black leather clutches

exhausted pockets
weighed down with handfuls
of accidental thoughts,
slippery with sweating palms
and tearful drops of eyeballs
rolling to and fro like marbles,
decrepit little eyelashes melted
into black leather nails,
clutching acidic daydreams
dissolving like spun sugar
in a sea of ideations
heated to boiling point.
—  pensive xxiv
No Control | Chapter Nineteen


Micky Bennett: college student, loyal friend, aspiring nurse, One Direction fan, Harry Styles enthusiast. Her best friend, Trevor, wins tickets to a show in New Jersey with meet and greet passes. Micky expects a quick photo op with the boys and a great night at the concert with her best friend. What she gets a whole lot more than she bargained for.

To read previous chapters, you can go here.

*Please feel free to reblog and send feedback. It’s much appreciated :)*

*Gif is not mine.*


“How do you feel about popping into Harrod’s for a bit of shopping?” Harry asks as he’s making breakfast. He’s making egg white omelets with vegetables, claiming that he loves my mum’s cooking but he feels so unhealthy from straying from his diet for so long. I roll my eyes at him, but let him make his healthy food, agreeing when he asks if I want one as well.

I shrug. “Sure. I’ve only been in there once and I was a kid. Should be fun.”

“You’re up for going to that party Grimmy’s having, right?” 

I purse my lips to the side. “I only brought one dress with me, and I don’t think it’s right for a dinner party with a bunch of famous people. I can just hang out here tonight,” I offer. 

“I’ll buy you something while we’re out,” he tells me. 

“Harry, you don’t need to do that,” I immediately reject. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll find something to do tonight while you have fun with your mates. I don’t mind being alone for awhile, I promise.”

He turns the burner off as he plates our breakfast before turning to me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I’ve changed into a Jimi Hendrix tee of his, since the button down got proper messy from our morning session. I’m only wearing knickers with it while I pad around his kitchen, so his hands dip down to run along my thighs while we talk.

Keep reading

The Far Table in the Back - Chapter 1

And so we begin this wonderful journey together! If you have seen Table 19, you know how the story ends, so please, please, don’t ruin it for those who don’t. I will be deviating from the story a bit to give it my own spin, but the principle will be the same. Characters will have their own spins and we may even have a few cameos from other series!

If you would like to be tagged in future updates, please let me know by dropping a note in my prompt/ask box!

So, please enjoy!

Walking into the large ballroom, Emrys and Malachi Mistfall held onto their name tags. They glanced around the room until their eyes fell on a table, almost obscured by a curtain meant to divide off the unused section of the room.

“Wonderful,” Malachi mumbled under his breath, earning a quick smack from Emrys to the arm.

“Hush,” he breathed. “It was very kind of the Ashryver’s to remember and invite an old couple like us.”

As they approached the table, they saw that one seat had already been claimed, and as kind as Emrys was, the old man was also extremely nosy. He peeked a glance at the card and read “Aelin Galathynius”. Since it wasn’t a name he recognized, he simply shrugged and took a seat across the table from the name tag, next to his husband.

Making small talk as they looked around at the crowded room, they noticed a beautiful girl walking towards them. Emrys wasn’t sure what her most striking feature was: her white hair, hanging sleekly down her back; her piercing, golden eyes, outlined in black; or her blood-red lips. She looked down at Aelin’s nametag and rolled her eyes, electing to sit a chair away from Malachi and a couple away from Aelin. She reached into the black leather clutch for her cell phone.

“How do you know the happy couple?” Emrys asked, smiling warmly at the girl.

Those molten gold eyes slid away from the screen of her phone and assessed the faces of the men at her table.

“My grandmother and the bride’s father were business partners back in the day. She had business out of the country, so I came in her place.” Her voice was like a siren’s song, lilting notes sound musical where he’d never heard anything like it before.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs…?” Emrys let the sentence trail off into a question.

“Manon. Manon Blackbeak, and its ‘Miss’, I’m not married.”

“Well that’s good to know,” a deep voice said from the front of the table. Silver eyes and auburn hair, the man looked to be in his mid-thirties. Manon fought the urge to scrunch her nose in disgust. She had to say this was a new record. Most creeps usually waited for her to at least have a drink in her hand before hitting on her.

