Happily, I Laugh
Title: Happily, I Laugh
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Antonin Dolohov
Rating: G
Other: Written for the August 16th contest (Kingdom of the mad) in 31_days.
Happily, I Laugh
He isn’t free yet. He remains in the cell, but more and more he feels that he is free enough. He ceases to see the walls and ceases even to hear the screams. They come only as lightening, maybe, or a different tinge of color. They aren’t screams, certainly, and there are no voices to accompany them.
Was he just reminded of icicles?
He thinks that he was, though he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care. Icicles lead to cold, which leads to dementors, so he doesn’t dwell on icicles for very long. It is nice that he hasn’t so much noticed the dementors lately; like the screams, they appear as mildly interesting glitches. Maybe it’s a bit cold around them, but that’s okay. He pretends that he’s wearing thick robes, and the problem is solved.
Blinking in the dark. Once, twice, thrice, and then he loses count. Numbers are funny things, anyway. Five or a hundred and seventy-three point two zero four? Maybe they’re the same. Can he blink point two zero four times? He thinks maybe he can. He tries to.
Opens his eyes. What was he trying to do? Oh, it doesn’t matter.
He looks at his fingers instead. They still look nice, but that goes without saying, without even thinking. He has always looked good, like a gem. Each fingernail looks absolutely perfect, well cut and polished. He wonders how much his fingers would sell for. The nails, at least; he might need the fingers sometime. Fingers have always been good for scratching things.
He scratches his forehead.
It tickled a little. He doesn’t do it again, because he doesn’t want to risk damaging his skin. That would be a shame. What would his parents think if he came home with a damaged face? They would throw a fit. Or they would if they were a live. Hasn’t he been told that they’re dead? Yes, maybe he has. Oh well, maybe that’s better for them. They can play with Sonia in some other place. Maybe they can have a tea party, and maybe they’ll send him an invitation. He’ll have to decline, of course, because he couldn’t possibly get out for the tea party. The dementors would never let him out, and that’s a real shame.
Of course, he’ll be out some time. They all will. If the dementors don’t get bored and leave, then their good friend the Dark Lord will come back some time. He has to. And if he doesn’t, then they can see the outside after they die, which is near enough. Or it isn’t, but it’ll have to be. And it doesn’t matter, because Antonin suddenly realizes that there are dust bunnies all over the floor, and that will never do! Who knows when a visitor will stop by and look upon the shameful infestation?
He should clean up the bunnies, even begins to, starts to stand before he begins to count them. He has done this before, used to make a game of it. Again he is counting, one, two, three, and then losing interest. There are a lot, what does it matter? And then there are none, so it matters even less. Where did they go? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Again, doesn’t matter.
There are other things to see and do.
There was a day long ago with grass and sky, and a longhaired girl that he has always known. That isn’t this day, but maybe with a little prodding it could be. Magic can work somehow, and he shouldn’t need a wand for this. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe it will come, and maybe there will be something different, then.
He has concentrated as hard as he can, for almost a full minute, or maybe it was half a minute. So where is that day? He can’t see it very well. He gathers that the magic has failed. Oh well. Concentration takes too much effort, anyway. It’s rather silly to bother with.
Maybe there is blood on the walls today? He looks around eagerly, is disappointed to find that there is not. Some days it appears and he is glad. When it comes, he likes to play with it, to smear his hands in it. The blood feels strange and welcome, reminds him of a time when he was somewhere else, he doesn’t remember where, just somewhere else. It is always warm, because cold blood would be no good, really. And the best part is that there are no others to take it from him. He can claim what is rightfully his, and play in it all he wants.
But there is none at the moment. No blood to play in, and this is sad.
Sometimes there are others. Now, suddenly, there are others. This distracts him from the blood, because these people are just as interesting. Almost as interesting, at least. He doesn’t know how they are there, or if they really are. He sees them, so they must be. They are all laughing, too, and he laughs with them. When he is with them, he knows who has won. He knows that he is out of the prison. The Dark Lord has won. And they are all of them laughing. He recognizes many faces before they disappear, before they are swallowed up by something else. It’s funny to see them, because he can’t remember when he last saw them so clearly.
But oh well, they are gone almost as soon as they come. He knows that they meant something, that some day they will all be together again. Someday they will be free and up above, soaring high in the sky and looking down on the rest. And yes, they are all grinning, laughing, and so very happy! Why shouldn’t they be? Flight is a grand accomplishment, after all.
Yes, they can fly. Just like the very birds, except different, flying in some other way. It is interesting to him, and he waves his hand in the air absently, looks at it and thinks that it could be a bird, too. Oh, to free the birds!
