The sky swirled a blue ocean with the tumbling masses of steely
molten cloud above the still cottage window, through which a single face
peered. The face was aged not only by time, but by pain, and deep creases
around the eyes gave the appearance overwhelming exhaustion, while fine
lines around the mouth and on the forehead showed the process of great
thought, yearning to be spoken.
Despite the wrinkles and folds through the soft skin of the face, a thick blend of salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a long braid. Glasses had been pulled back into the hair, and the eyes watching the sky were as blurred and stirring as the sky..
An alabaster hand rested on the windowsill. The waxen figure of the man seemed to push a cold through the room, of unsteady stillness, threatening those who might break it.
For long hours, the face stayed at the window, the hand, lifeless, bloodless and cold. But the eyes continued to whirl in a frenzy of weathered wear.
It was hard to tell what was happening behind the eyes; what the man could possibly be reliving. The possibility of pain or ecstasy in the face was met with due incredulity by the shadow sitting on musty, floral furniture near the door of the room. Yet the living eyes refused to put either beyond belief.
"Come, now," said the shadow at last, and gripping the frozen hand with one of an equal pallor. "You'll freeze by this window. I'll take you somewhere warmer."
With that, a white haired man took the handles of the wheelchair, and pushed the salt and pepper man away from the window, out of the room into a long hall of mustard yellow walls.
The white-haired man took the chair into a windowless room, which was much warmer than the one they had been in before. He stopped the chair next to a loveseat, and stretched himself across the seat's length. He took hold of his crippled companion's hand, which lay to the side of the chair as though still resting on the windowsill. He moved the hand to the arm of the couch as though molding clay, and placed it between his palms.
"I know you'll get better, Harry," said Malfoy, for the thousandth time, kissing the unresponsive hand, "I know you will."
Despite the wrinkles and folds through the soft skin of the face, a thick blend of salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a long braid. Glasses had been pulled back into the hair, and the eyes watching the sky were as blurred and stirring as the sky..
An alabaster hand rested on the windowsill. The waxen figure of the man seemed to push a cold through the room, of unsteady stillness, threatening those who might break it.
For long hours, the face stayed at the window, the hand, lifeless, bloodless and cold. But the eyes continued to whirl in a frenzy of weathered wear.
It was hard to tell what was happening behind the eyes; what the man could possibly be reliving. The possibility of pain or ecstasy in the face was met with due incredulity by the shadow sitting on musty, floral furniture near the door of the room. Yet the living eyes refused to put either beyond belief.
"Come, now," said the shadow at last, and gripping the frozen hand with one of an equal pallor. "You'll freeze by this window. I'll take you somewhere warmer."
With that, a white haired man took the handles of the wheelchair, and pushed the salt and pepper man away from the window, out of the room into a long hall of mustard yellow walls.
The white-haired man took the chair into a windowless room, which was much warmer than the one they had been in before. He stopped the chair next to a loveseat, and stretched himself across the seat's length. He took hold of his crippled companion's hand, which lay to the side of the chair as though still resting on the windowsill. He moved the hand to the arm of the couch as though molding clay, and placed it between his palms.
"I know you'll get better, Harry," said Malfoy, for the thousandth time, kissing the unresponsive hand, "I know you will."