Post by dianahawthorne on May 19, 2009 21:11:27 GMT -5
Gypsy
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Inspired by the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name. Part of a larger, in-progress Remus/Minerva storyarc. I don't own anything.
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She lay on the mattress which, in turn, lay on the floor, blowing a cloud of reflective smoke up to the paper flowers which decorated the ceiling. He lay on his side, watching her, as they waited for the paint to dry on his first - and most likely only - masterpiece.
She rolled over and stubbed out her cigarette, ashes piling neatly in the small glass ashtray she'd Conjured earlier. He continued to watch her, allowing his arm to snake around her waist. She moved closer to him, resting her dark head against his chest.
They didn't talk - it wasn't as though they had nothing to say, for they did - but they both felt it was pointless to clutter their time together with words. In only a few short hours, she'd leave him, but now, as her delicate fingers traced the many scars lining his chest, it didn't seem to matter.
They'd become lovers the day he'd graduated. Though she was nearly thirty years older than he, she didn't look it, and anyway he seemed much older than he actually was.
It was many years later - when he began teaching himself, in fact - that he felt they were really, truly equals. Yes, they had fought alongside each other during the First War, but when he got work at Hogwarts, he felt... worthy of her.
But now they were off-kilter again - he was attempting to make ends meet as a mediocre painter, and she was still at Hogwarts.
The paint was finally dry and he regarded the portrait critically for a moment before turning to see her reaction. She looked at the portrait of herself with a delight only noticable to him - in the way her eyes twinkled slightly and the way her lips turned up at the corners of her mouth. Regarding it a few moments more, she finally turned to him and nodded - her seal of approval. As she got dressed, her flawless ivory skin and perfect curves disappearing once more beneath layers of loose-fitting emerald robes, she smiled secretly to herself. A few minutes later, her transformation back into the stern, strict Deputy Headmistress was complete, and she turned to him.
He nodded, slightly embarrassed now at his unclothed state, and looked down. She, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, pressed a brief, albeit tender kiss to his lips. Then she was gone, the slight breeze from the closing door causing the paper flowers on the ceiling to wave aimlessly.
He flopped back on the mattress and picked up the box of cigarettes she had left and, lighting one, stared up at the ceiling once more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name. Part of a larger, in-progress Remus/Minerva storyarc. I don't own anything.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She lay on the mattress which, in turn, lay on the floor, blowing a cloud of reflective smoke up to the paper flowers which decorated the ceiling. He lay on his side, watching her, as they waited for the paint to dry on his first - and most likely only - masterpiece.
She rolled over and stubbed out her cigarette, ashes piling neatly in the small glass ashtray she'd Conjured earlier. He continued to watch her, allowing his arm to snake around her waist. She moved closer to him, resting her dark head against his chest.
They didn't talk - it wasn't as though they had nothing to say, for they did - but they both felt it was pointless to clutter their time together with words. In only a few short hours, she'd leave him, but now, as her delicate fingers traced the many scars lining his chest, it didn't seem to matter.
They'd become lovers the day he'd graduated. Though she was nearly thirty years older than he, she didn't look it, and anyway he seemed much older than he actually was.
It was many years later - when he began teaching himself, in fact - that he felt they were really, truly equals. Yes, they had fought alongside each other during the First War, but when he got work at Hogwarts, he felt... worthy of her.
But now they were off-kilter again - he was attempting to make ends meet as a mediocre painter, and she was still at Hogwarts.
The paint was finally dry and he regarded the portrait critically for a moment before turning to see her reaction. She looked at the portrait of herself with a delight only noticable to him - in the way her eyes twinkled slightly and the way her lips turned up at the corners of her mouth. Regarding it a few moments more, she finally turned to him and nodded - her seal of approval. As she got dressed, her flawless ivory skin and perfect curves disappearing once more beneath layers of loose-fitting emerald robes, she smiled secretly to herself. A few minutes later, her transformation back into the stern, strict Deputy Headmistress was complete, and she turned to him.
He nodded, slightly embarrassed now at his unclothed state, and looked down. She, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, pressed a brief, albeit tender kiss to his lips. Then she was gone, the slight breeze from the closing door causing the paper flowers on the ceiling to wave aimlessly.
He flopped back on the mattress and picked up the box of cigarettes she had left and, lighting one, stared up at the ceiling once more.
Quite unusual, which is nice, and with a lot of atmosphere: you do have a tender spot for mediocre painters, don't you ;D ??