cellophane

Fairytales

zagury — Fri, 03 Jul 2015 13:15:13 GMT

Title: Fairytales

Pairing: Harry/Ginny

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2412

Warnings: Fluff, PWP

Summary: I loved fairytales until Harry Potter became part of the family.

Note: Do you ever hang out with someone that gives you chest flutters and imagine how moments might go? They're my personal versions of fairytales. I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with myself for writing these fairytales in my head so often, and I thought Ginny might relate. Hope you enjoy.

I hated fairytales.

I used to love them, beg my mum to tell me more every night before bed, seek out as many fairytale books as I could. I think my dad might have made up a few, special just for me. Fred and George always had to ruin them, but I eventually wised up and kept quiet about the ones I really liked. They could destroy the bad ones. Out of everyone in the family, Charlie was the best with fairytales, mostly because he lived with fairytale creatures. Even in the Wizarding World, most of us don’t see dragons as regularly as Charlie. His stories were always centered around the strength and cleverness of the dragons, and less focused on the king or prince trying to defeat them. The dragons were ultimately defeated since Charlie knew that I liked a conventional ending, but he knew how to draw it out.

I loved fairytales until Harry Potter became part of the family. The morning he came to the Burrow when Ron, Fred, and George had rescued him with a flying car—that’s when I started hating fairytales. For years I dreamt that his attention to my words was a sign of pleasure, comfort, interest—instead it was usually politeness and manners (that’s not to say I’m not glad he has them, I just wished he weren’t so damn elusive). Each holiday that Ron brought him home was another story I wrote in my head every night, lying in bed; that would be the holiday that Harry took me into the garden and kissed me softly and sweetly. Each holiday passed and I had to rewrite the fairytale, put the story on hold because the boy was too daft or too distracted. Probably too distracted.

Eventually I couldn’t draft and rewrite and abandon the fairytales anymore. I was Dean’s fairytale, so I let him have his. He was a good snog and a kind, kind wizard. He challenged me well in a game of Quidditch and showed me hidden parts of the castle that I’m sure Fred and George tipped him to so that he could snog a witch in privacy. Dean gave me excitement and adventure, but he was not cleverer than the dragon. Still, holding his hand in the corridor and laughing with him in the Great Hall was forever the opening chapter of my own tale. Would Harry fight the dragon that took his prize? I hated to think of myself as a prize to be won, but I am a rather good catch, you know.

The Christmas holiday of my fifth year was as dually wonderful and tortuous as usual; each brush of Harry’s hand against mine at the dinner table gave me another shock of hope, another flutter in my chest, another drop in my stomach. It was so annoying to be in love with the same boy for so many years. Why couldn’t Hermione ever fix his glasses to sit on his nose straight? I always wanted to fix them. And his stupid hair, always shaggy and moppy on his head. He needed to stop letting it fall over his ears, he looked like a—

“Ginny?”

Oh god, I was doing it again. I looked at him. “Sorry?” I felt ashamed. Fantasizing about this stupid boy.

“Could you pass me the soup?” He smiled his stupid, charming smile and my brain melted a bit; just enough for me to forget where the soup was. I managed. I handed it to him and his fingers overlapped mine on the bowl. A gentle electricity flowed into me, a blip of energy. He thanked me. Hermione must have seen the pinkness on my cheeks, because her foot gently nudged mine from the other side of the table. I smiled at her and tucked some hair behind my ears. Little brushes at the dinner table kept the fairytales alive.

After dinner, I lounged in the loveseat, petting Crookshanks, who cheerfully dominated my belly. He liked little scratches on his head. Harry sat down in the chair across from me, looking cheerful. How could anyone not be cheerful after one of my mother’s meals? I was the only one in the room, so I was a bit confused as to why he chose to be here instead of with Ron and Hermione. They were probably off bickering somewhere anyway.

“How’s your broom doing, Gin?” How dare he use a nickname and also make it heartwarming. Small talk? When has Harry ever made small talk with me?

“It’s alright, I suppose. But even the fastest broom wouldn’t get me that Snitch faster than you could catch it.” It’s true; I had long envied his position as Seeker on the Quidditch team, even if I was one of the best Chasers. He chuckled, a slight blush spreading over his cheeks. Blushing? The Boy Who Lived… blushing?

“Do you wanna make a bet on that?” His question was daring, challenging. Harry was looking down at his knuckles but peered at me through his thick, dark hair. I grinned and coaxed Crookshanks off of my belly.

“Let’s do it.” I said. We grabbed our broomsticks, Harry having to use one of our old ones. “At least you won’t have a broom advantage over me.”

He scoffed, but it was interrupted by another chuckle. He couldn’t be pompous if he tried. “Yeah. Like I need a broom advantage.” Some smirking followed.

I shoved my hand in his face, pushing away the smug look on his lips, and led the way into the garden. It was fairly dark by now, the last bit of sunlight dimming into the trees. The moonlight was beginning to take over. I asked him if he wanted me to ask mum to get some lights going for us, but he declined. I assumed it was for the challenge.

I opened up the shed where we kept… well, nothing in particular. Mostly dad’s Muggle collection dominated the small space, but a few of mum’s gardening tools were left here, and of course our old Quidditch gear. I grabbed the Snitch, worn down so much and becoming so filthy that it looked more like a shiny copper orb than a golden sphere. Its wings expanded in my palm, almost happily. It had been months since we’d been home and able to play.

I walked out of the shed and Harry was already floating on his broom. “Any boundaries you want to set?” I asked him. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Maybe not too far, just so your mum knows we’re okay.” I was grateful for his consideration. Mum would worry if she knew we had just gone off hunting the Snitch.

“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s begin.” After mounting my broom, I released the Snitch into the air. It floated hesitantly for a moment, as if getting back into flying shape, before it sped off into the darkness. It took me only a moment to get comfortable on this broom; I was more used to the school-issued ones now. I saw that it took Harry even less time. I don’t know how he did it. He seemed to wait for me, as if to give me a fair start. I appreciated it, but looked at Harry, flashed him a grin, and went after the prize.

He was right on my heels for a few seconds, if that, before I could neither hear nor see him. I felt his presence nearby, but couldn’t actually find him. I knew he was okay. And I wanted to beat that stupid, handsome boy. Maybe I could be the dragon in this story. I raced after the Snitch, only being able to mildly locate it from the characteristic sound of its buzzing wings. Dodging the trees, feeling the tall grass whip at my knees, flying through the open air gave me a sense of freedom and release that I did not often have; even if Harry did catch the Snitch, I might have won just because of that. But he wasn’t going to catch the Snitch. I was.

After several minutes of following the Snitch and seeing no sign of Harry anywhere, I found him: he was flying directly above me. When I looked up to meet his eyes, he was looking straight at me, as if waiting for me to catch his gaze. Was the bastard even looking for the Snitch? It didn’t matter. I wanted to win. I stayed on the trail, following that whirring sound, so sure that I was getting closer and closer with each second. I saw it, several yards in front of me, and reached out my hand.

Of course, Harry Potter has to win big or not really win at all, so he swooped down off his broom and landed onto the front of mine, catching the Snitch in his hand.

“Not fair!” I shouted, sliding onto the backside of my broom so he wouldn’t fall off the front end. He grinned, grasping the broom with his free hand and dangling the Snitch in front of me with the other. I punched him. I heard him exclaim and laughed to myself, wrapping my arms around his middle. I pressed my cheek to the space between his shoulder blades. He felt safe and warm. He was the dragon in this story.

I assumed that he would take us straight back to the Burrow, but he continued flying for a few more minutes. He stuffed the Snitch in his pocket, keeping one hand on the handle of the broom, laying his free palm over my knuckles. A jolt of surprise shook me, but I dared not move. The fairytale was alive, and it was writing itself. He let go of the broom and removed his hand, only to grab both of my legs and swing them over his own. It wasn’t very comfortable, but when his legs interlocked with mine and he adjusted my arms so that they would hold him tighter, I had a decent idea of what he might have been planning.

As soon as that thought had finished, he took hold of the broom once again and immediately tipped us upside down. I shrieked with delight.

“Have you ever flown like this before?” He shouted, his face turned towards me. He was smiling. His hair looked absolutely ridiculous, hanging down over his face, blowing almost into his mouth. He looked so happy.

“This is a first!” I shouted back. “You’d think Fred and George might have gotten around to this eventually.” Harry laughed, his face becoming pink with all the blood rushing to his head. My hands moved instinctively to his chest, my palms pressing flat against his sternum to push him closer to me. It was for safety.

He moved through the trees, my hair whipping against but never catching on the branches. He swung us from side to side, like he was fueling off of my childish laughter. He spiraled in the open air. He slowed down when we went over the pond and wet the tips of my hair. I heard him trying to stifle his laughter, a little boy playing little pranks on a little girl. I smacked him, heard him laugh again, and he swept back into the air. He would dive into the tall grass and pull up just before we might have plummeted into the Earth, waiting for me to yell or pull him in tighter. He would take us high into the air, until the Burrow was the size of my thumbnail, and let us free fall. It terrified me and my muscles became concrete around his, but he would always reign us back in just in time. It made me laugh, everything did, he did. I don’t think he ever stopped grinning.

But you can only be topsy-turvy for so long, and he tipped us back to normalcy after a short time. Still, I didn’t move. Pressing this much of yourself against Harry Potter certainly wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I was going to get as much as I possibly could.

He landed us eventually, as the sun had vanished completely from beyond the trees and true darkness was beginning to settle in. The stars and the moon were struggling to shine with dark clouds shrouding them. I gave him a squeeze before hopping off the broom. The one he had abandoned was floating outside the garden, as if waiting for its companion. Harry handed me one of the brooms, his face flushed from happiness. He pushed his crooked glasses up his nose.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the Snitch. “Probably should put this back, yeah?” He smiled, holding it out to me like he wanted to place it in my hand. I opened my palm to him. I felt the coolness of the Snitch hit my palm, but he managed to grab my hand and pull me to him. I didn’t resist; the dragon gets what the dragon wants. I rested my head against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding against my cheek, safely guessing that it was from our ride and not from this newfound closeness.

He released my hand, putting his palm against the back of my head, tangling my fiery mane with gentle fingers. I wrapped my free arm around him. I don’t know if anything had felt more pleasant in my entire life. In my fairytale, Harry would tip my head back and kiss me until the world became black. But this was not my fairytale; it was Harry’s. I closed my eyes and let the closeness be; I would have never thought of hearing Harry Potter’s heartbeat as romantic or important, but it was. It was so important.

Moving his hand to cup my face, he placed a soft kiss on my temple, another on my forehead, and a final one on my cheek. My lips burned to feel his. But this was not my fairytale. I moved so I could meet his eyes. He looked down at me with that stupid, boyish smile. It was warm and calming. I smiled in return. He needed to know that I wanted this—wanted him. I felt his thumb move gently over my skin. I felt myself molding into it, a feeling so familiar and close to me that it felt like home.

I hated fairytales. But I didn’t mind this one so much.

Nothing Else

zagury — Sat, 02 Aug 2014 07:06:34 GMT

Title: Nothing Else
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: G
Word Count: 508
Warnings: Fluff, PWP
Summary: There was never enough time to kiss Ginny.
Note: It seems I hardly ever write anymore and I feel as though I get worse with the years (but maybe because I'm out of practice). I do hope you like it. A little post-Hogwarts drabble to keep my spirits up.

There was never enough time in the world to kiss Ginny.

I thought that, after the war, there would be plenty of time. After all the exclusive interviews with Rita Skeeter, after all the checkups at the infirmary, after all the funerals and weddings, I thought there would be enough time. But I found myself stalling, letting conversations dwindle into unstimulated silence, hoping she would move closer to me. Everyone told me I had been very brave but my palms got all sweaty around Ginny and I loved it.

As time went on, I learned to be content with the time I had to kiss her. Every morning before I went to the Ministry, every night before bed, every trip to Kings Cross, every romantic dinner, every Sunday brunch at the Burrow, every time before she Flooed to her next Quidditch stadium—it never felt like enough time but there was some time, at least. Even if it was a little bit. After Lily went to Hogwarts, we found ourselves alone in our home quite often. No meals to throw together, no clutter to pick up that wasn’t ours, no children to scold into getting to sleep on time. There was an awful lot of time to be tired.

There was also an awful lot of time to feel in love again.

I found myself running my fingers through her ginger hair more often, hoping the delicate strands would become part of my fingerprint. She kissed my cheek every now and again. She straightened my glasses on my face whenever she saw them slip down the bridge of my nose, something she hadn’t had time to do since the kids came ‘round. We fell asleep with her cheek nuzzled into the crook of my shoulder, her hand around my torso. Sometimes I think intimacy is more about connection than physical closeness. I never felt connected to anyone the way I felt connected to Ginny.

Even without all the hustle and bustle of the children about the house, I felt frantic for time to kiss her. I found myself daydreaming at work about coming home to her, sharing a home with her—I felt twenty years of age again, young and married and blissfully, blissfully in love.

One night she had rolled over to sleep and I reached for her, gently resting my palm on her cheek, my fingers touching wherever they could reach. She smiled at me, her eyes barely opened. But when I kissed her something ignited and she reached back.
I never thought I would feel sixteen again but I did. I felt as though Ginny and I were back at Hogwarts, stealing kisses in the corridors between classes, being late to Potions because I couldn’t get enough of her. Her fingers tangled in my hair and she kissed me, she kissed me, she kissed me. She kissed me and the whole world rolled itself up into a ball and tossed itself away because there was nothing else except Ginny.

There is nothing else except Ginny.

Ribs

zagury — Mon, 17 Feb 2014 07:36:29 GMT

Title: Ribs
Pairing: Ellie/Riley
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1561
Warnings: Spoilers!
Summary: Stay safe and, when you're ready, look for me in the light.
Note: In June 2013 this absolutely amazing video game came out called The Last of Us. It's a zombie game, but it's more than that. It deeply explores the relationship of two characters, Ellie and Joel. On Feb. 14th 2014, the DLC (downloadable content aka bonus gaming) was released, exploring the relationship of Ellie and Riley, her best friend before she meets Joel. For some reason, I really connect with this game, so I wrote a little something.

They rode the carousel for hours.

Sometimes it would have enough juice for just one ride, sometimes enough for a few in a row. They didn’t care. Ellie knew there was at least a day to spend together but all they wanted to do was ride the carousel. Round and round and round. Again and again and again. If only it could stay this way.

They were terrified. They had never been more so in their entire life, but at the same time it was almost relieving. Spending your whole life waiting to die in combat or by infection created one hell of an anxiety attack. At least the waiting was over. At least now, they knew.

So they rode the carousel and tried not to think about the imminent. They imagined what surfing in the west coast was like. They hunted each other with the water guns a few times. They found a store with a lot of Christmas decorations—sure, they celebrated Christmas at the military academy, but what was the point of all these things? They had no idea.

