18-19 May 1536— “This morning she sent for me, that I might be with her at such time as she received the good Lord, to the intent I should hear her speak as touching her innocency always to be clear. And in the writing of this, she sent for me, and at my coming she said: ‘Mr. Kingston, I hear I shall not die aforenoon, and I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead by this time, and past my pain’. I told her, it should be no pain, it was so sottle. And then she said, ‘I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck’, and then put her hands about it, laughing heartily. I have seen many men and also women executed, and that they have been in great sorrow, and to my knowledge this lady has much joy in death. Sir, her almoner is continually with her, and had been since two o'clock after midnight. This is the effect of anything that is here at this time, and thus fare you well.” [Letter from Sir W. Kingston, Constable of the Tower, to Thomas Cromwell]
“It’s all the paper talks about anymore,” Draco frowned, “Stupid Potter.”
“We’re agog,” Blaise said pouring himself and Draco a cup of coffee.
Pansy smothered a yawn and picked up a piece of toast, “Do tell.”
Draco folded his paper, eyes scanning past the picture to the drivel written below, “Potter’s going to join the auror’s, change the world,” he grumbled, “you’d think the sun shines out of his arsehole the way they go on about him.”
Pansy rolled her eyes.
“Couldn’t agree more,” A voice said behind him from the Ravenclaw table, “that Potter’s a total pillock.”
“Exactly-” Draco turned on his bench, his words choking off before they were halfway out of his mouth.
“I really don’t know what they see in him,” Potter said flatly, taking a massive bite of pancake.
Luna smiled absently at Potter’s side, “I don’t know, I’ve always thought he was quite nice.”
Potter picked up his pumpkin juice, “To-tal pil-lock.”
Draco felt his face go hot and he spun around back to his plate. Blaise quickly picked up his coffee cup to hide a growing smile. Pansy snorted, almost choking on her toast, she ducked her head and fumbled for her cup.
Draco grabbed his bag and left the table with an imperious sniff.
Like Harry, Minerva McGonagall seems to have hit her stride in Order of the Phoenix.
“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.
Harry gaped at her. Now she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done.
“I – I didn’t think –”
“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.”
“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick.”
“You look in excellent health to me, Potter, so you will excuse me if I don’t let you off homework today. I assure you that if you do die, you need not hand it in.”
Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen. “Tripe, Sybil?”
“But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”
“That explains a great deal,” said Professor McGonagall tartly.
“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the start of term feast, Potter?”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“Yeah… she said… progress will be prohibited or… well, it meant that… that the Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.”
“Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate,” she said, pointing him out of her office.
“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec–”
“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are going in my classroom,” said Professor McGonagall.
“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, “how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.”
“Very well,” [Umbridge] said, “you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Professor McGonagall, in a coldly indifferent voice,
“I should have made my meaning plainer,” said Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look Umbridge directly in the eyes. “He has achieved high marks in all Defence Against the Dark Arts tests set by a competent teacher.”
“Well, usually when a person shakes their head,” said McGonagall coldly, “they mean “‘no’”. So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign-language as yet unknown to humans –”
“Dear, dear,” said Professor McGonagall sardonically, as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. “Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the Headmistress and informing her that we have an escape firework in our classroom?”
"Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is not necessarily worthless.”
“Our headmaster is taking a short break,“ said Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped hole in the window.
