Mador Maero by argante //G//
title: Mador Maero
author: argante
rating: G
x-over: BtVS/HP
challenge: character death
disclaimer: Not mine. HP => Rowling. BtVS => Whedon.
a/n: This drabble is set in the ‘verse of one of my WIPs. It’s not completed yet, although when it is I’ll post parts in my lj. However, it’s important to note that the drabble isn’t spoilers for the story, just use of the same characters.
Mador Maero
latin: to grieve/sorrow
There’s pieces of him in everything you do.
When you look at the phone you see his fingers hovering above it, hesitantly. He was always a little afraid to pick it up, you think, because it might mean that another of his family was gone, taken by ‘the cause’, the same one that took your own family from you.
The price of loving him was always going to be the grief of losing him, the sorrow of memories, and you’ve found that you can’t even look at the dining table anymore. You eat in odd spots around the almost-empty house, standing by the window or against the TV, and you can still remember the look of despair and pity and grief that Ginny gave you after she’d watched you walk through three other rooms to reach the other side of the same room, because you just couldn’t walk past that table.
You’ve slowly been selling off pieces of your life together since that mind-numbing phone call. Maybe, one day, you’ll sell the house and the table, and start a whole new life without him.
But you know that won’t ever happen, because there’s pieces of him in everything you do.
author: argante
rating: G
x-over: BtVS/HP
challenge: character death
disclaimer: Not mine. HP => Rowling. BtVS => Whedon.
a/n: This drabble is set in the ‘verse of one of my WIPs. It’s not completed yet, although when it is I’ll post parts in my lj. However, it’s important to note that the drabble isn’t spoilers for the story, just use of the same characters.
Mador Maero
latin: to grieve/sorrow
There’s pieces of him in everything you do.
When you look at the phone you see his fingers hovering above it, hesitantly. He was always a little afraid to pick it up, you think, because it might mean that another of his family was gone, taken by ‘the cause’, the same one that took your own family from you.
The price of loving him was always going to be the grief of losing him, the sorrow of memories, and you’ve found that you can’t even look at the dining table anymore. You eat in odd spots around the almost-empty house, standing by the window or against the TV, and you can still remember the look of despair and pity and grief that Ginny gave you after she’d watched you walk through three other rooms to reach the other side of the same room, because you just couldn’t walk past that table.
You’ve slowly been selling off pieces of your life together since that mind-numbing phone call. Maybe, one day, you’ll sell the house and the table, and start a whole new life without him.
But you know that won’t ever happen, because there’s pieces of him in everything you do.