She heard mumbling - soft - timid - whoever did not want
to wake her. Peony told herself to open her eyes, but she
didn't - a melodious slumber was lingering on her - she
simply didn't want to awake. There was a luminous grey
light that shone through a window, it framed her upper
torso - clad in a white sheet and bed-spread. Just as
slumber was drifting near, she felt a warm hand intertwine
their fingers with hers. It was then when she felt the
caloric radiate off of the skin - grain - as if something had been...
"Oliver?"
The sound of her cracking voice once more
frightened her - Peony intermittently uttered words,
but when she spoke her voice was clear. Now, that was
to never be. She knew she had been the essence of serene
calamity - she was sustained, silent, but her diligent
effort at what all she set her eye to was incessant.
The hand tightened, suppely - tentatively - he did not
wish to hurt - more than she had been.
"I'm here," Oliver whispered, wearisomely.
Finally, for hours she had slept in dreamless slumber -
filled with ebony thourned vines and callouses of onyx gemstones.
Peony marveled, not for the first time, at Oliver Wood's orbs. They
were simple - filled with a complex dilirium that she felt that his
stare would freeze her staple. She glanced around, with a rapid
tantivy - and her eyes were forced to gaze into his.
"I'm in your room,"
It was a statement - from the decour, it was
difficultly simple to disect that a male opperated the
domain, but there were the few personal touches that gave
the room a spark - these could only give the ratification
that it was his room. The lop-sided grin reappeared on his
youthful face - a flutter of her velvet blood pot, and a shiver.
So much attention - from someone who she had more than admired -
was dizzy inducing.
"I know - I know I should have brought you to the. . ."
"No - no," Peony interrupted, "I'm glad you brought me here."
Oliver glanced down - and, what could be almost
be detected, but could have been assumed from the fire -
a blush of rouge. This only served to un-chain the transluscent
gates of embarassment to tumble off of Peony. She in turn
found the nearest wall very intriguing at the moment.
"Peony - I think we should tell the Headmaster,"
The mere cogitation of speaking the words to
Dumbledore was - was unthinkable. Peony could outline
the domineering figures that would listen complacently
to her tale of the dark shadowed man, with a grin of
Lucifer and the heart of Hades. They would laugh -
chuckle delightfully at such fictional recollection.
After all, she was merely an ordinary appearing girl -
over weight, who barely spoke to a soul. Peony's head
perked up in conformed lunatic manner - with a pyro of
suns looming within her eyes, she spoke one word. A
word that would end the conversation - a single thought
would no longer linger on the subject.
"Never,"
The insanely demented glare was fleeting - the olde
cowering orbs returned - the self consciosness would forever
an eternity exist. Oliver lightly stroked his thumb across
her hand. He had never felt skin as hers - not soft - no
never soft - not completely rough - different. Indeed,
this was the reason - held from, whether, his knowledge
or recognition - it did not matter. Peony, different -
an oddity - a shadowed maiden that would always carry a
despairing look - hollowed into the very depths of lips
would be the wail of woeful esclandre.
It was after the few moments of gentle consoling,
without the supervacaneous use of vocal chords, of his fingers,
that Peony knew of his close presence. In all her life - a boy -
a man - had never bestowed affection onto her. Now, shivers - fear
- anxiety - sorrow - this could be found in the depths of a more than
harrowed soul. It is true that eyes can discourse more than ridges
can ever pass - an undeniable fact, that all - even the most wretched
lonesome creatures need a word uttered now and again.
"Okay," less than a whisper from Oliver.
Peony, then, smiled - a true vision of contentment.
The blocking of the incident was touched softly, for she still
recalled images of the deranged smirking man. Truly, he was
vision that would haunt her nightmares forever. But, dreams -
dreams were left for her valourous Oliver to parade in. So,
when thoughts did not dwell on unsightly details, contentment
would be the best way to describe what she felt.
She closed her eyes - sleep - dreamless slumber
of beds of parchment was what she needed. So soft - gentle -
how could such a person exist with a lithesome touch exist?
When all, from creation, thinking that beings cared nothing
more for themselves and what they can knave their way to
unloyaly recieve objects - how can this person give her
something that even her own Mother had never given her.
Fervour - a ruby passion for doing the right thing. Not
because something could be gained from it - simply because
it was the right thing to do.
An uncomplicated brush of the lips and a brief
glancing of rapture in Oliver's eyes and it was over.
How surprised - almost swooning - but he needed not to
give her such a gift of fancy. In truth, all that would
be needed to give Peony a sense of calmness was the lulling
of his voice. Drifting - succumbing to the skeleton fingers
of sleep - the most enchanting experience - to slumber.
Perhaps to meet her gallant Oliver, for she suspected that
fate toyed with all, just some more than others - it would
end soon to swiftly.