You once said that a step towards recovery means I’ll need to break myself into pieces, darling I’ve been trying to put my heart back together. I like to step on myself sometimes, I don’t take compliments well because I don’t think too highly of myself. When you step on the same lego piece everyday even your ego starts to melt a little. You once said that if I find someone to hold my thoughts before I hold their heart– then maybe she’s the one. Or maybe there’s no one out there, who knows, right? We can circle around this a little longer than always, but I’ll always run back to the why. Why do I want to conquer my memories? Each city that I’ve built for them inside of my head is still bright and I’ve not let a single light bulb blow out, I’m so out of it– while thoughtlessly I’ve been reaching out of my head, my heart likes to beat me to it. It says that love can only be achieved if I chase after it. You once said that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Do you still believe in those words? Because if I’m not cruel to myself, I could be cruel to someone else. If I read enough books, do you think I’d finally own a chapter in my own life? If I open up some more, will I close off opportunities for myself to the prospect of loving myself? And what about them? Vanity is my master and I’m a slave. It’s okay to be a little vain sometimes, right? I’ve got it in my veins, maybe I’m the only honest one. You once said that if I trip over the same rock and stub my toe a million times within a week, you’d still say it’s okay. Like falling requires gravity to bend to my whispers. Like drowning demands my lies to swim back to shore. Like dying seeps through my eyes, how can I love if all I’ve got is missing pieces? You once said that a river flows like time and if I’m out of seconds– you’ll just record your voice saying I love you until I finally get it. I remember everything that love has to offer, but never the person. I remember the feeling of infection that is affection. And if I walk alone and get hit by a car, maybe it’s just another story that I won’t write. Some words live in between the lines, I’ve been seeing dualities. Life and death is just a kiss and hug. Black and white, storms and clouds are just pears and apples. Poetry and prose likes to sound sweet, but it’s the bitter bits of me that’s suicidal. Love and hate was born from strangers, so you never knew the difference between the moon and the sun– the lightness of tomorrow likes to coat the darkness of past days. Cigarettes and lung cancer, a dance of smoke that disguises itself as stress free, do you think I’ll die healthy? Drugs and my body, which one will make me feel better if I’ve been sweating for a week? You once said that we’re spinning around in a circle just waiting for someone to stop by– grab my attention and you can have my voice, steal from my hands and you can have my poems, which hurts more to have loved or to not have loved at all? An empty silence that’s so full of itself– I can’t hear myself think inside of my own head. I’ve got file cabinets tagged under read later, but I’m a sucker for love– so I feed into it. You once said if the sky breaks into a brighter day, you’ll be there. That is wishful thinking, my favorite kind. Words can’t give meaning to our story, but we still write. You once said that it has to mean something. Every statement paused long enough for several lifetimes to become real again. It feels like such a long time, but we’re still in love with them in there somewhere. It’s buried. It’s in a coffin, but it’s there and we know it. We can hear it. We can hear it. Fuck, we can hear it. That little beating that isn’t ours, it’s always theirs. And that’s my fear, you once said that maybe that’s my fate– I’m supposed to cling onto that strand of innocence, of who I used to be, to remember what it feels like to feel, it has to mean something. Giving meaning to nothing, my favorite pastime. Giving something to someone, the only way that I’ve been living. You once said that until I learn to keep more for myself, I’ll always end up in square one– alone, but as long as I’ve got you, it’s not true, right? Some thoughts like to sleep alone, that’s not one of them. Hold onto that piece of us, the poetic storm that is joy. Keep your kindness to a burn, a stretched out sunrise screaming your name is my simmer. I know about nothing and that’s my one redeeming quality. I know that I don’t know shit, and that’s why I write like this. I know that I don’t love like I used to, and that’s why I love like this. I know that I’m not the same person from last year, and that’s why my guilt likes to trip up. I know that I’m no longer in love with her, but I can’t seem to explain the empty feeling unless I spell her name backwards under a star somewhere that I can’t touch. I know that I’m still messed up, but I’m just taking advantage of my youth. You once said some people will get over you in a week, but it’ll take you a lifetime to get over someone. If forever is a drug then I’ve overdosed. If always is a lie then I’ll take the beautiful. If never is more and a secret is sore– then I’m sorry about the words that didn’t stop, I am trying. I am always trying. You once said that if we kiss the ocean long enough, the mountains will answer. I’ve buried my love letters on the highest mountain and emptied my heart into my art. If I live long enough to spread my wings, do you think I’d still be condemned? Life is too short to live in the past, but I can’t stop asking about my what ifs. Love is too long to just be over, but I’ll just keep painting over it with a new layer of red. If you’re still reading, then I’m still writing. This yin and yang battle of ours has no meaning. Tortured souls live in the canvas and I’ve seen enough chains– I shall be unbound someday. You once said I love you– darling, that’s the only fucking truth that I believe in. You once said that soulmates aren’t always lovers– I guess it’s just you. You once said that flowers don’t just bloom, they wilt– so I guess I’m just withered. You once said that if you had your way, I’d own the universe. You don’t get it. When you became my best friend, I got it.
Yuuri feels his coach’s words cut into him, piercing and expanding. His breaths are still coming in pants and his hands fall to his knees, clutching them to try and keep himself upright. “What?”
