⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

[had she been a cat, her ears would’ve perked at the mention of the one syllable.]           i don’t—           [she tries the name on her tongue out in the open, and the air gathers around her mouth in a white mist akin to smoke. her eyes cant to draco’s careless flute of champagne.]            i don’t worry about nott. let alone so much so.          [something of the realness of his inquiry strains the corners of her mouth with a sudden on—set of a dry spell.]            the boy couldn’t be paid to fend for himself of he wanted to, how is it that it is i who’s assumed the position of fretting on his behalf?      (…)       he can worry for himself. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@soltudes

[the phuket sun’s left her tanner than usual; pansy parkinson looks like a wave of nostalgia from somewhere near and deep, but never unfamiliar. not when that person’s theodore nott anyway. it’s still possible to pick him apart from the crowd, to absolutely no legible surprise. rugged with his then—boyish brute traded for something more silent. the past few years, taking care of battle wounds that never did heal to the way they had been at their adolescence splinters, had allowed her to go back to mother dearest’s. with violet, of course. her father wasn’t dead, yet, but she pretended he was. her hair had grown down to her waist and she hadn’t put it in smart braids as she did near—religiously in hogwarts.]            i was in town,             [a pause. she’d shown up at his disclosed, modest door with bags in hand. there was no need to hide anything now.]              to see you. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@chaseurs

(…)   after the war,  a while split apart time went by.. since goodbyes. 

it’s an odd day.           [she’s staring, looking down at his hunched stance over a worn book aged years she herself couldn’t begin to fathom in all probability. neville longbottom  — for all of his full head of hair, humdrum choices of attire and distinctive softness in the limbs —  arose distaste in pansy parkinson few had manage to ignite thus far into her school years. with a near—sneer tiptoing on a scowl and a sway of her gaze as if being caught talking to him along the desolate library halls would be, in on itself, a crime against humanity,]           the book. you aren’t the only one in dire need of it for o.w.l.s. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@herbologie

that’s odd.

@obscuorus

i don’t gamble.           [much less socialize like an helpless debutant with fresh, slavic meat from durmstrang; the character no less dubious from the reputation of his former institution. though лву́м смертя́м не быва́ть, одно́й не минова́ть, or so they say. the common room’s desolate, slytherins with their lingering stares and glimmering smirks having all retreated into their dorm rooms and being conquered by the night’s slumber.]            it’s a stupid game machined to win stupid prices.           [she thought herself above it, no doubt. with the tuck of her otherwise straightened hair revealing a high—held nose. a near—sneer,]             tempting..   but i’ll pass. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@obscuorus

i’m of sound mind and body, thank you.           [though that was hardly an answer to the question risen out of the occasion. it’d simply been a question of what of it had prompted it from her fellow slytherin: the laid out daybed of lilies being tended to, the clock nearly striking time of dawn or the fact that it’d been pansy parkinson being caught red—handed.] ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@botanies

just lost my fawking reply

*     @botanies
            i love your account more <3 !!!!

*     @blaesus
            i’ve literally missed you the most. THEE most

*     IVE MISSED U SOOOOO MUCH 

*     @blaesus
            MY LOVE. MY LITERAL DAY ONER

*     @serpnsortia
            HIIIIII <3333

* !! 

ME 

<<<33

@simwng 
              ⠀   [hands rested lightly on her waist, fingers brushing against her skin as he leaned in,  his lips hovered over her collarbone—pressing small kisses along her jaw before a faint laugh escapes him at the comment of blaise.]   an attention seeking toddler..    more like.   always organizing my stuff when i said not to.   [he mumbles annoyed,  pulling her closer against his chest hoping to enclose any space between them.  fingers fiddling with hers, intertwined as he admires her silently— he always did.  since the moment he got to know her,  the real her.  not the one she displayed effortlessly in the crowds of pompous parents but the one who watched over him with a careful eye.  he didn’t believe in heaven, hell, or an afterlife..  but he found himself hoping there was one.  even after death, when his body is rotting in a coffin forgotten,  he would want to see her again.  that thought would never change.]

[it’s been like this for the past couple of weeks. the mark of his fingerprints have neither ceased nor lost frequency, but rather been etched deep and deeper into the rest of her weak—willed bones. the stretched white of theodore nott’s limbs, sprawled across hers, are neither seismic nor cool as they usually are during their day to day exchanges. this somehow renders pansy parkinson all the more aware of the gravity of their compromising situation and the realness of him, her, and them. the current’s an illusive stranger when you’re sacred and near—martyred at birth, as is the gamble of choice for a future that’s for your mortal, guilty fingers to grasp onto.]          i wouldn’t count on a soon being too soon. he was doing this shrilling octave at the end of his sentences that he only does when he’s particularly jazzed. like a child.          [pansy mutters, against the wall of him, in a way only she can in combined contemptuous and fond intent. there’s no saying that she won’t leave anytime soon by the pull of her own free will, though there’s no particular need for one. they both know she won’t.] ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@chaseurs