along with taken

You think you’re doing fine. You go along with your life as if it didn’t matter. As if it didn’t hurt. Then suddenly, out of the blue, it hits you like tsunami waves, crashing mercilessly. Over and over again. Your eyes are dry but your heart is in pain. It’s crushing and breaking and tearing all at the same time. You miss that person. You miss that person for how they made you feel. For all memories, good and bad, they gave you. For the worry and the anger and the love and the care. You ponder for a second. You wonder if you truly miss that person, or if it’s just the loneliness speaking. Is it because you’re doing nothing now, talking to nobody that you miss that person? Or have you been missing them all along, it’s just taken you this long to acknowledge that? You’d like to think that it’s the latter but, really, it’s both. You’re constantly missing that person subconsciously. The loneliness only magnifies the longing. Everyday you’re fighting that loneliness. You try to overcome the sorrow it brings, but today just isn’t one of those days. Instead of wallowing, you look on the bright side. You remember the good that that person gave you. You realise that, although that person hurt you, you’re still grateful. That person made you realise things you didn’t know about yourself. How, when you love, you become a pushover. You’d do anything so as not to compromise what you both have. And you shouldn’t be like that. Not all the time. It’s alright to give in sometimes, but don’t make it a habit. You’re making yourself vulnerable. You learn that putting what you want first, isn’t always a bad thing. That if that person truly loved you, they wouldn’t put themselves in a position to lose you. Then, after all the thinking and wondering, your heart is kind of at peace…for now. Being able to release all this emotion, will greatly lift the burden in your heart. You’ll feel lighter. But it would be foolish for you to believe that it won’t come back. The heart is a fickle and finicky thing. But when it does come back, you’ll know how to handle it. You’ve done this before. Just remember what you’ve given and remember that loving yourself first is more important. Value yourself in the way that that person wasn’t able to do. Take a deep breath. Smile. You’re good to go. You got this.
—  dext-erous 

if you say this isn’t one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen you’re lying

Dean’s hurt, but not in the frantic, bleeding out right now way that leaves bloody fingerprints on Sam’s jacket collar and sick panic churning in his gut for days. This is much more mundane—a couple of sprained ribs they could easily deal with on their own, and a broken ankle Dean bitches about the whole two hours they spend staggering through the woods back to the car together in the pale predawn light, white-faced and hissing through his teeth. (Sam feigns annoyance, but in reality the sound is music to his ears. If Dean is complaining, it means he’s not hurt that bad, and everything’s gonna be fine.)

Setting the ankle themselves is a risky move if they want it to heal properly. So, hospital. Once they check in at urgent care—My brother’s ankle is broken. Hunting accident.—Sam sits through several more minutes of Dean’s whining, after which Dean promptly passes out in the hard plastic chair until a nurse comes to fetch him. He’s fine, of course, but getting thrown ten feet against a tree by an angry wendigo would be enough to exhaust just about anyone.

Dean’s in there for a long time while they take x-rays, set the break, and get him fitted with a cast and crutches. In the meantime, Sam hangs around in the waiting room; he drinks a couple cups of cheap watery hospital coffee, sprawls out in one of the chairs and plays around on his phone. He texts Jody to let her know the wendigo’s dead and burned, and Dean’s hurt but not bad, and they should be back at her place by tonight.

He’s dreaming of fantastic water pressure and a warm bed and absently scrolling through news sites for potential cases when a pointed dry cough interrupts him. Dean’s standing in front of him, leaning on crutches, looking pale and irritated but less like he’s in excruciating pain. He’s watching Sam with an expression of shock, dismay, annoyance, and intense disappointment. One of his patented older-brother looks.

Sam rolls his eyes, tamping down on the fresh wave of giddy relief that floods him at seeing his brother alive and upright again. “What?” he says flatly.

“Dude,” Dean says. “‘Everytime You Go Away’? Really?”

It’s only then that Sam consciously takes note of the tinny music playing through the waiting room speakers, and the fact that he’s been singing along softly. He fights through the accompanying rush of embarrassment, squares his jaw and looks up at Dean. “So? It’s not a bad song.”

