index about this archive - biographies Postcards . by Marvolo. Her room is full of white roses. The scent would be cloying if it weren't for the fact the floor-to-ceiling windows are always open, the dry breeze they're all getting accustomed to blowing the gauzy curtains around. They each asked for a separate room, and Molly and Arthur could only laughingly agree, thinking back to the previous holidays when their large family was forced to stay in two very cramped rooms. The feeling of money is intoxicating, and they're all a little careless with it, a little obsessed with having the biggest and the best. But her white roses are the most creative extravagance of all, and Percy doubts he'll ever be able to see that kind of blossom again without thinking of her, of this holiday, of the twisting tingle of anticipation in his stomach as he slowly pushes the door to her room open at one in the morning. He said that once, whispered it against her temple as they watched the sun rise from their twist of blankets on her bed, but she had slipped just far enough into sleep that she didn't hear him, just shifted against his chest. He's taking care of her while they're there, and the whole family seems to think they're finally getting to know one another. It's almost funny, really; she's the youngest and he's the oldest of their group, their sub-generation. Bill and Charlie are really too old to understand Ron and the twins and her -- not that Percy even attempts to fathom his little brothers -- but he is just young enough to appreciate the catch of breath in her throat as she sees things for the first time, like the sunlight sparkling on the Nile. He's seen such beauty before, of course -- after all, he's woken up with her in his arms. In a way, though, the condescending warmth in his father's smile has truth to it, for he knows that he's never really taken the time to learn the intricacies of her mind before this. He marvels at the way she's drawn to the small things in the museums he takes her to, how she always seeks out something beautifully minute, and points it out to him, like the artistry of the threads that were woven into a tapestry thousands of years before, the delicacy of the leaves painted on a piece of china, the curves in the designs painted on the sarcophagi. Nothing he could have imagined parallels the cosmopolitan glamour of taking in Egypt with her, her of all people. There's adventure and excitement in everything they do, from the dark caverns of pyramids to the open taxis they ride in, hands laced together and tucked between them. Her red hair falls down in waves from the delicate straw hat he bought her when he saw the way the wind blew her hair around in a crimson cloud as they walked around the blustery cities, and he can only smile when he sees it, knowing that he really can care for her, that she's not making a mistake when her lips brush across his cheek. He took a picture of her in it just outside of Cairo; she stood in front of a railing, her back to the river, one hand holding the hat to her tresses as the wind almost threatened to blow even it clear away, her dress fluttering around her knees as one hand clutched her small suitcase. It was a Muggle photo, the kind that didn't move, and with her strappy shoes and lacey sundress, she could have easily passed for a traveler from forty years before. He can't ever seem to stop buying her things, just to see the thrill of excitement in her eyes as she opens a small box. There are endless shops to explore under the desert sun, and her wrists, fingers, neck are all adorned with the little baubles and beads he gets, spending away his share of pocket money on jewellery and ribbons instead of books and quills. By the time it occurred to him how beautiful she would look in new dress, he had to teleport a thick postcard to his father and ask for more money, which came quickly and copiously. The restaurant they went to that night was the finest he could find, and she looked so grown-up in her gown of yellow that he couldn't resist sliding his hand across the tablecloth and covering her fingers with it, exchanging a crooked smile with her as they sipped the wine she was too young to drink and absently stirred the food they were too distracted to savor. He was careful to not rip the silk and lace as he slid it off of her that night, his lips following its descent in a warm wake, fingers swirling in her loosely styled hair as he set her back on the starched white sheets. He loves to kiss her face, to brush his mouth across her smooth forehead and small eyebrows and the arch of her nose. He loves to hold her hands, to compare her willowy fingers to his, so similar and yet slightly larger, more boyish. She is soft and sweet and fragile, and he loves to hold her against him. When they are walking through a city one afternoon, she decides she doesn't mind the aeroplanes overhead, and he is astonished at her bravery. Neither of them have seen one before in the hills of Ottery St. Catchpole and the hidden grounds of Hogwarts, and the first time they heard the deafening rumbling noise from the sky they had frozen, holding onto each other in shock. Percy still doesn't like them, and can't help but tense when he hears the unnatural noise, but she tilts her chin up and watches them move through the sky. Pride tugs at his heart as she slips her arm around his waist, and he smiles down at her in the crowd. He's reading the paper over breakfast when she mentions souvenirs, and he can't help but drop it, staring at her blankly as she slowly chews her cherry pastry. The idea of going home is something that's been twirling around in the back of his mind ever since they came, of course, but he never confronted it. The idea of letting go of this summer is something that makes his palms clammy, and that's when it starts to change, gently turning from living on room service to crossing days off a pocket calendar. Their moments together have changed from building their month of companionship to putting the final touches on their memory, a web of ticket stubs and postcards and photographs, something they'll look back on and smile at. It's then that he opens the envelope that's been tucked in his suitcase for four weeks, still as crisp and firmly sealed as when the Hogwarts owl swooped into his bedroom and let it rest on his bed. His finger slides under the flap and he takes a shaky breath before pulling up, before his eyes fall on the words there, the words he knows he'll find, and the small bit of metal that he wraps his fingers around. August is tapering to a close, and soon he'll be back in Britain, Head Boy of his school. Just as he is about to try it on, to do what some faint part of his mind has imagined doing for so long, she slips into his room, a single rose in her hand. The Egyptian sun gleams off of her crimson hair, and he sets it back in the suitcase and turns to her completely. They haven't gone home quite yet. [fin] index about this archive - biographies