Often times Ellie would feel her hand slip into Riley’s when they moved from place to place. Her warm palm offered such comfort to Ellie; she felt herself pulling her face into Riley’s shoulder, into the corner of her neck. The feeling was almost eternal, a fluttering in her stomach, a close connection of familiarity. It was addictive.

They would leave the carousel and visit Winston’s old place, find new stores in the mall they had never bothered to explore—but they always returned to it. Even when it wasn’t running, they sat on the horses and Ellie read from the pun book. Some of them they didn’t quite understand, maybe because the book was older than they were. It didn’t matter. They laughed all the same.
After dusk, they left the mall and moved into an abandoned apartment that hadn’t been scavenged down to scraps. They found a few cans of food, some crossword puzzles from decade-old newspaper, even candles, which they lit. Sitting closely together, they read each other bits and pieces of books left behind, escaping. Sleep was the first dare they had never committed to. Ellie often lightly placed her cheek on Riley’s shoulder while she read, letting the sound of her voice resonate through her brain—letting the cordyceps hear another victim.
The fever set in on Riley around 3am. Ellie couldn’t tell, but it was still dark outside and had been for quite some time—the kind of dark that was downright horrifying, not comforting. They had barricaded the doors and windows long before, although most had already been prepared for them. Nothing was getting in and no one was going out. This is where they would die. And that was okay.
Ellie fetched as many cool objects she could; surprisingly, the water still ran in the apartment. Boston had been one of the last to develop a quarantine zone, after all. But Riley was restless. She would settle down from time to time, but grew fidgety quickly. Story-telling became less appealing to her. All the anxiety tired her, and she placed her head in Ellie’s lap for a little while. Ellie traced the features of her face, an attempt at precise memorization, the foreword to a novel that had no epilogue. The fever hadn’t set in on Ellie, and by the time the morning light was drifting in through the breaks in the barricades, Riley was in pain.

Ellie wasn’t losing her mind and this was in no way poetic. She wanted to help Riley but it was beyond that. Her best friend was curled on the floor, alternating between holding her sides and balancing her head in her hands. Ellie kept the cool cloths coming, knowing how futile her efforts were, knowing that the end was coming soon. But it wasn’t. Why wasn’t she feverish, aggressive, insane? What was wrong?

Ellie knew the signs from the military academy and could tell that Riley would be fully turned by the next morning. Luckily, Riley was still her cheery self and would lightly punch Ellie in between rounds of intense pain.

“You okay, Ellie?” She would ask every few hours, curious as well.
“I’m fine. I don’t understand.”

“Me neither. You gotta win at everything, don’t you?” Riley cracked a smile and Ellie leaned in to kiss her. She didn’t know how many of those she would have left. She felt her palm mold around the back of Riley’s skull, felt her hold Riley close to her. She breathed in every second she had left with Riley, because clearly, Ellie wasn’t going to turn today.

When they came up for air, Riley leaned her head on Ellie’s shoulder, a transfer of power, designating Ellie the alpha. Riley reached around and pulled her handgun from the back of her belt.

“I need you to take this now. If I tell you to give it back to me, don’t. Don’t let me take it from you. Shoot me before I try to kill you.” Riley said it very stoic, but very sad at the same time. Ellie wrapped her arms around Riley, encompassing the sadness and the fever and the pain and trying to transfer over. If only Riley could be the one to live. Strong, independent, lively, lovely, brilliant Riley. Riley could change the world with Marlene. She could. But she can’t.

“I’m gonna miss you, you know?” said Ellie.
“You better.”

They stayed like that, Riley half on the floor and half in Ellie’s lap. One of them would lean in for a kiss here and there, but mostly they reminisced, daydreamed, imagined.

“Riley, what’s it like on the outside?”

“It’s beautiful, Ellie. You would love it.” There was a pause. “I’m going to go to sleep now, and I need you to shoot me before I wake up. Okay?”

“Riley—“

“I’ll hurt you if you don’t, you know that. I can’t do that. I won’t be in here anymore and I can’t do that to you. You’re my only person in the whole world.” Riley sat up, clutching her ribs. “When you get out of here, find Marlene. Tell her what happened. She’ll know what to do. There’s something extra special going on here, Ellie. Don’t waste it. And don’t forget to go back for those water guns, I put my life out on the line for you there.”

Ellie could only nod, fighting back tears. “You’re my only person in the whole world, too.”

Riley smiled and had Ellie move her onto the couch. Ellie did her best to make her comfortable, sat with her and stroked her hair back, planted goodbye kiss after goodbye kiss on her lips. There was so much sweetness and affection and caring between the two bodies that sometimes they formed one entity, and it was only when Riley would cry out in pain that Ellie remembered they were separate, that half of that entity would be gone soon. Riley’s hand grasped Ellie’s in desperation, trying to sleep, trying to hold on. There wasn’t enough time.

Riley was asleep by sunrise. Ellie had to move quickly, knowing the military would be patrolling soon. The sound of a gunshot would alert them. She gathered what she could, the few cans of food remaining, the pun book, a novel Riley had taken a particular liking to. She quietly moved the barricades. And then there was nothing left to do except kiss Riley’s forehead goodbye one more time.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in Ellie’s brain, where the cordyceps were probably laughing. She sobbed. Riley looked the same: peaceful, asleep, afraid, but there was a bullet in her temple. Ellie stared for a moment and moved on, back to the mall, for those goddamned water guns.

She grabbed Riley’s backpack too, the Walkman, the water guns. She didn’t dare return to the military academy. In Riley’s backpack was an extra shirt, a coastal scene. Ellie kept that.

At one point, she stopped to rest. The Firefly base that she was aware of was a while away, and she was trying the tunnels. The closer she moved to the Fireflies, the further she moved away from the world she had known so far—the military academy, the run-down mall, the carousel. Round and round again Ellie thought about Riley, remembered Riley, missed Riley, mourned Riley. She pulled out the contents of both backpacks, searching for the Walkman. She wanted to replay the tape over and over again, reliving her last happy and fear-free moments with Riley.

Inside Riley’s backpack, there was a note addressed to Ellie. It read:

Ellie,
I hope you get to read this. I’m sorry about lashing out at you before I left. I didn’t mean any of it. I came back to see you because you are the most important person in the world to me. Nothing could separate us for too long, you know?
I’m sorry that I have to leave. I want you to come with me, but you know Marlene. I’m afraid, Ellie. But I know we’ll see each other again soon, and when we do, we will be safe. Away from soldiers and infected. Surfing in L.A.
Stay safe and, when you’re ready, look for me in the light.
Riley

Better

zagury — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 06:30:02 GMT

Title: Better
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 395
Warnings: Mindless fluff, PWP
Summary: Ginny tried not to think that Luna was the best when she was stark naked, but it's hard to think much else.
Note: Sorry I never write anymore, it's all out of me, it seems.

Ginny rarely thought that anything was better than Luna.

Perhaps chocolate cauldrons were, on bad days. And perhaps firewhiskey was, when she was especially upset with herself for whatever reason. But Luna was the best on sunny days, rainy days, all days of the week—Luna was even the best when Ginny wanted to kill herself because she’d forgotten to make the potion that helped her with cramps (but that was only because Luna knew some secret recipe to tea that made Ginny want to do nothing but kiss Luna) (it was a conspiracy, she just knew it).

Ginny tried not to think that Luna was the best when she was stark naked, but it’s hard to think much else. She often thought she was the luckiest witch in the world when Luna showed up at her practice with a bowl of warm soup and some strange crackers that made Ginny’s feet tingle. Or when Luna came home with a bottle of red wine, her bag full of newspapers and pens tucked behind her ear. Luna was the editor of the Quibbler now and while Ginny had always been a rather busy girl, she’d thought that life would never return to a normal, happy state of chaos after the war until Luna had been made editor.

And then every evening was a scavenger hunt for Ginny. Well, more like a few hours of constantly casting Accio because Luna seemed to misplace every little thing (except for tea bags) (just like Ginny never misplaced firewhiskey). Ginny eventually learned to get a bit tipsy and halfway through Luna’s workload start kissing her, coax her into bed and fall asleep half drunk (Ginny half drunk off of wine, Luna half drunk off of Ginny’s kisses) (which would make Ginny completely drunk because Luna was a very good kisser).

Ginny was mostly just happy that she was able to coax Luna into bed with her. She knew that the blonde would stay up all night working and only allowed Ginny to seduce her into cool sheets because she wanted Ginny to stop drinking. By the time Ginny had arranged their bodies into the position Luna most liked to fall asleep in, there was no stopping the abrupt drowsiness that Ginny always knew would come.

So Ginny got her way most of the time. There was nothing better than Luna.

Sometimes

zagury — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 17:52:36 GMT

Title: Sometimes
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 742
Summary: Your mouth tasted of peppermint and your hair smelled like honeysuckle and your skin, so soft and delectable, would move against mine in ways that we often forgot were so wonderful.

Sometimes it seemed like you were always sleeping. You were napping with the cat whenever I got home from practice with the Harpies or you were going to bed early because you often worked yourself to death. If you stayed up long enough to listen to one of the programs we like on the wireless with me, you were constantly yawning and stretching and resting your head on my shoulder. Sometimes you’d fall asleep like that and I’d spend hours twirling your long blonde hair on the tips of my fingers, listening to the wireless and planning out practice for the next day.

But sometimes it seemed like you had enough energy to fuel several small children for a couple of days. I hardly ever knew what to do with you then (even sex didn’t calm you down enough to sit still). We’d go for walks in the countryside but you just wanted to run. I’d take you down to the Quidditch pitch and let you ride my secondary broom, watching your hair trail behind you in your wake. That usually got a good bit of hype out of you and you’d let me take you to dinner after that.

And sometimes it was the best of both. We’d come home from the Quidditch pitch and dinner and you’d still be riled up. We’d feed the cat and have a glass or three of wine and by that time red wine wasn’t the only thing making us drunk. Your kisses would be enthusiastic and paralyzing and oh so addictive. Your mouth tasted of peppermint and your hair smelled like honeysuckle and your skin, so soft and delectable, would move against mine in ways that we often forgot were so wonderful.

You’d sleepily kiss me after that and your breathing would even out in a matter of minutes. I’d flick my wand and have what was left of the dim lighting go out; another flick and the curtains would open so that I could admire you with the soft light of nighttime coming through. Streetlights would glow on your body and I would trace the pattern of your spine, press my mouth to the blade of your shoulder, let my fingers tangle in your hair. Our sheets would rest on your hip and your arm would cushion your head, the whole of my palm stroking up and down your side. I would revel in you because I could rarely do anything else.

Sometimes you’d wake up and turn over and I’d watch as it took you a few minutes to compose yourself. You’d sit up and stretch, look around and muss your hair, get up and brush your teeth without even glancing at me. You’d come back in with your robe loosely tied around you and ask, “What day is it?” (We had long ago reached that point of life where days became weeks and we only noticed the finish of one when we got our owl from my mum asking if we’d be at dinner that evening.)

Today I told you, “It’s Sunday.” You smiled and untied your robe, letting it fall to the floor and eagerly jumping back into bed with me, planting those kisses on my lips as though you had all the time in the world to lay here with me.

“Have you slept yet?” You said, placing strands of hair behind my ear.

“Maybe.”

“You haven’t.”

“Nope.”

You rolled your eyes and buried your face in my neck. I felt your fingers tracing over my collarbone; I was sure that you felt my heart pick up the pace because I could feel your mouth curve into a smile against my skin.

“We could sleep together.”

“We’ve already done that, Loon.”

“Very funny.” You said. You had this knack for intoxicating me with slow, heavy kisses, somehow rolling us so that you lay under me and our hair spilled together, a runny canvas in the late morning. “Really, though,” you say into my mouth, “you should get some sleep.”

“Maybe later.”

You laughed, bright and crisp—my favorite sound. Your hand moved to the back of my neck and pulled me closer to you, although I had previously calculated that as impossible. Your smile felt endless and I pulled away for only a moment just to see it spread over your face, radiant and perfect. The palm of your hand smoothed over my cheek.

“I think that could work.”

Moments

zagury — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 01:18:33 GMT

Title: Moments
Pairing: Multiple
Rating: G
Word Count: 980
Summary: "Heavy pockets never measure what carries weight and lasts forever." - Donovan Lyman
Note: I wrote this and then received a little message from the person I had in mind that really just... you know? Anyway, I hope you like this. In my opinion, it's rather horrid, but I hope you manage to find something nice about it.

You were taking me home.

You had offered out of habit, I knew, because you had always been just a bit more considerate with me than with most others. It wasn't as though I couldn't get home on my own, but maybe it was just that you knew I loved you around (loved you). It wasn't as though home was ever very far away and it wasn't as though we saw much of each other anymore, with our separate lives and separate things and separate lovers.

That's what I called him, anyway. I didn't know what else there was. "Boyfriend" aroused too many questions and he certainly wasn't my husband; he was the man the surprised me at work with my favorite lunch, the man that kissed sweet and loving on goodbyes and excitedly on hellos. My friends adored him, my family too—we should have been perfect.

But there was you.

You, the person that didn't always know what to say and knew that simple fact, even embraced it. You were the person that popped up in all my thoughts without hesitation, the person that I couldn't wait to see as soon as we parted. You were the person whose handwriting I memorized, whose shoe size I couldn't remember but whose favorite flavor of ice cream was of vital importance to me. You were the person that didn't bring gifts but brought yourself and a funny story, the person that showed me an open mind and the person that opened me as I will never be pried open again.

He is a fine man. But you… You are everything.

I wish I could tell you, as I could have such a long time ago. The words would have slipped from my mouth without a second thought (you liked those little phrases). I could have written you a letter or slipped a note into one of your books for you to find later. I could have mumbled it into your hair or your neck, could have told you between kisses. But things are different now and there's no place for such nonsense.

The front door came into sight and you were there again, just in front of my house. The image of you suddenly came to mind in so many different forms—blue jackets, yellow tees, brown shorts, worn sneakers, shivering, shaking, smiling, laughing. I could almost feel the tug of your arms around my waist as though it was happening at that very moment. But you were standing four feet in front of me.

You were standing four feet in front of me.

I grabbed your shoulders, tipping you in my direction to give you the chance to take your pick. You looked down at your shoes because why would you want to meet my begging eyes? Why would you want to see? (How did you ever see me?)

You pried my fingers from your jacket and looked up into my face, your wide eyes contemplating me. The thudding in my chest became almost unbearable; this feeling had never been this strong before. (I needed you.) I had never understood my body's reaction to you but every time it felt brand new, and you didn't even have to touch me.

Closing the distance between us with a step forward, you dug your face into the bottom of my neck. I could feel your warm breath against my skin. I heard a smile in your sigh and your arms wrapped around my waist in a gentle hug.

"You have no reason to be this nervous." You said, practically laughing for a moment. I breathed deeply and my hands drifted to your cheeks, brushing the hair away. You wouldn't look up at me, just kept your nose in the crook of my neck, your fingers lightly gripping my jacket.