He grins the grin of a madman and doesn’t know it, doesn’t care. These are distant thoughts and happy thoughts, and Antonin laughs out loud at the fun of them.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Antonin Dolohov
Rating: G
Other: Written for the August 16th contest (Kingdom of the mad) in 31_days.
Happily, I Laugh
He isn’t free yet. He remains in the cell, but more and more he feels that he is free enough. He ceases to see the walls and ceases even to hear the screams. They come only as lightening, maybe, or a different tinge of color. They aren’t screams, certainly, and there are no voices to accompany them.
Was he just reminded of icicles?
He thinks that he was, though he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care. Icicles lead to cold, which leads to dementors, so he doesn’t dwell on icicles for very long. It is nice that he hasn’t so much noticed the dementors lately; like the screams, they appear as mildly interesting glitches. Maybe it’s a bit cold around them, but that’s okay. He pretends that he’s wearing thick robes, and the problem is solved.
Blinking in the dark. Once, twice, thrice, and then he loses count. Numbers are funny things, anyway. Five or a hundred and seventy-three point two zero four? Maybe they’re the same. Can he blink point two zero four times? He thinks maybe he can. He tries to.
Opens his eyes. What was he trying to do? Oh, it doesn’t matter.
He looks at his fingers instead. They still look nice, but that goes without saying, without even thinking. He has always looked good, like a gem. Each fingernail looks absolutely perfect, well cut and polished. He wonders how much his fingers would sell for. The nails, at least; he might need the fingers sometime. Fingers have always been good for scratching things.
He scratches his forehead.
It tickled a little. He doesn’t do it again, because he doesn’t want to risk damaging his skin. That would be a shame. What would his parents think if he came home with a damaged face? They would throw a fit. Or they would if they were a live. Hasn’t he been told that they’re dead? Yes, maybe he has. Oh well, maybe that’s better for them. They can play with Sonia in some other place. Maybe they can have a tea party, and maybe they’ll send him an invitation. He’ll have to decline, of course, because he couldn’t possibly get out for the tea party. The dementors would never let him out, and that’s a real shame.
Of course, he’ll be out some time. They all will. If the dementors don’t get bored and leave, then their good friend the Dark Lord will come back some time. He has to. And if he doesn’t, then they can see the outside after they die, which is near enough. Or it isn’t, but it’ll have to be. And it doesn’t matter, because Antonin suddenly realizes that there are dust bunnies all over the floor, and that will never do! Who knows when a visitor will stop by and look upon the shameful infestation?
He should clean up the bunnies, even begins to, starts to stand before he begins to count them. He has done this before, used to make a game of it. Again he is counting, one, two, three, and then losing interest. There are a lot, what does it matter? And then there are none, so it matters even less. Where did they go? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Again, doesn’t matter.
There are other things to see and do.
There was a day long ago with grass and sky, and a longhaired girl that he has always known. That isn’t this day, but maybe with a little prodding it could be. Magic can work somehow, and he shouldn’t need a wand for this. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe it will come, and maybe there will be something different, then.
He has concentrated as hard as he can, for almost a full minute, or maybe it was half a minute. So where is that day? He can’t see it very well. He gathers that the magic has failed. Oh well. Concentration takes too much effort, anyway. It’s rather silly to bother with.
Maybe there is blood on the walls today? He looks around eagerly, is disappointed to find that there is not. Some days it appears and he is glad. When it comes, he likes to play with it, to smear his hands in it. The blood feels strange and welcome, reminds him of a time when he was somewhere else, he doesn’t remember where, just somewhere else. It is always warm, because cold blood would be no good, really. And the best part is that there are no others to take it from him. He can claim what is rightfully his, and play in it all he wants.
But there is none at the moment. No blood to play in, and this is sad.
Sometimes there are others. Now, suddenly, there are others. This distracts him from the blood, because these people are just as interesting. Almost as interesting, at least. He doesn’t know how they are there, or if they really are. He sees them, so they must be. They are all laughing, too, and he laughs with them. When he is with them, he knows who has won. He knows that he is out of the prison. The Dark Lord has won. And they are all of them laughing. He recognizes many faces before they disappear, before they are swallowed up by something else. It’s funny to see them, because he can’t remember when he last saw them so clearly.
But oh well, they are gone almost as soon as they come. He knows that they meant something, that some day they will all be together again. Someday they will be free and up above, soaring high in the sky and looking down on the rest. And yes, they are all grinning, laughing, and so very happy! Why shouldn’t they be? Flight is a grand accomplishment, after all.
Yes, they can fly. Just like the very birds, except different, flying in some other way. It is interesting to him, and he waves his hand in the air absently, looks at it and thinks that it could be a bird, too. Oh, to free the birds!
He grins the grin of a madman and doesn’t know it, doesn’t care. These are distant thoughts and happy thoughts, and Antonin laughs out loud at the fun of them.