Dean turns and starts hobbling away so fast Sam is surprised he doesn’t stumble. Wearily, Sam stands, stretches his stiff joints and follows after his brother.

Dean’s halfway across the parking lot before Sam catches up to him. They walk in silence back to the car together, where Dean begrudgingly allows Sam to take his crutches and help him into the passenger seat, a little unsteady from the pain meds they gave him.

Sam thinks that might be it, until he gets in the driver’s side and turns the ignition. Dean’s eyes are already half-closed and his head is lolling against the headrest, but he spares Sam a sidelong glance as the car rumbles to life and says, “You ever say anything like that again and you’re dead to me.”

“Hm,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Might wanna be careful what you say while I’m driving your car.”

Dean says, hazily, “You wouldn’t dare,” and then he’s asleep again, breathing deep and even and snoring softly.

Sam has been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Part of him wants nothing more than to pull over at the nearest hotel and sleep for a week. But Dean’s tucked up comfortable on the bench next to him, and he’ll be out of commission for a few weeks at least. There’s food and good company and a warm bed waiting at Jody’s, down the road. He’ll have plenty of time to rest when they get there.

(In the meantime, he switches the radio to an 80s soft rock station while Dean’s passed out, settles in for the ride.)

as all my jewish followers and friends know, we have a holiday coming up! the featival of purim is this sunday. purim celebrates hidden miracles and hidden beauty and hidden saviours. there’s a lot of hiding. that’s why we dress up!

i’m aware that the vast majority of gentiles and a lot of jews don’t fully know the story of purim, which is recorded in the scroll of esther, or megillat esther. the megillah’s my favourite story, and has so many amazing midrashim (bit like rabbinical fanfiction) that i study year round. this story, which is the story of how a young jewish woman saved our people from a genocide, has a lot of parallels with our current political situation in the u.s., so i thought now would be a great time to tell the story!

Keep reading

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Tagged by one of my favourite blogs of all time @monbeboo to post my lock screen, home screen, last song listened to and latest selfie! Lol my last song is so random but honestly I love the Broadway recording of this musical…. I tag: @smol-kihyuns @mst-ax @trashstax @kihqun @yoo-kihyuuns @ftjooheon @wonhonnie @stan-the-best-stan-monsta-x @monstax-trash-valora @wonhoslegs @peach-wonho @supersaiyum @kihvyuns @minnhyuk @ki-hyunie @calmdownwonho @ckyun @wonhosflower You don’t have to if you don’t want to~!

ibtimes.co.uk
Slavery returns to Africa: Migrants sold at open markets in Libya
Vulnerable refugees from West Africa often arrive in the country with no money and no papers.

Migrants from West Africa are being openly traded in “public slave markets” across Libya.

As a departure point for refugees trying to get to Europe, migrants arriving in Libya from sub-Saharan Africa are particularly vulnerable due to a lack of money and little in the way of documentation.

Survivors have told the International Organization for Migration (IOM) how there are slave markets and private prisons all over Libya.

Mohammed Abdiker, IOM’s head of operation and emergencies, said: “The situation is dire. The more IOM engages inside Libya, the more we learn that it is a vale of tears for all too many migrants.”

One survivor from Senegal spoke of how he was brought by smugglers across Niger in a bus to the southern Libyan city of Sabha, where he was due to risk a boat trip to Europe. When the middleman did not get his fee, the survivor was put up for sale along with other passengers.

He was taken to a prison where he worked without pay while the captors demanded 300,000 West African francs (about £380) before selling him on to a larger jail. Livia Manante, an IOM officer based in Niger, said migrants would be brought to a square where they were put up for sale.

Manante said: “IOM Italy has confirmed that this story is similar to many stories reported by migrants and collected at landing points in southern Italy, including the slave market reports.”

Those who did not get their ransom paid were often taken away and killed while others would die of hunger and disease in unsanitary conditions.

“If the number of migrants goes down, because of death or someone is ransomed, the kidnappers just go to the market and buy one,” Manente said.

