/.waning.crescent.\ (backdate) {event: holiday gifts}
[ Video: open ]
[He sits at a sun-soaked desk. A high wall of bookcase is behind him. Translucent curtains cast bright ghosts on the ceiling. He has his forge in one hand, is staring at something offscreen in his other. The look on his face has the usual elements of conflicted and contemplative, but something else so new and huge and inexplicable-
His focus switches to the forge. View directly into the eyes now.
-happy. That look is happy. ]
Hullo, Lestrange.
[The words echo like a spell. If she's not looking at her forge, it'll call out to her. And to Draco.]
Forgive me.
[Say what?! ]
This gift was not meant for… revenge, or argument, or…
[Ah, the apology isn't only for her. It's also to B. & M.
This bit's for her. Moreso: to Malfoy: ]
But I think you have the right to know.
[The angle of the viewer moves, like he's lifting it up. No- both his hands come into view. The forge has levitated off his palm. He's holding something flat and gleaming in the sun. He lifts it up to the screen until it's perfectly framed.
Those unfamiliar with moving photographs may not understand what they're looking at. She might too. Though it's patently the real thing.
Centred in the picture are four people. They're older than when Bella, Draco, or Lupin last saw them; older than they could possibly be if one was sure they must have died in the war. But they're unmistakable, and they're surrounded by children.
They're standing in front of buildings that have not been leveled or razed. They smile. They wave. They're looking exultant, and civilian, and at peace.]
* * *
[ooc: Here's a repost of the gift-giving, since even I find my journal style annoying to read in comments. Wishes here. Red is Lust, blue is Loop.]
[her voice on his forge private channel:]
You should meet me in Dismas, by the way.
Urgently?
[pause. And playfully.]
Maybe~
On my way.
[forge off.
She'll wait. The windows are open, and he may find it too cold - she can never tell - but the sounds of music drift from her apartment.
They may or may not be heard over the commotion from the brothel around the corner. And the men fighting downstairs. Apparently brothels are busy this time of year. Who knew?
He keeps himself muffled and managed to slip past such commotion untouched. In the front hallway, he shakes off the damp and unwraps himself-and magically locks the door. He doesn't tell her he does that, and if she knows she hasn't complained so far. All this accomplished, he trees his scarf and coat and calls,]
Io?
[She calls out over the music - just in times as it lulls a bit]
I'm here.
[She steps toward the hall, hands behind her back and filled with something square and bright.]
You were quick.
[She hovers just out of sight, waiting for him to move into the parlor.
He does so, looking around apprehensively, wondering how foolish he'll end up feeling for doing so.]
You said urgent.
[She's smiling, head tilted just slightly, looking as though she's on the verge of laughter, but not unkind.]
I have something for you.
[Pauses. Thinks.]
You should close your eyes and hold out your hands?
[He raises an eyebrow but does as she says. Setting himself up as plaything to the goddess; but he trusts her.
He'll feel something square and slightly crinkling pressed into his palm. It's a small box wrapped in ribbons. Unopened so far, and the tag reads 'To R.J. Lupin, c/o Miss Iolanthe, From B & M'.
Something about it makes his fingertips tingle.]
B. and M.?
Berend and Milena, if I am to believe anything this place tells me.
[Her tone is light]
That box. For ...wishing? I wished for this...
[And she gestures toward the phonograph.]
It was that piece, that Quatre played on the network.
[Another smile.]
I also asked for something. On your behalf?
[So wishes had been granted. His hadn't, he hadn't expected it to be. He began to unwrap it, wondered what agenda there might be for taking requests and fulfilling-
Thoughts full stop.
The ribbons and empty box fall to the floor. He stares at the gift in his hand. His other hand gropes behind him, mercifully finds a chair, and he shakily sits in it. His eyes drink in the photograph. They get so full they flood. He raises them to Io. The look is…
She's seen him cry before-far more often than he'd prefer-but she's never seen that look. That blinding, unbelieving joy. His voice shakes and breaks and sounds like… magic.]
You asked for this?
[She swallows, almost takes a step back. Blinks. Wait. That's not----oh. He's happy? He's happy.]
I.
I asked for one of the moving photographs. The ones you'd described to me?
[Dipping down, crouching in front of him, her head tilted. Blinking again.
For a second seems like it might be sobbing-but no, no, he's quite definitely laughing. Those clever terrifying twins. This damn verhuddling world. He loves it more than he ever thought possible. He stands from the chair, grabs her nearly off her feet, and gives her one of the deepest kisses she's ever received.
Into her cheek, laughing still harder, he says like an invocation of a spell, to her, to the Twins, to the force of creation of every world unknown:]
Thank you. Thank you.
[From the photo-which in another minute he'll enchant with every protective spell he owns-Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, all grown up, clearly together, radiatingly happy, surrounded by children with amalgams of their features, smile and wave and tell him that absolutely everything was completely worth it.
