Silence. Silence was all he heard as he sat and waited. He waited. He waited and waited. Waited for someone, anyone, to show their face. Preferably a scarred face. A scarred face with deep, sparkling green eyes and dark, dark thick hair that remained looking soft to the touch.
Silver orbs roamed over the dark surroundings the moon had kindly chosen to reveal to him on the Quidditch pitch. Beams of silver light shined down in thick columns around him on the old bleachers. The warned down wood creaked under him as he shifted.
The wind blew gently against his chilled face, effectively turning his nose and cheeks to a pretty pink. The bitter cold was still present at the old school in early November; it was a comfort to know that some thinks remained static in his ever changing life.
It was not long before he realized the boy with the round wire glasses and the pretty viridian eyes was not coming. Of course he was not coming.
He has been dead for 3 years.
This one is a little sadder. Hope you appreciate my splash of benign angst. I assure you more is too come. Maybe if y'all could give me some depressing prompts :D huh? yes? You'll think about it?
...
*cricket, cricket*
*Okay Meme*
:P