The going rate for a migrant was between $200 (£160) and $500 (£400) each, with many forced into captivity for months before they are freed or sold on. So far this year more than 170 bodies have washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean while the Libyan Coast Guard has also rescued thousands more.

IOM has helped repatriate 1,500 people back to West Africa so far this year where it is trying to inform people not to risk the journey to Libya where they face exploitation.

“Migrants who go to Libya while trying to get to Europe, have no idea of the torture archipelago that awaits them just over the border,” said Leonard Doyle, chief IOM spokesman in Geneva. “There they become commodities to be bought, sold and discarded when they have no more value.”

Sources: 

I think what I love most about Laurent and Damen together is that they don’t lose themselves, they become more like themselves instead. They become more like the people they were supposed to be. just because they’ve finally found the person who loves and accepts and sees them for exactly who they are. 

Kurt Cobain sang Nirvanas song ‘school’ off of ‘Bleach’ and to Kurts surprise the audience knew every single word and sang along. This photo was taken immediately after the crowd applauded for Kurt for almost 2 minutes straight right before he began the next song. Apparently to the photographer and close friend Youri Lenquette, tears filled Kurts eyes due to joy. Youri claims Kurt considered this night one of the highlights of his career.

- 2/14/94 Paris, France
“The Hunt” Casifer x Reader

Words: 2,065

Casifer (Lucifer) x Reader

Request: Can I request a reader x casifer one shot where he and the Winchesters get injured on a hunt (the reader stayed behind to do research). And when they come back the reader helps patch them up but casifer gets very jealous that she is helping/touching/paying attention to the Winchesters?

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, wounds from getting hurt, talk of sex, jealous lucifer, implied smut

Originally posted by cassammydean


“Please tell me you’ve found something useful.” Dean mumbles over the phone, sounding slightly drunk. You can hear people in the background talking loudly, indicating that they may be at a bar.

“I’m not finding anything in the books. I don’t know. You need to give me more time.” You groan, flipping to the next page of the lore books.

Sam, Dean, and Lucifer (who was currently preoccupying Castiel’s body) were out on a hunt. Lucifer demanded to be taken along, since he was a “viable member of the group.” They got to the place where the killings have been happening yesterday, and you know that Lucifer is driving them crazy. Dean has barely any patience when it comes to that man, and it’s leading to both him and Sam rushing you to figure out what it is that they’re hunting. They’ve only been gone one day and Dean is already overly annoyed with Lucifer.

“Just please hurry, alright? I can’t- I swear to god, I don’t even care that you’re occupying Castiel’s body right now, you need to fucking stop or I will stab you.” Dean hisses at Lucifer, making you giggle slightly. “Y/N, figure it out, or I’m making him stay with you while we do this hunt.”

“He’s not that bad. You need to be nice- he’s helping us with Amara, after all.” You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “But, yes, I will pick up the pace. I’ll call you once I figure it out.”

Keep reading

can we talk about paschal for a minute i feel like we never do

ok I got thinking about Paschal when I started seeing a lot of similarities between him and Laurent

 when he talks to Damen about Laurent’s relationship with Auguste in prince’s gambit he says

“’Auguste was straight forward: a champion, the heir, born to rule. You can imagine how Laurent felt about him’

‘He resented him,’ said Damen

Paschal gave him a strange look. ‘No, he loved him. He hero worshipped him, the way that intellectual boys sometimes do, with older boys who excel physically. It went both ways with those two. They were devoted to one another. Auguste was the protector. He would do anything for his brother’”

lets take a step back. Paschal is a physician, a good one too. He served Auguste and Laurent and is held in high enough esteem to not be left behind in Arles, but taken along with Laurent for “border duty”. His brother was a solider, and to be in the royal army he also had to be pretty good. So good that the Regent knew he would be close enough to the King to kill him. This probably means that Paschal’s family was pretty well off, if they were able to send Paschal to school to be a physician and for his brother to be able to train an become very skilled solider. So one brother excelled enough in school to be the royal physician, and one to be in the royal army.

One brother was smart and one was athletic.

Sound familiar?

