rurounihime (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rurounihime) wrote2004-08-12 06:29 pm
rurounihime) wrote2004-08-12 06:29 pm
Two drabbles....
Here are two H/D drabbles I wrote... but consider yourself warned. I tend to release my own depression and anxieties when I write. These two turned out fairly dark.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of it.
The especially hard one first, so I can leave you with some hope at the end... (beware... character death)
It was vaguely that Ginny Weasley saw it, Hermione leaning frantic over Draco, face streaked and dirty, and it was vaguely that Ginny saw him glowing whiter and whiter in contrast, some misplaced angel, because his blood was slipping away unseen, disappearing, going where, none of them knew, but it was leaving him. And Hermione with her learner's skills, wielding them like a master because it was all she had left to give, because she couldn't stop the glow from licking at his skin, couldn't halt the invisible flow of blood.
His ragged screams echoed dimly in Ginny's ears because she couldn't hear them anymore, because Hermione's greatest gift was a spell, an ending to the pain. She almost wished Hermione hadn't done it because then she could hear the words instead and they were worse than screams. They all melded together over the next few minutes in Ginny's brain, sometimes Hermione's frenzied voice, the next time Draco's, fading, oh god fading so fast, and it was the way that being-dead-and-knowing-it fought with being-alive-and-not-knowing-it that made Ginny want to stop the words and go back to the screaming.
Hermione You're bleeding somewhere Draco do you know where Draco I think it started raining a little outside Hermione Just give me one moment just one more moment Draco's face, in one moment, going gaunt, skin pulling, Hermione Draco please can you remember the spell what was the spell that did this Draco I had a family like you once and I'm quite certain they loved Hermione Oh please please stop talking and let me see if Draco He's out there isn't he Hermione Oh god Draco I can't Draco Is he out there now Hermione He's he's not here but hold on because Draco's eyes going glassy, fixed, Draco Leave him out there please don't let him in here Hermione Oh god Ron help me he's drifting oh god Draco Can you touch my hand Hermione Why Draco why do you Draco Because I can't see anything and it was here that Hermione finally cracked in half and spoke in scalding tears, grabbed white stiffening fingers and squeezed for dear life, Ginny wasn't sure whose.
Until finally Draco's head lolled sideways and a single glowing ruby appeared, one drop of blood drifted beyond the borders that were his lips. Blood Ginny did not even believe was left in his body, a tiny gem that slid and left a trail down the white skin of his cheek, and his eyes finally grew as misted and opaque as the thunderheads they resembled.
Ron, standing over Draco's body, shaking, looking like he wanted to shred something, that thing outside that boomed and laughed and stole blood. Ron, who turned and hissed at her, at his own sister, hissed in a voice that could have killed, Don't you tell Harry about this.
Because he knew her too well, realized that that had been what she was about to do, leap, a doe startled by a night hunter, and run to him because somewhere in her brain she thought that Harry knowing about this would somehow make it all reverse, play back and right itself. Harry wouldn't let Draco go like this, not Draco.
She didn't run because she didn't know how to do so, not for hours, not how to make her limbs move or how to give voice to Hermione's wordless wretched grief, to Ron's bleeding silence, to the need she felt to turn and look -- look -- at the misplaced angel in corporeal form, the fact that she couldn't look, couldn't equate the silver pale stillness with the voice still echoing in the room. Not until silence swept over the cacophony outside, not until the world shuddered to a halt and held still did she find life in her limbs, a way to move herself from that shuttered place.
And it was vaguely that Ginny finally ran, out the door into shocking chill and abrupt silence in place of the screams and booms and razor-edged spells. She had the frozen, deep, elated feel of one who comes upon an unexpected stillness where strife used to reign, where things had ripped themselves apart not moments before, and the presence of something so evil and so good, so flawless, the cloak of death, fell over her like a shroud.
She felt she was looking for something, someone perhaps, words just waiting to break from her lips, a spell to cast or to impart to another to cast, that would turn this mesh of decay and loss backward until the sun shone on it and she wasn't afraid of hearing voices anymore. There was something she wasn't supposed to say to someone, but it seemed so necessary that he know, that he know, of all people, and she was searching so she could speak it with her eyes or with the raw scream she felt building in her chest. The person would hear her and fix everything.