"It's just…"

"I know."

I tilted your head back with my thumbs, my eyes tracing over each detail of your face. I had to memorize it (what if I never saw you again?). I shooed the hair from your eyes, just as I always had; I needed you to remember.

"I love you so much."

You sighed and looked down, digging your face back into its crevice, the steadiness of your breath being of some comfort. Everything was so familiar.

"You can't say that." You mumbled, pressing my hips to yours. "You can't keep this up much longer."

"I'll keep it up as long as I have to." Your hair was a good microphone.

"I wish you wouldn't say that." But I felt your lips press a small, gentle kiss to the base of my neck—a peace offering.

"If I kiss you, will you stop saying it?"

I considered this. It was the only sort of deal you had ever made since everything happened. So I agreed.

I didn't expect more than a typical goodbye, but something fired within you just as it had in me and you made that quite clear. Your hand pulled at my shirt collar in attempt to bring me closer, your fingers gripping more tightly to my jacket. My hands mussed your hair, my arm sliding around your torso because we could never be close enough, could never achieve an intimacy that two people desired as one.

You didn't stop. The kisses kept coming and the memories all came rushing back into my mind (I hoped it was the same for you). I could not pull you closer, could not bring you near enough to me to even begin to convey how much I needed you in those moments. Your hand slid to the back of my neck and you delved deeper. Never before had you shown such delight in me, never had you shown so much strength and passion.

For a moment, it was as if you loved me.

But only for a moment.

The Girl

zagury — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 04:36:01 GMT

Title: The Girl

Rating: G

Pairing: Any

Word Count: 270

Summary: If you were to leave and fulfill someone else's dreams, I think I might totally be lost.
Note: Inspired by the song 'The Girl' by City and Colour

I could not convey to you, no matter how hard I try, what you do to me.

I suppose it’s rather simple, really. You—merely you—procure these swarms of emotions from the pit of my stomach that swirl up into my throat and come bursting from my lips in all the mumblings and muses I pass onto you. It may not seem like much, and maybe I’m not very talented at showing it, but my voice and my words and my eyes are trying so very hard to show you what you make me feel.

It’s your eyes. The way they rarely leave mine when I’m talking to you (and my eyes are everywhere but on yours), the way they look up into my face with concentration, focus. The way they skim over my body when I first see you during the day but always come back up. The way they smile when your lips curve upward simultaneously.

It’s your hands. The way they eagerly latch onto mine, the way they hold steadfast onto whatever part of me you’ve got. The way they’re always on me, tapping on my knee or resting on my thigh, even sometimes gently placed on the small of my back. The way they push through my hair as though you could actually control the mess up there.

It’s you. The way your enthusiasm for me is always prevalent, how you are fearless in affection. The way you smile and the way you walk, the way you frown and the way you talk. It’s you.

Midnight Visit

zagury — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 04:15:54 GMT

Title: Midnight Visit
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 409
Summary: "The heart wants what the heart wants. And even if you tug, and claw, and tear away at the stringy pulp that binds us, I will always linger in your blood."
Note: I'm sorry that all my fanfic is sad.

Someone was throwing rocks at her window.

They didn’t startle her, for this was one of her many sleepless and endlessly thoughtful nights. She had, in fact, been waiting on (hoping for) this small message for months. Her hands were pulling her upright and the window was down and that red hair was blowing in the midnight breeze next to the flowerbed.

She could only smile at you. Her feet quietly moved down the staircase, though her father slept soundly enough for the both of them these days. Her toes happily greeted the dew-blanketed grass and she was beaming at you as she walked up, your hands tucked into your pockets.

“Hey,” was her breathless greeting, her hands tucking her silver hair behind her ears.

You only curved your lips at this and said, “I wanted to see you before I left.”

Her heart sank at this, at the thought of you leaving yet again for months on end, at the idea of not hearing your voice for painfully long weeks. But her eyes were extraordinarily blissful that you were even here, talking to her, standing in front of her—being here in the middle of the night, just like you used to be.

“I’m glad you came.” She said. Glad didn’t cover it.

But your eyes were sad, and she knew what was next.

You said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Luna—“

“Please.”

She stepped closer to you even though she would think you’d push her away; she pressed her cheek against yours even though she hadn’t done that in a year; her fingers closed themselves around your wrist and she brought your palm to her face, her mouth close to your ear. Your hand pressed to the small of her back and your fingers closed around her other wrist, the fingers of your cuffed hand reaching out to touch her.

“Can we just…” She was pushing out words as she tried to keep away the tears. “Can we just… go back to the way we used to be?” Her hold on you was strong; she was clinging to you.

“Luna…”

“I know. I know.” She receded and pressed her forehead against yours, closed her eyes and tried to regain her composure. It was impossible, around you. You made her the weakest.

Her lips trembled with a whisper: “I love you so much.”

As every time before, you could only kiss her forehead.

Hospital

zagury — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 04:33:04 GMT

Title: Hospital
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 644
Summary: Maybe that's what she needs to hear.
Note: The title comes from Zach Williams' Hospital.

It had been a while.

It had been a while since Ginny had written, because she lived in another part of the country now, was busy with the Harpies; she clearly had more things to do than write you. It had been a while since Ginny had Flooed; Ginny had a big family since all her brothers were married and she still attended those Sunday dinners at the Burrow. It had been a while since Ginny had shown up at your doorstep with a bottle of wine and wasted the night twirling your long blonde locks between her fingers.

And yet, here she was.

“I brought your favourite.” She said, stepping through your doorway as though it hadn’t been several long months since you had seen that red hair, which was now clumped on top of her head in a messy bun. You stepped aside and let her through because that’s what you did; you never resisted Ginny.

She turned around with the bottle in her hand and smiled at you, pulling out her wand. The cork was gone and the tall glasses were poured and you were sitting on that same sofa with her again, laughing and grinning and telling silly stories again. Her cheeks were as pink as you remember and she kept tucking her long hair behind her ears even though every time you made her laugh, she’d double over and the hair would fall out again. You just wanted to reach up and tuck it all away.

And then she was sleepy because wine always made her sleepy and her head was in your lap and you knew exactly what to do, remembered exactly what she liked. Your hands pulled at those soft tangles and your fingers curled at the nape of her neck; her eyes closed when you leaned over and pressed soft kisses to her temple, her cheek. She smiled into your knee and you felt the pressure of her lips there in a quietly endearing little kiss.

She rolled her head back unexpectedly and she said, “I’ve missed you.” You wouldn’t have thought her to say that, since she never wrote and never Flooed and never showed up anymore, never even acknowledged that you had once shared the most beautiful of loves with her. But she said it and you didn’t really know what to say; she knew you missed her more than you could even comprehend. If only she knew what her departure had done to you.

But she turned away again, as though your words weren’t needed. You had always thought your touches spoke better than your mouth anyway, so you settled for drawing triangles into the back of her hand. Sometimes you wondered if she ever knew how much this meant to you, how much having you like this, so vulnerable and so quiet and so lovely—you often wondered if she had ever known this, because to you, the feeling was almost tangible.

“I’m coming back.” Ginny said, and her words were just air on your thigh. You breathed in the scent of her breath (which was just as sweet and just as intoxicating as you remembered) and you felt her hair between your fingers, felt yourself spilling endlessly into her in that moment. But you knew that she didn’t mean it, that this was the wine speaking (just like last time), so you just nodded and pushed back the tears.

You waited for her breathing to slow before you leaned down and pressed a kiss behind her ear, where she had always liked tidbits of attention. You whispered a little promise there too, because you knew she would wake up soon and she would leave and you might not see her for the rest of your days, and you couldn’t have that if you didn’t get to say this.

“I’ll miss you.”

zagury Pick-a-Prompt Fic!

zagury — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 18:52:50 GMT

Title: We're Not at the End but We've Already Won
Author: zagury
Prompt: My Favorite Things
Pairing(s): Remus/Tonks
Word Count: 1100
Rating: G
Summary: Remus Lupin was a creature of habit... until Tonks moved in.
Warnings: Fluff
A/N: This little fic was possible because of zofbadfaith , my beta and brainstormer. My thanks spread to her and the mods. I'm also convinced that Hayley Williams, the lead singer of Paramore, knows everything about life, so I stole a line from her song 'Where The Lines Overlap'. I thought it was rather fitting for Remus and Tonks. Enjoy!

The toothpaste was missing again.

Then Morning Came

zagury — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 04:16:33 GMT

Title: Then Morning Came
Characters: Hermione, Luna
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1100
Summary: It was all too much.
Note: The title comes from Tegan & Sara's Want To Be Bad. I started this a few weeks ago with a different mindset. Now finishing it, I have a few people in my head. So this one is for Ivy, Adena, the Connor's, and most importantly, Kayla and zofbadfaith

The weather was dreary. It always was this time of year, when nature couldn’t decide if it was fall or winter yet; the rain was on and then off, the sunshine liked to tuck away behind the clouds. People even kept to themselves a bit more, showing their faces at the pubs a little less, as though making preparations for all the winter nights they would need some firewhiskey in their stomachs.

Hermione had stopped showing her face altogether. The sunshine, when it did come out to stretch, always tried to peel its fingers between her drapes. But she had bought heavy ones on purpose for this very reason and there was often very little light on the creaky wood of her flat. Life had become a question of survival, not an attempt at… whatever it was she had dreamed of before. Success? Love? Happiness? It was all such a blur.

She could hardly remember the last time she had kept track of the day, much less the date or the programs that were playing on the wireless. She had endless amounts of books that adoring fans had left in her mail, novels she had inherited from her aunt and uncle upon their passing; she had never cared much for Muggle literature but it was tolerable, in the least, and kept her company. She hadn’t been to the bookstore up the alley in more than two years.

People had stopped knocking on her door; Hermione assumed it had been about three or four months, but she had thrown all her calendars away and lived only by the dim light that came and went through her shielded windows. She couldn’t bear the thought of time limits any longer. It was all too much.

Harry had given up—Ron too. It was easy for her to admit to herself that she missed them terribly, and even on her stronger days when she thought of writing them, she remembered that she hadn’t a single scrap of blank parchment or drop of ink in her flat. She had abolished everything with a Reducto worthy of Gi—

But that was just it, wasn’t it?

Hermione felt them coming and squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers curling into weak fists as the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Even after all this time, the sobs still came from her chest in horrid, choked sounds. She couldn’t help it anymore. Her will had disappeared the day Ginny had.

She still had the box of things, Hermione did. It was the only parchment she had kept with her throughout the years; sometimes she thought she could only bear it because of the sloppy twirls and curls that always decorated the corners (Ginny had liked doodling). Other days she thought the opposite. In the box, she kept a few shirts, scraps of parchment, a ceramic flower made in Muggle London, a dried up rose, and just one picture. Hermione often went weeks without taking the box down from its nook in her closet—she really didn’t like moving from her spot on the cool wooden floor beyond necessary reasons—but there always came the days when she couldn’t help but feel more sentimental than usual.

Those were her worst days.

There was a sharp crack in the air. Hermione hadn’t heard someone Apparate in quite a long time, but she still knew the noise as though it were the birds that sang outside her window in the morning. She moved quickly and quietly from the floor to her bedroom, closing the door slightly behind her. Her flat, though small, was difficult to navigate in, and she could tell from the noise that the witch or wizard had Apparated into the kitchen.

She could hear herself breathing, no matter how shallow her breaths were, could hear the wood creaking under the person’s feet. Her heart started to accelerate in the slightest, but she found it to be of some comfort that her war instincts were still running through her blood.

“Hermione?”

The voice that called her then was one that made her knees go weak, one that brought instant tears to her eyes; she stood with her mouth agape for a moment before she wrapped her arms around her torso and leaned against the wall, sinking to the floor. Light flooded her bedroom after a simple Lumos was cast and they found her there, curled in a ball behind her doorframe.

Hermione looked up through (always) red eyes, clawed her frizzy hair from her forehead and looked. Her throat struggled to form words, to form any sound at all, and when she spoke, it felt like it was the first time she’d spoken in years. It was the first time she’d spoken to anyone other than herself in years.

“Luna.”

There was a small smile to the name, a twitch of the lips, and then there were long pale fingers reaching out for Hermione, long blonde hair falling out from an old hat and an old overcoat. To Hermione’s own surprise, she reached back, extending her arm and feeling weak from the task. Luna pulled her up; Luna, who was strong and willing and who was helping her from the floor, who was smoothing the hair on the back of Hermione’s head, who was hushing her like a small child, who was letting the entire weight of another person stand on her as though it were simply nothing at all.

Luna, who was here.

Hermione asked with her eyes, for she couldn’t ask with her voice, but Luna understood; she always understood.

Luna pulled an old pocket watch from her overcoat. It was ticking like any clock, but the time was written differently. “I change it according to the month, so that I don’t forget things.”

“You’re not a forgetful person.” Hermione murmured, wrapping a hand in Luna’s hair to make sure she was real.

“It doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” She pointed to the spot where the 5 would have been normally. It had a picture of Hermione on it, one from fifth or sixth year. They’d been staying at the Burrow for Christmas that year and Luna had captured more pictures than anyone had thought logical. But Luna always had her reasons.

“I’ve given you three years.” Luna said softly, tracing a finger over the vines that embroidered the edge of the pocket watch. She looked up and met Hermione’s eyes.

“I think it’s time for you to come home.”

Bury Your Diamonds; Destroy Your Rubies

zagury — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 23:16:25 GMT

Title: Bury Your Diamonds; Destroy Your Rubies
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 775
Summary: Everyone wanted more of Luna Lovegood's scripture. But I had the rest of her.
Note: The inspiration for this drabble comes from a daydream I had just yesterday. The title comes from a song by The Devil Wears Prada, but I can't quite remember which one it is at the moment. Goats on a Boat, maybe? Bah. Who knows.

It was quiet. The sun was dimming through the windows, changing into its silky pajamas and preparing to settle down into a routine night's rest. The lights were off in my flat; she preferred natural lighting and I never hesitated to oblige. I took a candle from the cupboard and muttered a spell. The scent of honeysuckle floated across the room.

She mumbled a protest to the minute glow but I only smiled. She was curled on the sofa, legs drawn to her chest, her mind clogged with sleep. She was often tired these days, always napping in the afternoon and taking to bed early; meals were becoming my favourite part of the day. She traveled on weekends and made her scribbles in a notebook become elegant articles that sold more and more every month. Everyone wanted more of Luna Lovegood's scripture.

But I had the rest of her.

She was mine when she was in the kitchen fixing tea, when she was in the shower washing her hair, when she was reading anything she could get her hands on to improve upon herself, when she was talking through her chicken and mumbling through her peas. It was then that I could press kisses to the back of her neck, that I could tell her about the new scouts I was seeking for the Harpies, that I could braid her long hair as she fell asleep in my lap late at night. She couldn't help that her time for me was scarce, but she always made enough time in the smallest of ways.

