#it’s achingly desperate and lonely and uncertain

[napping-sapphic]

I talk so much about how i want to fall in love for all the things i could do for someone and all the things someone could do for me but deep down, if i’m being honest, i want to fall in love because i just so desperately need to know that love is actually real and that there are people out there capable of truly loving me

[noforkingclue]

Loneliness (9th Doctor x reader)

Summary: with Gallifrey gone the both of you thought you were the only ones left. When you find out that you're not, you both have very different reactions

Warnings: angst, mentions of war, mentions of genocide

You watched in horror as Gallifrey burned.

He had told you he was going to do it but you never expected that he would actually go through with it. Yes, you both disliked your home planet. Gallifrey had taken so much from the both of you. Even before the War it hung over your heads like a phantom.

Now it was gone.

Your home, your old home, was gone.

Your friends.

Your family.

The Daleks.

The whole bloody war.

Everything was gone.

You wanted to scream. To shout out. To yell at the injustice in the universe but every time you tried to open your mouth, the sound got stuck. It was as though your voice had been taken alongside the planet. Instead you sunk to the floor of your TARDIS, the one last reminder of your planet.

Were you the last Time Lord? You closed your eyes and tried to find someone, anyone, with your mind. All Time Lords could sense each other, however far away through time or space. It was a shared curse (or blessing) that Time Lords shared. You couldn’t sense anyone. It was achingly lonely. Even during your travels by yourself, you always had the comfort of knowing there were others out there. You could always tap into the connection, to feel close to your species again.

You finally understood true loneliness.

Then you felt it.

A small flicker in the back of your mind. Your eyes flew open, tears still streaming down your face. You staggered to your feet, uncertain if the feeling in your mind was real or just another stage of your grief. When it happened again, this time with more insistence, you knew it was real. So you willingly opened your mind and immediately regretted it.

‘You. You survived.’

Him. The bastard who destroyed your home. You tried to push the Doctor out but he was stronger and more desperate. Well, you were both desperate but the Doctor was older and therefore had more experience than you.

‘You understand why I had to do it,’ he pleaded, ‘it was the only way to stop this war.’

You had never heard the Doctor plead before. It was unsettling. As was the crack in his voice. Yet still, you couldn’t reply. It was as though something had constricted around your vocal chords. Had your voice been lost alongside your planet?

‘Please,’ the Doctor continued, ‘say something. Anything. I thought I was the only one left. We have each other. I understand that you might hate me but I had to. For the sake of the universe.’

The sake of the universe, Gallifrey had to fall. You knew it was true but you didn’t want to believe it. You wanted to run to the Doctor, to hold him tight so neither of you would be alone, but at the same time you wanted to push him away.

You could feel his control slipping, giving you enough strength to push him out of your mind.

Goodbye Doctor.

It was nice knowing you.

[denimbex1986]

'★★★★★

The Sun seems perpetually ready to set in and upon All of Us Strangers, an achingly personal new romance by Lean on Pete director Andrew Haigh. It’s befitting of a film that enjoys that very Shakespearean notion of a tale told entirely in the twilight hours. Certainly, there’s something implicitly theatrical about the premise, which dances, at times, on the peripheral edges of gimmickry. Such concerns are, however, offset by the astounding rawness of Haigh’s own emotional engagement with the narrative. This is no autobiographical feature – the film takes inspiration from the 1987 Taichi Yamada novel, Strangers – but it is no less enthused with the outpouring of a heart fully opened.

Andrew Scott plays Adam, a desperately lonely writer in a lonelier still London. He’s one of two residents in a new outer-city high rise, a bleakly corporate block, more hotel than home. The other is Paul Mescal’s Harry, a young hedonist whose sole companion as the film opens is the rapidly emptying bottle of whisky he cradles. Absent love haunts the building’s empty rooms. Adam’s parents died in a tragic accident when he was just twelve, Harry’s are accepting of him but never visit. In shared solitude, the pair find similitude. Tender romance blossoms. It’s gentle, uncertain and beautifully done.

Struggling to pen his latest script – ‘I’m not a proper writer. I write for films…and TV, when I have to’ – Adam heads to the borough of his childhood. Here’s where the fantastical steps into gear. In a local park, Adam’s father appears from afar and guides him home. Adam’s parents are alive and well – or so it seems – in the house, albeit exactly as he remembers them from his formative years. The years, months, weeks and days before they died. Claire Foy and Jamie Bell are exquisite as Adam’s parents, unnamed but for Mum and Dad. This is his memory, after all. Haigh shoots their introduction as akin to old home video snapshots, the haze of nostalgia heightened by the 35mm with which he films. His camera is intimate, frenetically familiar and awash with warmth.

Later the lens will cool as Haigh uncovers the sharper corners of a painful past. There’s no softening of old attitudes – Adam’s mother frets he will contract HIV on learning of his sexuality – but it makes for a fascinating point of inquisition as Haigh wonders aloud what an orphan might ask his parents given the opportunity. The approach is fascinating, gently gripping as the puzzle unpacks. Scott is extraordinary in capturing the nuance of a man torn between the past and present, increasingly insular in his mediations. In the company of Harry, Adam wears world-weary eyes, streaked with pain. Drawn back into the parental fold, these old eyes widen, returned to childhood innocence. Scott is older than Foy and Bell but plays much younger, convincingly so.

This really is astonishing storytelling. Haigh’s visuals stun, each scene sublimely coloured by an increasingly impressive Jamie D. Ramsay, as his writing cuts to the very core of the human psyche. It’s a deeply emotional tale, intricate and experientially specific but somehow universally resonant. You don’t have to be a lonely, gay man in your forties to know what it is to yearn that the sunset might hold off just that little bit longer. There is, likewise, something gorgeously familiar about Haigh’s ear for a turn of phrase. Best of these comes as Adam’s mother learns of her son’s achievements and squeals: ‘If I knew the neighbours, I’d run round and tell them’. It’s a lovely line in a film loaded with them.

Such is, of course, Haigh’s talent as a writer. And yet, here, it is a marker too of just how closely All of Us Strangers is drawn from Haigh’s own lived experience. Write what you know, as they say. To that end, it is a pleasure to be privy to the opening of so brilliant a mind as it explores the intricacies of romantic and familial love. It’s gorgeously personal.'

[jossambird]

Indecently Fated, P2

Papa Emeritus IV/Cardinal Copia x !Reader

Word count: 3k

Warnings: mentions/fantasizing of 18+ acts, Fate, Satanic praying, meddling demonic Lords, Desperately touch-starved Ratman and Reader, mild angst for but a second.

AO3 LINK

Summary: Fate always worked in mysterious ways, but never had you imagined yourself hiding under the table of a man you ached for.

Copia reminisces on his achingly lonely life, wondering if Fate had finally rid itself of him.

You had never considered yourself a lover of picking up after others but you felt different about it now as you carefully picked up Papa Emeritus IV’s things off the soft flooring, trying to see with your hands what exactly you were picking up.

The bus being thrown into darkness hardly discouraged you, continuing to-

You gasped, hurriedly pulling your finger away from whatever you had just cut yourself on, cradling said finger against yourself. Fuck, you hoped you hadn’t just cut yourself on one of his papers, imagining the singer’s disgusted face once he would return after the show to find whatever paper he had left out now all bloody.

It certainly didn’t escape you how surreal this all felt as you knelt down in a tour bus belonging to a man you lusted after, insides churning in both delight and nervousness at the situation. How many people had dreamt of this, imagining it to be themselves in your place? You let out a chuckle, perhaps there weren’t many people imagining themselves picking things up off the floor of GHOST’s lead singer’s tour bus, but that was beside the fact.

Barely had you begun to raise yourself up off of your knees when your ears caught the low sound of people speaking in hushed tones outside of the bus. You remained frozen where you stood, unable to move, straining your ears to try and understand atleast something that was being said.

“….and you let them into the bus?” You heard a voice say, unable to recognize who it belonged to but you could hear the uncertainty in the speaker’s voice, as if they could barely believe what they’d just said themselves.

“Yes, they are in the bus!”

Fuck, you cursed under your breath, definitely recognizing the voice of the Ghoul that had let you remain here whilst he went inside. Had he gone and gotten the police to arrest you? Was this revenge for blurting out that you’d wanted to suck Papa Emeritus IV’s dick? This would absolutely be seen as trespassing, breaking and entering, and so many more laws related to what you’d said to the Ghoul. Scenarios of having to explain away why exactly you were standing in their lead singer’s bus filled your mind, fear and anxiety causing you to clumsily drop the book you had been holding only moments ago.

The clatter resounded loudly against the tour bus’s walls, causing the voices outside of the bus to cease, horror coloring your features. Silence echoed around you, torturously so, just like it would within an empty mausoleum. Time appeared to have stilled as the silence outside the bus also grew longer, the sound of blood rushing filling your ears while anxiety crawled its way into your veins. It almost felt as if your life flashed before your eyes.. except it didn’t; instead, an image of Cardinal Copia’s face flashed into your mind's eye, his beautiful Papa makeup ruined, grinning as he leaned in to kiss you. Ah, how cruel Life was to show you such a thing before being thrown away to prison-

The sound of the tour bus’s front door slowly opening spurred you into action whilst panic seeped into your mind, eyes attempting to move quickly in the dark to find somewhere to hide. With haste, you quietly moved to hide yourself under the table, fingers over your mouth to try and keep yourself as silent as you could be.

Light briefly shone into the encompassing darkness around you before disappearing once more, plunging both you and whoever had entered back into the discomforting dark.

“Hello?” Came a man’s voice, accented, tone seeming uncertain as he took another reluctant step inside. His voice still sounded familiar, even with how badly you could hear from under the table, as if you had heard him speak before..

More seconds ticked away in silence before the man sighed, sounding clearly too tired to even attempt to look for you. Soundlessly did he finally move forward, moving to seat himself… directly infront of where you now hid. Momentary panic grew tenfold within you, was this man’s crotch literally in your face?! You hoped he couldn’t hear you breathing heavily, embarrassed trepidation crawling at your skin.

“Satanas, I had not taken you for a cruel prankster.” The man above you whispered, his voice surprising you, sounding genuinely hurt, tone dripping with distress.

.

..

.

Silence filled the tour bus, disappointment coiling hotly within his gut as he sat back, entirely too tired to remain standing.

‘Disappointment’ felt too light of a word to convey how he felt. Hadn’t he learnt that it was enough, that he had had enough, holding onto hope like a naive fool?

How long had he been alone? Ages? Decades? He HAD always been surrounded by people of the Clergy and of the Church but that singularly simple fact had never unburdened him, never had it stopped how truly and utterly alone he felt inside.

He remembered not having realized it as much when he had been a simple Cardinal, far too busy was he to dwell on such silly things, instead always running left and right to distract himself. It had practically become a routine: translating Latin texts from morning till dawn, performing daily rituals or even making sure that Terzo kept out of Sister Imperator’s hair.

It was only at night, when silence reigned within his chambers had he felt it again, insidiously clawing at his skin, words he had dreamed of hearing poisonously ringing within his mind.

Too many times had he thought that perhaps finding himself between a willing partners thighs would help but it had not; infact, it had only worsened it all, finding himself unable to conjure the spark that would have brought him to completion and instead laying in disquieted and humiliated silence as said partner left.

But now as Papa? Oh, he felt it even more, clawing at him whilst he lay in bed each night, consuming every crevice in his mind like a parasite.

It should have come by no surprise what he’d done, what any man in his position would have most likely also done: he had prayed, prayed to his Unholy God, words seeming to tumble out of his mouth like a nervous teenager about to have their first kiss.

He hadn’t even known where to start; how did one even implore their Lord for such a thing? And so, Copia had done what he had always done when unsure: he had rambled, rambled like his life depended on it, praying to his god for something, SOMEONE, anything Satanas, give me a sign! Prayers hushed against his clasped palms whilst tears had rolled down his cheeks, a momentary reprieve from the fabled lie he told himself daily: that he had always been a loner, preferring the company of his rats. That he liked being alone.

He sighed again, head hanging back against the sofa’s headrest as self inflicted melancholia overtook him. He shouldn’t have hoped, he shouldn’t have wished for it so desperately, expecting an unholy miracle… but how could one not with this series of bizarre events?

The Ghoul guarding the bus would never have let this happen, never would it have let someone into his bus, not after he had drunkenly confessed to said Ghoul a few days prior just how lonely he felt at night, vehemently shooting down the Ghoul’s suggestion to find a one night stand.

No, ‘disappointment’ was not the right word to describe how he currently felt, feeling somewhat stupid to have giving himself such hopes. He knew that his undying devotion and loyalty to his Lord did not earn him any rights whatsoever, he was not that disillusioned.. He just…

A cramp flared within his thigh, moving to reposition it, foot knocking against-

A strangled gasp erupted from under the table, causing the skull-faced man to freeze where he sat, thighs tensed. Had he just- No, it couldn’t-

.

..

.

As if a premonition played before your very eyes, you watched with what little vision you had as the man tensed, foot slowly retreating away from your thigh… only to kick you again, this time harder, earning another shocked gasp out of you.

You barely had time to think, mouth opening before you could even remind yourself you were supposed to be hiding.

“What the fuck, don’t kick me harder!”

Even though your appalled brain focused on the fact that you had just outed yourself, it didn’t miss the sound of an accented curse from the man above you, visibly shifting away from your form under the table as if realizing the position he had been sitting in, legs widely opened.

“Per'dónami! Ah, forgive me! I do not know why I did such a thing!” The man hurriedly spoke, removing himself from the sofa to seemingly bend down towards you before thinking of a better idea.

“One moment!” He spoke again as he practically stumbled away, the sound of drawer after drawer being opened before-

“Ah ha! Molto bene!”

A small source of light flickered on, hardly illuminating anything around it but it was enough for you to finally see who was now making his way towards you. Gently did Papa Emeritus IV deposit the small tea light onto the table above you before bending to a knee, eyes brightly illuminated as he anxiously gazed at you.

“Eh.. Hello there.”

A squeaked Hi was all you could let out, finding yourself unable to move from where you sat. No, this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t- Gripping your arm, you pinched yourself, hissing as pain radiated sharply within you. You definitely weren’t imagining it, you definitely weren’t imagining Copia knelt infront of you, dissimilar eyes trailed on you in curiosity.

