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AN: This is actually part one of a series of vignettes I wrote a while back about the relationships of the people of Hogwarts. The rest is to be posted somewhere, (I don't know where yet) as they don't pertain to D/G.
I am still writing Before the Storm. This is not set in that universe. This is just a bit of fun while we wait.
----
It might happen on an overcast day in autumn, when the leaves are scattered wings of orange and gold, clinging to barren limbs and watching their brothers descend. Perhaps the rain has fallen, and the smell of earth is heavy and cold, reddening their noses and chilling their fingers. The wind blows and coins of yellow - cast away brothers - skitter and dance along the ground, caught by a child’s hand of wind and thrust forward in a reckless tumble. Perhaps the sky the boy and girl meet beneath is grey, a sea of storms sifting silently above their heads awaiting its moment. Rocks peer balefully from beneath tattered grass, disturbed from their old slumber by sharp cold weather and the loss of Demeter’s affection.
When they see one another, perhaps he stops, unaware that he has been holding his heart in his throat until that moment, wondering if she would truly come. And she is nervous, awkward beneath his scrutiny and the pressing weight of their secrets. Perhaps they stop upon a hill, and the wind steals their words and sends them spiralling towards the brink of nothing and they only catch them when they are faded and broken.
Maybe her hair is a burnt sunset against the muted landscape around her, sweeping madly about her face only to be repeatedly brushed away from her eyes, the color of topaz gazed on through rich earth. Her vibrancy contrasts his fairness; his hair white blonde, his eyes silver and light. He would seem out of place - out of sorts - without the usual shield of his coldness, and she would absently worry his green scarf may be blown from his neck as the air buffets them. He might reach for her, and she would do nothing, so he would let his hands fall and merely stare.
He would wonder if it was over.
He would wonder if it had ever begun.
“Are you all right?”
A mundane, suspicious question is asked, nearly as offensive in its simplicity as it is in its implication that he may not be.
“Obviously. And you?”
Softly, she would nod, and perhaps she would then look away, searching the barren hills and faded trees with something akin to hope. He would take the time to examine her, counting her freckles and the rips and snarls in her scarf. She might scuff the toe of her old shoe in the dirt, adding another story to the already impressive history hidden in the grungy suede and he would look on with impassive eyes.
The wind would pick up; the child’s hand becoming a man’s and striking at them. Perhaps he shoves his gloved fingers - expensive and personally tailored - into his cloak and sighs.
“Did we meet for nothing then?” he would bite out after a moment, and she would turn to him, her eyes haunted.
His lips might be pressed into a firm line, the sculpt of them harsh. Her sad eyes may trace his sharp features, beautiful in their aristocracy, and remember the whisper of his fingers along her spine.
“There’s always something,” she would reply, and she may feel the cutting edge of her poverty like a blade across his well collected gentility.
“People are expecting me. I cannot be late,” he would then challenge, and
maybe, his fingers would fist in his pockets where she could not see them.
A strand of her hair, a crimson sheath caught in the wind, would flutter and he would watch it shine. Around them the world would be dying, awaiting its cold slumber, and the rush of their blood and the staccato of their pulses would set them apart from autumn as it took shape around them.
“Than don’t be late.”
Her dismissive voice would wound him, and his vanity might rise, creating a brick shelter of pride and confidence around his heart.
“Is Potter waiting for you?” he would snap scathingly, spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones. “Does he know where his leashed Weasley – his sweetheart – is now? Out risking everything she ever dreamed about for a moment with the traitor?”
Perhaps he would turn to go, and her hand might reach out and take his arm. He would look and see her brown glove was missing a finger and her perfectly trimmed nail was painted pink. He would tilt his face to the sky, closing his eyes as the grey light bleached him of color and in that moment he might have been a ghost - Trying to forget it was her hand touching him, trying to forget that she wasn’t his.
“You and I don’t belong together,” she might whisper.
“That never stopped us before,” he would say, and his voice would be thick with denial, acid, and dismissal.
