HP Drabbles

yeap, these are the ones that gave me major commentage in the HP100 LJ Community. YEYEERS. Since the database is down, i'll put in my lastest in first, and when it comes back up, i'll put in the others.

title : Life-like
Words : 100
Characters : Harry, Remus, mentions of Sirius and Tonks.

Harry knew every creaking floorboard in Grimmauld place. None of them creaked as he watched Remus. There was no moon and night cast the room in a smothering blue that lengthened shadows and hid eyes.

Harry knew the picture in Remus' hand. It was from the first, and last, Christmas with Sirius. Tonks had her camera and demanded they all arrange themselves for a picture.

Harry knew why Remus was holding it up to his face, or rather, his ear.

Harry knew that if you try hard enough, wizard pictures are so real, so life-like, you can hear their hearts beating.

title : Seven
Words : 100
Characters : The Weasleys

Her family was almost too big for the picture. Flaming red and freckles and wriggling a bit in their place. At least that was how she remembered that picture. But when she found it again, there was space. So she counted. One, with hair too long, two, all shoulders and scales, three and four, identical mischief in those eyes, five, loyal and true, and six, so sweet and gentle still.

Molly touched the corner, where a bit of robe was showing. And he appeared, wouldn't meet her eyes and wouldn't get any closer. But there he was. Seven, so proud.

Title : Echoes of Angels
Words : 100
Characters : Lucius Malfoy


An old room with photographs in an old box in an old heart. Draco felt centuries younger just being in the room.

And he felt more so, digging out the photographs and looking at what could have been a long haired version of him in Slytherin robes.

But he knew those eyes. They were colder than his. Far more ruthless than his. But in these old schooldays, they were just the eyes of an ambitious young man that looked up at him with a practiced smirk of disdain.

Nothing more than echoes, thought Draco, as he let them fall to the floor.

A/n : posted first in my LJ, which i am planning to use forever now. LOL

Save My Soul Otherwise known as "45 Minutes"

It was five minutes since she sent the message. It was cold out in the balcony but the only movement that she made was to look at her mobile phone. No message from them yet. She returned to the prinpricks of light in the night. "Stars." she said softly and took a long drag of her cigarette.

It was ten minutes since she sent the message. She looked weird sitting on the edge of the balcony, her legs swinig carelessly down. One of her bunny slippers had fallen already, and with a mildly annoyed expression, she tilted her foot and let its partner follow. She lit her third cigarette.

It was thirty minutes since she sent the message. Her head was heavy as was her eyelids. Stubbing out her fifth cigarette carelessly beside her, she brushed the ash from her silk pajamas. The wind blew her hair into her face but she only tucked it back behind her ear. She took another look at her mobile. Still no message.

It was fourty five minutes since she sent the message. There were several cigarette butts littering the balcony but not her. Her phone was still there, still dark and blank but she wasn't there to look at it. In fact, no sound indicated her departure save for the whisper of silk against stone and a soft gasp.

So she wasn't there to see her phone light up.

1 Message Recieved

A/n : the following two works are lunar-centric ones that i have just made. Eek. Note : Don't read too much into it. hehehe.

The Moon Has No Regrets Nor Memories
By Elvira Licuanan

I never thought the moon could wear different faces. I always thought, it was only I who gave meaning to what the moon was, and yet, it always remained the same moon that shone on the earth.

I always thought it was the same moon, my waxing love, the full moon watching over our kiss and the waning yearning. And even with tears in my eyes, I thought it was the same moon, my waxing loneliness, the full moon mocking me with images of lovers walking underneath it and my waning hope.

But now, so far, so distant, the moon looks different.

I never had to check the calendar or the charts. I would feel the tug of the sunset and realize, yes, tonight it would be full. Or let out a pained sigh, tonight, tonight there will be no moon. I feel the moon tug at my heart and soul the way it would tug at the tides of the sea. I was the sea and the moon light cast waves of dark magick over me month after month.

It was my power and my pain. I know that much.

