Morte De Savior

Liana Bruggemann

12-7-04

Morte De Savior

The day was quiet, still, clinically silent. Each sound echoed across the field, clear-cut and sharp, every color blazed forth, icy bright in the winter air. The memory was clearer than the reality, not worn smooth by trails of thought, but enhanced, as each time Harry cast back into his mind, and drew up that day in the field, he rediscovered some fresh detail: the scarlet tint of an oak leaf, a swallow streaking across the sky, the acrid smell of salty sweat, and the hard metallic edge of blood on the wind.

He allowed his mind to wander, speeding along the familiar pathways of his mind, clicking smoothly into the place of his chosen memory, unlocking the door, and stepping easily inside... A spell whizzed past his left ear, burning hot across his cheek, striking away into the distance. He felt his hair ruffle over his fore-head in the sudden wind, and flung himself aside, dived, rolled, flung a hasty incantation over his shoulder, and slammed his back against the temporary shelter of a tree.

A dull, persistent beat throbbed in his ears, the back-drop of the icy clear winter scene. Harry realized it was his heart, beating frantically against his chest. He knew then he would kill this man. There came the roaring: a swift inescapable rush. The tree was torn from its roots, the wood shattered into fragments, again, Harry felt his body hurl itself aside, riding purely on instinct.

All at once there was silence. Pure, unadulterated, and perfectly cruel. He stared across the field, a field of long grass, tawny white, and squinted through the sharp rays of winter sunlight. Across the way, there, stood his enemy: a slim black silhouette of a man. He thought "I must look the same to him." They stood for a moment black figures, outlined in light, against a field of tawny white etched in the scarlet foliage of fall. Slowly the figure neared, developed a face, features, became real. Silver hair blew across a tight, pale face. He lunged, darting forth in precise blur, and Harry drew back hard, grabbing the other man's arm and wrenching him over his shoulder. Draco hit the ground face up staring with startled calm into Harry's face, just as Harry drew and fired the muggle revolver. Thinking back he recalled the smooth cold feel of it against his hand, the silver sheen of the metal in the sunlight.

He recalled the way he knelt and pressed Draco for answers, gripped his arms so hard he felt the bones. And Draco's harsh raspy voice, tired and conversational "We're the same you know...just the same. It always ends like this." What Harry never saw was the knife clutched in his brittle fingers, what he still couldn't quite recall, how the knife stuck in his heart. Draco had died then, falling back against the ground. His head had lolled back, and the blood had blossomed out across his chest, a searing brilliant scarlet, impossibly bright. So Harry lay dying and watched the sky through clouding eyes. A light snow wafted gently down freezing delicately on the red foliage of the fall.