She woke up late more than she woke up on time (I tried my best to fix this problem, but she was so good at hiding in the covers) and I knew she had to be running. Most mornings, I expected only short kisses on goodbyes. But there were times when she climbed out of sleep early just so she could climb on me; she would kiss my forehead, my cheek, my eyelids, my jaw line, slip her tongue between my lips to delve and taste. If she decided to surprise me early enough, she would let me relish in her as I had done so many times over the years; she'd let me dive and drown, resurface and breathe. She'd be the reason I'd drowned in the first place.

But it wasn't always possible; she was simply too tired. So I had to always have enough energy for her, had to have enough of the tender touch she craved more than the rough, had have enough of the tea she liked to stock in the top cupboard above the fridge. I worked around her and on weekends went to visit the rest of my family. The distance created between us allowed me to continue rebuilding what was broken. If Luna didn't travel so much, I think that I would spend most of my time waiting for her to return home to me.

(I do enough of that anyway.)

It's lovely when she's home, though; the flat is warm and the tea is always brewing when she's napping. She tries to stay awake for me but I gave up on it long ago. Instead, I put her head in my lap and idly play with the locks while she sleeps; our kitten likes to join. I've sat for hours like that, and though Luna leaves it unmentioned, I see her smile every time she wakes up with her head pillowed on my thighs.

She curled into the sofa every time, as she did now. Her spine curved, her hips seemed wider. Her skin was radiant in the sun's departure from day, glowing a pale golden colour. It was beyond me, how she managed to look like a goddess in a half-slumber. (She did it every time.)

I placed myself behind her, tracing her spine. She adjusted slightly (she was ticklish, my Luna) and I saw her arms curl tighter into her small breasts. She went about in a pair of my old pajama pants, without a shirt; I was in the middle of bringing her one from our bedroom. I was becoming distracted.

She sighed when my lips pressured her shoulder blade, when they traced down her spine. Her body arched when they encountered her bony hips and her fingers sought my mine when she felt my kisses on the shell of her ear. I buried my face in her hair, breathed deeply. The nook was familiar. I muttered, "I love you," into blonde locks and pulled her closer to me.

She turned and when she kissed me, I felt her smile.

Tea

zagury — Sun, 09 May 2010 03:52:53 GMT

Title: Tea
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 643
Summary: She always makes time for tea.
Note: This is for zofbadfaith and her love for tea. :)

She always makes time for tea.

I noticed that long ago, before she had assumed a permanent occupation in my tiny little flat. No matter the day of the week, or the weather, or how much work she had to finish for tomorrow, she would always take twenty minutes at any given time to make herself tea. It often smelled of mints—she made her own tea out of little herbs and spices—but there was, on occasion, the times it almost smelled like a Muggle’s mixture.

It lingers on her. The tips of her fingers were always a little red because while she was the most graceful thing when it came to crossing the living room, she couldn’t stop herself from burning little bits and pieces of her skin when she heated the water. She insists on doing everything by hand, something I admire (I had no patience for it). It leaves its mark on her.

I can’t remember more than a few times that she did not smell of tea herself. It is rare that she does not; it only ever happens when she sprays some kind of perfume into her hair (which is actually rather a shame, because that musky scent that belongs to her scalp is intoxicating). It is, admittedly, one of my favourite things, to lean down and press a small kiss to the back of her neck and smell that smell in her hair with the pinch of tea that always stayed around.

I have woken in the middle of the night many times to nothing on my left side, to her empty space in the sheets. She would be in the kitchen with dim candles in crooks around the room, papers scattered on the counters and the table and the floor, a cup of warm tea between her palms. Her fingernails would scrape over the china that we had inherited from my mother, her lips pressing gently to sip at the only thing that seemed to keep her awake (except for me, but that was an altogether different story).

Once, and only once, I found her asleep in the kitchen. It was nearing three in the morning, and her tea was still warm when I covered my hand with hers. She did not wake instantly; but she’d always said my kisses did wonderful things to her, and the curve of her spine was always such an irresistible place for me. I pushed away the fabric of the long button up she was wearing (she only ever seemed to wear underwear and those button ups when she was home) so I could trace every vertebrae. She smiled a heavy lidded smile that greeted me happily. She wrapped her arms around my neck, buried her face in my collarbone, and said, “Take me to bed.”

That was the only time she had ever abandoned her tea.

I’ve never had a desire for it, the tea, but she makes me love it—not the taste, but the smell, the warmth, the comfort. She makes me love the way she’ll sit on the sofa with me, her legs in my lap, and sip at her tea, tell me of fantastic creatures that she dreams to write of. She makes me love the way she sits and stares out the window and loses her conscious thought process for a few moments, her blonde hair spilling endlessly over her back, with a mug of her peppermint drug in her hand. She makes me love the way she stands in the kitchen and asks me to kiss the sore spots on her fingers after she burns them. She makes me love the way she smiles when I do.

Secretly, I don’t think I’ll ever like the way tea tastes. But it tastes quite lovely in her kisses, and that’s just fine by me.

zagury — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 19:49:59 GMT

Happy Birthday, psyche29!!!</span>

Thanks for all the last minute betas and long time projects. It's been fun :)

I hope today is wonderful for you.

The World Without

zagury — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 01:40:12 GMT

Title: The World Without
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4130
Summary: But it was worth it for Luna.
Note: I first got the idea for this fic while listening to A Fine Frenzy's 'The World Without'. When I began the fic, however, I was listening to another one of AFF's songs, 'Whisper', so that's where the first line comes from. I basically owe Alison Sudol big time, as I always have, for giving me the proper inspiration to write.

I’m down to a whisper.

That’s how it was in the beginning—I could barely hear anything over all the noise of nonsense, over people that weren’t her. They seemed so unimportant compared to her. I don’t know why she became something, someone, that I wanted to see every single day of my life. I walked through the long corridors and took shortcuts just so I could get a glance of her during the day. And trust me, taking detours around Hogwarts was no easy task.

But it was worth it for Luna.

Luna, who made me fly by saying hello. Luna, with her silver hair and her moonlight, with wide blue eyes and knobby knuckles. Luna, with words that made most people stop walking but made me smile. Luna, with her nose stuck in an upside down magazine and Luna, in the library, by the Black Lake, in the greenhouses, in my dormitory. Luna, who I could find anywhere in the world and she’d still look at me like I was there by accident.

It started in the winter of our seventh year, when she stayed with us for Christmas. Hermione was rooming with Ron and Harry didn’t stay with us, didn’t stay at the Burrow, partly because of me and partly because he had a place of his own in Godric’s Hollow—it was his first home away from Hogwarts and the Burrow. He came by for the dinners every week like he was supposed to and for family gatherings (he would always be part of our family) but he didn’t stop by merely to surprise me anymore. I wasn’t around to surprise.

So Luna stayed with me, because her father’s home had been burned to ashes and she didn’t want to stay in his tiny old flat with him in London. She brought few things with her; she put a hairbrush on my dresser and a toothbrush on my sink, clothes under my extra bed and various knick knacks on some of my shelves. It didn’t seem like enough for two weeks with me, but then again, I suppose she had learned to get by with just enough since the war.

The first night she stayed with me, we spent long hours chatting quietly about the woes of life—I learned then everything that I could ever want to learn about her. She told me about the long months she had been kept in Malfoy Manor, how kind Mr. Ollivander was, how her father was now considered a traitor. She was so nonchalant about it all, to anyone else it would have seemed like she simply didn’t care. But I knew Luna.

When I asked her about her first love, she looked at her wrist as though there was a watch there (there wasn’t) and told me it was getting late, and that a story such as that would be better for another night. She turned over on her side and when I asked if she was awake five minutes later, all I could hear was the steady of her breath. I was awake for too many hours more; the thought of her, in my bedroom, and not next to me kept me up until just before dawn. I never lost sleep over Harry. I lost my head over Luna.

We went about our ways together; she fed the chickens with me and degnomed the garden with my brothers. My mother taught her to cook casseroles and when she’d add her own spice as a surprise, everyone’s face would turn red—literally (she had something special she kept in her pocket that made our skin change colors, and she got the greatest laugh out of it) (it was worth being embarrassed to see her smile like that). When Ron and I tried to teach her Quidditch, she smirked and sat down in the grass with Hermione.

She said, “I’ll ride with you some other day.”

I grinned and said, “I’ll hold you to that.”

The days passed and I worried, for we had not shared another late night together since the first. She would brush her hair, her teeth, fiddle with her knick knacks and once she would lie down, she didn’t say another word after, “Goodnight.”

I was still losing my head over her the night before we left and we didn’t speak, hardly looked at each other. I couldn’t place my finger on it. She wasn’t her usual chatty self like she’d been in the afternoon. (She could talk to Charlie about dragons all day.) I heard all the doors close in bedrooms above mine, heard my mother douse the fire, heard Luna’s sheets rustle as she adjusted.

I turned onto my left side, away from her, so that there was a chance I wouldn’t have to sleep on the train tomorrow. I was wrong.

The rustle of her sheets came again and I closed my eyes tight so I wouldn’t check her. The lock of my door clicked and I heard her murmur a spell under her breath. She climbed over my body, her hands brushing my shoulders, and settled in right next to me, in front of me. I could feel her there and wasn’t thinking about my eyes, still closed, because I knew every detail of her face—it was right there behind my eyelids.

“Ginny, open your eyes.”

I obeyed and she was there. Luna, with her wide blue eyes boring directly into mine, into nothing else. Luna, with her small hands curled into her chest, her knees resting against mine. Luna, with my blanket pulled to her waist, with her toes wriggling against my ankles, with the most brilliant smile I had ever seen on her.

“What’re you doing?” I asked, stupidly, suddenly, because what was I supposed to say to this? (I had been dreaming of her for so long, too long—even before I left Harry.) (And now she’s in my bed, my perfect Luna, and what am I supposed to do?)

She exhaled in a sort of laugh, put her hand to the side of my face. Her thumb smoothed over my cheek, her eyes watching her own action. I couldn’t look away from her face.

“You wanted to know about my first love, correct?” Her voice was quiet, but was so close that I couldn’t pretend to strain to hear her in attempt to be closer. My head nodded under her warm palm.

“It was George.” When I simply stared, she smiled with bemusement (I was so familiar with that look), and said, “I fell in love with him in fourth year, when we were still having DA meetings. He used to meet me early in the morning, just to say hello.”

“You were in love with my brother?” I asked, and my voice sounded like it hadn’t been used in ages.

“I was, for three years.”

“Why?” I blurted, and it seemed so inappropriate and childish (and jealous) of me. But why was George always better than me? He was funny, sophisticated, yes, but I had some humor in me, didn’t I?

Luna smiled and said, “He was caring, principled, intelligent, capable, hilarious, and surprisingly independent from Fred. I think I was one of the few people to ever see that in him.”

I blinked a few times, trying to think of what I could possibly say in response to this. Of course George was all of those things—he was a Weasley, wasn’t he? And that made me all of those things too. I felt immediate guilt for being so jealous of my dead brother.

“Were you ever with him?”

“Nearly six months. But he decided that I was too emotionally needy—I actually was rather obsessed with him—and cut things off. That was just before he left to start the shop. I was still tied to him for long after. We wrote letters, you know. He kept up with me. I still have all the letters I started writing to him and never sent because they were so desperate and childish. I claimed that we were meant to be together. Obviously, it was never true.”

“He did say that we were soul mates once, though. I thought for a long time that I would never let that go.”

I blinked, suddenly felt a strong urge to touch her (stronger than usual), and lifted my hand, rested it in her hair. She smiled. I sifted my fingers through the delicate strands of blonde, though it was practically silver in the moonlight streaming through my window, and tried to slow the beat of my racing heart. I couldn’t think.

Luna’s fingertips slowly moved across my cheeks, following the pattern of freckles over my nose, her skin grazing over mine with the ghost of a touch. I felt her knuckles brush against the bridge of my nose as she passed the back of her hand over my forehead. My hand moved in the same motion again and again, pulling her soft hair back from her face, my fingers tracing the shell of her ear. She’d smile when I did that, so I did it often, my heart ceasing to race. I was content with Luna.

She moved herself closer to me, her head near enough to rest under my chin. She fiddled with the collar of my sweatshirt, her hand slowly moving down my side until she was at the small of my back and her hand was touching my skin. I couldn’t think again. She pressed her palm flat against my spine, drew circles with her fingernails, smiled at me, concentrated on my face. I couldn’t look at her without blushing, could only focus on her skin making contact with mine.

But I wanted her to feel what I did, so I led my fingers over the features of her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. I could only think how lucky I was to be touching her like this (my dreams were coming true right before my eyes). She sighed with a sort of happiness in her tone and closed her eyes. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful but I couldn’t do it (she was in love with George).

“What do you think now?” I asked her, my voice cracking between the sound of a whisper and a mumble. Luna didn’t look at me, just scooted that much closer and felt my hands moving over her.

“I think there’s no where else in the world I’d rather be right now.”

She looked up and reached for me again (though the distance between us wasn’t far). As her knuckle moved down my jaw line, I felt shockwaves of… something go down my sides, and I was again incapable of thought. Her thumb moved slowly, so slowly, over my lips and she looked at my face with an expression of fascination, as though she didn’t believe this was real, I was real (I really wouldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t).

“Does this change things?” I asked her, and she paused.

“I don’t want to make you any promises. I’m afraid I have an awful habit of breaking them.”

“You don’t have to promise me anything, Luna.”

She looked up, smiled, took both my hands in hers. She kissed the back of my right hand, and after my heart fluttered from the first touch of her lips, we fell asleep just like that.

I realized when we returned to Hogwarts that I was an incredibly jealous person.

We had not discussed how we would go about things—I simply had not told anyone what was going on and I assumed she hadn’t either. What was there to tell? We spent all night together before we were back at school and decided we were together. It made perfect sense to the two of us, but to anyone else in the world, I suppose it just wasn’t the same.

In the meantime, however, we were meeting in the library during the afternoons, before I had Quidditch practice. I fought the strong urge to touch her every time we were close enough (and we usually were). She wouldn’t work on Transfiguration homework with me, but instead, she’d wander from shelf to shelf, picking out books with ridiculous titles.

“’The Trials of Henry the Flobberworm’,” she said, putting it down on the table in front of me. She leaned over me, her hair hanging so near my face.

“You don’t want to read that. Hermione said it was dreadful.” I said, smiling up at her and wrapping a lock of her hair around my finger because I knew no one was around.

“Hermione prefers fact to fiction, if you haven’t noticed. I like to let my mind do what it pleases.” She took the book in her hands again, starting to step away from me, turning back to another shelf.

“What does it normally please to do, then?”

“Think of you.”

I thought I saw a coy smile emerge from her lips just before her head turned away, but I wasn’t completely sure.