She never told Harry about Draco because she never found him. Found something like him, trying to be Harry, but it was not Harry because it was only a shell, twisted, crumpled on the ground, clouded emeralds open to the scattered silky raindrops, and for a moment she recognized them and the absence of Harry in them. It was then that she saw the thing that was the reason for all of this, settled into the earth nearby like it belonged there, charred and wandless and finally powerless, beaten at last in a seventeen-year-old battle that should have ended in elusive sunlight instead of this cold void. For a second she wondered if Harry had thought he was protecting Draco, by being there with the thing, by going away, by leaving a shell behind in his place, as a shield perhaps. For a second she wondered if Harry had succeeded only because her message had gone undelivered, power that would have evaporated surging, spilling, looming to keep safe that which was already gone. For a second she wondered if Hermione had dragged a dirty sheet over the faded white being in that room, the staring-at-nothing eyes.
For a split second she wondered if people found each other between worlds after death.
Then her mind closed down -- there was an emerald-eyed shell battered on the ground in front of her, a misplaced angel in the darkness behind her -- and her scream found voice.
...
...
...
*cringes* I do apologize.
And the next one... (not as dark, thank goodness)
Sometimes when Colin wasn’t snapping pictures, he would put down his camera and infuse mental images into his brain. He would look at Harry Potter, and the people around him, and think about what it all meant, because surely it had to mean something different for all of them.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Ron Weasley, with regards to Harry Potter. Swaggering down the hall, telling everyone with your smile and your stance that you were best friends with the savior of the wizarding world, that there were things you knew about him that no one else did, and that no one else would ever get a chance to glimpse. Ron was stubborn. Colin suspected there were things Ron would never apologize for. Such as getting Harry to laugh after a lost Snitch. Such as being an anti-Slytherin wall between his best friend’s body and those who wished to pull him into darker depths than he could even fathom. Such as not being able to define those depths himself, and working extra hard to make sure Harry never found the bottom. Such as letting one single Slytherin through when asked, because, despite what Ron thought about the whole situation, he knew what Harry thought about the whole situation. Such as realizing that being a good wall, that keeping the injury away, sometimes meant breaking down a part of the barricade, weakening it in one place in order to strengthen the whole.
Being Ron Weasley meant being cocky, and using it as another brick in the fortress. It meant taking all of the protected one’s memories of dead godfathers and screaming parents, of cloaked faceless wraiths with rotting hands, of his own broken leg, his own battered body, his own threatened family, and letting Harry forget them for a moment long enough to smile and remember how good it felt to be alive.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Hermione Granger, with regards to Harry Potter. He’d watch Hermione with her load of books. The way her face puckered seriously from across the room, blocking everything else out, even conversation with Harry. The way she leaped to her feet, her mouth open in a glorious secretive “O”, and dashed from the Great Hall, leaving Harry, Ron, and her half-eaten breakfast pasty in favor of whatever she had just figured out concerning the next move of a certain evil overlord. The way she brushed fingers through tangled hair, pushing it out of her way because on the other side of that brown bushy mane, in these pages, in this potion, in that dream translation, were the answers to how to keep Harry one step ahead of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He figured maybe Hermione actually named He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
He thought being Hermione must mean quiet words and stability, and sometimes fury, because he saw the way she touched Harry’s arm, the way she leaned her head in close when his face dropped into the regions of hopelessness. He saw the pursed lips and heard the harsh jerking words, the way she lashed out in such a heated, un-studious way when Harry’s eyes hollowed from the cutting comment of a classmate. The way she narrowed her eyes at those he was beginning to realize she saw as threats in the long run, soon-to-be Death Eaters. He thought it meant smugly knowing that there were people who would never ever want to be on Harry’s bad side because of what a wand could do in Hermione’s talented, innocent-looking hands.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Ginny Weasley, with regards to Harry Potter. Ease within unease. An additional figure to watch over her, safety in the knowledge that she had more family than she’d initially thought. He watched Ginny talking to Harry Potter over dinner, eyes twinkling brightly in a way that said she knew who he was, and how lucky she was. He wondered if it also meant taking a step back one day and realizing that the war was right on her front doorstep, had been for some time, unnoticed, and trying to pry out just how it had crept so close. Not being able to turn around and disappear into the multitude of faceless students, just because she knew exactly who Harry was. Because being close to him, being his friend, considering him to be family meant inviting the war into your house, into your bedroom at night in dreams, asking it to sidle up next to you and leer at your childish laughter. It meant not watching from the sidelines as people fell, despairing from a carefully maintained distance, but instead possibly being there inches away when the first person finally did fall, thanking your lucky stars that it wasn’t you, that you were an inch to the right instead of to the left, and then hating yourself the next moment. The way she spoke to him, the way she managed to keep her childish laughter, told him she knew all of this, and still realized how lucky she was.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Draco Malfoy, with regards to Harry Potter. Maybe it meant nights of lying there staring at the ceiling – perhaps with Harry’s slumbering form entwined in his arms? – dwelling on the thought of losing him to cold, sightless death. Or it might mean nights of lying there staring at the ceiling, running pale fingers over sun-darkened skin, thinking of ways to force that fated boy’s body aside and step into the subsequent void, to come from an unexpected quarter and expend a last breath on saving the blithely dreaming person he now touched.
