[ Edit | View ]

[> [> [> [> [> [> Words fail -- Harry Potter, 21:04:01 03/19/02 Tue

The fatigued boy is appropriately mildly disheveled by the eerie wrath in the familiar's cedar colored eyes as he shifts his gaze to his own. He too had seen the startlingly bright, lime green light, brought to life by the same wizard, and put into exsistence by the same wand. No matter how rigorously he strained the preciprices of his sometimes ghastly memory, he could never recall it. At least he had no trauma of the pain that accompied the fateful efflux of emerald color, peculiarly, nearly the same shade of his unreadable eyes. At least he didn't have time to form a bond with those who conceived him so that he would feel the indescribable anguish that would surely descend upon him like knives dug and twisted into one's heart. At least his misery was numb. Or at least, that was how it remembered it now. This was how his experiences with the one who murdered his parents differed from Ron's. They weren't entirely intact like the red head's were. Was it ever painful, or did he just grow immune to it after five years? It was a confusing and most tiring topic to digilently dwell upon. Sometimes, if he tried to conjure the image the pair that gave him life, he could remember snippets of their appearances. It was all very unclear and very namby pamby. Like everything was now. In his recent contemplations, he had shamefully blamed himself for the attacks on Hogwarts. Truth be told, they were definitely induced by his presence at the school. Many of his peers discerned this fact as well, and had been wittingly avoiding him. He carries the burden of the immense guilt of being the root of why so many lost their lives upon his weakening shoulders and they never fail to send tempestuous waves of guilty pain through every withering empathy inside of him.

Needless to say that after his mind tangented in such a way, it is a minute or so later after his musings commenced that he replies. He mulls quietly over applicable words for the situation, not bothering to sugarcoat everything when it ensues verbally. He seems strangely emotionless anymore as he begins; as if a dementor had just administered its wretched kiss. What had happened in the three minutes since he had been considerate and caring, and now was bitter and indignant about everything? Such a dramatic change in a such a short timespan. Nonetheless, he monotonously speaks, as if he does not want to evoke emotions within his companion and cause him further emotional hemorrage. "Hogwarts shut down because Voldemort lead a carefully plotted raid from the inside on it. A lot of people died. Voldemort hit you with the Killing Curse. It didn't fully hit you, though. Or else you'd be dead. It brushed by you, just hitting you by a millimeter, they said. They also said that if it had hit you any closer, you'd be dead. Fred died, Ron. He's not here anymore, Ron." He pauses and continues with bitter amusement as the thought of Dumbledore dawns on him. "And, oh yeah. Dumbledore's a turncoat. Or was, might I say. Voldemort killed him too." If he's going to be blunt, why not be crystal clear? The words forming on the tip of his tongue are "Fred's six feet under," but his conscience, which seems to be gradually melting into one angel with devil horns supporting its halo, manages to make him refrain from saying such a cruel thing. Fred was his friend as well as Ron's brother, and he felt the same sort of dreary rue that he did, but perhaps not to the degree the other felt it. Ron wasn't ready to face the realization of losing someone. No one is, and they recognize that fact the minute the person slips away, and no matter how prepared they had assured themselves they would be, when the time came, they saw they weren't. Everyone knows how they might have been saved once the ship has already sank.

Beacon-like, gelid optics sweep over the approaching female's wanly complected and comely face as she gains way towards them. He allows the awkward silence between the trio to exsist for a few malaise moments before the mournful atmosphere corrodes a nerve. He ogles the castle in cleverly disguised exhaustion and somewhat apparent reluctance, his mind reeling with memoirs locked inside of him. The reverie suffocates as his overactive imagination aberrantly contrives ways that someone could make shambles of the already devestated ruins of the students. That someone is a figure that been the presiding haunt of his dreams for years. Sometimes he wants to end it all. It would surely put his friends at less of a risk, as the master of all things dark would have no further inclination to slaughter them all like he seems hell-bent on doing now. Or at least it is perceived to Harry's complicated mind which overanalyzes every second he exsists that way. His stare is surprisingly empty and unmotivated as it returns first to the ruby tressed female, and then her matching brother. A compassion for wanting to comfort them pangs somewhere in his beclouded mind, and the obscure stare of the Boy Who Lived avoids them unsurely. "Well. This is it. May as well move on; there's nothing left to go back to." And nothing to go forward to, either.

[ Edit | View ]

[> [> [> [> [> [> [> «..Lost Feelings..» -- Cho Chang, 10:06:48 03/20/02 Wed