His wish had been granted. Through her.]
[He sits at a sun-soaked desk. A high wall of bookcase is behind him. Translucent curtains cast bright ghosts on the ceiling. He has his forge in one hand, is staring at something offscreen in his other. The look on his face has the usual elements of conflicted and contemplative, but something else so new and huge and inexplicable-
His focus switches to the forge. View directly into the eyes now.
-happy. That look is happy. ]
Hullo, Lestrange.
[The words echo like a spell. If she's not looking at her forge, it'll call out to her. And to Draco.]
Forgive me.
[Say what?! ]
This gift was not meant for… revenge, or argument, or…
[Ah, the apology isn't only for her. It's also to B. & M.
This bit's for her. Moreso: to Malfoy: ]
But I think you have the right to know.
[The angle of the viewer moves, like he's lifting it up. No- both his hands come into view. The forge has levitated off his palm. He's holding something flat and gleaming in the sun. He lifts it up to the screen until it's perfectly framed.
Those unfamiliar with moving photographs may not understand what they're looking at. She might too. Though it's patently the real thing.
Centred in the picture are four people. They're older than when Bella, Draco, or Lupin last saw them; older than they could possibly be if one was sure they must have died in the war. But they're unmistakable, and they're surrounded by children.
They're standing in front of buildings that have not been leveled or razed. They smile. They wave. They're looking exultant, and civilian, and at peace.]
* * *
[ooc: Here's a repost of the gift-giving, since even I find my journal style annoying to read in comments. Wishes here. Red is Lust, blue is Loop.]
[her voice on his forge private channel:]
You should meet me in Dismas, by the way.
Urgently?
[pause. And playfully.]
Maybe~
On my way.
[forge off.
She'll wait. The windows are open, and he may find it too cold - she can never tell - but the sounds of music drift from her apartment.
They may or may not be heard over the commotion from the brothel around the corner. And the men fighting downstairs. Apparently brothels are busy this time of year. Who knew?
He keeps himself muffled and managed to slip past such commotion untouched. In the front hallway, he shakes off the damp and unwraps himself-and magically locks the door. He doesn't tell her he does that, and if she knows she hasn't complained so far. All this accomplished, he trees his scarf and coat and calls,]
Io?
[She calls out over the music - just in times as it lulls a bit]
I'm here.
[She steps toward the hall, hands behind her back and filled with something square and bright.]
You were quick.
[She hovers just out of sight, waiting for him to move into the parlor.
He does so, looking around apprehensively, wondering how foolish he'll end up feeling for doing so.]
You said urgent.
[She's smiling, head tilted just slightly, looking as though she's on the verge of laughter, but not unkind.]
I have something for you.
[Pauses. Thinks.]
You should close your eyes and hold out your hands?
[He raises an eyebrow but does as she says. Setting himself up as plaything to the goddess; but he trusts her.
He'll feel something square and slightly crinkling pressed into his palm. It's a small box wrapped in ribbons. Unopened so far, and the tag reads 'To R.J. Lupin, c/o Miss Iolanthe, From B & M'.
Something about it makes his fingertips tingle.]
B. and M.?
Berend and Milena, if I am to believe anything this place tells me.
[Her tone is light]
That box. For ...wishing? I wished for this...
[And she gestures toward the phonograph.]
It was that piece, that Quatre played on the network.
[Another smile.]
I also asked for something. On your behalf?
[So wishes had been granted. His hadn't, he hadn't expected it to be. He began to unwrap it, wondered what agenda there might be for taking requests and fulfilling-
Thoughts full stop.
The ribbons and empty box fall to the floor. He stares at the gift in his hand. His other hand gropes behind him, mercifully finds a chair, and he shakily sits in it. His eyes drink in the photograph. They get so full they flood. He raises them to Io. The look is…
She's seen him cry before-far more often than he'd prefer-but she's never seen that look. That blinding, unbelieving joy. His voice shakes and breaks and sounds like… magic.]
You asked for this?
[She swallows, almost takes a step back. Blinks. Wait. That's not----oh. He's happy? He's happy.]
I.
I asked for one of the moving photographs. The ones you'd described to me?
[Dipping down, crouching in front of him, her head tilted. Blinking again.
For a second seems like it might be sobbing-but no, no, he's quite definitely laughing. Those clever terrifying twins. This damn verhuddling world. He loves it more than he ever thought possible. He stands from the chair, grabs her nearly off her feet, and gives her one of the deepest kisses she's ever received.
Into her cheek, laughing still harder, he says like an invocation of a spell, to her, to the Twins, to the force of creation of every world unknown:]
Thank you. Thank you.
[From the photo-which in another minute he'll enchant with every protective spell he owns-Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, all grown up, clearly together, radiatingly happy, surrounded by children with amalgams of their features, smile and wave and tell him that absolutely everything was completely worth it.
His wish had been granted. Through her.]