Paschal tells Damen that Laurent hero-worshipped Auguste because that how he felt about his brother. Paschal knew how Auguste and Laurent felt about each other, how much they would do for each other, because he knows first hand. He also knows first hand how it feels to lose that brother. To lose the brother you looked up to your whole life.

Except Paschal has to live with his brother being the one to kill the King. The brother (if I remember right) was to be paid to kill the King. Does Paschal know that his brother most likely killed the king for Paschal? To help out his brother, at all costs. 

(Another note, why would Auguste decide to go to single combat with Damen, who he probably knows is a better fighter. Is it because Auguste saw that they were losing, and did not want the line to be pushed further back to where only 13 year old Laurent was? Did he do it to end the battle as fast as possible so Laurent wouldn’t get hurt? again: “Auguste was the protector. He would do anything for his brother”)

So yes, Paschal most likely decided to work for Laurent over the Regent because he knew the plot the Regent had set up. He has the evidence and is smart enough to not get involved. But it wasn’t just that. Paschal decided to work for Laurent because he knew exactly what it was like to lose the person you loved the most. He decided to work for Laurent because he is basically what Laurent would be if Laurent was not royalty.

i’m so sick and tired of seeing people in the One Piece fandom who are still unable to differentiate between valid criticism and blatant hate. i just don’t understand when some of y’all get upset or all riled up over others pointing out valid criticism regarding Oda’s writing. like i LOVE One Piece with all my heart, but i am also fully aware that it is NOWHERE near perfect??? and i think people should be allowed to voice out their opinions and critique the series without it being labelled as ‘hate’ and/or ‘negativity’. 

with that said, i also understand that there are some people who may want/prefer to enjoy the series as it is and simply be taken along for the ride, which is perfectly fine! but don’t jump the gun on others and accuse them of hating on Oda or spreading negativity about One Piece when all they’ve done is point out a valid criticism.

i’ve said it before, and i’ll say it again: YOU CAN STILL LIKE A SERIES WHILE BEING A CRITICAL READER (yikes, what a strange and unheard-of concept!! 😲)

Langst Oneshot

_____________________

I love Lance :’) I swear…

Warnings: Self esteem issues, heavy angst, crying

Don’t repost this anywhere. I’ll be uploading it to Ao3 later ]

____________________

They don’t like you.

You’re annoying.

You’re useless.

You’re stupid.

What do you bring to the team?

Nothing.

You bring nothing.

Why can’t you be better?

Why can’t you be stronger?

Faster?

Smarter?

More like Keith?

Lance let out a broken sob, tears trickling down his cheeks. He wasn’t cut out for this, for defending the universe. He let himself believe for awhile that he was destined for this. That it was fate that brought him to Pilot the Blue Lion. But he quickly had learned that he was wrong. He wasn’t special. He didn’t have any particular skills or any likeable qualities. The Blue Lion picked him because she was the most accepting and willing for someone to pilot her, and the others were meant to pilot the others. Lance was lucky he had even been taken along anyway.

He was surprised the others hadn’t decided to just dump him off somewhere and replace him by now. He was sure they could find someone that was better than him every single way.

None of them would miss him. He annoyed the princess, Shiro didn’t take him seriously, Hunk had Pidge now to talk about tech stuff with, Coran was always so busy with the castle, and Keith hated him.

They probably all hated him.

The thought make his body shake as he let out another sob. God, why couldn’t he stop crying? He was being a selfish baby.  If the others saw him like this, they’d definitely think he was too weak and fragile to pilot Blue, and they were right.

They thought he was egotistical and confident and that nothing ever fazed him. But it was wrong, so wrong. In reality Lance knew he was as fragile as glass. He was so easy to shatter, and his surface was already cracking. Lance had pretended for so long. He had bragged and boasted and declared himself the hero, but he had lied. The words had left a bitter taste in his mouth every time he spoke them, and the smiles were now as fake as him. He’d painted them on his face to hide what he was really feeling.  

You’ll never be a hero.

Just look at you.

You’re just a burden.

You’re dragging the whole team down.

