Literature brought me to this!

Hello dear readers. Today, as I was browsing through the internet to find examples of things I've been learning so far, regarding Onomatopoeia, precisely. So I came across this.. a Harry Potter fan fiction post! Let's not relate the Harry Potter here, just enjoy what is written :). It's a free writing site in the net (I guess) and.. I find it really interesting. It's fine if you're not one of HP fans but overall it's not about what it is, but it's about how did the writer really encourage the real senses and put it into writing. That demands a strong imagination. So I feel like sharing with all of you and put it as one of the contents here. It's really beautiful, really stimulating all of my 5 senses! I can truly imagine and sort of, be there. Like when I read it, I could really relate with all of my senses. I can smell the rain. I can hear the raindrops. I can touch the droplets on my fingers. As if it was real. Enjoy. :)

It's raining again.

I love rain.

I don't understand why people curse when the first few droplets fall, scrabbling for umbrellas with a heavy sigh.

It leaves a fresh smell. A pure smell. The air is clear and slightly misty, heavy even, clinging to your clothes and glistening like snowflakes in your hair. I don't mind. To me it seems more of a comfort than a nuisance.

He says it reminds him of tears, and so he always feels sad when it rains. I disagree. It isn't like tears at all. Rain doesn't sting when it rolls down your cheek, or leave a salty tang in your mouth when it slips onto your tongue.

And it doesn't make me sad. Not at all. Moreover, it seems to cry with me. Rain doesn't make me cry. It only rains when I cry.

Whether this is my imagination, I neither know nor care. All I do know, is that no matter where I am, indoors, outdoors, alone, in company, when that weight grows in my chest, making it hard to breath and my stomach turns inside out, a droplet of water always falls, cold but comforting, and rolls down my cheek.

Sometimes it's a torrent of heavy droplets, falling so fast it bruises when it hits me.

Sometimes its light flecks of spray, spattering my face in a light sheen of moisture.

He hates rain. He says it's a nuisance, weighing down your clothes and your hair with water, obscuring your vision.

My vision is always blurry, without my glasses on. When it rains, the water covers them, too. Sometimes it's good to not see the truth. Someone once said: 'The eyes are the window to your soul.' Well, my window is always closed.

…I like my eyes.

When I look into a mirror, it's one of the only things I see which doesn't lie. My eyes are like me. Whoever that is.

"Prongs?"

It's him again.

"James?"

…He hasn't called me that in ages.

The rain lashes against the pane, as though fighting to get to me. I watch as every droplet forms a tiny thread of what seemed like spun glass and slid slowly down the outside of the pane, as if gradually giving up hope. I felt the same way.

Pain by the window pane… onomatopoeia?

"Please, come away from the window."

I do not look up at him. Even if I did, it would change nothing. He would still be staring at me, trying to see through the window. It was closed. At least, to the others. But not to him.

He is standing beside me now. Without looking, I can see him. He'll seem sad, almost sympathetic. I do not look at him. I'll become angry if I see his sympathy. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows how I feel, or can even touch the surface of the thin curtain which separates me from them.

"Oh, James…"

He doesn't know what to say. No one does. They just stand there and wait as if they expect something to happen. They're always disappointed. Every day, now. For a week.

"Prongs, I got you something to eat."

Oh. This is going to hurt.

"I need you to try. Please?"

Some invisible force makes me slowly turn my head to look at him. His dark eyes bore into mine, but somehow, they seem softer than usual. And I see no pity, only a desperation.

I shake my head violently, my dark hair dancing across my vision and settling in front of my eyes, like an immature five year old, but do not avert my gaze.

"It's soup. It'll just slip down. I promise."

I struggle with myself. Then shake my head again.

"Remus has a crush on Snivellus."

I'm so surprised my mouth falls open in shock, and I jerk as though electrified. It hurt, too. My body hasn't moved for a week. Faster than the eye can see, he quickly shoves a spoonful of the hot, sweet smelling liquid into my mouth and holds it there.

The spoon is hot, and I swallow without thinking, letting out a small whimper as I feel my tongue sizzle. He smiles slightly, a vague pride and smugness filling his eyes as he reloads the spoon.

"Just kidding. Come on, James. We'll take it one spoon at a time, just you and me, okay?"

He's serious. Sirius is serious. Ha ha, onomatopoeia. Again. He seems so different now. Almost like a spell has settled over him, maturing him far beyond his years. I mean, he has the maturity of a three year old anyway, but still…I'm not sure I like it. My Sirius wouldn't look so desperate and sad, much as the words are inadequate.