Victor doesn’t even meet his eyes. Instead, he’s fixed on the ice that Yuuri had been skating on just moments ago, fingers on his chin. “The routine. It could have been performed better. You missed the salchow.” With that, he turns to him. “You landed that every time in practice. What happened?”
“I…” Yuuri starts helplessly, because Victor knows exactly what happened, knows that the roars of the crowds are a dull throbbing that scrambles his positioning, that has his mind scattered. “I’m sorry.”
“I just don’t understand,” Victor complains, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That could’ve won, Yuuri. If you’d simply act like you were practicing it, it could’ve won. It’s not that you can’t do it. Obviously you can do it.”
Another skater is preparing himself.
Yuuri feels numb.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats quietly. He bows his head, tries to avoid the cameras and the interviewers in the distance. They start to walk silently towards the kiss and cry, and he sees Victor give a tight smile and wave to the cameras. When they sit down beside one another, there’s a hand on his back. He shifts away from it, just slightly, not enough to draw attention.
Victor frowns, leans towards him.
Yuuri bites his lip, keeps his eyes trained straight ahead.
“Yuuri, what’s wrong?”
The scores come in. He reads them quickly, then pushes the too-low numbers into the back of his mind. “Nothing.”
The cameras flash. Victor’s hand returns to his back. “Why are you lying?”
Yuuri doesn’t answer, and a second later there are fingers laced with his own and tugging him towards the exit, past the cameras and the crowds. He’s led reluctantly into the nearest bathroom, where Victor keeps his hand held tight, eyebrows drawn together. Unsure of what to do, Yuuri simply rolls his shoulders—he’d bent an arm awkwardly during the failed salchow.
“What’s wrong?” Victor repeats, more firmly this time. “The scores?”
“Oh,” he realizes out loud, and he blinks a few times. “Oh, Yuuri, I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t… I’m sorry.”
He nods, continues to stare at the floor. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.”
He’s scooped into Victor’s arms and swayed back and forth. “It’s not fine. You’re upset. What I said was insensitive. I was insensitive. Next time, constructive criticism.” He pulls away, stares him firmly in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Yuuri smiles softly and hugs him again, ducking his nose into Victor’s shoulder. “That’s okay. I’m sorry I messed up the salchow.”
“As your coach, I want you to do well, but as your fiancé, it doesn’t matter to me. We just need to keep those two things separated. I need to keep those two things separated.” He runs his thumb across the ring on Yuuri’s finger, kisses his cheek. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was just frustrated.”
A/N: I have been listening to a lot of Amy Winehouse lately and this is what happens. I’m tempted to turn this into a series, but we shall see.
We only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times You go back to her, and I go back to black
“Hey! What’s your name?” someone shouted at you from across the bar. His words barely louder than the beat pumping through the speakers.
The bartender handed over your drink, exchanging whiskey for your bills. The whiskey ginger burned on your tongue as you took a sip, preparing yourself to face the owner of the voice. He was handsome, but the look in his eyes told you that your name was the last thing on his mind. “No thanks.” You smiled, slipping off the bar stool to make your way through the crowd.
You felt your phone vibrate in your back pocket, the screen sticking out like a sore thumb in the dim lights of the bar your best friend had dragged you too. And as if the universe was playing a cruel trick on you, his name flashed on your screen. You scoffed as you read the familiar words.
Jin 11:45 PM: Where are you?
You held your phone up to your lips, debating if you should respond. Jin was bad for you and you knew it. That’s why the two of you broke up, to begin with. That’s why you still answered his calls and text messages. You took another sip, hoping to find some wisdom in the bottom of the ice. The screen illuminating the glass in your hand as you sank the rest of your drink. He was not a patient man.
Jin 11:48 PM: Y/N, where the hell are you?
His brashness made you wince, quickly typing out a response. Two could play this game, even though the both of you were never good at following the rules.
Y/N: 11:48 PM: Out
You really must have pissed him off as your phone started to vibrate in your hand, he was calling you.
“Stop playing games, Y/N.” Jin hissed through the phone, interrupting you before you could even say hello.
“I told you last time that this was over between us.” You raised your voice, matching his level of annoyance although for a much different reason.
Jin scoffed, “You and I both know that last time wasn’t enough.”
“Fuck you.” you quipped, annoyed at how easily the sound of his voice turned you into putty. His words pushing and pulling you into shapes that only he could make. “I’m at the bar.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” was all he said before the line on the other end went dead.
