Polyjuice: collateral damage

"You never know," Draco said. "You might need it." He spoke around the rattle in his throat and his shoulders shuffled against the ground as his wrist dug down, the sharp knobs of it burrowing and pushing back mounds of wet earth. Two tugs and silver strands were clinging to the top slope of his palm, wound around index finger and thumb.

"I don't, why would you-" Why would they need it was the question, but it wasn't something to ask with Draco's mouth dark damp the way it was. Thick meaty smell seeming to waft already from the inside, though that couldn't be, couldn't -- not yet.

Easy to have a trigger happy, tricks laden mind with the world like this. Clothes scented of burning and a metallic hint to the fresh cut grass. Red glazed grass, the kind of wet less sure footsteps would skid on. The kind of debris you would trip over and force yourself not to look; never look down.

Nothing more but rattle, maybe nothing left, and the dampness was thicker, bubbling up over Draco's lips, and Hermione's hand gripped. Shook Harry's shoulder enough to make his bones believe they could creak.

"He's right." She wasn't as disgusted with the fact as he might have expected. Once. Hard to stir up much of anything with the sun slanting the way it was and the smell suddenly less imaginary.

She wore the tiredness that he could feel, coiled inside of his veins like a second heartbeat.

Mouth set firm and businesslike. "Harry."

Right. If he didn't bend down for them soon, the fingers will be too stiff and. He didn't know if he could break them.

No. If he would. Bones didn't take much; he'd learned that.

Rapidly cooling skin, slick with dew and very possibly other things Harry was consciously not thinking about. He pressed his palm to Draco's limp, dead flesh pale one -- unchanged yet, so that the color bled back over Harry's memories to whisper foreshadowing -- and peeled away the crisp blond web, off both of their fingers and into his pocket.

He pressed his eyes to the horizon as he walked towards away.

It wasn't.

"Make me something else," Draco charged.

 And the soldier

 --they were all soldiers now --

 he did.

"you were so quiet yesterday," Draco said, and they said, "when?" and "no, that wasn't, are you sure that was us?" and he opened up his book of spells for a look.

Polyjuice. clever, clever Potter.

something like-

no.

perhaps, yes. all right, perhaps appreciation.

but nothing more, not even with the wide, pained eyes. pain too in Potter's steps, and it's so oddly pretty.

there's talk.

wants to them -- with their ink black hoods and knowing not-smiles -- to think: "no, couldn't be, he's too young for this," but it's been so long since anyone could mean it. and.

he's seen things.

so he worries they know (there's talk, there's talk), and maybe they do, because when the time comes

(and everyone he ever speaks to during that whole passage of hours and years, every minute of it, he wonders, "who are you, who are you really, are you him?" and when he kisses he can never be sure, can he? and he almost wishes)

 they send him out to that battle.

the one no one comes back from.

and he goes, and he does what he does, and he tries for just a little bit longer --

just hold on

-- for Potter to come and pick up the pieces.

because he has one for Potter. oh, he has one.

"try this on for size," he will say, he tells himself.  

imagines he will taste of birthplace stone and serpent.

"if you can trick me," he will say

(who -- let's be honest -- has studied your every move and every breath and every misplaced straggling hair bending over your forehead and every poised swipe of your tongue when your lips dry out and every falter in your stride)

"you can trick anyone."