#37. No love no glory, No hero in her sky
Title: No Love, No Glory, No Hero in Her Sky
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Possibly Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It's definitely a post story in any case.
Characters: Parvati Patil. Mentions of Padma Patil, Dean Thomas and Draco Malfoy.
Pairing(s): Implied Draco Malfoy & Parvati Patil. At least, in my head it is, I swear.
Author's Note: The story sort of wiggled away from me the more I wrote. And I mean really wriggled. Sadly, this isn't particularly how I picture Parvati either. Oi. Is that a good thing to admit?
Prompt: #37 No love no glory, No hero in her sky. 1 down, 24 (49?!) more to go before December 31st...)
The sky was different somehow. The daytime skies were much the same--myriad succession of colors as the day deepened into twilight before settling at long last into darkness.
It was twilight now and she could only see the world in silver. Gone were the streaks of red and yellow on her day lit horizons. Ironic, is what her sister might've said and she would have been inclined to agree if they hadn't been of two separate minds on the subject of silver skies at twilight and the flashes that washed the room in green bright enough to rouse from sleep. Their faces might be a reflection of the other but in the end it never fails to amaze her that they stand so divided.
Lately window-gazing won over the impenetrable depths of her crystal balls which lay scattered at her painted feet. Smoke in the crystal no more answered her questions about love and life than the window, but at least she could watch the sky.
Time however was still set aside for the gentle press of rouge red to her lips, blush now dabbed upon her cheeks what with no one to goad them into blossoming with color. With frequency she noticed the sweep of gold was often mixed with a touch of viridian above her eyes.
She liked that word, viridian, because it reminded people that her sister wasn't the only one who knew large and little used vocabulary. The artist in their House had once been shocked silent by this admission when she happened upon him painting a landscape.
They thought she didn't know what they thought and sometimes she wished they would give her a little bit more credit.
She knew there was more to life than bangles and bindis, lipsticks and lace, perfumes and powders. She knew this and she also knew that it didn't hurt to make use of them either. Being pretty was an idle hobby but making herself beautiful was a cultivated art form.
(This was one point the artist hadn't understood when she attempted to broach the subject again on another day when green swept across his canvas. Her sister did not or would not understand the virtues of enhancement and the only one who ever had was the one who had inspired her position at the window, painted fingertips tracing constellations against the glass as she watches the silver begin to sink.)
This was why she continued to comb her long hair one hundred times before fastening it everyday with a different bit of gold, and rarer, trinkets of silver. Those too were usually the days when her beloved viridian was carefully swept upon her closed eyelids.
Yes, green, green like England after the rain, is what she would answer when questioned, which wasn't often now that they had acknowledged their differences of opinions and were of one mind when it came to discussing them no further.
Silver was the sky as it melted into darkness. It was harder at this time to remember when she searched the skies in memory of golden days, of raucous cheering, of heart-thumping glory and triumph felt at the matches she best loved watching. Her imagination was not so strong as most commonly thought; she could not quite convince herself that this bird today was to play the part of the hero, the other the not so beloved underdog as she followed their tumbling free-wheeling with her eyes until one swept away with the prize in their beaks because at the end of the day, birds do not have hands.
Darkness was sinking about her now, not unlike the folds of her scarlet sari which she wound about her every morning as she dressed. Still she persisted, here at the window, eyes on the sky, straining to see what frightened so many. When green wriggled and wrestled its way into the night she found a quiet solstice in the thought that maybe somewhere, some place he had been the one to put it there.
Green, after all, bears the markings of life.
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Possibly Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It's definitely a post story in any case.
Characters: Parvati Patil. Mentions of Padma Patil, Dean Thomas and Draco Malfoy.
Pairing(s): Implied Draco Malfoy & Parvati Patil. At least, in my head it is, I swear.
Author's Note: The story sort of wiggled away from me the more I wrote. And I mean really wriggled. Sadly, this isn't particularly how I picture Parvati either. Oi. Is that a good thing to admit?
Prompt: #37 No love no glory, No hero in her sky. 1 down, 24 (49?!) more to go before December 31st...)
The sky was different somehow. The daytime skies were much the same--myriad succession of colors as the day deepened into twilight before settling at long last into darkness.
It was twilight now and she could only see the world in silver. Gone were the streaks of red and yellow on her day lit horizons. Ironic, is what her sister might've said and she would have been inclined to agree if they hadn't been of two separate minds on the subject of silver skies at twilight and the flashes that washed the room in green bright enough to rouse from sleep. Their faces might be a reflection of the other but in the end it never fails to amaze her that they stand so divided.
Lately window-gazing won over the impenetrable depths of her crystal balls which lay scattered at her painted feet. Smoke in the crystal no more answered her questions about love and life than the window, but at least she could watch the sky.
Time however was still set aside for the gentle press of rouge red to her lips, blush now dabbed upon her cheeks what with no one to goad them into blossoming with color. With frequency she noticed the sweep of gold was often mixed with a touch of viridian above her eyes.
She liked that word, viridian, because it reminded people that her sister wasn't the only one who knew large and little used vocabulary. The artist in their House had once been shocked silent by this admission when she happened upon him painting a landscape.
They thought she didn't know what they thought and sometimes she wished they would give her a little bit more credit.
She knew there was more to life than bangles and bindis, lipsticks and lace, perfumes and powders. She knew this and she also knew that it didn't hurt to make use of them either. Being pretty was an idle hobby but making herself beautiful was a cultivated art form.
(This was one point the artist hadn't understood when she attempted to broach the subject again on another day when green swept across his canvas. Her sister did not or would not understand the virtues of enhancement and the only one who ever had was the one who had inspired her position at the window, painted fingertips tracing constellations against the glass as she watches the silver begin to sink.)
This was why she continued to comb her long hair one hundred times before fastening it everyday with a different bit of gold, and rarer, trinkets of silver. Those too were usually the days when her beloved viridian was carefully swept upon her closed eyelids.
Yes, green, green like England after the rain, is what she would answer when questioned, which wasn't often now that they had acknowledged their differences of opinions and were of one mind when it came to discussing them no further.
Silver was the sky as it melted into darkness. It was harder at this time to remember when she searched the skies in memory of golden days, of raucous cheering, of heart-thumping glory and triumph felt at the matches she best loved watching. Her imagination was not so strong as most commonly thought; she could not quite convince herself that this bird today was to play the part of the hero, the other the not so beloved underdog as she followed their tumbling free-wheeling with her eyes until one swept away with the prize in their beaks because at the end of the day, birds do not have hands.
Darkness was sinking about her now, not unlike the folds of her scarlet sari which she wound about her every morning as she dressed. Still she persisted, here at the window, eyes on the sky, straining to see what frightened so many. When green wriggled and wrestled its way into the night she found a quiet solstice in the thought that maybe somewhere, some place he had been the one to put it there.
Green, after all, bears the markings of life.