“Just because I’m not married, doesn’t mean I’m single.” She spit back, not having any patience to deal with a bachelor only interested in getting her naked in his hotel room after the reception.

“Oh?” He said, taking a seat across from her next to Emrys, who visibly cringed a bit in such proximity of the man and his overbearing cologne.

“Yes,” Manon smoothly said, as she glanced up and locked gazed with the most gorgeous set of blue eyes she’d ever seen. “Here he comes now.”

Standing from her seat, she walked to the man. Resting a hand on his chest, she leaned up to kiss his cheek and whispered in his ear, “You don’t have a date, do you?”

She saw that he had tensed a bit from the shock of her invading his personal space, so she leaned back and smiled the sweetest smile she could muster.

His dark eyebrows rose. “No.”

“Wonderful, you do now.” She clasped her hand in his and pulled him to the table, which it seemed he was already heading for. She sat in her seat and he sat in the one next to her, looking around at the men already gathered there.

“And what’s his name?” Silver eyes asked. Manon leveled him a look and gold met silver.

“Dorian Havilliard,” he said, clearing his throat. “And you are?”

The man tore his gaze from Manon and looked at Dorian. “Hamel. Arrobyn Hamel.”

Dorian nodded and turned to the older couple to his left, on the side of Manon. A genuine smile took over his handsome features. “And you two?”

“I’m Emrys, and this is my husband, Malachi. We were close with the groom’s mother growing up. Practically a second set of parents. Do you know the couple as well or did you come as Manon’s plus one?”

Dorian gave the two an affectionate smile and practically jumped out of his chair when an acrylic tipped hand rested on his knee. He looked up from her metallic nails to the girl’s golden eyes.

“I grew up with Aedion. We fell out of touch in high school, but his mother and mine were close. So I decided why not come.”

“Then why are you sitting back here if you grew up with him?” Arrobyn asked, leaning back in his chair.

Dorian opened his mouth, but Manon answered for him. “He volunteered to sit with me, since there was no room for me at his table.”

The lie settled among the people and Arrobyn narrowed his eyes. It was as if he could sense that it wasn’t the truth. He looked as if he was about to respond, but a crashing noise could be heard from the hallway, followed by a muffled, “Sorry!”

As one, the table all looked to the doorway and saw a teenage boy stumble in, brushing his hands down the front of his ill-fitting suit. He glanced around the room until his eyes landed on their table and he raised a hand in a wave before making his way over.

“Hi, my name’s Luca!” He sat down in the chair next to Arrobyn and the man gave the boy a sideways glance. The table said their greetings and Luca continued on, saying, “I’m so happy to be here! Aedion was my favorite instructor when I took karate, so I was so excited when he asked me to come!”

The older couple gave him a kind smile, as did Dorian, though he was thankful the exuberant teen was forced to choose the chair next to Arrobyn, since there was a purse occupying the final seat. The small name tag sitting atop the plate read “Aelin Galathynius”, his mind pricking as the name rang with familiarity. He wondered who and where she was.

“So where exactly is our last neighbor for the evening?” Arrobyn asked, practically taking the thought straight from Dorian’s mind.

In the hallway, emerging from the bathroom, Aelin allowed herself to look at the large picture frame containing countless pictures of her cousin and best friend. She smiled at the picture, thanking the gods that she finally convinced Lysandra to go out with Aedion three years ago. She hadn’t ever seen either of them smile that much and she let herself reminisce on the old days when they were all happy.

She heard laughter from farther down the hallway, at the main entrance. There was a sign denoting the right was the Ashryver/Caraverre wedding, while if you took a left, another wedding was down that hall. As green dresses and gray tailored suits filled the hallway, Aelin quickly tried to blend in with the sparse amount of people still waiting outside the ballroom. The voices and laughter grew louder and Aelin found herself absolutely entranced by the pattern on the table cloth the name tags were sitting on, running her finger up and around the swirl to keep from having to look over her shoulder. One voice stood out from the rest. “Uh, hey, I’ll catch up with you inside.”

