100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,625
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,625
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Too Much
Title: Too Much
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: T
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: None
Summary: #33 – Too Much. It had been too much for the both of them.
Word Count: 1,100 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. FEH universe.
Prompt 33 – Too Much
Ron Weasley tried not to spill his drink all over his nice dark blue suit as he wove through the group assembled in the small gallery space somewhere down a dark street in New York City. He could not see for all the cigarette smoke, the people, and the lack of light in the cellar-like space. There were lights pointed to the walls, upon the paintings all had assembled to see. The light was not bright, and some of the light actually came from the paintings people clustered around and gazed upon with awe.
Ron carried his drink over the heads of most of the indistinct figures until he slowly made his way to the crowning jewel of Pansy Parkinson’s show ‘At the End of the World.’ He knew he could find his lover speaking with her American friends and Wizarding art critics trying to get an edge on how Pansy managed to reveal painting after stupendous painting to the world.
Pansy stood next to her painting while feigning her smiles, as people seemed to crush in upon her petite form. Ron watched over the heads of most, waiting for the telltale sign that Pansy would need rescuing. The sign was very simple to Ron, having known her for years—the deep line between dark brows. When that line appeared, Ron knew that Pansy was about to lose her composure, and the last thing she needed was to have an episode before the critics.
“Can you tell us the Charm you used to have the faces of the Fates change with every viewer. As I look at it, I see the face of my mother, in three states in time as my version of the Fates…” one short, male American critic asked, his Muggle voice recorder moving toward Pansy.
The line appeared and Ron sighed, tipping his gin and tonic to spill down the back of the critic.
“I am so sorry!” Ron gushed, his deep voice booming over the sound of the conversations all around, startling everyone to silence. “Sir, perhaps if you will just head to the lavatories…” he began, but did not need to go further as the mortified critic quickly extracted himself from Pansy’s line of sight.
The other critics seemed to know that Ron’s ‘accidental’ spill meant the end of the evening’s questions to the artist, and dispersed.
Pansy leaned back into the wall next to her painting, her chin falling to her chest. Her short bobbed, ebony hair obscured her delicately made up mask of professionalism, and Ron knew that he needed to take his lovely Pansy home—soon.
Pansy wore a short black cocktail dress her arms bare, and as Ron Vanished the remains of his glass wandlessly, he took her into his arms.
“Too much, Ron, it is too much,” she whispered into his chest.
Ron knew she was not just meaning the gallery opening, but the paintings on the walls. They were Pansy’s paintings, but not her subjects. The painting before him was the vision Hermione Granger had had at the end of time, of the Fates, of Hermione’s journey. The other paintings were taken from Draco Malfoy, Charlie, and everyone living who had been near Harry Potter and his madness. Only Pansy and Ron knew the significance of Hermione’s vision at the end of time, and Draco’s vision of a future when humanity would be wheedled down to almost nothing.
Pansy was empathic, and to see the paintings together and feel the reaction of the viewer was too much for her. Other shows had been similar, but this show, chronicling the events of over a year before, in a place far removed from a trendy cellar gallery in New York City was taking a toll on Ron’s lover.
There was too much innocent wonderment where there should have been reverence and grief.
Pansy had listened to Hermione’s recounting when Hermione had lived in New York the year previous. Pansy had listened to Draco’s recounting at the wedding, as well as Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy’s recounting of the attack on Malfoy Manor. From all of those people, Pansy had painted as if possessed to give the last, dark time of Harry Potter’s existence a kinder, more artistic revue of what would bethe bluntness of history. However, as Ron slowly walked Pansy toward the exit of the gallery, fending off questions from Pansy’s ‘artsy’ friends, and richer admirers, Ron knew that Pansy needed to get away.
It was not just the crowd of people crushing in on her, it was not just their reactions, it was the lack of true perspective the viewers had.
Into the cool night air of the city, Ron held her trembling body tight against his even as she whispered to him.
“I cannot keep doing this—feeling this, Ron, it is too much.”
He kissed her forehead. Pansy was brilliant in every way and that was part of why he loved her. What was too much for her was the weight of her talent and the truth she saw through her eyes and wrought with her own hands.
Ron suggested that he take her home, but Pansy refused. He tilted her face to his in the darkness of a Soho alley, his thumb running between her brows to sooth away the line that had formed there.
“But with you, only with you at my side, it is never too much,” she whispered into his silk tie. “The truth is almost too much, but it must be borne by people like me who render it for all to see.”
Ron sighed and tried to smile so her dark eyes could see.
Ron was not an artist, he was a F.O.I.L. agent, and he saw the truth without the beautiful colours and delicate treatment. For Ron, the colourless, ugly truth was too much, but for Pansy who saw and felt everything with such deep empathy, he could only try to understand the depth of her inner torment though she be so far removed from the devastation his old friend had inflicted.
“What should we do, my dove? Go back in? Go home?”
Pansy’s arms snaked upward to wrap about his neck.
“I need to make this better, Ron, I need to make it right,” she whispered.
She kissed the end of his chin, the closest part of his face to her lips.
“I need to paint one last work, the last work that will set everything toward the truth of the lives of the ones we love…” she trailed.
Ron did not understand.