“You’re real, you’re Cop- Papa Emeritus IV.” You almost cringed at yourself; who were you to be addressing this man by his character’s first name? Sure the real man underneath probably had his own name but still, you didn’t even kno-

“Sì, yes!! I-“ Hurriedly did he try rushing his words out before coughing nervously, eyes never leaving you.

“Copia, my name is ah.. Copia.” He whispered again, breathlessly, eyes wide as if you had just whispered a secret he had not heard for ages, a secret he had just now remembered, stealing his breath away.

It also struck you how eager he sounded, as if excited at the prospect of someone calling him something other than Papa Emeritus. Had the man underneath gotten tired of the Papa act already? Was the name a title? Did he not wear the name like a king would wear a crown, eagerly showing it off whenever he could? Or had that very title become a tomb, trapping him, unable to-

The sound of a throat clearing pulled you out of your thoughts, allowing you to realize the silence you had allowed to grow between the both of you. Copia patiently remained there, still bent down infront of you, appearing far more anxious than he had been moments ago, as if waiting-

“O-Oh, where are my manners! My name is Y/N!” You stuttered out, and without thinking, thrusting a hand forward as if to casually shake hands.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Copia, sir.”

Fuck, how much more were you going to embarrass yourself tonight? Quickly did you try to pull your hand back but finding yourself unable to. With a delicacy you had not anticipated, a gloved hand reached out the rest of the way, clasping your own before slowly moving forward, kissing your knuckles.

“The pleasure is all mine but per favore, simply Copia, cara.”

You could hardly think, his voice was absolutely sinful upclose like this, a slight shiver descending down your spine. Nodding was the only form of agreement you found yourself being able to give, eyes wandering back down to his lips….

Those were real lips, his actual lips.

Oh my god, they weren’t some mask like people had believed it to, they were actual lips- that were now speaking, shit-

“The floor, it is uncomfortable, no? Come, I will not harm you. The sofa, it is much more comfortable.” Copia asked, sounding like one would whilst coaxing a small animal out of it’s hiding place, squeezing your hand softly to accentuate his point. Had he still been holding your hand the entire time?

“Y-Yes, you’re right.” You whispered, eyes unable to tear away from this enigma of a man infront of you. Was this what he meant by being bewitched in the moonlight? To be unable to tear one’s eyes away, unable to breathe?

“Here, let me help you.”

With only a little bit of difficulty did you remove yourself from under his table, thanking him as he gently aided you to the sofa before taking a place not too close from you, but not too far. For a brief minute, he seemed to ponder, as if wondering if he should or shouldn’t ask you whatever was on his mind.

“I apologize if my question may appear rude… but how did you enter here, cara?” Copia asked after a moment, appearing hesitant as the words left his mouth. He probably thought you’d broken into his tour bus; was that why his first instinct had been to re-kick you?

No matter how much you craved to simply kneel before him or have him fuck you until the sun came back up, rationality flared within your mind, reminding you that HE had never consented to you being in his tour bus like this.

You, a stranger, were in his literal home while he remained on the road, and still he remained kind and gentle.

He had accidentally found an unknown person hidden under his table, and STILL he remained polite.

“I'm so sorry about that, I didn’t- Shit, here, I'll just go-“ Quickly did his hand find yours once more, strong gloved fingers curling around your palm as if to ground you, as if you were the only thing keeping him from disappearing in this very moment, mismatched eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t identify.

.

..

.

He knew he couldn’t very well ask you if you were a gift from his God, but oh, you had to be. It had to be you, the unholy miracle he had prayed for. It was too bizarre of a situation for this all to NOT be the sign he had so painstakingly ached for.

He could hardly believe his eyes, you were breathtakingly beautiful. Faintly did the tea light flicker back and forth, light softly illuminating your confused visage.

Although… the whole situation was going far worse than he had anticipated.

First, he had kicked you.

Second, he was currently most likely scaring you, if your wide-eyed stare was anything to go by.

And now third, you seemed to think he was asking you to leave, to unceremoniously fuck off. Even if you weren’t the unholy miracle he had asked for, that did not grant him any right to treat you so horribly.

“No no, I am not angered, dolcezza! Simply curious how an exquisite being such as yourself has found her way here.” He tried, the sense of relief that washed over him swift at the light upward quirk of your lips. Cazzo, and here he had thought hearing you say his true name had given him a heart attack.

“Well I uh.. the man- sorry, the Ghoul that stood outside your bus and I were talking and something happened. Said he had to quickly go inside and asked me to wait inside the bus.” You replied with a hesitant lilt, as if embarrassed.

To Copia’s delight, you gently sat back down, confusion and curiosity still swimming within your eyes but you had decided to sit back down with him, and that was enough for him until he registered what you’d just said.

“My ghoul was the one to let you inside, yes?” Your words brought forth his earlier assessment of his ghoul, wondering just what had happened, what had his ghoul seen in you to run inside to fetch him, panting and excited, as if it had seen-

The realization that his ghoul had possibly been instructed to do so wedged itself within his mind, halting all further thoughts; why else would his ghoul have been so visibly excited to come fetch him, as if it had spoken to its True Master?

“Yeah, though I didn’t really uh.. ask for his name..” You cringed, missing the awestruck state that now radiated off the man seated before you.

Could it truly be possible? Had his unholy God taken notice of his prayers and answered in His own way? Such a thought brought forth another, albeit a less than stellar one, a thought that froze him to the bone: were you here of your own free will?

“I do not wish to pry, but.. What were you and my ghoul speaking of before he let you inside?” The words exit his lips, millions of thoughts screamed within his mind as he tried to keep his heart rate from skyrocketing.

“O-Oh uh… Uh, nothing too important-“ You had begun to say but stopped, eyes flickering away from him for the first time. You remained silent for a moment, clearly debating whether or not you should speak more.

“Please do not be scared cara mia, I will not throw you out.” He whispered softly, interpreting your lack of words for fear. Oh did he wish to soothe you, soothe your fears of whatever was plaguing your mind. Had you accidentally seen his ghoul’s true face, fear now once again coursing through your veins at the reminder of said creature?

Gently did you raise both your held hands to your visage, as if to shield yourself from his heated gaze. Copia steeled himself for your words, ready to mourn whatever might come of them-

“ItoldhimIwantedtosuckyourdick.” You quickly rushed out, face brightly illuminated from what he could see from behind your fingers. All sound ceased, mismatched eyes trailing instead on the rising heat adorning your visage, a gorgeous shade of red painting your skin, calling to him.

tag list: @mschfmusings @starbentfool

[bellshells]

Nobody Can Know Part 2

This is part two of Nobody Can Know !

It’s been requested for a part two, and I genuinely loved writing (Y/N) so much, I couldn’t resist. This one is a little darker than the first part, kinda plot heavy too. I also wouldn’t say it runs completely alongside the canon timeline, I would say it’s canon adjacent? Thank you for all the amazing comments regarding the first part and I can confirm there is a third part coming! Thank you <3

Summary: (Y/N) and George’s relationship is threatened when her parents take her to Malfoy Manor, where she makes enemies and unlikely friends.  Warnings: Language, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Implied assault, Arranged marriage, alcohol(?) Pansy Parkinson is a good friend AU Word Count: 14k+

Part Three

You were lonely. You had been lonely for months. You were angry too, but that was by-the-by, your loneliness was far more pressing. It had been four months since you had last seen George. Four long months since the Weasley twins had shoved two big middle fingers up at Hogwarts and the oppressive regime spearheaded by Professor Umbridge. They had flown away on steady brooms in spectacular twinkling lights taking your happiness with them.

  It had been quiet without them, Umbridge had left not long after and whilst that had given you a certain amount of relief; the whispers of what happened inside the Department of Mysteries lingered heavily throughout the stone walls of the castle. That, coupled with the rumours that the Dark Lord had returned filled you with dread. You had carried that dread home with you, school felt like a lifetime ago though it had only been four weeks since you left. Though you were reminded with each passing day how alone you were in your family home, your father barely spoke to you, instead he chose to keep himself locked away in his study and your mother, well she was the same as she had always been; cold and indifferent.

  George had sent an owl as soon as he had returned home to The Burrow all those months ago, a hastily written note detailing that he was setting up a business with Fred, and he would send word when everything was settled so you could join him. It didn’t matter, you were so desperately annoyed with him for leaving, for abandoning you when you needed him most. Draco had sent word to your parents almost immediately after news of your relationship with George was made public and they were furious. You were summoned home one weekend. With the hesitant approval from Professor Snape, you were taken to Hogsmeade and then escorted back to your family home in London. You weren’t sure what to expect, but they chastised you, berated you and told you under no uncertain circumstances to put an end to this relationship that brought you such joy. They sent you back to school with a heavy heart and a guilty conscience, you had absolutely no intention of leaving him. But he was to leave you; “Just for a little while.” He had said.

  You had weathered your NEWTs with an almost disillusioned passiveness, and whilst you had gained an Outstanding grade for most of your exams, the Acceptable in Transfiguration mocked you. George would laugh you were sure, if you had replied to owl that is. You instead decided to write to Ginny, a firm friendship had blossomed between you and you relished in the near daily correspondence you shared with the youngest Weasley. George was annoyed, he told you so in the Howler he sent, but still- you ignored him. Ginny had invited you to The Burrow for the summer holidays, well; it was just summer to you now. Your school life was finished, and the rest of your life waited for you. You wanted to go to The Burrow, you wanted to see Ginny, you wanted to see George. To put you both out of your misery, to end this resentment you harboured for him. He had suffered enough and all you wanted was to hold him, to feel his strong arms around your body, his head pressed against your shoulder. To feel his soft lips on yours…you would have done anything.

  You got ready, bags packed, cloak tied around your shoulders and a fistful of Floo Powder. But your mother had other ideas.   “I have told you repeatedly, (Y/N). You are not going.” She had caught you just before you were able to whisper the words, she grasped your wrist firmly and almost dragged you out of the fireplace. You instinctively dropped the Floo Powder and tried to wriggle out of her grasp, she in turn gripped you tighter. “Get back up those stairs, I will send for you when we are ready to depart for the Malfoys.” You turned on your heel, internally you were screaming, desperate blood curdling screams; but on the outside, your face was calm. You ripped the tie of your cloak open and dropped it at your mother’s feet, you stepped over it and made your way to your bedroom. You hastened over to your bureau, a parchment and quill in your hands as you shakily sat down on the little stool. Your hand was trembling as you etched words onto the parchment, tears threatening to fall as you wrote desperately to George.

George,

I have been so angry at you for the longest time, but I cannot let you believe that I don’t love you. I yearn for you, my darling.

You paused, lifting your quill from the parchment slightly. you missed George achingly, it felt ludicrous now, how you felt so maligned by him leaving when you would have given anything to be in his embrace at that moment. You took a deep breath, trying your hardest to steady your hand and continued writing.

I have been so empty without you, you mean absolutely everything to me and I am sorry. But George, I need you to help me. My parents are taking me to Malfoy Manor, there’s a gathering of wizards and I must attend. I tried to sneak away and come to you, but I was caught. Please help me George, I’m scared of what might happen there. You-Know-Who is back and neither of us are stupid enough to think this gathering at the Malfoy’s is an innocent coincidence. We leave today, I hope this reaches you in time.

I’m sorry to have been so distant with you Georgie, I just felt so hopeless without you. I hope you can forgive me, my love. I love you so much, all the stars in the sky could not equal the amount of love I have for you.

Yours always,

(Y/N)

  A plea. That’s what that letter was. You hoped George could forgive you for your standoffishness and help you. You were more desperate than you could articulate, terrified of what might happen at Malfoy Manor. You moved swiftly to your bedroom window and opened it wide, whistling as you did so, your eyes searching the large grounds of your family estate for a little tawny owl. When you spotted her, she was already flying intently towards your open window. Desdemona’s wings twitched outwards as she settled on the windowpane, her head moving around in staccato movements surveying the scene. You hastily offered her the letter and she made one swift attempt to bite your fingers, you pulled your hand away and sighed. You offered her the letter once more and she took it in her beak as she fluttered her wings.

  You watched Desdemona fly into the distance, a tear threatening to fall as you closed your eyes. You wished that with every fibre of your being that she got to The Burrow safely and George would have your letter and know that you loved him. You felt an immense pressure on your chest as you flopped backwards on your bed. You hugged your arms tight to your chest and rolled over onto your stomach, you pressed your face firmly into the pillow and screamed. Your entire body shook with the ferocity of your scream, your throat hurt, and your muscles ached from being so tense. It was only a knock on the door that made you stop; you sat upright like a shot and tried your best to smooth your hair back into place. Your eyes stung as you watched suspiciously as your father opened your bedroom door and stood awkwardly in the doorframe.   “If you’ve come to scold me Father, I wouldn’t bother. Mother has already beaten you to it.” You sniffed. Your father frowned and took a step toward you, you flinched in response. It wasn’t that you thought he would hit you; you were sure he never would; but there was nothing you desired less than physical contact with your father in that moment in time. He used to be such an affectionate man in your youth, he was the one beacon of light you possessed in an otherwise stifling childhood. You would spend hours looking through books. He would teach you spells and charms; and you would laugh, big belly laughs as you would set traps for mother and watch gleefully as she would fall for them every time. That was a long time ago now, it seemed like another lifetime. Almost as if he could read your mind, your father gave you a wistful glance.   “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, darling.” He whispered, you watched as he offered a half look over his shoulder as he grasped the door handle to leave. “Mother says to fetch your things. We’re ready to go.”

Happy Birthday indeed.

     The Malfoys greeted your family ostentatiously at the bottom of a grand staircase as you entered the manor. Your mother held onto the crook of your arm with a vice like grip as she offered a tight-lipped smile to your hosts, your father already looked bored as he shook Lucius’ hand. If you looked hard enough you could see the sweat start to form on the blonde man’s head, he tried so awfully hard to impress your parents and whilst your used to find it amusing, now it just made you uncomfortable. It made you pity him. You glanced over to Draco who stood at his mother’s side, he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched as a blush crept from his neck to his cheeks. A silent rage washed through you, you seethed as your parents followed the Malfoys through the grand hallway and you fell into step behind them, your muscles tense as you walked beside Draco. You looked straight ahead. You hadn’t forgiven him for telling your parents about George and the fact you were being forced to spend time with him was almost more than you could bear. It made you question your friendship with Draco, whether all these years you had dedicated to trying to be a good friend to him were just a waste of your time. At present, there wasn’t anything to persuade you otherwise.  