Aelin continued to follow the pattern on the tablecloth, even as she heard, “What are you doing here, A’s?”

She didn’t miss a beat, her finger continuing to slip over the fabric. “Same as you. For Aedion and Lysandra’s wedding.”

“I’m the best man.” Ouch. Whether or not he meant to wound her, his words stung.

“Point taken,” she said and tried to slip by him.

He grabbed her arm, but she yanked out of his grip. “That’s not what I meant, I just…”

His voice trailed off and for the first time, Aelin turned around to look at him. She felt like crying just at the sight of him. Rowan Whitethorn was just as handsome as the first time she’d laid eyes on him and as heartbreaking as the last time. His hair, which had been shorter, was beginning to grow back out like it had been when she’d first met him. The green tie and pocket square made his eyes shine their true pine green color and the dark tattoo that snaked from the tips of his fingers, up his arm, down his body, and onto his face was a stark contrast to the light gray of his fitted suit.

“We didn’t expect to see you today,” he said quietly and Aelin glanced up to see him looking at her. “I get a voicemail telling me to warn Lysandra not to open your RSVP, which was burnt, by the way, if you want to explain that? Then I get one saying you aren’t coming and then one saying you are and then one telling me to ignore everything I’ve gotten from you.”

Aelin shrugged and Rowan dragged a hand through his hair. Exasperated, he said, “Look, today is about Aedion and Lys, just don’t-.”

“Don’t do what, Rowan?” Aelin said, an edge to her voice when she heard the tone of his.

“Don’t go crazy!” He said, and when a few people turned around, he gave them a forced smile and turned back to her, lowering his voice. “Don’t become the fire-breathing bitch queen. Not today. This is their day.”

Without another word, he walked away, and Aelin stared after him, not sure if she should even go into the reception or turn around and head up to her room instead.

Lips catch on teeth in a hurried kiss. Hungry, hungry eyes stare into his. Blunt nails bury themselves into his hips; a jean-clad leg pressing in between. A toned chest is pulled flush against his, molding him to the wall. His hands latch onto black leather and clutch so hand the knuckles turn white.


“Shh.” A finger slides over his lips. “Don’t say it. Tonight, we are nameless.”

He wants to argue, he wants to scream that it wouldn’t matter; by tomorrow, he would be nameless once again.

A feverish kiss stills his thoughts, soft lips stealing away what little control he had. They pull apart briefly and Icarus looks into Apollo’s eyes. Reality suddenly bites at his heart.

A golden boy with the brilliance of the sun, gold-spun hair, and celestial blue eyes. How could a boy who dreams of flyings and wakes up with the sun in his mouth ever compare?

“You don’t want this.” Why does the words sound like death’s doors closing? He feels like falling.

“I-I do.” His voice quivers more than he would like, stutters as much as his traitorous heart does.

“Then, why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

“I-” The words are stuck in his throat, his tongue heavy with fear. He doesn’t want to say it, lest it becomes laden with anger and desperation. He doesn’t want to give in to the dangerous idea that Apollo meant something to him.

He runs a hand through his silky hair and Icarus’ fingers twitch with urges to card through them. “I’m not going to hurt you. So, please, tell me what’s wrong.” Apollo stares at Icarus with those intense blue eyes and he caves.

“I.. you said that tonight we would be nameless,” he murmurs. Icarus winces at how weak and disappointed his voice sounds, but continues anyways. He’s already off the deep end. It’s too late to take back his words. “But, I’m going to be nameless tomorrow and the next day and forever, aren’t I?”

Apollo freezes and Icarus looks away. He contemplates leaving when he realizes that he’s in his own house, his own room, and curses. Inviting Apollo had been a decision proved fatal.

“No.” The word is soft and lingers long in the air after Apollo’s voice dies away. Icarus’ head turns sharply to look at him, hope blossoming in his chest. He hates it; the fact that the hope would end up being crushed, that he would be disappointed again.

