100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,667
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,667
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.
Shade
Title: Shade
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: #75 – Shade. Her shade pinned him in place.
Word Count: 1,105 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words.
Prompt 75 – Shade
Piazza San Marco was always crowded with tourists, that was a given in Venice, but Hermione Granger tried hard to appear that she was a tourist…she was not of course, having come to study the Wizarding aspect of the Doge’s Palace nearby. With the permission of the Italian Ministry of Magic, she was allowed to study the extensive portrait gallery deep in the damp bowels of the palace as it barely clung to a sandbar of the river delta that was Venice.
It was autumn, but still the air was heavy with humidity, and Hermione considered stopping from her sojourn between tourists for something cool to drink, to find shade. It was as she passed the famous Caffé Florian that she did stop, not because she had found the outdoor tables and chairs cool in the shade of an awning, but because of a person she noticed sitting with a book in hand, smoking a black rolled cigarette, reaching for a small cup of espresso.
Stepping into the shade, Hermione was immediately approached by a waiter, who after looking her fashionable clothing up and down, seated her two tables away from the man she could not stop staring at. Hermione Granger, age thirty-one, was dressed in a Versace dress, blue patterned with lotus blossoms of pink, Gucci heels, and matching dark blue handbag, was a vision of haute couture. Her long caramel curls were pinned from her face, her conservative makeup strategically placed. She was a professional, a historian, and had approximately half an hour to meet with her contact in the Palazzo.
She ordered a bottle of water and mint ‘granita’ barely moving her eyes to the waiter who commented on how warm it was even in October.
The man two tables away was oblivious to her blatant stare and narrowed eye scrutiny, but continued reading ‘Crime and Punishment’ in its original language, occasionally leaving his cigarette in the ashtray to lift his drink to his lips. Grey eyes moved over the words slowly, and at times his lips would move to silently incant the Russian words. From time to time, a breeze would blow from the Grand Canal, and long strands of honey coloured hair would fall into his face…long fingers would brush them from his eyes.
When the mint ‘granita’ came, Hermione ate slowly, barely relishing the cool taste of ice and mint. Hermione was too consumed with the fact that man she watched had been dead for years…then again, the man could just have a shocking resemblance to that boy, and nothing more. There was only one way to find out, she supposed, and slowly she rose from her seat and walked to stand just next to the handsome man, who looked to be in his early thirties.
He had not noticed her at first, until he moved to turn the page of the book.
“Is there something the matter, miss?”
He was British, that much was certain, and his voice…was deeper, but still one she knew she would never forget. He studied her face, her clothes, and slowly she could see his eyes change…darken.
“I’m sorry to come up to you like this, sir, but you resemble someone I knew years ago…”
His slips tightened, and he shut the book, placing it on the tabletop. “I very much doubt that, miss…”
“Granger, Hermione Granger.”
Hermione was not so out of practice to be able to see well disguised panic in someone’s face. She was not an Auror any longer, but when she was…she was a damn good Auror.
“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but I think you are mistaken….now if you’ll excuse me…”
He threw down twenty Euro and snatched up his book and pack of cigarettes before rising…away from Hermione. Hermione bit her lower lip, and moving as quickly as she could, tossed fifty Euro on her table and took off into the sunlight after the man.
It was impossible, utterly, completely impossible that she would find a dead man sitting at Caffé Florian, having a late afternoon espresso. All the same, she wove through the crowds of tourists, her eyes locked upon the handsome honey coloured locks…the black sports coat over a loose dress shirt, black trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes.
He moved toward the Basilica, and once he slipped inside, Hermione decided to run. It did not matter that she only had twenty minutes to meet with her contact…she had to know.
As she entered, her eyes scanned the dim light inside the Basilica, slowly adjusting. When she finally found him in the left transept, in St. Peter’s chapel, he was staring at vaulted and golden ceiling. She moved quietly until she stood just at his right. There were almost no tourists about, and she ventured a whisper.
“Cedric…”
His reaction was violent, and he jumped away, nearly jumping into a pillar. His book fell from his hand, the paper slapping against the stone floor, causing an echo. No one seemed to pay any mind.
“I saw you dead, myself, over fifteen years ago. And yet, here you are…” Hermione whispered, turning toward him.
Cedric, having recovered from his fright, picked his book up and straightened his jacket.
“You are mistaken…Cedric Diggory is dead. How can I be him?”
He turned to walk out of the small chapel, but Hermione moved, gliding soundlessly over the floor to block his exit. She had never mentioned Cedric’s last name.
“How indeed? What is truth and what is lie, Diggory? I am not going to leave your side until I know.”
He grinned, his grey eyes flashing in the light of the many candles lighting the chapel. “Then you had better keep up, Miss Granger, because until you can pin me down, curse me with that bit of wood hidden in your pocket…expose yourself to all these Muggles, you will hear nothing from me,” he growled, his angelic face melting into the like the demonic representations of Satan in the paintings and mosaics of the Basilica.
Hermione narrowed her eyes…and gave the thirty-three year old wizard the smile that chilled her best friends Harry and Ron to the bone. Hermione Granger was not a witch to be underestimated…especially not underestimated by a dead man.
“Oh, pinning you down will not be a problem, Mr. Diggory,” she whispered in the shade of the arch of the barrel vault…the cool sanctity and faint odor of dank crypt reminding her of a time in her life when shadow and shade had been her medium.
Cedric Diggory’s face melted again into a visage of that of a man trapped in Hermione Granger’s frightening shade.
