emma burrow

  • Emma: If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it's venomous.
  • Troy: What if it bites me and it dies?
  • Emma: That means you’re poisonous.
  • Orion: What if it bites itself and I die?
  • Emma: ...That's voodoo.
  • Jake: What if it bites me and someone else dies?
  • Emma: That's correlation, not causation.
  • Gia: What if we bite each other and neither of us die?
  • Noah: That's kinky.
4

      “Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were sprinting in all directions; many were Disapparating; the protective enchantments around the Burrow had broken.
      “Ron! Ron!” Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffered by terrified guests: Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren’t separated as a streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a protective charm or something more sinister he did not know…
      And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione’s free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione’s hand as he was squeezed through space and time, away from the Burrow, away from the descending Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort himself…” - Deathly Hallows

[  unto the breach. ]

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, my lil turkeys! A little Captain Swan Black Friday AU for you.

Be careful out there. xx

+ + + +

Who knew the decent into hell would be so cold.

Emma burrows further into her down parka as a blast of icy air rattles her bones as she rushes across the dark parking lot, one hand gripping the beanie pulled low over her ears. It’s barely dawn and all she wants to do is crawl back into bed, to pull the covers over her head and escape into dreams. But she can’t, and everything is terrible, so she mentally works to steel herself, to prepare herself as best as she can for what she is about to experience.

The darkest day of the year.

The seventh level of hell.

Black Friday.

The mall is quiet still when she steps inside, and she hops momentarily in place to restore feeling to her extremities. She desperately needs a new pair of winter boots. But that would require engaging in the one activity she is most loathe to do: shopping. She swallows a sigh. Once upon a time, she had loved to shop. She loved the thrill of the hunt, the spark of victory when she would find the perfect thing for the perfect price. That feeling of wearing something new and shiny, the fun of trying a new style and the little metamorphosis it would bring. But that was before.

Before she was cursed. Cursed to a life in retail.

She hurries down the quiet halls of the mall, weirdly relishing in the cloistered stillness of them. She’s clearly losing her mind. Soon enough they will be transformed into a waking nightmare; throngs of people foaming at the mouth to get deals and steals, clawing and ripping and grabbing as they clamor to embrace the spirit of giving. Happy holidays, indeed. Approaching her home away from home, Granny’s Outfitters, she makes three swift raps with her knuckle on the door, and then Mary Margaret is there, ushering her in with a hug and a cup of coffee. Emma has never loved anyone more.

She waves at David as he counts money into the registers, smiling when his eyes travel past her and land on Mary Margaret with unveiled longing. One of these days, she thinks. Ducking into the small break room, Emma sheds her layers, hanging everything neatly in her locker. She’s struggling with the stupid pin of her nametag when he comes in.

“Morning, Swan.”

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