  You were led into a large sitting room, there were wizards and witches already gathered mingling in small groups. There was a man dressed smartly with a vacant expression with a silver tray balanced on his outstretched hand. Tall champagne flutes stood proudly on the tray as he lowered it to you and your mother to take a glass. You gave him a small smile in thanks and carefully took a delicate sip, relishing the tart taste. Your mother hummed in approval as she watched you, another man, dressed the same as the one with the tray appeared behind you and offered to take your cloak. You untied it and gave it to him, your parents followed suit. Now free of your bonds, you surveyed the room. You looked to see if there was anybody that you recognised, obviously there was Draco; just a short way away you spied Pansy and her parents. Blaise and his mother and whichever number husband she had currently stood beaming at her side. You detached yourself from your parents and tried to shrink into the shadows, to pretend you were anywhere else in the world. Another smartly dressed man whisked towards you with another tray, you quickly drank the champagne in your hand and grasped another as he passed. You walked backwards, trying to reach the outskirts of the party until you felt something behind you which made you jump. You spilled your champagne over your arm and whirled around about to apologise profusely when a figure stopped you dead in your tracks.

  “Professor! I am so sorry!” Professor Snape stood before you, a look of sheer detestation on his face as you noticed you had knocked his glass too. Instinctively you started dabbing at his clothes with the corner of your dress, fumbling embarrassingly to try and dry his sopping coat.   “Miss (Y/L/N), I implore you to stop assaulting me.” He said dryly, you stopped your actions immediately and waited breathlessly for his punishment. Strangely, nothing came. He swept his eyes over you and sighed. “Would you like another glass? Perhaps one to drink and not throw over me?” You nodded mutely and stood uneasily as Professor Snape flagged down the waiter and took two champagne flutes and offered one to you.   “Thank you, Professor.”   “I suppose you are welcome, Miss (Y/L/N).” You stood side-by-side with your up until very recently Head of House, the dynamic between you felt very strange as you silently took turns in sipping your drinks.   “I’m surprised to see you here, Professor.” You said, you tried to sound bright and airy and Professor Snape looked at you askance with a small smirk.   “I could say the same thing to you, Miss (Y/L/N). This isn’t where I would imagine you spending your summer.”   “What? Dying of boredom in a room full of the most pretentious people I’ve had the misfortune of meeting? Present company excluded, obviously.” Professor Snape chuckled softly and took a sip.   “Obviously.” He said. “I must agree with you Miss (Y/L/N), this is the most tedious bore.” He over enunciated the last word and you stifled a giggle. You remembered the impressions Fred and George would do of the potions master; Fred really got him spot on.   “It’s nice to see a familiar face though. I’m pleased you’re well, Professor.” You offered him a sincere smile; you had always had a soft spot for Professor Snape.   “There are a few of your peers here, would you not rather converse with them?” He asked almost with disinterest, you rolled your eyes.   “I would rather peel the skin off my own face.” You said with a dark smile, Professor Snape laughed at that and clinked his glass against yours.   “You and me both.”

  You stood for a brief moment just enjoying the comfortable silence that settled between you and Professor Snape. It was nice to just be still for a moment, to be able to see everything that was going on in the room but feel no pressure to be a part of it. You wondered whether Professor Snape felt the same way, you noticed that very few people tried to bother him as he stood silently at your side.   “Have you had an enjoyable summer so far?” He asked you quietly, you looked at him sadly and he seemed to mirror your expression.    “Not really.” You took another large sip. “It’s not what I imagined it to be.”    “Miss (Y/L/N),” Professor Snape began, “I’m not one for over sentimentality, or sentimentality in general for that matter. But I would like to offer my sincere…well wishes for your future. I hope it takes you far away from here. It was a pleasure to be your head of house.”   “Thank you, Professor.” You felt your eyes sting with tears as you offered him a smile.    “Oh, please stop that, I will have to leave you by yourself if you start with that nonsense.” He snapped, but you didn’t think that he meant it with any malice. You chuckled and sniffed.     “Fucking hell, every day is a struggle.” You smiled widely at the older man and he arched an eyebrow before he nodded in agreement. “Are you looking forward to returning to Hogwarts?”   “I would rather peel the skin off my face.” He echoed your words with a sly smile. “Surely you can think of a more interesting topic of conversation, Miss (Y/L/N).”   “Please just call me (Y/N), I’d like to think we’re…there.”   “Very well, would you like another drink?”    “Very much so, thank you…Severus.”    “Don’t push your luck.”

  Your pleasant chatter with Professor Snape was cut short by your mother squeezing in between the throng of people to grasp your arm. She was breathless and giddy, she looked almost flushed with excitement as she pulled herself towards where you stood with Professor Snape.   “There you are darling; I’ve been looking for you.” She locked eyes with Professor Snape and offered him a curt smile. “Severus. Always a pleasure, are you well?”   “Cressida. I hope you’re having a pleasant evening.” He nodded in acknowledgement to your mother and a fresh wave of embarrassment engulfed you. You were having a perfectly lovely conversation with your professor, who had been the first person since you left school to speak to you as an equal, and your mother had careered in and spoiled it.   “Mother?” You prompted. She rounded on you and placed her hands on your shoulders.   “Yes, (Y/N). You must come with me immediately. I have a birthday surprise for you.” She gushed, before you had a chance to react, she was away, and beckoned you to follow. You turned to Professor Snape apologetically, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively.   “It’s your birthday?” He asked.   “It certainly is.”   “Happy fucking birthday.” Professor Snape said with a seldom seen grin, you laughed and raised your glass.   “Happy fucking birthday indeed.”  

  You only had to scan the room for a moment before your mother waved at you, she was stood flanked by your father and Lucius Malfoy. A man stood in front of her, his back to you. He turned to face you just as you approached the group. He was tall, taller than your father but young, maybe twenty-two. Silver haired and devilishly handsome, with brilliant blue eyes. He gave you a warm smile as you settled next to him, his scent was almost overwhelming. He smelled expensive, like rich port and heavy leather-bound books. You felt a blush creep to your cheeks as you averted your gaze away from his face.   “(Y/N), this is Mr. Edwin Paris.” Your mother said smoothly, her voice dripping with velvet. “Mr. Paris, my daughter (Y/N).” Mr. Paris took your hand in his and bowed his head to brush his lips against it. His hand was warm and soft, and it took you a moment to remove your hand from his grasp.   “Mr. Paris,” You said with a smile, “A pleasure.”   “I must assure you Miss (Y/L/N), the pleasure is entirely mine.” Mr. Paris smiled again; hands placed behind his back.   “Mr. Paris is to start at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Second only to Ms. Bones herself!” Your mother said, Mr. Paris sighed bashfully.   “Oh, are you an Auror?” You asked politely, you wondered if your mother knew this poor man’s life story.   “Not quite.” Lucius quipped from behind you, you turned your head to meet his gaze and saw the small smirk sitting on Lucius’ pale face. An immediate sense of distrust began to build within you, you were suddenly wary of this man. Why was he here and why was your mother desperate for you to meet him? Yes, he was very handsome, and he had this alluring presence that was quite hard to ignore; but Magical Law Enforcement was the furthest thing from interesting to you, so that couldn’t be it. There was also something very off about him, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but something that made you suspicious.

  The conversation continued without you; your mother ensured that Mr. Paris was preoccupied talking to your father as she made her way to your side and tapped you gently on the arm.   “What do you think?” She whispered; she kept her gaze trained intently onto Mr. Paris and you followed it, cocking your head to the side.   “Of Mr. Paris? He’s very handsome.”   “Hmm. Isn’t he just?” She conspired; she was positively gleeful. Her eyes glistened with a newfound vigour that made you feel uncomfortable, like she was looking at him as if he were a meal. “He’s the one darling, your father and I are agreed.”   “The one? What do you mean?” You knew exactly what she was going to say before she said it, you felt your vision begin to narrow and your breaths become shallow.   “He’s the one you’re going to marry, (Y/N). Isn’t it wonderful?”

  You looked aghast at Mr. Paris as he shook hands with your father, Lucius clasped Mr. Paris on the shoulder with a grin and brought his wand to his throat. He cleared it and the sound was amplified around the room and the bubbling chatter ceased, and all heads turned towards their host.   “Friends, I thank you all for joining us today at Malfoy Manor as we wait with baited-breath for the inevitable…correction of things.” Laughter rose from the guests and a few cheers flew over your head, you could also hear a few snide remarks made about muggleborns from those around you. Panic began to rise within you, you couldn’t escape the thought that this party could be exactly what you feared it was, a gathering of Death Eaters. You shot an anxious look to Professor Snape who, when you made eye contact with him, averted his gaze to the floor. You felt sick. “As we begin our bacchanalian weekend of festivities, I have the most joyous news to announce. Two of our very own pureblood brothers and sisters are to be joined in marriage, solidifying a new age for our great cause.” Lucius continued, his voice slick with excitement and you could barely breathe. You felt your mother slip away from your side and Mr. Paris take her place, he slipped your hand in the crook of his arm and you shuddered. “Mr. Edwin Paris and Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) are to be married at the end of the festival and I hope you will join me in toasting this beautiful, young, pure couple as they embark on this, the most wonderful of journeys.” Loud raucous cheers erupted from the guests and Mr. Paris grinned and waved to his adoring crowd. You couldn’t stop the tears as they fell, you felt a million miles from the safety of Hogwarts and your friends, of George.

  After the toast was finished and Mr. Paris had shaken hands with thanks for the congratulations, you slipped away, you turned your back and let your feet carry you out of the room. You moved swiftly through the grand entrance hall and out of the front doors and down the stone steps of the manor into the sprawling gardens now filled with a heavy darkness. You were about to break into a sprint when a firm grip of your wrist stopped you in your tracks, you felt pain in your shoulder as you were dragged backwards. You looked behind you in a panic to see your capturer had a solemn look on his face.   “Professor, please.” You pleaded; Professor Snape pulled you into him. You couldn’t contain the sob that erupted from your chest, it was visceral and mournful. He pushed your arms to your sides and wrapped his arms around your torso and held you in place, restraining you. You tried to free yourself from his grip, struggling against him until your protestations became weaker and you gave up, sobbing against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and you were grateful, his tight embrace was comforting. You stood like that for what felt an age, you could hear the party had now spread from inside the manor to the large grounds and you knew you would be found imminently.   “I have something for you.” Professor Snape whispered, “But if I let go, you can’t run away.” You stared at him blankly as he studied your face briefly before he removed his grip and pushed you away slightly. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a letter, he hesitated before he gave it to you. He muttered a Lumos and you took the letter from his hands.

Severus,

It began. It was written in a hand that you didn’t recognise.

Please pass on a message to Miss (Y/L/N) that we are happy to accommodate her for the foreseeable future and hope you can escort her here before the weekend is at an end.

M

  “M?” You asked confused, Professor Snape rolled his eyes and snatched the letter out of your hands, returning it to his pocket.   “It appears your fortune is about to change, (Y/N). Be ready, I shall come back for you.” With that Professor Snape apparated away and left you alone in the stillness of the night. You contemplated the contents of the letter and racked your mind as to whom it could be from. Professor McGonagall perhaps, although she never really displayed any sort of friendliness to you during your school life, but you knew Professor McGonagall’s handwriting so that simply confused you more.

  You had no time to stand and contemplate your options as groups of wizards began pursuing groups of witches through the grounds of the manor carrying large torches. The flames grew larger as they made their way towards you and you started to panic. You shouldn’t be here, the festival was about to begin and as an unmarried woman, you were not permitted to see the goings on. You crouched down low and began to crawl back to the manor, the raucous laughter and shrill shrieks of the debauched hunt about to take place thundered in your ears as you crept silently. You had almost made it back unscathed, you stood and weaved through the open doors to the manor when a hand found its way to your shoulders and squeezed hard. Instinctively, you threw the hand away and recoiled backwards. Pansy stood, face screwed up in annoyance as you rounded on her, your faces inches apart.   “I am fucking sick of people touching me without asking today, Parkinson. What do you want?” You snarled, Pansy didn’t flinch at your coarse tone, she merely rolled her eyes and stepped to the side of you.   “Come on, our room’s ready.” The younger witch said nonchalantly as she walked towards the stairs. “The sooner I can get to sleep the sooner this shit show can be over.” You sighed with exasperation as you toyed with the idea of not following her upstairs into your shared guest room, instead just running away as far as your feet could carry you. You weighed up whether it was worth potentially getting caught and unceremoniously dragged back, and decided that ultimately, it was not. Besides, Professor Snape said he was coming back for you. That was something at least. Pansy stopped on the stairs and turned back to look at you, the frustration clear on her face.   “Oi!” She snapped, almost as if your legs had their own autonomy, you followed Pansy in her ascent up the grand staircase and down a long, portrait strewn corridor until she stopped outside a great oak door. “Age before beauty.” She sneered, you scoffed as you pushed the door open.

  Your belongings had already been brought in and were sat atop one of the huge canopied beds, Pansy sauntered passed you and immediately started digging in her bag. You made your way over to the bed and lifted your heavy case and placed it on the floor, you made a silent promise to yourself that you wouldn’t cry in front of Pansy and allowed yourself a second to compose yourself. You opened your case and lifted out your nightwear and placed it delicately on the bed. Pansy was distracted behind you, cursing to herself so she wasn’t to notice as you fingered the material of George’s quidditch jersey before you unbuttoned your dress and slipped it down over your shoulders and then your thighs, letting it fall to the floor with a thump. You started on your tights next, pushing them down and stepping out of them ungracefully. You slid your arms into George’s jersey and inhaled the scent, it still smelled like him. Luckily it was clean when he gave it to you that morning before he left school, although at that moment you were sure you would have loved it just as much if he had played a nine hour match in it. Pulling the jersey over your head, you unclasped your bra and tugged it out of the sleeve and discarded it with the rest of your clothes.

