#fienfyre

[poutingminho]

harry potter or star wars? friends or family? peanut butter or marmalade? moon or mars? stars or planets? soap or foam? shower or bathtub? hot or cold? money or love? books or movies?

[deamus]

@lightningeranet creation event: Favourite Characters @dadefensenet creation event: POC Canon Members

d e a n   t h o m a s ;

“We’re fighting, aren’t we? The message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight!”

[leekycauldron-blog1]

@hogwartsgirlgang event: MARAUDERS ERA LADIES ↳ marlene mckinnon, mary macdonald and dorcas meadowes

[nerville]

@hpgalpalsnet event: get to know the members

favorite femslash ship: luna lovegood x ginny weasley

[pekkarolling]

karkaroff >>> ripjily

Hi! So, since it’s nearing the Halloween season, it’s time to get *festive*, and even though I’m on a semi-hiatus due to school and the fact that I am currently doing a lot in my cult of theatre, I figured nothing could be more perfect than changing my url to celebrate! I will switch back to @karkaroff after Halloween. Or possibly not. We’ll see. 

(also if you want to join me in being festive I have more dead Jily urls? Message me!)

[arimendoza]

first year: tentative glances, shy smiles. robes that are slightly too big,  scars as prominent as the quiet laughter in his eyes. four boys, one compartment, their words drowned out by  the whistle of the train, the squeaking wheels of a trolley. friendship, real and fierce. 

second year:  full moons, half-hearted lies, pranks and hexes and youthful folly blossom into questions without answers, climax into a revelation. he prepares for the inevitable, feels his scars burn, lets the ashes of his secret spill from him in shame. but the blow never came. third year: usual shenanigans and stolen glances, warm bodies next to him now on his infirmary bed, soothing words recited into his hair like a mantra.  but now he finds himself with a bias on whose body is directly next to his, whose warmth he wants to feel, mantras he wants to etch into his being. he did not know whether the feeling, should elate or unnerve. 

fourth year: a wanted, constant presence.  a yearning. he feels it in his bones now, striking him with every laugh and smile and everything in between. it was somewhere around this time when he found himself falling in love.

fifth year:  he hides his secret with all his might, keeps it in the back of his mind, fights off the flush in his expression, the flutter in his chest. here, he is no longer alone during his runs,  finds himself happier than he’s been in years. he stays in this bubble, relishes the feeling. a year of maps and celebration and what should have been confession. instead he finds it tainted with betrayal.

sixth year:  a time of runaways and broken friendships. most importantly, a season of forgiveness. but the forgiveness, like broken friendships and unlike the path of runaways,  is quiet.  it starts with willingly returned glances, the brushing of pinkies and shoulders the occasional dialogue, and ends with  tears, an overwhelming feeling of relief, is sealed with a kiss. 

seventh year: laughter and love and friendship all around him, promise after promise unfolding. he prays to the gods, to anyone listening in the skies or the ground or the droplets of rain, that if they cannot give, cannot keep promises without tragedy and blood, of happiness and hope and love, at least sear this memory into him, let him wear these years, burn them into his mind, bind his and these people’s souls to one another’s for eternity. please, he thinks. please please please. take everything, promise nothing, at least let him have this.

-  d.c & v.d.c

[lilyevane]

drunkenness of love

okay so i have never posted my writing on this hellsite before, and yesterday i was suffering without wifi so i produced this piece of shit... and it’s actually zero percent grammatically correct (literally) and i am very nervous to post it, though i’ve decided to do it anyway!

this is for all you lovely souls who replied to that post, all my followers and my mutuals (and my irl best friend who actually cried when she read it) and everyone from the @hpwritersnet cause you’re so lovely and motivating + i love you all ♥ 

 he’s dressed in that suit that always makes her go oh when she sees him, and it’s like he’s deliberately lathered himself in that perfume she says suits him. his hair is as it always is; a hurricane, an unamendable yet intriguing whirlwind of hair – something she loves to run her hands through, it’s like she can almost feel the soft texture slipping through her fingers oh god

she’s wearing that cute sundress which he remembers he first kissed her in; that cute sundress which he told her she looked beautiful in; that cute sundress which also happens to be yellow, his favourite colour. like the sun, he thinks, as he looks into the green pools of her eyes and falls in love all over again. her hair’s done in that really casual style; the little ponytail with a matching yellow hair tie – she’s done it deliberately, and he knows it, he wants to pull the tie out of her hair so badly and feel the softness of it on his fingertips, he wants to touch her face and feel her freckles and kiss her on the neck, kiss her, just kiss her forever and let her sober him up

she sees him again and he’s holding someone else in his arms, and he’s laughing with her. she can feel that feeling in her stomach, that dizzy feeling, the feeling that wants to make her do weird things. she feels like she’s drunk, but she’s not, she hasn’t had anything at all, she’s just tipsy in love, too far in to ever come back out. she’s staring at him from the other end of the room, wanting so badly to be the girl he’s holding in his arms, wanting so badly to be the girl he kisses tonight, but she can’t, she can’t she can’t. she’s not good enough. her yellow sundress is not good enough. her hair is not good enough. the shoes she’s worn are not good enough. she’s not good enough. but the girl in his arms is. and that’s what kills her. every. single. time.