Perhaps it was both.
Because he’d seen the way Draco wrapped his arms around Harry from behind in the Great Hall, one arm circling his waist in a soft caress, the other coming up more firmly around Harry’s chest. Like the arms of two different people. Because he’d seen Harry laugh, turning his head at something Draco said only for him, meeting the closest thing to a smile that would ever grace the lips of a Malfoy. But, more importantly, because he had seen Draco’s face change the moment Harry looked away, an expression he knew Harry had never once seen and was never meant to see. Thinning of the lips, tightening of the jaw, fervent burning in the smoky grey depths of those eyes, and all that was missing was an uncontrollable protective clutch of long fingers around Harry’s body. But Draco never allowed that last part to show. It was at those moments that Colin believed – really believed – that no one would ever be able to touch Harry. Not if the person knew what it meant to be Draco Malfoy.
~
He thought being Ron, being Hermione, being Ginny, being Draco with regards to Harry Potter was difficult, but fulfilling in some way. Closeness came with a price, but it was paid freely, and Harry Potter was stronger for it.
~
He didn’t think that being Ron Weasley might mean never receiving a real smile from the boy you called your best friend, getting instead a shadowed stare that did not quite know it was there, and anger not quite directed at you. Hearing an apology in every fake lighthearted sentence, seeing the injuries you had all but forgotten playing over and over in those green eyes. Hearing your own heartfelt words of forgiveness fall uselessly on deaf ears.
He never thought that being Hermione Granger might mean trying over and over to reach that forgotten point when deep laughter filled your ears, when the words said to you were no more than scathing jokes about Quidditch mispronunciations. The point when all that mattered was how well you all fit under an Invisibility Cloak, when it was just tiny illegal dragons and failed Polyjuice in the girl’s bathroom. Trying to reach that point, failing every time, and losing just a bit more heart with each failure.
He didn’t think that being Ginny Weasley might mean sitting up in bed terrified that one day you would wake up and find that the war had ended over night, that you hadn’t been there, that the thing you wanted to do, that thing you planned and agonized over and had night terrors about in the cold midnight hours had been rendered obsolete. That you would climb the stairs to your brother’s dormitory and find that one bed had been made into a martyr’s. That you were too late, too scared, to repay the person who had saved your life.
He never thought that being Draco Malfoy might mean waking in the middle of the night to helpless screams, wrapping trembling arms around a sweaty raving body, and trying to embrace away the cold terror filling the room. Whispering that this was as permanent as you could make it, that there would be no leaving, no desertion, no loss, and knowing – knowing – that it might all very well be a lie tomorrow, despite your best efforts to remain with the living.
~
Colin never thought these things because he didn’t think of what it might mean to be Harry Potter. Not with regards to Harry Potter.
...
...
...
Okay. That's it for now. Don't worry, I'm not all doom and gloom. I have good stories coming later on.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of it.
The especially hard one first, so I can leave you with some hope at the end... (beware... character death)
It was vaguely that Ginny Weasley saw it, Hermione leaning frantic over Draco, face streaked and dirty, and it was vaguely that Ginny saw him glowing whiter and whiter in contrast, some misplaced angel, because his blood was slipping away unseen, disappearing, going where, none of them knew, but it was leaving him. And Hermione with her learner's skills, wielding them like a master because it was all she had left to give, because she couldn't stop the glow from licking at his skin, couldn't halt the invisible flow of blood.