“Luna, what are you doing here?”

She was crawling into my bed again, wearing an old shirt I had given her in fifth year when we were going to get messy for a Herbology project in the Forbidden Forest—except it was past two in the morning and I had no idea how she had managed to get in here. I didn’t ask because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, and what if she would surprise me like this more often?

“I’ve come to see you, silly.”

“But if you’re caught—“

“I’ll tell them I brought you a tampon, for Muggle Studies. And I won’t get caught. I’ve never been caught.” She settled herself next to me, and even though this idea seemed troublesome to me, I put my arm around her middle to hold her in place. She smiled and watched me again, running her fingers through my hair and over my face again, again, again. I couldn’t get enough of the way she touched me.

“Luna, I’m not taking Muggle Studies.”

“You are tonight.”

I laughed quietly and for the shortest time, it felt like we were together again, like the month before. She closed the curtains around my four poster and cast a silencing charm over us. She was beautiful when she would close her eyes and let me put my hands on her face, in her hair, was beautiful when she would open her eyes and smile, sigh, reach for me again.

But then again, Luna was always beautiful.

It felt like too short a time when the sun began splashing its colors of awakening against the sky, hues of pink and orange coming in through the dormitory window. She sighed, put her hand on the side of my face, and said, “I should go back up.” My arm tightened around her.

She smiled and kissed my forehead, and I think my eyes closed instinctively, because I loved her kisses (even if they were never for my lips). She told me again, “I should leave,” but I shook my head against her shoulder. I heard her do that exhale-laugh thing, and her lips pressed against my cheek. Her thumb smoothed over the place she had just kissed, and as soon as my arm loosened her from my grip, she was gone.

I met her in the library that following afternoon, bringing my things for school even though we never studied. (It was a miracle I was still making good marks at all.) Luna greeted me with a smile and stepped closer to me, her eyes moving over the shelves as though there were new books here everyday (there never were). Her fingers brushed against mine; I refused to move after that just in case it would happen again.

I thought it was funny how we rarely spoke of all the stolen moments we had spent together. We were aware of them, yes, quite aware, but we never really brought it all into words. Maybe Luna was better at creating those moments and I was better at reflecting upon them, better at trying my hardest to create them. Maybe those were our roles together.

Night entered the library faster than I remembered it coming, and slowly, people started filing out of there and onto dinner. Madame Pince never checked this area of the library, for some reason; perhaps because Luna and I were often the only people using this section—it was all on completely fictional stories, and most students only came to the library for research (unless you were Hermione). The clicking of shoes faded into the corridors and I checked the map that Harry had left with me (when I had tried to give it back, he told me he didn’t want it because he’d only used it to look for me). Luna and I were the only ones left in the library.

She caught this same information whilst looking over my shoulder, and she put the book she’d been holding (she hadn’t opened it) back on the shelf. She leaned against a table and pulled on my robes, tugging me closer so that I was standing in front of her, our hips nearly touching. She smiled, bringing our faces so close together that I could’ve kissed her, and I thought she was going to until she suddenly pulled away with a grin.

“Just kidding,” she said, her hands remaining on my forearms. I sighed and rolled my eyes at her, my fingers fiddling with the clothing on her waist (I always put my hands on her waist). She smiled again and for some reason my heart started racing; I couldn’t slow it down, because all I could think about was kissing her, here, in the library. She just kept looking me as she always did and I wanted to tell her to stop, because I couldn’t meet her eyes.

I grabbed her hand and brought it to the pulse point on my neck, said, “Feel this.” She stared at where her hand met my skin and smiled in a sort of wonderment, as if she couldn’t believe that’s what she was causing.

She put both her hands on my shoulders and, grinning, said, “Calm down.” But I couldn’t, simply couldn’t, and felt the heat going to my face. I couldn’t stop anything, stop or start or initiate and god, I was such a horrible girlfriend.

“I’ve never done this before.” I said, because it was true—I’d never kissed her before. Kissing girls had to be different from kissing boys.

“Neither have I.” She replied, and that surprised me, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know what she could say about George and his kissing ability.

Oh god. Luna. Kissing George. Jealousy struck me, hard.

She put her palm on my pulse point again, my heart still pounding faster than I could fly on Harry’s old Firebolt. She smiled, kept watching me. It was all on me.

“Get closer again,” I told her, thinking that was the only way I would ever be able to do anything—with her help.

So she did, and when Luna Lovegood kissed me for the first time, the whole world melted away.

Things felt unfamiliarly simple after that; I’m not sure why, but everything that ever was Luna and I felt true and honest and right. All the stolen moments in the library, all the notes she left me, all the nights she invaded my four poster, all the smiles she passed me in the hallway, all the times our hands purposely “accidently” bumped together—everything felt natural. Everything felt like love was supposed to feel like (and by this time, I knew I was in love with her.) It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.

But then again, maybe it was.

She captured me in bed again. She was wearing another old shirt of mine that she must’ve picked up in my room at some point, because I couldn’t remember ever giving it to her. Still, she looked lovely in it. (I loved it when she had anything that belonged to me, when she had anything that was mine.)

I tugged on the worn out fabric, pulled her closer to me. She smiled and leaned on me, her hand reaching for my face and stroking, simply touching along my jaw line. She sighed unevenly and I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “I’m nervous.”

“But I never make you nervous.”

“I know. That’s why this is a problem.” My fingers sought her pulse point instinctively and I inhaled slightly in amazement. Her heart was pounding; I felt like some sort of acceleration charm. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, her breath hot against my skin.

“Why’re you so nervous?” I asked her, fingers brushing the hair away from her neck.

“I don’t know.” She mumbled with a small laugh in her voice, as though she was trying to leave the subject. But then she pressed her lips to my neck, moving progressively towards my mouth with each kiss until, finally, she was kissing me, hard and full and god, I’d never felt anything that made my body shiver like that.

Her tongue swelled against mine, delving and pushing, fighting against my own. The heat of her mouth was overwhelming and my body couldn’t do anything but respond. My breathing quickened. My hands roamed over her back. I couldn’t think about anything but her kiss, her hot tongue pushing on my lips, tracing circles into my mouth. I felt my spine curve so that our torsos made perfect contact, my stomach curving into the dip between her chest and belly.

Then I felt her shift, her knee digging into that place between my legs. I exhaled loudly into her mouth, interrupting any motion of her lips, until she captured my mouth in a kiss again. The heat boiling in my core could barely be contained. I kissed her as hard as she kissed me and when she pulled away, she left her lips close to my ear. In a breathless murmur, she said, “I can’t.”

What she couldn’t do, I had no idea, because right then and right there, it felt like she’d given me the world.

The weeks passed and things were still simple; Luna was still simple and I was still simple and together, we were simple. I brought her sticks of candy every day and she drew me little pictures. I kept the notes she wrote me in my pillowcase so that, when she wasn’t there to soothe me into sleep, I could still smile to myself, remembering her.

When conflict arose, we dealt with it. People started questioning us and eventually, we realized that it didn’t matter what people thought and what people knew. What mattered was us. Luna, she opened up slowly, taking my hand in the corridor, hugging me without warning on occasion, sometimes looking at me in that way she always does just before she’ll kiss me. But she never did, not in public.

Then, when it was raining one day, she took my out into the courtyard and kissed me for all of Hogwarts to see. And I think we were beautiful, under the rain.

As a surprise to her, I took her out of the castle one night. She loved feeling like she was on an adventure and I hoped that I made her feel that way. We sat by the lake, under the cover of some trees, and in the moonlight, we splayed ourselves out in the cool midnight grass. Her fingers tangled with mine, then her legs, her hair, her tongue, her smile. She tangled with me, but together we weren’t a knot.

We were something else.

Luna took me back to the beginning, the one I’d never forget; her fingers, soft and smooth, traced the ridges of my collarbone, swirled in the loops of my ear, ran in the valley of my red hair. Her skin was warm against mine, her head ducked into the crook of my neck. I couldn’t keep from smiling as I looked up into the night sky with her tucked into me, just like that.

She hovered above me for a moment, her hand cupping my cheek. Her perfectly splendid eyes met mine and I smiled at her, my fingers dawdling on the glass of her forearm.

“I love you, so much.” She told me.

I kissed her, and against her lips, I said, “I love you too.”

And just like that, we were beautiful.

Brave Angel

zagury — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 04:25:28 GMT

Title: Brave Angel
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 473
Summary: "It's as real as the way you make me feel."
Note: I'm lately obsessed with one of my mom's favorite bands, Blue Meridian, so I wrote this because of their song Brave Angel... and because of a picnic.

“Do you ever think about how people say they’ll never be in love again right after someone has broken their heart?”

Luna had this knack for asking blunt questions—maybe because she was so obscenely blunt herself—and had this knack for getting the straight answer out of me. I never did enjoy lying to her (and she always knew when I was lying anyway, always said, “You won’t look me in the eye,” and even though I have severe problems with eye contact, she was always right).

“I think about that all the time.”

Luna was one of those people—no, probably the only person—that I could sit around with and talk to for hours. We’d never run out of things to talk about and we were perfectly content to lie around under the sun in the grass. Sometimes we didn’t speak at all, just looked up into the sky with her head resting against mine, her fingers playing with my own. I almost always closed my eyes because the sun was bright, but it was easy to enjoy Luna with my eyes wide shut.

“You said that to me once.”

She was doing it again—cornering me, that is. She wanted a straight answer out of me because even though she’s Luna and she’ll never show it, she’s insecure. She had always been insecure about how I feel about her. I don’t even understand why.

“After Harry left me?”

She was there after that. She came to my flat every day with a bag of tea and made me sit up, made me drink and told me stories of the oddities happening in the world. I remember that. I would hardly talk to her and she still came to see me everyday. She took care of me and even though she tried not to show it, I could always see that she wanted to do it permanently.

“Yes. I believed you, too.”

I sat up then, because she was starting to get ridiculous. I smoothed the hair away from her forehead and kissed her, kissed her full and hard and right. She responded with her arms, the bony ones that always found their away around my neck, and her fingers twirling the hair at the nape of my neck. She kissed me back.

“I love you.” I told her, and I told her a few more times just because the words sounded nice in the air.

I felt her lips smile wide under mine, her arms holding onto me tighter than they normally did. My fingers drew on her skin because that’s what they always did when we were like this.

“It never feels real, being with you.” She mumbled.

“It’s as real as the way you make me feel.”

And for once, she smiled just a little bit wider.

GINNY BIG BANG

zagury — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 18:44:01 GMT

It goes live today!

A Sort of Lavender

zagury — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 19:34:17 GMT

Title: A Sort of Lavender
Author: zagury
Recipient: redheadsarehot
Pairing: Charlie/Lavender
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2400
Warnings: Sex
Summary: Charlie's never seen a dragon quite like this one.
A/N: All my thanks to the mod (for extensions and other fabulous acts of kindness) and I hope you enjoy this, redheadsarehot!

A Sort of Lavender

The Only Exception

zagury — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 01:13:15 GMT

Title: The Only Exception
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: Maybe I know, somewhere deep in my soul, that love never lasts, and we've got to find other ways to make it alone or keep a straight face.
Note: Written to Paramore's The Only Exception. And this, like many others, is for avaklane

It’s impossible for me to feel like this.

People I have loved in this life have been killed by people I have killed, people my mother has killed. Their deaths make me heave with sorrow and regret—I regret not telling my brother that I loved him every single day before he was murdered, I regret not knowing Tonks when I was young. She was the closest thing to a big sister I would ever be able to have. I wept over the fallen that I didn’t even know, wept because their families and their brothers, their sisters felt my very same pain. The world was an equal place then.

I wept because my mother wept, wept because what else could I do in her presence? She was my comfort, my shirt sleeve to wipe my cheek with, but then everything changed and I was to be her mother for a little while. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be strong for her. I needed her so much but did she ever know how hard I tried just to make it better? I tried so hard.

She tried to fix everything when she was done crying, my mother, but none of it worked. She couldn’t cook biscuits because there weren’t enough people to eat all of them—the twins could always make such an impact together but now? Fred didn’t have the energy to crawl out of bed most days, and while all of us knew George would make a joke and say he wasn’t worth all the mourning, we couldn’t move away from him. My mother couldn’t fix the empty space in the bench, or the hand on the clock that never moved. She couldn’t fix the death of my brother.

when I was younger I saw my daddy cry
and curse at the wind.
he broke his own heart and I watched
as he tried to reassemble it.

I was told I was the soul mate of someone who I thought I loved—no, I did love him. I loved him then, and he was my everything. I couldn’t function properly without him; our relationship was so unhealthy and so incredibly demanding at the same time. We were supposed to be together, weren’t we? Because I had been in love with him for so long, and he had realized that I was always there waiting. But I couldn’t do without him, because he kept me together when I thought I was going to fall apart.

And then he broke my heart and I suppose none of his promises mattered because we weren’t going to get married or go through training together or have children or anything. We were going to be friends, and I couldn’t have that. I needed him, more of him—all of him had to be mine. But it wasn’t, he wasn’t; he didn’t want me again.

I claimed that love wasn’t real then, because love wouldn’t make me so miserable when I wasn’t near him. Love wouldn’t make me remember all the horrible things he ever said to me, and love wouldn’t make me want to hate him. Love wouldn’t make me unhappy—but love would be the death of me, and that was the only true thing left.

I was tearing myself apart just for the chance to be with him again when you came along.

and my momma swore that she would
never let herself forget.
and that was the day that I promised
that I would never sing of love if it does not exist.

I told myself that I would never hurt like that again. I would never give my heart to anyone else. No one else would be able to take care of me; no one else was allowed inside. But you came along and how did you change everything? How did you change me?

I don’t know what you did to make me feel again. I was stuck in the dream of him when you were stuck in the dream of me. We were all dreaming then. Was it the mere fact that you were in love with me without even trying? Was it that you found all the possible beauty in me and you didn’t hide that you knew all the tender spots at the same time? Was it that you were so honest with me?

How did you put me back together? You just spent evenings with me, cooking dinner for me when I had finally moved out of my mother’s home. You knew, somehow, that I couldn’t take care of myself. You sat crossed legged on my sofa and talked to me, made me laugh, kissed my hand in a way that made me think you didn’t expect it back. You stayed up all night with me and didn’t even try to kiss my lips, because you still knew that I was his, and I couldn’t change that no matter how hard I was going to try.

But even then, when I kept you awake until the small hours of the morning, I promised you that we could try, and you smiled and just slept next to me for a few hours before it was time for you to leave. And I was left to remember.

but darling,
you are the only exception

I don’t know why I told you we could try, because we can’t stay together forever. I have to move on at some point, and right now you’re just one of those things that I need, like a medicine I’m taking to get over an injury (I suppose that’s exactly what you are). One day, I’ll wean from you and I hope you’ll be able to wean from me, because I don’t want to leave you with nothing. I still want to be around for you.

But I still want to be your everything.