His grip tightened on his brown hair and he sucked in a shuddering breath. He needed to stop crying, he needed to paint that smile back on his face. He needed to get up before someone came looking for him and found him crying on the floor. With shaky legs, he pushed himself up onto his feet and swayed for a few seconds. He wanted to just lie back down and curl in his bed and cry till he was empty of tears. But dinner would be ready soon, and he couldn’t not go. He couldn’t make them suspicious. Trembling, he dragged himself into the bathroom and hunched over the sink, splashing water into his face before he stood back up. Staring at his reflection made him cringe. His eyes were red rimmed and his face was wet with tears and sweat. His lips were pressed into a flat line. He looked awful. With a broken sounding sigh, he began to wash his face.

After a few minutes, he couldn’t even tell that he had been crying, his eyes losing the redness. A tired smile stretched across his face and he ran a hand through his hair. No one would notice a thing.

They don’t care.

Lance paused and shook his head. Of course they cared. They were good people, and they were his friends. But they had more important things on their minds to worry about; Lance wasn’t worth wasting their thoughts on.

Grabbing his jacket, he pulled it into his shoulders and swept out of his room, and down the corridor. He spent the walk in silence, face blank from emotion and hands swinging loosely at his sides.

When he reached the door to the dining room, it opened with a whoosh and Lance stepped inside, the smile plastered back on his face and his voice calling out a greeting.

No one noticed it was fake.

first time holding hands otayuri fic for @otaburis, happy birthday! at least i hope it’s still your birthday in your timezone oops i have no idea 

i hope you enjoy!




Yuri Plisetsky is, unquestionably, a blunt sort of person. This is what is said when in polite company - or, as Mila would put it, sugarcoating it. When asked a different sort of people or on more casual settings, however, very different words would apply. Asshole being probably one of them.

Whatever.

Point is, Yuri Plisetsky is not a wishy-washy sort of person. Personal circumstances have made him who he is today: someone who doesn’t wait around for other people to do things for him, or who expects them to. Over the course of his short life he has learned one thing above all else: if you want something, you go and get it.

Go and get it, he repeats to himself as a cold sweat builds its way up his back. Go and get it.

‘It’ being, of course, a very delectable, very smooth-looking, very golden-brown and finely shaped hand. A hand that belongs to Otabek Altin, the one person Yuri knows who has earned the right to be his only and most favourite friend all by his own effort of dealing with Yuri. 

So maybe Yuri is the first to admit he has some issues with making friends, but whatever. He’s got Otabek

Otabek, whose hand he wants to hold so badly, and who seems completely oblivious to his friend’s internal turmoil.

 Yuri is back to sweating again.

Is this like a thing they should talk about? Should he just go ahead and do it? Should he take a page from Otabek’s book and go in blindly with something among the lines of so are we going to hold hands or not? Yuri hasn’t been made for this affection stuff. 

He doesn’t even have a good example to follow. Just look at his supposed rolemodels: Mila, who picks up and throws around anyone who annoys her; Viktor, who is still King of Bad Decisions for a bunch of reasons Yuri doesn’t feel like going through again, even within the privacy of his own mind; Georgi, whose solution to go through a breakup is to paint half his face in dramatic makeup and do his best Disney-villain impression on the ice; Yuuri, who deals with failure and sadness by getting himself drunk and grinding against his idol in a public setting. 

Granted, that last one had ended well enough, but still.

“Yura?” Otabek’s voice comes, amused. “You’re glaring at the wall.”

The wall, Otabek says, as if his hand isn’t the major culprit in this situation. As if it’s not calling out a siren song to Yuri’s poor heart, or at the very least making a very good imitation of one. No, surely it must be the cement lying beneath it, gently touching the fingertips and palm Yuri is itching to touch, and he contains the urge to scoff.

“It’s shitty cement,” he says instead.

Otabek looks like he’s containing a smile. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in cement these days.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know what I meant,” Yuri mutters back, taking out his phone and pretending to scroll through it. 

The best solution, of course, is to find an excuse to do it. No need to own up to something if it doesn’t look like it’s something important, after all, even if he might feel slightly guilty about it later. 

Otabek has never been less than completely honest with him before, though. Yuri makes his mind.