His ragged screams echoed dimly in Ginny's ears because she couldn't hear them anymore, because Hermione's greatest gift was a spell, an ending to the pain. She almost wished Hermione hadn't done it because then she could hear the words instead and they were worse than screams. They all melded together over the next few minutes in Ginny's brain, sometimes Hermione's frenzied voice, the next time Draco's, fading, oh god fading so fast, and it was the way that being-dead-and-knowing-it fought with being-alive-and-not-knowing-it that made Ginny want to stop the words and go back to the screaming.
Hermione You're bleeding somewhere Draco do you know where Draco I think it started raining a little outside Hermione Just give me one moment just one more moment Draco's face, in one moment, going gaunt, skin pulling, Hermione Draco please can you remember the spell what was the spell that did this Draco I had a family like you once and I'm quite certain they loved Hermione Oh please please stop talking and let me see if Draco He's out there isn't he Hermione Oh god Draco I can't Draco Is he out there now Hermione He's he's not here but hold on because Draco's eyes going glassy, fixed, Draco Leave him out there please don't let him in here Hermione Oh god Ron help me he's drifting oh god Draco Can you touch my hand Hermione Why Draco why do you Draco Because I can't see anything and it was here that Hermione finally cracked in half and spoke in scalding tears, grabbed white stiffening fingers and squeezed for dear life, Ginny wasn't sure whose.
Until finally Draco's head lolled sideways and a single glowing ruby appeared, one drop of blood drifted beyond the borders that were his lips. Blood Ginny did not even believe was left in his body, a tiny gem that slid and left a trail down the white skin of his cheek, and his eyes finally grew as misted and opaque as the thunderheads they resembled.
Ron, standing over Draco's body, shaking, looking like he wanted to shred something, that thing outside that boomed and laughed and stole blood. Ron, who turned and hissed at her, at his own sister, hissed in a voice that could have killed, Don't you tell Harry about this.
Because he knew her too well, realized that that had been what she was about to do, leap, a doe startled by a night hunter, and run to him because somewhere in her brain she thought that Harry knowing about this would somehow make it all reverse, play back and right itself. Harry wouldn't let Draco go like this, not Draco.
She didn't run because she didn't know how to do so, not for hours, not how to make her limbs move or how to give voice to Hermione's wordless wretched grief, to Ron's bleeding silence, to the need she felt to turn and look -- look -- at the misplaced angel in corporeal form, the fact that she couldn't look, couldn't equate the silver pale stillness with the voice still echoing in the room. Not until silence swept over the cacophony outside, not until the world shuddered to a halt and held still did she find life in her limbs, a way to move herself from that shuttered place.
And it was vaguely that Ginny finally ran, out the door into shocking chill and abrupt silence in place of the screams and booms and razor-edged spells. She had the frozen, deep, elated feel of one who comes upon an unexpected stillness where strife used to reign, where things had ripped themselves apart not moments before, and the presence of something so evil and so good, so flawless, the cloak of death, fell over her like a shroud.
She felt she was looking for something, someone perhaps, words just waiting to break from her lips, a spell to cast or to impart to another to cast, that would turn this mesh of decay and loss backward until the sun shone on it and she wasn't afraid of hearing voices anymore. There was something she wasn't supposed to say to someone, but it seemed so necessary that he know, that he know, of all people, and she was searching so she could speak it with her eyes or with the raw scream she felt building in her chest. The person would hear her and fix everything.
She never told Harry about Draco because she never found him. Found something like him, trying to be Harry, but it was not Harry because it was only a shell, twisted, crumpled on the ground, clouded emeralds open to the scattered silky raindrops, and for a moment she recognized them and the absence of Harry in them. It was then that she saw the thing that was the reason for all of this, settled into the earth nearby like it belonged there, charred and wandless and finally powerless, beaten at last in a seventeen-year-old battle that should have ended in elusive sunlight instead of this cold void. For a second she wondered if Harry had thought he was protecting Draco, by being there with the thing, by going away, by leaving a shell behind in his place, as a shield perhaps. For a second she wondered if Harry had succeeded only because her message had gone undelivered, power that would have evaporated surging, spilling, looming to keep safe that which was already gone. For a second she wondered if Hermione had dragged a dirty sheet over the faded white being in that room, the staring-at-nothing eyes.