Right now (and you focus on that: right now), you have me, and I’m yours. You’re mine, and sometimes I get the feeling that you always will be. But I have to keep myself from thinking that because you can’t be mine forever. The world just can’t work like that.

I have to leave someday to train, to get back on a broom and be the best Chaser that the Holyhead Harpies has ever seen. I can’t hold you down, not when I’m trying to set you free. You’re going to have to move on.

Sometimes I wonder if my love for you will be everlasting and I have to tell myself that it won’t, because nothing is everlasting (except maybe honey). And I know if I asked you if your love for me was everlasting, you would probably smile and say, “Yes,” because you’ve always seemed so sure about love. Why are you so sure? (To that, you’d say, “Because it’s real,” and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from thinking that, for a moment, we would be everlasting.)

maybe I know, somewhere deep in my soul,
that love never lasts,
and we’ve got to find other ways to make it alone,
or keep a straight face.

When he broke me so long ago (and maybe I was already broken, I suppose I can’t properly say), and I promised myself that I would be nothing to everyone for the rest of time, I didn’t think that maybe I wouldn’t be the one that would have to love. Maybe someone would love me instead.

That’s precisely what you did when you found me.

I had accepted that maybe we, as people, can love for a short time of our lives. We’re given just a little stretch of time, of kisses and late nights and helpless laughter with someone who has you (your heart, mind, body, soul). And then it’s gone because nothing good can last forever. We’re people, and we don’t deserve something as good as that.

Why do you have the ability to disregard that rule? How can you make me forget that love doesn’t last forever, and how can you make me feel like I will only ever be able to feel things for you? How are you doing this to me?

I was going to be so content with living alone, without him or anyone, because I would be the only person capable of hurting me. But then you showed up and you changed everything, and I still have no idea what to do about it. I just want you to be happy with me.

and I’ve always lived like this,
keeping it comfortable, distance.
and up until now I’d sworn to myself
that I’m content with loneliness

It was never worth it to throw myself at someone else again—and even when you told me that it wouldn’t matter if I fell back on him, I knew I didn’t want to. You didn’t deserve that, but he and I didn’t deserve that more. You couldn’t love me with any boundaries if I couldn’t even make you a promise. I tried so hard to move on.

I didn’t want to go into you knowing that I would one day break your heart. I didn’t want to go into you knowing that I one day I would break my heart. Separating from you is a common fear that we both share, and it’s something that at the moment, you don’t have to worry about. We still have time, and that is the one thing that I will be able to promise you for a little while more.

But Luna, you’re the only exception.

because none of it was ever worth the risk.
but darling,
you are the only exception

Even though you and I both know that one day we’re going to part ways (and you’ll still be writing fascinating articles on lord knows what, and I’ll still be flying in circles in attempt to forget about you), we still keep pushing forward. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m determined to live every day like it should be lived ever since people I have loved were killed, and I realized that no day is worth wasting.

Every day I spend with you is never a day worth wasting.

Kissing you and holding you, touching you, being near you is never waste of my day. The time I spend talking to you and listening to your stories is never time I regret, because you are my moment. You are my present, and while you know my past and won’t be part of my future, you seem to want me now. You can have me.

But we’ll still leave each other with all the letters we ever wrote each other. We’ll still have the memories of the mornings and nights we shared, of the stolen kisses in public places. We’ll still know what you went through to be with me, and we’ll still know what I went through to be with you. We’ll know what battles we faced when we weren’t even trying to fight. We’ll still have each other, in some kind of odd way, just like I will always have the back of my mind. We’ll always be around.

I’ve got a tight grip on reality,
but I can’t let go of what’s in front of me here.
I know you’re leaving in the morning when you wake up.
leave me with some kind of proof it’s not a dream.

You make me believe that love can be again. It’s true even after all the things that I thought it was (and none of those things were true), even after the deaths I have faced and the breaking of my heart. I have put so much faith in people, and they have all let me down. And how you have managed to care for me in this way and help me put myself together again, I will never be able to understand.

But know that I am grateful, and that nothing is ever a waste just because it’s gone.

you are the only exception.
and I’m on my way to believing

fear is the heart of love

zagury — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 01:42:12 GMT

Title: Fear Is The Heart Of Love
Pairing: Pansy/Hermione
Rating: G
Word Count: 608
Summary: "Jealous? Mmhm. I like jealous. It smells like love, but tastes much more bitter."
Note: I haven't written fanfic in so long, I just wanted to get something down. The quote is from something I saw zofbadfaith post, and the title is from Death Cab For Cutie's I Will Follow You Into The Dark, my soundtrack to writing this.

Hermione did not like the sound of this at all.

Pansy was going away on a two week trip with Astoria—and if conflict between Hermione and Astoria hadn’t been rough for the past three years anyway, it was sure going to get rough now. If it had been on a business trip, Hermione wouldn’t have minded so much. But no, they were going to Italy, of all places. Pansy had always said she wanted to go there.

And Astoria was paying for all of it.

It wasn’t Hermione’s fault that the job of her dreams didn’t pay for all her dream vacations, and it wasn’t her fault that Pansy’s job was the same. And besides, if Pansy had wanted to vacation with Hermione, she would’ve said something, right? (Of course she would’ve, they’ve been living together for a year.)

“I don’t want you to go.” Hermione mumbled into their bedspread, because she didn’t want to watch Pansy pack her bags, didn’t want her to hear the words she’d been dying to say since Pansy had announced the day she’d be leaving.

“What’d you say, love?” Hermione heard the rustling of clothes stop, heard the mattress creak in its left corner like it did as Pansy sat down from her small task. She felt a warm hand stroke the hair back from her neck and felt a kiss press itself on her shoulder blade. She sighed.

It was impossible to be upset with Pansy when she was being so lovely.

And really, Hermione had no reason to be upset with Pansy—she was just traveling with her best friend, after all, but Hermione didn’t like Astoria’s history, with or without her girlfriend. Of course, it’s not like Hermione blames Pansy for dating Astoria; rich and beautiful and admittedly cunning, what’s not to like?

Still, that didn’t help a single thing.

“I’ll be back before Valentine’s Day, you know,” Pansy said before she pressed a kiss into Hermione’s palm. “I’ll bring you a gift to make up for my absence.”

“It’s not just your absence that’s going to bother me.” Hermione said, rolling over onto her back. Pansy moved the brunette’s head into her lap so she could fiddle with the strands of wild hair that she loved. She smiled down at her with a little twinkle in her eye that was there all the time now; her little twinkle of happiness.

“What is it, then?”

“You know I don’t like Astoria.”

“Well, you know I don’t care much for Harry, either.”

“But Harry’s not… incredibly sexy like Astoria is.”

“Are you jealous?”

Hermione blushed, tugged on Pansy’s hand, threaded their fingers together. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Mmhm. I like jealous. It smells like love, but tastes much more bitter.” Pansy grinned and leaned down to kiss Hermione’s forehead. “You know you’ve nothing to worry about. I’m only in love with you, after all.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. I just don’t want Astoria making moves on you.” Hermione replied, her eyes still closed (she always closes her eyes when Pansy kisses parts of her).

“Well, I’ll just have to stop her, won’t I?”

Hermione opened her eyes and saw that same young look on Pansy’s face—her always patient smile and that same little twinkle in her eye. How she could always put up with Hermione’s jealousy was a mystery to her.

“You’re perfect, you know.” Hermione said, squeezing a few fingers that belonged to Pansy as she leaned up for a kiss. She whispered, “I love you,” against Pansy’s lips, because she could never say it enough.

Pansy smiled against Hermione’s lips and words. “I know.”

Perfection

zagury — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 06:11:06 GMT

Title: Perfection
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 928
Summary: "What do you think of this?" "Of what?" "Of us."
Note: This is for zofbadfaith for being so, so supportive the past few weeks. I don't think I could have made it through without you.

If Ginny Weasley had known anything in the many, many years she had been learning Luna Lovegood, it was that she could always find her under the moonlight.

The first time it happened, Ginny was seven, had just figured out how to make the roses in her mother’s garden open up to her in the early mornings. She thought that whispering to them would make them smile when they opened, but she could never be sure because what did a rose smiling look like?

But when she met Luna in the darkness, out in the field between their houses, Luna would take the rose from her with those cold fingers of hers and she would say something that Ginny didn’t understand against the petals. During the winter, when the roses had frost on their lips, it looked like Luna would kiss them and by the time Ginny was eleven, she was jealous of the roses.

It continued in the summers and spring when they were home from school as their lives went on. Ginny always managed to sneak out at night a time or two and Luna was always there, lying down in the grass and looking up into the stars. She always said the same little airy hello and always moved to kiss Ginny’s cheek because that was customary; that was Luna.

Sometimes Ginny would lie down next to her and other times she would sit above Luna, pillow the blonde hair in her lap and run her fingers through the tangles. Sometimes she would ask questions about everything—about love, life, magic, school, boys, girls—and sometimes she would remain silent because sometimes, there was simply nothing left to say.

Ginny only felt that when Luna was short, however, when Luna did not go into grand detail and when Luna did not sit up from the excitement of answering the other girl. It was understood that there were times when Luna did not want to be loony, she did not want to give wise answers hidden underneath a safety blanket of oddity, and she did not want to speak in her normal distracted tones.

It was during one of those moments, when Ginny bore the frail age of seventeen, when she realized that Luna could possibly know everything there was to know, and Ginny could possibly know absolutely nothing.

It was spring then, when the roses were blooming like no other time and Ginny brought them to Luna because the blonde thought them to be pretty little things. Luna was subtly, comfortably cold then, and Ginny was understood to be a heat, a contrast to Luna. Ginny had the warmest palms and Luna had the coolest skin, and together they balanced each other, made themselves nonexistent when they were together.

“What do you think of this?” Ginny asked her one night. The stars were twinkling above them, dancing, and Luna twirled a blade of grass between her fingers as Ginny’s hands slid over her arms.

“Of what?” There was that easy hint of curiosity lying underneath her voice, her dreamy, crazy voice.

“Of us.”

Luna sat up then, because there wasn’t an “us” between them. There was a “them” and a “Ginny and Luna” but there had not been a defined “us”. Luna faced the redhead, put her hands on either side of her face and looked hard into chocolate brown eyes. She looked at twenty-three freckles on her nose (she counted once, in third year) and the blush starting to form under cold fingers and she looked at Ginny, because Ginny was everything to see.

Ginny never knew what to do with her hands unless they were on Luna, so she rested them on cool forearms and she felt better when she was in motion, so she stroked her thumbs along soft skin because that was what Luna was used to, that was what Luna liked. She was rewarded with the quirk of a lip, that hesitation before a smile and she knew that she was doing everything okay.

Luna brushed a hand on the back of Ginny’s neck, pushed some of her hair aside and pulled her forward. She did not bring them together; she held Ginny in front of her and she closed her eyes, breathed in that simple scent of old soil that could only belong to Ginny.

Ginny did the same and she was suddenly reminded of all the times she had eaten peppermints just to remember what Luna smelled like, just to remember Luna. (It was before Harry had kissed her, before he had changed her around and made her his, taken her away from Luna.) Her hand moved to Luna’s wrist (her skin was softest there) and the other clutched the shirt collar of the blonde. It was taking all of Ginny’s power not to pull her closer.

Luna exhaled and without having to open her eyes, she kissed Ginny.

And it was perfection. Luna had cool, cool lips and Ginny had warm ones, and again they canceled each other out. They did not exist when they were this intimate; they were simply not alive in this world when they were together. Luna’s fingers tugged at the roots of Ginny’s hair and Ginny felt her fingernails gently scrape across her cheek because it was too much. They were too much. Ginny’s hand pulled at the collar of Luna’s shirt and if it was possible, she brought them closer, closer still.

Luna’s eyes found Ginny’s in the darkness and she spoke.

“So,” she said, “Where do we go from here?”

Frustration, Sensation

zagury — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 19:55:30 GMT

Title: Frustration, Sensation
Pairing: Pansy/Hermione
Rating: R
Word Count: ~4700
Summary: This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. Why does it feel so right?
Note: Solely, completely for zofbadfaith, because it was her birthday present. Love ya, Zee <3

December: 2000

It’s a wintry night, the streets cobbled with snow and the sound of boots crunching over the white can be heard from miles away. Everything is quiet as people hop out of their carriages and rub their hands together in fragile attempt to stay warm, their cheeks tainted pink from the crisp air.

Pansy pushes pass those rosy cheeks, off the cold streets and into a grand ballroom. Golden curtains hush the fall of snow against the windows and tinsel hangs from the ceiling above. She couldn’t say she was properly dressed for the occasion but she was presentable, and no one paid her much mind during these sorts of events anyway. She knew she didn’t belong but that didn’t stop her from being a part of something she so desperately needed.

There were beautiful people here for no reason at all; Pansy thinks that the men needed a reason to drink brandy together by the fireplace and the women needed a reason to spend all day working on their appearance so that they could impress each other. Pansy only spent about twenty minutes getting ready before she arrived here but she likes to stand in the corner and admire all the beautiful women standing on the arms of each other, on the arms of men that look like they could sweep you away and never look back.

There’s a lady dressed up in such a lovely way Pansy’s sure that she won’t recognize herself the next morning. Her crimson hair is hung from her neck, bearing pale, pale skin and she wears the darkest dress in the room. Her blue eyes are ice and shake Pansy down to the core (she’s rather thankful that the woman doesn’t notice her). Her smile is sly, the wrinkles around her eyes saying more than the curve of her lips do. She holds onto the arm of a man with graying hair and a thick moustache, her laugh elegant, dancing around the room. She makes everyone else in the room seem inferior and Pansy thinks that’s all she will ever need in this life.

Pansy doesn’t know her, doesn’t want her or need her or feel like she’s vital. But this confident, beautiful woman is just someone Pansy likes to know exists. She likes knowing that it’s possible for a person like this to be a reality.

But that woman is so totally and completely at a loss for words when she enters the room.

She bears no jewelry and no powder. Her olive skin is such a contrast, such a spectacular difference to her white dress. She is the winter. Her long brown hair tumbles over her shoulder in captivating curls, bunches and rustles. Her dark eyes dart around the room, searching for no one but searching out of habit. Her hands curl into her middle because she has no arm to rest them on, but she keeps her head held high as the sound of her feet crossing the room meet everyone’s ears. All heads turn to look at her as she passes by. All heads follow her as she makes her way to the fireplace and thanks someone for her wine. She turns, smiles at everyone and just like that, she’s one of them.

Pansy had never seen anything so amazing.

I can see a lot of life in you
I can see a lot of bright in you
And I think the dress looks nice on you
I can see a lot of life in you
The Dress Looks Nice On You – Sufjan Stevens

She greets everyone with a bright smile and a nod of her head, because that’s formal, that’s proper. She doesn’t know when she became part of this society (and Pansy doesn’t know when she became below this) but she knows that this is part of her lifestyle now. It may not be apart of who she is, exactly, but it gets her by and she thinks that’s all she needs.

