[FIC] Red (3/3)
Title: Red
Part: 1/3, 2/3, 3/3
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: spoilerrl/ssspoiler
Warnings: death, confusing? (for some readers), BTEM, tense mistakes I just don't get out and missing (?) comma
Rating: G
Language: English, Deutsch hier!
Archives: Animexx, AFF.net
Disclaimer: My name is not JK Rowling and so I earn nothing with this little thingy. All characters are her property - I just borrow them for playing.
Story: He fell, his face still turned away from his murderers. Without a bang, without a crash, he hit dully the stone floor.
Beta: Snow-chan: Thanks for your comments and amendments!
Understand
~OoO~
Slowly and steadily his steps toke him up the lush green hills. The sun smiled gently over full canopy, which offered the ones tormented by heat cool shade, and among the rows of stones sat and stood visitors of all kinds of dispositions.
He strolled past them on his way to the back, with hedges and trees a bit fenced of part of the place of tranquility. The flowers he had left at her grave, for his next visit he did not need any. With a few steps, he stood behind the green foliage and in the dimly lit darkness of the trees. A hand wiped away the few low-hanging branches, while his eyes adjusted to the dim light and his feet were already traveling the known way.
Now and then a rustle went through the treetops, but nothing else disturbed the silence. His breathing was quiet. It had been a long time since he used it to scream. At that time he had not understood why his father had chosen him and had left his son behind. He had cursed in the shadow of the retreat, had shouted and screamed, had pored over books with childlike stubbornness to find a spell, that could curse a dead man.
Only a few years later had he found the letters of his father in an old wooden box on the dusty attic of Grimmauld place 12. While the dust kept on dancing unmovingly in the twilight of the setting sun, he had already gotten down on his discovery with eagerness. But quickly disillusion had replaced his enthusiasm. Many hundred pages, closely written, sometimes well and sometimes half of the text was crossed out, now and then only a few lines were on paper and sometimes the writing had been hardly able to decipher. And all these words were devoted to just one person.
He had wanted to turn away in anger when his curiosity had triumphed. He had wanted to know why his father had chosen that person, whom he had known only as a murderer and traitor. First slowly and then faster, he had devoured the letters. He had never told anyone of his treasure. Far too ambivalent had he been about what he had read in the letters that had never reached their recipient.
After he had finished, he had needed some time to think. Molly and her family had reacted with oppressive concern to his mood change and they had, after he had refused them harshly, sneaked around him like on eggshells. He had long quarreled with himself, whether these words, the loving, pleading, sensual woven ones, could be trusted. But he had clearly sensed the feelings behind the letters and they had described his father as an intelligent, perceptive mind. He could not believe that his father had been deceived for years. And so he had entered for the first time without rage the shadows of the fencing trees to face honestly the person who his father had loved and for whom he had died and to reflect on whether the truths that they told him for years had been real.
At that time he had noticed for the first time that the grave of his father's mate was unkempt and that all plants on and in the vicinity of the grave were dried up. He had always wondered why his father's grave was a black mark next to his mother's. Back then he had believed in a curse, because he had always cared for the plants on both graves equally well, but when he had stood in front of that grave, he had suddenly known why.
At first, friends and acquaintances had reacted with anger or lack of understanding when he had proposed an implementation of his father. It had lasted for months until he had prevailed against his father's friends and then also the Ministry. Shortly after that he had visited the new grave, and had almost stumbled over his own feet in surprise.
Amidst the old and dead grasses and branches had green arms stretched up everywhere, colored cups had been open and had fresh brown branches sprawled on the fresh earth. Both graves had almost completely been covered by this plant cover. It had been as if the oppressive sadness had fallen off the dark graves at last.
In that moment he had known that he had done the right thing, as he had followed his feeling.
Today he went to the graves and, because of the dense vegetation cover, the tombstones were almost no longer recognizable. But that did not bother him - it made him rather happy.
In the twilight of the leaves Ted Lupin knelt down in front of the small, marble tombs and like on every first Sunday of the month he began to tell his father and Severus Snape a bit about the last months at Hogwarts and his pupils.
