Fic: HP, Gen
Aug. 19th, 2006 01:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raegan_1I call it gen, because it's little more than a double-drabble and one very small hint at anything else.
Content: Harry Potter fan-ficlet, 218 words, written on a prompt from Isis: camouflage. Written in... way short a time, but the final line was final.
Harry had thought they all looked the same with the masks, a uniformity of black and hate, but even once the hoods have been removed, he cannot tell one face from another. Hard eyes, twisted sneers. As he looks at them, he can't help but think they all blend one into the other, making a solid background against which Voldemort stands out. Voldemort alone looks satisfied to see him, even if that satisfaction is little more than the granted wish of Harry's imminent demise.
Voldemort is speaking, but Harry pays him little heed, the words washing over him as he lets his eyes run back over the encircling Death Eaters. Here and there, he starts to pick out the differences, starts to notice how the stripe of fear in a pair of eyes was whiter than those filled only with abhorrence. How uncertainty brightened the red of a flushed face. The way determination and resignation could enhance an already unearthly beautiful blue in the seconds before a wand flashed without command and black deepens, sharpens, as it steps between him and death.
Cover broken, line quickly blurred and redrawn, Harry can now tell the faces apart by the myriad reactions to this sudden defection, as what had been one man alone and weak is now three men strong.
Content: Harry Potter fan-ficlet, 218 words, written on a prompt from Isis: camouflage. Written in... way short a time, but the final line was final.
Harry had thought they all looked the same with the masks, a uniformity of black and hate, but even once the hoods have been removed, he cannot tell one face from another. Hard eyes, twisted sneers. As he looks at them, he can't help but think they all blend one into the other, making a solid background against which Voldemort stands out. Voldemort alone looks satisfied to see him, even if that satisfaction is little more than the granted wish of Harry's imminent demise.
Voldemort is speaking, but Harry pays him little heed, the words washing over him as he lets his eyes run back over the encircling Death Eaters. Here and there, he starts to pick out the differences, starts to notice how the stripe of fear in a pair of eyes was whiter than those filled only with abhorrence. How uncertainty brightened the red of a flushed face. The way determination and resignation could enhance an already unearthly beautiful blue in the seconds before a wand flashed without command and black deepens, sharpens, as it steps between him and death.
Cover broken, line quickly blurred and redrawn, Harry can now tell the faces apart by the myriad reactions to this sudden defection, as what had been one man alone and weak is now three men strong.
