. The only way there will be a better tomorrow is if those of us who want one work for it today. I have always known better than to be an idealist; I've never believed that blind idealism would save me. Honestly, when they come down from their ivory towers, idealists are very apt to walk straight into the gutter. I will not ever allow myself to be that blind."

He looked up then, the cynicism breaking suddenly, causing him to acknowledge my presence for the first time since he'd begun.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm wasting your time. I didn't intend to get so carried away." He stood up abruptly, pulling away from the desk. "I'll go now." He turned to leave immediately, embarrassed by what he must have perceived as giving away too much too fast.

"My shoes are too tight," I whispered as he walked away.

"Excuse me?" He turned back.

"Something my father said. He was dying at the time. I went into his room and he was sitting alone, in the dark, crying. So I asked him what was wrong. He said: 'My shoes are too tight, but it doesn't matter because I have forgotten how to dance'. I never understood what that meant until now. My shoes are too tight, and I have forgotten how to dance."

"I don't understand."

"Nor should you."

He paused again, standing a few steps away from the door, a pause of indecision. For the second time since he'd stood to leave, he turned back to look at me.

"I don't know you, do I? I don't think I ever really have."

Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and was gone.

I felt alone.

-

Blaise, 1997:

It was late. The common room was dark and I was the only one left awake. Well, Draco was awake somewhere, but he wasn't in the common room.

Probably off fucking some innocent, I thought sourly.

Ordinarily, I didn't give a damn about Draco's sex habits, but Harry was in the Hospital Wing, recovering from a rare curse thrown by a suicidal Death Eater. Under such unusual conditions, I was far from amused when it came to Draco's promiscuous habits.

He isn't approaching me tonight; I ought to be grateful.

Draco had approached me in the past, when he was drunk beyond caring who he fucked, as long as they were real and solid and warm. I was not so indiscriminate in my lovers, it mattered to me that I knew the person in my bed.

I was not really worried about Draco coming to me, it was far too late that night for him to still be alone, and besides, I knew how to fend him off. I knew his secrets, we had been friends for too long for me to not; I knew that, truly, at night Draco just needed to be with someone, just to reassure that he was in fact alive and still there.

I found that, while I may have worried about Harry, I did not share his insecurities.

Not enough to seek out strangers, at any rate.

I was drinking, Bordeaux, which was really far too good a wine to drink at midnight, alone in the common room. But if I was going to drink, then, damn it all, I was going to drink something of quality.

I'm drunk.

I was. It was that special kind of drunk, where everything seemed crystal clear and sharp, where I had downed just enough alcohol to numb thought, but not enough to lose judgement. It felt as though I was looking at the room from somewhere outside of myself. It was a moment of perfection.

I put the glass down; the light sound it made as it touched the tabletop seemed to echo in my ears. More drink would destroy the sheer beauty of the moment, and to destroy the beauty would be almost sacrilege.

"You're still awake, Blaise?"

Draco.

"Apparently."

And the moment was shattered.

"Don't act like that, Blaise." Draco sat down on the chair nearest me.

I knew that he was drunk. He only called me Blaise when he was drunk. I watched him closely through half-lidded eyes for that very reason.

"What happened, tonight's play toy didn't enjoy the game?" I asked sardonically.

Draco glared half-heartedly at me. "Don't play those games, Blaise."

I blinked slowly. "Oh? Did I cut a little too close to the truth, Draco?"

"You're lucky I'm tired."

"And drunk?"

"Look who's talking."

"So, who was she? Or was tonight's victim a he?"

"What do you care?" he sounded a bit defensive, I was getting to him.

"Can't I be curious about my best friend's current lay?"

"You could... if I thought that you cared. Why do you play these mind games with me, Blaise?"

"Because if I don't, no one else will. You know the way these things work, Draco, why pretend that you don't?"

"Sometimes..." He hesitated, as though thinking of how to say whatever it was he was thinking. "Sometimes I wish that things had happened somehow differently. That we could still be close, the way we were when we were children. Don't you ever wish that?"

He watched me, he wasn't going to cry, he was too well brought up for something like that, but the look he gave me was more than enough.

I smiled sadly and shook my head. "What's gone is gone, Draco, and you can't bring it back around."

The silence was deafening. But then he sighed slightly and stood up.

"I'm going up to bed, you coming?"

"No."

He nodded once, and then turned away and walked up the stairs, leaving me to sit alone, staring desolately into the dying fire.