Obediently, I open my mouth reluctantly and he spoons a much larger portion of what I eventually define tomato soup, after he has blown on it to cool it. Strangely, I am not particularly bothered by being treated like a baby. I certainly don't feel any older right now.



I feel…lost. Although that doesn't really describe it. I feel more like I'm a limp, boneless corpse; being buffeted this way and that by a torrent of rushing water. At first, I tried to find something to cling too. Now, though, I just let it flow.

"That's it." He mutters softly, settling himself on the edge of the window ledge (onomatopoeia again) that has become my home. He smiles as he continues to lift the spoon to my mouth and reload it again.

"Did you know I actually made this myself?" he murmured, half to himself. I showed no signs that I had heard him, but inwardly, my mind was filled with the ridiculous vision of Sirius trying to make tomato soup, with a very stupid apron on. Somehow, I couldn't find it funny. I felt too numb.

"Yeah. I broke into the kitchens, and took over. The house elves nearly had a heart attack."

He chuckled softly, and I found myself subconsciously moving back towards the window, to allow him to sit down properly. It almost feels like I'm the child, and he's the caring parent. It's strange. All our lives, it's been me who has to drag him up from whatever deep pit he's managed to think himself into. God, did he really feel this bad every time?

It comforts me.

He comforts me.

There's a sharp intake of breath as his hand accidentally brushes my own on its way to my mouth. He carefully sets down the spoon in the bowl, and, his eyes still fixed on mine, takes my left hand between his larger ones. I shiver involuntarily as warmth floods my bone chilled fingers, spreading up my arm like vipers, giving me goose bumps.

"You're freezing."

No shit, Sherlock. That's what happens when you sit on a hard stone window ledge, in November, for a week. I can feel the soup making its way down to my stomach, and it sits there, warming my belly and rising to my chest, thawing my heart, as corny as that sounds. But, for some time, I really believed it had stopped beating.

I suddenly convulse, the strong desire to throw up overpowering my pride. I start to shudder, feeling like the entirety of my insides are jumping up into my throat.

I lean over the ledge and spill the contents of my stomach onto the floor of the tower room. He almost drops the bowl, but replaces it onto the ledge without spilling any, and drops to his knees beside me. I can feel his hand making comforting circles around my back, as I find I have nothing more to dispel.

I choke on my own breath, air jerking upwards then being pulled back down suddenly, making my throat ache. My eyes sting and well up, hot tears spilling down my cheeks in frustration and pain. It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

I thought it had stopped hurting.

I close my eyes, pressing my lashes tightly against my cheeks, trying to make it stop. In the blackness, the world is spinning unsteadily. My right hand reaches out blindly, and brushes something soft. I clutch at it, pulling myself back onto the ledge with shaky legs as the seizure passes and the world slams to a halt.

"It's alright, Prongs, it's alright. I've got you. Shh."

He sounds shaken, almost frightened. I open my eyes, although they feel so very heavy, and stare up at him, my vision blurry. I squint, and realise my glasses have fallen off. He smiles shakily, and lifts me more securely onto the ledge, and I realise how surreal the situation feels. Squashed together on a windowsill, in the loft room at the top of the north tower. I wonder hazily what Remus would make of all this.

"James?"

I glance up at him. His arms are wrapped around me, as though he is afraid I'm going to fall again. I'm glad.

I'm afraid I'll fall, too.

I'm tired. So tired, I can feel my bones ache with it, seeping out and making me feel drowsy. The fit had made me weak and feverish, my face bathed in cold sweat. Sirius' face was growing fainter and distorted, and I clutched blindly for him, my fists twisting his shirt tightly. To my dismay, I feel the back of my eyes sting again, the tears crisscrossing with the newly dried tracks of the previous moisture. I should feel afraid, embarrassed, but I feel nothing.

Just…cold.

My hands tremble as I crumple against him, turning into his shoulder, my head falling against his neck. It's blessedly cool, my flushed skin making him jolt as he pulls me closer, whispering words of comfort and uttering jumbled hushing sounds. His arms are firm against my back, and the world flickers, then dies around me. In the darkness, the torrent of water rushes around me.

But I do not go with it. I cling to the one unmoving rock in the screaming rush. It grabs for me, and I cower away, breathing shallowly and harshly. I screw up my eyes, away from it.

It rushes past…

I feel…

Safe…?

The rushing sounds fades, replaced by blessed silence as I drift, drowsily, away.

Heartbreakingly beautiful, isn't it? But as I read it, I am sort of aware that the author has misused the term onomatopoeia, but that's okay. I found the writing is interesting itself. Well anyway, hope you enjoy that!