Poppies and Chrysanthemums
Disclaimer: Simply put, I don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I own this beautiful poem in there called "In Flander's Fields".
She looks outside the window.
The clouds are gathering quickly, the wind is swirling around creating a draught. The stray pebbles on the cobblestone road in front of her house start scattering themselves around, creating the illusion of a moving road. The rain starts drizzling somewhat slowly onto the small village.
She retrieves a rather large yellow umbrella from the umbrella stand next to the door. She creaks open the door slowly and closes it behind her, popping open her umbrella and stepping into the rain. The lone woman walks slowly towards the park across the road of the cemetery. It is a rather dismal place, she decides. She hasn't a clue why this park draws her in, now of all times!
The woman sits collectedly down on the damp swing, the rain filtering through the large oak tree above. She starts swinging herself gently, the yellow umbrella propped up on her knee keeping it in place. The trees sound as if they are whispering, telling ancient stories to the wind and each other. The wind pulls the swing opposite her into a gentle sway, creating a creaking noise. She looks beyond the swing across the road to the many headstones lying alone in the overgrown grass. Flowers dot the ground here and there, washed-out memories of the people who had lost loved ones.
As she sneaks a look down the winding road, she glimpses a man trudging miserably up the cobblestone path, walking with an air of determination towards the silent cemetery. Even from a distance, the man can be seen to have a large tattered cloak on, and a skinny, yet tall build. As the figure draws nearer, she can't help but notice that the man has dark, shaggy hair. For some reason, she wills with all her might that the man would look at her, just a tiny glance in her direction. The man does not oblige to her silent wishes however, and enters the grave with a slight pause at the kissing-gate.
She slowly gets up from the swing, unable to just sit there and watch any longer, and walks shyly over to him. He reaches a white marble grave and doesn't see her come up beside him. The woman brings her umbrella over the top of them, shielding them both from the drizzling of rain. When he slowly pulls out his wand, he realises that she is next to him, and hastily stows it away. She smiles softly, knowing that he thinks that she is a Muggle. She takes out her own wand, looks around once to make sure no one is watching, and conjures a bunch of yellow and white chrysanthemums. She also once knew the couple who resided in the grave below them. He looks on in surprise as she lies the flowers down carefully at the headstone at the grass at their feet.
The man looks up at the same time as she does, and their eyes lock. His stormy grey ones pierce her warm brown ones. His eyes seem somewhat haunted, as if he had experienced something terrible. He looks away after a moment, and yet again takes out his wand. This time he does not hesitate to conjure up a bouquet of blood-red poppies. He lays down the poppies gently against the white marble of the grave alongside the chrysanthemums as she looks on wordlessly.
He surprises her by taking out a crumpled piece of parchment form within the depths of his cloak and starts reading out from it in a husky voice.
"In Flanders fields the poppies blow…"
She instantly knows what poem this is. In her opinion, it is perfect. The woman remembers a tune that goes with the poem, and starts humming softly under her breath.
"Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."
They stand there for a moment, just thinking. She listens to the rain pattering on the yellow plastic of the umbrella, and the marble in front of them.
Suddenly the man gives a lingering look to the woman and without a word leaves his place in front of the grave. He lingers at the kissing-gate once again, turns back once and gives an awkward wave, to which she returns with a somewhat more jovial wave back.
The man slips away down the cobblestone road.
Lightning forks across the sky as if dividing it in two, as thunder follows closely behind, rumbling like a tremor in the air. The grass ripples in the wind, like an ocean of green. The rain beats down appropriately on the road, erasing the remnants of what could have been footprints. The wind sways the trees violently from side to side, spraying the rain in unnatural directions, as if the heavens wanted to make sure that every inch of the Hollow was wet.
There is another break of lightning, and the only evidence that the man had been there were the blood-red poppies against the faded background of a washed-out world.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I cut out a whole page from this story, it just didn't fit. Also, there's only one bit of dialogue, it was hard not to put more in.