~OoO~
The End
Part: 1/3, 2/3, 3/3
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: spoilerrl/ssspoiler
Warnings: death, confusing? (for some readers), BTEM, tense mistakes I just don't get out and missing (?) comma
Rating: G
Language: English, Deutsch hier!
Archives: Animexx, AFF.net
Disclaimer: My name is not JK Rowling and so I earn nothing with this little thingy. All characters are her property - I just borrow them for playing.
Story: He fell, his face still turned away from his murderers. Without a bang, without a crash, he hit dully the stone floor.
Beta: Snow-chan: Thanks for your comments and amendments!
Understand
~OoO~
Slowly and steadily his steps toke him up the lush green hills. The sun smiled gently over full canopy, which offered the ones tormented by heat cool shade, and among the rows of stones sat and stood visitors of all kinds of dispositions.
He strolled past them on his way to the back, with hedges and trees a bit fenced of part of the place of tranquility. The flowers he had left at her grave, for his next visit he did not need any. With a few steps, he stood behind the green foliage and in the dimly lit darkness of the trees. A hand wiped away the few low-hanging branches, while his eyes adjusted to the dim light and his feet were already traveling the known way.
Now and then a rustle went through the treetops, but nothing else disturbed the silence. His breathing was quiet. It had been a long time since he used it to scream. At that time he had not understood why his father had chosen him and had left his son behind. He had cursed in the shadow of the retreat, had shouted and screamed, had pored over books with childlike stubbornness to find a spell, that could curse a dead man.
Only a few years later had he found the letters of his father in an old wooden box on the dusty attic of Grimmauld place 12. While the dust kept on dancing unmovingly in the twilight of the setting sun, he had already gotten down on his discovery with eagerness. But quickly disillusion had replaced his enthusiasm. Many hundred pages, closely written, sometimes well and sometimes half of the text was crossed out, now and then only a few lines were on paper and sometimes the writing had been hardly able to decipher. And all these words were devoted to just one person.
He had wanted to turn away in anger when his curiosity had triumphed. He had wanted to know why his father had chosen that person, whom he had known only as a murderer and traitor. First slowly and then faster, he had devoured the letters. He had never told anyone of his treasure. Far too ambivalent had he been about what he had read in the letters that had never reached their recipient.
After he had finished, he had needed some time to think. Molly and her family had reacted with oppressive concern to his mood change and they had, after he had refused them harshly, sneaked around him like on eggshells. He had long quarreled with himself, whether these words, the loving, pleading, sensual woven ones, could be trusted. But he had clearly sensed the feelings behind the letters and they had described his father as an intelligent, perceptive mind. He could not believe that his father had been deceived for years. And so he had entered for the first time without rage the shadows of the fencing trees to face honestly the person who his father had loved and for whom he had died and to reflect on whether the truths that they told him for years had been real.
At that time he had noticed for the first time that the grave of his father's mate was unkempt and that all plants on and in the vicinity of the grave were dried up. He had always wondered why his father's grave was a black mark next to his mother's. Back then he had believed in a curse, because he had always cared for the plants on both graves equally well, but when he had stood in front of that grave, he had suddenly known why.
At first, friends and acquaintances had reacted with anger or lack of understanding when he had proposed an implementation of his father. It had lasted for months until he had prevailed against his father's friends and then also the Ministry. Shortly after that he had visited the new grave, and had almost stumbled over his own feet in surprise.
Amidst the old and dead grasses and branches had green arms stretched up everywhere, colored cups had been open and had fresh brown branches sprawled on the fresh earth. Both graves had almost completely been covered by this plant cover. It had been as if the oppressive sadness had fallen off the dark graves at last.
In that moment he had known that he had done the right thing, as he had followed his feeling.
Today he went to the graves and, because of the dense vegetation cover, the tombstones were almost no longer recognizable. But that did not bother him - it made him rather happy.
In the twilight of the leaves Ted Lupin knelt down in front of the small, marble tombs and like on every first Sunday of the month he began to tell his father and Severus Snape a bit about the last months at Hogwarts and his pupils.
~OoO~
The End