#herecomesconnor

[dellaplunkett-blog]

Hey! You look so nice!

@herecomesconnor

[dellaplunkett-blog]

☪ for Connor pls!

Five times Della almost held Connor’s hand, and the one time she did.

i.

He was nice, the boy she sat down across from. Quiet and shy seeming, but nice all the same. Transferring into a new school was intimidating enough, but transferring in the middle of November? That was just strange, so she was glad that there was at least someone she could talk to. 

“So you like photography? That’s amazing. I’ve always loved photography, but I’ve never had a camera so I could never take pictures,” Della said, fully enraptured in the conversation she found herself easily sliding into. 

Across the table his hand was sitting right by his glass and in another world, she might have reached over and grabbed it such to show that she was listening, but instead she tightened her fingers around the stem of her own goblet, peering at the contents before returning her attention to his words.

ii.

Like she always had at Merge, Della found a distinct calmness in making flower crowns. There was just something about weaving together the stems of daisies that she found so wonderful, and since the snow would be settling in soon she needed to make one or two before they all died. 

It took her a few minutes to notice that someone else had sat beside her, and she was grateful that they had not said anything to distract her, although once she realized who it was, a small smile lingered around her face. 

Finishing up the last knot, she turned to face Connor with her legs tucked up underneath her, placing the crown on his head. She didn’t know if he had been expecting it or not, but he seemed to be a good sport and so she grinned. It was all she had not to hold his hand which was sitting not a foot away from her knee.

iii.

Della folded herself over the table, forehead pressed against the cool wood and her arms splayed out in front of her. She was sure that Connor was giving her a questioning look, but she heard nothing.

“Why is potions so difficult, Connor? It makes no sense. Da told me it would be just like baking, but baking is easy and fun, and potions is torture,” she sighed, her voice muffled slightly because she was speaking into the table. More than once she had been frustrated with her results in her classes, and potions was the epitome.

Della stretched a bit more, feeling her fingers brush against the book he was reading. For a split second she considered reaching forward a few more inches, but withdrew quickly, not wanting to possibly make him uncomfortable. She had been told she often had that effect on people, and she didn’t want that to happen with him.

iv.

“Hogsmead is just so pretty with all of the snow this time of year,” Della breathed, hardly paying attention to anything but the sweet little stores topped with snow and the wisps of white coming from her breath. If he said something to her, she didn’t hear it, but turned to him with a sort of absent smile on her face. She was simply too awestruck to listen.

However, the cold was getting to her enough that she eventually had to force her eyes away from the sights so that she could tuck her chin deeper into her scarf. Her fingers were cold enough that she was sure if she looked down they would be red with blood trying to heat them up.

His hand just seemed so inviting, but Della felt her cheeks go even pinker when she reminded herself that it might not be the best idea to just take his hand. But she really did want to.

v.

The stone corridors were very cold in the winter, Della decided. She had taken to wearing knit gloves when she walked around in the evening, taking comfort in the small amount of warmth she gained from them. 

That night, she was glad when Connor had passed her on her stroll and fell into step beside her. She had not been paying attention to what they were talking about, but very quickly found herself telling one of her many stories that she had gained while back at Merge, her face lighting as she spoke.

As they walked, she could almost feel the warmth coming from his hand right by hers. She wondered if it was warm. She didn’t find out.

☪

The snow on the ground was not nearly enough to deter Della from wanting to go on walk through the forest in the afternoon. And it definitely wasn’t enough to keep her from asking Connor to join her. She was pleased when he agreed and even more so when he brought his camera.

As they walked, once more Della found herself at ease with their conversation, if not a bit nervous at being around him. He was so nice she wondered if he really knew that or if he didn’t realize how good of a person he was. 

Hearing the familiar call of a European Starling, Della nearly gasped with joy. “Did you hear that?” she asked him quietly, excited at the presence of the small bird. They had always been her favorite. “Come on,” she said again, just as softly, slipping her fingers between his to gently pull him in the direction of the song, feeling her cheeks warm when she realized what she had just done. But she didn’t let go.

[mllywsley]

para | molly & connor

An American Prayer. An Awesome Wave. Cerulean.

Three was a good number for albums. Round, complete, with just enough variety and weight to it. The sleeved vinyls waited in line alphabetically across her creaseless cream-colored bedsheets for final approval. The first, a closet classic. The next, an alternative icon. The last was a bit more niche, and admittedly she didn’t know much about the artist, but the rising giddiness behind Connor’s parting grin had steered Molly’s hand toward the blue and white album and all its clean-cut euphoria. He could like it. Or, at the very least, take a fascination with the tilted lilt of the beats the way she had. Feeling confident in her choices, she swept the records up and, tucking them under an arm, picked up her charmed portable turntable off her vanity on her way to the door.

Molly had known attending Hogwarts would put her production career on hiatus. She had come to terms with this fact with her father, with a promised future of vocational school and apprenticeships awaiting her at the end of her professional drought. Her relationship with music had become, for the time being, a personal one--her turntable accompanied her from dressing in the morning to late study nights with a glass of pinot grigio. She was always absorbing and processing what she heard, gaining inspiration, acquiring ideas for later use. It had been a decent amount of time since she had invited someone else into that listening space with her.

Connor had not only accepted her invitation, he had invited her into his artistic space as well. There was a spring in Molly’s step as she strode through the corridor and down the stairs, the entrance to Burbage Memorial Library entering her sights.

[herecomesconnor]

So this is what we’re calling journalism these days?

[mllywsley]

I don’t know if anyone’s ventured to call it ‘journalism’ yet. I certainly won’t be the first.