The Wings of Azrael - ficlet
Jan. 2nd, 2004 05:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
geovikiSo if I'm an HP fanfic writer, then I should be writing, wouldn't you think?
I've got this elaborate story in my head, and somehow this is the first part that got written. It's not the first chapter, not the last, no slash yet, and not even beta'd. (ETA: revised version added, 3-31-04)
The Wings of Azrael - ficlet from a larger story - by Duinn-Fionn
Beneath the trees we slumbered; and in the wings of Azrael, slowly, we faded to black.
Draco slowly leafed through the morning's missive from his solicitors as he crossed his marbled foyer on his way to the study. At first, at the onset of their by-now-substantial correspondence, he'd been irritated and questioned just why his lawyers plagued him with all these endless details – wasn't that why he paid them, and generously at that? As weeks passed and he viewed how his case was being constructed argument by argument, he'd grown at first curious and then fully absorbed into their craftsmanship at clarifying his position, laying out his strong and weak arguments, and perhaps even identifying a glimmer of the possible outcome. If it hadn't mattered so very much, he could easily have become fascinated by the carefully constructed positions, the cerebral arguments, the ideas layered so that this must necessary follow that, leading to the proper conclusion.
Nothing was certain. There was a very real possibility that he still would lose everything to the Ministry – they were stubbornly digging in for a long fight. However, contrary to his Slytherin tendencies and because it did matter so very much, he still preferred to hope.
He was distracted from his path by a bright expanse of sunlight illuminating the third tread of the grand staircase. He was familiar enough with the manor to appreciate that this solar intrusion only occurred at this particular time of year. Sunlight as recurrent and predictable as the seasons, stretching back in time to when the manor was first built, and reaching into the future until after Draco would no longer be there to appreciate it. He paused, then moved to the warmly lit spot and sat down, feeling the rays quickly warm his black trousers and shirt.
Instantly, he was whisked back to a long-ago moment – the first time he remembered meeting Gregory Goyle when they were both very young.
~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~
His first image of Gregory was of a shy boy peering from behind his mountain of a father who was bellowing his greetings to Lucius and stamping off the trace amounts of ash he'd tromped in from the fireplace. Draco could only stare – he'd not met many other children except Pansy Parkinson, who was his best friend – and Gregory had shifted nervously under that direct scrutiny. Draco remembered enjoying the feeling of power that Gregory's discomfort had given him. Watching them closely, Lucius had taken it upon himself to make their initial introduction. Then the two men had rapidly headed off to the study, wordlessly making clear that the two boys were to entertain themselves elsewhere.
He took Gregory's too-small sleeve and tugged at him insistently, saying only "Come on, you." He wasn't surprised – maybe he should have been – when Gregory readily trotted beside him, as if the transition between following his father's directives and Draco's was a natural and inborn talent. Draco was heading for one of the ground level rooms – even then he'd jealously guarded the sanctity of his bedroom from strangers – when he noticed the sunlight on the staircase and diverted them. Gregory, caught by his unexpected change in tangent, nearly stumbled, but Draco felt him recover his balance while at the same time trying to hide his momentary awkwardness from Draco. As though pleasing Draco's whims were second nature. As though Draco's desires superceded his own.
Draco liked this new boy already.
Draco settled himself on the third step, feeling the sun quickly warming his pale skin, even more quickly heating his black clothing. Gregory hesitated, then plopped down beside him, not too close, intentionally careful not to block any sunlight from reaching Draco. If he turned his head slightly, he could see Gregory watching him, his mouth slightly open, his hands twisting his sleeve uncertainly. Draco slitted his eyes against the sun, feeling the heat of the rays from the window, feeling the gaze of the boy at his side, feeling the tentative bond between them. He was happy knowing that he might now have a male friend, just as his father did. The idea was remarkably comforting. He closed his eyes.
The boy next to him coughed, stuttered, then finally blurted, "Are you an angel?"
He turned, surprised. "What?"
"Are you an angel?" Gregory repeated, a little less forcefully, as if he'd realized he said something unusual, perhaps something that may unwittingly have offended this unfamiliar boy.
Draco didn't have any idea of how to answer, so he remained silent, eyes wide at the unexpected question. To be honest, he didn't really know what an angel was. He recalled one picture he'd seen of a fair creature in white, with enormous wings, surrounded by shining rays of light. But that angel was a woman, he'd remembered, not a small, grey-eyed boy resting on a stone stair in his everyday robes.
Gregory squirmed as if he knew he'd said something unsettling, but continued. "You're so pretty. You're shining. I've seen angels before, and they look just like you. Shining."
"Where?" Gregory looked as if he couldn't connect that question to what he'd just said, so Draco tried again. "Where have you seen angels?"
"Oh. We have a window, at our house, a colored window. You know, the kind that makes a picture. And there are angels in it."
"Angels are girls."
"Ours are girls and boys. Boys can be angels."
"With wings?" Draco had quickly forgotten that Gregory wasn't as quick as he was, so he elaborated. "Do the angels in your window have wings?"
"Yes. Wings. Yes."
