Authors Note: Just an idea that popped into my small head after reading
'Orange Julius' from the August issue of YM. Check it out it also has the
'20 Hottest Guys' (very nice, very nice, they've got some hotties in that
one) so yeah, go get it! It ('Orange Julius') was just, lovely and
perfect. I'm not sure if all of this makes sense (looks back at writing
and glares) But for some reason, I like it, I like the way it sounds and I
wrote it as I thought it, so there (blows a raspberry)
Disclaimer: None of it's mine.
~*~
It had been awhile, notably. Awhile filled with tears, crystal tears, harsh tears. Awhile filled with longing and yearning, and the direct opposite as well. They used to be friends, good friends, friends that shared silly things.
Silly things like how much they loved chocolate frogs, or the smell of willow trees and how good it felt for you to wiggle your toes. It was a special sort of friendship that cannot be justified by words alone.
Last year they had broken apart, and it wasn't the silly sort of breaking apart, or the melodramatic sort. It was the raw breaking apart. They had become strangers, strangers with no names.
Strangers that waved 'how are you?' in the corridors and did not mean it. Strangers that laughed from the pit of their stomachs together, and it hurt. Strangers that talked about nothing, only bland things.
'You okay?' in an unconcerned voice and then a hollow reply of 'Yes, I'm okay.' And no one noticed, because no one cared quite enough. They sipped their turkey broth together in the starry Hall and the watery substance matched that in their eyes.
They were not happy.
They sat in the library together and studied quietly, the girl with bushy chocolate colored hair liked quiet studying, but this, this was too quiet. The only noise was the yellowing pages in the books turning, or the soft scratching of quill with ebony ink on ancient parchment. After awhile, a long while, they'd pick up their book-bags and walk out of the library.
And they were together, and yet they were alone.
The girl often wept, when no one was watching. She wept in her dormitory, the dormitory covered with purple posters and sweets left on bedside tables. The dormitory covered with thrashed old letters of assurance and friendship, letters of sureness and confidence. The sort of letters that you read when the world was going down, and you were about to go down with it.
The boy did not weep often, for he was strong, even if no one else noticed. He was strong, and that was all very simple. The boy with striking red hair would go up to his flaming orange colored dormitory and he would sit on his bed; the curtains pulled and just think. He wasn't as good as the girl was at thinking. Tiredly he'd throw on his maroon sweater, the one that he hated, and eat acid pops until his tongue was about to explode. And it hurt, but he couldn't feel it.
And the other boy, their other friend with coal colored hair, was 'busy' and he needed 'time alone' time to 'think' and 'ponder' and 'be free.' And they understood that, sometimes. For the past was haunting to him, and to be with his two friends, his history, was just too much to bear. They were good friends, even if they were difficult sometimes, and they understood, sometimes. 'Go on then,' the girl urged, 'do what makes you happy. We'll understand.' And they did, for a while.
So the boy in his threadbare maroon sweater, the same that he had been given in his first year, and the girl with her old brown leathered book-bag stayed together. Even when together was painful, and even when together wasn't really 'together.' For it was all they had, and that contained its own sort of magic.
And the hurt continued, and the girl asked the boy, 'What's your favorite Quidditch team?' The boy forgot that he had told her this a long time ago, and that his light orange shirt bore the words in messy cursive 'Chudley Cannons' and he said, "Chudley Cannons." And she smiled weakly and said, 'That's nice' and then she went back to nothing special.
When the two accidentally touched shoulders on their way to Herbology, the girl would say in a business-like manner "oh sorry" and she forgot that they used to do this all the time, and not even notice. And then they'd scoot apart a bit and continue walking briskly, he'd offer her a licorice wand, as he always did and she'd say, "No thank you," and she didn't tell him to 'hurry up so we aren't late' because it didn't even cross her mind. Rarely did things cross her mind now.
He didn't notice the new copper charm bracelet with the white heart that hung loosely to her thin pale wrist. 'Do you like it?' she asked, almost concerned with what he thought, 'Daddy bought it for me in Diagon Alley' he looked at her and his blue eyes blinked, 'It's okay' he said and went back to staring at the cinnamon colored walls. 'Yes,' she said, almost shot down, 'it's okay.'
It wasn't hard to be reminded of the past, he mused. She still looked practically the same, the bushy brown hair that went to her shoulders frizzed up in the rain. Her cheeks still reddened considerably in the wind, and her elbows were always gray and dirty. And when she laughed, she tended to snort sometimes, but she didn't laugh often now. Not her real laughs anyways.
He was still tall and gangly, too tall, and too gangly. The boy's licorice colored hair was usually mussed up and his nose still showed the slightest bit of dirt. His freckled cheeks always turned tomato red when he was embarrassed, but it wasn't as endearing now. Nothing was half as endearing now. His brows still rose when he was apprehensive, and he had an odd habit of unbuttoning the first two buttons on his polo shirts.
One breezy night, on an October's Eve, the two were in the common room sitting near the two comfiest chairs together, right near the hearth, and they were doing nothing special. Sighing, yawning, looking through old Quidditch magazines from '76 or eating buttered cookies. The girl shook her head slightly.
'You okay?' She asked, and he looked up and nodded slightly, acknowledging her just barely.
'Yes, I'm okay,' the boy replied.
She went back to her buttered cookie, forgetting that she preferred lemon and she laid her bare feet upon the boys lap. Almost about ready to talk, he cut her off.