  “Yes!” You heard Pansy exclaim from behind you, you whirled round to see her triumphantly holding up a bottle of firewhisky surrounded by the contents of her luggage scattered all around her. She looked at you for a moment before she doubled over at the sight of you, her laughter boomed around the room. You rolled your eyes and sat on the edge of your bed. “God would you look at you,” Pansy wheezed, “You’re such a cliché.”   “Yeah yeah, I hope you’re sharing that, Parkinson.” You extended your hands out and she tossed the bottle across to you, you rummaged in your bag for your wand and conjured two tumblers and poured the russet liquid delicately into them. Pansy hopped down from the bed and brazenly started undressing, she flung her blouse on the floor and shimmied out of her skirt.   “You can pour me a bigger one than that, (Y/N). I only brought it because I knew I’d need it to get through sharing a room with you.” Pansy snapped, you complied and poured another generous measure into her glass. She took it without thanks and returned to her side of the room, she pulled a jumper over her head and sat expectantly.   “What?” You said.   “Are we going to talk about what happened downstairs?” Pansy replied taking a big sip of her firewhisky, she cringed as she swallowed it. You swirled the contents of your glass and sighed, stretching your legs out as you moved to the head of the bed.   “No. We’re not going to talk about it.”   “I thought you were still with that Weasley-”   “I am.”    “Oh. That’s awkward then.” You nodded slowly and downed the contents of your drink and reached for the bottle to refill your glass. You fell into an awkward silence with Pansy and you eyed each other carefully. She stood after a while and slowly made her way over to you, tentatively sitting down on the bed next to you. “Do you want to play a game?”   “What kind of game?” You arched an eyebrow inquisitively and a mischievous smile tugged at Pansy’s lips.   “A drinking game!”   “A drinking game?”    “Yes! Okay, we’ll need at least two more bottles. Can you ring for some? You’re of age aren’t you?”   “I have been for the last year, Pansy.”   “Great, you do that and I’ll set it all up.”

     To your surprise, you found yourself enjoying the younger witch’s company. You had polished off two bottles of firewhisky and were just about to open the third when Pansy stopped suddenly. The enchanted bits of paper that had been a part of your game stopped too.   “I meant to ask you,” She slurred, she shook her head and continued, “What were you and Snape talking about? You looked- ever so…cosy.” She hiccupped. You laughed and rolled onto your stomach and stretched your hand out with your glass and Pansy readily filled it.   “Nothing really. He was just being nice.” You answered wistfully, you would have given anything to back at that point in the evening, where the only thing you had to be worried about was whether George had received your owl.   “Maybe…you ought to-” She hiccupped again, “To marry Snape and then…everything will be okay.” You snorted and finished your drink, Pansy took the bottle and tried to pour herself another glass and missed completely, pouring it all over her hand.   “How would that fix anyth- Oh, Pansy you absolute idiot, what are you doing?” You laughed as Pansy flopped down next to you. Your stomach hurt from laughing so much, and the firewhisky was doing its job in keeping your thoughts nice and hazy.   “I think I might be drunk.” She whispered; the deafening hiccup that followed her statement sent you both into fits of giggles. “You’re actually alright, (Y/N). Shame you won’t be at school.”

  You offered her a sincere smile and gazed up and the green and silver canopy above the bed. The party had been going on for hours now, and every now and again you heard voices outside or a door slam inside the manor, but the two of you sat unfazed.   “What do you reckon Snape’s like in bed?” Pansy asked casually, you spluttered and sat upright.   “What the fucking fuck are you going on about?”   “I’m being serious! Draco says he’s a virgin, but I don’t think he is. You don’t get to be that dark and brooding without getting your end away sometimes.” She said matter of factly, you covered your eyes with your hands, desperate to rid your mind of any images of Professor Snape in any shameless situations.   “What made you think of that?” You asked incredulously, Pansy looked at you innocently as she shifted her weight onto her knees.   “Just when I saw you talking to him earlier on, having a drink. It made me wonder if he’s ever shagged any ex-pupils.”   “Why, have you got an idea for when you finish school?” You giggled and Pansy lips fell into a pout.   “Maybe I should shag him, it might get Draco’s attention if I did.” She said quietly. The smile fell from your lips as you turned to face her properly, now quite drunk, you placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to steady yourself.   “Do you really like Draco, Pansy?” You asked delicately, the younger witch nodded solemnly, and you felt a pang of sadness for her. You knew what it was like to pine in silence. “You should tell him; you haven’t lost anything if you do. If he doesn’t like you back, so what? It doesn’t matter.” You paused as you thought, Pansy wasn’t your favourite person in the world and Draco had hurt you on a colossal scale recently, but you still held a brotherly affection for him. You wondered whether Pansy and Draco were kindred spirits of a sort. Two people that seemed impossible for you to escape in your life, maybe they deserved each other. “I can talk to him, if you like?” Pansy shook her head vehemently;   “No no no, I can do it. I’m just…not ready to yet-” She stopped short as you both heard footsteps outside your door. Pansy leaped from your bed and you grasped your wand, with a swift wave the room was in order and all the candles were extinguished. She flew under the covers of her bed, and you did the same with yours. You had just closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep when the handle of the oak door began to turn, and the light from outside crept into the now dark room. You held your breath and scrunched your eyes closed tight as you waited for something to happen. Maybe it was Professor Snape come back to take you away? Maybe it was the mysterious M about to offer you a new home?

  “(Y/N)? Are you awake?” You felt your stomach fall in on itself as you rolled slowly towards the sound of the voice, you acted half-asleep as Mr. Paris crept in on the tips of his toes and perched on the edge of your bed, where Pansy had been only moments ago.   “Mr. Paris?” You croaked, even in the dim light is was impossible to miss how handsome he was. Beautiful, even. His eyes illuminated by the light of the open door, seemed dark and you could smell alcohol on his breath. You hoped he didn’t notice yours. He smiled at you and reached a hand out to you and placed it on your cheek, his thumb rubbed tenderly beneath your eye, his hand warm and inviting.   “I’m sorry for waking you up, I just needed to make sure you were real.” He whispered, he sank next to you on the bed, lying down with his face on the pillow, his nose almost touching yours.   “I don’t understand?” He shushed you and traced a long finger over your bottom lip, your breath hitched in your throat as he sensually brushed his fingers along your jaw and swept your hair behind your shoulder. You shuddered at the contact and your chest heaved.   “You’re so beautiful.” Mr. Paris whispered. “Can I stay here tonight?” He asked, his arm lightly brushing from your shoulder to your waist and resting gently on your hip. You felt a familiar warmth creep to your cheeks, and a stirring in the pit of your stomach.   “What? No, you can’t.” You whispered, he brought his hand over your backside and pulled you closer towards him. He lowered his head to your jaw and his breath was hot on your skin, you rubbed your thighs together subconsciously, suddenly in desperate need of some contact. Mr. Paris seemed to sense this, as he brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss. You were frozen, partly with fear and partly because you wanted to say yes, you wanted this man to kiss you, you wanted his hands on you. There was something about this man that made you want him. You clenched your fists into balls, your fingernails dug into the flesh there and you almost hissed at the pain. You imagined George clear as day in your head. His smile, the way he threw his head back when he laughed, the way his eyes would darken when he wanted you and the way his hands felt on your body. He knew every inch of you, he knew exactly how to make you cry with pleasure. You longed for him now, with this uninvited stranger in your bed; you felt wrong. You were lustful, but not for him. But for the boy who seemed a million miles away, who held your heart utterly and completely.

  You pushed Mr. Paris away with unsteady hands. He started to protest, and his grip of your waist tightened.   “No…Mr. Paris, don’t-” He grappled at you tighter, he pushed his head into the crook of your neck and thrust his hips against yours. “Get...off!” You pleaded louder, the heels of your hands dug into his shoulders, but it seemed useless, he was much stronger than you.   “Stupefy!” A red stream of light shot across the room and hit Mr. Paris square in the chest, and he fell backwards of the bed, and slumped on the floor. You sat up like a shot and stared widely at Pansy who also sat upright in bed, wand outstretched and a fierce look on her face. She lifted a bottle of firewhisky in the air and cast a Lumos.

  She got out of bed and padded over to you, where your hands shook, and your breaths came shallowly.   “That was a really shitty love potion you put in there, you piece of shit. Didn’t work did it, dickhead?” She snarled, she kicked Mr. Paris’ leg and turned to you, concern etched on her face. “I didn’t have any of the last bottle, did I? I poured it over my hand on accident, when I did, I didn’t think it smelled right. And when this fucking numpty decided to make an appearance, I put two and two together.”   “That was quick thinking, Pansy. Thank you.” You took her hand in yours and she gave it a tight squeeze.   “Now, what do we do with him?” She spat.   “Nothing. We can’t do anything, just help me get him out.” You said, you moved to Mr. Paris’ shoulders and waited for Pansy to collect his feet. With a groan she did, and with some difficulty the pair of you managed to drag him out of the door to your room and halfway down the corridor, where someone would undoubtedly find him soon. You promised Pansy you would give her an explanation when Mr. Paris was properly dealt with, and as soon as the door closed behind you, she stood; arms folded across her chest and waiting.

  You told her of the conversation you had with Professor Snape, and the letter from the mysterious M. You told her how Snape said he would be back to take you away; you just didn’t know when. Pansy listened silently and when you finished, she nodded as if she understood.   “Okay,” She began as she got back into bed before she pointed her wand at the door and warded it. “So all we need to do is keep you out of the way until Snape comes back?”   “Do you think that would work? If I just hid up here?”   “I don’t see why not? I could tell your mother that you had loads to drink and that you’re really hungover, like, coming out of both ends- hungover. She wouldn’t risk you embarrassing her during the festival, so she’d probably insist you stay up here out of the way.” Pansy mused, tapping her cheek with her wand.   “That…might actually work, Pansy. You’re fantastic!” You got back into to bed with a grin, “But how do I let Snape know that I’m here and not at the festival?”   “I heard my mother say that Snape never stays the night, he always goes home but comes back the next morning; so, I could find him as soon as he arrives and let him know what’s happened.” She said excitedly.   “You would do that for me? Why?” You asked, it wasn’t that you didn’t believe Pansy would do it, it was more the fact that Pansy had always acted so indifferent towards you, it bordered on dislike and this sudden flip was quite jarring.   “You said no, and he didn’t listen. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”    “Thank you.”    “Goodnight, (Y/N)”   “Goodnight, Pansy.”

     The next morning Pansy was dressed and pacing the room when you awoke. Although you had sobered up quite spectacularly before you had drifted off, you still felt a steady throb in your temples and your stomach churned noisily. When she noticed you stir, Pansy hastily sat on your bed and grasped your chin with a strong hand and turned your face to hers. Her eyes searched yours for a moment and you scowled as she smirked.   “You look like death.” She said proudly, the satisfaction oozed from her words like treacle. Rather offended, you sat up and glared at the younger witch.  “Thanks very much, I feel alright act-”   “No, I cast a sickness charm on you. Makes you look poorly to everybody else, when really you’re absolutely fine. I came up with it last year to get me out of Herbology.” Pansy gushed excitedly. “I’ve already found your mother; she was really pissed off. She said she’d come up here after breakfast which should be any minute now.”   “Any news on Snape?” You asked quietly and Pansy shook her head.   “Not yet, I’m going to go back down when your mother arrives and see if he’s here.” You pulled Pansy in for a hug, she stiffened against you before lightly patting your back. This was the first time you had ever hugged her, and in reality, it was the first time you had enjoyed her company. You felt a slight pang of loss that you wouldn’t be with her at school this year to perhaps become real friends.   “Thank you.” You whispered. She pulled away and winked at you.   “That Weasley boy must be a fantastic shag for you to be so moony-eyed over him. I’ve seen you reject every person that’s ever asked you out. Which one is it that you’re with?”   “George.” His name on your lips felt delicious, you smiled widely and imagined how much he would be aghast at you and Pansy conspiring like this.   “I don’t know why I asked, I can’t tell them apart. Can you?” She asked with a sly smile. You laughed and nodded.   “Yeah, I can. Took me a while though.”   “Have you ever thought about accidentally on purpose forgetting who’s who and seeing what you’re missing out on with the other one?” Pansy wiggled her eyebrows and giggled. You groaned at the thought. The boys were identical yes, but the thought of getting hot and heavy with Fred turned your stomach.   “You are such a Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson.” She bowed with a flourish of her hand; a smirk tugged at her lips. You watched as Pansy walked to the large window and drew back the heavy curtains, it was exceptionally bright outside, even for the early hour. The sunlight warmed your skin and you allowed yourself a moment of reflection, all was not lost. Pansy and Professor Snape were going to help you, M would look after you and you would see George again. You would be happy.

  Your mother didn’t knock as she entered the room, she took one look at you and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose as she did so. You could tell she was irritated as she asked Pansy to leave curtly. The young Slytherin offered you a sympathetic nod as she left, her fingers crossed behind her back as she closed the door behind her. You prayed silently that she would find Professor Snape soon and this ordeal could be over.   “What do you have to say for yourself?” Your mother said. You weren’t sure whether she wanted a response, or whether she felt like it was something she ought to say. “I can’t say I’m surprised (Y/N), I just hope Mr. Paris doesn’t think badly of you missing the activities today and change his mind.” In the excitement of the morning, you had almost forgotten about Mr. Paris. You shuddered as you remembered the feeling of his hands on you in the dead of night. A cold sweat appeared on your forehead as a fresh wave of nausea washed over you, you knew you shouldn’t feel guilty for what happened, yet you did. There was a love potion in the firewhisky, a weak one at that. A defective one as well. But it still happened, for a fleeting moment you wanted Mr. Paris and you were mortified. Your mother frowned as she placed a cold hand on your head.   “Well, you certainly don’t look well enough to join us today. I expect you to pull yourself together for dinner.”   “Yes mother.”

