Finding Solace in Oblivion

Taking Solace in Oblivion

***

The pub was almost completely empty by the time he finished his third pint. Sighing, he let the empty flagon drop to the polished hardwood table with a clunk. His head quickly followed suit.

"My Lord?" asked a whining, squeaking voice.

There was no response from the greasy-haired lump resting on the damp surface of the table.

"Master, I... I... well, um...uh...I'll get us another one, shall I?" The man got up without waiting for a response and wound his way through the tightly-packed but empty tables up to the bar. "Two more."

His companion was in the same position when he returned to their table in the corner, bearing two more pints of amnesia held in a silver hand.

It would be a welcome thing, too, the amnesia.

After...oh, god...please, no more...he gulped down another ale, willing the memories to end, to never surface. This was supposed to have been their night. Their night of glory and triumph. The night of a new era, a new eon. The night that would begin the new hierarchy, wherein their power and magnificence would be recognized by all. All would bow to them, the immortal and unconquerable, the rightful heroes.

Shots were placed in front of them by the bartender - they both must have been in a right state, to be so noticeably desperate for alcohol that it was visible across the dimly lit pub.

The greasy-haired man had not lifted his head off of the table since the pudgy one had spoken.

The latter closed his eyes to the world, willing it to be different when he opened them. Willing it to have changed, or disappeared. Willing it to at least leave him alone.

A clock heralded the coming hour, the first ding wrenching him out of his downward-spiraling stupor.

Ding. A grating, jarring note.

Ding. A reminder of his past.

Ding. A reminder of his sins.

Ding. A reminder that he would never rise above the suffering that he felt that night.

Ding. More than anything, it was the sound of the battle that stayed with him, the explosions, the screams, and the weeping - it echoed still in his ears.

Ding. The noise and the incomprehensible...no...

Ding. Bodies were strewn everywhere in that hall - too many, too many - couldn't tell which were whose, chaos, light, blood, death.

Ding. He still saw the looks on their faces.

Ding. There was nothing they could do but watch as the inferno consumed them all.

Ding. And consume them it did.

Ding. The last toll weighed on him. Twelve o'clock - a new day had started. A cursed day.

His eyes traveled around the room, slowly, drinking it. He saw the other occupants of the pub, all with deadened eyes, searching in their flagons, searching for truth, searching in vain. They were hollow. He saw his own fate in his flagon, saw his hands shaking as they lifted it to his dry lips, saw the emptiness of his past and his future. And taking a last look at his master's collapsed form, in one singular moment, he finally saw the truth.

He pointed his wand at his own heart.

Happy birthday, Harry. "Avada Kedavra."