“You’re not nameless. You will never be nameless, Icarus,” Apollo says. His hand skirts through his hair once again and Icarus recognizes it as a nervous habit. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just thought.. I thought that if we didn’t say our names.. if you didn’t say my name, then I wouldn’t fall for you more. Then, it would hurt less when we act like strangers tomorrow.”

Icarus could feel his heart skip a beat as he looks at Apollo. His lips part in an attempt to speak, but no sound comes out.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just.. I’ll just leave. This was supposed to be your night and I ruined it. I’m sorry.” Apollo stands up and turns to the door. Panic wells up in Icarus’ chest and he grabs Apollo’s wrist.


Apollo freezes at the touch, but remains facing the door. Icarus knows that he can easily break out of his weak grasp, but the golden boy is rooted in his tracks.

“P-please stay,” Icarus practically begs. He licks his dry lips, swallows the lump in his throat, and finds the courage to say, “I want you here.”

“You do?” The hesitance and the overwhelming hope in Apollo’s voice breaks his heart.

“I do,” he answers resolutely. He has never been more sure of anything. “I.. I’ve fallen for you, too.”

Apollo abruptly turns around and sits on the edge of his bed, hovering above Icarus. His form shakes, as does his voice. “You.. you have?”

Heat crosses his cheeks and Icarus knows that he’s blushing heavily. He nods, not trusting his voice to find the right words.

“Oh, thank god.” Apollo exhales heavily, his lips lift in a relieved smile. He becomes shy in the next instance, so different from the confident boy Icarus knows. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes, please.” The earnest reply brings forth Apollo’s sweet laughter and Icarus finds that it’s worth the embarrassment. He is pulled into Apollo’s embrace, strong arms wrapped around him, and his eyes flutter close.

Hesitantly, Icarus’ arms reach around to Apollo’s back and he rests his hands on the soft leather. It only takes a moment for them to tighten and suddenly, Icarus never wants to let go. His only reassurance is that Apollo feels the same way; if his snug embrace is any indication.

“This has to be a dream,” Icarus says, his voice barely above a whisper. He has the sun in his arms and his body feels light as if wings were attached to his back. He’s falling but he’s not alone. It has to be a dream. Reality isn’t so kind.

Apollo breaks apart from Icarus’ hold, arms still held possessively around his waist. He presses his forehead against Icarus’ and stares into his eyes. “It’s not a dream, Icarus. This is real. I’m real. And, I’m not going to disappear once you wake up.”

Icarus chokes back a sob as he closes his eyes. His mind still can’t wrap around the idea that Apollo is here, in his bed and in his arms. His heart, the wretched thing, has already accept it as truth. It would only take a bit longer before his mind believes it as well.

He opens his eyes and gasps softly at the pure unadulterated love in Apollo’s eyes. Aphrodite must have blessed him tonight because the love is so tangible he could taste it.

Apollo’s eyes are so blue that Icarus swears he stole the color from the sky. They’re clear and honest. Icarus couldn’t find the heart in him to question Apollo’s claims. He’s telling the truth; his soul practically resonates with it.

Icarus buries his head against Apollo’s chest, breathing in his scent. He becomes heady with the smell of sunlight and leather, soft sighs escaping his lips.

Apollo only pulls him closer, whispering sweet, sweet declarations of love in his ear. Icarus is crimson to the tips of his ears and Apollo merely chuckles. “You’re adorable.”

He’s not one to take compliments well and stumbles through his thanks. Apollo just smiles and presses soft kisses into his hair. “Happy birthday, Icarus.”


They spend the night in each other’s arms, kissing sweetly and spilling secrets they’ve been dying to tell. The heated desire from before thins out and a deeper intimacy brings them closer than hurried carnal pleasure ever could. They fall asleep tangled up together and doesn’t let go even in Morpheus’ realm.

 When Icarus wakes up, he finds his head resting on a toned chest, strong arms wrapped around his body in a secure embrace. He flushes, but snuggles closer to Apollo and closes his eyes. Falling isn’t so bad after all.

- Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #57

October 1, 2012 attending the Stella McCartney Spring 2013 show during Paris Fashion Week.