  She didn’t bother to give you hopes of well wishes or a speedy recovery, she didn’t believe in lip service. You also weren’t surprised either, she had always been that way. You were almost grateful for it in a way, it would be odd for her to suddenly find a maternal instinct almost two decades after you were born. She left as swiftly as she’d arrived without another word. Then, for the first time since you arrived at Malfoy Manor, you were alone. It wasn’t a pleasant nor an unpleasant feeling, but you felt useless. You dressed and climbed back into bed, there wasn’t anything to do until Pansy returned. You sat for what felt like hours, you had found a spot out of the window where a large tree was home to a nest of baby Sparrows, and you watched them intently. The relentless scavenging of the mother to find food for her young, it fascinated you. They would wait with open beaks for anything the mother could find; spiders or flies and they reminded you of yourself. You were caged like a bird in that moment with your beak open for any sort of sustenance to keep you alive. A lone figure walked over to the tree and stopped, looking up at your birds. You panicked, thinking that something would happen to them- but the figure just stopped and stared. From where you were, you couldn’t make out any features of the person, but you were confident it was a man. There were so many men in attendance for the festivities, it could be anyone. You almost looked away when you saw a girl running towards them. She was fast, her cloak billowed behind her as she ran. The man noticed her as she came barrelling toward him, he outstretched his arms as if to stop her and as she met him, she doubled over as if to catch her breath.

  You noticed it was Pansy and you rose and rushed to the window to get a better view. Pansy looked over her shoulders as she beckoned for the man to follow her further into the gardens, the man glanced over his shoulder in turn and surreptitiously looked up to your window. Your heart skipped a beat. It was Professor Snape. She had found him. You strained to see them as they walked away from the manor, they walked close together and picked up a swift pace. Desperately, you craned your neck to catch a final glimpse of them as they disappeared. You let out an exasperated cry, if you were sure there were any gods out there that would listen, you would have dropped to your knees and prayed to them. Begged them to encourage Professor Snape to hurry in his evacuation of you.

  A knock at the door startled you. Abandoning your futile attempts to see where Pansy had taken Professor Snape, you dove back into bed and pulled the covers up to your neck. The door opened almost hesitantly, and you ignored the light cough from the hallway.   “Miss (Y/L/N)?” You froze. It was him. Mr. Paris stood awkwardly in the doorway; his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. You chose not to acknowledge him and rolled over, turning your back to him. He took a step towards you, the floorboards creaked under his feet and you shuddered. He cleared his throat and took another step. “Your mother said you were incapacitated this morning, I wanted to see if you were alright.” You stayed completely still and completely silent. If you never had to speak to that man again it would be too soon. “I brought you these.” The bed dipped as you felt him sit. “I hope they make you smile.” Mr. Paris placed something next to him and sighed. “I don’t know what to say to you, Miss (Y/L/N). I suppose I’ll just leave you to it.” The bed sprung back into shape as he stood, you refused to roll over. He didn’t try and speak to you again; he just closed the door softly and his footsteps disappeared down the corridor. You hadn’t realised you had been holding your breath until you exhaled with a groan. Your hand explored the bed spread to see what he had left for you and a sharp pain in your finger made you recoil with shock. You sat and placed your finger in your mouth, a drop of crimson blood oozed from the tip. Roses. He left you roses. You scooped the bouquet up along with your wand and flung the door of your room open. You threw the bouquet on the floor with disgust and pointed your wand at the flowers with an unsteady hand.   “Incendio.” You muttered. The flowers burst into flames and you watched bitterly as the petals curled in on themselves before turning to ash. You contemplated putting the fire out, but as the fire destroyed the petals and made its way to the stems, it lost momentum and offered a few pathetic flames before it died.   “Did he bring you flowers? What a psychopath.” Pansy’s voice startled you as you stood in the corridor. You looked to her as she stood with Professor Snape, he looked uncomfortable by her side. You gestured to them to follow you into the bedroom and sat on your bed expectantly.

  Professor Snape who only seemed to display two emotions, disdain and annoyance seemed uneasy- almost embarrassed as he stood as far away from you in your shared room with Pansy.   “Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” Professor Snape said with a nod. “Get out.”  Pansy tutted as she rolled her eyes. She mumbled under her breath and left, closing the door a little harder than necessary.   “Professor.”   “Are you well? I’ve been informed as to what happened after I left.” He said with a grave look, he looked as though he would step forward but stopped himself. You tried to nod convincingly.   “Can we go? Now?” You almost demanded; Professor Snape shook his head.   “Not yet, we must wait for the most appropriate window.”   “Professor, if we wait any longer, I’m as good as married. We need to go.”   “I’m not disagreeing with you, but if you suddenly disappear after I was seen being led to your rooms, what might people think?” He said snidely, you blushed at the thought and swallowed. “I can’t be the one to be seen to take you away. That is why we must wait.” You sighed; he was right. Of course he was right, in all the years that you had known him, you had never known him to be wrong.   “Then when?”   “Tonight, after dinner. We meet back here and I’ll escort you to where you’re going.”    “Where am I going, Professor?” He scoffed at your question and moved swiftly to the door.   “Use your brain, Miss (Y/L/N). I know you have been blessed with one.”

  With that, Professor Snape left. You were leaving tonight. Tonight seemed a long time to wait, but with your hands tied what else could you do? Being alone again filled you with a creeping dread, it seemed to start at your toes and seep throughout your body. You wished Pansy would come back, you found her a calming presence as surprising as that was and without George, or any of your other friends; you missed her. You climbed back into the great bed and pulled the covers over your head, you wished to sink into the mattress and disappear never to be found, you snickered at the thought of your mother bursting in to find you gone without a trace. How would she react? Would she even be sad? Although you would like to think that she would be heartbroken over the loss of you, you doubted that it would impact her life very much. You were sure that she would probably feel a weight had been lifted, more concerned about her reputation, surely.

  You weren’t sure when it happened, but you fell asleep. A death-like, dreamless sleep that was interrupted by the shaking of your shoulders. A touch that cold could only come from one person, your mother, and sure enough when you opened your eyes she was stood there, an anxious looking Pansy behind her.   “You’re looking much better for resting, Child. Come, we must dress you for dinner.” Your mother said as she pulled the blankets from you, exposing you to the cold. You had no idea what time it is, late afternoon maybe? Definitely not time for dinner.   “Dress for dinner?” You asked wearily, rubbing your eyes. “I don’t understand.” Pansy stepped forward and extended her arms to you, a lacy white dress was laid across them.   “It’s tradition.” She stated, urging you silently. You lifted a finger to the dress, reminiscent of your mother’s wedding robes. You eyed your mother suspiciously, she grinned at you almost feverishly and beckoned you forward with a ring-laden hand.   “Tradition?” You questioned.   “Yes, we only get to do this one on very special occasions.” Your mother said with a snide smile.

  You let your mother dress you in silence as Pansy moved her wand over your head. She was delicately placing sprays of baby’s-breath in your curled hair with a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You concentrated on your breathing, if you could sit through the next few hours you could get through anything. You smiled falsely in all the right places; when your mother showed you to the mirror and you could see yourself fully, when she dusted your face with powder and put rouge on your lips and finally when she made you stand almost regally with Pansy as she held a small posy of flowers so she could take a picture. You had appeased her, and she was happy. Inside, you were resigning yourself to the fact that this could possibly be the last time you would see her, or your father. They might understand in time, but you couldn’t let yourself be worried about that. Not with so much on the line.

  Dinner had already started by the time your mother had finished preening you like a prize-winning horse, the Malfoys had a very large dining room and had enchanted the already unnecessarily long dining table to be even longer. All the men stood on the arrival of your mother, Pansy and yourself. Approving murmurs scattered along the room and a few winks and nudges in the direction of Mr. Paris. You were to be seated in between your father and Mr. Paris, the young man held your chair and pushed it in for you as you sat, not meeting your gaze. You glanced at your father, he seemed as nonchalant as ever, engaged in conversation with Lucius Malfoy. Deciding not to talk to Mr. Paris, you scanned the room for Professor Snape, unfortunately he was sat next to Mrs. Zabini who looked all too pleased to have the potions master for company. You tried to get his attention; you gave him a small wave but to no avail.   “Severus?” A voice next to you called out, you instantly cringed as Mr. Paris sat with a stupid smile as he waited for Professor Snape to acknowledge him, which he did- slowly.   “What?” Professor Snape answered, his voice dripping with annoyance. You had always known your head of house’s eyes to be an almost onyx colour, quite dull in all honesty. But now they flared with a passion, a burning. Like they would singe anyone who was unlucky enough to stand in his sight, you were quite taken aback. You had never seen him this fierce before.   “I believe Miss (Y/L/N) was trying to get your attention.” Mr. Paris said with an oblivious smile, Professor Snape’s eyes flashed to you.   “Well?” He said, his face betrayed nothing. Suddenly, you were gripped in a panic.   “I wish to return the book I borrowed to you; I would also like to speak with you about it. I have some interesting theories regarding the themes.” You gushed; your cheeks burned red as you pleaded with him to humour you. Without missing a beat, Professor Snape nodded and returned to his conversation with Mrs. Zabini.

  Satisfied with yourself, you accepted the glass of wine offered to you. It with rich and a dark red, French probably, knowing Lucius Malfoy. You swirled it around in your glass and enjoyed the scent as it filled your nose. It was decadent, and for a sliver of a moment you forgot where you were. You relaxed into your chair and enjoyed the atmosphere of the ever-increasing bawdiness of the congregation. You turned to your father after a while of ignoring Mr. Paris’ attempts at conversation; you leaned close to him and whispered;   “I don’t blame you, father. I love you very much.”   “I love you too. I wish there were another way.” Your father said out of the corner of his mouth, you offered him your hand under the table, and he gave it a hearty squeeze. You stayed like that for a moment, just you and your father. You savoured it, the feel of your hand in his. His hands always seemed so big to you as a child, he made you feel safe and loved. Over time, love changes. The days of silliness and fairy tales were replaced with lectures of duty and of family pride. You wondered if he knew what you were doing, whether he knew you were saying goodbye. Your hand in his, one last time.

  You ate quickly, as did Professor Snape. Lucius stood when the meal was over and tapped his glass for attention.   “Friends, I hope you are full of good food and wine, for now it is time for certainly my favourite part of the festival. One we are lucky enough to participate in on very rare occasions. But my friends, we can revel tonight. It’s time to catch the bride.” Every head turned to you in your white dress, low laughs and wands being drawn. You shot an frightened look to your father who turned to you solemnly and simply said;   “Run.”

  You raced out of the dining room and through the grand entrance hall, leaving behind you the raucous laughter of Malfoy’s guests. You flew into the gardens and towards a tree, towards your sparrows. You hoped desperately, you willed that Professor Snape would find you, would know where you’d be. In the darkness of the night, your steps were cautious. Your dress caught on some thick brambles and pulled you backwards, you pulled on it frantically until a piece tore away and you continued on to your destination. Sweat gathered in the nape of your neck as you jogged, your chest burned with fear and your mind raced. What the fuck? Catch the fucking bride? You hadn’t considered for a moment that these affluent, pureblooded wizards could be so barbaric. There was a reason unmarried and underage wizards and witches were not permitted to see the goings on at the festival, and now you knew why. You also understood your mother’s words about a ‘tradition on special occasions.’ She meant a wedding, your wedding. Whatever it was that they were planning to do to you made your blood run cold. You ran through another thick patch of brambles, their thorns were sharp and you felt them catch your face as you tried your best to clear a path with your forearms. You were bloodied and sweaty by the time your fingers found tree bark and you stopped, panting heavily. The poor baby sparrows were chirping, their mother still foraging for food or insulation. You wiped a hand across your forehead, and tried to collect yourself, searching the grounds for any sign of Professor Snape.

  Footsteps. Almost silent footsteps, if you hadn’t tried to slow your breathing- you would have missed them. But they were there, definitely footsteps. You held your breath and crouched low into the earth, you spied figures in the distances. Crack. There it was again, closer this time. You peered around the bark; your heart thunderous in your chest. There was nothing, nothing close enough to you to disturb the foliage. You closed your eyes in relief, you exhaled and relaxed against the tree and caught your breath. You were so frightened, what were they going to do to you if they caught you? Why would your parents subject you to this degradation? This festival had been a part of pureblood Slytherin tradition for centuries, and your parents had brought you along for as long as you could remember; yet you couldn’t remember it ever being this depraved. Perhaps you were too young to notice, perhaps you didn’t care.

  “(Y/N).” You froze still. You would know that voice anywhere. “Come out, I’ve found you.” You hesitantly raised your head and came face to face with Draco, wand raised in your direction. You stood slowly, not taking your eyes from his face. He looked pale in the scare the light, his brow furrowed. His hand shook as he watched you stand, trembling.   “Draco, please.”   “Please what? Please don’t tell the others? I’m important now, (Y/N). I matter.” He said, his voice faltered slightly as you took a step toward him.   “You’ve always mattered, Draco. To me.” You took another step.   “Don’t. You couldn’t care less about me, now you’ve got your fucking stupid little weasel. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To be forgotten about?” Draco spat, the veins in his temple protruded as his entire body shook with rage.   “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be sold as cattle, Draco?” You pleaded frantically, “This life, this world it isn’t me. Surely you can see that, surely you can see I don’t belong here? These aren’t my people, Draco. And I don’t think they’re yours either.” You cried mournful tears as you begged your old friend not to betray you again. “Please.”

  “Move aside, Draco.” The young wizard lowered his wand immediately at the sound of Professor Snape’s words. He retreated and let the potions master pass him with a flurry of black cloth, fear flashed across his pale features as he watched his professor grasp you under the arm.   “Are you alright?” Professor Snape asked quietly, you nodded and turned to Draco, but he was already gone. Draco had disappeared into the night silently; you were disappointed yet relieved that he hadn’t given you away.   “Here,” Professor Snape said as he produced your wand from inside his cloak, “I imagine you will have use for this.” You took it with thanks and enjoyed the feeling of it in your hand, you felt a little less vulnerable. “Shall we be off? We would do best to not stay any longer.”   “Yes please.” Professor Snape offered you his arm and you hesitated and looked back to the manor where the figures with torches appeared closer than before. “Will you pass on my thanks to Pansy, professor? I wouldn’t have survived without her.”   “No need.” Pansy said emerging from the darkness, she held a torch aloft and smiled sincerely. You returned her smile in earnest and took Professor Snape’s arm. “See you.” Pansy said softly.   “See you.”

