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[10 Jan 2008|01:41am] |
WHO: Fabian Prewett and Emmeline Vance
WHAT: Fabian breaks off his engagement with Emmeline
WHEN: This past July
WHERE: Em's flat
RATING: PG-14? Fabian swearz.
( and now it's time to say goodbye )
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[10 Jan 2008|06:49pm] |
Who: James and Sirius
What: The death of Mrs Potter.
When: Today
Where: The Potter home in Godric's Hollow
Rated: R for character-death
He doesn't know how many hours have passed. There are no clocks in the room; swept away by the busy efficent hands of medi-witches as they cleared the living-room of most of their things, creating an 'easy access space, Mr Potter' for the bed brought down from upstairs. He was so struck dumb by them calling him 'Mr Potter' - the name of his father, not him - he couldn't protest. The comfortable squashy sofas he and Sirius and his father used to splay out on after a long day of larks, are banished. The walls are still lined with books and photographs and portraits, but the room is dominated, ruled by the vast oak bed that rests in the centre.
Her breath is shallow as though already she needs less air than the living. The blankets barely rise and fall over her; a thin fascimile of a person in the bed. Dreamily he thinks it could be pillows, shaped to form her, a trick they used to play come Christmas and he'd rush in to open presents; they'd be hiding behind the curtain, the sleeping forms nothing beneath the sheets.
He has watched her so long, when he blinks, he sees her on the insides of his eyelids. It is memorised, that long dark strand of hair plastered to her cheek with sleep, the etched lines of strain and worry newly created across her forehead. In repose he can still read the marks of laughter and love, the corner of her mouth where her kisses lived, a dimple tucked so close to the bow of her mouth, his father used to whisper it was why his mother's kisses were so comforting. She is Mother, with a thousand threads of life in her lap, who drew his together and taught him to hold the first spindle of independence.
James blinks, the dusty dryness of his eyes itching - not crying. He is not crying, his eyes are just itching. In sleep, her hand is curled around the photograph of his father that used to stand on the mantlepiece, and the portrait is asleep too. It is as if she cannot be close enough to Charlus yet, and as though in sleep she might hope to seep through the glass, and behind the photograph with him. Leaving him behind.
His fingers tighten on the arms of the chair, he flexes a foot that has gone to sleep with long hours of watching. Of waiting.
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