But now, it is simply a sattelite in the sky, overshadowing the distant stars that I have felt more at home with.

You should not have taught me to look at the moon like that. You taught me to look at the moon with a smile and realize that there is someone out there, looking at the moon as well, seas and seas away, but still looking out and seeing the same moon that I am looking at. You should not have made me believe that the moon could have memories.

Or that the moon will cry at our parting.

I can never truly pinpoint when it ended but I knew it had ended when I looked up at the moon and felt nothing.

Not fear, not fascination. Not love nor it's bitter sibling, hate. Nothing.

The moon meant nothing to me as I now mean nothing to you. And it frightened me.

How could I allow someone to change me so much?

But I apparently didn't change enough. Nor did you understand enough. Time was against us as was fate. As was each other. Moon light cannot pass through walls and the future cannot be for two hearts that promised never to regret or ask anything beyond what was give. For two hearts who love without promises, moonlight is a fleeting romantic notion that should have never been used to bind them together.

This is because of one simple but irrvocable fact : the moon as no regrets or memories.

-=fin=-

Midnight
By Elvira Licuanan

The moon is full.

And she is standing underneath the light of the streetlamps, shivering slightly despite her heavy over coat. And she stands and remains as still as she could, watching the full moon cast darker shadows than the light that it shines.

And the moon shines in her brown eyes, highlighting red and yellow in the darkness and drags shadows from beneath them to elongate her face and deepen the hollows of her throat. And there is a light in her eyes that is not from the moon, but is caused by the moon.

And she opens her mouth and utters a sound again and again and again unti she is gasping and no sound is left within her bloody throat. And her head is still tilting back even as there is no sound leaving her mouth. And her throat is bleeding and thin drops of blood and spittle appear on her quickly paling lips. And her hair becomes free and flies in the unseen wind as the pain the night with the sound she cannot make anymore.

And she stands there with a smile in her face even as the scream died in her throat in the same way that her heart died in her body.

Midnight, not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone...
-=fin=-

A/N : The last quote is from the song "Memory" from CATS. Whenever i listen to that part of the song, this is the image i get. So...don't think i actually go out and howl at the moon or anything. not that i find anything wrong with that, but it is JUST NOT ME. Cool beans. Comment comment comment. i would be a whore for comment. hell i am a whore. LOL.

A/n: This piece is especially dedicated to Grazielle Justallero, my oldest and dearest friend. Inspired by the music of and the video of Sarah Mclachlan. I know it sounds terribly slashy...but it's not. Just like Ice and me. Looks terribly slashed...but not. We're like that. Anyway, this is a look-maybe-foward. Just thinking that of the few people i would like to share a flat with me, she would be the on the top of the bloody list. Love always Ice.

And there is no one else I could imagine.

This is your heaven. All your life, you have always wanted this. Music, your music, your soul's voice, filling the room, more so than the candles that stand dripping and the amplifiers that are blinking and the mixers that are...well, mixing. This is your heaven and I am standing at the edge of it, watching you work like a maniac on your newest piece with your band members. You look harried, pressured, stressed and angsting.

Only I know that this is exactly how you wanted to be. Exactly how you are happy. Creation of songs, of music that pierces and caresses and destroys and makes love to the listener. That's what your soul is. That is what your music is.

Looking at you, I realize that I love you.

And I also realize that I truly love you and can say so without the terrible qualms of wanting you. For a person notorious for falling in love with friends, I have found in you someone that I am never going to be in love with, but am willing to spend the rest of my life with.

While you revel in your heaven, I am half-heartedly working on mine, although I seem to have fogotten what my heaven was supposed to be. For a time, I remember that it was a husband and 2.5 children and white picket fences. But my being gay and my love for flats and units rather than houses makes this an improbable if not stupidly childish fantasy.

And yet, there you are, with your heaven realized and with all the freedom that my love and friendship can offer, you still look up, see me standing there and bid goodbye to your bandmates, yes, even to your drummer whom I know you have been dating for some time now. (An achievement from you, really. I think you've moved on from the love-em-and-leave-em. We have to celebrate that fact). And as you walk towards me, I know exactly what you are going to do.