"Well, I don't have wings."
"No, Draco." He could see the other boy check to be sure. "Not yet."
Did Gregory expect him to grow wings, then? Draco grew more excited as he thought about it. He might enjoy – no, he would definitely enjoy – a pair of strong wings. He knew that dragons had wings – he'd had countless pictures of dragons offered to him, and he'd often imagined himself, like his namesake, taking to the skies at will and soaring freely as far as he wanted. His parents had never told him he was going to grow wings, but then, he knew that his parents kept many secrets from him. Maybe this was another one.
But if it was a secret, he shouldn't tell Gregory. Not right away. Maybe when they were best friends, then he could. He supposed wings would be hard to hide, anyway.
Gregory was staring at him as if he expected Draco to grow wings right then, to push them out from some secret place and unfurl them as he watched. He looked as if he wanted to touch him, but Draco already knew that he wouldn't dare, that he had already registered his boundaries intuitively.
Gregory made one last attempt at the conversation. "My father told me, before he would let me come, that I have to be very careful around you. He said that you are a special boy."
Oh. He'd heard that himself, from his own father, from his mother, from other Malfoys. He didn't think that everyone else knew it, too, and he felt suddenly warm with the recognition.
Shortly after that first meeting, Draco reluctantly but decisively gave up the idea that he was somehow an incognito angel. But for the entire time he knew Gregory, he doubted that the other boy had ever given it up. Not from that day until the day he was killed. Gregory had always treated him as if he were some unearthly creature, someone from beyond their known world, beyond wizard magic. Draco never understood it, could never seem to disabuse him of it, took advantage of it at times, but respected it anyway. It seemed to give Gregory comfort, that his best friend was an angel, even if no one else recognized it. Gregory knew it – a simple belief for a simple boy – and that was enough.
Enough to follow his friend, his angel, into the Dark Lord's service.
Where Draco left him behind. He hadn't even tried to bring him out – he'd left him behind to be killed. He couldn't even risk coming back to see him properly buried, and oh, how he regretted that.
In the end, Draco thought bitterly, Gregory had been uncannily right. He pushed himself up from the step and down the staircase, shivering at the sudden chill as he moved out of the warmth of the sunlight. Draco actually had been Gregory's angel all along. The fucking Angel of Death.
_____
Don't you love Google? It's how I got the chapter/ficlet title. Azrael is the angel of death in Islamic tradition. The wings of Azrael are a premonition of death.
I've got this elaborate story in my head, and somehow this is the first part that got written. It's not the first chapter, not the last, no slash yet, and not even beta'd. (ETA: revised version added, 3-31-04)
The Wings of Azrael - ficlet from a larger story - by Duinn-Fionn
Draco slowly leafed through the morning's missive from his solicitors as he crossed his marbled foyer on his way to the study. At first, at the onset of their by-now-substantial correspondence, he'd been irritated and questioned just why his lawyers plagued him with all these endless details – wasn't that why he paid them, and generously at that? As weeks passed and he viewed how his case was being constructed argument by argument, he'd grown at first curious and then fully absorbed into their craftsmanship at clarifying his position, laying out his strong and weak arguments, and perhaps even identifying a glimmer of the possible outcome. If it hadn't mattered so very much, he could easily have become fascinated by the carefully constructed positions, the cerebral arguments, the ideas layered so that this must necessary follow that, leading to the proper conclusion.
Nothing was certain. There was a very real possibility that he still would lose everything to the Ministry – they were stubbornly digging in for a long fight. However, contrary to his Slytherin tendencies and because it did matter so very much, he still preferred to hope.
He was distracted from his path by a bright expanse of sunlight illuminating the third tread of the grand staircase. He was familiar enough with the manor to appreciate that this solar intrusion only occurred at this particular time of year. Sunlight as recurrent and predictable as the seasons, stretching back in time to when the manor was first built, and reaching into the future until after Draco would no longer be there to appreciate it. He paused, then moved to the warmly lit spot and sat down, feeling the rays quickly warm his black trousers and shirt.
Instantly, he was whisked back to a long-ago moment – the first time he remembered meeting Gregory Goyle when they were both very young.
~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~..~
His first image of Gregory was of a shy boy peering from behind his mountain of a father who was bellowing his greetings to Lucius and stamping off the trace amounts of ash he'd tromped in from the fireplace. Draco could only stare – he'd not met many other children except Pansy Parkinson, who was his best friend – and Gregory had shifted nervously under that direct scrutiny. Draco remembered enjoying the feeling of power that Gregory's discomfort had given him. Watching them closely, Lucius had taken it upon himself to make their initial introduction. Then the two men had rapidly headed off to the study, wordlessly making clear that the two boys were to entertain themselves elsewhere.
He took Gregory's too-small sleeve and tugged at him insistently, saying only "Come on, you." He wasn't surprised – maybe he should have been – when Gregory readily trotted beside him, as if the transition between following his father's directives and Draco's was a natural and inborn talent. Draco was heading for one of the ground level rooms – even then he'd jealously guarded the sanctity of his bedroom from strangers – when he noticed the sunlight on the staircase and diverted them. Gregory, caught by his unexpected change in tangent, nearly stumbled, but Draco felt him recover his balance while at the same time trying to hide his momentary awkwardness from Draco. As though pleasing Draco's whims were second nature. As though Draco's desires superceded his own.
