Please note; I own nothing of JK Rowling's weird and wonderful world.
This story is influenced by Brooke Fraser's song; "Ice on her Lashes", and by Oscar Wilde's story "The Happy Prince". All kudos to them.
The young woman stands alone in the softly falling snow, eyes downcast. Tendrils of wild red hair escape the twist she's halfheartedly tied her curls down with, a last attempt at taming the bright and beautiful crown that adorns her head. And the snowflakes drift downwards, falling from grace into this corrupted world. It's not often she cries; each time the tears slip past her lashes she wipes them, furiously, from her cheeks. But now the chilling air has control, breathing snow into the recesses of her mind, ice on her lashes. And so she stands, a forlorn figure in a dark jacket; a statue for the elements to blanket, slowly freezing in the half lit square.
Daisies and laughter, a plethora of colors. Salt sprinkled on the fingers of the wind; the water tugging at her hair. Smiles and seashells, and promises and skimming stones; ripples and dragonflies. The scent of summer; sunlotion and vanilla, a hazy calm.
The snow is not salt. The cold has captured the free water, imprisoned in their icy structures. And so, like the frost on her lips, her heart is imprisoned, all consciousness distant from reality. The sepia lamplight cast from the iron trees around her light up the golden highlights in her flaming hair, but the light does not reach her eyes, hidden as they are by their thick lashes and blanket of ice sugar. Wind chaffed lips and flushed cheeks belie the cold hollowness of the girl, slowly freezing in the half lit square.
Chipped teeth and time turners, open windows and rough wood floors. Soft linen and helping hands , falling leaves and snapping frost. Slow confusion and drifting colors, the creeping chill and Beethoven's Fifth. The scent of Autumn; dying leaves, frost fingers and chestnuts.
Two sparrows converse in the gutter, tapping at the glassy concrete; all efforts futile. She could move, startle them, but as it happens, she's unaware of their presence; so lost is she in the serene whirl of dreams. A swallow flutters to her feet, then daringly flies to her shoulder and tugs at the strands of carmine that capture the flakes in crimson webs. No movement; silence and somber tranquility. Unlike the merry Prince, she has no ruby encrusted sword or gold leaf, however if the swallow were to peer beneath her frost encrusted lashes, he would see those sapphire eyes. But how can he, when she is silent, eyes shut, no falling tears? If her heart were not frozen, it would too have cracked, and been discarded on the white ground. And so he flies away, searching for a genuine prince; one with accessible gems;one with life. And so she stands, a forlorn figure in a dark jacket; a statue for the elements to blanket, slowly freezing in the half lit square.
Blossoms and falling rain, shattered mirrors and twisted ribbons. Floating pollen, tentative sunlight and golden pools; carmine roses and still nightingales. Salutations and trumpets, steam and dutiful soldiers / We're all waiting for our train to come / new life and Choruses. Echoing bells and daffodils. The scent of summer; Cherry flowers and young grass.
A voice shatters the silence, wrenching her from melancholy memories, causing her eyes to half flutter open. She knows that voice, it is a tie to the past; to the Summer and Autumn and Spring. Before the chill captured her; before the ice clutched her heart; before her silent soul was torn apart by sprites and confusion.
Molly Molly Molly.
Two hands clutch at her still arms, and she feels herself drawn into the arms of a warm, panting person, his brow creased with anxiety, eyes half golden, slowly melting into china blue. And she smiles because it is the only thing she can do; because he wants her to smile; because what else? Where would she be without him? Slowly freezing in the half lit square, with ice on her lashes.
Smiles and seashells, and promises and skimming stones; ripples and dragonflies.
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