Author's Note: I haven't much to say about this piece, honestly. But I really relished writing it, especially the descriptions—so much of my effort in writing goes towards the wording. I've been doing a lot with snow lately in my stories; I hope it isn't too early in the season that the imagery is lost on you.
This is an AU, I'm certain you will have noticed that by the end of the story, if not earlier. Credit for my characters—which of course are not truly mine—goes to J.K. Rowling, Merlin praise her for her marvellous and spellbinding world.
It's been such a long time since I've posted anything here – hopefully, it was worth the wait.
Shada
underfoot
He sees her for the first time, amongst the lightly falling snow, sitting alone in the silence of falling snow on a bench carven of ivory marble, white and grey with angels carved upon the base, stretching their arms to the heavens; and she is gazing skywards, noble, regal chin held high and firm in an gesture which can only come naturally to the aristocracy.
She is not wearing the traditional wizard's robes but some sort of lacy garment of light, light pink, the colour of blood diluted over and over again into the snow until it has nearly vanished but is still pure, a scarlet bleached too many times, shivered into unrecognition. She wears it well, her back is straight, she has never slouched in her life; he guesses she probably does not know how. Her skirt is long and it sweeps onto the ground, the bottom trailing little bits of solid snow but aside from that there is no wrinkle to her dress, no wrinkle or tear or jagged seam and she looks like a china doll whose bendable limbs are forced into a static position, frozen in a gesture until her maker brings her to life or sets her down and she falls and shatters. But now she is perfect, now she is white and delicate and flowery, and Tom loves flowers for their beauty but he loves to crush them with the heel of his foot, too, and he has lost count of the times he has walked out of stifling Hogsmeade, into the countryside and a sea of glowing flowers, one by one he destroyed them all. But this is a rare and extraordinary flower and he cannot smother this one, no, not now; he wonders if she knows that.
And she sits and watches the sky, her hand grasping the cool surface of the marble seat, resting tranquilly upon her throne of carven stone and not making a noise so that he dares not take a step closer, but feels he must, though he might be heard; he is drawn forward, walking on icicles that shiver into silent powder under his feet with a single muttered word.
But she turns anyway, she must have heard something, must have heard the rustle of his robes. Her eyes are filled at once with a sort of shuttered fear—something peeping out from within bars and he catches it in an instant—then just as quickly those eyes close off and she has adopted again her air of indifference, of uncaring, an i shan't let you in, do not try to decipher me for you shall fail — and does not rise, only sits on her throne of marble, watching him.
They do not speak but only stand looking at each other for the longest of times, it is the strangest feeling in the world, but then they both break away at exactly the same instant, Pansy with a sneer and Tom with a smile that lights his eyes a brilliant, rare colour. Pansy thinks that light is frightening, but she would never say anything of the sort. He is just a boy, a boy she does not know, a stranger and she never got the chance to ask him what he is doing in the gardens of her manor, someone she has never seen before in her entire life; he is walking away and he is gone before she begins to rise, opens her mouth, calls to him without knowing his name; he has vanished into thin air and she sits alone on the marble once more and gazes at the sky again, blinking as the snowflakes fall onto her eyelashes and begin to melt on her face.
Tom stands by a window and thinks of her in the winter phantasy of everything white and brilliant, and smiles again. The fireplace, so distant yet only scant metres away, cannot begin to warm his eyes.
He thinks he will enjoy breaking her.
This is an AU, I'm certain you will have noticed that by the end of the story, if not earlier. Credit for my characters—which of course are not truly mine—goes to J.K. Rowling, Merlin praise her for her marvellous and spellbinding world.
It's been such a long time since I've posted anything here – hopefully, it was worth the wait.
Shada
underfoot
He sees her for the first time, amongst the lightly falling snow, sitting alone in the silence of falling snow on a bench carven of ivory marble, white and grey with angels carved upon the base, stretching their arms to the heavens; and she is gazing skywards, noble, regal chin held high and firm in an gesture which can only come naturally to the aristocracy.
She is not wearing the traditional wizard's robes but some sort of lacy garment of light, light pink, the colour of blood diluted over and over again into the snow until it has nearly vanished but is still pure, a scarlet bleached too many times, shivered into unrecognition. She wears it well, her back is straight, she has never slouched in her life; he guesses she probably does not know how. Her skirt is long and it sweeps onto the ground, the bottom trailing little bits of solid snow but aside from that there is no wrinkle to her dress, no wrinkle or tear or jagged seam and she looks like a china doll whose bendable limbs are forced into a static position, frozen in a gesture until her maker brings her to life or sets her down and she falls and shatters. But now she is perfect, now she is white and delicate and flowery, and Tom loves flowers for their beauty but he loves to crush them with the heel of his foot, too, and he has lost count of the times he has walked out of stifling Hogsmeade, into the countryside and a sea of glowing flowers, one by one he destroyed them all. But this is a rare and extraordinary flower and he cannot smother this one, no, not now; he wonders if she knows that.
And she sits and watches the sky, her hand grasping the cool surface of the marble seat, resting tranquilly upon her throne of carven stone and not making a noise so that he dares not take a step closer, but feels he must, though he might be heard; he is drawn forward, walking on icicles that shiver into silent powder under his feet with a single muttered word.
But she turns anyway, she must have heard something, must have heard the rustle of his robes. Her eyes are filled at once with a sort of shuttered fear—something peeping out from within bars and he catches it in an instant—then just as quickly those eyes close off and she has adopted again her air of indifference, of uncaring, an i shan't let you in, do not try to decipher me for you shall fail — and does not rise, only sits on her throne of marble, watching him.
They do not speak but only stand looking at each other for the longest of times, it is the strangest feeling in the world, but then they both break away at exactly the same instant, Pansy with a sneer and Tom with a smile that lights his eyes a brilliant, rare colour. Pansy thinks that light is frightening, but she would never say anything of the sort. He is just a boy, a boy she does not know, a stranger and she never got the chance to ask him what he is doing in the gardens of her manor, someone she has never seen before in her entire life; he is walking away and he is gone before she begins to rise, opens her mouth, calls to him without knowing his name; he has vanished into thin air and she sits alone on the marble once more and gazes at the sky again, blinking as the snowflakes fall onto her eyelashes and begin to melt on her face.
Tom stands by a window and thinks of her in the winter phantasy of everything white and brilliant, and smiles again. The fireplace, so distant yet only scant metres away, cannot begin to warm his eyes.
He thinks he will enjoy breaking her.