'Don't be sorry,' he muttered not looking up from his old Quidditch magazine.
'Is it okay?' she asked, wriggling her toes on his black slacks.
'Yes,' he said, 'it's okay.'
~*~
La Fin
Disclaimer: None of it's mine.
~*~
It had been awhile, notably. Awhile filled with tears, crystal tears, harsh tears. Awhile filled with longing and yearning, and the direct opposite as well. They used to be friends, good friends, friends that shared silly things.
Silly things like how much they loved chocolate frogs, or the smell of willow trees and how good it felt for you to wiggle your toes. It was a special sort of friendship that cannot be justified by words alone.
Last year they had broken apart, and it wasn't the silly sort of breaking apart, or the melodramatic sort. It was the raw breaking apart. They had become strangers, strangers with no names.
Strangers that waved 'how are you?' in the corridors and did not mean it. Strangers that laughed from the pit of their stomachs together, and it hurt. Strangers that talked about nothing, only bland things.
'You okay?' in an unconcerned voice and then a hollow reply of 'Yes, I'm okay.' And no one noticed, because no one cared quite enough. They sipped their turkey broth together in the starry Hall and the watery substance matched that in their eyes.
They were not happy.
They sat in the library together and studied quietly, the girl with bushy chocolate colored hair liked quiet studying, but this, this was too quiet. The only noise was the yellowing pages in the books turning, or the soft scratching of quill with ebony ink on ancient parchment. After awhile, a long while, they'd pick up their book-bags and walk out of the library.
And they were together, and yet they were alone.
The girl often wept, when no one was watching. She wept in her dormitory, the dormitory covered with purple posters and sweets left on bedside tables. The dormitory covered with thrashed old letters of assurance and friendship, letters of sureness and confidence. The sort of letters that you read when the world was going down, and you were about to go down with it.
The boy did not weep often, for he was strong, even if no one else noticed. He was strong, and that was all very simple. The boy with striking red hair would go up to his flaming orange colored dormitory and he would sit on his bed; the curtains pulled and just think. He wasn't as good as the girl was at thinking. Tiredly he'd throw on his maroon sweater, the one that he hated, and eat acid pops until his tongue was about to explode. And it hurt, but he couldn't feel it.
And the other boy, their other friend with coal colored hair, was 'busy' and he needed 'time alone' time to 'think' and 'ponder' and 'be free.' And they understood that, sometimes. For the past was haunting to him, and to be with his two friends, his history, was just too much to bear. They were good friends, even if they were difficult sometimes, and they understood, sometimes. 'Go on then,' the girl urged, 'do what makes you happy. We'll understand.' And they did, for a while.
So the boy in his threadbare maroon sweater, the same that he had been given in his first year, and the girl with her old brown leathered book-bag stayed together. Even when together was painful, and even when together wasn't really 'together.' For it was all they had, and that contained its own sort of magic.
And the hurt continued, and the girl asked the boy, 'What's your favorite Quidditch team?' The boy forgot that he had told her this a long time ago, and that his light orange shirt bore the words in messy cursive 'Chudley Cannons' and he said, "Chudley Cannons." And she smiled weakly and said, 'That's nice' and then she went back to nothing special.
When the two accidentally touched shoulders on their way to Herbology, the girl would say in a business-like manner "oh sorry" and she forgot that they used to do this all the time, and not even notice. And then they'd scoot apart a bit and continue walking briskly, he'd offer her a licorice wand, as he always did and she'd say, "No thank you," and she didn't tell him to 'hurry up so we aren't late' because it didn't even cross her mind. Rarely did things cross her mind now.
He didn't notice the new copper charm bracelet with the white heart that hung loosely to her thin pale wrist. 'Do you like it?' she asked, almost concerned with what he thought, 'Daddy bought it for me in Diagon Alley' he looked at her and his blue eyes blinked, 'It's okay' he said and went back to staring at the cinnamon colored walls. 'Yes,' she said, almost shot down, 'it's okay.'
It wasn't hard to be reminded of the past, he mused. She still looked practically the same, the bushy brown hair that went to her shoulders frizzed up in the rain. Her cheeks still reddened considerably in the wind, and her elbows were always gray and dirty. And when she laughed, she tended to snort sometimes, but she didn't laugh often now. Not her real laughs anyways.
He was still tall and gangly, too tall, and too gangly. The boy's licorice colored hair was usually mussed up and his nose still showed the slightest bit of dirt. His freckled cheeks always turned tomato red when he was embarrassed, but it wasn't as endearing now. Nothing was half as endearing now. His brows still rose when he was apprehensive, and he had an odd habit of unbuttoning the first two buttons on his polo shirts.
One breezy night, on an October's Eve, the two were in the common room sitting near the two comfiest chairs together, right near the hearth, and they were doing nothing special. Sighing, yawning, looking through old Quidditch magazines from '76 or eating buttered cookies. The girl shook her head slightly.
'You okay?' She asked, and he looked up and nodded slightly, acknowledging her just barely.
'Yes, I'm okay,' the boy replied.
She went back to her buttered cookie, forgetting that she preferred lemon and she laid her bare feet upon the boys lap. Almost about ready to talk, he cut her off.
'Don't be sorry,' he muttered not looking up from his old Quidditch magazine.
'Is it okay?' she asked, wriggling her toes on his black slacks.
'Yes,' he said, 'it's okay.'
~*~
La Fin