AUTHOUR'S NOTE:
If any word that is not understood, not found in English dictionary,
refer to French or Latin dictionary.
to wake her. Peony told herself to open her eyes, but she
didn't - a melodious slumber was lingering on her - she
simply didn't want to awake. There was a luminous grey
light that shone through a window, it framed her upper
torso - clad in a white sheet and bed-spread. Just as
slumber was drifting near, she felt a warm hand intertwine
their fingers with hers. It was then when she felt the
caloric radiate off of the skin - grain - as if something had been...
"Oliver?"
The sound of her cracking voice once more
frightened her - Peony intermittently uttered words,
but when she spoke her voice was clear. Now, that was
to never be. She knew she had been the essence of serene
calamity - she was sustained, silent, but her diligent
effort at what all she set her eye to was incessant.
The hand tightened, suppely - tentatively - he did not
wish to hurt - more than she had been.
"I'm here," Oliver whispered, wearisomely.
Finally, for hours she had slept in dreamless slumber -
filled with ebony thourned vines and callouses of onyx gemstones.
Peony marveled, not for the first time, at Oliver Wood's orbs. They
were simple - filled with a complex dilirium that she felt that his
stare would freeze her staple. She glanced around, with a rapid
tantivy - and her eyes were forced to gaze into his.
"I'm in your room,"
It was a statement - from the decour, it was
difficultly simple to disect that a male opperated the
domain, but there were the few personal touches that gave
the room a spark - these could only give the ratification
that it was his room. The lop-sided grin reappeared on his
youthful face - a flutter of her velvet blood pot, and a shiver.
So much attention - from someone who she had more than admired -
was dizzy inducing.
"I know - I know I should have brought you to the. . ."
"No - no," Peony interrupted, "I'm glad you brought me here."
Oliver glanced down - and, what could be almost
be detected, but could have been assumed from the fire -
a blush of rouge. This only served to un-chain the transluscent
gates of embarassment to tumble off of Peony. She in turn
found the nearest wall very intriguing at the moment.
"Peony - I think we should tell the Headmaster,"
The mere cogitation of speaking the words to
Dumbledore was - was unthinkable. Peony could outline
the domineering figures that would listen complacently
to her tale of the dark shadowed man, with a grin of
Lucifer and the heart of Hades. They would laugh -
chuckle delightfully at such fictional recollection.
After all, she was merely an ordinary appearing girl -
over weight, who barely spoke to a soul. Peony's head
perked up in conformed lunatic manner - with a pyro of
suns looming within her eyes, she spoke one word. A
word that would end the conversation - a single thought
would no longer linger on the subject.
"Never,"
The insanely demented glare was fleeting - the olde
cowering orbs returned - the self consciosness would forever
an eternity exist. Oliver lightly stroked his thumb across
her hand. He had never felt skin as hers - not soft - no
never soft - not completely rough - different. Indeed,
this was the reason - held from, whether, his knowledge
or recognition - it did not matter. Peony, different -
an oddity - a shadowed maiden that would always carry a
despairing look - hollowed into the very depths of lips
would be the wail of woeful esclandre.
It was after the few moments of gentle consoling,
without the supervacaneous use of vocal chords, of his fingers,
that Peony knew of his close presence. In all her life - a boy -
a man - had never bestowed affection onto her. Now, shivers - fear
- anxiety - sorrow - this could be found in the depths of a more than
harrowed soul. It is true that eyes can discourse more than ridges
can ever pass - an undeniable fact, that all - even the most wretched
lonesome creatures need a word uttered now and again.
"Okay," less than a whisper from Oliver.
Peony, then, smiled - a true vision of contentment.
The blocking of the incident was touched softly, for she still
recalled images of the deranged smirking man. Truly, he was
vision that would haunt her nightmares forever. But, dreams -
dreams were left for her valourous Oliver to parade in. So,
when thoughts did not dwell on unsightly details, contentment
would be the best way to describe what she felt.
She closed her eyes - sleep - dreamless slumber
of beds of parchment was what she needed. So soft - gentle -
how could such a person exist with a lithesome touch exist?
When all, from creation, thinking that beings cared nothing
more for themselves and what they can knave their way to
unloyaly recieve objects - how can this person give her
something that even her own Mother had never given her.
Fervour - a ruby passion for doing the right thing. Not
because something could be gained from it - simply because
it was the right thing to do.
An uncomplicated brush of the lips and a brief
glancing of rapture in Oliver's eyes and it was over.
How surprised - almost swooning - but he needed not to
give her such a gift of fancy. In truth, all that would
be needed to give Peony a sense of calmness was the lulling
of his voice. Drifting - succumbing to the skeleton fingers
of sleep - the most enchanting experience - to slumber.
Perhaps to meet her gallant Oliver, for she suspected that
fate toyed with all, just some more than others - it would
end soon to swiftly.
AUTHOUR'S NOTE:
If any word that is not understood, not found in English dictionary,
refer to French or Latin dictionary.
