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Queen of the Nonsequitor (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} shikishi) wrote,@ 2006-08-14 19:51:00 |
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The Vagueness of Now
Title: The Vagueness of Now
Pairing: Harry with a small mention of Draco
Rating: PG
A/N: St. Dymphna is the Celtic patron saint of mental Illness, I did not change the name as it seemed suitable to a wizarding hospital.
St. Dymphna’s doesn’t look like a hospital.
The main building is settled on a rolling expanse of green patchwork fields; a large, crumbling monstrosity of ancient masonry which is in need of more than a little help. But the Ministry officials, the Board of Executive owners and the medi- wizards and witches who work there are unwilling to change it. They think the run down structure gives the place a sense of hominess.
And in many ways, they are right.
For, to the forty-seven people spread between the gardens and the kitchens on this new day in June, St. Dymphna’s is now considered home.
****************************************
Harry kneels on the grass next to the small vegetable plot, digging his hands repeatedly into the dirt and humming a flat tune quietly under his breath. He could use a small double pronged hoe like many of the others do, like the overseeing medi-wizard stroke gardener wished he would, but there is something reassuring about shoving his hands into the warm earth until they feel the chilly soil beneath, where the sun hasn’t reached, and pulling on the weeds and roots of last years plants until they give way under his fingers.
He feels something trail against the nape of his neck; something cool and soft and he knows that if he captured it under his dirty palm it would be pale, white, the color of milk. But he lifts his fingers too late and only succeeds in smearing dark soil over his tanned skin.
Smiling, he returns to work; telling himself that next time, next time, he will catch it.
****************************************
When the group breaks for lunch Harry finds a spot, the spot he always finds, next to a large tree with soft branches the colour of newness and spring that drape in winding arcs to the ground around him. He opens the wax wrapping paper on his sandwich, humming softly, and inspects the contents carefully before removing the insides; placing the meat slices onto the wrapping and rolling the bread between his dirty fingers, he begins to eat. He chews slowly, thinking to himself that he liked yesterday’s bread better.
Harry stares upward at the blinding light of the noonday sun, lifting his free hand to shade his eyes. Just to the corner, just slightly out of his vision, he sees a flash of pale hair, so white that it nearly shines silver in the light; sees a skinny, pointed face with a smile sitting just outside of thin lips, framed in hoary locks. Harry does not turn his head to catch a better view. He knows better now. He knows that even the slightest edging of his chin towards it and the silvered image will fade into nothing more than sunlight shining through the tree limbs.
So he smiles, humming a little louder so that they can hear, and finishes his lunch.
****************************************
Group sessions take up most of the afternoon. Harry does not care for these, but he goes because they tell him they will help, that they will make him better. Harry prefers to be by himself but he does what they say.
At dinner Harry sits at the farthest end of the table, separated from the others. He eats slowly, removing things from his plate that he does not want - like sausage and yellow centered fried eggs. When a movement next to him calls his attention he does not turn, but a small shiver races its way up his spine, tingling just behind his ears. A soft touch and the smell of parsley, a sad heated rush of air against his cheek; don’t forget about me, Potter.
Potter.
Harry knows that name; he thinks it might have been his once. Turning his fork in his hand so that the tines rest against his index finger, he smiles faintly, feeling his lips quiver slightly, and draws slow patterns in the plate of mash before him. He whispers back, “I won’t.”
****************************************
That night when Harry gets to his room, a small narrow compartment that holds all of his belongings, he sets about his nightly routine of pulling clothing out for the following day. Finally satisfied, Harry undresses, leaving his soil covered clothing in the hall for the house elves to find. Harry has never seen a house elf, not that he knows of, but he knows that they are the ones who take his laundry each evening and have it tucked neatly away in his drawers the next night.
Settling cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Harry pulls the blankets tight around his shoulders and reaches out to the nightstand; picking up the small glass sphere he keeps there. As his fingers wrap around it the smoky glass begins to shift, to change, until it is filled with swirling scarlet. Harry places it in the palm of his hand and stares hard, like he does every night. He knows that this means something, this crimson smoke, he knows it does.
He just can’t remember what.
Harry does not smile. He does not hum. He simply stares until his vision turns glassy, trying to remember, to remember, to remember . . . before falling asleep upright, fingers curled tight around the glass.
