Violet
Violet
The colour of the deep bruise mixed with dark shadows of green and red as it stretched over his rib, pierced mostly with violet; sticking him hard with dizzying pain. It was the first bludger he ever felt away from the Hogwarts grounds and she gave it to him. She wasn’t angry. It wasn’t done intentionally, but it stung all the same. It smarted and twisted and despite himself, he laughed out loud at the injury. …or maybe it was her expression. He knew ‘Oh, Gods, Harry, I’m sorry,’ was itching on the tip of her tongue, but when he smiled and didn’t cringe, the sincerity left her face and he saw her crimson eyebrow arch. “Get up, Potter,” was all the sympathy he got that day and he couldn’t have been more grateful for the comment.
---
She was lying in a bed of that lush color the spring before her eighteenth birthday. Violet kissed her body, teased her skin and he remembered watching, feeling helpless with envy that those flowers were resting closer to her than he had in nearly two years. She hadn’t known he was there - couldn’t see him, but the pull of her lips that lifted in a smile as she hummed to herself…hummed a song she knew he loved, gave him the impression that he may have not been far from her thoughts. And as she rolled onto her stomach with her long, pale legs crossed at the ankles and one petal tearing between her fingers, it was the violet he cursed not the war or the bastard who’d caused it, because really, that flower was damn lucky, as he had been….once.
---
Hermione drop the pedals in the steaming cauldron and he smiled as they swam around his arm tickling his raw skin, it’s tint a shadow of a colour that brought back a flood of memories. “What’s so funny?” she asked and he shook his head not daring to tell her that it wasn’t misery or the cold or the Death Eater’s they’d killed that was somehow bringing him into asinine laughter. It was her, the reminder of her that he recalled; not seeing the blood mingle with the stewing water; ignoring that quick, concerned look Hermione shared with Ron as she dropped more petals into the mixture. “It has healing, properties, lavender,” Hermione offered and he nodded his head casting off her explanation and remembering that night by the lake when his hand had slipped too far down Ginny’s shoulder and he caught a flash of that plum…violet strap beneath her shirt. She didn’t slap his hand away or give him a pointed glare for staring too long, breathing too loudly at what lay beneath that colour. She merely took his hand and guided it lower, giving him fuel for the raging fire of some of his most vivid late night fantasies, making the beast within his chest purr and coo in contentment.
---
She was watching a group of children as they chased one another and ran the length of the lane in front of 93 Diagon Alley, a small smile tugging on those impossibly red lips. He watched her pull her cloak up, its violet shade vivid in the dying sunlight as her eyes followed the squealing children. She was nineteen then, glorious and elegant. The signs of war were not present on her features, as they were on everyone else he came in contact with. The war didn’t seem to affect her outwardly. Despite the faint smoke lingering over the town’s horizon - the remnants of the end of all things; particularly the wizard who’d started this whole struggle - she seemed unfazed; unaffected. The expression marking her face was one of joy, satisfaction that the day prior held the promise that they’d soon be home. And yet, he couldn’t face her; couldn’t approach. He watched her as her eyes soaked in the celebration of their world; lovers reuniting, friends embracing, children terrorizing the shops with no fear of scolding. It was a brilliant day, one fraught with sprinkles of sad news, happy tidings and constant rejoicing. Yet he watched her, silently in the shadows of all the movement and activity of the day, preparing himself for the moment she would see him, hoping she hadn’t forgotten him.
---
He traces his fingertip over the arch of her cheekbone, across the smooth dip that slants below her nose and rests in the center of her top lip. Her hair is fanned across his legs, her fist clutching at the hem of his shirt and he thinks the hum of her soft snores is the most melodic sound he’s ever heard. He can hear Hermione’s high-pitched cackle when Ron tickles her yet again as they lay on a blanket near the dock. Harry feels a haze of ease enter his mind. He thought this day would never come, that he wouldn’t be allowed this moment, but he fought until his fingers literally bleed, until ever inkling of hope threatened to leave his body - until he was certain that he’d meet death and find himself drifting alone through infinity. He was wrong. He feels her shift and turn on her side as his fingers slide through her hair. They’re underneath the willow just metres from that violet bed so he plucks one of the flowers from the ground and places it behind her ear, watching the slow creep of a smirk inch up her face.
“Faker,” he says.
“Prat.”
Harry leans down for a kiss and they roll and twist around one another until the violet falls from her hair and he crumbles it between his fingers.
A/N: I think this is probably one of the shortest things I’ve ever written. It was a challenge/color challenge from last year. I’ve decided I should put up most of the longer drabbles and such on SU. The majority of them are up on my LJ fic journal but need to be up here. This isn’t beta’d, so you’ll have to forgive that. Was very lazy when writing this.
