Late Autumn Nights

Woods or fields; moon or stars; trains or ships; early mornings or late nights; autumn or summer; Victorian or classicism architecture; wine or champagne; mountains or beaches; velvet or silk; roses or lavender; paintings or sculptures?

hogwarts houses & autumn aesthetics

gryffindor. oversized jumpers; roasting marshmallows over a crackling fire; laughing hysterically while pumpkin carving; the smell of cinnamon and baking; playing in puddles with bright gumboots; hair blowing wildly in the wind; cute beanies with pom poms; warm, rosy cheeks; burning your tongue when you sip a hot drink too quickly; early morning runs; worn, flannel shirts; pretending to be a dragon with clouds of warm breath in the cold air

hufflepuff. long, woollen socks; vanilla-scented candles; a warm blanket over your shoulders; jumping into a pile of autumn leaves; fluffy earmuffs; creamy hot chocolate with whipped cream on top; hanging fairylights everywhere; playing with your pet on a warm rug; thick mittens; a warm bath to relax after a long day; the crunching of leaves underfoot; capturing the image of dancing leaves with a vintage camera

ravenclaw. people-watching through foggy windows in cafés; reading a favourite book by candlelight; long, thick scarves; staying up late to play board games; wandering aimlessly under falling leaves; oversized, knitted cardigans; muted sunlight filtered through autumn leaves; late nights binging on netflix; a chilly wind freezing the tip of your nose; scribbling in notebooks under overcast skies; the natural silence of the woods; the dancing tendrils of steam from a mug of hot tea

slytherin. cold and misty mornings; warming your hands on a mug of hot coffee; dark lip colours; the dance of walking barefoot across a cold floor; stylish, long overcoats; falling asleep to the pattering of rain on the window; meandering wooded roads; lace-up leather boots; the flickering of candlelight in the dark; lying on a tartan blanket while listening to music through headphones; burying yourself in soft, warm blankets at the end of the day

But you were never my sun or my moon.

My life didn’t revolve around your day and night.

I felt you in the wind on every long autumn walk,

I heard you in every summer thunderstorm,

and I saw you in the reflection of rivers.

You did not come and go as you pleased,

You were constant.

Never in the seat next to me,

Never laying peacefully at my side when the night wakes me,

But you were there.

Behind my eyelids

In every scar

You were in my veins

You were every butterfly that flew in my stomach and died in my throat.

You were every thought formed after sips of whiskey and the stories that slipped through my lips.

You were not my adventure, journey, or destination,

But I hold my breath every time a new door appears.

My eyes do not swell and burst at the lack of your presence

because our memories never stopped holding my hand.


hogwarts au in which shiro, a quidditch star who suffered a career-ending injury, returns to hogwarts to teach charms. there he becomes fast friends with allura—the arithmancy professor—and matt—who teaches herbology—and spends quality time with his cousin/adopted brother, keith. shiro had known from the beginning that returning to hogwarts would be a good move for him; he just hadn’t realized how good, until he met lance.

lance, the seventh year gryffindor prefect and quidditch co-captain. lance, who shakes shiro’s hand and says, “you are my favorite chaser of all time,” as though shiro never stopped playing after the loss of his right arm. lance, the boy who crouches down in front of crying first years and consoles their homesickness. lance, who doesn’t care about house loyalties, who buys a bag of sweets at honeydukes to send to his little cousins, who writes insightful essays, who wants to ace his NEWTs and become a healer.

it’s lance who finds shiro at the edge of the quidditch pitch, late one autumn night, broom clutched in his hand and a bout of insomnia clinging to his eyes.

“hey,” lance says gently. he’s dressed in muggle clothing, and his hands are buried deep in his front pockets. “why are you still on the ground?”

shiro’s hand tightens around the broomstick. if lance notices, he does not comment. instead, he exhales shakily, as though nervous, and starts talking about the world cup he saw three years ago. shiro remembers it—he had played it, after all—but what had been a loss for him seems like a triumph to lance.

“i made the team that year,” lance admits. “and—i hated keith, at first, because he was so much better than me, and because he knew you. so i practiced—and practiced—and practiced, hoping that i could make you proud. which is stupid, right? you don’t even know me. i mean, maybe keith mentioned me—we were rivals—but… you didn’t know me, not like i knew you, but i had to try.”

shiro doesn’t fly that night. he doesn’t fly any night that he cannot sleep, haunted by the fall no one could stop, even as fall deepens into winter and winter thaws to spring. but lance is beside him every time, their feet planted on the ground, a bubble of artificial warmth cast around them. most of their conversations are small and silly; some are deep and soul-searching; and shiro finds, as the flowers begin to bloom and the semester draws to an end, that he’s fallen in love.

“it’s about fucking time,” matt grouses when shiro confides his feelings. “seriously, i was this close to gluing you two together with a sticking charm until you figured it out—”

“i think what matt is trying to say,” allura interrupts, “is that you deserve to be happy, shiro. and if you’re happy with lance, then we support you fully.”

still, shiro is lance’s teacher for another month, and he has to remember himself. so instead of pulling lance into the heat of his embrace and kissing him until they’re both breathless, shiro decides to do the next best thing:

he waits at the edge of the quidditch pitch with two brooms in his hand instead of one, and when lance finds him—as he has always found him—shiro says, “fly with me.”

and lance does.

I read everything you write about me, and I hate how you make me sound. You want me to save you with messy magic. Glowing and empty. There’s never been an illusion of anything pure. Misty eyed truths, no sex, no romance. We are not made of cosmic conversations. You say today seems like a good day to jump off a bridge and I laugh because I think so too. It’s easier like this. It's just me and you and this friendship-bracelet sadness. We talk about how hopeless we are and we laugh. We crack more jokes about dying but always add a colon-parenthesis smile before anyone catches on. But the truth is, we’re tired of being hollow, being ready but never ready enough.
—  a.m