For a split second she wondered if people found each other between worlds after death.
Then her mind closed down -- there was an emerald-eyed shell battered on the ground in front of her, a misplaced angel in the darkness behind her -- and her scream found voice.
...
...
...
*cringes* I do apologize.
And the next one... (not as dark, thank goodness)
Sometimes when Colin wasn’t snapping pictures, he would put down his camera and infuse mental images into his brain. He would look at Harry Potter, and the people around him, and think about what it all meant, because surely it had to mean something different for all of them.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Ron Weasley, with regards to Harry Potter. Swaggering down the hall, telling everyone with your smile and your stance that you were best friends with the savior of the wizarding world, that there were things you knew about him that no one else did, and that no one else would ever get a chance to glimpse. Ron was stubborn. Colin suspected there were things Ron would never apologize for. Such as getting Harry to laugh after a lost Snitch. Such as being an anti-Slytherin wall between his best friend’s body and those who wished to pull him into darker depths than he could even fathom. Such as not being able to define those depths himself, and working extra hard to make sure Harry never found the bottom. Such as letting one single Slytherin through when asked, because, despite what Ron thought about the whole situation, he knew what Harry thought about the whole situation. Such as realizing that being a good wall, that keeping the injury away, sometimes meant breaking down a part of the barricade, weakening it in one place in order to strengthen the whole.
Being Ron Weasley meant being cocky, and using it as another brick in the fortress. It meant taking all of the protected one’s memories of dead godfathers and screaming parents, of cloaked faceless wraiths with rotting hands, of his own broken leg, his own battered body, his own threatened family, and letting Harry forget them for a moment long enough to smile and remember how good it felt to be alive.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Hermione Granger, with regards to Harry Potter. He’d watch Hermione with her load of books. The way her face puckered seriously from across the room, blocking everything else out, even conversation with Harry. The way she leaped to her feet, her mouth open in a glorious secretive “O”, and dashed from the Great Hall, leaving Harry, Ron, and her half-eaten breakfast pasty in favor of whatever she had just figured out concerning the next move of a certain evil overlord. The way she brushed fingers through tangled hair, pushing it out of her way because on the other side of that brown bushy mane, in these pages, in this potion, in that dream translation, were the answers to how to keep Harry one step ahead of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He figured maybe Hermione actually named He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
He thought being Hermione must mean quiet words and stability, and sometimes fury, because he saw the way she touched Harry’s arm, the way she leaned her head in close when his face dropped into the regions of hopelessness. He saw the pursed lips and heard the harsh jerking words, the way she lashed out in such a heated, un-studious way when Harry’s eyes hollowed from the cutting comment of a classmate. The way she narrowed her eyes at those he was beginning to realize she saw as threats in the long run, soon-to-be Death Eaters. He thought it meant smugly knowing that there were people who would never ever want to be on Harry’s bad side because of what a wand could do in Hermione’s talented, innocent-looking hands.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Ginny Weasley, with regards to Harry Potter. Ease within unease. An additional figure to watch over her, safety in the knowledge that she had more family than she’d initially thought. He watched Ginny talking to Harry Potter over dinner, eyes twinkling brightly in a way that said she knew who he was, and how lucky she was. He wondered if it also meant taking a step back one day and realizing that the war was right on her front doorstep, had been for some time, unnoticed, and trying to pry out just how it had crept so close. Not being able to turn around and disappear into the multitude of faceless students, just because she knew exactly who Harry was. Because being close to him, being his friend, considering him to be family meant inviting the war into your house, into your bedroom at night in dreams, asking it to sidle up next to you and leer at your childish laughter. It meant not watching from the sidelines as people fell, despairing from a carefully maintained distance, but instead possibly being there inches away when the first person finally did fall, thanking your lucky stars that it wasn’t you, that you were an inch to the right instead of to the left, and then hating yourself the next moment. The way she spoke to him, the way she managed to keep her childish laughter, told him she knew all of this, and still realized how lucky she was.
