Drabble: Red and Blue
Story Title: Red and Blue
Author: Hellus Bellus
Rating: PG
Warnings: Unbeta'd
Summary: Oliver couldn't describe the color of Percy's hair if he tried, but he also doesn't know how to stop trying. Snippet, around 600 words.
Posted to weasleys_wood .
Disclaimer:I have absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter or JK Rowling and plan to make absolutely no money from this story.
*
Calling Percy's hair red is like calling Albus Dumbledore a man. It's technically true, but anyone who has ever spoken with or learned of Albus Dumbledore would never describe him that way. A great wizard, perhaps, or a genius, a villain, a Muggle-lover, a champion of justice, a powerful ally, a worthy opponent, an aging crackpot, a Headmaster, a teacher, a fool....
Oliver gazes at the side of Percy's head, at the way the light falls through the strands of his hair, and Oliver is full to the brim with descriptions and titles and metaphors for the color it is, the texture it is, how it would feel in his hands, how it falls across Percy's skin, how it would smell, how it would look lit by moonlight, against a pillow, at the beach, cut short, grown long, if Percy turned just the tiniest bit to his right, if Percy ran his hands through his hair.... Oliver is so full to the brim with 'red' that he knows he could never describe that color at all, not in words.
Oliver's hands twitch in his lap. He looks down at his notes, because he can't look at Red anymore. He closes his eyes, and he tries to empty the words back down his throat. He smooths his hands against his thighs, and doesn't compare the texture of his robes to Red; he takes out all those words, too, making them small and placing them behind bigger things, like how to tell a feint from an attempted goal, and how to move his wrist in a figure eight to cast a sobering charm.
Oliver is reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood when he feels someone poke him in the shoulder none-too-gently.
“Honestly, napping? I thought better of you,” says Percy. His voice isn't as harsh and pompous as it normally is when he's scolding, and he even flashes Oliver a little half-smile to let him know he's not angry. Oliver feels foolish when that smile bursts in his stomach like a torch set aflame.
“Sorry,” Oliver mutters, trying not to grin. He picks up his quill and looks towards the front of the classroom.
Percy nods approvingly, and turns back to Binns as well. A minute later, Oliver hears Percy sigh, and then there's hot breath on his ear, and Percy's elbow is bumping against his elbow. Holding his breath, Oliver turns slightly to his right, and yes, Percy is leaning into him, eyes alight, a shy smile touching the edges of his shell-pink lips.
“Can't say as I blame you much today, though,” Percy whispers, eyes flicking around to be sure no one else hears him. But of course, it wouldn't do for anyone else to hear him, and Oliver feels double the fool when that sliver of trust makes him blush. “Could Binns possibly be more monotone?”
Oliver has no response, so he just smiles a quivering smile, hoping that Percy will take it as agreement. Apparently Percy does, because he leans away again and looks down at his notes, his cheeks stained a light pink.
Oliver lets out the breath he was holding. Something dry aches in his chest.
He tries to remember the other six uses for dragon's blood, but all he can think about is how adorable it is to still think talking in class is breaking the rules, or to feel guilty about calling Binns boring. Everyone knows Binns is boring. Even the other teachers know Binns is boring. Hell, Oliver would put good money on Binns knowing Binns is boring.
Oliver doodles a goal hoop on his notes. He refuses to glance to his right. He refuses to look. He refuses.
Oliver swallows.
God, Percy's eyes are Blue.
*
Author: Hellus Bellus
Rating: PG
Warnings: Unbeta'd
Summary: Oliver couldn't describe the color of Percy's hair if he tried, but he also doesn't know how to stop trying. Snippet, around 600 words.
Posted to weasleys_wood .
Disclaimer:I have absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter or JK Rowling and plan to make absolutely no money from this story.
*
Calling Percy's hair red is like calling Albus Dumbledore a man. It's technically true, but anyone who has ever spoken with or learned of Albus Dumbledore would never describe him that way. A great wizard, perhaps, or a genius, a villain, a Muggle-lover, a champion of justice, a powerful ally, a worthy opponent, an aging crackpot, a Headmaster, a teacher, a fool....
Oliver gazes at the side of Percy's head, at the way the light falls through the strands of his hair, and Oliver is full to the brim with descriptions and titles and metaphors for the color it is, the texture it is, how it would feel in his hands, how it falls across Percy's skin, how it would smell, how it would look lit by moonlight, against a pillow, at the beach, cut short, grown long, if Percy turned just the tiniest bit to his right, if Percy ran his hands through his hair.... Oliver is so full to the brim with 'red' that he knows he could never describe that color at all, not in words.
Oliver's hands twitch in his lap. He looks down at his notes, because he can't look at Red anymore. He closes his eyes, and he tries to empty the words back down his throat. He smooths his hands against his thighs, and doesn't compare the texture of his robes to Red; he takes out all those words, too, making them small and placing them behind bigger things, like how to tell a feint from an attempted goal, and how to move his wrist in a figure eight to cast a sobering charm.
Oliver is reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood when he feels someone poke him in the shoulder none-too-gently.
“Honestly, napping? I thought better of you,” says Percy. His voice isn't as harsh and pompous as it normally is when he's scolding, and he even flashes Oliver a little half-smile to let him know he's not angry. Oliver feels foolish when that smile bursts in his stomach like a torch set aflame.
“Sorry,” Oliver mutters, trying not to grin. He picks up his quill and looks towards the front of the classroom.
Percy nods approvingly, and turns back to Binns as well. A minute later, Oliver hears Percy sigh, and then there's hot breath on his ear, and Percy's elbow is bumping against his elbow. Holding his breath, Oliver turns slightly to his right, and yes, Percy is leaning into him, eyes alight, a shy smile touching the edges of his shell-pink lips.
“Can't say as I blame you much today, though,” Percy whispers, eyes flicking around to be sure no one else hears him. But of course, it wouldn't do for anyone else to hear him, and Oliver feels double the fool when that sliver of trust makes him blush. “Could Binns possibly be more monotone?”
Oliver has no response, so he just smiles a quivering smile, hoping that Percy will take it as agreement. Apparently Percy does, because he leans away again and looks down at his notes, his cheeks stained a light pink.
Oliver lets out the breath he was holding. Something dry aches in his chest.
He tries to remember the other six uses for dragon's blood, but all he can think about is how adorable it is to still think talking in class is breaking the rules, or to feel guilty about calling Binns boring. Everyone knows Binns is boring. Even the other teachers know Binns is boring. Hell, Oliver would put good money on Binns knowing Binns is boring.
Oliver doodles a goal hoop on his notes. He refuses to glance to his right. He refuses to look. He refuses.
Oliver swallows.
God, Percy's eyes are Blue.
*