he sees her and his heart breaks cause she’s talking to someone else, a someone with curly hair and brown eyes, and she seems so infatuated with him, so oblivious to everything else. he wants to shout that she’s his, claim to everyone in the room that the girl in the yellow sundress is his, but he can’t, cause that courage he had was gone long ago. he can see the sadness in her green eyes all the way from across the room and he wants to scream, cause he knows the boy with curly hair doesn’t see it; he knows that the boy with curly hair doesn’t really know what she feels, and it makes him happy, cause he’s the only one who does.

she’s sitting on the footpath of some rundown street, some street she doesn’t know the name of, and she’s telling herself that she’s waiting for a taxi, but she knows she isn’t. she’s waiting for something else. for love, the voice yells in the back of her mind, she’s waiting for him to come and take her away, somewhere far, far away. but he’s not going to come, and the dizzy feeling in her stomach is growing now, attacking her fingers and her arms and her feet and her face and her thoughts – all she can think of is him, oh how stupid she was, thinking she’d be the girl he’d kiss tonight–

he’s walking aimlessly, letting his feet lead him, wherever they can go. he wants to see her again, talk to her, hold her in his arms and tell her that she’s his again. but he doesn’t know where she’s gone – she’s probably driven off with the curly-haired boy somewhere, not knowing who the hell that messy-haired tuxedo guy was, not knowing who was deeply in love with her all this time. he wants to kick a rock, anything to prove how much he wants her right now, when he sees it.

it’s the sun, alight on a dark street, and it’s sitting with its head in its hands quietly, silently, unaware of its surroundings. he feels like a hole has opened beneath his feet and he’s going to fall through it cause he’s so happy, an indescribable sort of happy, a relief washing through him, seeping through his bones and soaking into his veins. but then he feels empty, something tugging at his strings, something wrong, when he sees the sad frown on her face, the sadness illuminating her features. had the curly-haired boy broken her heart? he’d fight her, he thought, he’d fight the bastard, he’d make him regret it, he surely would. he hears a heart-wrenching sob from across the street and something within him breaks – his composure is gone, his knees are broken and he almost collapses to the floor cause he feels a physical stab of pain as she cries into the darkness. he wants to shout her name, soothe her by telling her that don’t worry, you’re mine, but he doesn’t know if that would calm her or make her worse.

she’s wiping her tears away slowly, even though more are falling out of her eyes as she does, and her throat is tingling in that horrible way, her face is ruined and she is ruined. but when was she not ruined? he had not noticed her. she was not good enough. she was ruined right from the start. she was, she was

you’re beautiful, a voice calls from the end of the street, and she starts, wanting to know who had heard her, who had been able to read her thoughts. she can see a silhouette forming at the end of the street, but she can’t see who it is, not even if she squints. who are you, she calls helplessly down the street, but the silhouette is still there, only it’s becoming clear. she can see the suit that makes her go oh, she can smell the perfume that she says suits him so strongly, oh god. and the hair. she can see the messy mop of hair from miles away, a hurricane, an unamendable yet intriguing whirlwind of hair.

he can see her better now, and she truly is beautiful. he can see the cute sundress that reminds him of when he first kissed her, her fluorescent green eyes, her hair held back by a yellow hair tie – barely held back. he can almost envision himself running his fingertips through her soft hair and admiring the constellation of freckles smattered all over her nose. you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful, he repeats into the darkness, enough for her to understand that it’s true.

i’m beautiful, she whispers to herself, like it’s a mantra. i’m beautiful i’m beautiful i’m beautiful. she’s waiting for him to come and take her away, somewhere far, far away. and he’s going to come and the dizzy feeling in her stomach is growing now, attacking her fingers and her arms and her feet and her face and her thoughts – all she can think of is him, oh how happy she is, knowing she’d be the girl he’d kiss tonight –

he’s walking quickly, letting his feet lead him, wherever they can go. he’s going to see her again, talk to her, hold her in his arms and tell her that she’s his again. and he knows where she’s gone – she’s here, right in front of him, in love with him, in love with the messy-haired tuxedo guy.

and then he’s kissing her. she’s kissing him forever, sobering him up, and pushing herself further into the drunkenness of love.

fin.

[hp-positivityproject]

fienfyre

othilia is so funny and she has such a great blog!!

@fienfyre