~
He thought about what it meant to be Draco Malfoy, with regards to Harry Potter. Maybe it meant nights of lying there staring at the ceiling – perhaps with Harry’s slumbering form entwined in his arms? – dwelling on the thought of losing him to cold, sightless death. Or it might mean nights of lying there staring at the ceiling, running pale fingers over sun-darkened skin, thinking of ways to force that fated boy’s body aside and step into the subsequent void, to come from an unexpected quarter and expend a last breath on saving the blithely dreaming person he now touched.
Perhaps it was both.
Because he’d seen the way Draco wrapped his arms around Harry from behind in the Great Hall, one arm circling his waist in a soft caress, the other coming up more firmly around Harry’s chest. Like the arms of two different people. Because he’d seen Harry laugh, turning his head at something Draco said only for him, meeting the closest thing to a smile that would ever grace the lips of a Malfoy. But, more importantly, because he had seen Draco’s face change the moment Harry looked away, an expression he knew Harry had never once seen and was never meant to see. Thinning of the lips, tightening of the jaw, fervent burning in the smoky grey depths of those eyes, and all that was missing was an uncontrollable protective clutch of long fingers around Harry’s body. But Draco never allowed that last part to show. It was at those moments that Colin believed – really believed – that no one would ever be able to touch Harry. Not if the person knew what it meant to be Draco Malfoy.
~
He thought being Ron, being Hermione, being Ginny, being Draco with regards to Harry Potter was difficult, but fulfilling in some way. Closeness came with a price, but it was paid freely, and Harry Potter was stronger for it.
~
He didn’t think that being Ron Weasley might mean never receiving a real smile from the boy you called your best friend, getting instead a shadowed stare that did not quite know it was there, and anger not quite directed at you. Hearing an apology in every fake lighthearted sentence, seeing the injuries you had all but forgotten playing over and over in those green eyes. Hearing your own heartfelt words of forgiveness fall uselessly on deaf ears.
He never thought that being Hermione Granger might mean trying over and over to reach that forgotten point when deep laughter filled your ears, when the words said to you were no more than scathing jokes about Quidditch mispronunciations. The point when all that mattered was how well you all fit under an Invisibility Cloak, when it was just tiny illegal dragons and failed Polyjuice in the girl’s bathroom. Trying to reach that point, failing every time, and losing just a bit more heart with each failure.
He didn’t think that being Ginny Weasley might mean sitting up in bed terrified that one day you would wake up and find that the war had ended over night, that you hadn’t been there, that the thing you wanted to do, that thing you planned and agonized over and had night terrors about in the cold midnight hours had been rendered obsolete. That you would climb the stairs to your brother’s dormitory and find that one bed had been made into a martyr’s. That you were too late, too scared, to repay the person who had saved your life.
He never thought that being Draco Malfoy might mean waking in the middle of the night to helpless screams, wrapping trembling arms around a sweaty raving body, and trying to embrace away the cold terror filling the room. Whispering that this was as permanent as you could make it, that there would be no leaving, no desertion, no loss, and knowing – knowing – that it might all very well be a lie tomorrow, despite your best efforts to remain with the living.
~
Colin never thought these things because he didn’t think of what it might mean to be Harry Potter. Not with regards to Harry Potter.
...
...
...
Okay. That's it for now. Don't worry, I'm not all doom and gloom. I have good stories coming later on.
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please never stop writing.
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you break my heart you made me cry
Thank you so much for the compliment. Probably one of the most heartfelt a person can get.
please never stop writing.
No worries: Me? Stop writing? Never gonna happen.
Thanks sooooo much!
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*hugs and more sniffly heartachey tears (the kind I like from fics)*
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This paragraph: He never thought that being Draco Malfoy might mean waking in the middle of the night to helpless screams....... was so real.
*collapses*
*strains to reach keyboard*
You're a marvel.
x
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Thank you so much for your speechlessness. In actuality, it speaks very loudly. And because I love your writing, I can safely say that your commentary means a lot. Thank you thank you thank you.
*grabs hand and guides you back into your comfy chair*
*gives over nice fluffy pillows*
There. You get chocolate for being so wonderful.
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Speaking of you saying you love my writing....
I've just posted a new thing on my LJ which I'm begging for opinions on. I am Teh Feedback Whore. Want to take a look, my darling?