Gentlemen and various women come by to see her, to talk to the beauty that she has transformed herself into, and even though she knows lingering by the mantle isn’t really where she’s supposed to be, she stays there anyway because that’s where people will find her. And the only thing she wants right now is to be found.

Pansy puts down her glass of liquor and pulls up her collar, trying to blend into a crowd that doesn’t even match her shade. As she passes by the beauty, she wraps cold fingers around her left bicep and tugs the woman in the white dress into a secluded hallway. She takes the wine and throws it against the wall and kisses Hermione Granger because that’s all she’s ever wanted to do.

They both know that this isn’t supposed to work; Pansy isn’t supposed to be here in the corner waiting for her and they aren’t supposed to go back to one of their flats together. But that’s what will happen, because that’s what always happens and they can’t stop it.

Hermione puts a hand on Pansy’s chest and pushes, half-heartedly, because this isn’t right. This is so, so wrong.

“We have to stop,” Hermione breathes against an icy cheek, and the hands that are holding her sides only grip harder in response.

She agrees wholly and kisses Pansy again because that’s what feels right. Her fingers tangle the raven hair and her lipstick starts to smear as their addictions become deeper and deeper. She feels her hips practically jump into Pansy’s when the raspy voice in her ear suggests that they leave. Hermione hasn’t even been here for ten minutes but everyone else has seen enough of her, she decides, and she’s spinning in wild circles in Pansy’s arms before she even realizes that she’s holding for everything that she’s worth.

Pansy’s flat is dark when they stumble in but it doesn’t matter because their eyes are closed and they’re kissing and it’s bliss. It’s oblivion, pure, sweet, oblivion because they’re together again, Hermione is up against the wall under Pansy’s hands and they don’t know when this happened. They don’t know when this lust became so powerful and they don’t know when things turned down this path.

But they aren’t going to stop.

So Pansy holds Hermione tight against her as she navigates in the blackness to her bedroom and there’s enough moonlight shimmering in through the window to see. Hermione’s dress is off before their lips meet again and Pansy is throwing off her coat and trousers before she’s pushing Hermione down into the bedspread. They can’t remember the last times things were this wanted; they can’t remember the last time they were together so they have to make this memory to always remember.

They become a tangle of legs and uneven breathing, Pansy’s body rocking with Hermione’s as hot, wet tongues slick themselves over warmth. Heated palms slide over sweaty skin and bodies arch into each other. There is nothing but this moment, nothing but this kiss and these words and these breathless moans. They don’t know if anything was more surreal than the sight of them united by moonlight, but they’re sure that it’s the most beautiful thing that they’ve ever seen.

They’re shaking when they’re done, shaking from excitement and exhaustion and from fear (what if this was all just a dream?). Hermione closes her eyes and collapses into the pillows, Pansy pulls the sheets over them and waves her wand so that a lit candle dances above them, flickering its small light over their skin.

Her eyes are half open as she brushes the brown hair back from her forehead, but Pansy doesn’t care because there’s nothing that compares to the feeling of Hermione’s smooth, smooth skin under her hand. She wants to say something to the brunette, tell her that she’s… everything, but Pansy doesn’t know how to form those words on her lips. But she thinks Hermione understands when she opens her eyes halfway and smiles a sleepy smile, putting a hand on Pansy’s cheek and her fingers stroke easily, naturally.

“How does this work?” she asks the raven-haired girl, moving closer and entwining their legs, their fingers.

“How do you mean?” Pansy replies, her hand running along the length of a spine, against the softest olive skin. This is all that she lives for: moments with her, just like this, just like this.

“We always find each other,” Hermione’s voice is fragile, timid, and she doesn’t mean it that way but she is so afraid. She is so afraid.

“That’s because…” Pansy is used to having the answers in this relationship, used to reassuring Hermione whenever she is frightened and used to being the strong one. But what is she supposed to say to this? Because I love you. That wasn’t like her. But maybe that’s what she needed to become.

“That’s because we love each other.” She says, and she’s solid, she’s sure. And saying it for the both of them is so much easier than saying it for just her. There isn’t rejection when they are together, there never has been.

Hermione’s brown eyes meet Pansy’s and she smiles her small, special smile for Pansy. She leans close enough so that their lips brush together in the faintest, faintest kiss and everything is so clear in that moment. Everything is understood.

“Yes,” Hermione murmurs, “That’s exactly it.”

February 2001

They meet this time in a collaboration of surprise and pink—yes, pink, because Pansy doesn’t even like to look at cartoon hearts but Hermione doodles them in the margins of her books all the time so they must be significant. Pansy smiles at her as they pass each other in Hogsmeade and they find each other again in an old abandoned pub.

And it was the most amazing night they had ever spent together.

Pansy had found a way to make candles glow pink light around them as they danced to songs on the wireless she had brought with her (Hermione loved to dance to slow songs). And then they dimmed themselves into a faint white glow when the two became each other and became one. And they were beautiful.

April 2001

The kitchen smells like tea and oranges this morning. Pansy doesn’t know why, though, because Hermione hates oranges and only makes tea when she’s particularly stressed (and that’s what scares her). She had spent the night at Pansy’s flat after a conference they had both attended for people who had fought in Harry’s war. It was the first time they had been together since the middle of February, and that was only when Pansy had deliberately found Hermione to surprise her for a stupid holiday she didn’t even like.

But now Hermione is crying as she fusses over the tea and she’s wearing one of Pansy’s long shirts. She’s smashing oranges with her shoulders hunched up and she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, she really doesn’t, but she knows that she’s done with this. She’s done.

“Hermione…?” Pansy’s voice startles Hermione from the doorway and she turns around to face her lover with red eyes and tear stained cheeks. She wants to scream for no reason at all and the orange in her hand becomes pulp under her fist. And when Pansy asks what’s wrong, Hermione collapses because she knows.

“I can’t—we can’t keep doing this.” Hermione says between sobs. It’s the most painful thing she’s ever had to say.

Pansy wants to scream because of the hurt spreading from her chest but she refrains because Hermione needs her to be stronger than that. She tucks away all of her fears and kneels down next to the brunette, rubbing her back and murmuring to her. She presses her face into the other woman’s neck and Hermione can feel her tears leaking onto her olive skin.

They say their goodbyes at 11:42 that morning in front of a red brick building.

Pansy watches Hermione walk away in her perfect white dress and once she’s gone from sight (it takes her seven blocks to get that far away) Pansy turns on her heels and heads for a pub. She doesn’t know what else to do with herself except drink. She never found answers in whiskey but they liked to take her questions and most of the time that’s all she really needed.

She goes home later that night with a woman she can’t remember the name of but she’s sober, the woman, so she figures she’s safe enough and she didn’t bring any good amount of money along with her (she had spent it all on the liquor). She hopes that maybe she’s a good enough fuck for the stranger and maybe they’ll meet again. She’s glad the stranger has blonde hair and that only makes her think of Draco, who was always terrible in bed. She hopes that this new woman will give her a new opinion, a new sight.

She just goes home the next day with a headache.

October 2002

Pansy’s been an alcoholic since last year’s May and things haven’t gotten better, especially since the blonde she’s been fucking for that long doesn’t have any depth to her—she’s a great tussle, but when it gets down to it, she’s really just a bore. She doesn’t know anything that’s going on with the world and she hasn’t read a book all the way through since she got out of school. She’s beautiful, really, and takes Pansy to balls that are fabulous and Pansy gets to feel gorgeous for a night, but when they sit in her flat on Sunday afternoons, something inside of Pansy just dies and she wants, she longs for conversation, not sex or snogging or anything like that.

She doesn’t know how to change that, though, because things have been the same for so long. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be in love with this woman (she doesn’t think she’ll ever be in love again) but this faux sort of relationship that they’ve got is the only thing that keeps Pansy from feeling like she’s the only person left on Earth.

Pansy stares into her whiskey that night because that’s the only thing she does anymore (it feels like it’s the only thing she knows how to do properly anymore). She tells herself that this was how things were supposed to be; she was supposed to be in the press because of her fortune, her fame and she was supposed to be on the covers of everything as a beautiful, beautiful maiden.

And Pansy was supposed to stay here, drinking to the Harpies’ win over the Cannons.

Late nights won't do me justice
’Cause when I drink I just get so damn depressed,
And it’s not like, I ain't trying to get over you.
It's just hard to look at all the seasons pass me over too

Stars and Boulevards – Augustana

She doesn’t know why it happens, but when Pansy returns to her flat that evening, the woman’s things are gone; her blonde hair isn’t in Pansy’s hairbrush and her long dresses aren’t stored away in the closet. Her tubs of ice cream are out of the freezer and her collection of makeup isn’t taking up the entire bathroom counter. It almost feels kind of bare without her here, but Pansy notices how quiet it still is. It was always quiet with her around.

Pansy sighs and mutters a swear to herself as she sinks into her mattress. And she closes her eyes because all she wants to do is forget.

“Do you remember that time you sent me roses and I couldn’t figure it out for—“

“Three weeks? Yeah, ‘course I do.” Pansy grins at Hermione, because they’re still girls and they’re beautiful, both of them, separate and together. Pansy’s hair is still short and dark, just barely brushing her shoulders and Hermione’s mane is pulled up into a messy bun (but only after Pansy got to play with it for a good half hour).

“I’ve always wanted to get some revenge for that. You know, send you a surprise gift and you wouldn’t know it was me.” Hermione folds the corner page of her book and lies down all the way next to Pansy in the soft grass. Pansy’s got her arms tucked behind her head in a pillow and her eyes are closed because the sunlight feels so wonderful on the inside of her eyelids.

“But if you did it now, I’d know it was you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else would bother to send me something.” Pansy feels a shove against her thigh and her heart flutters for a moment at the other girl’s touch. “Come on, you know I’m right.”

“What about Astoria?” There’s a hint of jealously in Hermione’s voice but it’s overruled by curiosity, the need to know if she could ever be replaced.

“Astoria would only bring me roses if I showered her with presents and chocolate and maybe did something especially physically pleasing. And then I’d be on the list for roses.” Hermione snorts with laughter and rolls into Pansy, resting her cheek on a bicep and finding comfort there. “It’s ancient history.”

“I’m glad.” Hermione replies, and her voice is the cheeriest thing in the world.

Pansy opens her eyes because it’s always been too hard to brush away her tears with them closed.

March 2003

It’s been months since Pansy can remember the last time she skipped a day from running; she’s fit now, fitter than any woman her age. She sometimes wonders if she could kick Ginny Weasley’s arse at something (but she knows she couldn’t do it just because of the past) and if maybe she should have done this earlier. She never knew she was built for being strong.

She runs when she’s lonely, finds weight when she’s upset—it makes everything easier. She’s forgotten things in the midst of exercise and she doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. She almost hates who she is because she loved herself when she was different (and now she’s just the same).

But it helps her forget those harder things and that’s all she wants.

May 2000

“You know we were supposed to meet each other at some bar tonight, right?” Hermione says with a sly grin to her voice and Pansy gives her a bit of a shove with her hand because they both know spending the day with each other is better than the night.

“What is this?” Hermione asks; Pansy’s got some kind of strange music on the wireless. It’s all soothing and miraculous, but Hermione can’t help but wonder what in the world it is.

“Don’t have a clue,” Pansy replies lazily as she twirls one of Hermione’s curls around her finger. Her other hand runs along olive skin and the brunette sighs with contentment.

“That sounds familiar.” She says without thought, and without looking up, she knows Pansy is smiling.

June 2003

There is a rose on Pansy’s front step when she gets home one Tuesday from running. She’s sweating and crying—it’s their fucking anniversary, of all things—and when she picks it up her hand, she barely manages to stumble into her flat before she’s a heaping mess of sobs.

She curls into her bedspread when she’s done crying because sometimes she imagines the sheets smell like her. And sometimes they really, really do and Pansy will spend all afternoon trying to figure out why they did. Everything is a disappointment without her; everything is darker without her moonlight and everything is quieter without her mumbles. Pansy hates the world for the lack it has of her.

She dreams a memory because that’s the only time she can’t control everything.

“I think we’d be good together,” Hermione says with a small smile, her hand flipping hair over Pansy’s shoulder.

“Do you?” Pansy’s trying her very hardest not to lean over and kiss the brunette right now.

“Yeah. In fact,” she plays with the collar of Pansy’s shirt, “I think we’d be great together.”

There’s a hand on her back when she wakes up and she doesn’t really know what to think of that. So she looks up and there’s one thousand memories sitting in one hundred days for her. There’s long hair pulled into a messy bun (she didn’t get to play with it) and there’s warm eyes with wrinkles around them from smiling (why wasn’t she there to see them form?). There are Sunday evenings under the trees and Monday mornings under the stars in front of her. There are so many different things and Pansy has no idea what to say.

“Why?” Is the only thing she knows how to say because it’s the only thing she wants to really know.

“I made a mistake,” says the voice she’s wanted to hear for over two years, and the fingers on her back move slightly in that way they used to on Friday mornings.

Pansy sits up and shakes her head and closes her eyes. She can’t handle this. She feels her hand being encompassed in another’s and it’s warm, it’s right. It used to feel so wrong, whatever they used to have, and now it feels like something else; it feels like a second chance.

But she doesn’t know if she can give a second chance.

She opens her eyes to find the other’s and they are waiting.

“Why did you leave me?” It’s something she’s wanted to know since she first went home with a blonde she knew nothing about.

Hermione pauses, seems taken aback but leans forward again, as if there is too much distance between them. “I thought we were doing something wrong. I couldn’t handle that.”

“And I could?” Pansy doesn’t know when her voice became this cold; she doesn’t know why she doesn’t just snog the Granger right now, but she isn’t. She wants answers.

“Why are you being like this?” Hermione doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand a thing.

Quick kid quips, so harsh and cynical
Touches stricken cold and clinical
Such a transformation to behold
I don't like this new, I like the old

Happier – A Fine Frenzy

“I wanted you back from the moment you left.”

“Don’t you still want me?”

Pansy pauses, a retort caught in her throat because she knows the answer to that question. She’s known it for years.

But she says, “No.”

December 2003

It’s been a miserable six months since Pansy last saw Hermione. She’s at a pub this time of night for the first time in a long time. She hasn’t been running since September and she knows she won’t be fit for anything anymore. She was never strong enough for this.

She looks into her whiskey and for the first time wishes that it would talk back to her. Sass her, scream at her, tell her to turn back and change. But she can’t, and it won’t, and nothing has been working since the day she let her leave.

Sometimes she thinks it would be easier if she could find that beautiful blonde again—does she even remember where the girl lived?—and she could go back to the robotic life she had for so long. She would live in the silences and with all of the makeup and everything, and it would be awful. She would never think about anything and that would be the only, only upside to it because lately, thinking about cheese has made her start crying. She doesn’t know why.