“Beka–” he begins to say, but is interrupted by the Kazakh spontaneously rising from his seat next to him.

“There’s our bus,” Otabek says simply, wrapping Yuri’s hand in his and pulling him along. Gently. Casually. As if he hasn’t just blown Yuri’s little world to dizzy, happy little pieces.

His hand is warm.

Yuri squeezes back, and allows himself to be taken along. Talking will come later, as will sorting out the messy, mushy feelings twirling around in his ribcage.

For now, though, all he cares to know is the feeling of Otabek’s hand around his own.

Lucky Swap

A very very late @mlsecretsanta gift for @teddy529. You had a pretty open-ended request, so I went with a temporary kwami swap!


The day began simply enough. An afternoon wandering around the streets of Paris with Alya by her side and a little money to spend on something to reward herself for her much improved attendance record at school. They even managed to find one of many small shops with a collection of Ladybug and Chat Noir merchandise, primarily intended to appeal to tourists and younger fans. Alya, however, was immediately taken by some of the earrings on display.

“Marinette, look! This one’s perfect for you!” The pink ladybug earrings were exactly the style Marinette typically wore, but Marinette shook her head.

“No, that’s okay. I already have the perfect pair.” She picked up a plastic ring that looked similar to Chat Noir’s. “I really love what I’m wearing.”

“Tell me about it.” Alya rolled her eyes. “I’ve never seen you wear anything else.”

“They were a gift from someone really important.” Marinette chuckled as she set the ring aside.

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” Alya waved the earrings in front of her. “You could at least try these on, though.”

“But I’m not going to buy them,” Marinette insisted.

“Why not? You can like a pair of earrings and still have some variety.” Alya frowned.

Marinette hesitated, caught between her duty to keep her earrings safe and the simple desire to indulge in trying on something new after months of wearing the same accessory every day. Besides, they’d just defeated an akuma last night, and Hawkmoth was probably still sulking over his latest defeat. Surely, she could take the chance to remove her miraculous for a little bit.

Unfortunately for her, the universe seemed to have some different thoughts on the subject. Almost as soon as she’d taken them off and tucked them into her purse, she was interrupted by the sound of shouting outside the small shop. Alya dragged her to the street before Marinette even had the chance to snap her purse shut, and they both stared up at the sight of an akumatized man on stilts, kicking over carts and stomping on cars that didn’t move out of the way fast enough.

So much for a day off.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Ranpo says: "We'll go to a world of abilities" but even if he has no abilities Chuuya is dangerous I'm scared for my smartaleck son

I’d be more worried for Chuuya if I were you.


Look at this guy. Is that the face of someone you’d mess around with and expect to come back without significant mental damage? Chuuya would get rekt. Granted Chuuya’s had years of putting up with Dazai but Ranpo got under his skin faster than you can say “hat rack”.


To get out, Chuuya needs to solve the murder mystery. But with his brains? Nah son he’d be stuck there forever. And let’s not talk how fruitless it would be if he were to kill Ranpo, his only hope of escaping the book. Maybe the book can respawn anyone it sucks into as well, so in the event Chuuya does kill Ranpo and Ranpo comes back to life because it’s a “fake death” then you better be sure Ranpo would remember this and make Chuuya’s life even more of a hell.


Oh and didn’t we mention? Ranpo believes he has an ability and has willingly taken along Chuuya for a wild ride to a world where he can’t rely on them. Our boy is confident, and if this is not a stalling tactic, then I can see him striking a deal with Chuuya since they’re both running out of time to save their respective bosses.

Take Mori’s Strategy & Tactics Master Class and maybe you won’t get played for a fool ever again fancy hat-kun~ ♪


scanlation credit: EGS

The Locket | Draco Malfoy

Requested by anon.

Summary: “Draco x reader. Draco buys the reader a locket for their first anniversary. But when pansy finds it she can’t help but try it on. But Draco finds out.”


February was coming to an end when Draco Malfoy found himself standing on the middle of the main Street of Hogsmeade all alone. Usually, he would’ve told his friends to come along; even better, he would’ve taken his girlfriend, (Y/N), out on a date. But given the events that were due on next month, he had to visit the village with no one but his soul.

