A/N: lol one of the four stories i'm up loading one after the other. this one was way shorter then i would have liked, which makes me sad. so my fear of the Mac is diminishing, thankfully. songs that helped the process along.
Crystal Castles- Vanished, Dr. Dog- Heart it races, The Xx- Fantasy, Massive Attack- Black Milk, Phoenix- Lisztomania (Alec metric remix), MGMT- Electric Feel, The Xx- Basic Space.
/ |||| Red, The Color of Dreams |||| \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
The ink is staining his fingers, he's sure, as he presses them to the paper in hopes that it won't fall and thus make him set down his pile of books in order to retrieve it from the floor.
The paper will be marked further for it's own idiocy rather than it's scribe; when he is in his office, behind his mahogany desk drinking his coffee, black and steaming.
He will write more harshly only because he can't read the words on the page; will berate the writer for his chicken scratch and his confidence, but for now it will only stain his fingers and palms as he move through the halls.
Students scurry out of his way to try not to draw his ire to themselves.
Oh, he's terrifying sight, he's sure of this as well, pile of books or no; his gait even and quick, his long legs and thus large steps eating away at the ground.
He can imagine his office now, all dim with its curtains drawn, heavy mahogany desk heavy and sturdy, everything in its place; only a few minutes to its haven.
Sometimes in late afternoon, like now, a student would wander down this hall and up to his door, knocking cautiously, always with hesitation, even older students came to him when absolutely needed.
At this moment though, the halls were quiet, the shadow of trees swaying in the autumn breeze, came through the window leaving the hall hazy and golden brown.
It would be Halloween soon, only a few more days.
The students would laugh and play trick or treat with the staff. He had even been coerced into participating one year, but soon enough left alone, though he did leave his door open with a chair; a bowl of candy waiting for anyone who care for a bit.
He balanced his pile of books on his pile of books on his hip and up against his office door when he finally arrived, placing the paper on top them and then turning the knob. Lifting the books back up, he ventured into his office and set them down on his desk.
It wasn't until he was at the door, ready to close it, that he happened to look up into his office.
For a moment, the dark office had looked more dull, the grey of dust highly noticeable.
He paused, looking at his left hand for a moment, his hand looked bloody, as if he had been pressing it to a wound, and his breath hitched; for a second he could feel a sharp pain in his neck, a snake slithering not far off, could feel it moving its heavy body away.
He blinked and the feeling was gone, was pushed away as deja-vu.
Closing the door and opening curtains, the afternoon light began to swim in the room, large chairs, brown leather and brass buttons, mahogany desk and papers.
Sighing he went about his day, hoping that Ms. Granger would remember that he asked for no more than twenty references this time around.
Hopefully Mr. Potter had persuaded her not to use to many; for that reason and that reason only, did he leave the paper that had stained his hand, sickly red, alone.
Just left it sitting on top of books, slightly crumpled and smudged, he would be seeing the boy later, he could return it then.
Discuss the writing and sloppy writing that he would never confess to knowing how to reading, over coffee and than dinner, and stories of odd dreams about snakes and swards and an elf more obsessed with socks than Albus Dumbledore and magic.
Maybe then, the ache would ease as well; maybe his day could end on a high note of his whimper and quiet sighs.
Only a vague sense of deja-vu once more, lingering in sleep.