TRYING TO TALK TO YOU
Rating: G Pairing: Harry/Sirius pre-slash Warning: OotP Spoliers! Author's Notes: This is part one of a series of drabbles that will probably blend into a longer story at some point in the future. It answers to the weekly dictionary challenges on the Canis Major Yahoogroup. This week's word: Manes
And thanks to my wonderful beta QueenC!
The only sound that could be heard in the smallest bedroom in number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was the shallow breathing of the lone denizen of the room. The whole house was quiet on this Thursday night, clearly empty, for not even the noises of the TV or snoring from one of the other rooms could be heard.
This was quite lucky, as there was an act being played out in the only occupied room that would surely have horrified the rest of the residents of the house. The curtains were tightly drawn over the tiny window, thereby preventing even the slightest sliver of light from the early dusk outside to invade the self-conjured enclosure and diving the whole room into absolute darkness. Darkness that was only battled against by the feeble light of two candles. They faced each other on a small, wooden table and in the dim light they presented, one could barely differentiate between their blue and purple colour.
The whole room was affected by this diffused light and the walls were marred with long shadows and dark corners. However, all of this didn't interrupted the young man sitting at the low table in front of him. He was entirely focused on the two glowing wicks of the candles and the photograph and mirror shards that lay between the only sources of light.
In front of his vision strands of smoke wavered in and out of existence and the scent of frankincense and patchouli filled the air. Nevertheless, all of this seemed totally lost on the youth, so captivated was he in looking at the photograph that he didn't even notice the almost blinding lightness of the candles at the edge of his vision.
The photo he was so captured by showed a most ordinary scene: a young man with black hair and blue eyes that sparkled mischievously was standing there, throwing his arm around something - or somebody - that had been torn out of the picture. It was obvious that the thing that was important here most certainly was only the young man who was now winking at the youth in the room and then ... suddenly nodded as if giving his observer the permission to speak.
Instead of being perturbed by this most unusual behaviour for a photograph, its observer didn't pay it any particular attention. He continued to stare at the photo as if expecting it to become alive. After an especially enthusiastic nod and a glare at the observer, he started to project feelings for this man in the photograph. Feelings of love and anger and loss and despair and happiness at having found this possibility to communicate warred with each other and caused the man in the photograph to shed a few tears and at the same time give a blinding smile.
With one soft whoosh the candles were blown out by an invisible wind and, in the now pitch-black darkness, only the smell of the incense and extinguished candles could be smelled and the only sound that was heard in the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey was the laboured breathing of Harry Potter. Talking Drabbles