The world felt ephemeral and disjointed. His senses were expanded beyond human measure, but at the same time they were as limited as they could be. He felt like floating in a numinous darkness that was incandescent in its purity. Death was not a new concept for him. He had been here before in this land of juxtaposing ends, of contradicting truths. And then his eyes opened, and he could see the extremely sharp image of the punished restaurant he had been in minutes before.
Was he going to be denied the final rest again? Did his transgression against the natural order so many years ago damage something fundamental within him? Was the veil turned to stone in his presence?
No one was standing near him. A line of law enforcement members stood between his body and the rest of the dinners still capable of standing. He recognized Bonny's hair amongst them and he was glad at least his friend had managed to get here. He felt less alone in this final moments.
The clouds moved, and a lance of starlight speared down, glancing a shield of a silver purer than its own. His eyes were draw to it instinctively; they've always been drawn to metallic glints. First it was his quiddith honed reactions, seeking the wining gold, and then it had been the unalloyed silver of the strings that bound his heart.
Weak as he was -If he was honest, he'd say he was half petrified- it was a slog to turn to the magnetic sight, and as his eyes got closer it became even more difficult, but not because of tiredness, but because of fear.
Metallic ringlets shone as mountain ridges on a sea of blood.
A lone tear snuck down his face, no longer capable even of the creases that would denote his pain, for no expression would ever be sufficient to convey such.
Lids fell shut, the image before becoming too much. He only could hope the cruel reaper would not jilt him again; he had a promise to keep.
Harry Potter died the 31st of October of 2007 clinging to the hand of his wife where she laid next to him, and since that day he had seen nothing but silver. The world that was open to him now only held the faint colour the moon could give it, and the shades of red his insatiable longing for the heat of life brought. The world had changed immensely around him the last 300 years, but he stood still and unchangeable like a mountain, frozen in time. He had not moved a second past the agony of the moment his heart had stopped beating.
Devoid of life, he ambled through a world he no longer understood, clinging to the shadows that were as immutable as he was. He no longer had a people, for his creator was unknown, and he presumed him destroyed; the rest of his kin meant nothing to him, and so he avoided them. The humans meant even less, and he only neared small towns that would have rivalled the biggest cities from his time when he needed to feed.
The hole his soul left behind trembled at the thought. It had been longer than most times.
He neared the neon lit wall that surrounded the outer ring of the city, the unnatural light meshing with his aberrant substance, hiding him from the sight of those that were to him as fugacious as the leaves of autumn. Others of his kind loved the hunt, they felt a thrill that brought to life the dead parts of them that they could still remember, some revelled in the life that coursed momentarily through their accursed veins, some disguised themselves as the very prey they consumed, stealing shreds of faked humanity from their contrived interactions before they stole the humanity of them to feed the monster that laid beneath. The sons of the night were dangerous creatures. Thirsting desperately on anything that would make them feel a modicum of fire and blood. But all the parts of Harry Potter that could crave life had died for a second time moments before the night claimed him on the third failed try to extinguish his soul.
He moved through the heavily fortified door on the massive wall, creatures with flesh of metal and thunder for blood whirling around, lights and artificial sensors completely ignoring his cold, gliding corpse. He never put though to what he would consume, it was a mere mechanical process for him. He would bite on the first alive thing that crossed his path.
Well, he thought as a golden red cow ran from one side of the road to the other, the first human that crossed his path. Cows did not tend to be far away from a farm though, and so he turned to follow in the wake of the animal.
The farm was mostly automated, as they all were; the livestock prancing around the different levels of artificial pasture that were available to them. It was ironic now that cows lived better than most humans on the megalopolis did 300 years ago. If he had been one of those that enjoyed the blood for more than sustenance, he would have bemoaned that cows were not appropriate for a vampires’ diet. They would certainly have better quality than your average low-life.
There.
The magnetic pull of the vital essence of humanity called to him. He looked up towards one of the middling floors some 100 meters up, there was a human there.
Getting up there took him no time at all, and as he got close, he could hear her too; it was a woman. She wore the typical farm worker uniform, a sturdy overall and a cap. She stood next to a bovine that was twice as tall as her, a rosy hand roving over the forelegs of it with some tool as the animal feed on the almost fluorescent grass. Unnerved by the wicked miasma that clung to him the cow lifted its head, giant, round, brown eyes locked directly where he was, but not focusing on him.
It could, of course, not see him.
“Who are you? How did you get here?”
Immortal eyes moved towards the woman and froze. The cow had knocked the cap of her with its snout, and the radiance of a thousand suns sheered him. He felt like his veins throbbed, like his hear beat, like the air around him held his life and he was suffocating, not managing to get enough. He breathed in, his body near crumbling at the effort, and her essence was fire and life made substance.
It could not be.
“Did you hear me? I demand you answer. How did you get here,” She lifted her tool as if preparing to strike.
“You can see me.”
“Great,” She said, “Another psyco. Just great. I’m gonna kill Charlie, every single time I take his night shift this happens. Listen, mate, you can fuck right off or I can cave your head in with this hand scanner. Your choice.”
Harry did not move, as pertained the unnatural stillness that was usual for nightwalkers. But then he took a glance and his legs failed him, his knees hit the floor. Those eyes. What lay behind them, within them.
“It’s you,” he whispered, a lone tear falling down his petrified face, leaving a trace of red.
It was then that he remembered, his promised had not been one-sided, and Fleur Delacour always kept her promises. He felt then the rush of life he though was lost to him for eternity
What was death -or even undeath- on the face of his stubborn veela.
Post-Drabble-Script. I like to think this reincarnated Fleur is not a veela, but it is only by reason of his attachement to her soul that he sees her in such a ethereal way. She is the one thing that makes his dead body feel alive in undeath