It’s late into the night and Pansy isn’t smashed—not yet. She isn’t sure she plans to but if she downs a few more of these shot glasses she might be drunk enough to forget who she went home with.

And then a beauty walks through the doors and Pansy is pretty sure that’s who she wants to take home.

She’s wearing a white dress with no jewelry, no makeup, nothing but that white dress. Her hair is dark but it looks like the in between of brown and black; it’s absolutely stunning against the bright of her clothing. She looks around the room before her eyes settle on Pansy and she smiles—she’s all white teeth and pink lips. Pansy sucks up her gasp of surprise before the girl reaches her.

Her hands are on Pansy’s back before she knows what’s happening and she’s being dragged out the back while the bartender has his back turned and she’s being pressed up against the cold brick. And the softest lips are kissing her and there are hands, hands, hands and Pansy hasn’t been able to not think like this in years.

“We should stop,” Pansy says breathlessly, stupidly when she can. The hands on her side grip harder in reply and Pansy can only agree more. She feels kisses, sloppy, wet kisses being pressed to her neck and she feels teeth graze her earlobe and it’s fucking fantastic, this girl, this stranger. She can’t speak, can barely breathe and Pansy’s hands somehow find their way into the soft, tangled hair that belongs to the girl in the white dress.

“Get me out of here,” Pansy manages, and she spins tightly in her arms as they Apparate away. She can only think about how right it feels, how safe she feels with a stranger even though she knows it’s just so wrong.

Pansy can’t see anything when they arrive, only the thread of moonlight making it through the windows but the girl knows her way around. They collapse into a bed somewhere and the girl is soft beneath her, her curves feel like they match and her legs are long. Her fingers are slender as they probe and search and find, and they make Pansy forget her own name because that’s how long it’s been for her.

She doesn’t remember the last time she wanted to make a girl scream, but Pansy did, she made the girl arch into her hands, into the tips of her fingers because if there was anything Pansy knew how to do, it was worship. She found every crook of pleasure there was and she searched for that piece of missing something there always was. And she found it this time and she didn’t think about it because the girl was screaming and it was perfect.

She keeps her eyes closed, she does, and Pansy keeps her eyes open because there’s so much to see. She doesn’t want to miss the image of this stranger moving desperately into her, with her, doesn’t want the sight of her skin glistening with the moonlight to disappear from her grasp. They can’t handle each other; there’s too much to feel, too much to see and comprehend and too much to think about. So they collapse into themselves, into each other, and they’re beautiful.

The girl won’t let her turn on a light when she’s ready to see everything, so Pansy settles for stroking the damp hair back from her forehead and feeling the soft skin under her thumb.

“Can I have your name?” she asks, because she knows some girls she’s been with don’t even like her to know what they were wearing that night. (It never mattered, though, seeing as she was always so hammered)

“Hermione,” the girl tells her, and something inside of Pansy starts living again.

And they kiss because it’s oblivion and it’s right, it’s everything they’ve ever wanted. It’s all of their memories and all the Sunday afternoons and all of the heart doodles in the margins, it’s all the dancing candles and all the slow songs on the wireless, it’s all the ball gowns and all those nights of wine and a couch. It’s the secluded promises of forever in the corners, it’s the stolen kisses under the snow, it’s all there ever was to have.

It’s a second chance.

Under the Apple Trees

zagury — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 01:49:26 GMT

Title: Under the Apple Trees
Pairing: Hermione/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 459
Summary: Luna had been discovery, ever since they first met.
Note: For magicmumu and her prompt, and just because I miss writing for her so much.

Hermione had never been in a place like this before, and that within itself was utterly thrilling to her.

Luna had been discovery, ever since they first met—Luna was different and unique and totally, completely new. At first, Hermione didn’t know what to make of that, didn’t know what to make of her stories, theories, her radish earrings and her butterbeer corked necklace. Hell, she didn’t know what to make of anything Luna said or did, not even when Luna kissed her for the first time that early day in May.

“You worry too much,” Luna tells her under the shade of an apple tree, and Hermione knows it’s true—she did worry too much about her career and her friends since she graduated from Hogwarts and she did worry too much about what would become of her now that she wasn’t fighting Voldemort. The aspect, concept of moving on from that life was terrifying to her.

“I know,” Hermione replies in a sigh, her index finger running down the spine of her book. She was finding it difficult to meet Luna’s eyes.

“You should try something to help you relax.” Luna stated simply, scooting closer to her friend. They were sitting across from each other in the cool grass and when Luna put her legs under Hermione’s arms and next to her sides, the brunette lifted her arms without knowing what to do until Luna was kissing her and the world disappeared.

She didn’t think about it just then (and that was a miracle, she thought later, because she always over thought everything) but her hands moved up Luna’s forearms and onto her shoulders, grasping, pulling her closer but this was what she needed. Luna was what she needed.

Hermione knew that by now, by fall, she should know what to say to Luna about everything. She should know what to say about her kisses and the flowers she brought home for no reason, she should know what to say about her overnight stays and

her chocolate cakes. But there was only one thing she was certain of, though only tickles would force her to admit this.

She had always been a little bit in love with her. Hermione had always been in love with the way that Luna knew, and was positive, was sure. That was a solidity that no one had ever given her and she couldn’t stay away from something that felt so grounded and still made her feel like she was flying.

She doesn’t know when it happened or how it happened; in the midst of all the years and moments under apple trees, Hermione had come to fall in love with everything else and sometimes she thinks that’s all life is about.

The Purple Dress

zagury — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 05:21:27 GMT

Title: The Purple Dress
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: Ginny can barely handle it when someone tells her she has a pretty face, but when Luna says, “You’re beautiful today,” she stumbles in her tracks and her cheeks looks like the apples that Luna always carries around in her bag.
Note: "Our hands they seek the end of afternoons... My hands believe and move over you." - Via Chris Youngblood

Ginny had long ago decided that Luna always had the most wonderfully perfect things to say. It was jut that Ginny sometimes had a hard time trying to keep up with everything.

It wasn’t that what Luna says wasn’t interesting or hard to follow; no, it was just that Luna is so blunt and simple that it really took her by surprise. Ginny can barely handle it when someone tells her she has a pretty face, but when Luna says, “You’re beautiful today,” she stumbles in her tracks and her cheeks looks like the apples that Luna always carries around in her bag.

Most of the time, Ginny wishes she could find something to say that would make Luna’s stomach swell with happiness like hers often does when the blonde was around, but she can’t ever think of just the right words. So most of the time, Ginny uses her touch to say what she wants to say. And most of the time, that seems to suffice.

Like when Luna found Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron one day last March and Ginny had just broken things off with her latest boyfriend, losing herself in some of the firewhiskey and Luna had rescued her. Luna had taken her to her flat and made her tea, put her in bed and closed the window blinds. Luna had taken her home and slept in her bed. And Ginny had never liked waking up to burnt toast more than she had liked it that morning.

“Thanks for this,” Ginny had said, gesturing to her feast of a breakfast—Luna’s own recipe of pancakes (Ginny didn’t care if they were a bit runny) and her freshly made orange juice. Ginny liked that Luna added a pinch of sugar to everything.

“You need it.” Luna had said simply, and it was right. She was right. So Ginny had leaned over the table and put her hand on the back of Luna’s neck so she could pull her forward and kiss her full on the lips in the way that teenagers always did.

But Ginny knew in the back of her mind that they didn’t feel like teenagers just then.

There was a day in June, after Ginny had gone home with a girl she’d met at the bar and still made the stupid decision to work the next day, when Luna had showed up in her office after Ginny had gone for lunch. Ginny still can’t remember a day when Luna had made her happier because the blonde had brought her nothing more than a chocolate frog.

“You’re a life saver,” Ginny had said with a sigh, flopping down into the chair behind her desk and pulling the gold wrapping off her treasure. “This day would have gone to total shit without you.”

“I know you better than you think I do.” Luna had told her with a quip in her voice. She smiled at the red head and played with the end of her skirt, tugging on the fabric and tracing over the patterns.

And Ginny thought that Luna deserved something for all of her trouble, so she pulled the blonde into her lap and tangled her hands in her hair as she kissed her for the third time in her life. When Luna sighed happily into her mouth, Ginny thought that it was the sweetest noise she had ever heard.

Ginny smiles when she thinks of Luna, which means she smiles when she thinks of the moon or the sun, she smiles when she thinks of the colour yellow and she smiles when she thinks of chocolate frogs on bad days. (But the thought of just Luna was forever lingering, so Ginny is usually always smiling.)

“Why are you in such a good mood today?” Luna asks her as she walks into the room. She startles Ginny but gives her a wink as she sets her bag down on one of the boxes—Ginny is working for George today, taking stock in the back room for him.

“No reason,” Ginny replies, pulling her bangs out of her eyes and taking Luna in: she’s wearing a faded purple dress and shoes so worn down that they should probably be condemned, but Luna’s toes flex cheerily within them so they mustn’t mind it too much. Her hair is caught up by two pencils, hardly keeping the strands in the right way (but Luna never did things the “right” way so Ginny cast this small detail aside) and her radish earrings dangle and glint against the sunlight that the one window lets into the room.

Luna grins and says, “You’re always happy for a reason.” No one knew her like Luna did.

Ginny isn’t quite sure what she’s supposed to say to that so she puts down her clipboard and tucks her wand into her jeans before she steps forward and tugs on Luna’s dress. Luna’s eyes sparkle and the blonde leans up just a little to meet Ginny’s lips in a hello.

Ginny’s hands fall onto Luna’s forearms, tugging them so that the other girl’s hands rest on her neck and Ginny’s own hands are free to explore everything that is Luna. She pulls on the purple dress, finding the loose niches and Luna’s lips curve into a wider grin, her tongue plunging into her mouth. Ginny swallows Luna’s squeak of surprise when she pushes her onto one of the boxes, holding her onto the crate and Ginny locks the door.

“Oh,” Luna breathes.

Ginny pulls off the purple dress from Luna’s thin, pale (perfect, amazing) frame, revealing her smooth belly and her lack of knickers. Ginny crushes their lips together again and her hands find their way up to the pencils—one is the colour of the sky and the other of daises—and she pulls them out, letting Luna’s blonde hair cascade over her shoulders and down her back in one fluid, breathtaking moment.

Ginny thinks that she’s never felt anything softer than Luna’s skin, never felt anything so wonderful under her hands as she runs her palms slowly over the girl’s ribs and Luna arches into her. Ginny’s fingers ghost along Luna’s thighs and can barely hear the small moans that Luna makes against her ear as her hands vice their grip on Ginny’s blouse. Ginny kisses her collarbone and everything is becoming an act of worship, of praise; Ginny has never seen anything like Luna before, has never seen or heard or felt anything quite like this.

The clasp of Luna’s bra is undone before the blonde has time to register what’s happening and Ginny’s hands are cupping her small (but oh so incredible) breasts. Ginny feels Luna becoming warmer and warmer, her breath hot against her neck and her legs wrapping around her middle, but the redhead still tweaks her thumbs over those peaked nipples and Luna stifles a cry, her mouth open against Ginny’s shoulder.

Ginny kisses Luna’s lips again, because kissing Luna has become one of her favourite past times and she knows that if there’s anything Luna wants right now, it’s to be kissed.

Ginny moves her hands down to Luna’s thighs, pulling them apart just so and she slips a hand between. Luna’s hands push on Ginny’s shoulders but not in protest; her eyes squeeze shut, her teeth gripping her bottom lip and she can’t breathe the right way. And her fingers flex madly when Ginny’s find her spot and rub in those spectacular circles, when those long fingers start pulsing themselves and Luna can’t think anymore.

Ginny kisses Luna temple and pushes her thighs apart again, the blonde’s hands tangling her hair as she kisses her way down the pale, smooth body and her lips meet her fingers. And Luna’s legs are nearly spastic when Ginny’s warm tongue finds her center and she throws her head back, her face flushed and she’s breathing so heavily that thinks her lungs might just burst from this pressure in her chest.

She feels hands, slow hands rubbing her shoulders when Luna’s eyes open to the warm brown and she smiles. The redhead’s fingers press themselves against Luna’s lips and Luna presses the faintest of kisses there, leaving her mark forever. Ginny’s lips twitch into a small smile and she kisses Luna just one more time before it’s time to put back on her purple dress.

One

zagury — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 02:10:48 GMT

Title: One
Pairing: Any
Rating: PG
Word Count: 598
Summary: How can you make me feel like this?
Note: I don't know who this is for. Just let it be known that I want it to mean something to someone.

Fuck, how can one person feel all this at once?

I used to think that when I saw you walking down the street and the sunlight made your hair golden, made you beautiful. I used to think that the swelling in my chest would never be able to expand or I’d simply explode; I couldn’t handle you, couldn’t handle your perfect kindness and your brilliant eyes and how you graced yourself in every which way. I couldn’t comprehend who you were or what you meant. You were you and so undoubtedly true to that.

I used to think that when you spoke to me, even if it was the merest of words, the quietest of a whisper. My heart used to flutter when you said my name (it still does) and my skin felt like it was on fire when you brushed your fingers against my arm to get my attention (but it was always yours, don’t you know?). I used to think that you telling me about your dream last night was the most amazing thing in the world because talking to you was the best part of anything, of my day, of my month, of my year. I couldn’t understand it; I still don’t understand any of it.

But now you make me tremble when you touch me, because now you aren’t afraid. You don’t hold anything back from me anymore, never, not a single thing. I’m struck each and every day by the… the simply miraculous way you make me feel, with your laughter and your words and your breath of a touch.

Quiver, that’s what you make me do. I can’t do anything except whimper when you press your lips to my throat like that, when your fingers trace the outline of every single rib. I want to squirm when you smile into my lips and I try my very hardest to never close my eyes. You’re so beautiful when you look like this, when you’re tormenting me with ghosts of your fingertips and I want to scream.

Your hair is soft in the light, soft against my cheeks as you’re pressing me down into the sheets and taking, taking, taking, taking my skin into your hands and taking my short, forced breaths into your mouth, capturing my lips in one of your heart-stopping kisses. I don’t understand how I can feel so excited and anxious and full of… full of… I don’t even know what this is, but it’s bloody insane. How can you make me feel like this?

You whisper against my temple, press your soft kisses there after you’ve promised me so many things with so few words. You take again, take what has been yours since the beginning of time (I would never give it to anyone else) and you make me say it, make me say what I’ve always wanted to tell you. And once you’ve heard it, you smile into my hair and you say, “That’s it, that’s it,” and your voice is the greatest symphony I’ve ever heard.

My hands find their way from their grip on the sheets to warm your sides, my arms pulling you into me because I want more of you, need more of you. You find me again, find that part that will always belong to you and my body can only arch itself into yours, my breath scarce and your name, your name escaping whenever I can breathe and I can’t think because of this, I can’t think because of you—

And for a split second in time, we are one.