She may go to reply, but her words would be lost in the sea of her despair, and regret would strangle her voice. She might turn instead, standing beside him and a world apart, listening to the wind rip the sky around them to pieces.
“I could never deny you. Despite everything you are, everything you stand for...” he would say coldly, harshly, and she would nod.
“I’m glad.”
Perhaps he would reach for her then, and she would step into his arms and raise her face to his. His lips, cold and firm, might find hers and she would clutch at the shoulders of his frigid black cloak and feel the wealth through her gloves. He would hold her tightly, her hair a tempest of red whipping their cheeks and smelling of lavender and soap, and he would feel the icy wet of her tears before the wind stole them.
Perhaps she would be the first to break away, perhaps he would. But when his arms fell, she would cover her mouth; blinking, wounded and forcing herself not to cry. They would stare at one another, willing the other to look away first; give into the pain of losing sight of what is important, and he would be the first to do so.
Perhaps he always was.
“We will see each other again,” he would say firmly, coldly, a touch of the
arrogance fitting into his words as it had when they first met, and she would nod because it was true.
Then he would walk away, and she might watch the hem of his cloak flare behind his long legs, and bitter-sweetly admire the casual grace of his stride. When she leaves in the other direction, perhaps she will break into a run and feel like a little girl playing tag again, only this time there is no laughter. The storming clouds would roar to life behind her and the sky would fall like shattered crystal.
Later, in the confines of her room, she might be gazing out her window watching the rain drizzle down. The cold panes of glass would freeze her fingers to the bone, and she would rest her forehead against it and shiver. Perhaps, as she watched, she would remember a silvery blonde young man striding across the courtyard dressed in black and green, and her breath would hitch, caught along the edge of heartbreak. She would recall how he paused, looking high, high up at her window through the rain, and how their eyes had met before he had walked away.
Perhaps it would all be a fantasy, desire lost to her imaginings, and taking her to dampened hills and windswept kisses, as she remembers seeing him throw his arm around a curvy brunette, his handsome face breaking into a tight, distant grin.
Perhaps.
I am still writing Before the Storm. This is not set in that universe. This is just a bit of fun while we wait.
----
It might happen on an overcast day in autumn, when the leaves are scattered wings of orange and gold, clinging to barren limbs and watching their brothers descend. Perhaps the rain has fallen, and the smell of earth is heavy and cold, reddening their noses and chilling their fingers. The wind blows and coins of yellow - cast away brothers - skitter and dance along the ground, caught by a child’s hand of wind and thrust forward in a reckless tumble. Perhaps the sky the boy and girl meet beneath is grey, a sea of storms sifting silently above their heads awaiting its moment. Rocks peer balefully from beneath tattered grass, disturbed from their old slumber by sharp cold weather and the loss of Demeter’s affection.
When they see one another, perhaps he stops, unaware that he has been holding his heart in his throat until that moment, wondering if she would truly come. And she is nervous, awkward beneath his scrutiny and the pressing weight of their secrets. Perhaps they stop upon a hill, and the wind steals their words and sends them spiralling towards the brink of nothing and they only catch them when they are faded and broken.
Maybe her hair is a burnt sunset against the muted landscape around her, sweeping madly about her face only to be repeatedly brushed away from her eyes, the color of topaz gazed on through rich earth. Her vibrancy contrasts his fairness; his hair white blonde, his eyes silver and light. He would seem out of place - out of sorts - without the usual shield of his coldness, and she would absently worry his green scarf may be blown from his neck as the air buffets them. He might reach for her, and she would do nothing, so he would let his hands fall and merely stare.
He would wonder if it was over.
He would wonder if it had ever begun.
“Are you all right?”
A mundane, suspicious question is asked, nearly as offensive in its simplicity as it is in its implication that he may not be.
“Obviously. And you?”
Softly, she would nod, and perhaps she would then look away, searching the barren hills and faded trees with something akin to hope. He would take the time to examine her, counting her freckles and the rips and snarls in her scarf. She might scuff the toe of her old shoe in the dirt, adding another story to the already impressive history hidden in the grungy suede and he would look on with impassive eyes.