Pretty please.
BTW, the speechlessness was well-deserved.
*wink*
*kiss*
*throws yummy biscuits and nice blankets*
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Already done when I read your reply! Hehehe...
*directs you over to your journal...*
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*smooch*
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Can't actually talk properly at the moment.
But that's a good thing.
Gah....
Re: Gah....
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WOW!
just... Wow! I just read the first and I'm struck by amazement and grief and just...
WOW.
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First fic: gawd! the goosebumps. So... unearthly and such poignancy. You really know how to zone right in to a scene and grab the most tiniest speck and make it real. Draco's death... I FELT it. I felt Hermione's passionate need to keep him there, her anger at his giving up.
Such as not being able to define those depths himself, and working extra hard to make sure Harry never found the bottom.
This struck me and I had to quote it. I don't know... and now I have to re-read the whole thing because it was so deep and so personal and so... heavy.
It always amazes me how people can see such depth in characters; how they can turn them around and see things that aren't really there, yet there all the same, only hidden, until you turn them around and LOOK.
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I agree. There are all these little clues, if the original author has done his or her job. It's only a short time before someone finds them and works them to the surface.
Thank you so much for this review. These fics stayed with me, even though they are short and two of my first. I can remember how I was feeling when I wrote them, and I love that it seemed to come across, all Hermione's emotions and Draco's loss. Thank you so much, love.
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(Anonymous) 2005-10-02 07:24 am (UTC)(link)oh my lord they are so good!!! *kowtows to your incredible genius and skill* i like the first one because it's presented so beautifully. the conversation between draco and hermione, especially, and ginny finding harry's body *heart breaks*.
i like the second one because you were able to read into these characters so well, rather than just taking a surface impression. and OH DRACO. (but is colin really all that smart? O.o ahaha.) beautiful. i would read it again, but my eyes can't stay open. need. sleep. urk.
keep writing, darling! never never never stop. or i'll just die from good-fic deprivation.
love,
melo
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Oh, wow, I LOVE that you liked these two. They both hold such a special place in my heart. You make a good point about Colin though. ^_^ But thinking about it now, I wonder if someone who spends all his time watching Harry would begin to draw certain conclusions about him, especially if they long to be in his inner circle of friends... or his lover. Thanks for this review: I love pondering. ^_^
And don't worry. I've no plans to stop writing. ♥
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In regards to the first: This is one of the most raw and gorgeous portrayals of a final battle scene that I have ever read. I love that you focus the viewpoint on the results of an action, on the death of a critical character instead of the messy actual battle. I love that Harry's death isn't the main event. I have read this several times, at different points over the past few months, and it strongly effects, upsets, and amazes me every time I read it. Extraordinarily haunting and beautiful.
In regards to the second: I like that the first half is things that can actually be seen by an outsider, by a detached third person perspective, and that in the second half the information is known only to the character that is mentioned. I love the switch, and feel that you managed it with grace.
These are both, of course, exceptional, as your work always is.
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And again, thank you for your comments on the second ficlet. That one was just a bug I had to write out, and I was surprised how it turned out. Back when I was new to H/D... I still kind of blink at that fic. I'm so glad you liked it.
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I definitely preferred the second one... there was a semblance of fluff XD - Ginny was again human, Hermione wasnt just a know-it-all she actually used it, Ron was so huggable in his attempts to help and Draco and Harry cuddle ^^ - amidst screams and fear... not perfect but still... they cuddle ^^ (*has totally missed the point* ^^) I love the fact that you had Colin so perfectly in character, not least because he didnt pay attention to Harry when he was watching Harry... if that makes any sense ^^
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Your comment on Ginny being well-rounded is extremely nice. I was disappointed in the way her character sort of collapsed in book 6; she was such an interesting individual until then, and I like to write her a lot... try to get back to her roots and her strength. I don't know if I always succeed, but I love that you think I did this time.
And Colin... Yes, so observant and yet completely oblivious to lots of things. Thank you for reading these, even though they hurt. ^_^
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I really do think Colin was an excellent tool to use (pardon the pun, though it was intentional ^^) just because he's an observer but so very thick when it comes to what he observes... I wish I could pick up on canon nuances and use them the way you do ^^