Honeysuckle
Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR.
Summary: D/G. During the war.
Rating: PG-13 for drug references.
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Honeysuckle.
Lovely flowers, gorgeous scent, completely ruthless.
Kudzu.
Ugly vines, kill everything, nearly unstoppable.
All the difference was the appearance. Both choked the life out of what they touched. Both were pests. Both were annoyances. One was sometimes appreciated. One had formerly been appreciated.
Sometimes appreciation is misplaced.
Then there was also the world. The world turned. The world revolved. The world spun its merry little circle whether or not anyone else gave a flying rat's ass.
To be like the world would be the greatest feeling in the world. Flying, floating, spinning, secure, held close in the everloving embrace of gravity. It would forever be appreciated, despite its lack of concern about trivial things like popularity.
The taste of absinthe, the sting of loaded needles, the purple haze of rockers and losers and the loved and the hated alike. All meant to numb the mind and release the senses.
She knew something better.
Something more mind-numbing. Something that released the stress from her body. Something so simple. Something that had become all too real.
Imperio was definitely the most lovely of all Unforgivables.
Once, she had been confused. Everything had flashed by in a colorful haze of emotions, actions, and duty. She had merrily made her way through the middle of it all, skipping without a care to the beat of a deadman's drum. Unknowing of what the beat would end up as, stuck in a whirling crescendo.
Now, she was happy. Muted colors and gently whispered commands formed her life, her soul, her universe. Sometimes flashes of color, red and green like Christmas, would force their way through her comfortable fog. Sometimes, she felt dirty and insecure. Sometimes, the curse would fade.
Then came tears. Tears of regret, tears of terror, tears of grief.
As long as she cried, she couldn't think.
As long as she cried, the lovely Unforgivable would return, wrapping her in its spidery tendrils of comfort. Comfort was as good as love, anymore, since love had turned and revealed its nature. The white oleander had proved it was poison to the skeptic.
The she would go back into her world of apprehensive appreciation. She would remain the honeysuckle, sweet and innocent as it choked the life out of that which had supported it. She was the decorative kudzu that took over the broken fields and dying woods. She was the world, spinning uncaring through the endless deep.
Except when she cried.
Then she was in need of the absinthe, the needle, the purple haze. Because she was the loved and hated. She was the rocker and the loser. She was the betrayer and the betrayed.
And the world kept spinning, quiet and complacent.
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