The wind would pick up; the child’s hand becoming a man’s and striking at them. Perhaps he shoves his gloved fingers - expensive and personally tailored - into his cloak and sighs.
“Did we meet for nothing then?” he would bite out after a moment, and she would turn to him, her eyes haunted.
His lips might be pressed into a firm line, the sculpt of them harsh. Her sad eyes may trace his sharp features, beautiful in their aristocracy, and remember the whisper of his fingers along her spine.
“There’s always something,” she would reply, and she may feel the cutting edge of her poverty like a blade across his well collected gentility.
“People are expecting me. I cannot be late,” he would then challenge, and
maybe, his fingers would fist in his pockets where she could not see them.
A strand of her hair, a crimson sheath caught in the wind, would flutter and he would watch it shine. Around them the world would be dying, awaiting its cold slumber, and the rush of their blood and the staccato of their pulses would set them apart from autumn as it took shape around them.
“Than don’t be late.”
Her dismissive voice would wound him, and his vanity might rise, creating a brick shelter of pride and confidence around his heart.
“Is Potter waiting for you?” he would snap scathingly, spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones. “Does he know where his leashed Weasley – his sweetheart – is now? Out risking everything she ever dreamed about for a moment with the traitor?”
Perhaps he would turn to go, and her hand might reach out and take his arm. He would look and see her brown glove was missing a finger and her perfectly trimmed nail was painted pink. He would tilt his face to the sky, closing his eyes as the grey light bleached him of color and in that moment he might have been a ghost - Trying to forget it was her hand touching him, trying to forget that she wasn’t his.
“You and I don’t belong together,” she might whisper.
“That never stopped us before,” he would say, and his voice would be thick with denial, acid, and dismissal.
She may go to reply, but her words would be lost in the sea of her despair, and regret would strangle her voice. She might turn instead, standing beside him and a world apart, listening to the wind rip the sky around them to pieces.
“I could never deny you. Despite everything you are, everything you stand for...” he would say coldly, harshly, and she would nod.
“I’m glad.”
Perhaps he would reach for her then, and she would step into his arms and raise her face to his. His lips, cold and firm, might find hers and she would clutch at the shoulders of his frigid black cloak and feel the wealth through her gloves. He would hold her tightly, her hair a tempest of red whipping their cheeks and smelling of lavender and soap, and he would feel the icy wet of her tears before the wind stole them.
Perhaps she would be the first to break away, perhaps he would. But when his arms fell, she would cover her mouth; blinking, wounded and forcing herself not to cry. They would stare at one another, willing the other to look away first; give into the pain of losing sight of what is important, and he would be the first to do so.
Perhaps he always was.
“We will see each other again,” he would say firmly, coldly, a touch of the
arrogance fitting into his words as it had when they first met, and she would nod because it was true.
Then he would walk away, and she might watch the hem of his cloak flare behind his long legs, and bitter-sweetly admire the casual grace of his stride. When she leaves in the other direction, perhaps she will break into a run and feel like a little girl playing tag again, only this time there is no laughter. The storming clouds would roar to life behind her and the sky would fall like shattered crystal.
Later, in the confines of her room, she might be gazing out her window watching the rain drizzle down. The cold panes of glass would freeze her fingers to the bone, and she would rest her forehead against it and shiver. Perhaps, as she watched, she would remember a silvery blonde young man striding across the courtyard dressed in black and green, and her breath would hitch, caught along the edge of heartbreak. She would recall how he paused, looking high, high up at her window through the rain, and how their eyes had met before he had walked away.
Perhaps it would all be a fantasy, desire lost to her imaginings, and taking her to dampened hills and windswept kisses, as she remembers seeing him throw his arm around a curvy brunette, his handsome face breaking into a tight, distant grin.
Perhaps.
The End.
Glass_Mermaid is the author of 6 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 3 members. Members who liked Glass Flowers also liked 1029 other stories.
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