This morning she sent for me, that I might be with her at such time as she received the good Lord, to the intent I should hear her speak as touching her innocency alway to be clear. And in the writing of this she sent for me, and at my coming she said, ’Mr. Kingston, I hear I shall not die afore noon, and I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead by this time and past my pain.’ I told her it should be no pain, it was so little. And then she said, ‘I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck,’ and then put her hands about it, laughing heartily. I have seen many men and also women executed, and that they have been in great sorrow, and to my knowledge this lady has much joy in death. Sir, her almoner is continually with her, and had been since two o'clock after midnight.
The minute I saw this image a fic idea popped into my head - but in true me form it took 2 weeks to actually come together into anything. Unbeta’d and about 1100 words of fluff. Post CS wedding with a side of Captain Charming feels.
A Picture Tells a Thousand Words
For close to three hundred years, the memories of Killian Jones had been curated solely by the power of his mind. Highly reliable, of course, with impressive attention to detail - as he frequently reminded Henry when he shared tales of his past life with the young author.
(And he had yet to find the lad’s eye-rolling any reason not to continue.)
With such a power of recall, there seemed little chance any of the intimate details of the day he married Emma Swan would slip into the shadowed recesses, no matter how many dark curses or damned fairies were thrown at them.
Yet he found himself drawn again and again to the simple black frame that hung on the wall of their living room, a moment of utter bliss captured perfectly in the curve of their lips and the light in their eyes as they danced together for the first time as husband and wife. He had known many a treasure over his long years on the sea, but none of those would ever be more valuable than this image, he thought, lovingly tracing a finger along the contours of Emma’s face.
“You are going to wear a track in the glass, Killian, if you don’t stop doing that.”
Emma’s arms snaked around his waist, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder. Though he couldn’t see her face, he had no doubt of the smile she was wearing - yet another image firmly locked in place without need of a photograph.
“Of all the magic I have ever come across,” he said, turning in her arms until their foreheads came to rest together, “I think these photographs are the most powerful of all. A single moment preserved in time and yet it tells so much more of the tale.”
I’m not giving him the time of day. I’m interested in having conversations, Brooke, that will move people of all races forward in this country. I’m interested in having a conversation that will help us to admit the wrongs that were done in this country and how we move forward. I am not interested in trying to convince and change the mind of a bigot. Someone who will openly troll me and say things that are offensive, that he knows are not true.
I mean, it’s very frustrating and I’m tired of people telling me that black people are beneath a standard when we have to be twice as good all the time. And that is why I said, I’m not interested in having a dialogue with someone like Joe who has demonstrated a propensity towards bigotry. And he did that on Twitter yesterday in 140 characters or less.
She said “Not today.” She said “I shall not.” She said “I have had it officially.” She said “Don’t try me, try Jesus.” She said “Go get a switch.” She said “Look at these receipts.” She said “Fuck yo couch.” She said “No weapon formed against me shall prosper.” She said “Bitch please.” She said “I coulda had a V8.” She said “Bye Felicia.” She said “You got the wrong one to put you in the right place today sir.” She said “If you feelin froggy, leap.” She said “Bless your heart.” She said “There’s the exit.”
Angela Rye is fed up and she is channeling all of us on today. I feel so blessed.
He encouraged me; I shall never forget some of the things he said. He told me life isn’t easy, but it has consolations: religion, art, and the love one inspires in others. He often told me that the only mistake one makes in life is to cause others suffering.
I have a theory about Rincewind. We all know that Esk is the female Wizard but narritive convention would dictate that she have a counterpart. What if the reason Rincewind isn't good at wizard magic is because he's more suited to witchcraft then wizardry? Has anyone talked about this before? I want fanfiction of this...
“I can’t be having with this,” Granny said, each word sharpened to points and enunciated with the accuracy of a champion knife-thrower outlining an unlucky target. Her glare was focused like a laser. It looked as though it could shatter rocks and burn cities to the ground. It was only slightly undercut by the enormous array of novelty candles that adorned Nanny Ogg’s mantelpiece. Rincewind, the unfortunate soul in her cross-hairs, shrank a little deeper into his armchair. He rather felt he couldn’t be having with this either, and tried to say so, but the old woman’s look seemed to have fused his tongue to the roof of his mouth.