You will always be my friend. You don't have to stay with me to remain so. You will always be that person whom I never have to tell certain things to becuase, in your heart of hearts, you already know even before I realize something. You will always be that person I feel strange writing letters to, because one does not write letters to their arm or leg or heart.

You can live with whoever your latest boy is. You don't have to bear with my having to hide everytime you bring someone new.

You can paper the walls of your own flat with black pain and posters of the Queen of Angst. You don't have to put up with my paintings of fields and mountains and gardens by Monet.

You can smoke wherever and whenever you want should you live somewhere else. You don't have to put up with my silly rules of smoking only outside so that the ash wouldn't get stuck in the carpet, and then having me make you vacuum it out of there.

You can find someone else more interesting to dance under the full moon with on Tadtarin nights.

But always, always, when I finish work and come and stand at the doorway of your warehouse/studio, you leave your heaven, stride towards me with the cocky grin I recall from the childhood we shared and lost at the same time. You look at me and say:

"Okay. Lets go home."

Do you know? Maybe I don't have to look for my heaven.

A/n : i know for the most part, this is rambling. But this is the best i can do since all the feelings just rushed out and i scrambled to write it all down while the computer rebooted. Cool beans. Hope you all liked.

This is a work i started, and never finished, during the end of my senior year of highschool. I know now that i can never get back the mentality that i had at that point in time, well, not enough to finish this in the same voice/tone. But i am putting this up here because is this is one work that not everyone has read. Save for my twinstar though i am not so sure with my memory. Either way. Here it is.

LiLith, The MoonWatcher
Of Distant Stars, Bagio Browneyes, The Moon and other such things
By : Elvira Licuanan

A Prologue By The Author

She made her own language. She needed some intimate connection to her mind, which had somehow been left out of her growing up process. It was nebulous, free floating.
For a few years she wondered if she would have to make up her own dictionary for everyone else to recognize her. But being under a quite natural inertia, she felt all too lazy to do anything as strenuous as that. She decided to learn Their language. And she did. Quite to her surprise, she did learn it, and not only that, she more or less excelled in it, by Their standards.
And that was the language she used when she spoke to me and told me to write down these things.
The rain was falling outside her small living room while we both sipped our wonderfully lukewarm green tea. We were quiet for a while. We had been talking uncomfortably for a while and now took a breather.
How is so and so?
Fine. How is this and that?
Quite fine. Have you seen the latest works?
Quite shameful. They need help.
Indeed.
She made me feel uncomfortable because she was all too like me. All too taciturn and polite to people I feel I cannot trust. But she trusts me at least. In all actuality, she has no choice. She has a message and I am her only medium. And alas, I have no choice; she is an unknown, silent puzzle that I have to live with. I wish to reduce her to a puzzle that I have to live with.
But in the end, we need each other, two tired and worn survivors who are sick of tilting against windmills.
She put down her tea cup and looked out the window. Somewhere in her eyes I could see her bracing herself. I know, if I had a mirror, I would have the exact same thing in my eyes.
“I cannot really say that this is an interesting story.” She sat back, her eyes flatly considering me from behind a grim set of eyeglasses. “But it is a story nonetheless. That is what you are searching for aren’t you?”
I nod wordlessly.
She sighed, as if resigning herself to this fate. The fate of having to speak a lot more than she really was used to.
What follows this is her personal account of what has happened, is happening and what is to happen. (She isn’t a cheap fortune teller, she can simply See. Or so she had said.)
Understand that none of this is Their true names. She didn’t use them and I used the names she told me. From time to time, she used her own language, and I did as best I could to translate. Looking at it and after her assessment, I believe that I’ve done the best I could do. Being one of those who understand Their language and hers as well.
Whether these following words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs actually tell of real people is for you to decide. I do not decide for you. I am the author. I simply tell you what is and what is not.
This is Her pain and her blessing. Her fact and her fiction. Her reality and her fantasy. Her strength and her weakness. Her birth and her eternity.
Her.
Lilith, the MoonWatcher.
Thinker, teacher, watcher, judge, jury and executioner.
Lilith of the Moon and the distant Stars.

