Time Passes | Drabble

“I hate how short these visits always are,” Gladys says with a frown, breaking the comfortable silence that they’ve been sitting in for the past five minutes.

It’s like this each time her Hogsmeade trips come to an end, as dusk begins to settle and the town starts to clear of Hogwarts students. Even though there is an hour left before the carriages make the last trip back to the castle, it always seems like an hour too little. Even with the potential for these trips each weekend, it has since proved difficult to find the time to meet up. A frustrating situation for both parties, Gladys can’t help but feel somewhat guilty when she’s had to send an owl informing Hayden that yet another weekend would have to pass where she’s stuck at school. This weekend in particular, though, was something of a surprise and they managed to have the entire day together.

“Me too,” he agrees, running his fingers through his hair. “But it is what it is, yeah? May as well make the best of it.”

She can’t help but smile. “That’s very optimistic of you.”

“Right. I blame you for that one.”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

He raises a doubtful eyebrow at her. “Says you.”

“Mhmm,” she agrees cheerfully, leaning her elbows on the table that separates them. “And my opinion counts now.”

“Does it?” he asks with a smirk.

“Yes. And I say your optimism is nice.”

“I think it’s annoying.”

“If people thought you’d gone soft before,” she continues, “Just imagine what they’d think if I told them you were being pleasantly optimistic.”

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Little Moments | Drabble

Hayden could never quite figure out how it had all happened. Him and Gladys. Gladys and him. No matter how many times he said it or how he said it, it never seemed to sound normal. But the most unusual thing of it all was that Hayden found that it made him happy. It was the sort of happiness that consumed you. The kind of happiness that Hayden had only read about it literature or heard about from the people around him. Sometimes he felt only flashes of happiness that were light and came in doses. At other times it was heavy and exhausting, the kind that seemed to weigh him down all throughout the day, but it felt more satisfying and it was of no mind to him. 

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First Impressions || Past-Glayden

Blurred lights. Blurred people. Blurred night.

It had been a good night, the remnants of which could still be seen in the Hufflepuff common room. Various bottles were spread all over the desks and tables. The couches were occupied by one or two who hadn’t had the energy to make it up to their dormitories. The most obvious of which was spread out on the floor, lying on his stomach. His hair was in disarray and his obvious lack of shirt revealed his back which might have had muscles but was hidden beneath various crude illustrations thanks to his artistic housemates. To complete the look, his hand was clutching a half empty bottle of firewhiskey.

As such, sixth year Hayden Ward had made himself a prime obstacle to the likes of a very distracted fourth year Gladys Gudgeon, hurrying from her dormitory, distracted, she missed his form on the floor and tripped over him. She landed neatly on his decorated back, perpendicular to his body. The action, caused Hayden to groan from beneath her. “What the fuck?” he muttered. His head felt dizzy and light still, he was positive he was still drunk and less positive about there being someone on his back. “I’m not a fucking bed, you know.”

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whatever's left of your heart | drabble


His name tumbles forward, breathless as always. His hands all but jump from her body as he pulls away from her. She mourns the loss of his body heat when he rolls off of her and lays beside her on his bed. He lets out an involuntary groan, soft, and slowly drags his hands over his face. Her cheeks grow even more red than they were before, this time out of embarrassment.

Gladys busies herself with straightening her shirt, giving him time to compose himself. She avoids his eyes as she brushes the hair from her hot face. Her skin still burns where he had touched her; the crook of her waist just above her hips, the curve of her arse, the ascent up her legs. The memories still tingled, insistent. Finding courage within herself, she turned on her side to face him. Her fingers found the collar of his shirt, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger.

“I’m sorry,” she manages, her voice quiet.

He takes a moment, inhaling and exhaling deeply before answering. “You don’t have to be sorry. I know.”

“You don’t, though,” she answers in a voice sounding unlike her own.

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‘Cause I love my mind when I’m fucking you
Slowed down to a crawl
Years of crime and the bread line
Have not at all dimmed your shine

So let’s stay in, let the sofa be our car
Let’s stay in, let the TV be our stars

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