Ulyana Sergeenko is wearing: Ulyana Sergeenko Spring Couture 2012 altered dress, Christian Louboutin Fifi pumps ($675), Lanvin Spring 2012 box clutch ($2290)

anonymous asked:

I wish you would write a fic with HOT NEW TEACHER CLINT BARTON. And yknow, some Clintasha too. BUT HOT TEACHER CLINT BARTON IS IMPORTANT. Tattoos would he gr8 too. Maybe a suit. Please and thanks.

I’ll do ya one better, Hot New PROFESSOR Clint Barton get in my life here we go.


“The Aristocracy in 18th century London. You got this, Barton.”

The door of the lecture hall opened. He clamped his mouth shut and looked up from his notes to see the first student - his honest to God first ever student - enter the room. She paused at the top of the stairs, brows drawing together, black leather bag clutched tightly in one hand.

“History 312?” he called, and tried to inject a little enthusiasm into his tone, to cover the nervous butterflies clenching his chest. The woman’s eyesbrows arched up at that, a wry little grin pulling her mouth up at one corner. “Come in. Sit anywhere. I won’t do attendance or assigned seats or whatever.”

She hesitated for a moment that seemed to stretch on indefinitely, long enough that he began to feel anxious that she was in the wrong place, this wasn’t his first student at all, maybe he wouldn’t have any students–.

She walked down the stairs and chose a seat right on the front row, placing her bag carefully on the seat beside her.

“Professor Barton,” Clint said, stepping forward and sticking out a hand to introduce himself. Were you supposed to introduce yourself? She probably didn’t give a shit. Was he being creepy? Super creepy, probably. He jerked his hand back, realizing too late that she’d been about to accept the gesture.

“Natasha,” she said with a slow grin, and tucked her hand back into her lap.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. Blowing it, Barton! “It’s uh…it’s my first class. You’re early.”

He went back to his notes, heat stinging his cheeks. He didn’t look at Natasha again, didn’t look up at all until the door opened once more and a tall guy stumbled in, looking a little lost. He looked to Clint and then at Natasha, sitting in the front row; she gave the kid a jaunty little wave and smile, and he took a seat in the back row.

Two students! The new kid even pulled a textbook from his backpack.

The lecture hall filled up, and Clint shuffled his notes on the podium. Were the tattoos peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down too much? Probably so. He didn’t want them to think he’d be an easy credit. He shrugged on his sportcoat and did up one button.

The clock at the back of the lecture hall read 9am, and he launched into his introduction. The kids actually paid attention, took notes, a couple even looked for a moment as if they’d interrupt, maybe to argue a point or ask for clarification, but they chickened out in the end.

No problem. He’d made sure to leave a transition in his notes, a good point to pause and regroup.

“Any questions?” he asked. Crickets. He felt his posture slump and tried to reign in the disappointment.

Natasha’s hand shot up. Maybe she had a question and maybe she was just taking pity on him, but he didn’t much care at this point. Relief swept through him and he gestured for her to go ahead.

“Could you tell me what day it is?” she asked.

Odd, but…

“Tuesday,” he said. A hushed ripple of laughter swept across the room. Natasha smiled again, stood and stepped forward, stuck out her hand.

“Professor Romanoff. It’s Wednesday and you’re in my lecture hall.”

On The Run - Chapter Five

Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four

Warnings: Death, fleeing from war, heavy topics about war.

A/N: This was sad asf to write, be warned. This is also the edited version, I went back and fixed some of the typos and grammar mistakes.


You and Draco decided to talk to them about going to the safe house after dinner tomorrow; Which meant that you had a day to transfer everything you could need from the bag connected to the storage rooms into a different bag with an undetectable expanding charm. The bag was small, and it looked much better than the black leather clutch the belonged to Draco’s mother, Narcissa.

You hated that woman, absolutely despised her. When you and Draco had gotten together you both did everything in your power to stop it from leaking to anyone, you didn’t tell anyone, not even Hermione Granger. But one day, Filch caught you two out after curfew and well… teachers gossip. Soon enough, Narcissa and Lucius were writing letters demanding that he stay away from you. He was the last of the Malfoy line, they said, it could not be spoiled by dirty blood, they said. Those purebloods and their muggle-born hatred, they always got under your skin. Every interaction with Draco in front of them was like trying to reach him through glass.

