Post by jazzyjess on Nov 27, 2011 23:56:57 GMT -8
Title: The Quidditch Pitch (i)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 174
Warnings:
Summary: Hermione tries to find herself, looking for answers in an unlikely place. EWE.
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The last place Hermione expects to end up is here, of all places, here where the air is clean and fresh, where the ground beneath her feet is soft and springy and green. The Quidditch pitch feels so empty, no students jostling one another for better access to the stands, no players on their broomsticks whipping past so close that the generated wind lifts hair or clothes.
Casually she allows her hand to drift down to her still-flat stomach, resting there on the little secret that is hers and hers alone – for now. There is still another week before the students are set to return, and she turns back to the castle, wandering slowly, taking her time, soaking in as much of the sunlight as she can. Behind her, the breeze sighs through the stands.
“Goodbye,” she tells the Quidditch pitch – irrationally, she knows, because it is not a sentient thing that is conscious of her words, but she says it anyways – “Goodbye.”
For now, sights the breeze in the Quidditch pitch. For now.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 174
Warnings:
Summary: Hermione tries to find herself, looking for answers in an unlikely place. EWE.
-
The last place Hermione expects to end up is here, of all places, here where the air is clean and fresh, where the ground beneath her feet is soft and springy and green. The Quidditch pitch feels so empty, no students jostling one another for better access to the stands, no players on their broomsticks whipping past so close that the generated wind lifts hair or clothes.
Casually she allows her hand to drift down to her still-flat stomach, resting there on the little secret that is hers and hers alone – for now. There is still another week before the students are set to return, and she turns back to the castle, wandering slowly, taking her time, soaking in as much of the sunlight as she can. Behind her, the breeze sighs through the stands.
“Goodbye,” she tells the Quidditch pitch – irrationally, she knows, because it is not a sentient thing that is conscious of her words, but she says it anyways – “Goodbye.”
For now, sights the breeze in the Quidditch pitch. For now.
