evening thunderstorms
Fandome: Harry Potter
Rating : P12
POV: Hermione Granger
Summary: A Hermione Granger the death of their parents has not yet been processed and will be every evening thunderstorms reminded them again ...
A / N: Anyone who deals a little more closely and intensively with the text acknowledges, perhaps one or another text part that is not limited to the storm.
This text tells of an evening thunderstorm, to which Hermione repeatedly experienced the death of their parents.
The rain had started, when I ran home.
It was drizzling slightly but was drenched on the way to the house of my parents my whole shirt.
I hate thunderstorms.
sparkled on the streets of the soft rain on my skin and ate the substance that covered me.
When I pushed open the door and my few belongings on the white-painted Bank put in the hall, one heard not the slightest sound of my arrival. The patter of rain swallowed all sounds that are not inherent in himself.
before the heavy door to my parents' library I paused for a moment. Everything was dark and I could only dimly discern the outlines of the old chair.
a moment I hesitated, then I entered the room and was just as silent as I had entered the house.
I walked past the worn leather chairs, past the many rows of books. As I walked along to the tapes, I raised my right arm and stroked her fine child back.
Soft, gentle, I hardly touched it.
It was a gesture, a tradition that is inherent in me even longer than my second world.
The world in which I could have done things happen and that may exceed the usual sense.
I hate thunderstorms.
now I've come to the window.
I lean against the stout wooden panel, which includes the radiator below the window sill.
The heat goes up on my body, crawling under my skin soaking, the wet fabric and tangled in my hair. I feel the heated air can flow up to my neck and slowly I put my palms on the wooden window frames.
few seconds I remain motionless, silent, rigid and breathless, to the pelting rain outside this Spaces.
I hate thunderstorms.
The old pine trees outside the house swaying gently.
My grandfather had planted with the help of my great grandmother shortly before the birth of my mother.
At that time they were tiny, inconspicuous and fragile.
Today, they tower above the trees in the street and in a storm to threaten to fall to uproot, and to overthrow.
Now they vary slightly in time with the Donnergrollens, but I know how it will look in a few minutes.
I hate thunderstorms.
Slowly I'm going with my palms to the dark wood frame, which limits the glass pane in front of me along.
millimeter by millimeter, I feel for the wood, feel the fine notches and cracks, which in the course have impressed the years.
I believed then to be able to name the year and the origin of each notch.
How much I still deceived.
A lot has happened too much, which I have heard nothing, well guarded in my safe, secluded boarding school at the end of the world. Protected and preserved by an old man who ultimately gave his life for us, his protégés.
My fingers go on the lowest notch of the frame and when I look down a bolt of lightning illuminates my visibility.
Strangely enough, the crack me thinking about my wound that I had drawn last year during our hunt.
When I think back, think of these moments, I think back to taste the blood that my lips, my face and my whole body was covered and hear the screams in my ears , far, far away, but in a deeper and more vivid memories.
How quickly time flies yet.
The rain beats louder and I press my palms firmly into the crack in the wood splintered.
I hate thunderstorms.
When my fingertips again travel along the frame, high and higher, I hear nothing but the rain and the growing rumble of thunder.
My heart beats fast, as my fingers found the iron grip on and within a second I had torn the window.
The rain hits me in the face, still so gentle and soft, as if waiting for my confirmation on my part to increase his strength.
As I have repeated countless times already inside, and finally the rain drumming is gaining appreciation.
My face is completely wet, my hair stuck in my forehead and I feel the Wind on my skin, as it turns.
Now the rain pouring down violently opposed to me, takes more and more in intensity until it herabschmettert hard and unyielding on me.
I hate thunderstorms.
I close my eyes and I dedicate my entire being to the pain, the crashing, bursting shells of the sky, tear my skin.
I hate thunderstorms.
After an eternity, an indecipherable to me period, disappearing until the lightning and thunderous booms, then takes the strength of the rain again.
gently caresses the rain again my skin and I open my eyes.
half blind I blink away the water that has got caught in my corner of his eye.
Then I close the window and go down to the kitchen to cook me some tea.
I hate thunderstorms.
On the way through the empty, lifeless house I change my mind.
As each of these evenings.
I walk into the spacious living room and take out the dusty sideboard next to the fireplace ash-covered bottle of Pinot Madeleine, a corkscrew and the next for me Related prepared glass.
Like every evening.
Then I sit down in the dust before the umkachelten fireplace and put the glass on the shag me.
with a handle, I removed the cork and take on the bitter, effluent smell, which is distributed in space.
The sparkling, red liquid flows with the same performance in the narrow glass.
Here I cleverly ignore the dark red stains on the accurate, white carpet.
Groping I underline the shag, some matted hair in my hands and touched them.
And so I remain for hours, waiting for her.
Like every evening.
emptied the bottle over time and the next one is next to me shortly.
The fact that the fireplace does not burn and the storm rages outside this House, I sure do not remember me.
I could not be indifferent and insignificant, as in this moment.
But I know, this moment will pass.
Because I hate thunderstorms.
thunderstorms.
you mean a new beginning, herald a new era and bring fresh, unused air approach.
why I hate them because they have forced upon me but a new life, but deprived them of their old, not leaving them a choice.
I hate storms, for I would not be the one that nature might not be enslaved.
I do not want to be the one left out.
The living room is completely dark.
I hate thunderstorms.
because they hide even the darkest of the darkest figures in robes.
My glass is rattling on the tiles.
I take the injection fluid as true by a veil, overshadowed by the macabre memories that dominate my view, and let out a wail that goes in a new roll of thunder.
I hate thunderstorms.
I hate these nights.
I love you, Mom and Dad.
---------------------------- ---------~~~~~~~~ ---------
is currently correct,
is currently good.
Nothing is really right
comes after the flood tide.
on the beach of life,
without reason, without understanding
nothing is in vain.
I'll build dreams on the sand,
and it is ...
It's ok, everything on the way
and it is solar time,
unencumbered and free.
And the man is human,
because he forgets, because it displaces.
And because he's enthusiastic and tempers,
because he warms when he talks.
Ohh, it's ok, it hurts
evenly.
And it is solar time, without a plan
without escort.
Man is man because he reminds
because he fights.
And because he hopes and loves,
because he forgives and sympathizes.
And because he laughs, because he lives,
miss you ...
Ohh, because he laughs and because he lives
miss you ...