The text in the cut is from "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones
Title: The Vagueness of Now
Pairing: Harry with a small mention of Draco
Rating: PG
A/N: St. Dymphna is the Celtic patron saint of mental Illness, I did not change the name as it seemed suitable to a wizarding hospital.
St. Dymphna’s doesn’t look like a hospital.
The main building is settled on a rolling expanse of green patchwork fields; a large, crumbling monstrosity of ancient masonry which is in need of more than a little help. But the Ministry officials, the Board of Executive owners and the medi- wizards and witches who work there are unwilling to change it. They think the run down structure gives the place a sense of hominess.
And in many ways, they are right.
For, to the forty-seven people spread between the gardens and the kitchens on this new day in June, St. Dymphna’s is now considered home.
Harry kneels on the grass next to the small vegetable plot, digging his hands repeatedly into the dirt and humming a flat tune quietly under his breath. He could use a small double pronged hoe like many of the others do, like the overseeing medi-wizard stroke gardener wished he would, but there is something reassuring about shoving his hands into the warm earth until they feel the chilly soil beneath, where the sun hasn’t reached, and pulling on the weeds and roots of last years plants until they give way under his fingers.
He feels something trail against the nape of his neck; something cool and soft and he knows that if he captured it under his dirty palm it would be pale, white, the color of milk. But he lifts his fingers too late and only succeeds in smearing dark soil over his tanned skin.
Smiling, he returns to work; telling himself that next time, next time, he will catch it.
When the group breaks for lunch Harry finds a spot, the spot he always finds, next to a large tree with soft branches the colour of newness and spring that drape in winding arcs to the ground around him. He opens the wax wrapping paper on his sandwich, humming softly, and inspects the contents carefully before removing the insides; placing the meat slices onto the wrapping and rolling the bread between his dirty fingers, he begins to eat. He chews slowly, thinking to himself that he liked yesterday’s bread better.
Harry stares upward at the blinding light of the noonday sun, lifting his free hand to shade his eyes. Just to the corner, just slightly out of his vision, he sees a flash of pale hair, so white that it nearly shines silver in the light; sees a skinny, pointed face with a smile sitting just outside of thin lips, framed in hoary locks. Harry does not turn his head to catch a better view. He knows better now. He knows that even the slightest edging of his chin towards it and the silvered image will fade into nothing more than sunlight shining through the tree limbs.
So he smiles, humming a little louder so that they can hear, and finishes his lunch.
Group sessions take up most of the afternoon. Harry does not care for these, but he goes because they tell him they will help, that they will make him better. Harry prefers to be by himself but he does what they say.
At dinner Harry sits at the farthest end of the table, separated from the others. He eats slowly, removing things from his plate that he does not want - like sausage and yellow centered fried eggs. When a movement next to him calls his attention he does not turn, but a small shiver races its way up his spine, tingling just behind his ears. A soft touch and the smell of parsley, a sad heated rush of air against his cheek; don’t forget about me, Potter.
Potter.
Harry knows that name; he thinks it might have been his once. Turning his fork in his hand so that the tines rest against his index finger, he smiles faintly, feeling his lips quiver slightly, and draws slow patterns in the plate of mash before him. He whispers back, “I won’t.”
That night when Harry gets to his room, a small narrow compartment that holds all of his belongings, he sets about his nightly routine of pulling clothing out for the following day. Finally satisfied, Harry undresses, leaving his soil covered clothing in the hall for the house elves to find. Harry has never seen a house elf, not that he knows of, but he knows that they are the ones who take his laundry each evening and have it tucked neatly away in his drawers the next night.
Settling cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Harry pulls the blankets tight around his shoulders and reaches out to the nightstand; picking up the small glass sphere he keeps there. As his fingers wrap around it the smoky glass begins to shift, to change, until it is filled with swirling scarlet. Harry places it in the palm of his hand and stares hard, like he does every night. He knows that this means something, this crimson smoke, he knows it does.
He just can’t remember what.
Harry does not smile. He does not hum. He simply stares until his vision turns glassy, trying to remember, to remember, to remember . . . before falling asleep upright, fingers curled tight around the glass.
The text in the cut is from "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones
