Tears flowed freely, a simple extension of his agony. Crying did nothing to ease his pain, nothing to dull the razor that slashed into his chest with every step he took and every time he breathed. His world was a water-blurred black and red, blood and carrion everywhere. Every moment was like a thousand cruiatius curses, and it was a welcome feeling. He deserved it. He deserved the pain, the agony, because he’d been too weak, too slow to help. He’d let Draco die, and it was his fault. This was his penance, no matter how short. He deserved it. He deserved worse.
Transfiguration, he could remember Professor McGonnal telling him, her voice echoing out of the past and into his mind, was the simple act of turning one thing into another thing. The level of difficulty on the change depended entirely on the objects in question. If you were changing something complicated and complex, or changing something INTO something complicated or complex, the change was hard. If the items were radically different from each other, such as a canary and an elephant, or a gun and a gumball machine, it was harder still. But none of that mattered, because Harry was changing a simple object into another simple object, which was the same size and weight, very nearly the same shape.
He held out the wand he’d pulled from Dracos cold grip and laid it across the fresh dirt of the grave, unable to control a sudden sob that tore itself from his chest. He waited a moment for his hands to steady, and then raised his own wand, performing his ‘swish and flick’ motion perfectly, and performing the needed spell.
Blades cut on a simple premise that you wouldn’t guess just by looking them. The human mind, muggle or wizard, is trained in a way that it thinks ‘the knife cuts because its sharp’, and leaves it at that, not thinking about what sharp really is. ‘Sharp’ is when something become so narrow and thin, with only a few hundred molecules to its width, that it can press against atoms and separate them, ‘cutting them’ in a way. That one was from Snape, Harry remembered, and his usual flare of dislike didn’t even flicker in the wave of his pain.
The red began to splatter against the leaves and the dirt of Draco’s grave slowly, and then picking up speed as Harry completed his cut across his upturned wrist, and then slashed the other one in its turn. He let the knife he’d transfigured from Draco’s wand slip to the ground as the splattering became a river, a flood of lifeblood, so dark red it was almost black. Black hearts pump black blood, the idle thought flowed through his mind, paired with the thought of how odd blood soaked dirt tastes, mixed with shattered dreams and a broken life.
Authors Note: All right, thats a wrap boys and girls. Hope you liked it, and hope I didnt freak any of yall out too much... special thanks to Falcon for helping me type this, Griff for, as always, being my inspiration in these stories, and Pip and Tini for basically teaching me every god damned thing I know about writing and slash. Oh, a quick note to Cat Samwise and ClarkeRaven- its loyal readers and reviewers like you who keep us writers going. Thank you.