100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,668
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,668
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.
Grief
Title: Grief
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: #76 – Grief. Grief turned to terror, and he wondered if she had the ‘seeing eye.’
Word Count: 701 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. A companion piece to #33 – Too Much. Part of the FEH Universe.
Prompt 76 – Grief
Ron found her side of the bed cold, and with a sigh, he sat up, glancing to her Muggle digital clock, the red numbers reading four in the morning. Rubbing the lingering traces of sleep from his blue eyes, he threw back the sheets and arose from bed.
Peering down into the studio, he found her sitting with a blankets wrapped about her shoulders, staring at her latest painting, the distant lights of the East Side across the park making her paler than usual, and her bobbed ebony hair gleam. Padding down the steps, Ron shivered, dressed in only a pair of boxer shorts. She had turned the thermostat down again, and snow was beginning to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows to the New York street below.
“I’m finished,” she whispered, as Ron came to stand behind her, rubbing his bare arms briskly.
Ron said nothing, but glanced up to the large canvas on the easel, his teeth chattering—cold and in shock.
The paint on the canvas barely moved, but as it did, so did the painted representation of the body hanging upside down from a gnarled yew tree with a silhouetted chapel behind it.
Ron had seen the Pensieve records, from his old friend’s mind, and that of Draco Malfoy, the two people who had witnessed the scene. Pansy had captured the blood, the cataracts over once brilliant emerald eyes, and the rigor of death far too accurately for Ron’s taste. It had been two years since the night he carried Hermione Granger into Hogwarts and listened to her words.
‘I killed him…’
Pansy made a soft noise and Ron’s attention fell to her again. Crouching behind her, he wrapped his thick arms about her, pulling Pansy against him and relishing her warmth.
“It is a relief to finish,” she whispered between sobs, “But Ron…”
“I know, Pans…”
She twisted against him and together they huddled on the paint-strewn floor, wrapping their arms about each other in a fierce embrace.
Pansy’s tears wet his bare shoulder, and the heat sufficed him and washed through him. Ron knew that Pansy had taken so much upon herself by painting the story of their friends—alive and dead. Now, it was over.
“Hermione and Draco can never see this painting,” Pansy whispered into the side of his neck.
Ron understood.
“It is going to get so much worse now, Ron.”
He stiffened and pulled back slightly to look down into her dark blue eyes.
“What do you mean, Pans?”
Pansy’s eyes were distant, much as they were when she was in the midst of painting. Ron had always wondered about his fiancé, if she had a bit of the ‘seeing eye’ in her. Her intuitions were usually correct, when she shared them.
She pulled away and stood, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to puddle on his lap. Pansy was only in her knickers, and Ron wondered if she were as cold as he was. However, she moved to the far wall were several large canvases rested below the mural she had painted on the stone wall several weeks ago of a starry sky. Pulling a large canvas from the bunch, one that was as tall as she was and nearly as wide, Pansy turned it to Ron.
It was a forest fire, or so Ron thought at first, but as he narrowed his eyes, he could see figures moving before the fire, shadows. Figures of centaurs and other creatures ran and darted about the foreground, and standing like two statues in the centre of it all, were their friends.
Standing back-to-back, wands drawn, a pale haired man and a golden haired woman faced the fire and a darkness moving in the forest. Fear coursed through Ron for a moment, a fear that reminded him of the something from a nightmare—terror. It was unexplainable, but Ron felt it clench his heart. Then, he exhaled, and the terror was gone.
Pansy’s tears were renewed, making her cheeks sparkling in the ambient city light reflecting on the underside of the snow laden clouds overhead.
“What is this?” Ron asked in a whisper, still crouching on the floor.
“What is to come…”
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: #76 – Grief. Grief turned to terror, and he wondered if she had the ‘seeing eye.’
Word Count: 701 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words. A companion piece to #33 – Too Much. Part of the FEH Universe.
Prompt 76 – Grief
Ron found her side of the bed cold, and with a sigh, he sat up, glancing to her Muggle digital clock, the red numbers reading four in the morning. Rubbing the lingering traces of sleep from his blue eyes, he threw back the sheets and arose from bed.
Peering down into the studio, he found her sitting with a blankets wrapped about her shoulders, staring at her latest painting, the distant lights of the East Side across the park making her paler than usual, and her bobbed ebony hair gleam. Padding down the steps, Ron shivered, dressed in only a pair of boxer shorts. She had turned the thermostat down again, and snow was beginning to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows to the New York street below.
“I’m finished,” she whispered, as Ron came to stand behind her, rubbing his bare arms briskly.
Ron said nothing, but glanced up to the large canvas on the easel, his teeth chattering—cold and in shock.
The paint on the canvas barely moved, but as it did, so did the painted representation of the body hanging upside down from a gnarled yew tree with a silhouetted chapel behind it.
Ron had seen the Pensieve records, from his old friend’s mind, and that of Draco Malfoy, the two people who had witnessed the scene. Pansy had captured the blood, the cataracts over once brilliant emerald eyes, and the rigor of death far too accurately for Ron’s taste. It had been two years since the night he carried Hermione Granger into Hogwarts and listened to her words.
‘I killed him…’
Pansy made a soft noise and Ron’s attention fell to her again. Crouching behind her, he wrapped his thick arms about her, pulling Pansy against him and relishing her warmth.
“It is a relief to finish,” she whispered between sobs, “But Ron…”
“I know, Pans…”
She twisted against him and together they huddled on the paint-strewn floor, wrapping their arms about each other in a fierce embrace.
Pansy’s tears wet his bare shoulder, and the heat sufficed him and washed through him. Ron knew that Pansy had taken so much upon herself by painting the story of their friends—alive and dead. Now, it was over.
“Hermione and Draco can never see this painting,” Pansy whispered into the side of his neck.
Ron understood.
“It is going to get so much worse now, Ron.”
He stiffened and pulled back slightly to look down into her dark blue eyes.
“What do you mean, Pans?”
Pansy’s eyes were distant, much as they were when she was in the midst of painting. Ron had always wondered about his fiancé, if she had a bit of the ‘seeing eye’ in her. Her intuitions were usually correct, when she shared them.
She pulled away and stood, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to puddle on his lap. Pansy was only in her knickers, and Ron wondered if she were as cold as he was. However, she moved to the far wall were several large canvases rested below the mural she had painted on the stone wall several weeks ago of a starry sky. Pulling a large canvas from the bunch, one that was as tall as she was and nearly as wide, Pansy turned it to Ron.
It was a forest fire, or so Ron thought at first, but as he narrowed his eyes, he could see figures moving before the fire, shadows. Figures of centaurs and other creatures ran and darted about the foreground, and standing like two statues in the centre of it all, were their friends.
Standing back-to-back, wands drawn, a pale haired man and a golden haired woman faced the fire and a darkness moving in the forest. Fear coursed through Ron for a moment, a fear that reminded him of the something from a nightmare—terror. It was unexplainable, but Ron felt it clench his heart. Then, he exhaled, and the terror was gone.
Pansy’s tears were renewed, making her cheeks sparkling in the ambient city light reflecting on the underside of the snow laden clouds overhead.
“What is this?” Ron asked in a whisper, still crouching on the floor.
“What is to come…”