[HP drabble] fantasy
Title: fantasy
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Snape, SnapexLupin if you squint
Warnings: abuse of broken sentences and present tense
Lenght: 300 words
It’s raining, he thinks. It’s raining and maybe it’s dark, but not too dark. Light over the horizon. Dawn. It is called dawn.
It’s raining, and the earth is mud, he thinks, and it swallows the bodies; softly, ever so softly, like a pillow a resting skull.
He thinks, the boy lives, because that’s what they do. Both boys. He thinks of other dead children, but no, he doesn’t think so. Not this time. Children live. No more.
Others live, he thinks, not too many. His friends die. His friends, the dear fellow fiends that he furiously danced with, they die with him. He makes sure of that.
Enemies survive. Beloved enemies. The only one that remains. He thinks, and it amuses him, that this one owes his life to him, perpetual debt. Unforgiving, but then again, he never was a forgiving man. The enemy, secret, slippery thing that it is hates that. Levity yields under lingering, sticky threads. What Thank you, Severus then ? No more, no more. The enemy and that girl choke on it, he thinks, they never forget. It is fair, he never did. They remember and maybe they wonder.
He thinks, maybe it’s not raining, maybe, maybe the sky is blue. Bottomless. Clear. But no, he thinks, it’s not like that. No grace. No radiance. No transcendence. He thinks, he thinks, dull and gritted and muddy and rough and bloody and broken things everywhere. And the death of his Lord. And the end of it all. It is well enough.
He thinks, and catches himself thinking. Hush, hush. He clutters it all. He thinks other thoughts, silky sly thoughts over the dam of Occlumency. But at other times, restful times, secret times, he thinks that it is raining. That he is dying.
Soon, he thinks.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Snape, SnapexLupin if you squint
Warnings: abuse of broken sentences and present tense
Lenght: 300 words
It’s raining, he thinks. It’s raining and maybe it’s dark, but not too dark. Light over the horizon. Dawn. It is called dawn.
It’s raining, and the earth is mud, he thinks, and it swallows the bodies; softly, ever so softly, like a pillow a resting skull.
He thinks, the boy lives, because that’s what they do. Both boys. He thinks of other dead children, but no, he doesn’t think so. Not this time. Children live. No more.
Others live, he thinks, not too many. His friends die. His friends, the dear fellow fiends that he furiously danced with, they die with him. He makes sure of that.
Enemies survive. Beloved enemies. The only one that remains. He thinks, and it amuses him, that this one owes his life to him, perpetual debt. Unforgiving, but then again, he never was a forgiving man. The enemy, secret, slippery thing that it is hates that. Levity yields under lingering, sticky threads. What Thank you, Severus then ? No more, no more. The enemy and that girl choke on it, he thinks, they never forget. It is fair, he never did. They remember and maybe they wonder.
He thinks, maybe it’s not raining, maybe, maybe the sky is blue. Bottomless. Clear. But no, he thinks, it’s not like that. No grace. No radiance. No transcendence. He thinks, he thinks, dull and gritted and muddy and rough and bloody and broken things everywhere. And the death of his Lord. And the end of it all. It is well enough.
He thinks, and catches himself thinking. Hush, hush. He clutters it all. He thinks other thoughts, silky sly thoughts over the dam of Occlumency. But at other times, restful times, secret times, he thinks that it is raining. That he is dying.
Soon, he thinks.