Post by silvertabby on Jul 11, 2010 15:37:34 GMT -5
'He died' She said. The morning light through the dirty windows, nothing is different, nothing is the same. 'Why we had to get up at the crack of dawn for this i don't get.' The young man is muggle dressed, but a wisard in his own right, baggy t-shirt and all. He's unsticking photographs off the walls. Slowly, no hurry, sometimes glancing at the witch who is filling cardboard boxes behind him and muttering under her breath.
'Pretty lot of pictures the professor had over here.'
'Yea, quite a lot'
'Professor?'he tries, throwing a hand of pins into a box.
'Hm?'
'Is this you?' he asks gingerly , turning the photograph on all sides in his hands.
'What?' She snatches the photo out of his hand.
'Oh...That's me all right.' she retorts after a while.She snorts' Crazy old man, he actually kept that photo. Harry thinks he can see tears i her eyes as she says this, parhaps it was only his imagination. back to work again an aride dificutl task of placing all of the old man's stuff into boxes, and god knows what the fellow has kept over the years and had lieying about in here.
Harry's mind is left to wonder, while McGonagall procedes to wrapping the dead headmaster's shirts and robes.
'Ay, erm...purple...very sublile!'
'Don't be smart, Potter!'The woman folds the robe back
'But' he falthers, he knows she hates to talk about thet sort of things
'I mean ...was he...' he gestures awkwardly 'You know...'
The poor old woman's eyes widen.
'No! ...Not as far as know, any way' She turns away, back to the old mahogny wardrobe.
Harry ponders on how much the wierd greatness of the one who had been, the greatest wisard of his time could strach, closing the box.
'Oh.No!'
The lady breaks into laughter. Harry runs over, looking scared.
'What is it?
'So..socks...I found the socks'
'Goodness'He leans over her 'There must be at least two thousand'
...And at night no lamps are lit
Footsteps on the bloody- no he should really stop doing this, it's disgusting and unfear to his teacher, but, man-
The old lady's image still lingers in the mirror, as she falters in the door frame. One two three....a little longer only. The young man places an arm around her shoulders, guiding her slowly back down the stairs. The boy looks back, closes the door 'Die-You can't to that to a cat' he thinks.
Then he meets her bitter smile
'You think I don't know that the poem, Potter? Who do you take me for?' Harry looks a little sheepish. 'My, your mind is like an open book, boy!'
'Pretty lot of pictures the professor had over here.'
'Yea, quite a lot'
'Professor?'he tries, throwing a hand of pins into a box.
'Hm?'
'Is this you?' he asks gingerly , turning the photograph on all sides in his hands.
'What?' She snatches the photo out of his hand.
'Oh...That's me all right.' she retorts after a while.She snorts' Crazy old man, he actually kept that photo. Harry thinks he can see tears i her eyes as she says this, parhaps it was only his imagination. back to work again an aride dificutl task of placing all of the old man's stuff into boxes, and god knows what the fellow has kept over the years and had lieying about in here.
Harry's mind is left to wonder, while McGonagall procedes to wrapping the dead headmaster's shirts and robes.
'Ay, erm...purple...very sublile!'
'Don't be smart, Potter!'The woman folds the robe back
'But' he falthers, he knows she hates to talk about thet sort of things
'I mean ...was he...' he gestures awkwardly 'You know...'
The poor old woman's eyes widen.
'No! ...Not as far as know, any way' She turns away, back to the old mahogny wardrobe.
Harry ponders on how much the wierd greatness of the one who had been, the greatest wisard of his time could strach, closing the box.
'Oh.No!'
The lady breaks into laughter. Harry runs over, looking scared.
'What is it?
'So..socks...I found the socks'
'Goodness'He leans over her 'There must be at least two thousand'
...And at night no lamps are lit
Footsteps on the bloody- no he should really stop doing this, it's disgusting and unfear to his teacher, but, man-
The old lady's image still lingers in the mirror, as she falters in the door frame. One two three....a little longer only. The young man places an arm around her shoulders, guiding her slowly back down the stairs. The boy looks back, closes the door 'Die-You can't to that to a cat' he thinks.
Then he meets her bitter smile
'You think I don't know that the poem, Potter? Who do you take me for?' Harry looks a little sheepish. 'My, your mind is like an open book, boy!'