     You opened your eyes in an unfamiliar place. Your ears were ringing and there was an annoying pulse in your head. Professor Snape offered you a hand and helped you up from the ground.   “My apologies. That was more erratic than I would have liked.” You stood and brushed your hand over your dirtied skirts, the white dress now looked very sorry.   “Where are we?” You asked, you searched the night sky for any indication, any clue as to where you might be.   “Turn around, idiot.” Professor Snape snapped. You complied, turning slowly, the night breeze was chillier here than at the manor and your flesh raised in reply. Before you stood a ramshackle house, tall and thin and bowing on one side. The windows were illuminated with a soft orange glow and a joyous, welcoming feeling radiated from every inch of the house. But there, stood not even a foot away from you was a face you had begun to think you might not see again.

  “Hello stranger.” You couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. All you could do was stare. You lifted your arms and they felt numb, he reached for you; fingers outstretched, inches away. Seconds.   “George.” You croaked. Your feet were planted firmly to the ground, you weren’t sure whether you would be able to lift them even if you tried. George’s hands were on your arms, your shoulders and then your face. He closed the distance between you with one step, you had imagined kissing him over and over again since the last time, and when he brought his lips to yours; you were home. He pulled you to him, his embrace was tight and secure, and you melted into him. Your body relaxed as he held you and kissed you tenderly as if it were the first time.

  You didn’t want to pull away, you didn’t want to ever feel empty of George again but with one lingering kiss, he grasped your shoulders and tilted his head to the side. His eyes burrowed into yours, a thousand unsaid things now known and understood.   “My girl.” He whispered. He brushed a finger over your cheekbone, suddenly alarmed at the blood he found there. “What have they done to you?”   “Did you get my owl? Oh George, it was terrible-”   “Shh, tell me about it inside.” He gestured towards the leaning house and you took a step before remembering and whipping your head behind you.   “Professor?!” You exclaimed into the blackness, expecting to find an awkward Professor Snape. Instead, you found nothing. He had gone, probably back to the party to avoid suspicion. You smiled sadly and hoped your paths would cross again, so you could thank him and repay him for his kindness.   “Come on,” George whispered tenderly, “Let’s get you inside.” You slipped your hand into his and he pressed a kiss to it, he guided you over the grassy terrain towards his house, The Burrow. A place you had longed all summer to visit, you smiled a brilliant smile as safe in George’s care, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

  George pushed open a creaky door, the house was quiet and much larger inside than it appeared to be from the outside. A fire crackled happily in the fireplace and the smell of clean washing and a roast dinner welcomed you. It was beautiful. Rustic and pure, it was the happiest thing you had ever seen. A home, a real home where a real, loving family lived. You could have wept. George led you through a lounge area passed a charming grandfather clock and toward a dining table, where a familiar group of redheads sat each cradling a mismatched mug.   “(Y/N)!” Ginny exclaimed, she jumped from her seat and raced to you and enveloped you in a tight hug. You hugged her back desperately, you had missed your friend. “You look awful!” She said with a concerned look, she pulled you by the hand and pushed you into a chair and thrusting a blue mug into your hands, it warmed you immediately. You smiled in thanks. You spied Fred across the way, and he stood when you were settled and dropped his head to you and gave you a chaste kiss on the cheek.   “Glad to see you’re safe, (Y/N).” He said and returned to his perch next to Ginny.   “Oi, watch it.” George warned his brother, he appeared next to you and draped a blanket around your shoulders, placing his hand on your knee. “Where’s mum?”   “Just changing the bedding upstairs, Hermione’s not happy she’s having to share a bed with me.” Ginny said with a smirk, she looked over her shoulder to where in the lounge, Hermione sat with Ron and Harry Potter beside the fireplace. A full house indeed.

  Mrs. Weasley complained all the way down the rickety stairs, about the house not being tidy and the fact she has all these children and not one of them offers to help her. She stopped short as she entered the dining room, she spotted you immediately and her face fell. You instantly felt guilty, Professor Snape had obviously brought you to the wrong place. George’s mother clearly didn’t want you in her house, a Slytherin. You lowered your head and fought back the hot tears that threatened to fall.   “Oh my dear girl, look at you!” Mrs. Weasley whispered. Your head snapped up in her direction, confused, you watched as Mrs. Weasley hastened towards you and pulled you up by your hands. “We must get you cleaned up immediately, you poor thing.” She pulled you out of the room and towards the stairs. George chased after you.   “Um, Mum? This is (Y/N)-”   “Do you take me for a fool, George? I know perfectly well who this is, and she is need of our help so come on.” She continued her way up the stairs with you in tow, you looked back at George bewildered but he just shrugged. “Ginny!” Mrs. Weasley called down, “Come and see if you’ve got any spare pyjamas, would you?”

  She pushed you into a bathroom and sat you down on the toilet lid, her hands were in your hair undoing the pins your mother had painstakingly put in place not even hours ago. With nimble fingers, she removed the little flowers and fingered your hair almost affectionately.   “You’ve got beautiful hair, (Y/N).” Mrs. Weasley mused as she pinned it back loosely at the nape of your neck. She took your hands and pulled you up, a knock on the door and Ginny entered, a pale pink cotton nightdress folded neatly in her arms. “Thank you, Ginny.” Mrs. Weasley said and took the nightdress and hung it on the back of the door. Ginny slipped away without a word and Mrs. Weasley motioned for you to turn around. She deftly unbuttoned the many buttons at the back of the lace dress and helped you step out of it. You suddenly felt embarrassed as you stood in your slip in front of Mrs. Weasley, she smiled at you gently. You couldn’t help but return her smile.   “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”   “Oh darling, please call me Molly.”   “Molly- are you- are you, M?” You asked incredulously, Molly brushed her hand over your cheek and winked with an affectionate smile. You tried not to let her see how touched and taken aback you were, Molly Weasley was M. Your saviour, your sanctuary. You pulled her in for a hug and she returned it instantaneously, you cried as George’s mother held you. It had been a long time since you had been held by a mother and it felt wonderful. “Thank you, thank you thank-”   “No need to thank me, my dear. My boy loves you very much, you are family now.” Molly smiled warmly and patted your arm. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get rid of these nasty scratches.”

     You were uncomfortable in Ginny’s nightdress. You were quite a bit taller than her, and it was short on you. Molly led you back down the stairs with the promise of a nightcap and you followed her readily. She had your white dress balled up under her arm and when she had asked you what you wanted to do with it, you said to burn it. Molly said she could make some nice cushion covers with the material so with a laugh, you conceded to let her have it. George was waiting in the lounge with Fred and rest of the siblings, their father in a big armchair. Arthur greeted you warmly with a big hug and protestations over being called Mr. Weasley, you felt totally at ease sat by the fireplace with a small glass of sherry, George’s hand in yours. It must have been very late as one by one, the room thinned out as weary legs carried people up the creaky stairs to bed. Your eyes were closed, you could have slept if you had let yourself as George played absentmindedly with your hair. Maybe you were half asleep, as you heard your name being mentioned but you kept your eyes closed.   “She’s had an ordeal, George. You’d do best to just stay put for a while.” You heard Molly say softly.   “I think you’re right mum, we’ll stay here for a bit and then when she’s feeling up to it, go to Diagon Alley.” George said, stroking your hair. “What do you think they did to her?” He said after a while. You heard Molly sigh.   “Difficult to say, those pureblood fanatics have had weird and wonderful celebrations for centuries. Nobody can say for sure really, unless you’ve been.”   “If I find out anyone hurt her, I’ll-”   “Alight Godric Gryffindor, calm down.” Fred said with a snort. You heard George mutter under his breath and then a shifting of weight. George shook your shoulder slightly.   “(Y/N), come on love, let’s go to bed.” George said, you opened your eyes and smiled at him. There wasn’t a quantifiable amount in the world that would equal the love you held for him, and you wanted to spend the rest of your life making sure that he knew that. You stood and he slipped an arm around your shoulders. “Goodnight all.” George saluted his family.   “Goodnight and thank you again.” You said, Molly blew a kiss in your direction and you allowed George to lead you up the stairs.

  The landing of the Burrow was full of twists and turns and more steps up and down. George led you down more steps to a door marked Bill and Charlie’s room! You smiled as he opened the door and flicked on the light, you were expecting to find a forgotten teenage bedroom of the two eldest Weasley’s and yet you found a quaint, sweetly decorated guest bedroom. A large bed sat underneath a window which you wasted no time in pulling back the covers and getting into it, patting the other side and giving George a smile.

  He slipped his shirt over his shoulders and unbuckled his belt, pushing his jeans over his legs and stepping out of them. You watched him lazily as he climbed into bed next to you, pulling the covers back and settling down, pulling you tight to his chest. You inhaled deeply, you had missed George’s scent and the feel of his skin against yours.   “Hello.” You whispered against his shoulder. He chuckled lightly.   “Hello.” George sighed; he placed a kiss to the top of your head. You hooked your leg over his and an arm over his stomach. You stayed like that for some time, just listening to the sound of George’s breathing. He traced circles on your back and you hummed contentedly.   “You smell weird.” George said after a while.   “What do you mean?” You replied, only slightly outraged. George chuckled again and tilted your chin upwards to look at him.   “You smell like my sister; you’re wearing her nightie and that.”   “Oh…well I can take it off, if you like?”   “No (Y/N), you don’t have to-”   “I want to, Georgie.” He nodded and kissed you, it was a kiss that you hadn’t received from him in a long time. It was full of longing, and as his hands wandered from your back to your hips and you brought your tongue across the entrance of his lips and he moaned. You sat up slowly, and started unbuttoning the nightdress, he swatted your hands away and gave you a gentle smile.   “Let me.” George breathed, his touch was featherlike as he slowly unfastened your bonds and pushed the cotton over your shoulders causing you to shudder under his touch. You were bare before him finally, and he watched you; for a fleeting moment before he captured you in his arms and placed you over his lap, straddling him. “I have waited for what seems a lifetime for this, (Y/N).”   “Were you terrible angry at me for ignoring you?” You asked quietly, you felt ashamed for how you had acted over the summer. You wished you had a time-turner in order to go back and leave with George that day. He shook his head with a smile.   “Never angry. Upset though, yes. Very.”   “I’m sorry George, truly I am. I just felt-”   “Shh. Don’t. You’ve had your penance and then some by all accounts.” George paused, as if contemplating something. “Do you promise to tell me if they’ve hurt you? Done anything to you? When I got your owl, your fear jumped right out of the parchment. You will tell me, wont you?” Your mind flashed with images of the last forty-eight hours, of your mother’s gleeful face, Draco with a raised wand and of Mr. Paris.

Mr. Paris.

  You longed to tell George there and then as to what they had tried to force you to do, what Mr. Paris did- but you couldn’t, it didn’t feel right. There would be a time, when the dust had settled, and you would tell George everything. But not tonight. You had waited too long to be in George’s embrace, and you craved him.

  “I promise.” You said. You pulled George’s head towards you and kissed him feverishly, he answered your kiss with a grappling of your body. George groaned into the kiss and you ground your hips into him. His big hands found your hips and moved you against his hardening member, your smirked into the kiss as you continued to grind against him. The friction of your knickers against your clit was delicious and you moaned against George’s shoulder. He guided your movements as they got increasingly faster, his breath hitched as he watched you; head rolled back, your face aglow with pleasure. He brought his mouth down to your breasts and kissed the sensitive skin there and gently took a nipple in his mouth and rolled his tongue over it, flicking it as he did so. You increased your pace again, moving your sex over George’s now hard cock. You brought your hands down to George’s shoulders to gain a better purchase.   “Go on, you good girl. Come in your knickers for me.” George whispered into your ear, as your movements became more desperate, you felt your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. The feeling was overwhelming, it simply felt so good. George held your hips fast as you dragged your clit over his cock. George moaned with you as you came, quietly and with a tremble. He kissed along your jaw to your mouth, his tongue danced with yours. Your legs shook as dismounted him, he looked at you longingly. “That was simply the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Next time I want to see you touch yourself,” He rolled so he was on top of you, he nudged your legs open and lay between them. “I want you to touch yourself and think of me. Did you do that when I was gone?” He breathed against your skin; your hands found his hair as he moved his mouth once again to your breasts. He was rougher this time, he took your nipple and grazed it with his teeth, eliciting a moan from you. His hand moved up to your other breast and squeezed hard, your hips bucked upwards involuntarily. Your clit still throbbed from your orgasm and you knew it wouldn’t take much for you to come again. “Hmm? I asked you a question.”   “Yes.”   “Yes what?”   “I touched myself and thought of you. All the time, I missed your cock inside me.”   “Good girl.” George dipped his head and kissed your neck roughly, his teeth nipped you and you knew he was marking you. Good, you thought. Now everyone would know you were his. “Though next time I want to see it. Can you do that for me?” You giggled and nodded. George smiled; the mask slipped for a moment. He brushed his fingers over your lips, and you kissed them lightly.   “I love you, Georgie.”   “As I love you. So much.”

  There was nothing else that needed to be said. You were together again, after what seemed an eternity apart and there wasn’t a single thing that could separate you now.   “I’ll marry you one day, (Y/N).” George whispered, the breath hitched in your throat and you brushed George’s hair out of his eyes.   “You’d better.” George chuckled at that and moved his hands deftly down your sides, he tugged at your knickers and you did your best to shimmy out of them. When you were completely bare for him, he kissed you again. Long and deeply.   “Is this okay?” George said as he positioned himself between your legs. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or if you don’t want-”   “Make love to me, Georgie. Please.” George nodded and lined himself up with your entrance, when he thrust himself into you, you spluttered. It had been so long since you had accommodated him, you had almost forgotten how big he was. He hissed as he pushed himself in to the hilt, his hips rocking slightly. He pulled out almost fully, before he thrust into you again, slowly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, which allowed him a better angle and to burrow himself further inside you.   “Fucking hell, I missed you so much. You feel so good.” George crooned in your ear, as he started his slow, sensual thrusts.

