pre_raphaelite1 (pre_raphaelite1) wrote in hp_april_fools, @ 2008-04-28 01:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2008, art, fic, minerva, other, pg, snape |
April Fools, snapelike!
Title: An Airing Out in Autumn & Under Scrutiny
Recipient: snapelike
Author/Artist: Fool # 28 / nightfall
Word Count or Medium: 1431w - Origami, sharpie, white-out, and photoshop (We’re supposed to work out-medium, but I loved the prompt and just had to write for it, too)
Pairings/Characters: SS, MM, AD, a hint of LM/SS – SS, MM, Hogwarts
Rating: Worksafe
Warnings/Kinks: Woe. A purplish sort of hue. Dub-respect.
Summary/Notes: Dumbledore’s announcement of Snape’s status as a spy for the Order wasn’t met with a demand for evidence, suggesting he’d already been cleared. People go to Azkaban even to wait for trial. The prompt was ‘a new professor seeks comfort,’ but comfort isn’t something they really believe in.
Author/Artist's Notes: Thanks to McG for the character consult, and to our gracious PR1 for the beta (and her patience)!
Once the world was painted in greys, and shadows were comfort and safety. Once, color was eggshell-tempura, fine and delicate, each gradation of hue and saturation clearly distinguished, however smoothly blended, and the bold black lines of fear-hatred illuminated the quiet moments, framed their glow, soft seaglass-green.
Once there was a room, cold stone, rough-hewed and haunted with black-hole vampire vapors, its most vibrant life the moldy, dun-green, damp-fed moss in its corners, small life in uninspired lungs. A bold man was hurled in shattered, once, and came out, twelve years later, hunted and honed to pale and broken-sharp bone. The tatter-sleeved hand that reached to hold a ragged back was met with twitching and fumes, and the rage-poisoned echoes of sun-drugged days that were never so bright as the gaps of memory dream them.
A twisted-round-about man had bent his head willingly to the lintel not so very long before him. This one came out, twelve days later, squinting into the strong light, impossibly resolved to fade into and stand against it, and never bend again. The hand in the velvet sleeve that gripped crow-winged shoulders, dark feathers, hollow bones… this hand wrought of gnarled oak, no fine, steel-smooth fingers now (not ever again: a resolution false and futile and meant from the soul), and a silver-parched spider’s snare fell comfortably into red lines etched by a net of soft white gold into spare flesh too numb for flinching.
While she’s less ignorant of all these things than most, she’s come to believe, over the years, that the best remedy for tragedy is getting on with one’s work.