Harry Potter One Shots

Memories of Etched Glass

All rights belong to the author, Sionnain

I hate this room, because it reminds me of you. I only come here today because it is the anniversary of your death. Does that surprise you that I would remember? I am sure it does; wherever you are, you may smile at the irony if you so choose. It will not bother me.

I suppose if it were cleaned up, if the velvet drapes were dusted and the furniture polished, the floors swept and the paint touched up, it would be lovely. I remember your house used to have rooms like this, and I wonder if this is what it looks like now—chipped paint and scuffed floors, the room thick with dust and neglect. The light is sinister as it filters in, the late evening sun hitting the dirty windows and finding nowhere else to go. Only a few rays escape the trap and dance on the dust and the throw slivers of light on the floor, covered in the tattered remains of once-luxurious rugs.

The light manages only to tremble on the crumbling gold leaf of the ceiling, the hint of marble on the fireplace. Only one of the heavy maroon drapes is open, tucked into the curved brass of the drapery hook. I wonder if you were the last who left it open, because no one comes in here now.

My sister lives in rooms like this, but without the layers of filth and decay. I imagine there to be not one single speck of dust in her home, even now, when her husband is in Azkaban. We will get him out, of course we will, because the Dark Lord rewards his faithful.

You were rewarded, but not for your faithfulness.

The late afternoon sun was spilling into the windows when I was called to attend him. I was fresh from my husband's bed, bloody scratch marks burning beneath my cloak. I had been summoned and my Mark had flared up, hot and sharp, and I had thrown the black garment over my naked, sweaty body and hurried to his side.

He was seated at the table in the dining room, and he was turned away from me, voice as cold as death when he spoke your sentence to me. He said it simply, without grandiose gestures or theatrical pronouncements. He has a reputation for the macabre, and I suppose it is well-earned.

Yet you merited only a coldly spoken order in the soft orange glow of the setting summer sun. I remember there were streaks of red in the sky, I remember he was drinking from a crystal goblet with an elaborate R etched in the glass.

I did not think the gesture was deliberate, but one never knows with him. Would it make you happy, if he had done so on purpose? I think it might.

"He's in the parlor," the Dark Lord said, and turned towards me. "Make him suffer before you kill him. Make him scream."

I bowed and said nothing, and I found you exactly where he said you would be, standing and staring out of that window with one hand braced against the glass.

I stand now at the door as I did on that day, long ago, and I remember how you looked; dark hair falling in your face, eyes a little wild as you looked at me. Did you know why I was there, solemn, quiet? I think that you did, and that was why you looked so sad.

When we were children we used to run around your house and drive your brother mad. He always hated to be around me. He would tense up whenever Mother brought us over. He ignored my younger sister and he ran off with her, the one who bears the title of sister no longer.

Maybe they whispered of secret things in corners of their own, but you and I would play in the parlor and you would tell me how when we were older, you would marry me.

"I'll serve you wine in fancy glasses," you would say, and you would smile at me and drag out the fancy goblets with the beautiful, curling B etched in the glass.

At my wedding, your brother sent me nothing but his regrets and a card with a terse note of congratulations, but you toasted me and bought us a set of crystal glasses with an engraved L.