  You didn’t often have sex like this, at school you were nearly always in a hurry, a stolen moment here or there. During the holidays it was easier, but for the first time you had nothing to worry about. No Mr. Filch, or wandering prefect to catch you, just you and George in your new home, surrounded by love. You moved your hips against George, tempting him to pick up his pace. He did so gladly, you kissed his shoulder sloppily between moans. His cock filled you completely and you felt you might burst. His thrusts were determined, you dug your fingernails into George’s flesh as you felt another orgasm building. Sweat appeared on George’s forehead as you could tell he was trying to control himself, to not fuck you roughly. You brought your hand down to your clit and started rubbing, George’s eyes widened as he saw you touching yourself.   “Like that, is it?” He managed, as his thrusts became rougher. He hoisted your legs either side of his shoulders and grabbed hold of your thighs, there was pleasure in the pain the new position brought and as your fingers moved over your clit swiftly, your breaths came quickly.   “I’m not going to last much longer-” You moaned, the feeling of George filling you to the brim, along with the quick work your fingers were making was almost too much to bear. George nodded.   “Come with me.” George panted, “I’m so close.” He rutted into you unashamedly, the sound of skin hitting skin along with your moans was a beautiful soundtrack of your reunion.

  Your orgasm was brilliantly intense, George spilled his seed into you as you came. Your clit pulsated in delectable pain as your walls throbbed around George’s cock. He thrust into you twice more, his voice staccato and breathless. He rolled off you and snatched you immediately to his chest and peppered your forehead in kisses. You couldn’t help but grin as you accepted George’s love, he entwined his fingers with yours as you caught your breath.

  Dawn was threatening to break by the time you had settled, you could barely keep your eyes open and a few times George had woken himself up by snoring.   “I can’t believe you’re really here with me.” George said sleepily, you burrowed your head into his chest.   “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” George hummed in approval and turned over, his back to you. Slightly shocked, you stayed still.   “Come on, let me be the little spoon for once in our relationship.” George said into the pillow. You laughed at that and pressed your body against his back and tossed your arm over his stomach, pulling him close.   “Diagon Alley, hm? Does that mean the shop’s almost ready?” You asked on the edge of sleep.   “It certainly does, I’ll take you to see it soon. There’s a lovely big flat upstairs we could live in, if you like?”   “Definitely,” You yawned. “When do you want to go?”   “Not for a few days, (Y/N). You need to rest, and to be quite honest, I don’t have any intentions of leaving this bed for a few days. I’m only having a power nap now so I can fuck you again.”   “I see, I best get my head down too, then.”   “It would be wise.” You relaxed against George and allowed your mind to drift to nothingness, until you heard the small voice of the person next to you.   “Mum’s making you a birthday breakfast because we missed you on your real birthday, okay?”   “Sounds wonderful.”    “Goodnight (Y/N), I love you.”    “I love you too, Georgie. Goodnight.”  

You fell asleep to the Dawn Chorus, baby sparrows chirped nearby. You smiled.

[cybernaght]

We have dubbed it at home as “the trauma drama”

Here’s my review of sorts of To Dear Myself/亲爱的自己

This one is a 2020 contemporary slice of life series about thirty-somethings living in Shanghai: struggling with money, trying to negotiate with their families, getting betrayed by their friends, getting their hearts broken by their lovers, failing in their professional ventures, encountering day to day hardships as they try to find themselves in the big city. It’s low-key anxiety inducing and not at all escapist, and I somehow got drawn into it still. Watching it was at times was a bit like pulling teeth: there is only so much pain you can take, only so many little drawbacks and injustices, only so many long shots of people breaking apart before you need to have a breather.

The story centres around three women. The protagonist, Li Siyu (Liu Shishi) is a career woman, daily taking high risks hoping for high rewards. She is also balancing her high intensity life with a relationship with her down on his luck boyfriend, who is wonderful in many ways but fails to understand how being self-sufficient is part of her identity, taking it as a personal affront. Watching their relationship was a little bit like watching a train speeding towards a cliff in slow motion. The most beautiful thing about it was that you can see both of their perspectives: in his eyes, she is impulsive, reckless, and needs to be stopped for her own good; in her eyes, he is envying her success and wants her to be a housewife. Both of them are wrong. Both of them are right. 

Li Siyu’s half-sister Gu Xiaoling (Cheng Miqi) just wants to find a wealthy Mr Right to look after her, as she is constantly hiding her mischievous, vulnerable self behind a mask of superficiality. She sees her own beauty as her only asset. She likes pretty things, but she is also incredibly lonely. Her partner on screen is a man with a massive crush on her, whom she does absolutely not want to date: partly because he is not rich; partly because his sense of entitlement to a relationship with her is grating as all hell. 

Their cousin Zhang Zhizhi (Hang Qingzi) is a married woman, working, raising a daughter, desperately trying to elevate her social status in the eyes of others, all while trying to breach the gaping void stretching between herself and her terrible husband. None of the men in this show are particularly endearing, but between claiming that he is his wife’s career and blaming her for his unfaithfulness and violence, he has to do a lot of work to deserve the viewer’s grace.

It’s just like this - the story of three women, and their romantic interests, living their lives. Nothing more, but also, nothing less. The script is written by a woman as well - and it shows. Admittedly, my cdrama watching experience so far mostly consisted of BL series and loud, dumb, action-y type things, but this is the first time I have seen a text which could be said to have an explicitly feminist reading. It tells you in no uncertain terms that no, you don’t need to get married, and no, you don’t need to have another child, and yes, you can actually just settle on living your own goddamn life. 

To Dear Myself is well plotted for most of its 45 episode run, with a sense of push and pull between all the various little storylines. Ups and down of every characters’ lives are woven together in a way which resembles a dance, it’s harmonious and satisfying, and the pace of the show sits between leisurely and achingly tense. Unfortunately, in the last ten episodes the rhythm of the show falters somewhat: the plotting becomes contrived, and the narrative steamrolls ungracefully to a barely satisfying conclusion. It’s truly bizarre, how something that has been so soft and so meticulous for so long gracelessly falls on its back in the last couple of episodes. 

Some of it has to do with the antagonist, such as there is. She is not a villain, but she is the originator of a lot of the misfortunes for the majority of the characters. You wait, and you wait, and you wait for her crimes to come out and for her to get her just deserts, but her last actual scene is the one of comfort. We are told in the narration that something bad happens to this person, we are neither witnessing it, nor the aftermath of it.

On one hand this tracks with the fact that this is a feminist text: said antagonist is just a woman whose agenda clashes with the characters we care about. On the other hand, she has been set-up to be a manipulative, cunning person for the entirety of this show. The audience has been told not to trust her in the way she is framed; the audience has been told that she is trouble in no uncertain terms. I don’t quite understand why the show would frame someone as a villain and then refuse to give them a resolution the villain would get. That’s just not satisfying. 

As for Zhu Yilong - this is probably my favourite role of his so far. 

After a pretty terrible year I have found myself connecting with his character, who spent the first half of the show show unemployed, lonely, and scraping to find some kind of dignity as he suffocates in the city which is sucking him dry. Watching his journey was a little bit frustrating - especially in the second half - because apparently one dysfunctional relationship was not enough for this man, but it was still exhilarating. Besides, after seeing this actor in a whole bunch of roles where his characters would do their absolute best to hide their hearts and use a selection of masks to keep people at arms length, it’s delightful to see his Chen Yiming wear his heart on his sleeve. It’s wonderful to witness him insecure, scared, giddy with joy, butterflies-in-the-stomach in love, achingly tender, utterly devastated. He is still a brilliant actor, and, once again, the camera does love him quite a lot. 

The visual aspect of the show is great: it’s high budget and incredibly pretty. The costuming and makeup are wonderful. I have never been to Shanghai, but it’s framed so lovingly I want to go now. 

So, is this one worth watching? I… honestly can’t tell. It is for the cast - and I’m not just talking about Zhu Yilong, all of the cast have done a tremendous job here, very impressive acting all around. It’s worth for genuinely well written story of self-discovery as a thirty-something struggling with a mass of pressures. But, not going to lie, it’s not an easy watch, and the final couple of episodes left me kind of feeling dead inside. 

P.S. The narratively significant product placements were cracking me up lots. There were.. a lot of important thermoses is what I’m saying. Also, the amount of alcohol the cast consumed on set was quite alarming. 

[fheythfully]

only if for a night [NSFW]

She turns in a slow circle and notes the thorough recreation of her most cherished space, where none but those dear to her soul have been. She’s not alone, she finds with dream-like surprise: Ardbert stands solid and uncertain by the entrance, tracking his eyes over every inch of the room with a look not unlike hunger. Their eyes meet and she falters in her comfort, reality bleeding in with concern--has he been pulled in alongside her dreams at Feo’s insistence? Has she dreamt him up, too?

Oldroses bud and bloom behind her with the speed of seasons, all coalescing in the blink of an eye and the steady beat of a heart. A rock has appeared in her throat that she swallows past. The waking world pulls at her with its worries and she bats them all away with a thought, a flutter of invisible wings sweeping across her furrowing brow.

“Ardbert,” she calls out his name. Real, she decides stubbornly, with all the insistence of a dreaming, tired hero. “Dream with me.”

Click here for AO3 or the read more.

She’s dreaming of home. Pixie laughter echoes in her ears and wings flutter against her cheeks, dusting her skin in glitter. Feo Ul’s comforting voice whispers promises of rest and she lets the King take her away, past flashes of Vylbrand’s coasts and Coerthan snow until she awakens in her own bedroom. Sunlight blesses the room in some indecipherable dawn or noon, the world outside blinding and unknown. Comforting light, familiar light; of sunshine and late spring, so unlike the angry sky she finds herself under day after day.

She turns in a slow circle and notes the thorough recreation of her most cherished space, where none but those dear to her soul have been. She’s not alone, she finds with dream-like surprise: Ardbert stands solid and uncertain by the entrance, tracking his eyes over every inch of the room with a look not unlike hunger. Their eyes meet and she falters in her comfort, reality bleeding in with concern--has he been pulled in alongside her dreams at Feo’s insistence? Has she dreamt him up, too?

Oldroses bud and bloom behind her with the speed of seasons, all coalescing in the blink of an eye and the steady beat of a heart. A rock has appeared in her throat that she swallows past. The waking world pulls at her with its worries and she bats them all away with a thought, a flutter of invisible wings sweeping across her furrowing brow.

“Ardbert,” she calls out his name. Real, she decides stubbornly, with all the insistence of a dreaming, tired hero. “Dream with me.”

She falls into her bed, bedroom meticulously recreated by memory and pixie magic alike. The edges of the room blur into a pleasant hue and the stairs behind Ardbert leading above are hazy, unapproachable. She is happy with her small corner, familiar flowers and lanterns casting her in their pink, soft glow.

She beckons for him to join her and hesitantly he does, armour and all. At her sullen look he removes what he can, fingers stiff over an action not performed in a hundred years. It disappears into air once gone from his body.

“I missed you,” she tells him as he slowly sinks into sheets as soft as spun pixie cotton. Her body seeks out his and she props herself up on one elbow, the other running fingers over the simple shirt on his chest. “Do ghosts dream?” She wonders aloud, but the thought is swept away in the ease of Feo Ul’s affectionate magic. “I wondered how you and yours fared,” she continues, gazing into the ocean of his eyes in a moment of clarity. This conversation between them is a familiar one, gone over many times before in her room at the Pendants--except now he lies beside her, warm to the touch. She wants to cry and marvel at the dream both.

Her palm rests delicately against his throat, thumb lingering over his unsteady heartbeat. “I'm sorry for all that's happened.”

She feels him swallow against her skin. “Is this real?” He asks.

“I don't know,” she tells him. “I don't care,” she affirms and presses herself alongside the line of him, aching in how familiar he is. Time flows rich and heady around them as they gaze at each other, together in a way they haven’t been since he returned back to his world--the world she is on now, whole and physical yet he is nothing but a ghost wandering the realm.

“I don't want you to be so alone,” she murmurs, finding a space for her between his neck and shoulder. “ I don't want to be alone. Please dream with me, Ardbert.”

Slowly, his arms settle around her and she falls into his embrace. Inhales the scent of ash and leather and ocean brine. Her lips find skin and she presses a kiss there, tender and patient; when he trembles beneath her she lets him adjust to the sensation.

When his fingers travel up her arm, she sighs into it; when they curl at the base of her skull into her hair she murmurs in encouragement. It had been only once, before, but she remembers him as well as she knows her own self. Pixie magic or dreamstate, Ardbert or not Ardbert; she wants this, desperately and achingly.

She lets him set the pace, her ghost unseen for such a lonely, tragic century. She allows her head to be tilted up as he leans down and presses his mouth against her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes and at last her lips. It's slow and unsure and she pulls back, one hand cupping the side of his uncertain face.

“It's okay,” she tells him. “We don't have to be alone anymore.”

Her words undo him: relief flashes across his eyes and then he's upon her, body over hers as he flips her to her back and brackets her between his arms. His mouth against her burns as much as it aches, desperate and needy and sweet. She wants him everywhere, needs him like a long sought missing puzzle piece sliding into place.

His mouth leaves bruises on her neck and collarbone. She arches into him with a demand for more and the dreamscape gives her what she wants: her naked chest brushing against the soft cotton of his shirt. The groan he gives at seeing her inflames the inferno building within her. She catches his face in her hands before he can move to skin now unclothed. “It’ll only be what you want,” she tells him. In lieu of answer he turns his face and kisses the flat of her palm. In moments he too is bereft of what's remained of his clothes.

It's been too long , some waking part of her worries: how to move, where to touch her partner, how to watch for their telltale signs of pleasure. The dream sweeps it all away as she moves her arms over his body, cataloguing scars and muscle familiar from so long ago. His tongue swirls around her nipple and then the other and she arches off the bed, a cry at her lips. He travels further down, pressing reverent kisses between her breasts and down the tight skin of her stomach, until he's settled between her legs and she is the one left trembling. There is no time for fear anymore; only anticipation. He places a kiss at the juncture of her thighs and then his tongue finds her folds. Slowly, as if they have all the time in the world--in this dream we do, we do she murmurs to him, hands buried in his hair--he drags his tongue up towards her aching clit. Her moan of pleasure is piercing and she feels such relief as he continues working her, as if she's waited all this time since the last for him to come back to her. As if she's known the feeling of him all her life and can't imagine ever going without.

She comes against his mouth faster than ever before, shaking as he slows and waits for her body to settle. When her breathing evens out he glances up to meet her eyes, the air between them electric, and slides two fingers deep into her.

