it feels like it's going to rain, PG
Author: Rooney
Title: it feels like it's going to rain
Challenge: hogwarts, london underground
Summary: When the world stops, he's standing by the lake, blood on his fingers and a body at his feet.
Rating: PG
Words: 1067
When the world stops, he’s standing by the lake, blood on his fingers and a body at his feet. The sword slips out of his fingers and drops, shatters.
He crunches the remains of Voldemort’s wand under his torn trainers and stares at his hands. He tries to wash them off in the lake, rubbing his hands together.
It’s over, he thinks, and he sits on the shore, resting his elbows on his knees.
When the world starts again, a stutter of gears and lost seconds, Harry is the only one surprised.
He wakes up, white sheets stiff against his skin and he stares at an unfamiliar white ceiling. He fumbles for his glasses (reaching to the left, then the right and brushing against a vase) and puts them on. He blinks, twice, and holds a hand up to his eyes.
He’s in a hospital bed (not Hogwarts, the cracks in the ceiling are slightly different and the bed is softer) and he has bandages wrapped around his forearms, shoulders and forehead. He leans on his elbow, and sits up, adjusting his glasses.
There is a girl with red hair at the window putting bright flowers in a vase. She turns.
Oh, you’re awake, Ginny Weasley says. You’ve been asleep for four days. She crosses the room and touches his forehead.
Does it hurt?
No.
She hums, noncommittal, and brushes her thumb against the bandages.
It’s gone, you know--the scar.
Oh, he says.
He brings his hand up to touch his forehead. It burns a little.
She replaces the dead tulips with chrysanthemums and tosses the tulips in the waste bin.
I’m alive, he says.
Yes, she replies, and she leaves him with the chrysanthemums, the stiff bed sheets and the brush of chapped lips against his cheek.
His wand is on the bedside table, next to a glass of water and the vase of chrysanthemums. He is not sure if he is happy about this or not.
The door opens, closes, his fingers scratch against the bed sheets, spells linger on his skin.
Voldemort’s spells, they tell him, or at least the effects of them. Voldemort’s wand had exploded during Priori Incantatem, and the spells left small scars running up his arms.
Nothing to worry about, they assure him.
He measures the time by the dead flowers in the waste bin next to his bed. One week leaves tulips and chrysanthemums, and yellow roses and daffodils after two. Ron brings a constant supply of Chocolate Frogs and Hermione leaves books and Muggle chocolates after her visits every other afternoon. Ginny volunteers on the weekends, and she leaves him with flowers and kisses on his cheeks when she thinks he’s sleeping. His forehead stops burning after a week and half, and he spends four hours staring at his empty forehead in the bathroom mirror.
He walks out of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Maladies and Injuries on the twenty seventh of June. No one at the front desk tries to stop him.
The question (what are you going to do, now?) is written in newspapers, on people’s lips and faces. And Harry dangles his white socks and torn jeans over the lake at Hogwarts, and wades in I don’t know, I don’t know.
He stays at 12 Grimmauld Place, Tufnell Park, London for lack of any better ideas.
The house is still empty, and the corners and shadows remind him of Sirius. He makes tea the Muggle way every morning, and sits at the large, empty dining room table. He thinks about repainting the walls.
He fills his waste bin with takeout receipts, letters from strangers and half-written replies to people who could never receive them.
He eats at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor on Thursdays, and has tea with Lupin on Saturday mornings. Ron and Hermione take him to a curry restaurant Friday evenings, and bring him leftover Chinese takeout on Sundays.
He dumps 77.25 in Sickles, Knuts and Galleons into the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and forgets to make a wish.
He boards the 0630 northbound on the Victoria line (with stops at St. James Park, Piccadilly Circus, Holborn and King’s Cross Station) on Saturday morning with Ginny grabbing his elbow and leaning on his shoulders.
He finds a seat tucked in between a sleeping man in a business suit, briefcase resting on the seat next to him, and an older woman with her head ducked under a mystery novel.
She falls asleep again as soon as the tube starts with a hiss of doors and a whirr of electronics. He places her head on his shoulder, and moves hair out of her eyes. He thinks she looks beautiful even under the flicker of dull artificial lights.
The windows rattle, the wheels clatter against the tracks, and he places his hand underneath Ginny’s.
He wakes her up at King’s Cross Station, whispering in her ear and brushing his thumb against her palm. She smiles sleepily at him, brushes her fingers against his, and walks away.
He watches her disappear and instead of transferring to the Northern line and getting off at Tufnell Park Station, he stays on the tube until the end of the line.
He dreams of chrysanthemums, stiff bed sheets, unfamiliar ceilings and riding the 0630 northbound forever.
He finds himself standing next to her, ankle deep in the lake at Hogwarts on the first of July. His jeans pulled up to his knees, he kicks and water drops scatter, land, and ripple against the surface.
It’s overcast, and the air smells like rain.
What does it feel like, she asks, fingers at his elbow and eyes at his forehead.
This is what happens. He opens his mouth, closes it. He stood here nearly a month ago with a body at his feet and blood on his hands. He lives in a cold, empty house that should not belong to him, and he has not used the wand tucked into his back pocket for three weeks. I am alive, he thinks, and perhaps this is all that matters.
And this is what happens: he shrugs.
She murmurs, noncommittal, but when he glances at her, she’s biting her lip and smiling. He grins.
And they sit on the grass, (elbows linked, palms together and ankles brushing) and look to the sky.
