If this is what it’s like to be the Master of Death, Harry figures he’d rather have died in the Forbidden Forest five years ago. Death hunts him at every corner, stealing his every breath, crossing paths with him when he least expects it.
McGonagall’s funeral is, all things considered, a sleepy affair, despite the number of people who have shown to pay their respects.
“Minerva, taken too soon. Had a bit of a thing for her in my youth, you know,” Slughorn says, sniffling into a glass of sherry. “Quite the talented witch. Unparalleled.”
Harry wishes he was anywhere but the punch table. A turntable plays Dusty Springfield in the background, and a small band of well-wishers has gathered by the Black Lake. Ron and Hermione had dropped by earlier for the eulogy given by Professor Sprout, who’d cried through the whole speech. Harry, unfortunately, couldn’t make out a single word.
The rest of the attendees are mostly students, and Harry swears he sees that wink of white-blond hair again.
“Never has Hogwarts had a better headmistress,” Slughorn is saying.
Harry nods and watches sherry slosh onto the grass.
Someone’s approaching them—the sound of footsteps stop a few feet away.
“Professor Slughorn.” Malfoy greets. “Potter.”
The word is enunciated, so cut and familiar it sends heat flaring instantly up his spine. Harry scowls without second thought.
“Malfoy,” he responds, turning to face his old nemesis.
The hollows beneath Draco’s eyes are bruised and dark, skin translucent beneath the early summer sun. Harry schools his expression into something more appropriate for a funeral. Slughorn nods at Draco, then ambles off after a moment of silence. Unlike with Harry, the potions professor has no words for the former Death Eater.
“Anything to drink?” Draco asks, pouring himself a glass of wine.
“I’m okay.” Harry’s wand burns in his pocket. “Here to gloat?”
The stream of wine slows, then stops.
“Having outlived another Gryffindor.”
Draco’s lips go thin. He doesn’t look up. “Well done, me.”
Anger coils in Harry’s stomach, warm and inviting.
“Were you even allowed to attend?”
Draco’s fingers turn white on the glass. “I was, actually,” he replies, knife-edge. The wine bottle trembles as he sets it down.
Harry’s anger dissolves. “I—”
“Don’t bother.” Draco stalks off, flute of wine pinched between long fingers.
--
a/n: havent been writing much fic. currently trying to write a real book. here's a snippet of a drarry fic thats 1/3 written that i havent really been working on. sometimes logging on tumblr is stressful because i desperately want (need) to write, but there's simply not enough time or energy (thanks to this phd program), and it makes me want to scream.
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