(no subject)
Underlucius gave me permission to post this piece. I wrote it while listening to Regina Spektor's song, "Us". ( You can find the video for it if you click that link and click on the 'video' tab. )
Title: Us.
Author: Serpentigena
Pairing: Gen.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 660.
Genre: Post-War Fic. This might fit the definition of Crackfic.
Warning: Character Death(s).
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. All dialogue belongs to Regina Spektor.
A/N's: I suppose this is a quasi-songfic? The lyrics from the song from which I borrowed the title are used in this ficlet as dialogue. I don't know why I wrote this. It just...happened.
“They made a statue of us,” she twitters gleefully, dabbing at your torrid face with a wet, rough cloth, and of all your legitimate fears, your worst is to be alone. “And put it on a mountain top.” Your vision is blurry, but you recognize her by the smoky brown tangles that hover around her face; they sway like brass pendulums, steady as the rocking chair she sits in. “The tourists come and stare at us.” Hermione Granger gently cradles you within translucent arms, scraping layer after layer away, sloughing off crosshatched patterns of guilt and blood. She polishes your skin with promises and love, smiling like the mother you never knew. “Blow bubbles with their gum, take photographs, have fun.” You’re burning up - burning away - and soon you’ll have little left but ash and eyeballs. You’ve got your mother’s eyes and they’ll survive to see another day. The cough that rattles your ribcage makes it hard for you to breathe, and still you reach out and touch no one, her voice wavering in your head like a plucked violin. “Have fun.”
“They’ll name a city after us,” he reassures you as he squeezes your hands, words ringing in your ears like shingles of ice and wind chimes. You can’t feel him but he’s there, all glassy limbs and organs - hazy ginger and spattered freckles, each of which hold a memory you’ll cling to. “And later say it’s all our fault.” The air Ron Weasley breathes is chilly air across your nose, mouth a red cave, and you’re almost - almost - ready to sink inside. They’ll welcome you, you think, and you cough up blood that melts the snow beneath your head. “Then they'll give us a talking to because they've got years of experience.” The wind howls and his image ripples against your draining heat. Fifty hundred seconds ago you were much, much warmer.
“We’re living in a den of thieves,” she whistles apologetically, holding you to a foggy breast. “Rummaging for answers in the pages.” They’ll write about you, squash your name between inky letters of grandeur and praise because you ate your fill of serpentine shadow, sucked the world dry of all fear and darkness. The truth, well they’ll include bits and pieces for the future Hermiones of the world to decode. They’ll sell only the freshest volumes of Hogwarts: A History, smelling of bound leather and parchment when they go home to their husbands and wives. The ones who will make you will buy a day’s wage with your stolen lives as currency; the Golden Trio reduced to two-faced galleons and lion-coated sickles to be pocketed.
You belch. You would wipe your mouth if you could.
“We're living in a den of thieves,” he echoes, his face rising like a wisp of smoke. The expansive night sky begins to crumble, barren trees wasting away. A butterfly dies right before your eyes, and when Ron climbs higher, he begins to take you with him. Hands, arms, shoulders, you start to peel away and leave your body behind to hover beside your milky friends where you belong. It is no illusion, no hallucination; you’ve reached the end of your line, stamped your footprints into the snow, and now it’s time to go. Doesn’t matter if you’ve not led a full life, you were never given the chance to learn the vocabulary of old age. “And it’s contagious.”
Thighs and knees now, slowly leaving the crimson shell of Harry Potter below. They’ve been dead for seven days, and now they’ve come to take you.
Hermione smiles and links your silvery arms together. “They made a statue of us.”
Ron beams and nudges your opaque body with an equally transparent elbow. “Our noses have begun to rust.”
As your feet leave your body, Harry Potter exhales a final breath, one last smile finding its way to his lips.
Title: Us.
Author: Serpentigena
Pairing: Gen.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 660.
Genre: Post-War Fic. This might fit the definition of Crackfic.
Warning: Character Death(s).
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. All dialogue belongs to Regina Spektor.
A/N's: I suppose this is a quasi-songfic? The lyrics from the song from which I borrowed the title are used in this ficlet as dialogue. I don't know why I wrote this. It just...happened.
“They made a statue of us,” she twitters gleefully, dabbing at your torrid face with a wet, rough cloth, and of all your legitimate fears, your worst is to be alone. “And put it on a mountain top.” Your vision is blurry, but you recognize her by the smoky brown tangles that hover around her face; they sway like brass pendulums, steady as the rocking chair she sits in. “The tourists come and stare at us.” Hermione Granger gently cradles you within translucent arms, scraping layer after layer away, sloughing off crosshatched patterns of guilt and blood. She polishes your skin with promises and love, smiling like the mother you never knew. “Blow bubbles with their gum, take photographs, have fun.” You’re burning up - burning away - and soon you’ll have little left but ash and eyeballs. You’ve got your mother’s eyes and they’ll survive to see another day. The cough that rattles your ribcage makes it hard for you to breathe, and still you reach out and touch no one, her voice wavering in your head like a plucked violin. “Have fun.”
“They’ll name a city after us,” he reassures you as he squeezes your hands, words ringing in your ears like shingles of ice and wind chimes. You can’t feel him but he’s there, all glassy limbs and organs - hazy ginger and spattered freckles, each of which hold a memory you’ll cling to. “And later say it’s all our fault.” The air Ron Weasley breathes is chilly air across your nose, mouth a red cave, and you’re almost - almost - ready to sink inside. They’ll welcome you, you think, and you cough up blood that melts the snow beneath your head. “Then they'll give us a talking to because they've got years of experience.” The wind howls and his image ripples against your draining heat. Fifty hundred seconds ago you were much, much warmer.
“We’re living in a den of thieves,” she whistles apologetically, holding you to a foggy breast. “Rummaging for answers in the pages.” They’ll write about you, squash your name between inky letters of grandeur and praise because you ate your fill of serpentine shadow, sucked the world dry of all fear and darkness. The truth, well they’ll include bits and pieces for the future Hermiones of the world to decode. They’ll sell only the freshest volumes of Hogwarts: A History, smelling of bound leather and parchment when they go home to their husbands and wives. The ones who will make you will buy a day’s wage with your stolen lives as currency; the Golden Trio reduced to two-faced galleons and lion-coated sickles to be pocketed.
You belch. You would wipe your mouth if you could.
“We're living in a den of thieves,” he echoes, his face rising like a wisp of smoke. The expansive night sky begins to crumble, barren trees wasting away. A butterfly dies right before your eyes, and when Ron climbs higher, he begins to take you with him. Hands, arms, shoulders, you start to peel away and leave your body behind to hover beside your milky friends where you belong. It is no illusion, no hallucination; you’ve reached the end of your line, stamped your footprints into the snow, and now it’s time to go. Doesn’t matter if you’ve not led a full life, you were never given the chance to learn the vocabulary of old age. “And it’s contagious.”
Thighs and knees now, slowly leaving the crimson shell of Harry Potter below. They’ve been dead for seven days, and now they’ve come to take you.
Hermione smiles and links your silvery arms together. “They made a statue of us.”
Ron beams and nudges your opaque body with an equally transparent elbow. “Our noses have begun to rust.”
As your feet leave your body, Harry Potter exhales a final breath, one last smile finding its way to his lips.