( he comes halfway out of his pocket with his wand in hand, nervous at the approach but unconcerned, mainly in response to being untrained in his particular magic. moving tattoos? so what?
touched. he gasps, a shrill of harry! ringing out in their ears, unaccompanied by visual aid. his first memory, his mother dying — the boy who lived, or simply the boy who couldn't die, no matter how badly he wanted to.
there are floating images, like a scrapbook of awful memories that play out one right after the other — a knife in doby's chest, harry's failure to save him, the pale colored image of a grave in the sand, here lies dobby a free elf etched on the front. sirius black's soul fading from his body, harry's failure to die for him, his own scream echoing in the dark halls of the ministry of magic, the cruciatus curse spilling from his lips before he could contain himself, pure rage in his veins. bellatrix lestrange looks so pitiful beneath the point of his wand. he could kill her. do it, harry, say the words. she deserves it. she killed him. do it, harry, do it. it's a viper's voice in his ear, prodding, demanding.
and then, cedric diggory. avada kedavra. a body has never looked so lifeless as when the spew of vile green crawls out of peter fucking pettigrew's wand, and the golden boy lays dead on the ground. harry's failure, once again. it's the rat man who ties harry up, the rat man who cuts his arm clean down, vertically. he feels that wound open once more like a book's pages unfurling to a scene of deliberate gore and malice — that pain is enough to break him out of the spell, green eyes flashing somehow more electric in anger. )
Get — off me! ( he yanks out of mingyu's grip, shoving him back with a blood-soaked palm. he has his wand out now, and instinctively — ) Incarcerous!
( a thick rope directs itself to mingyu's wrists, sinking to bind him, to cover up that — fucking tattoo. )
no subject
touched. he gasps, a shrill of harry! ringing out in their ears, unaccompanied by visual aid. his first memory, his mother dying — the boy who lived, or simply the boy who couldn't die, no matter how badly he wanted to.
there are floating images, like a scrapbook of awful memories that play out one right after the other — a knife in doby's chest, harry's failure to save him, the pale colored image of a grave in the sand, here lies dobby a free elf etched on the front. sirius black's soul fading from his body, harry's failure to die for him, his own scream echoing in the dark halls of the ministry of magic, the cruciatus curse spilling from his lips before he could contain himself, pure rage in his veins. bellatrix lestrange looks so pitiful beneath the point of his wand. he could kill her. do it, harry, say the words. she deserves it. she killed him. do it, harry, do it. it's a viper's voice in his ear, prodding, demanding.
and then, cedric diggory. avada kedavra. a body has never looked so lifeless as when the spew of vile green crawls out of peter fucking pettigrew's wand, and the golden boy lays dead on the ground. harry's failure, once again. it's the rat man who ties harry up, the rat man who cuts his arm clean down, vertically. he feels that wound open once more like a book's pages unfurling to a scene of deliberate gore and malice — that pain is enough to break him out of the spell, green eyes flashing somehow more electric in anger. )
Get — off me! ( he yanks out of mingyu's grip, shoving him back with a blood-soaked palm. he has his wand out now, and instinctively — ) Incarcerous!
( a thick rope directs itself to mingyu's wrists, sinking to bind him, to cover up that — fucking tattoo. )