Post by Tabitha Lawson on Jan 17, 2007 16:12:27 GMT 10
The Hogwarts courtyard was so dull, and so plain, and so white. Long, thin icicles glimered on the overhang of the castle roof; ice was clinging to the railing in the courtyard; snow coated as far as the eye could see, even the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest; and, worst of all, everything was white. All colorless, and all so bland. At the moment, it was a sleepy Sunday, just after dawn, and most of the castle was still abed. However, it seemed that they were actually all gone, or had died in the night, for there was no movement anywhere -- or, at any rate, none that was visible from the castle steps.
A single figure, wrapped in a black cloak, stood on these steps and gazed out at the snow scene that was laid out before her vivid, jade-green eyes. Tabitha Lawson, her long, dark hair all but blending into the cloak that trailed behind her, strolled slowly out into the courtyard and gazed up at the sleeping castle. It, too, was coated in the same white layer that seemed to envelop the rest of the world. The Gryffindor fourth year, in her black cloak, stood out in the startingly white world like a blot of ink on a piece of otherwise clean parchment. She didn't look like part of the place, and, at the moment, she didn't feel like part of it, either.
This place is too monotone, Tabitha thought as she gazed back at the line of footprints that destroyed the purity of the snow. It needs something to give it a little life. It just seems like it's.. dead. Or dying. Or in a coma, at the very least.
If she had been at home in London, Tabitha knew that she would be in a furious snowball fight with the Muggles in the neighborhood at this very moment, celebrating the fact that there would likely be no school for a couple of days to come. Often times, adults would also become involved in these snowball battles, and Tabitha's father was prominent among them. Mr. Lawson was still a child at heart in many ways, and it was only when Mrs. Lawson called her husband and daughter in for hot chocolate that they would even begin to imagine withdrawing from the self-induced battle to the last one standing.
As this thought filtered through her mind, Tabitha knelt down and scooped up a handful of snow, an idea forming in her mind. A strange glint entered her green eyes and a crooked smile played across her face as she formed the snow into a sphere and stood up straight to look at the castle again. She seemed to ponder for a moment whether this was a good idea or not, and then threw caution to the winds.
Drawing back her arm, the Gryffindor threw the snowball up to the eaves, where it collided with the line of icicles, causing several to fall down and into the ground, where they remained stiffly, looking like silvery pikes in the white blanket of snow. A full-out grin on her face now, Tabitha made her way over to the foot of the steps, where they had fallen, and chose a particularly long, thin one that looked interesting.
Clearing one of the lower steps of snow, Tabitha took a seat on them, dragonhide boots burying themselves in the snow as she did so. The fifteen-year-old balanced the icicle, point up, beside her, and pulled her wand and a scrap of parchment from a pocket of her cloak. She arranged the strip of parchment around the base of the icicle and, putting the tip of her wand to it, whispered, "Incendio." The parchment caught fire and the icicle seemed to quiver, reflecting the light of the flame that flickered at its base.
Tabitha watched curiously as the flame began to melt the ice, and tried to decide whether the water from the icicle would put out the flame, or if the fire would succeed in thoroughly melting the ice. It was a game that she had played while waiting for her parents to wake up on cold winter mornings long ago, only the match she had used to light the paper had been replaced by a wand. Just as the idea struck her to find a couple of twigs to feed the fire, she heard footsteps in the entryway, and looked up to see if her little game was about to be put to a sudden end.
A single figure, wrapped in a black cloak, stood on these steps and gazed out at the snow scene that was laid out before her vivid, jade-green eyes. Tabitha Lawson, her long, dark hair all but blending into the cloak that trailed behind her, strolled slowly out into the courtyard and gazed up at the sleeping castle. It, too, was coated in the same white layer that seemed to envelop the rest of the world. The Gryffindor fourth year, in her black cloak, stood out in the startingly white world like a blot of ink on a piece of otherwise clean parchment. She didn't look like part of the place, and, at the moment, she didn't feel like part of it, either.
This place is too monotone, Tabitha thought as she gazed back at the line of footprints that destroyed the purity of the snow. It needs something to give it a little life. It just seems like it's.. dead. Or dying. Or in a coma, at the very least.
If she had been at home in London, Tabitha knew that she would be in a furious snowball fight with the Muggles in the neighborhood at this very moment, celebrating the fact that there would likely be no school for a couple of days to come. Often times, adults would also become involved in these snowball battles, and Tabitha's father was prominent among them. Mr. Lawson was still a child at heart in many ways, and it was only when Mrs. Lawson called her husband and daughter in for hot chocolate that they would even begin to imagine withdrawing from the self-induced battle to the last one standing.
As this thought filtered through her mind, Tabitha knelt down and scooped up a handful of snow, an idea forming in her mind. A strange glint entered her green eyes and a crooked smile played across her face as she formed the snow into a sphere and stood up straight to look at the castle again. She seemed to ponder for a moment whether this was a good idea or not, and then threw caution to the winds.
Drawing back her arm, the Gryffindor threw the snowball up to the eaves, where it collided with the line of icicles, causing several to fall down and into the ground, where they remained stiffly, looking like silvery pikes in the white blanket of snow. A full-out grin on her face now, Tabitha made her way over to the foot of the steps, where they had fallen, and chose a particularly long, thin one that looked interesting.
Clearing one of the lower steps of snow, Tabitha took a seat on them, dragonhide boots burying themselves in the snow as she did so. The fifteen-year-old balanced the icicle, point up, beside her, and pulled her wand and a scrap of parchment from a pocket of her cloak. She arranged the strip of parchment around the base of the icicle and, putting the tip of her wand to it, whispered, "Incendio." The parchment caught fire and the icicle seemed to quiver, reflecting the light of the flame that flickered at its base.
Tabitha watched curiously as the flame began to melt the ice, and tried to decide whether the water from the icicle would put out the flame, or if the fire would succeed in thoroughly melting the ice. It was a game that she had played while waiting for her parents to wake up on cold winter mornings long ago, only the match she had used to light the paper had been replaced by a wand. Just as the idea struck her to find a couple of twigs to feed the fire, she heard footsteps in the entryway, and looked up to see if her little game was about to be put to a sudden end.