It wasn’t the only reason you were switching bags, however. It had to do with the bags being linked to Malfoy Manor, you didn’t like being so close to that place, it made you feel afraid, like they knew you were rooting in their storage rooms and every time you summoned something out of it they would come for you. You didn’t want to think about them, ever again, so you were switching bags.

The new bag wasn’t new at all, it was Ginny’s. She gave it to you when you needed one last year. It was small and faded purple and the strap was framed in the middle but you like it more than the black leather and fur. There was a pile of clothes at the bottom of the bed, Draco was going through them, finding things that would fit either of you and then putting those into the bag while you made a list of what you wanted to take with you from the storage rooms.

After about three hours of list making and clothes sorting Mrs. Weasley calls you down for dinner and you eat silently, thinking about how you’re going to ask them tomorrow. You went straight upstairs after dinner and fell asleep, deciding that the sooner tomorrow came the easier it would be to ask them. But, as the moment drew nearer the next day the fact that you were really going to be leaving them again settled in like a boulder on your chest. Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were outside, giving you and Draco the perfect moment to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

“The Death Eaters,” You swallow thickly. Great way to start a conversation, you think, “they’re looking for us and..”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had abandoned their tuning of the radio to listen to you.

“And if the come here they’ll kill you… and I don’t want you to die.” They both give you sad looks, they know where the conversation is going.

“So I was thinking, Draco and I could go to the safe house with Bill and Fleur.” You ring our hand together on your lap nervously.

“This is what you want?” Mrs. Weasley asks in reply. You nod your head.

“Are you sure?” She leans forward to talk to you.

“Yes.” You answer quickly.

“Write to us.” She says. You smile at her.

“Of course.” She gets up and walks into the kitchen, Mr. Weasley following after her with a quick smile to you. But, once they’re out of sight, you feel terrible. The decision to leave them, the people you considering your family, still felt like the worst choice you could have ever made.

“Was that the right thing to do?” You turn to Draco quickly. He has the same worried eyes that you do but he nods nonetheless.

“It doesn’t feel right.” You start pacing in front of the couch.

“This isn’t fair, Draco. I don’t want to leave them, they’re like parents to me, I shouldn’t have to leave them.” He stands up and stops your from pacing b standing in front of you.

“Nothing about war is fair.” You wrap your arms around him.

“We’ve been hugging an awful lot lately, haven’t we?” He asks. You smile and break out of the hug.

“Nothing wrong with a good embrace.” You Turn your head to the doorway where Fred and George were standing, smug as ever. “Wouldn’t you say Fred?”

“Oh, I sure would George, nothing like a good loving embrace.” You roll your eyes at them.

“Did Bill say when we’re leaving?” You ask. George scoffs.

“Not a laugh, not even a smile. We’re losing our touch Fredie.”

“Time?” He smiles at you brightly.

“An hour. Best start packing.” You look to Draco as they leave. He walks in front of you up the stairs, his long legs carrying him faster and farther than you. You pack quickly and haphazardly, not caring about where things went in the bag, you would be summoning them out anyway.

The tent, the clothes, the books, the bottles of healing potions, the medkits, the blankets, the cloaks that were built for cold weather, it was all packed. But, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were forgetting something. Draco was tying up his shoes when Bill knocks on the door.

“We’re leaving now, ready?” You put the bag around your shoulder.

“Whenever you are.” You respond, voice shaking slightly.

“Wait,” Bill looks over to Draco, “we’ll be just a minute.”

“Of course, meet us downstairs.” He shuts the door. Draco takes a deep breath before turning round to you.

“What is it?” You ask him as he walks closer to you. Your hand tightens on your wand instinctively, just in case.

“I never got you anything for your birthday and I was waiting for the right time to give it to you but… I guess there’s no better time than the present.” He opens his hands and inside of them is a necklace. On the end of the silver chain is a small gold locket in the shape of a heart. The locket looks empty at first but then you notice a single streak of white-blond hair inside.