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: #75 – Shade. Her shade pinned him in place.
Word Count: 1,105 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words.
Prompt 75 – Shade
Piazza San Marco was always crowded with tourists, that was a given in Venice, but Hermione Granger tried hard to appear that she was a tourist…she was not of course, having come to study the Wizarding aspect of the Doge’s Palace nearby. With the permission of the Italian Ministry of Magic, she was allowed to study the extensive portrait gallery deep in the damp bowels of the palace as it barely clung to a sandbar of the river delta that was Venice.
It was autumn, but still the air was heavy with humidity, and Hermione considered stopping from her sojourn between tourists for something cool to drink, to find shade. It was as she passed the famous Caffé Florian that she did stop, not because she had found the outdoor tables and chairs cool in the shade of an awning, but because of a person she noticed sitting with a book in hand, smoking a black rolled cigarette, reaching for a small cup of espresso.
Stepping into the shade, Hermione was immediately approached by a waiter, who after looking her fashionable clothing up and down, seated her two tables away from the man she could not stop staring at. Hermione Granger, age thirty-one, was dressed in a Versace dress, blue patterned with lotus blossoms of pink, Gucci heels, and matching dark blue handbag, was a vision of haute couture. Her long caramel curls were pinned from her face, her conservative makeup strategically placed. She was a professional, a historian, and had approximately half an hour to meet with her contact in the Palazzo.
She ordered a bottle of water and mint ‘granita’ barely moving her eyes to the waiter who commented on how warm it was even in October.
The man two tables away was oblivious to her blatant stare and narrowed eye scrutiny, but continued reading ‘Crime and Punishment’ in its original language, occasionally leaving his cigarette in the ashtray to lift his drink to his lips. Grey eyes moved over the words slowly, and at times his lips would move to silently incant the Russian words. From time to time, a breeze would blow from the Grand Canal, and long strands of honey coloured hair would fall into his face…long fingers would brush them from his eyes.
When the mint ‘granita’ came, Hermione ate slowly, barely relishing the cool taste of ice and mint. Hermione was too consumed with the fact that man she watched had been dead for years…then again, the man could just have a shocking resemblance to that boy, and nothing more. There was only one way to find out, she supposed, and slowly she rose from her seat and walked to stand just next to the handsome man, who looked to be in his early thirties.
He had not noticed her at first, until he moved to turn the page of the book.
“Is there something the matter, miss?”
He was British, that much was certain, and his voice…was deeper, but still one she knew she would never forget. He studied her face, her clothes, and slowly she could see his eyes change…darken.
“I’m sorry to come up to you like this, sir, but you resemble someone I knew years ago…”
His slips tightened, and he shut the book, placing it on the tabletop. “I very much doubt that, miss…”
“Granger, Hermione Granger.”
Hermione was not so out of practice to be able to see well disguised panic in someone’s face. She was not an Auror any longer, but when she was…she was a damn good Auror.
“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but I think you are mistaken….now if you’ll excuse me…”
He threw down twenty Euro and snatched up his book and pack of cigarettes before rising…away from Hermione. Hermione bit her lower lip, and moving as quickly as she could, tossed fifty Euro on her table and took off into the sunlight after the man.
It was impossible, utterly, completely impossible that she would find a dead man sitting at Caffé Florian, having a late afternoon espresso. All the same, she wove through the crowds of tourists, her eyes locked upon the handsome honey coloured locks…the black sports coat over a loose dress shirt, black trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes.
He moved toward the Basilica, and once he slipped inside, Hermione decided to run. It did not matter that she only had twenty minutes to meet with her contact…she had to know.
As she entered, her eyes scanned the dim light inside the Basilica, slowly adjusting. When she finally found him in the left transept, in St. Peter’s chapel, he was staring at vaulted and golden ceiling. She moved quietly until she stood just at his right. There were almost no tourists about, and she ventured a whisper.
“Cedric…”
His reaction was violent, and he jumped away, nearly jumping into a pillar. His book fell from his hand, the paper slapping against the stone floor, causing an echo. No one seemed to pay any mind.
“I saw you dead, myself, over fifteen years ago. And yet, here you are…” Hermione whispered, turning toward him.
Cedric, having recovered from his fright, picked his book up and straightened his jacket.
“You are mistaken…Cedric Diggory is dead. How can I be him?”
He turned to walk out of the small chapel, but Hermione moved, gliding soundlessly over the floor to block his exit. She had never mentioned Cedric’s last name.
“How indeed? What is truth and what is lie, Diggory? I am not going to leave your side until I know.”
He grinned, his grey eyes flashing in the light of the many candles lighting the chapel. “Then you had better keep up, Miss Granger, because until you can pin me down, curse me with that bit of wood hidden in your pocket…expose yourself to all these Muggles, you will hear nothing from me,” he growled, his angelic face melting into the like the demonic representations of Satan in the paintings and mosaics of the Basilica.
Hermione narrowed her eyes…and gave the thirty-three year old wizard the smile that chilled her best friends Harry and Ron to the bone. Hermione Granger was not a witch to be underestimated…especially not underestimated by a dead man.
“Oh, pinning you down will not be a problem, Mr. Diggory,” she whispered in the shade of the arch of the barrel vault…the cool sanctity and faint odor of dank crypt reminding her of a time in her life when shadow and shade had been her medium.
Cedric Diggory’s face melted again into a visage of that of a man trapped in Hermione Granger’s frightening shade.