A/N: I guess I'm on a writing spree – ideas just keep on coming and coming into my head. This one in particular was just inspired by when I mentioned the sunshine one day and my mom responded that it was cold sunshine though, not warm. And I knew instantly I had to use that phrase for something.
Disclaimer: Use your common sense.
Cold Sunshine
November 4, four days after Harry "The Boy Who Lived" Potter's victory became known
A low hoot, the sound of flapping wings, then the sound of the impatient tapping of talons on the tabletop.
A whoosh of robes as a man rushes in; a jingling as knuts are fished out of his pocket and in front of the demanding spotted owl, which, with the same flapping of wings as before, flies through the open window and wings away, knuts in beak.
A faint cry – the one that always starts a full on wail – and a woman's weary voice, speaking above it. "That's the Daily Prophet for November 1st, isn't it, Frank?"
A nod as the woman strides in, a round faced baby with a round, open, puckered mouth preparing for another wail tucked comfortably in her arms. "Yes – sometimes wish it doesn't take an owl so long to travel from England to France. But I suppose it's what you get for trying to be safer than most."
The wail comes and resounds in the small kitchen; the man winces but the woman smiles and strokes the baby's few light brown wispy hairs.
"Neville's just a baby, after all, Frank," the woman says.
Frank's craggy features crinkle into a smile, but one that appears to have been slapped on his face and hastily glued on. "And thank Merlin for the little miracle in this godforsaken war."
A highchair pulled over with a creak, the chubby baby plopped in it by the woman. She peers over the man's shoulder as he looks at the front page of the Prophet. Usually some sort of remark or comment is made. This time: silence.
Two mouths open; no words come out. The second time the woman succeeds, though only in getting raspy sounds out of her mouth, not able to form into words.
A stare at the headlines (VOLDEMORT DEFEATED BY HARRY JAMES POTTER, "THE BOY WHO LIVED") for one final moment, then a dry sentence, attempting to be a joke. "Well, it's good-bye to France, then."
--
Two weeks later, November 25
A small, cozy house near Godric's Hollow; a pleasant day with a blue sky and puffy white clouds scattered about. A couple and their one year old baby just outside the house; Alice sitting in a rocking chair under an ancient and dignified tree; Neville stumbling to her with awkward yet confident steps; Frank just behind him, hands ready to steady him if he falls.
The good weather in England has been ever since Voldemort's defeat, every day fresh and sunny with a calm blue sky and small, gentle breezes, Alice muses. Like a dream or some fairytale, with the endless winter retreating when the villain's gone and the rightful spring settling back into the land. Cold unheard of, but warm's definition widespread.
Alice leans back in her rocking chair and closes her eyes, basking in the warm sunshine as Neville gives out laughs caused by Frank's tickles.
Suddenly, a stiffening, the eyes snapping wide open. It's wrong; it's all wrong despite the happiness and peace around her.
The sunshine is cold.
Cold sunshine; it's the final thing Alice Longbottom remembers before she hears the first raucous cackle of "Crucio!"
A/N: Short…but definitely not sweet. I was trying for a kind of spare, simple style of writing here, but I think I failed in my effort.
Constructive criticism appreciated; especially on the writing style I attempted.