Work Text:
Edgar Bones dies one hundred and fifty seven seconds before his attackers turn the Killing Curse on him.
His heart still beats, for the moment. Air still circulates through his lungs. A few stray, stubborn synapses still fire through his brain. But they find no purchase, no point of connection. Edgar Bones – the brilliant researcher whose sense of humor and consideration for his coworkers brightened even the most shadowed corners of the Department of Mysteries, the activist whose outspoken defense of Muggle and Muggleborn rights made his more rule-bound siblings react with equal measures of panic and pride, the devoted family man – is gone. His spirit has fled, unable to cope with the slaughter surrounding him. Or perhaps it lies pooled on the ground, mingled with his wife’s cooling blood. It makes no difference. Edgar’s husk is no longer concerned with such metaphysical puzzles.
This is not his first murder scene, not even the first time he has been forced to confront the swift and brutal removal of loved ones from his life. But standing over the corpses of his parents, he felt only contempt for the implicit warning, only resolve that the sacrifice be worth something. Now, though…what purpose is there in fighting for a future that no longer holds meaning?
The Death Eaters, who up to this point have been preoccupied with their own questions, are beginning to realize no answers will be forthcoming. Stray murmurs of “…useless” and “How many times…leverage?” bounce through the air and into Edgar’s ears, devoid of sense.
One breaks apart from the pack and trains his wand at Edgar’s temple. “No father should outlive his children,” he says.
The cloak and mask do nothing to hide Lucius Malfoy’s long, pale hair or the familiar sneer in his voice, but there is an odd softness to the words that almost resembles compassion. Perhaps it is: Edgar’s little girl is - was - not much older than the infant slumbering peacefully back in Wiltshire.
Edgar’s body stiffens abruptly, snapping his head to a state resembling attention. His sightless eyes revolve in their sockets, lining up with the slits of Malfoy’s mask. His mouth creaks open, and the ghost of Edgar Bones issues its last, hollow pronouncement. “No father does.”
Lucius may or may not be thinking of Draco as he casts the spell that sends the remnants of Edgar Bones off to join his family. But years later, as he huddles in his cell in Azkaban, awaiting news of how his son will be made to answer for his failures, it is not the memory of Voldemort that haunts him.