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writetomyheart2019-03-17 11:55 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2019-03-17 11:55 pm
[team sonic] a little row boat // [team sonic] a blank shore (double post)
Double post here to avoid posting twice! I ran out of time but do plan to hopefully finish these later.
First words from let the rain come down. Title from Radiohead’s Pyramid Song.
Shame. Draco rolls the word around on his tongue. It tastes, at turns, both prickly and slippery, smoky and sour. It's something he's supposed to feel, at least according to some of the letters to the editor in the Daily Prophet, but then again, some of the articles think he should be dead, or in Azkaban.
“You must always take care to come out well in public opinion,” his father always told him. “It matters less if people like you, than if they respect you.”
His father is a complicated topic now, both happy memories from his childhood, complicated ones from Hogwarts days, and—well, the year with Voldemort in his house is still too fresh. The holes may be patched, the walls repainted, the dungeons washed, but the air in the rooms still hangs too heavy. Draco feels like he's choking when he stands in the dining room and hears his aunt still shouting, hears the screams that still drift through the air. It feels like soot, clinging to him and coating his skin. Maybe that's what shame is, black soot that sticks to him, rubbing off on anyone he touches.
“I can't stay here,” he tells his mother in the front hall, cold despite the fire cracking in the hearth. She stands there in a pale blue dress, no black in sight. Her eyes are determined, but her embrace is still soft as she wraps him in a hug.
“I understand,” she murmurs in his eye, the brush of her fingers warm against his back. She's strong, and Draco knows she’ll be okay. At least there's that.
“Shall I send Lily with your things to the London flat?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the Bath house?” She doesn't mention Lestrange Abbey, left to him with his aunt and uncle’s death. It's probably for the best; Draco doesn't want to think about it.
He thinks, instead, about London, about the trial and memories that are still too raw, about a smile that was strained but sincere. His wand is a warm weight in his sleeve again, close for paranoid comfort even though he doesn't really like to use it anymore. Draco can still remember what it was used for, after all. He's gotten pretty good at wandless casting, anyway.
“Draco?” his mother asks, drawing back to look at his face. The concern on her face is both comforting, and difficult to swallow. Sometimes he feels like he has his sadness stamped across his chest, for everyone to see.
“The flat would be best, I think,” he decides, ignoring the fact that Diagon Alley is there too. At least the flat is in Chelsea. Shame comes to mind again—he doesn't feel brave enough to venture into Diagon Alley, or at least he doesn't think so. Is that a part of it?
His mother exhales softly, not quite a sigh, and Draco blinks back from his thoughts. “I’m—” he begins, but his mother stops him with a small shake of her head.
“It's time to be who we are, as we figure out whoever that is,” she says. Draco looks at her, his mother whom he loves and yet somehow doesn't know at all.
“I don't know who that is yet,” he says, standing in the front hall of a house he can't live in right now, maybe not anymore.
“I know,” his mother says, standing in a house that she's still living in. “I still love you anyway.”
First words from laundry piles. Title from Radiohead’s Reckoner.
The air feels as damp as the ground looks, and there’s a lingering scent of rain left behind, different from how it felt before the storm. Hannibal stands, barefoot, on the lawn in front of the house, and watches the police and the ambulances, five sheet-covered bodies.
There should be six.
There shouldn't be any at all.
His fingers are cold, skin no longer red. All the stains wash away in the rain. It's not fair. The feeling catches him his chest, the green surrounding him a stark contrast to the emptiness of the house behind him. He's not even sure what it is that he’s feeling, only that he doesn't want to feel it anymore, but at the same time never wants to stop. It's all he has left.
First words from let the rain come down. Title from Radiohead’s Pyramid Song.
Shame. Draco rolls the word around on his tongue. It tastes, at turns, both prickly and slippery, smoky and sour. It's something he's supposed to feel, at least according to some of the letters to the editor in the Daily Prophet, but then again, some of the articles think he should be dead, or in Azkaban.
“You must always take care to come out well in public opinion,” his father always told him. “It matters less if people like you, than if they respect you.”
His father is a complicated topic now, both happy memories from his childhood, complicated ones from Hogwarts days, and—well, the year with Voldemort in his house is still too fresh. The holes may be patched, the walls repainted, the dungeons washed, but the air in the rooms still hangs too heavy. Draco feels like he's choking when he stands in the dining room and hears his aunt still shouting, hears the screams that still drift through the air. It feels like soot, clinging to him and coating his skin. Maybe that's what shame is, black soot that sticks to him, rubbing off on anyone he touches.
“I can't stay here,” he tells his mother in the front hall, cold despite the fire cracking in the hearth. She stands there in a pale blue dress, no black in sight. Her eyes are determined, but her embrace is still soft as she wraps him in a hug.
“I understand,” she murmurs in his eye, the brush of her fingers warm against his back. She's strong, and Draco knows she’ll be okay. At least there's that.
“Shall I send Lily with your things to the London flat?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the Bath house?” She doesn't mention Lestrange Abbey, left to him with his aunt and uncle’s death. It's probably for the best; Draco doesn't want to think about it.
He thinks, instead, about London, about the trial and memories that are still too raw, about a smile that was strained but sincere. His wand is a warm weight in his sleeve again, close for paranoid comfort even though he doesn't really like to use it anymore. Draco can still remember what it was used for, after all. He's gotten pretty good at wandless casting, anyway.
“Draco?” his mother asks, drawing back to look at his face. The concern on her face is both comforting, and difficult to swallow. Sometimes he feels like he has his sadness stamped across his chest, for everyone to see.
“The flat would be best, I think,” he decides, ignoring the fact that Diagon Alley is there too. At least the flat is in Chelsea. Shame comes to mind again—he doesn't feel brave enough to venture into Diagon Alley, or at least he doesn't think so. Is that a part of it?
His mother exhales softly, not quite a sigh, and Draco blinks back from his thoughts. “I’m—” he begins, but his mother stops him with a small shake of her head.
“It's time to be who we are, as we figure out whoever that is,” she says. Draco looks at her, his mother whom he loves and yet somehow doesn't know at all.
“I don't know who that is yet,” he says, standing in the front hall of a house he can't live in right now, maybe not anymore.
“I know,” his mother says, standing in a house that she's still living in. “I still love you anyway.”
First words from laundry piles. Title from Radiohead’s Reckoner.
The air feels as damp as the ground looks, and there’s a lingering scent of rain left behind, different from how it felt before the storm. Hannibal stands, barefoot, on the lawn in front of the house, and watches the police and the ambulances, five sheet-covered bodies.
There should be six.
There shouldn't be any at all.
His fingers are cold, skin no longer red. All the stains wash away in the rain. It's not fair. The feeling catches him his chest, the green surrounding him a stark contrast to the emptiness of the house behind him. He's not even sure what it is that he’s feeling, only that he doesn't want to feel it anymore, but at the same time never wants to stop. It's all he has left.