(no subject)
No, I don't know what I've been drinking either, and I won't share. ;p
This ficlet makes absolutely no sense that I could grasp. Written for lucilla_darkate's Pick a Word Challenge thingy. It's weird. Very weird. ^ ^;;
Title: Tick. Tick. Tick.
[Gen, Harry]
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A minute went by.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
An hour rushed pass.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He stared at the clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock stared back.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Another hour went by.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The shorter hand looked tired and weary behind the old smudgy glass, but the longer hand was annoyingly cheerful. Harry frowned at them and at the dirty glass, then pursed his lips, deciding to leave the clock for another day. He had all the time in the world anyway.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
As he moved away from the clock, the ticking sound already imprinted into his brain, Harry hummed in tune with its broken music. He remembered Sirius had told him once that, when depressed, Remus tended to do this as well. Harry barely gave that a thought.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Another corridor across the living room where the clock was, and the Ticking Song, as Harry had dubbed it, could still be heard. Harry grinned and flied up the staires to where Buckbeak used to live, wondering if the song could reach him still. It didn't. Harry was a bit disappointed.
Glancing at the rag and the half empty bucket he was carrying, Harry put them down in a corner and walked up to where a small patch of black clothes lied innocently amongst the old, decaying hays. It had been there since Harry could remember. (Sirius'?) He paid the rotting smell no mind, so intent on staring at the black fabric that he could tune out every sense else.
Recently, he found himself capable of only focusing on one thing at a time, but he didn't mind. Not anymore. Not after it allowed him to see more, hear more, smell more, and taste more, eventhough he found touching was too overwhelming. It was a small price to pay for destroying Voldemort, and it's worth the slight setback.
A breeze escaped in through the gap between the door and the floor and unsettled a few hays, Harry scowled and put those hays back in place. He could remember every hay's place by heart, down to their shadow in various sunlight state. When everything returned to normal, Harry smiled.
He then remembered the rag and the bucket, and returned to cleaning the house.
[end]
This ficlet makes absolutely no sense that I could grasp. Written for lucilla_darkate's Pick a Word Challenge thingy. It's weird. Very weird. ^ ^;;
Title: Tick. Tick. Tick.
[Gen, Harry]
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A minute went by.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
An hour rushed pass.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He stared at the clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock stared back.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Another hour went by.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The shorter hand looked tired and weary behind the old smudgy glass, but the longer hand was annoyingly cheerful. Harry frowned at them and at the dirty glass, then pursed his lips, deciding to leave the clock for another day. He had all the time in the world anyway.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
As he moved away from the clock, the ticking sound already imprinted into his brain, Harry hummed in tune with its broken music. He remembered Sirius had told him once that, when depressed, Remus tended to do this as well. Harry barely gave that a thought.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Another corridor across the living room where the clock was, and the Ticking Song, as Harry had dubbed it, could still be heard. Harry grinned and flied up the staires to where Buckbeak used to live, wondering if the song could reach him still. It didn't. Harry was a bit disappointed.
Glancing at the rag and the half empty bucket he was carrying, Harry put them down in a corner and walked up to where a small patch of black clothes lied innocently amongst the old, decaying hays. It had been there since Harry could remember. (Sirius'?) He paid the rotting smell no mind, so intent on staring at the black fabric that he could tune out every sense else.
Recently, he found himself capable of only focusing on one thing at a time, but he didn't mind. Not anymore. Not after it allowed him to see more, hear more, smell more, and taste more, eventhough he found touching was too overwhelming. It was a small price to pay for destroying Voldemort, and it's worth the slight setback.
A breeze escaped in through the gap between the door and the floor and unsettled a few hays, Harry scowled and put those hays back in place. He could remember every hay's place by heart, down to their shadow in various sunlight state. When everything returned to normal, Harry smiled.
He then remembered the rag and the bucket, and returned to cleaning the house.
[end]