The Author

*

The MoonChild

*

She always loved the water. How it reflected everything. How it can be shaped into anything but refusing to retain that shape. Water had a shape all to its own that was defiantly shapeless. She wanted to be like water. She wanted to Be water.
Even when she was almost drowned in it. Repeatedly thrust in it. Feeling the reflective surface broken by her head. Feeling the reflections reflecting the inside of her lungs.
But oh how she loved the water.

*

She used to believe she could fly if she wanted to. Or grow as tall as the tallest building. Or be happy by simply thinking happy thoughts.
But she kept on forgetting that about the shadows at underneath her bed. At the edge of her vision.
The shadows that kept her pinned down, sat on her head to keep her from growing. The shadows that darkened her happy thoughts with indelible ink.

*

Escape

*

There were times she wished to leave. She dreamed she would pack up her backpack and walk out into the sunset, ready to begin a new life. But a new life in the place she was born? She thought otherwise. This place is the land of endings, not beginnings, she said once.
She imagined a world where she could take her own time, her own choices, her own life. Where she was free to die. Where there were no nooses, but blades. Where there were no chains, only quick, precision-cut scalpels that would end it all in one swift cut.
Oh she kept on imagining and there came a time, she could almost, almost taste the end...

*

She would make maps. First, they would lead to a friends house. But her friends would want to leave themselves. Then she would make maps to her favorite places. But the time of her escape was always set at night, a time when her favorite places were filled with the same shadows that she spent her time running away from.
And now, she makes no more maps. She decided.
She would go where her feet tell her to.
Whether it be to heaven or...

*

She wondered if she could contact Simon Magnus from the grave, ask for some pointers on escape. Or maybe from Houdini.
But then, they didn’t escape their death, so they weren’t such great escape artists after all.

*

Bruises

*

She never really liked fighting or arguing. If the other person didn’t really like it, she wasn’t the one to force them. Strangely enough, she was best at debate. She reasoned out that if she really wanted to, she could convince the world to jump off a cliff like lemmings. If she really wanted to that is.
But she liked bruises. She loved getting them.
There was something in the dark blue and black splotches that she got whenever she got into a fight with an unresponsive wall. The wall had no fault in it. She shrugged, it was only physics. The harder I hit on the wall, the harder it hits back on me.
Sometimes she would count them.
One...two...three... just before bedtime. She didn’t need to look at them, she knew where they were just by shifting slightly.
She liked them bright blue and black and painful and big. But she also liked them big and hidden. Where no eyes can see them.
Like the bruises in her heart.

*

Of Distant Stars

*

For a while, she had thought about why she always seemed to love distant stars. She loved the moon, she was born for it. Born to watch it. She loved the sun, how it burned away each and every layer of her skin as she simply sat there. She loved the deep blue of the night, the vibrant blue of the morning light.
But she loved distant stars the most.
She took a while and she came with this list:
1.) Distant stars are beautiful
2.) Distant stars are innumerable.
3.) Distant stars are cold.
4.) Distant stars are mysterious.
5.) Distant stars cannot be touched.
(And this is the most important one, or so she said.)
6.) Distant stars cannot burn her.

*

She found the distant stars so beautiful and powerful. The light years and light years and then some that the light has to cross before it could reach her weak eyesight and yet they were there, shining before her. A blanket of diamonds weaved into the favorite deep blue of her sight.
So white, so pure, so perfect...

*

She found it amusing when she read in “The Little Prince” about the silly grown-up that had tried to keep track of the stars. No one can do that she thought idly.
She would stretch out and count them one by one. By the time she reached three thousand and fourteen she would be nodding off and started doubling her count.
But she loved that about them. It gave the stars an overwhelming power. The distant star’s population totally outnumbered Their population. It was such a grandiose concept that made Lilith so wonderfully small and large at the same time.
Innumerable, stretched eternally on the night sky...