“Thank you.” You let him circle around you to put the locket around your neck. You bring your hand up to grasp it tightly. You kiss him, still holding the locket when you break away.

“Come on, they’re waiting.” You smile at him as he walks out of the door in front of you, holding your hand.


The cottage is small, right near the sea, and painfully quiet. You could feel the cold sea mist on your skin and you could smell the salty air before you even stopped apparating. Fleur took notice of how cold you were and offered to make you some tea, you accepted.

“Is there anyone else here?” You ask Bill as he hangs his cloak by the door. Draco was standing against the doorway awkwardly.

“Not at the moment but people come and go, usually just for the night and only Order members.” You take the tea that Fleur hands you and cradle the cup in your frigid hands.

There was loud crack and you stood up so fast that the tea cup smashed on the floor as you scrambled out of the doorway first, your wand in your hand. Twenty feet from the cottage was Luna Lovegood, Ollivander, and Dean Thomas. You caught the last fleeting image of Dobby the house elf before he apparated again but quickly focused your attention to the three people swaying where they stood from the impact of apparating.

“Luna?” You don’t lower your wand. She presses a hand to her forehead before looking at you and smiling.

“Y/n! I thought you were dead.” She starts walking towards you.

“What was the last thing that Luna Lovegood told me about before Bellatrix tortured me?” You keep your wand up, ready for anything. She stops swaying and watches as Fleur takes Ollivander into the house. She isn’t thinking, you thought, what if he’s an imposter?

“Wrackspurts! I told you that some of them were dying in my father’s garden and that they were killing the plants.” She replies. You lower your wand run out to hug her.

“Dean.” You smile as you hug him, you were sure that he was dead when you heard he disappeared on Potterwatch.

“Harry, Ron, and Hermione are right behind us. I think they might even get Griphook out as well.” Luna says hopefully as you hug her again.

You lead them into the house and to the kitchen where you dab some healing potions onto rags and then onto their wounds. Draco comes back in from searching around the perimeter of the house. Luna and Dean back up, chairs screeching against the wood before you can calm them.

“No, it’s okay! He saved me.” They stay tense as he sits down at the table.

Another loud crack sounds outside and you hear Hermione scream as you rush to the door. Fleur hurries her inside with Griphook the goblin. You push past them, wand in hand and Draco sharp on your heels. You stop suddenly, causing Draco to smack into your shoulder roughly but you don’t notice. All you can focus on is Dobby the house elf, laying in Harry Potter’s arms.

“HELP!” Comes Harry’s voice and you know you should move, you should help him but you don’t move, you stand rooted to the ground by shock. “HELP!”

“Oh my god.” Your voice is a whisper as you cover your mouth with your hands. “Dobby-”

“Dobby, no, don’t die, don’t die-” He says exactly what you’re thinking but you know it’s over, the silver dagger in Dobby’s chest is killing him and Harry’s words are an empty plea. You sway where you stand and then fall to your knees, wand falling from your hand.

“Harry… Potter … “ Dobby shuddered and went still. You started on, unable to process the situation. Dobby the house elf, your friend, the elf that gave you cupcakes when you were sad and helped you and Hermione argue for elfish rights was… dead.

“No-” You barely recognize your own voice when you talk, Draco crouches down beside you. Your brain repeats his last words on a loop ‘Harry… Potter…’ like it’s all you’ve ever heard.  

“Y/n.” He swallows thickly when you don’t look at him.

“No- he’s not- he can’t be-” You brace your hands against the ground, you feel like you’re going to puke.

“Oh, god.” You can feel your hands shaking and your tears splatter onto your hands as you lean over the ground. Draco helps you stand, eyes tear filled and breath rattling as you start to walk towards Dobby and Harry.

“Dobby.” His eyes were still open, why were they open?

Harry looks up briefly as you sink down to your knees, Draco wasn’t by you anymore and you didn’t know where he went but you didn’t care. You couldn’t think or care about anything else in the world. You didn’t care about muggles or Death Eaters or the cold or being hungry all you could think about were Dobby and his still open eyes. You reach a shaking hand forward and close his eyes. Now he could be sleeping, you think, taking a long nap under the stars.