Draco liked this new boy already.
Draco settled himself on the third step, feeling the sun quickly warming his pale skin, even more quickly heating his black clothing. Gregory hesitated, then plopped down beside him, not too close, intentionally careful not to block any sunlight from reaching Draco. If he turned his head slightly, he could see Gregory watching him, his mouth slightly open, his hands twisting his sleeve uncertainly. Draco slitted his eyes against the sun, feeling the heat of the rays from the window, feeling the gaze of the boy at his side, feeling the tentative bond between them. He was happy knowing that he might now have a male friend, just as his father did. The idea was remarkably comforting. He closed his eyes.
The boy next to him coughed, stuttered, then finally blurted, "Are you an angel?"
He turned, surprised. "What?"
"Are you an angel?" Gregory repeated, a little less forcefully, as if he'd realized he said something unusual, perhaps something that may unwittingly have offended this unfamiliar boy.
Draco didn't have any idea of how to answer, so he remained silent, eyes wide at the unexpected question. To be honest, he didn't really know what an angel was. He recalled one picture he'd seen of a fair creature in white, with enormous wings, surrounded by shining rays of light. But that angel was a woman, he'd remembered, not a small, grey-eyed boy resting on a stone stair in his everyday robes.
Gregory squirmed as if he knew he'd said something unsettling, but continued. "You're so pretty. You're shining. I've seen angels before, and they look just like you. Shining."
"Where?" Gregory looked as if he couldn't connect that question to what he'd just said, so Draco tried again. "Where have you seen angels?"
"Oh. We have a window, at our house, a colored window. You know, the kind that makes a picture. And there are angels in it."
"Angels are girls."
"Ours are girls and boys. Boys can be angels."
"With wings?" Draco had quickly forgotten that Gregory wasn't as quick as he was, so he elaborated. "Do the angels in your window have wings?"
"Yes. Wings. Yes."
"Well, I don't have wings."
"No, Draco." He could see the other boy check to be sure. "Not yet."
Did Gregory expect him to grow wings, then? Draco grew more excited as he thought about it. He might enjoy – no, he would definitely enjoy – a pair of strong wings. He knew that dragons had wings – he'd had countless pictures of dragons offered to him, and he'd often imagined himself, like his namesake, taking to the skies at will and soaring freely as far as he wanted. His parents had never told him he was going to grow wings, but then, he knew that his parents kept many secrets from him. Maybe this was another one.
But if it was a secret, he shouldn't tell Gregory. Not right away. Maybe when they were best friends, then he could. He supposed wings would be hard to hide, anyway.
Gregory was staring at him as if he expected Draco to grow wings right then, to push them out from some secret place and unfurl them as he watched. He looked as if he wanted to touch him, but Draco already knew that he wouldn't dare, that he had already registered his boundaries intuitively.
Gregory made one last attempt at the conversation. "My father told me, before he would let me come, that I have to be very careful around you. He said that you are a special boy."
Oh. He'd heard that himself, from his own father, from his mother, from other Malfoys. He didn't think that everyone else knew it, too, and he felt suddenly warm with the recognition.
Shortly after that first meeting, Draco reluctantly but decisively gave up the idea that he was somehow an incognito angel. But for the entire time he knew Gregory, he doubted that the other boy had ever given it up. Not from that day until the day he was killed. Gregory had always treated him as if he were some unearthly creature, someone from beyond their known world, beyond wizard magic. Draco never understood it, could never seem to disabuse him of it, took advantage of it at times, but respected it anyway. It seemed to give Gregory comfort, that his best friend was an angel, even if no one else recognized it. Gregory knew it – a simple belief for a simple boy – and that was enough.
Enough to follow his friend, his angel, into the Dark Lord's service.
Where Draco left him behind. He hadn't even tried to bring him out – he'd left him behind to be killed. He couldn't even risk coming back to see him properly buried, and oh, how he regretted that.
In the end, Draco thought bitterly, Gregory had been uncannily right. He pushed himself up from the step and down the staircase, shivering at the sudden chill as he moved out of the warmth of the sunlight. Draco actually had been Gregory's angel all along. The fucking Angel of Death.
_____
Don't you love Google? It's how I got the chapter/ficlet title. Azrael is the angel of death in Islamic tradition. The wings of Azrael are a premonition of death.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 12:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 06:20 pm (UTC)I've plotted out most of this story. It will be H/D (sorry, Isis). The battle over the Manor is one of the major plots, and most of the story will be post-War.
And if I can stop reading other folks' way-interesting stories and LJ's and get cracking on my own stuff, I'll be that much further ahead!
no subject
Date: 2004-01-12 09:41 pm (UTC)Marianne
no subject
Date: 2004-01-15 06:59 am (UTC)Thanks for visiting, BTW!