Smooches,
Tee
The colour of the deep bruise mixed with dark shadows of green and red as it stretched over his rib, pierced mostly with violet; sticking him hard with dizzying pain. It was the first bludger he ever felt away from the Hogwarts grounds and she gave it to him. She wasn’t angry. It wasn’t done intentionally, but it stung all the same. It smarted and twisted and despite himself, he laughed out loud at the injury. …or maybe it was her expression. He knew ‘Oh, Gods, Harry, I’m sorry,’ was itching on the tip of her tongue, but when he smiled and didn’t cringe, the sincerity left her face and he saw her crimson eyebrow arch. “Get up, Potter,” was all the sympathy he got that day and he couldn’t have been more grateful for the comment.
---
She was lying in a bed of that lush color the spring before her eighteenth birthday. Violet kissed her body, teased her skin and he remembered watching, feeling helpless with envy that those flowers were resting closer to her than he had in nearly two years. She hadn’t known he was there - couldn’t see him, but the pull of her lips that lifted in a smile as she hummed to herself…hummed a song she knew he loved, gave him the impression that he may have not been far from her thoughts. And as she rolled onto her stomach with her long, pale legs crossed at the ankles and one petal tearing between her fingers, it was the violet he cursed not the war or the bastard who’d caused it, because really, that flower was damn lucky, as he had been….once.
---
Hermione drop the pedals in the steaming cauldron and he smiled as they swam around his arm tickling his raw skin, it’s tint a shadow of a colour that brought back a flood of memories. “What’s so funny?” she asked and he shook his head not daring to tell her that it wasn’t misery or the cold or the Death Eater’s they’d killed that was somehow bringing him into asinine laughter. It was her, the reminder of her that he recalled; not seeing the blood mingle with the stewing water; ignoring that quick, concerned look Hermione shared with Ron as she dropped more petals into the mixture. “It has healing, properties, lavender,” Hermione offered and he nodded his head casting off her explanation and remembering that night by the lake when his hand had slipped too far down Ginny’s shoulder and he caught a flash of that plum…violet strap beneath her shirt. She didn’t slap his hand away or give him a pointed glare for staring too long, breathing too loudly at what lay beneath that colour. She merely took his hand and guided it lower, giving him fuel for the raging fire of some of his most vivid late night fantasies, making the beast within his chest purr and coo in contentment.
---
She was watching a group of children as they chased one another and ran the length of the lane in front of 93 Diagon Alley, a small smile tugging on those impossibly red lips. He watched her pull her cloak up, its violet shade vivid in the dying sunlight as her eyes followed the squealing children. She was nineteen then, glorious and elegant. The signs of war were not present on her features, as they were on everyone else he came in contact with. The war didn’t seem to affect her outwardly. Despite the faint smoke lingering over the town’s horizon - the remnants of the end of all things; particularly the wizard who’d started this whole struggle - she seemed unfazed; unaffected. The expression marking her face was one of joy, satisfaction that the day prior held the promise that they’d soon be home. And yet, he couldn’t face her; couldn’t approach. He watched her as her eyes soaked in the celebration of their world; lovers reuniting, friends embracing, children terrorizing the shops with no fear of scolding. It was a brilliant day, one fraught with sprinkles of sad news, happy tidings and constant rejoicing. Yet he watched her, silently in the shadows of all the movement and activity of the day, preparing himself for the moment she would see him, hoping she hadn’t forgotten him.
---
He traces his fingertip over the arch of her cheekbone, across the smooth dip that slants below her nose and rests in the center of her top lip. Her hair is fanned across his legs, her fist clutching at the hem of his shirt and he thinks the hum of her soft snores is the most melodic sound he’s ever heard. He can hear Hermione’s high-pitched cackle when Ron tickles her yet again as they lay on a blanket near the dock. Harry feels a haze of ease enter his mind. He thought this day would never come, that he wouldn’t be allowed this moment, but he fought until his fingers literally bleed, until ever inkling of hope threatened to leave his body - until he was certain that he’d meet death and find himself drifting alone through infinity. He was wrong. He feels her shift and turn on her side as his fingers slide through her hair. They’re underneath the willow just metres from that violet bed so he plucks one of the flowers from the ground and places it behind her ear, watching the slow creep of a smirk inch up her face.
“Faker,” he says.
“Prat.”
Harry leans down for a kiss and they roll and twist around one another until the violet falls from her hair and he crumbles it between his fingers.
A/N: I think this is probably one of the shortest things I’ve ever written. It was a challenge/color challenge from last year. I’ve decided I should put up most of the longer drabbles and such on SU. The majority of them are up on my LJ fic journal but need to be up here. This isn’t beta’d, so you’ll have to forgive that. Was very lazy when writing this.
Smooches,
Tee