Drabble
Written for The Houses Competition, Year Two, Round Nine
House: Hufflepuff
Year: 5th
Category: Drabble
Prompts:[First Line] When he/she/they walked in, paint was everywhere but the canvases.
Word Count (Google Docs): 494
Betas: Magi
A/N: The following lines were rejected prompts that found their way elsewhere into the fic. These aren't meant to be judged as THE prompt, since the only prompt I chose to be judged by was the first line. These lines were written by anonymous people. I have no idea who wrote them.
The entire flat was filled with flowers - his favourite flower - but he didn't know why or how.
They should not have buried them in the woods.
His July was off to a great start.
Title: Summer of Red
Summary: Alastor Moody wishes for the winter to thaw.
When he walked in, paint was everywhere but the canvases. The entire flat was filled with flowers - his favourite flower - but he didn't know why or how.
Alastor Moody stood, just inside his flat, wand at the ready, eye clacking in a one hundred-and-eighty degree circle, searching for the anomalies in the room. He shouldn't have to look far since his flat was a one room studio, with the stove, bed, and lavatory all in plain view.
He had recently gotten the room from a friend of a friend of the pub owner's cousin down the road. The pub owner knew him better than most, having seen him three, maybe four sheets to the wind more often than he should have been.
That's where the canvases had come from. It was near his birthday, and he'd wanted to paint. He loved the medium, smearing colored oils onto a blank slate and creating something from nothing. When the canvas was fresh, he'd stare for hours, waiting for it to speak to him. Painting released him from his job like nothing else. No one ever thanked him for risking his life.
But obviously, someone had done something. His oils had been smeared all over the walls. Every inch of his flat had been touched by a delicate hand, leaving prints of vibrant reds, yellows, and greens in its wake. The canvases lay neatly in a stack on his bed, white and clean and pure, reminding him of starched matrons' hats and crisp, sterile aprons.
"Poppies," he said, barely above a whisper. He remembered that strange, trance-like mood he'd been in when he'd asked for, and then received, a very short moment of companionship during an even shorter walk in the woods, during a very low point in his week.
He'd had a quiet conversation of loss, heartache, and loneliness. God, how he felt so isolated, always pulling himself together while the rest of the world fell apart. He'd felt the strains of it, ripping at him from all sides.
And then he'd made a wish, something meant for a breath, and then let it go, because reality wouldn't allow it to be any other way.
He regretted the promises they'd spoken, sheltered by the darkness and thick hedges that separated them from duty and self-control. His regret was palpable, revisiting him frequently, touching him when he thought the rest of the world had gone silent. Promises had been made. They should not have buried them in the woods.
"Poppy?" He more than whispered it now, hoping for the wish, wishing for the hope.
"Happy birthday, Alastor," she said, moving away from the wall. Her crisp white apron was smeared with the same flowers as the walls.
Alastor Moody smiled, taking her in, his flower among the many. His wish had been unearthed, and all the greys had changed to reds. Winter had finally thawed. His July was off to a great start.