i'll be nineteen

Am I writing a yummy-inspired Barisi episode tag for 19x03, which also incorporates Season 18′s fighting as well as the Season 17 finale, thus fanwanking explaining the last few years of Sonny and Rafael’s relationship?

You bet :D

(me @ myself when it comes to Barba’s death threats:)

Originally posted by love-music-and-freedom

Am I also totally sick, and a teensy bit nauseous, and practically too dizzy to type?

Hell yeah D:

Compass Rose

Pairing: Harry Potter x Pansy Parkinson

Setting: Canon-divergent AU

Word Count: 908


She’s thirteen.

She kisses Draco Malfoy in a winter-empty courtyard overlooking the lake, under the mottled grey-lavender sky of the very early morning, and it’s—

It’s lackluster.

He tastes like peppermint toothpaste and the muddy remnants of a too-quick cup of tea. She can barely feel the outline of his shoulders beneath the weight of his quidditch jersey. There’s an uncomfortable moment of teeth clacking and lips catching, a hovering sort of awkwardness she wouldn’t have ever expected from him. Certainly, the cloying, sandalwood-spicy scent of his cologne is practically suffocating as she breathes in, breathes out, attempts to tilt her face to the side enough that his nose isn’t pressed right up against her own.

“Um,” she says, afterwards, when they’ve each taken a step back. “Good luck, then?”

He glances away, down towards the pitch, and then nods, jerkily. A dark pink blush stains his cheeks.

“Not like I need luck against Potter,” Draco sneers. “Honestly.”

Privately, she disagrees.


She’s sixteen.

She kisses Theodore Nott in a skinny, snow-banked alley between a bookshop and an apothecary, the air crisp and the breeze cold and the silky grey fur of her collar butterfly-soft against her jaw. He’s tall. She isn’t. They don’t quite fit, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing.

“You’re not even trying,” she hisses, afterwards, grabbing his hand and placing it firmly on the curve of her waist. “What are you—”

Suddenly, the atmosphere changes. Turns tense and vaguely expectant. Theo is stiff, frozen—a lanky, sweater-vested Grecian statue with milky freckles and a complexion like the petals of a sunflower—as he gapes at something behind her.

She spins around.

Harry Potter is standing at the far end of the alley, eyebrows raised and glasses slightly foggy. A twitch of a smirk is curling like cigarette smoke around the edges of his mouth. He’s smug. His gaze, when it flicks over to her, is sharp with disdain. Condescension. It reminds her of the broom polish in Draco’s trunk and the antique German cuckoo clock in the Malfoy drawing room and the sweltering, fear-tinged certainty that she’s never really belonged.

Instinctively, she lifts her chin.

Potter offers her a sarcastic sort of salute before turning on his heel and walking off.

“How tiresome,” she eventually snaps, rolling her eyes and tugging at the buttons of her coat. “We officially live in a world where Potter is more interested in what I get up to than Draco is.”


She’s seventeen.

She’s the scabs on her knees and the blood on her palms and the scratch of her tonsils kissing as her throat transforms into a rusted-shut padlock and she shouts—

“But, he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

It’s an origin story.

It’s not a plot twist.


She’s eighteen.

She kisses Harry Potter under the green leaves and red berries of the mistletoe, echoing tunnel-vision fragments of go away and of course I’m not sorry and I’d do lots of things over again if I had the chance and it’s—

It’s the firewhisky on her tongue and the butterbeer on his, molten-gold strands of honey and red-hot shivers of cinnamon, a tantalizing flicker of something traveling up and down her spine. She’s the emerald green stripes on her perfectly pressed tie and he’s the scattered ink-stained wrinkles on his long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and there’s symmetry, there’s balance, there’s the narrow windswept wire beneath the feet of a tightrope walker, a breeze and a wobble and a catch.

There’s her side; there’s his.

There’s this, her fingers in his hair and his hands around her waist and the slow, instinctive open-close-open of their mouths as it all escalates.

Moves faster.

There’s the shadows stretching past midnight in the alcove off the sixth-floor landing. There’s the cool castle wall against her back, a shaky, callused palm sliding up the inside of her thigh and pausing, lingering, the metallic clang of his belt buckle and the swishing whisper of her skirt and a memory, glue-tacky and faded, drawing room lessons with her mother and her nanny and wait until there’s a ring on your finger, Pansy

She’s soft; a dizzy, dizzy mist; a hesitant spring shower in the middle of December.

He’s the lightning bolt on his forehead.

He always has been.

“This—this was a mistake,” he blurts out, afterwards, and then winces. “I don’t mean…”

“It was,” she agrees, cutting him off with a brief toss of her hair. “Absolutely.”

His stare is no less penetrating for all its confusion. “Er. Right,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Absolutely.”

He’s curious.

She hadn’t anticipated that.


She’s twenty-one.

She’s six years past the age of leaving lipstick print kisses on her bathroom mirror—sticky crimson and garden-fresh pink and bruised, buttery violet—but she does it today. The cellophane wrapper of a muggle brand pregnancy test is crinkling at her from the tissue-paper depths of her wastebasket.

I love you, he’d said the night before, and he’d meant it.

Meanwhile, her toes had curled with reflexive urgency into the summer-warm cocoon of her sheets. Because if the dungeons at Hogwarts had been a cage, and the snarling serpent pendant on her necklace had been a call to arms, then the sparkling solitaire diamond in his bedside drawer would be the fluttering white flag of a surrender. A truce. A ceasefire.

Once upon a time, she’d been pure enough to pet a unicorn.


  • Octavian: Every hero needs a sidekick, every captain needs a mate!
  • Agrippa: Aye aye!
  • Octavian: Every dinner needs a side dish-
  • Agrippa: On a slightly smaller plate!
  • Both: And now we're seeing eye to eye, It's so great we can agree! That Deified Caesar has chosen you and me-
  • Octavian: But mostly me! Something incredible, I'll do something incredible! I want to be the Roman that changed all of mankind.
  • Agrippa: My best friend...
  • Octavian: Something I've forseen...now that I'm nineteen, I'll do something incredible, that blows Rome's freaking mind! And as long as we stick together-
  • Agrippa: -and I stay out of your way!
  • Octavian: Out of my way! Life is about to change for you, And life is about to change for me, and life is about to change for you and me, but me, mostly! And there's no limit to what we can do. Me... and you.
  • Octavian: But mostly-ME!

I am nineteen, in college surrounded by people who all seem to know what they want and how they’re going to get it. Their ambition is infectious, and I catch it, striving towards some vague dream of a life I’m passionate about living.

I am nineteen, at my first college party with people I only kind of know and wondering if I belong. I leave.

I am nineteen, and each friend I make feels like a success. A personal triumph that I’m constantly questioning is real. When you are lonely long enough, it’s hard to understand that people want to be around you. 


I am nineteen, unsure of myself and everything that comes with the future, but I am learning how to be. I am still floundering, but turning twenty is starting to look better.

—  nineteen // c.h.