It starts to rain.
Title: it feels like it's going to rain
Challenge: hogwarts, london underground
Summary: When the world stops, he's standing by the lake, blood on his fingers and a body at his feet.
Rating: PG
Words: 1067
When the world stops, he’s standing by the lake, blood on his fingers and a body at his feet. The sword slips out of his fingers and drops, shatters.
He crunches the remains of Voldemort’s wand under his torn trainers and stares at his hands. He tries to wash them off in the lake, rubbing his hands together.
It’s over, he thinks, and he sits on the shore, resting his elbows on his knees.
When the world starts again, a stutter of gears and lost seconds, Harry is the only one surprised.
He wakes up, white sheets stiff against his skin and he stares at an unfamiliar white ceiling. He fumbles for his glasses (reaching to the left, then the right and brushing against a vase) and puts them on. He blinks, twice, and holds a hand up to his eyes.
He’s in a hospital bed (not Hogwarts, the cracks in the ceiling are slightly different and the bed is softer) and he has bandages wrapped around his forearms, shoulders and forehead. He leans on his elbow, and sits up, adjusting his glasses.
There is a girl with red hair at the window putting bright flowers in a vase. She turns.
Oh, you’re awake, Ginny Weasley says. You’ve been asleep for four days. She crosses the room and touches his forehead.
Does it hurt?
No.
She hums, noncommittal, and brushes her thumb against the bandages.
It’s gone, you know--the scar.
Oh, he says.
He brings his hand up to touch his forehead. It burns a little.
She replaces the dead tulips with chrysanthemums and tosses the tulips in the waste bin.
I’m alive, he says.
Yes, she replies, and she leaves him with the chrysanthemums, the stiff bed sheets and the brush of chapped lips against his cheek.
His wand is on the bedside table, next to a glass of water and the vase of chrysanthemums. He is not sure if he is happy about this or not.
The door opens, closes, his fingers scratch against the bed sheets, spells linger on his skin.
Voldemort’s spells, they tell him, or at least the effects of them. Voldemort’s wand had exploded during Priori Incantatem, and the spells left small scars running up his arms.
Nothing to worry about, they assure him.
He measures the time by the dead flowers in the waste bin next to his bed. One week leaves tulips and chrysanthemums, and yellow roses and daffodils after two. Ron brings a constant supply of Chocolate Frogs and Hermione leaves books and Muggle chocolates after her visits every other afternoon. Ginny volunteers on the weekends, and she leaves him with flowers and kisses on his cheeks when she thinks he’s sleeping. His forehead stops burning after a week and half, and he spends four hours staring at his empty forehead in the bathroom mirror.
He walks out of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Maladies and Injuries on the twenty seventh of June. No one at the front desk tries to stop him.
The question (what are you going to do, now?) is written in newspapers, on people’s lips and faces. And Harry dangles his white socks and torn jeans over the lake at Hogwarts, and wades in I don’t know, I don’t know.
He stays at 12 Grimmauld Place, Tufnell Park, London for lack of any better ideas.
The house is still empty, and the corners and shadows remind him of Sirius. He makes tea the Muggle way every morning, and sits at the large, empty dining room table. He thinks about repainting the walls.
He fills his waste bin with takeout receipts, letters from strangers and half-written replies to people who could never receive them.
He eats at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor on Thursdays, and has tea with Lupin on Saturday mornings. Ron and Hermione take him to a curry restaurant Friday evenings, and bring him leftover Chinese takeout on Sundays.
He dumps 77.25 in Sickles, Knuts and Galleons into the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and forgets to make a wish.
He boards the 0630 northbound on the Victoria line (with stops at St. James Park, Piccadilly Circus, Holborn and King’s Cross Station) on Saturday morning with Ginny grabbing his elbow and leaning on his shoulders.
He finds a seat tucked in between a sleeping man in a business suit, briefcase resting on the seat next to him, and an older woman with her head ducked under a mystery novel.
She falls asleep again as soon as the tube starts with a hiss of doors and a whirr of electronics. He places her head on his shoulder, and moves hair out of her eyes. He thinks she looks beautiful even under the flicker of dull artificial lights.
The windows rattle, the wheels clatter against the tracks, and he places his hand underneath Ginny’s.
He wakes her up at King’s Cross Station, whispering in her ear and brushing his thumb against her palm. She smiles sleepily at him, brushes her fingers against his, and walks away.
He watches her disappear and instead of transferring to the Northern line and getting off at Tufnell Park Station, he stays on the tube until the end of the line.
He dreams of chrysanthemums, stiff bed sheets, unfamiliar ceilings and riding the 0630 northbound forever.
He finds himself standing next to her, ankle deep in the lake at Hogwarts on the first of July. His jeans pulled up to his knees, he kicks and water drops scatter, land, and ripple against the surface.
It’s overcast, and the air smells like rain.
What does it feel like, she asks, fingers at his elbow and eyes at his forehead.
This is what happens. He opens his mouth, closes it. He stood here nearly a month ago with a body at his feet and blood on his hands. He lives in a cold, empty house that should not belong to him, and he has not used the wand tucked into his back pocket for three weeks. I am alive, he thinks, and perhaps this is all that matters.
And this is what happens: he shrugs.
She murmurs, noncommittal, but when he glances at her, she’s biting her lip and smiling. He grins.
And they sit on the grass, (elbows linked, palms together and ankles brushing) and look to the sky.
It starts to rain.