I see and hear, but can't move,
transformed by spell into living statuary
placed in the Grangers' garden
as unintended focal point.
I decide to give Grandfather's artwork a name.
Boy with Niffler.
Voices echo around me
like museum curators
discussing art in normal tones
when alone in the exhibition room.
Should the piece stay in European sculpture,
or move to another gallery?
I feel a pleasant tingle
and shiver in mind if not body
as magic sweeps over me,
turning stone to lightest down.
Rose's arms wrap tightly, securing me for Apparation.
The statue is moving.
In the seconds before nothingness,
I remember the myth of Pygmalion,
and realise Galatea
also prayed to Aphrodite.
A/N: This poem was inspired by ch 18 of my Scorpius/Rose story Our Little Secret. In legend, Pygmalion was a sculptor who created a woman out of ivory and named her Galatea. When he fell in love with her, Aphrodite heard his prayers, took pity on him and brought the statue to life.
Any readers who hear my prayers and review won't be revered as gods and goddesses, :D, but will be thanked with much appreciation. Real life is hindering writing this week, which brings out the angst . . . and the poetry!