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metal_dog5 gave me a prompt. Today it is my pleasure to present to you two linked drabbles--my first fic post-DH fic. OMG guys, I'm beginning the healing process...
Flight Of The Prince
by Trismegistus
The din of celebration abates as the survivors slowly move away in groups of twos and threes--to tend to the injured, relive the battle together, or mourn their fallen--until the only sounds left are the rustle of the newspapers someone has spellotaped over the broken windows and the gentle clink of teacup and saucer from the direction of Dumbledore's frame. Now, he thinks, surely now. Now that everything is dying down, the shock and excitement are wearing off, now the flush of victory and survival have begun to fade, surely someone will turn to him and finally acknowledge...
...but no one does. The living have all moved elsewhere; his fellow headmasters are drowsing or visiting acquaintances in other paintings. He casts one last futile glance toward Dumbledore's portrait and finds the man staring somewhat wistfully at a tin of broken biscuits overturned on the floor, before looking away for good. The blackness beyond his frame connects to nothing; his family had been far too poor to afford having portraits done. He turns from Dumbledore, the school, the survivors, and walks into the darkness, assuming it must stop somewhere, and is surprised to find that it is apparently endless.
これで以上です。
metal_dog5 gave me a prompt. Today it is my pleasure to present to you two linked drabbles--my first fic post-DH fic. OMG guys, I'm beginning the healing process...Flight Of The Prince
by Trismegistus
The din of celebration abates as the survivors slowly move away in groups of twos and threes--to tend to the injured, relive the battle together, or mourn their fallen--until the only sounds left are the rustle of the newspapers someone has spellotaped over the broken windows and the gentle clink of teacup and saucer from the direction of Dumbledore's frame. Now, he thinks, surely now. Now that everything is dying down, the shock and excitement are wearing off, now the flush of victory and survival have begun to fade, surely someone will turn to him and finally acknowledge...
...but no one does. The living have all moved elsewhere; his fellow headmasters are drowsing or visiting acquaintances in other paintings. He casts one last futile glance toward Dumbledore's portrait and finds the man staring somewhat wistfully at a tin of broken biscuits overturned on the floor, before looking away for good. The blackness beyond his frame connects to nothing; his family had been far too poor to afford having portraits done. He turns from Dumbledore, the school, the survivors, and walks into the darkness, assuming it must stop somewhere, and is surprised to find that it is apparently endless.
これで以上です。
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Very nicely done. ♥
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