Post by jazzyjess on Mar 16, 2010 13:35:30 GMT -8
Title: Exquisite
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied character death.
Pairings: DHr
Summary: Draco Malfoy has no one left.
-
"What do you suppose happens when a paper dies?"
It was cold, very cold outside. The sky was overcast and cloudy, and the scent of winter hung in the air. No snow dusted the ground, and yet with every exhalation came a puff of white. The trees were bare, and the wind had picked up, blowing arbitrary litter to tangle in the dead or dying grass, to crinkle along the cracked and sloping pavement that formed the streets of the city.
". . ."
People were silent as they walked, gloved fingers shoved deep into pockets and hat-covered heads bent against the constant gusting. Nobody looked up from their feet as they pushed their way into the shopping district, bland skyscrapers reaching up to tower above the world, tallest stories tapering into nothingness.
"Do you think it's the same as when a person does?"
The airport was shut down. Turbulence was too great for the small ten-seater airplanes. Pilots didn't want to be out in the ugly weather. They wanted to be home with their families, eating a home cooked meal and playing in front of the fireplace with their children. Thanksgiving had just passed. Only the pilots wanted to give thanks.
". . ."
St Paul Cemetery was deserted. It was open to the elements, with a small lake and the only vegetation being shrubs that rose barely to a child's knee. No one wanted to be out in the open on such a miserable day. Headstones stood stiff and straight, their cement backings unbending. The flat markers once at a level with the ground were beginning to sink in, along with the grass of the graves themselves.
"Draco?"
Water dripped steadily from a faucet on the side of the cemetery's office. The windows were boarded up, the battered sign on the door read 'Closed.' Shingles were missing from the roof, like squares missing from a patchwork quilt. Dust was settled two inches high on the rusting hinges and doorknob. Cobwebs hung from the roof. Still the faucet dripped.
"My mother's buried here."
"I know."
"I miss her."
". . . I know."
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied character death.
Pairings: DHr
Summary: Draco Malfoy has no one left.
-
"What do you suppose happens when a paper dies?"
It was cold, very cold outside. The sky was overcast and cloudy, and the scent of winter hung in the air. No snow dusted the ground, and yet with every exhalation came a puff of white. The trees were bare, and the wind had picked up, blowing arbitrary litter to tangle in the dead or dying grass, to crinkle along the cracked and sloping pavement that formed the streets of the city.
". . ."
People were silent as they walked, gloved fingers shoved deep into pockets and hat-covered heads bent against the constant gusting. Nobody looked up from their feet as they pushed their way into the shopping district, bland skyscrapers reaching up to tower above the world, tallest stories tapering into nothingness.
"Do you think it's the same as when a person does?"
The airport was shut down. Turbulence was too great for the small ten-seater airplanes. Pilots didn't want to be out in the ugly weather. They wanted to be home with their families, eating a home cooked meal and playing in front of the fireplace with their children. Thanksgiving had just passed. Only the pilots wanted to give thanks.
". . ."
St Paul Cemetery was deserted. It was open to the elements, with a small lake and the only vegetation being shrubs that rose barely to a child's knee. No one wanted to be out in the open on such a miserable day. Headstones stood stiff and straight, their cement backings unbending. The flat markers once at a level with the ground were beginning to sink in, along with the grass of the graves themselves.
"Draco?"
Water dripped steadily from a faucet on the side of the cemetery's office. The windows were boarded up, the battered sign on the door read 'Closed.' Shingles were missing from the roof, like squares missing from a patchwork quilt. Dust was settled two inches high on the rusting hinges and doorknob. Cobwebs hung from the roof. Still the faucet dripped.
"My mother's buried here."
"I know."
"I miss her."
". . . I know."