friends don't let friends do the wave

60. March

A/N: Hi so it’s March 31st so I’m still within the right timing! And you know, since it’s March and that Malfoy Manor/Shell Cottage happened in March, I cannot, for the life of me, not write it. I am fully aware I have a Malfoy Manor/Shell Cottage problem so no needs for an intervention or anything. I hope you’ll still like it! I’m not fully satisfied with it but my eyes are getting sore from looking at it too much…

They all quietly return to the cottage after Dobby’s burial.

Hermione can’t think properly, can’t process everything that happened and brought them to this moment.

They came so close to losing it all.

Dobby’s death, as heroic as it was, makes the war all too real. She can still hear Ron’s screams of anguish, her body still trembles and burns.

Before entering the small house, she turns to look at the sea. She watches the waves crash on the sand, the seagulls fly free above them and yet, it’s Ron’s hand low on her back warm and soothing, that grounds her the most.

She’s in pain, emotionally and physically. And so so tired of running. There’s been this sword of Damocles above their heads for years. She’s all too aware of it. It almost slit her throat earlier today, but killed Dobby instead.

She wants everything to stop, just for a minute, so she can catch her breath.

But, nothing will stop and no matter how torn apart she feels, the world will keep on spinning.

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#141 - For Haileigh & anonymous

Filling the prompts “something where the protagonist also has a stutter?” and “Van met the reader waiting in a Merch line at a streets concert before he buys that one hoodie that we’ve seen him in.”

Note: You guys know that I don’t write what I don’t know. I don’t have a stutter, but my little brother did for a long time before he had speech therapy. So, I’m going to draw on that experience for this fic. If even a single person finds it misrepresentative, or offence, I will delete it. Also, Van got that hoodie when he was, like, very smol very young. But let’s pretend it happened when he was about 21 or so, yeah?

You pointed at the merch table after Jocelyn said she was going to the bathroom. “Yep. Meet at our spot on the corner?” she asked. You nodded and walked off to join the line. 

The Streets had performed, and it was fucking mayhem. They’re a divisive type of band; you either love them with all your heart or think they’re a load of untalented wank. Obviously, everyone at the show thought the former, therefore the gig erupted in alcohol-fuelled sing alongs and weird mosh-dance hybrid movements. People were drenched in sweat, and still yelling lyrics in accents that either were completely put on or were an exaggeration of their own. 

The boy in front of you in the line bounced from foot to foot. A bottle was smashed somewhere near the bar, and everyone in line turned to look. After assessing the situation, they went back to their post-show conversations. All but the bouncing boy returned to face the merch table. He grinned at you and you smiled back. He was happiness personified. He was bright eyes and dimples and sweaty, glowy skin.

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