On March was going to be his one year anniversary with (Y/N), and he was determined to get her the best gift he could possibly find. He knew that if he told any of his guy friends to help him find the perfect gift for the girl, they would be no use and only waste his time joking around. And as for girls, he could only tell Pansy Parkinson, who was envious and annoying at alarming rates.

Sighing, Draco entered Gladrags Wizardwear. It was, by far, his best option. He had considered buying (Y/N) a book, or candy from Honeyukes, but those seemed to be gifts too lousy for an anniversary. At least here, he could find her a pretty piece of clothing to take back.

Draco looked around the shop, finding dresses that changed color to socks that screamed when they got too smelly. Searching for something to buy, he walked until the jewelry section and stopped dead on his tracks. There, glowing fancily on a showcase was a beautiful golden locket with a small diamond embedded in the very center. In a matter of seconds, the locket was stuffed carefully away in a small box and in the blond boy’s pocket.


A group of Slytherins were sitting in the common room, all admiring a beautiful golden locket in a small gift box at the center of the table.

“Wow, (Y/N) is going to love it,” said Blaise Zabini, making Draco smile smugly.

“How much?” asked Theodore Nott.

“Twenty-five galleons” Draco said, and Theodore raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know you could find such good stuff at Gladrags Wizardwear.”

“Not to mention expensive,” Blaise said, taking a close look at the diamond. He then proceeded to put the lid on; the ribbon automatically re-doing itself.

“Boys,” said a girl, Pansy Parkinson, as she sat in the armchair “Pucey told me that you need to go to Quidditch practice.” she told Draco. He sighed and stood up.

“Right, see you later then –Zabini, return the gift to my room.”

And with that, Draco left. Pansy was sparked with a bit of curiosity, and as she chatted with Blaise and Theodore, she couldn’t take her eyes off the box lying on the table. Soon enough, Balise and Theodore were off to their dormitories, and Pansy realized that the small gift box was left behind. In a blink of an eye, she grabbed the box and stuffed it in her robes, standing up and headed to the Prefect’s bathroom.


Pansy undid the white ribbon on the gift box and took the lid off, staring in awe at the beautiful locket sitting under her nose. She carefully took it on her slim fingers and held it up, taking in every single detail of the piece of jewelry. Not wanting to waste so much time, she quickly placed it around her neck, admiring the way it looked so classy over her collarbones.

Pansy kept admiring the beauty of the locket on the mirror, as well as hers; it seemed as the necklace, somehow, transferred its beauty to the owner once it was worn. Sighing, she reluctantly took it off and placed it once again inside its box, tying the white ribbon.

In a matter of minutes, she was now entering the common room and sitting once again in the arm chair. Just a couple seconds after, the Quidditch team entered, Draco clutching his broomstick and looking tired.

“Oh, Draco,” she called, standing up and fetching the box inside her robes “Blaise left the box here so I figured I would take it so no one else could,” she handed back the box to the boy, who kept staring at it with furrowed eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You used it, didn’t you?” Draco accused angrily. Pansy’s eyes widened.

“What? No, I –I didn’t…”

“Don’t lie,” he spat, a few Slytherins across the room stared at him. He shoved the box in her face “Look at this ugly ribbon –you made it yourself, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He grunted “The ribbon does itself again until the gift is used! Once it’s out of its box, you have to do it by hand!”

“Okay –I took it out, but it was just to-”

Before Pansy could finish, Draco had pushed her out of his way and made his way to the boy’s dormitories. He stopped at the middle, and turning back, he snarled.

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours, Parkinson.”

Incredible sunsets are one of the many rewards of hiking along the Appalachian Trail, a national scenic trail that stretches from Georgia to Maine. Native to the Appalachian Mountains, rhododendrons bloom in this gorgeous photo that was taken along the trail near the Roan Highlands on the border of Tennessee and North Carolina. With so many great vistas to choose from, this scenic area is a favorite with day hikers and backpackers alike. Photo courtesy of Serge Skiba.