Pink Green Blue

The Two-Step of Death by Hourglass winnerLady_Game

Rating: PG-13. Created: April 19th, 2006. Updated: April 19th, 2006. Read Reviews (32)
Disclaimer: Characters, the magical world, etc, is property of J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros, not the owner of this fic.

The Two-Step of Death


4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Clean and spotless as always. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck of dust to be found on any surface.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
It is jarring, then, to find a woman lying in a pool of red in the upstairs bathtub. Disturbing, to see the blood protection of the Boy-Who-Lived slowly and very literally drip down the bathroom drain.
Petunia Dursley spent half her life running from her sister’s world. What was unfortunate for Petunia was that the Wizarding world had reasons to run after her.


These are his last six photos, all taken on one night:

Ginny is giggling while a lipstick-covered Harry looks around sheepishly.
Ron and Draco are in a fist fight. Hermione's trying to break them up, the twins are taking bets, and Remus is laughing behind his hand.
Luna is staring out the window under the (supposedly) Nargle-infested mistletoe in silent contemplation, blissfully unaware of Neville standing nervously behind her.
The mood changes
Everyone in the house is scrambling around, looking for a fireplace.
Death Eaters are pouring in from the broken down door.
Nothing. Just a solid rectangle of green.


The Auror moves her wand deftly, quickly, skillfully, her long black hair flying everywhere. She eliminates Death Eater after Death Eater - four, five, six, seven, they fall in rapid succession to her curses.
But her heart skips a beat as she suddenly finds herself looking up at You-Know-Who.
A vision surfaces from her memory, of laughing and dancing under the stars in the Great Hall, of warm grey eyes grown blank and cold...
Her curses fly furiously at Voldemort, faster and faster, but she has no chance.
And Cho Chang falls to the ground, her long black hair flying everywhere.


You push Harry into the fireplace and watch him disappear, safe in the knowledge that while James didn't trust you, his son does. And that trust is worth dying for.
And die you shall, for you've betrayed that trust. You're not following Harry like you said, because the Floo powder's run out. You're trapped. And for the first time in your life, even the wolf inside you is afraid.
Voldemort sees the fading flames first. Then he sees your lonely, tired figure beside the fireplace. His face contorted with rage, he fires his spell before you can say a word.


The recipe for desperation:

Three true friends providing
seven years of ridicule.
Four months fighting the Dark
and losing.
A hook-nosed snake with
a tempting proposition.
One chance to prove you're not as useless as they think.
One orphaned boy.
Thirteen dead Muggles and one rabid dog
and veiled.
Four years surviving a second war
One wolf dead
protecting a friend.

Season with three dead Marauders
And the knowledge
That you should have
Could have
Been brave.
Like them.

Stir and serve as a failed curse against an invincible madman.
The dish should resemble a dead rat.



No one has ever practiced vigilance more constantly than he has. He trusts no one unless they can prove themselves to him. He likes his magical eye, because it means he can look over his shoulder without even having to turn his head.
And as much as everyone may ridicule his paranoia, his vigilance, it is what has kept him alive. Because the one night he is so tired he forgets to look through a closed door before he opens it, he meets the Dark Lord for the second time. And this time he loses much more than his eye.


She stands alone in the dark of night, slivers of moonlight catching her fiery hair, her wand pointed firmly at the door in front of her.
Like another red head before her, twenty years ago, she waits for evil to ascend the staircase of her house.
Like that red head before her, she will stand her ground.
Like that red head before her, she will do it for the love of one Harry James Potter.
And like that red head before her, they will find her lifeless body in the rubble of her house the next morning, faintly glowing green.


Most Muggle myths have a basis in the Wizarding world. The one about a feline's extended lifespan is no exception.
She forfeited two as a teenager; one in a fall and the second when she snorted too much powdered Groseleaf.
Three to six were lost during the First War, to Death Eaters and, accidentally, Dedalus Diggle.
In the Second War, number seven went up in a blaze defending Hogwarts, eight when they cornered her at Hogsmeade. She wanted the last to be given to old age, but it was stolen from her by evil red eyes and a malicious laugh.


When he started spying, Harry passed Dumbledore's wisdom onto him: There are things worse than death. Over the past few painful weeks he's learnt it's true. Things like colour clashes. Blood and blonde really don't mix well. The red is too warm and sticky for the pale yellow of his hair.
However, knowing there are things worse than death doesn't stop him from dying anyway. Draco would laugh if he could see himself now, broken bloody body sprawled on the cold stone floor. Because while his heart was always silver and green, his head is streaked with red and gold.


He's weary. This will be his last effort.
He forces Priori Incantatem, greets the ghosts, discards his wand, pulls Ginny's out of his pocket. Voldemort's victims sacrifice themselves as shields - Malfoy absorbs a Reducto, McGonagall vanishes with a Crucio. Ginny smiles transparently and blocks a Killing Curse.
He has only this window of opportunity to finish it. The ghosts will fade.
And when they do - the Dark Lord still stands there. Harry couldn't do it. Now there are no mothers to die for him, no dead friends to protect him.
And like so many others before him, the Boy-Who-Lived...


He stands there, staring in disbelief at the items at his feet. A cracked ring. A broken cup. A scorched, bronze, claw-shaped paperweight. The head of a snake. The mangled pages of a diary. A locket, broken open. And for the first time, something like fear glints in his red eyes.
With trembling hands, Hermione pulls out one last surprise. She's altered it magically, but its basic function and purpose has remained the same.
She flicks off the safety, takes careful aim, and pulls the trigger. One cursed bullet flies through the air, followed by two whispered words.
Avada Kedavra.

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