Yet more art.
It seems I haven't been posting anything here besides fanart of late.
Life's doing well, I'm working now, so less time for fandoming, which is most unfortunate. But work is pretty fun so far, I do marketing research and analysis for a large-ass IT company. Pretty challenging and I get to use my English skillz.
anywhoo, another art I've done. I've been doing a small gift exchange with a couple of Russian friends, postcards for the upcoming holidays and all, and this is my part of the exchange with the wonderful and talented emilywaters76
She's written me an awesome bittersweet Snape-centric drabble and this is an illustration to it.
With her kind permission, I'm posting her text here.
Credits:
Everything you recognize is Jo's.
Text is by the talented Emily Waters.
Lovely snow texture by ~emilyemilybeth
Sometimes he dreams of Bathelda's house, Nagini charging him, Hermione screaming. Sometimes he thinks that out of the corner of his eye he can see a dark silhouette and can sense someone else's magic coming into play, erecting shield after shield between him and the snake.
ometimes he's back at the Ministry, trying to steal the locket from Umbridge. For a while it seems to him that the entire thing works out surprisingly well, everything is almost too easy, but then, there's that familiar dark silhouette again somewhere in the corner of the large room, and Harry isn't surprised anymore.
Other times, he's back in the Forest of Dean, and someone is pulling him out of the pond. Harry knows that it is Ron, but in his dreams it's not Ron's voice speaking to him, and it's not Ron's hands that grasp the Sword of Gryffindor to aim it at the locket.
* * *
It's almost bedtime now.
The fireplace at the Burrow flickers. The ornaments on the Christmas tree glow, each holds a reflection of Harry, Ron and Hermione, huddled together in front of the hearth. There's a mug with eggnog in Ron's hands and a book in Hermione's lap.
“Maybe he was there,” Harry muses. “Maybe he just... helped us and then changed our memories. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Or maybe you just don't want to believe that we were all alone in this, without any of the so called adults to help us,” Ron mutters bitterly.
“Or maybe it's time for bed,” Hermione says, clearly sensing an argument about to ensue. She closes her book and pulls Ron up to his feet.
When they leave, Harry remains in front of the fireplace and continues to stare at the glowing embers until his eyes water and sting.
Hermione's right, he thinks, it's too late in the night to have an argument like that. It's almost time for bed and for more dreams.
He imagines that tonight he'll dream of walking through the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort.
It will be different this time.
Harry will hold the Resurrection Stone in his hand again, and he won't be alone, but he will not be asking “does it hurt to die” or “will Voldemort see you” or “did I do all right” or anything of the sort.
It's not that Harry doesn't want to ask those things. It's just that - he knows that Snape isn't going to want to talk, so they will simply walk shoulder to shoulder in silence for as long as they can.
~ fin
Life's doing well, I'm working now, so less time for fandoming, which is most unfortunate. But work is pretty fun so far, I do marketing research and analysis for a large-ass IT company. Pretty challenging and I get to use my English skillz.
anywhoo, another art I've done. I've been doing a small gift exchange with a couple of Russian friends, postcards for the upcoming holidays and all, and this is my part of the exchange with the wonderful and talented emilywaters76
She's written me an awesome bittersweet Snape-centric drabble and this is an illustration to it.
With her kind permission, I'm posting her text here.
Credits:
Everything you recognize is Jo's.
Text is by the talented Emily Waters.
Lovely snow texture by ~emilyemilybeth
Sometimes he dreams of Bathelda's house, Nagini charging him, Hermione screaming. Sometimes he thinks that out of the corner of his eye he can see a dark silhouette and can sense someone else's magic coming into play, erecting shield after shield between him and the snake.
ometimes he's back at the Ministry, trying to steal the locket from Umbridge. For a while it seems to him that the entire thing works out surprisingly well, everything is almost too easy, but then, there's that familiar dark silhouette again somewhere in the corner of the large room, and Harry isn't surprised anymore.
Other times, he's back in the Forest of Dean, and someone is pulling him out of the pond. Harry knows that it is Ron, but in his dreams it's not Ron's voice speaking to him, and it's not Ron's hands that grasp the Sword of Gryffindor to aim it at the locket.
* * *
It's almost bedtime now.
The fireplace at the Burrow flickers. The ornaments on the Christmas tree glow, each holds a reflection of Harry, Ron and Hermione, huddled together in front of the hearth. There's a mug with eggnog in Ron's hands and a book in Hermione's lap.
“Maybe he was there,” Harry muses. “Maybe he just... helped us and then changed our memories. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Or maybe you just don't want to believe that we were all alone in this, without any of the so called adults to help us,” Ron mutters bitterly.
“Or maybe it's time for bed,” Hermione says, clearly sensing an argument about to ensue. She closes her book and pulls Ron up to his feet.
When they leave, Harry remains in front of the fireplace and continues to stare at the glowing embers until his eyes water and sting.
Hermione's right, he thinks, it's too late in the night to have an argument like that. It's almost time for bed and for more dreams.
He imagines that tonight he'll dream of walking through the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort.
It will be different this time.
Harry will hold the Resurrection Stone in his hand again, and he won't be alone, but he will not be asking “does it hurt to die” or “will Voldemort see you” or “did I do all right” or anything of the sort.
It's not that Harry doesn't want to ask those things. It's just that - he knows that Snape isn't going to want to talk, so they will simply walk shoulder to shoulder in silence for as long as they can.
~ fin