A/N: I don't even know what the point of this is... but I hope you enjoy!
Head bowed against the brisk November wind, she tugged at the sleeves of her sweater, gingerly pulling them over her palms so she wouldn't stretch the wool. It was a sunny autumn day but the wind still was cutting, and she felt the goosebumps erupt over her chest as it bypassed her sweater, leaving a tingling feeling in its wake. Black hair streamed out behind her, a rippling curtain of intermingled strands. The roses were battered and dying, fading blooms losing their petals to the wind, which carried them in little flurries, releasing them as they made contact with some other object. One such flurry was carried to her as she walked up the sloping pavement, snaring the petals in her loose hair. They were little splashes of translucent color held prisoner on a tenebrous, opaque landscape. Vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows were held prisoner, along with the more subdued ivories and pastels. Her hair did not detain them long; a toss of her head and another gust liberated them from their temporary prison, bringing them to the ground, or another student, or back into the wind that had carried them first.
Her mind was absent, even as the petals swept past, bright hellos and goodbyes of fall. She had taken to entering a setting and absorbing it, immersing herself in the activity in the area so she could remember it in the most accurate manner possible. In a room with multiple conversations going on, she would relax her mind, and attempt to hear and understand everything. It was exceedingly difficult and distracting, but supposedly it would improve her memory.
She felt as though there was too much she wanted to do, and not nearly enough time for it all. Her plans for her future were large and elaborate, encompassing a wide area of interests that it would be impossible to further cultivate all at once. It was frustrating to know her plans could never be carried out exactly as she wanted, but then again, Minerva McGonagall was not one to brood on so trivial a matter. She turned her attention back to her surroundings, focusing again on absorbing everything.
She neared one of the few trees not yet devoid of foliage, craning her neck upward to examine the golden coloring. The sunlight made it dazzling and mist rose up from the lake, tinted gold from the sun. She entered the shaft of sunlight and was bathed in its glow, feeling her skin tingle in the warmth. A new gust shook the yellow and magenta leaves from the tree, and as if on cue, she chose that moment to look up, witnessing the cascade of leaves falling, seemingly held in the slanted column of light. It was during times such as these, she decided, that life needed a soundtrack desperately. She imagined how the scene would look to the person who casually observed from a ways down the path that forked off from the place she stood, a black figure in a colorful setting.
"That was practically scripted," the voice called, seeming to undulate as the speaker jogged toward her, cynical smile in place. "It was so classic, you tilting your face up-" his tone became mockingly affected- "to meet the leaves as they fell."
She ignored his teasing. "It was, wasn't it?"
"That was sarcasm."
"I'm aware." She kept walking, this time with him. The pathway was now carpeted with the crisp, newly fallen leaves. They had not gone far before she was besieged by Poppy and Pomona, given short warning of their approach by the crunch of the leaves as they ran over them toward her.
Tom waved formally. "I'll see you in transfiguration, then." She thought she detected a smirk. He looked out of place in his curiously devoid-of-color ensemble, despite it being a weekend and an out-of-uniform, surrounded by the rich warm hues of the autumn leaves and the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of the girls.
"What did he mean, 'see you in transfiguration?'" Pomona asked, linking arms with Minerva. "Isn't he a fifth year?"
"He's in NEWT classes already," Minerva said. "Turn around, he has this really strange habit with the leaves."
They stopped and turned to witness Tom idly changing the colors of the foliage, making them flow smoothly from yellow to gold to magenta, seeming to continue along an artist's color wheel. He even interspersed indigos and violets in his chosen color spectra, making the trees surrounding him look the product of an avante-garde artist with questionable taste. He seemed to do it effortlessly; a furrowed brow was the only sign of the immense concentration the magic required.
Laughing at the impressed expressions of her friends, Minerva explained. "It's really advanced magic. OWL level transfiguration wasn't challenging enough for him, and now he's in my class."
"Are you friends?" asked Poppy. "I've never seen you two together before."
"Not really," Minerva replied, "but it's fun to discuss theory with someone else who genuinely enjoys and understands it. And we've had prefect patrolls together before, so we're well acquainted. Tom," she called loudly, "how are you doing that?"
"It's simply application of Burke's second law, Minerva." And with a gesture and a muttered word, he turned the anchored leaves the colors of sunset and caused them all to fall at once. They made a thousand whispered noises, like the rustling of papers, as they fell. Minerva wondered if it had been Tom, rather than breeze, that had caused the golden leaves to drop as she walked under them.
Amidst the thick curtain of warm-tinted leaves, he appeared a dark figure with a splash of color -his Slytherin tie- in a world of color and warmth for a brief moment suspended in time and Minerva's memory. She felt a strange nagging unease even as her friends exclaimed in awe and surprise.
"Perhaps he fancies you; that would explain today's display," Pomona said teasingly, once they resumed walking. Minerva blew it off with a laugh and a light "oh, to be sure."
"And he did it so smoothly," Poppy added. "That's terrific, even for NEWT level stuff."
"He looked so out of place, though," Minerva said, unable to shake the image. "But it was impressive, that's for sure."
Away from them, the wind blew strongly, displacing and destroying his wall of falling color, revealing Tom amidst the newly stripped, dying trees.
A/N: I don't know if there was some subconscious symbolism or hidden meaning, or what. As Hawethorne said, I have no idea what these "blasted allegories" even mean. Leave an interpretation in the reviews! Review = love.