His name spills from her lips. “Ardbert,” she begs, worships, aware of his gaze devouring her as he moves inside of her. It's too much but not nearly enough. When he presses his tongue again against her she's lost once more, clenching around his fingers as they find the spot that aches so sweetly for him and press up against it. His name is a broken mantra on her lips. It's so good, he's so good to her as if he knows her as intimately as she knows him--tears slip from her eyes as she recognizes this fact, remembers the last time she had been able to touch him and how she cannot now. She chases them away, determined to enjoy this dream, this gift, whatever it is, to its fullest.

His eyes are intense on her as she comes down from her orgasm, and in them she sees that same knowledge, the same desire to forget. So she beckons him up against her body again and rises up to kiss him. She tastes herself in his mouth, chases his tongue with hers and bumps teeth against teeth. The feeling of him is hot and heavy against her, chest to chest and thigh to thigh; when her hand wanders down to wrap around him the groan he gives against her lips is world shattering.

He murmurs her name and then drops his head against her as she begins to move, breath wet and comforting against her breast. She wants him in a way so heartbreaking that it pulls at her, this image of them together in bliss in her own bed. Her bookshelves are familiar--the scent of ever blooming oldroses--a novel open and dog eared the way she'd left it--

She presses against him and they turn. Beneath her, he lies flushed and wanting. His eyes trace her body in the dim glow of her room, over every curve and scar; she does the same to him, drinking him deep with her eyes. She does not want this dream to end.

“Ella,” he says her name--in reverence, in heartache, in knowing . The truth hangs like a sword poised above them. She sets her jaw and leans down to kiss him behind his ear, the way she remembers he’d enjoyed. Down the column of his neck, continuing her descent. Her tongue lingers over the dusky nipples catching her attention. All the while her hand sweeps over him delicately, from head to base and over his thighs. Her fingers are wet with pre-cum. She wants to taste him, take him in her mouth and watch him come undone before her the way he had, but when she moves lower he catches her chin and shakes his head.

She bites her bottom lip. Next time , she promises herself, determined that there will be one. Settling back on her thighs she watches him take her in: her legs bracketing his, the rise and fall of her breasts as she guides herself onto him. At the first feeling of him she can't hold her composure any longer and moans, breath hitching as she sinks deeper.

“I missed you,” tumbles out of her mouth. Her eyes are shut and it feels like coming home. “It wasn't the same--not after you--”

Warm, calloused hands grip at her waist and her eyes flutter open to meet his. He looks as debauched as she feels: mouth open in pleasure, red flushing his cheeks and pupils so blown she can no longer see the ocean blue of his eyes. She trembles over him, waiting as the moment settles over them.

“I missed you,” she repeats herself softly and then moves. The slide of him is heavenly within her, and the sound he makes with his eyes still focused on hers is even more so. She sets the pace as she talks, a slow and teasing rhythm as she edges them both close to completion. “I'd look at the ocean and think of you. I took up an axe and thought of you. I’d study the stars and think of you.”

Her voice breaks as his hands spasm at her waist, gripping her tighter. She stops her tenuous movements over him and leans forward to link her arms behind his neck, her breath fluttering against his earlobe. “I’d touch myself and think of you,” the confession is whispered. He twitches within her and she presses her face against his hair, loving and sad as her fingers run through the short strand at his neck. “I'd have these dreams and it was always you. So please, Ardbert--” she pulls back to gaze into his eyes. “Make me yours again.”

The words are barely in the air between them before his mouth is against hers once more, hungry and teeth bumping as he surges up into her, hips snapping against hers enough to make her cry. Her breasts press up against his chest and drag against it, catching a moan from deep within them both as he drives further and further into her. She meets his rhythm with her own body, meeting him thrust for thrust and bruise for bruise as his hands press into her waist and she clutches at his neck, his shoulders; she feels one hand leave her skin only to settle in the infinitely small space between them and press into her tender clit, drawing her cries even higher. He finds that space inside of her he'd had earlier with his fingers and ruts up into it, so deep and filling her just so until she knows nothing but him and the taste of his mouth, the sound of her name on his lips as he tells her how good she is, how warm and tight and how he'd missed her too and how he doesn't want anyone but her--

She comes with her cries swallowed by his chasing mouth, walls clenching around him and she feels the groan he lets out, feels the reverberation of it into deep into her own bones. She's still caught in the thrall of it as he pumps into her, all rhythm broken as he chases after his own release; once, twice, brushing against her tender body and making her sob in pleasure and pain both. On the third time he stills with a cry and she feels him finish inside of her, hot and trembling and so heart achingly familiar.

The both of them sit pressed together for a time, catching their breath, before at last she pulls away. “Don't go,” she tells him sleepily as they untangle and fall into bed properly, arms winding around each other as if refusing to let go for even one moment. “Don't leave me alone again,” she murmurs, eyes already drifting shut--to further sleep? To awaken in bed alone?--as she whispers her selfish request. Her head finds purchase on his shoulder, his arms and legs entwining her. She feels his lips brush the top of her head.

“I can't,” he says.

She already knows.

[andersunmenschlich]

Shambhala, chapter 4

"In order to experience fearlessness, it is necessary to experience fear. The essence of cowardice is not acknowledging the reality of fear. Fear can take many forms. Logically, we know we can't live forever. We know that we are going to die, so we are afraid. We are petrified of our death."

I am terrified of dying. I can't tell if I'm more frightened by the idea of not existing, or by the idea of existing forever, in eternal torment. They both seem pretty bad. I used to think I'd prefer nonexistence. Now I'm not sure.

Rationally, I prefer nonexistence. Irrationally, I prefer hell—not for me, but for somebody!—and if that somebody is me, well, I hate it but I have to laugh, too....

"On another level, we are afraid that we can't handle the demands of the world. This fear expresses itself as a feeling of inadequacy. We feel that our own lives are overwhelming, and confronting the rest of the world is more overwhelming."

That I am not afraid of. I know I can't handle the demands of the world. My best isn't good enough, and it never has been. I keep doing it anyway. Maybe someday it will be.

"Then there is abrupt fear, or panic, that arises when new situations occur suddenly in our lives."

Ha. Yes. I've never been particularly fond of change.

"There are innumerable strategies that we use to take our minds off of fear. Some people take tranquilizers. Some people do yoga. Some people watch television or read a magazine or go to a bar to have a beer. From the coward's point of view, boredom should be avoided, because when we are bored we begin to feel anxious. We are getting closer to our fear. Entertainment should be promoted and any thought of death should be avoided. So cowardice is trying to live our lives as though death were unknown."

Interesting. Boredom has never felt that way to me. It feels more like being dead already. Nothing matters, I don't care about anything, nothing is pleasant or worthwhile, I don't even care enough to not do things if people want me to do them—I don't care. Nothing matters, and I don't even care about that. I just go on living because I don't care enough to stop.

I don't know if I've ever felt less afraid than when I'm bored. Death itself isn't frightening. Neither is hell. I simply don't care. It's not pleasant. It's not unpleasant. I do try to avoid it. It doesn't seem conducive to a lengthy lifespan.

The author and I seem to experience boredom very differently. Whatever the case, does thinking about death really help anything? You're going to die whether you focus on the fact or do your best to forget it—why spend your time thinking about it? I may be missing something here. Perhaps he's saying that it's not a good idea to spend all your time rushing from one thing to another in a desperate attempt to avoid the truth when you could just accept it and get on with your life.

Ha. Were it only so simple. Accept that? No, I'm with Yudkowsky on this one.

"There have been periods in history in which many people searched for a potion of longevity. If there were such a thing, most people would find it quite horrific. If they had to live in this world for a thousand years without dying, long before they got to their thousandth birthday, they would probably commit suicide. Even if you could live forever, you would be unable to avoid the reality of death and suffering around you."

Oh. I see. Dear me. The horror. How ever would I cope.

"...acknowledging fear is not a cause for depression or discouragement. Because we possess such fear, we are also potentially entitled to experience fearlessness. True fearlessness is not the reduction of fear, but going beyond fear. Unfortunately, in the English language, we don't have one word that means that. Fearlessness is the closest term, but by fearless we don't mean 'less fear', but 'beyond fear'."

But if you go beyond fear, doesn't it reduce your fear? For example, I kept a spider as a pet (and let it crawl on me) because I found spiders irrationally terrifying. I wasn't any less scared of the leggy thing when it was on my arm—at first.

"Going beyond fear begins when we examine our fear: our anxiety, nervousness, concern, and restlessness. If we look into our fear, if we look beneath its veneer, the first thing we find is sadness, beneath the nervousness. Nervousness is cranking up, vibrating, all the time. When we slow down, when we relax with our fear, we find sadness, which is calm and gentle."

How in the name of sanity does one relax with their fear? I don't want to die. I do not want to die. I can't think of anything I wouldn't do, if it meant not dying. It's possible I just don't have a good enough imagination, but I would do my very best to cut off my own head with a pocket knife if I believed (for whatever ludicrous reason) that would help.

"Relax with our fear," indeed. Well, under my fear I find terror, and under that there's desperation, and under that there's despair. I suppose despair could be considered sad, calm, and gentle. Sort of.

"Sadness hits you in your heart, and your body produces a tear. Before you cry, there is a feeling in your chest and then, after that, you produce tears in your eyes. You are about to produce rain or a waterfall in your eyes and you feel sad and lonely, and perhaps romantic at the same time. That is the first tip of fearlessness, and the first sign of real warriorship. You might think that, when you experience fearlessness, you will hear the opening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony or see a great explosion in the sky, but it doesn't happen that way. In the Shambhala tradition, discovering fearlessness comes from working with the softness of the human heart."

Despair. This is definitely just despair. But such remarkably intense despair that it's actually... sweet? I'm not entirely sure how to express it. And it makes me love everything all over again. How horrifying reality is. How terrible.

Hey, this is the same feeling from the last post, isn't it? That deep love for reality? Yes, it's precisely the same feeling. How odd.

"The birth of the warrior is like the first growth of a reindeer's [antlers]. At first, the [antlers] are very soft and almost rubbery, and they have little hairs growing on them. They are not yet [antlers], as such: they are just sloppy growths with blood inside. Then, as the reindeer ages, the [antlers] grow stronger, developing four points or ten points or even forty points. Fearlessness, at the beginning, is like those rubbery [antlers]."

Reindeer have antlers, Chögyam Trungpa, not horns. Antlers. You're throwing me off. Ah, the dangers of learning English as a second language.

"When a reindeer first grows its [antlers], it doesn't know what to use them for. It must feel very awkward to have those soft, lumpy growths on your head. But then the reindeer begins to realize that it should have [antlers]: that [antlers] are a natural part of being a reindeer. In the same way, when a human being first gives birth to the tender heart of warriorship, he or she may feel extremely awkward or uncertain about how to relate to this kind of fearlessness. But then, as you experience this sadness more and more, you realize that human beings should be tender and open. So you no longer need to feel shy or embarrassed about being gentle. In fact, your softness begins to become passionate. You would like to extend yourself to others and communicate with them."

Ng. I don't know about that.

I'll admit it does feel good. Passionate, yet placid. Serene and sweet, joyful—but intensely, achingly painful as well. Sort of a "still waters run deep" thing, I guess.

But look, I'm pretty sure extending myself to others and communicating with them in accordance with this feeling would be a terrible idea. I have no desire to go to prison. It's not a thing I'm particularly interested in. It's not a matter of shyness or embarrassment. (Though, admittedly, there is a bit of that. Ever since I hit puberty I haven't been much of one for emotional expression.) I don't want my life destroyed, thanks.

It does feel good, right, appropriate, natural, desirable, and all that. But the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: I'm very nearly entirely certain that going along with its idea of what's good and right is a horrible plan.

"When tenderness evolves in that direction, then you can truly appreciate the world around you. Sense perceptions become very interesting things. You are so tender and open already that you cannot help opening yourself to what takes place all around you. When you see red or green or yellow or black, you respond to them from the bottom of your heart. When you see someone else crying or laughing or being afraid, you respond to them as well. At that point, your beginning level of fearlessness is developing further into warriorship. When you begin to feel comfortable being a gentle and decent person, your reindeer [antlers] no longer have little hairs growing on them—they are becoming real [antlers]. Situations become very real, quite real, and on the other hand, quite ordinary. Fear evolves into fearlessness naturally, very simply, and quite straightforwardly."

There are a number of assumptions here that I think the author may not have realized he was making.

Nevertheless it is true that, when I'm responding to things in this way, the most excruciating stimuli are (in some ridiculous way) enjoyable. How terrible that just opening my eyes should hurt this much. And I want to laugh. How cruel that even taking one breath should burn in this way. And I want to laugh. It's delightful. Even though it's me, and I don't want it to be me!

When it's someone else, I love them for it. I can't help it. I want to get right up close to them and take their pain in my hands. I want to touch it, this pain that isn't mine. I want to breathe it, to taste it, to see every part of it in all its richness. It's stunning. They're gorgeous. They're as lovely as I am, and I feel as though I love them every bit as much.

Yes, I respond to these simple, basic, and beautiful things from the very bottom of my heart.

I'm explaining myself very poorly, I'm afraid—but then, that's emotion for you. I never did understand it. In any case, while I'm certainly being open and genuine, tender and vulnerable at times like this, I doubt the author would call me decent.

I may be wrong. But I doubt it.

"The ideal of warriorship is that the warrior should be sad and tender, and because of that, the warrior can be very brave as well. Without that heartfelt sadness, bravery is brittle, like a china cup. If you drop it, it will break or chip. But the bravery of the warrior is like a lacquer cup, which has a wooden base covered with layers of lacquer. If the cup drops, it will bounce rather than break. It is soft and hard at the same time."

It's a lovely metaphor. I think 'plastic' works better than 'lacquer', though.

Still, whether it's plastic or lacquered wood, despair or sadness or love, that feeling definitely does work to make life easier to manage. Whatever happens, you still have that feeling, and it bears you up.

I'm still not certain this is a good thing in my case—for anyone, but most especially for me.

Chapter four. How many chapters are there to this thing? Twenty-one? Well. That should keep me busy for a while. I should have scheduled these posts much farther ahead than I did. Oh well.