Have been feeling a bit off and cryptic as of late.
Wrote this. It has nothing to do with any of that ('cept for maybe the cryptic bit since I seem to have written it without using names).
[Originally posted at hpdrabble here. Posting the full text here now instead of just the link for posterity.]
Circumstance
You stop to watch - out the fourth floor corridor window on your way to Dumbledore’s office (official Order of the Phoenix business) - the figure at the far edge of the Quidditch pitch, dark against orangegold sky. He is squinting into the evening sun, as if waiting for something. Watching something. Waiting for someone who will never arrive. He is a shadow puppet, his stance a reflection of what you would be feeling, if you felt anything at all.
Prowling through the corridors, a wiry and slightly disheveled sixteen, he looks much older than seems possible. As he passes a sad smile of acknowledgment that never reaches the eyes, speaks words and a name neither of you have uttered in each other’s presence for months.
When he all but appears in the room you have appropriated at number 12 Grimmauld Place (you can’t remember the door opening, or shutting for that matter, just that he was suddenly there), your first thought is not, as it ought to be, that he should be at Hogwarts. That whatever method he used to get there couldn’t possibly have been safe. But that the need and the emptiness that is so apparent in those green eyes is the same that has had a vise like grip on your chest for so long that you can’t remember it not being there.
When he steps in close and tooclose brushing dry fingertips, then barely moist lips, across your mouth there is a spark in your mind, a clenching in your chest - a spring wound too tight for too long - and an oddly comforting not-relief as it snaps.
ETA: Was playing with that LJ haiku thing.
Got this, which I rather like.
and insistent and
sometimes almost gentle
his hands griped white
[Originally posted at hpdrabble here. Posting the full text here now instead of just the link for posterity.]
Circumstance
You stop to watch - out the fourth floor corridor window on your way to Dumbledore’s office (official Order of the Phoenix business) - the figure at the far edge of the Quidditch pitch, dark against orangegold sky. He is squinting into the evening sun, as if waiting for something. Watching something. Waiting for someone who will never arrive. He is a shadow puppet, his stance a reflection of what you would be feeling, if you felt anything at all.
Prowling through the corridors, a wiry and slightly disheveled sixteen, he looks much older than seems possible. As he passes a sad smile of acknowledgment that never reaches the eyes, speaks words and a name neither of you have uttered in each other’s presence for months.
When he all but appears in the room you have appropriated at number 12 Grimmauld Place (you can’t remember the door opening, or shutting for that matter, just that he was suddenly there), your first thought is not, as it ought to be, that he should be at Hogwarts. That whatever method he used to get there couldn’t possibly have been safe. But that the need and the emptiness that is so apparent in those green eyes is the same that has had a vise like grip on your chest for so long that you can’t remember it not being there.
When he steps in close and tooclose brushing dry fingertips, then barely moist lips, across your mouth there is a spark in your mind, a clenching in your chest - a spring wound too tight for too long - and an oddly comforting not-relief as it snaps.
ETA: Was playing with that LJ haiku thing.
Got this, which I rather like.
and insistent and
sometimes almost gentle
his hands griped white