A/N: For Cheeky's Weekly Drabbles Competition (prompt: Write about Luna, word: pastel) and for As Strong as We Are United Competition (prompt: loss).
Disclaimer: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction, would I? Alas, I have not written a best-seller series, I have not changed countless millions of lives for the better, and I am not one of the richest women in the world. I have a cat, though.
The Colors of War
The colors of war are strangely beautiful, in an odd, tragic way, she thinks.
How odd, that grass green and Christmas red could suddenly mean such terrible, horrible things. And yet, somehow it is fitting— that something so beautiful and simple as color could be marred by such sad memories.
After all, her scars are invisible too.
She watches— remembers— as the jets of light shoot around her, people dueling and dancing to a tune without music, contorting as their feet fumble beneath their immobile bodies.
Then she brings herself back, back to the present, back to the warmth of her bedroom, where her husband lay snoring, and her son is sleeping silently in his bassinet and she instead lets herself contemplate the colors of the night. Gentle blues, bright greens and golden yellow remind her not of dark times, but of tomorrow—of today— and she goes back to her drawing, a slight smile gracing her thin lips. She smudges the oils with her fingers, twirling the colors of the pastels together, and hums a tune.
Dean will not wake, he never does at this late an hour. She smiles and thinks of him, of his love and warmth, of the way he looks at her. His light brings her happiness, and even in the dark of the night, she can almost see him glowing with pride tomorrow as she hangs her new piece. She loves him for that, the silly man.
And so she continues on, molding the colors together, thinking of happier times, pushing the memories of loss to the corners of her mind, shutting them away for the last time.
A/N: A little happier than my last few pieces, but I'm pretty proud of it.