This fic is for the 50 Art of Words challenge, which is a series of 50 word prompts (so there will be fifty chapters), with 5 different series to choose from. I chose the Table 2 series, and the character I'm writing about is Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw. Some of it may not entirely interview compliant (for example, having Professor McGonagall headmistress of Hogwarts after the Deathly Hallows even though JK Rowling said she retired and did not take the position), but most of it will be. I've got ten oneshots, including this one, finished, so those will be up today and the next nine days, one for each day. Obviously.
Disclaimer for the whole fic: I do not own Harry Potter and am not JK Rowling in any way, shape, or form, though this is all obvious.
Midnight
Anthony has always known there's something infinite, something special, about midnight. It's the kind of time, kind of place that's truly magical, even though such an adjective isn't that special for someone who's a wizard. Maybe it's the silence and total darkness, except for the tiny dot stars and, sometimes, the moon. Either way, everything about midnight seems special to Anthony, from the silence that, instead of being cold, is as peaceful as you can get, from the way it seems to pulse, as if it's alive, to a dark with pinpricks of light that is as fine as what you find in an art museum.
Midnight, Anthony decided a while ago, was a good confidante. So that was why he was sitting on his doorstep at midnight wearing nothing but worn, dark trousers and a ragged blue jumper with holes at the elbows.
His knees were pulled up to his chest, his chin perched on his hands, which were laid on his knees. The midnight sky he was staring at seemed to go on forever and ever, and the black gave a sort of depth that you didn't see anywhere else. Darker than usual (To go with the mood of the wizarding world, Anthony thought), it was a new moon, and the light was only given by stars. Anthony hadn't decided to look for them much that night, as it was a curious trait of stars that you could only see them if you outright looked for them, so they seemed to have been scattered particularly sparsely among the sky that night.
The words felt immature before he even spoke them. Anthony Goldstein was a halfblood, so he guessed it wasn't that strange that he, unlike many witches and wizards, had a religion, but after living Hogwarts as if it was his second home since he was eleven, the word "God" nearly tasted unfamiliar on his mouth, like when you greet an old friend whose name once slipped off your mouth as easily as your mother's.
"Do you care about the wizarding world, God?" Anthony asked, staring up into the midnight sky. Though it had no eyes (well, perhaps the stars, millions of bright eyes), it gazed back at him. "I mean, most of them aren't really religious, unless you count celebrating Easter and Christmas. But a war's beginning in the wizarding world, God. I don't know if you noticed, but all hell's freezing over." Sighing, Anthony picked up an edition of the Daily Prophet with one hand, waving it above his head. "This newspaper's announced that Severus Snape is the new headmaster of Hogwarts, God. Most say he's on You-Know-Who's side. Albus Dumbledore died, you know. They say he was the only one You-Know-Who ever feared, and if he's dead..." Anthony trailed off. If the midnight sky could speak, it would probably trying to calm him down.
Anthony stood up, the Prophet slipping from his hands and floating down onto his doorstep. "I don't think you heard me, God, and I'm not entirely sure if you care. But I needed to let it out, and I needed the midnight. Words aren't really doing anything for me right now, you know?"
He didn't receive an answer, but the continuous glimmering of the stars seemed to Anthony as if he was being acknowledged, at least. Glancing at his house, he saw two candles standing out in the darkness by the window; candles that had been lit for Shabbat. Something nice and normal. Anthony had a feeling he wouldn't be feeling nice and normal for a while.
He plopped down onto his cold doorstep again, the chilly gravel feeling good on his hands. Moving down a step, he sat down on the ground and leaned against the first step, continuing to let his eyes wander around the blue and black paint that had been painted above, dotted with white.
A gangly seventeen year old boy could be seen stretched out, sleeping, right in front of the doorstep of a house. If his eyes were open, they would have pointed straight up to the midnight sky.