Disclaimer: The recognizable characters and places in this story do not belong to me but to J.K. Rowling and who owns the rights. The places that are not invented by J.K. Rowling, the plot ofthis story and the original characters that maybepresent in it are my possessions, and thus my explicit consent is needed to publish and/or translated elsewhere this story. This story was not written for profit but for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.
This story is the translation of the original one, in Italian. The original title is "Pioggia e angeli". That story was my first fanfiction, and now this is my first translation!
Forgive me if there are errors in the story. I'm a Non-native English speaker, I'm Italian. I do not have a beta-reader, so, please, understand. It is not easy to translate in to English a story in Italian,because it's a so wide language that some very long sentences in English are difficult to translate. If you find relevant errors while reading, please tell me so I canfix them right away. I leave you to the story.
Reviews are very welcome.
RAIN AND ANGELS
Rain.
He had always loved the rain: those crystal tears streaming down the grey cheeks of the sky, those fragments of cloud rushing down the walls of the air, like whispering sylphs, in a mad rush toward the ground.
Who ever could send them? To whom belonged those fresh tears? He wondered. Certainly not to the sky.
The man grinned, leaning against the large window and watched the gray legions crushing on the walls of the dreary landscape.
Why would the sky, in its purity, in its indifference ... up there, where they said the angels dwell ... why he, wrapped in his fluttering castes robes decorated by the sighs of the wind, the melodies of the moon, the songs of the mighty sun… why he should have sent his messengers here, in the treacherous world of mortals? Why do the angels poured their cups on this unworthy world?
So those sharp sobs really belonged to heaven? They were really angels to dwell there?
The angels ... his mother often told of angels ...
"They are good creatures, my child. -She used to say- They are pitiful creatures that bring consolation to the men ... to who needs love, to those in need of someone close. They are always there beside us."
"Are they invisible?" He once asked his mother.
She gave him a caress, passing the slender fingers on the cheek of her child. He shuddered: those hands were always so cold, the expression of a hurted soul, upset by icy winds of pain.
"Not all of them, my little one.- The woman replied with tears in her eyes- Not all of them."
And so she got up, heading toward the dark door, but, as he was to lower the brass handle, a crystalline voice stopped her: "Have you ever seen one, Mom?"
The young woman sighed. She turned slowly towards the child that was sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, looking at her with eyes full of expectation ... eyes like hers, deep and black like hers ...
She watched her child's face, so pale and bony, marked by experiences that never would have touched the soft skin of six years old child. Yet the signs were there, and they penetrated more and more in his dark irises and on their banners there were no words of consolation, there were no words of hope, but only faint sketches of misunderstanding, dazzling flashes of pain and seeds of hatred ready to germinate in that little heart still pure.
Yet, she saw nothing but her child. She did not care about those hissing beasts lurking around him, she did not care for that purple bruise on his left cheek ... she saw the heart and soul of that creature a little frightened, and she knew that they were still fresh, although besieged by shadows, they were still bright ... and they would never shut down.
"Only one.- She said with a smile- And it is here before me."
The boy smiled and slipped quickly under the bedclothes, satisfied after receiving an answer, without really thinking about what that answer meant. He turned to one side squatting in the warmth of his thin body, he closed his eyes feeling safe in the warm and protective arms of the night: a second mother for him… a godmother who guarded him every night, cradling him gently.
The woman smiled again: "Good night, Severus." She said in a whisper as he closed the door, which she had opened shortly before, silently behind her.
They had not spoken about the angels again after that night, and, slowly, he had abandoned those fantasies. He had removed them from his mind, flooded by the darkness that gradually grew up within him. The fingers of that feral darkness had grabbed the shining and dancing figures, as the sharp claws of a predator, they had captured them with the speed and the accuracy of a hawk and they had thrown them away, torn, mutilated ... the darkness had chased them down lower and lower inside of him until his soul was nothing more than a blackened shell and the crying angels were disappeared, eaten by the bird of darkness.
He had the illusion, sometimes, that he could still hear their songs ... silly naïve! His spirit was just a gray plain buffeted by warm wind and ashes ... who could live there?
The sky. The sky was the home of the angels ... certainly not the hell that was within him. His spirit was a desert, there were no angels or demons down there: all was silence and anguish ... yes, anxiety reigned there.
But he had heard the sobs of those light creatures ... oh yes, he heard them very well ... and their cries and their prayers, but he had done nothing to help them: he had let the flames to devour them, and now he felt their absence, even though he knew not to have the right to want them back. The one who had consented their agony was not entitled to look for the exiles ... no ...
His mother deserved the consolation of angels, but she had never received it because her only angel had betrayed her, he had done nothing to help her and she died alone, without the consolation of having a son next to her ... a son who was already inexorably sinking into the abyss.
The man banged a hard fist against the glass furiously, with all the anger of pain and remorse. ghost. He was nothing but a ghost ... certainly not an angel! ... Just a ghost that roams indifferent to the world, regardless of himself, regardless of what is around him. He had a single purpose, a single chain held him close to himself, when his mission would be accomplished he would simply vanished like a puff of smoke, as if he had never existed ... no one would remember him. Who can remember a ghost? Summoned one day by an old man with a long white beard dressed with a bizarre purple dress. That same old man who had tried in vain to give him a body ... crazy old wizard! You can not restore life to the dead!
The sky was crying out, but he knew he was not worthy of its tears ... and yet he wanted, he wanted to feel those tears melting with his on his pale skin. He wanted to get out ... oh yes! He wanted to be touched by the fingers of the rain, he wanted to feel the breath of angels on him, their white hands rest on his shoulders, their voices whisper sweet words ...
He stood there for a long time, leaning against the window, watching the dances of creatures, strangers to him. They were there: he could see them distinctly, they smiled at him, beckoned him to join them, to join them in their dance, but he remained motionless.
A bitter tear slipped down his cheek, clever little spark that had managed to escape from his dark eyes.
He closed his eyes for a moment, holding the other pearls from following their enterprising sister, then he turned suddenly in a dry movement with the swing of the black coat, turning his back on the gray creatures who were still calling him whispering his name.
Rain.
The tears of the angels were drops of dry dust on the ashes of his soul.