(no subject)
So, drabble. Not much to say about it really. I'm feeling very unloquacious this morning. OotPish and a bit angsty.
Cloud Fears
Harry found the motorbike in a dark disused corner of the basement at number 12 Grimmauld Place, cobwebs decorating it like streamers, like garland. A present, the wrapping half finished by someone who had confused Christmas with Halloween, missing only Christmas paper printed with a skull design. The bike sat ghostly in the half light, crouching devilish and ready to pounce. The black leather of the seat receded into the shadows, and light, from some undiscovered source, glinted off the chrome tail pipe with a wink: a grim reminder of the past, of the present, of the future that would never be.
Harry stared at it, and the improbability of it being there, and how could it possibly have been brought in through the tiny door?, for long minutes, before a reduction charm popped into his head.
Under cover of night, he freed the bike from its stuffy prison, and walkrollstumbled five blocks down the street, away from prying ears, before starting it. It came to life with a lunge and a growl, ready to go.
Soaring through the air, the roar of wind and engine rendering all other sounds null, the rest of the world a blur far below, Harry could almost feel Sirius’s presence, hear his bark-like laugh on the wind, the growl of the engine almost that of a dog. He flew straight at the clouds daring them to strike him down as lightning flashed around him. Shapes of hulking black dogs danced in the strange millisecond shadows. He chased them from one cloudy cavern to another, the bike warm between his thighs like something alive. The wind tore at his clothes with icy fingers, sometimes angry and insistent and, sometimes, almost gentle. His hands griped, white knuckled, around the handlebars, thighs pressed tightly to warm steel, as clouds, dark, and grey, and not really light, rushed past.
There were whispers on the wind, words he could almost make out. Maybe they were saying his name. Maybe that dog was calling to him and maybe he should let go. He wouldn’t be able to land the bike on that outcropping, it would never fit. But he would. When he let go of the handlebars he would fall only the few feet to the cloud bed and the black nose waiting to nuzzle his palm.
Cloud Fears
Harry found the motorbike in a dark disused corner of the basement at number 12 Grimmauld Place, cobwebs decorating it like streamers, like garland. A present, the wrapping half finished by someone who had confused Christmas with Halloween, missing only Christmas paper printed with a skull design. The bike sat ghostly in the half light, crouching devilish and ready to pounce. The black leather of the seat receded into the shadows, and light, from some undiscovered source, glinted off the chrome tail pipe with a wink: a grim reminder of the past, of the present, of the future that would never be.
Harry stared at it, and the improbability of it being there, and how could it possibly have been brought in through the tiny door?, for long minutes, before a reduction charm popped into his head.
Under cover of night, he freed the bike from its stuffy prison, and walkrollstumbled five blocks down the street, away from prying ears, before starting it. It came to life with a lunge and a growl, ready to go.
Soaring through the air, the roar of wind and engine rendering all other sounds null, the rest of the world a blur far below, Harry could almost feel Sirius’s presence, hear his bark-like laugh on the wind, the growl of the engine almost that of a dog. He flew straight at the clouds daring them to strike him down as lightning flashed around him. Shapes of hulking black dogs danced in the strange millisecond shadows. He chased them from one cloudy cavern to another, the bike warm between his thighs like something alive. The wind tore at his clothes with icy fingers, sometimes angry and insistent and, sometimes, almost gentle. His hands griped, white knuckled, around the handlebars, thighs pressed tightly to warm steel, as clouds, dark, and grey, and not really light, rushed past.
There were whispers on the wind, words he could almost make out. Maybe they were saying his name. Maybe that dog was calling to him and maybe he should let go. He wouldn’t be able to land the bike on that outcropping, it would never fit. But he would. When he let go of the handlebars he would fall only the few feet to the cloud bed and the black nose waiting to nuzzle his palm.