Word Count: 418
Challenge/Competition: Two Prompt Drabble Challenge
Prompts: Violets and Touching, the character Astoria Greengrass.
Warnings: Mentions of self harm
Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Harry Potter, it's all JKR's.
Being ever the delicate woman, she takes her scissors and cuts (seeing as she can't cut anything else, her hair or herself), three pretty lilac flowers settle in her hand.
Taking a deep but shaky breath, she does not remove her glittering green eyes from the flowers – their lives depend on her, even if nothing else does.
Keep focus, Astoria, that both horrible and scratchy voice gnaws on the back of her mind, in an unwelcome reminder (the pretty flowers are the only thing separating her and him, he's so close).
Carefully, she places the flowers into a white wicker basket and mentally counts… thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. No more, it's perfect – it has to be perfect because it's the only thing that she can make perfect.
She trains her darkly outlined eyes on the violets, scanning along the row for imperfections – any imperfections that are not her own are welcome. But nothing… nothing here is imperfect, yet she still is.
And it isn't fair because no one wants imperfection – no one wants her, actually (and this time it's loud and clear, there's no voice reminding her, she knows).
Touching each plant seems to associate her with a memory of him. Happy memories, sad memories, any memories at all that don't spell the end, that don't include lost days of violet cutting and flower arranging, that don't include him furiously working away in their cabin behind the flower garden, too afraid to leave her on her own.
She's not stupid (just confused).
There are no words to explain what's happened to her – to them. It's wrong and it's confusing, yet she feels the confusion root deeper each day as she cuts fifteen flowers and fights the urge to turn the blades on herself.
The truth is something she craves; she just wants answers, but no one has them. Her trembling hands pull the thin green stems into a plait at their ends, and she touches the tip of her wand (with its slowly dying magic) to the flower heads, glitter suddenly decorating them.
Don't look up, the ugly and distorted voice demands, but this time – today – she will not listen. She forces her eyes up to the wooden cabin, seeing straight through the full glass panelling. What she sees is what she often sees (him looking back, with gloomy grey eyes).
But it hurts.
Turning back to her glittering violets; she knows. There's always tomorrow. There's always another day where everything is the same and nothing at all changes.
A/N- This is pretty different for me, especially how I've written Astoria and Draco. I really hope you guys like it, please don't forget to review!