“I need to paint his death.”
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: T
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: None
Summary: #33 – Too Much. It had been too much for the both of them.
Word Count: 1,100 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. FEH universe.
Prompt 33 – Too Much
Ron Weasley tried not to spill his drink all over his nice dark blue suit as he wove through the group assembled in the small gallery space somewhere down a dark street in New York City. He could not see for all the cigarette smoke, the people, and the lack of light in the cellar-like space. There were lights pointed to the walls, upon the paintings all had assembled to see. The light was not bright, and some of the light actually came from the paintings people clustered around and gazed upon with awe.
Ron carried his drink over the heads of most of the indistinct figures until he slowly made his way to the crowning jewel of Pansy Parkinson’s show ‘At the End of the World.’ He knew he could find his lover speaking with her American friends and Wizarding art critics trying to get an edge on how Pansy managed to reveal painting after stupendous painting to the world.
Pansy stood next to her painting while feigning her smiles, as people seemed to crush in upon her petite form. Ron watched over the heads of most, waiting for the telltale sign that Pansy would need rescuing. The sign was very simple to Ron, having known her for years—the deep line between dark brows. When that line appeared, Ron knew that Pansy was about to lose her composure, and the last thing she needed was to have an episode before the critics.
“Can you tell us the Charm you used to have the faces of the Fates change with every viewer. As I look at it, I see the face of my mother, in three states in time as my version of the Fates…” one short, male American critic asked, his Muggle voice recorder moving toward Pansy.
The line appeared and Ron sighed, tipping his gin and tonic to spill down the back of the critic.
“I am so sorry!” Ron gushed, his deep voice booming over the sound of the conversations all around, startling everyone to silence. “Sir, perhaps if you will just head to the lavatories…” he began, but did not need to go further as the mortified critic quickly extracted himself from Pansy’s line of sight.
The other critics seemed to know that Ron’s ‘accidental’ spill meant the end of the evening’s questions to the artist, and dispersed.
Pansy leaned back into the wall next to her painting, her chin falling to her chest. Her short bobbed, ebony hair obscured her delicately made up mask of professionalism, and Ron knew that he needed to take his lovely Pansy home—soon.
Pansy wore a short black cocktail dress her arms bare, and as Ron Vanished the remains of his glass wandlessly, he took her into his arms.
“Too much, Ron, it is too much,” she whispered into his chest.
Ron knew she was not just meaning the gallery opening, but the paintings on the walls. They were Pansy’s paintings, but not her subjects. The painting before him was the vision Hermione Granger had had at the end of time, of the Fates, of Hermione’s journey. The other paintings were taken from Draco Malfoy, Charlie, and everyone living who had been near Harry Potter and his madness. Only Pansy and Ron knew the significance of Hermione’s vision at the end of time, and Draco’s vision of a future when humanity would be wheedled down to almost nothing.
Pansy was empathic, and to see the paintings together and feel the reaction of the viewer was too much for her. Other shows had been similar, but this show, chronicling the events of over a year before, in a place far removed from a trendy cellar gallery in New York City was taking a toll on Ron’s lover.
There was too much innocent wonderment where there should have been reverence and grief.
Pansy had listened to Hermione’s recounting when Hermione had lived in New York the year previous. Pansy had listened to Draco’s recounting at the wedding, as well as Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy’s recounting of the attack on Malfoy Manor. From all of those people, Pansy had painted as if possessed to give the last, dark time of Harry Potter’s existence a kinder, more artistic revue of what would bethe bluntness of history. However, as Ron slowly walked Pansy toward the exit of the gallery, fending off questions from Pansy’s ‘artsy’ friends, and richer admirers, Ron knew that Pansy needed to get away.
It was not just the crowd of people crushing in on her, it was not just their reactions, it was the lack of true perspective the viewers had.
Into the cool night air of the city, Ron held her trembling body tight against his even as she whispered to him.
“I cannot keep doing this—feeling this, Ron, it is too much.”
He kissed her forehead. Pansy was brilliant in every way and that was part of why he loved her. What was too much for her was the weight of her talent and the truth she saw through her eyes and wrought with her own hands.
Ron suggested that he take her home, but Pansy refused. He tilted her face to his in the darkness of a Soho alley, his thumb running between her brows to sooth away the line that had formed there.
“But with you, only with you at my side, it is never too much,” she whispered into his silk tie. “The truth is almost too much, but it must be borne by people like me who render it for all to see.”
Ron sighed and tried to smile so her dark eyes could see.
Ron was not an artist, he was a F.O.I.L. agent, and he saw the truth without the beautiful colours and delicate treatment. For Ron, the colourless, ugly truth was too much, but for Pansy who saw and felt everything with such deep empathy, he could only try to understand the depth of her inner torment though she be so far removed from the devastation his old friend had inflicted.
“What should we do, my dove? Go back in? Go home?”
Pansy’s arms snaked upward to wrap about his neck.
“I need to make this better, Ron, I need to make it right,” she whispered.
She kissed the end of his chin, the closest part of his face to her lips.
“I need to paint one last work, the last work that will set everything toward the truth of the lives of the ones we love…” she trailed.
Ron did not understand.
“I need to paint his death.”