*

Stars never had any emotion. Of course, the sun had it’s happy-go-lucky, sunshiny, perky temperament that didn’t really tick her off, but unnerved her nonetheless. The moon had a thoughtful, dreamy countenance that reminded Lilith of times best left forgotten. But the stars filled her simply with wonder. No emotions.
They were somehow sedated to stay in their place in the heavens, hanging by some invisible cosmic thread. They did not demand nor did they provide. They never tried to compete with the moon with brightness nor did they try to smother it with darkness, they were merely there.
Quiet, silently shining in a passive and peaceful cradle of the night sky...

*

They always loved a mystery. They would approach it with fear but as always, They had a curiosity that would overcome all and push them onwards and forwards.
But then the only mystery that Lilith loved was the fact that no one had really SEEN the stars, up close and personal. It seemed such a powerful concept to her. They may know the Star’s name, the Star’s location...but may never be close enough to touch them... for the sheer distance made that all too impossible...except in Their dreams...

*

Bagio Browneyes

*

The first time she had met her, she hated her guts so much, she was one of the first people she wanted to kill. (there are a lot actually, but we’ll get to that later).
She was far younger than Lilith. That itself ticked her off. But she was also far better with Their language, of course, she was born with it.
Lilith hated her. For everything Bagio was, Lilith wasn’t. Bagio was vibrant, Bagio was alive. Bagio called forth smiles and easy laughter. Bagio called forth easy victories. Lilith hated her for that.

*

She was not Named Bagio Browneyes. Lilith called her so. When I asked her, all she answered was that somehow, she was meant to be in Bagio.
All cold and distant and full of wonderful things that grow in cold places that you cannot reach, cannot touch. And of how Bagio Browneyes always made her think of the sweet clinging smell of strawberries. Too sharp with sour or too clingy with sweet, I asked. She simply shook her head, too distant like the tempting scent of a strawberry.
I asked her why she didn’t call Bagio ‘Strawberry’ instead. She looked at me as if I asked her if she could fly to the moon by flapping her arms.
Apparently, Bagio wasn’t strawberries.
Bagio was the scent of strawberries.
Too distant to taste.
Cannot reach, cannot touch.
A Distant star that cannot burn...

*

Life would have gone on with out Bagio but it seemed that fate had a way of playing with Lilith. She always told me, Fate was bitch to those who were bitches. She always shrugged afterwards.
Of all the things the reason they got together was about men. Particularly, beautiful men. Even more particularly, of beautiful men and the things they did with other beautiful men. There was a type of voyeurism that she shared with Bagio and by that time, she had changed from the child she wished to fight with.
Bagio was mature now. Loved now. In love now.
But they still both liked beautiful men.

*

This resulted in a weirdly cold acquaintance. They didn’t stop in the middle of the hallway to wave at each other. It wasn’t Bagio’s style. Or Lilith’s for that matter.
Besides Lilith was too preoccupied with something else at that time.
But the days passed and she kept on wondering about Bagio Browneyes...

*

Soon, Bagio was a friend of a friend, seemingly the same but all too far. At that time, she was occupied with something else as well. Never knowing.
That is why she never knew of the heart break that came for Bagio. That is why she always wondered who that boy that Bagio kept on writing about was.
The boy who said goodbye and never said why.
But she never knew until a friend told her in the middle of a fast food place. He said they were over. And that was it.
That was it.
She didn’t say anything, but the words were too familiar.
She never knew why. He never told her. And until now, she can’t figure out why they ended.
She still loves him...

*

That is why Lilith kept on watching Bagio Browneyes.
****

A/N : And it ends there. To those who know (or guessed!) who Bagio Browneyes is...well, thankfully, i think i am cured of this 'ridiculous obsession with love' of her, of anyone else for that matter. The only thing is, i prolly will never be able to look her in the eye EVER again. LOL. There you go. Comment por favor.