I have stolen collectively
What I could never have-
Never deserved- And so Lost
In course of raging waters
That call my name with vengeance.
We Have Gone!
The Fall is upon us,
Though the apocalypse has taken it already.
My heart is beginning to darken-
To Fail-
To Open and Die and Heal
At the thought of
Losing You.
-(me)
A fire burned in dark room where music played. The notes rose and fell, spread and gathered with a pattern that strummed her core. The sonata was rhapsodous, fluid, dark and light at the same moment, calling a plethora of emotions forward from her. Ah, the dark: the sweet, engulfing dark. She looked down at the contract before her. A signature was all that was needed for its completion. The woman closed her eyes, seeping into Beethoven's 21st. Downward, soft, light, pleading, brooding, then a dance, melody herself swept off her feet and into some oblivion. Her thoughts returned to her with: Yes. This is right. With compulsive severity, she grabbed the pen on the desktop and signed with sensuous strokes: Hermione Granger.
Sunlight shone through the linen curtains at Hermione's London flat, gently prying her eyes open, begging her to take notice of the day it had begun. Also imploring her attention, though notably with more force, was Crookshanks, her cat.
"Oh Jesus Crookshanks, please don't." she grumbled as a fuzzy tail brushed her nose.
The cat gave Hermione a dignified look as he padded away, waiting with certain knowledge, the arrival of its breakfast.
Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes, attempting to adjust them to the light. With difficulty, she plodded to the kitchen to feed the cat. and perhaps herself, providing there was edible food in the pantry. The dilemma she had the former night over the contract was evident in the bottles of wine and beer that lay strewn across the floor and desk like conquered soldiers.
Well that accounts for this accursed headache.
"Meow." Answered Crookshanks.
"Ok, Ok.. There you are, you majesty," she said as she administered the dry cat food into his bowl.
He looked at her in disgust.
"I'm so sorry, sir, but the treasury is a bit on the low this month"
The look continued.
"Hey, Take it or leave it Mr."
Crookshanks appeared not to comprehend, but as she turned away to see what she could scrounge up for herself, she heard the unmistakable crunch of cat food, which implied he indeed was not above a meal.
Long live the king she thought wryly as she peered into the cupboard. After sorting through assorted canned goods she deemed unworthy of breakfast, she found a granola bar hidden behind a can of olives. Hermione drank the last gulp left in the milk jug and wandered into the study, crunching her granola as she went.
She picked up the topmost paper off the main pile on her desk (Harry often said she had butchered a small forest with all of it that was there) and looked it over with scrutiny. She set down the granola bar, found and filled an envelope with the parchment and sealed it with amber wax: HG. Hermione summoned her owl, Archimedes, a Christmas gift and the only productive thing that she had to show from that relationship.
She fished through a desk drawer for an owl treat, and giving it to him, sent him on his way.
No wonder I have no food, she thought dryly, though it's better than being completely alone, she reprimanded herself.
Completely alone, she wasn't- but she was damned close.
She kept in touch with Harry and Ron, of course, but they were always ungodly busy with all things auror- related. Voldemort was still at large, but hope still flickered, despite rampant assaults by Death Eaters.
She wished she could write them to see how they were, what they were doing and the sorts. But she didn't know where they were, and didn't feel she should pester them with small talk.
What you've just done is nothing small, a voice inside her head piped. She wanted to share it with someone. anyone. As the reality of what lie ahead of her set in, she felt exuberant. She wanted to scream all bloody hell.
But she sat. Quietly. In her London Flat.
Alone.
A fire burned in dark room where music played. The notes rose and fell, spread and gathered with a pattern that strummed her core. The sonata was rhapsodous, fluid, dark and light at the same moment, calling a plethora of emotions forward from her. Ah, the dark: the sweet, engulfing dark. She looked down at the contract before her. A signature was all that was needed for its completion. The woman closed her eyes, seeping into Beethoven's 21st. Downward, soft, light, pleading, brooding, then a dance, melody herself swept off her feet and into some oblivion. Her thoughts returned to her with: Yes. This is right. With compulsive severity, she grabbed the pen on the desktop and signed with sensuous strokes: Hermione Granger.
Sunlight shone through the linen curtains at Hermione's London flat, gently prying her eyes open, begging her to take notice of the day it had begun. Also imploring her attention, though notably with more force, was Crookshanks, her cat.
"Oh Jesus Crookshanks, please don't." she grumbled as a fuzzy tail brushed her nose.
The cat gave Hermione a dignified look as he padded away, waiting with certain knowledge, the arrival of its breakfast.
Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes, attempting to adjust them to the light. With difficulty, she plodded to the kitchen to feed the cat. and perhaps herself, providing there was edible food in the pantry. The dilemma she had the former night over the contract was evident in the bottles of wine and beer that lay strewn across the floor and desk like conquered soldiers.
Well that accounts for this accursed headache.
"Meow." Answered Crookshanks.
"Ok, Ok.. There you are, you majesty," she said as she administered the dry cat food into his bowl.
He looked at her in disgust.
"I'm so sorry, sir, but the treasury is a bit on the low this month"
The look continued.
"Hey, Take it or leave it Mr."
Crookshanks appeared not to comprehend, but as she turned away to see what she could scrounge up for herself, she heard the unmistakable crunch of cat food, which implied he indeed was not above a meal.
Long live the king she thought wryly as she peered into the cupboard. After sorting through assorted canned goods she deemed unworthy of breakfast, she found a granola bar hidden behind a can of olives. Hermione drank the last gulp left in the milk jug and wandered into the study, crunching her granola as she went.
She picked up the topmost paper off the main pile on her desk (Harry often said she had butchered a small forest with all of it that was there) and looked it over with scrutiny. She set down the granola bar, found and filled an envelope with the parchment and sealed it with amber wax: HG. Hermione summoned her owl, Archimedes, a Christmas gift and the only productive thing that she had to show from that relationship.
She fished through a desk drawer for an owl treat, and giving it to him, sent him on his way.
No wonder I have no food, she thought dryly, though it's better than being completely alone, she reprimanded herself.
Completely alone, she wasn't- but she was damned close.
She kept in touch with Harry and Ron, of course, but they were always ungodly busy with all things auror- related. Voldemort was still at large, but hope still flickered, despite rampant assaults by Death Eaters.
She wished she could write them to see how they were, what they were doing and the sorts. But she didn't know where they were, and didn't feel she should pester them with small talk.
What you've just done is nothing small, a voice inside her head piped. She wanted to share it with someone. anyone. As the reality of what lie ahead of her set in, she felt exuberant. She wanted to scream all bloody hell.
But she sat. Quietly. In her London Flat.
Alone.