madame cold

The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight. 

She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn’t had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting’s open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls’ seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface. 

The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away. 


-


The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance– with spells, with braces, with a friend’s shoulder– but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names. 


-


The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They’d brought the tables back. 

The cluster was only a tiny blip of three– Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair. 

Ginny was sitting half in Harry’s lap, like if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin. 

Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny’s jokes, and Ron didn’t know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry’s hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday. 

He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul. 

Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta. 


-


The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again. 


-


The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey’s hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout’s cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable. 

Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4. 

Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she’d been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. “Hey,” he said, and let the door click shut behind him. 

“Hey.” When she saw where he was heading, she added, “The olive’s still alive.”

The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem. 

“I was thinking I’d try to mend up the walls, close this place up again,” said Hannah. “But I wasn’t sure I could do it alone." 

"Alright,” said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.  


-


The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown’s parents. 


-


The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it. 

She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside– up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers. 

She wasn’t sure when it had gotten so cluttered– sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle’s barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she’d gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be. 

She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags. 

She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag’s insides, or if she should just buy another one.  


-


The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged. 

Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she’d ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her. 

Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her. 


-


The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid’s cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn’t go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn’t come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt. 

Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest’s edge. Buckbeak’s old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry’s scars and wrapped 
his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists. 

When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more. 

It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead. 

“They doing dinner down there?” she said, her dry throat rasping on it. 

He shrugged. “Mum’s organizing, I think. It– helps, I think." 

She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one. 

"I just wanted to go back to the tent,” said Ron. “Be alone. It’s quiet." 

"I won’t get in your way,” she said. “It’s still pitched down there." 

"I know,” he said. “With you, I meant.”

“That’s not alone,” she said. “I’m not quiet,” she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag. 

“Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one." 

"But you are, Ron–" 

"Hermione,” he said. “Come with me? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone. Come home.”

They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand. 


-


The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn’t have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened. 

“Ginny’s sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery,” Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. “She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not intruding, right?" 

"Don’t be daft,” said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. “C'mon, join in, Hermione’s trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it’s an act of caring concern.” Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.  

The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other. 

But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione’s hand and none of them wanted to go. 

They would get too old for this– hard floors and the way Harry’s neck was cricked up on Ron’s bony shoulder. Hermione’s snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron’s bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents’ broken home. 

In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks’s spare room. “We’re almost like family, after all,” she’d say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy’s diapers, and the whiskey. They’d come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly’s quilts or out on the Granger’s back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda. 

In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn’t tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on. 

Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry– a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny’s favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug. 

When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they’d repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.

anonymous asked:

Ok, but what about someone slipping Lumiere a love potion meant for Plumette?? And now Lumiere is even MORE in love with her (IS THAT POSSIBLE!?) and whoever was pining over Plumette is just... SOL??? (idk, man, I need to lay off the coffee)

HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT nobody ever TOLD me that this prompt was POSSIBLE. i was about to go to bed but GUESS WHO’S WRITING FANFIC NOW, BITCHES


“I don’t want the child,” says Agathe, again. She stands against the churchyard steps, confusion evident in her tilted eyebrows and blank eyes, watching the woman babbling on before her.

“You always do,” says the woman.

Agathe’s eyes are very blank and very calm. The village woman does not know how much danger she is in.

“It’s a witch-thing, innit? And I have a babe. And I have a demand,” says the woman. “And it will only take a minute of your time—why, I’m sure you have loads of the potions in your pockets, just crawling with toads and newts-eyes and such-on….”

Agathe blinks, quietly. All that is in her pockets is owl feathers.

The woman sighs. “Fine. Do it for the justice, right? You witches like justice. Isn’t that why you cursed all of them, then?” Her hand waves toward the village, the forest, the palace—the palace where, as Agathe knows, Lumiere is at this moment sitting in his room, nursing a cold. He is trying to tell jokes to Plumette through a stuffed-up nose. He makes his darling laugh as she curls up beside him on the bed; and Plumette doesn’t care if she gets sick too, for all she wants is to giggle with her love. 

“Justice,” says the woman, grabbing Agathe’s arm, and the enchantress’s attention is drawn back to this moment. A moment which, Agathe thinks, is lasting forever.

“He’s gone gallivanting off with that girl,” says the woman, bitter as a sour apple. “She’s lured him off, with her Parisian wiles. He’s lost his wholesomeness beside her! How can you stand for that?!”

Agathe checks in on the girl’s Parisian wiles. Plumette is currently engaged in putting marshmallows into Lumiere’s hot cocoa. She’s trying to poke them into a smiley face for him.

“It’s time he loves me again,” hisses the woman. “I was his first.”

You are lucky you are not my last, thinks Agathe. There is a broken musket buried deep in the forest near her hovel. It was once a man.

“So?” The woman shoves forward her child—a little girl, only just in skirts, with no idea of what her mother begs for. “A child. A love potion. You like love, don’t you?”

Agathe does like love. And the child would probably like to see an owl. And the wheedling woman has her pinned against the church.

“Here,” she says, and fetches into her deepest pocket. She pulls out a jar. “Oh, no—not that one—that’s my jam.” She pulls out another. “Here. Look away.”

The woman looks at her askance, for a moment. Begrudgingly, she turns her eyes away.

The child—little Crevette, daughter of the war widow, with a papa killed in the faraway gunfire—stares with big, brown eyes as Agathe’s face glows gold, then disappears. The Enchantress peers out, her hands glowing as she gestures over the small bottle. Its contents turn purple—then red—then a hot, rich burgundy. It looks like summer wine. It looks like just-crushed grapes.

Agathe’s face returns, and she smiles at the child. Takes Crevette’s hand, with cautious fingers, fingers that leave no sense of touch. She hands the jar to the woman.

“Be careful,” she says. “It is heady with marjoram.”

The woman is gone without saying good-bye.

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Anastasia's letter to her father 22nd September 1914

September 22nd

My golden Papa!

Olga has just received a telegram from you. I’m going to go pray with Alexei, and then I’ll finish the letter. It’s sunny but cold here. Today we worked in Olga’s warehouse. Alexei feels better, he is cheerful and laughs a lot, so he is much better. 15 new soldiers arrived in my and Maria’s hospital, but we have not been there yet. Today we 4 had dinner alone, and Mama ate a little in bed. Mom met the Sisters who go to war. Beautiful Countess Kutuzova, Sashka’s 3 sisters and 2 nieces. Then the hussar’s wife, he was killed, I forgot his name, she’s not particularly pretty. I went to Alexei’s. I returned from Alexei’s, washed up and am writing now. I hope that you are sleeping well. I still have to prepare lessons, it’s so boring. We have not ridden our bicycles for a long time and have not passed under the windows of the guard room. It’s probably because it’s cold. Madame Dediulina said that she has a distant relative, Dediulin, in the Kexgolmsky regiment, and he is being held captive by the Germans in Danzig, and that there are five officers in prison there. In the small church of the Svodny Regiment there is a mass every day at 9 am, and Mama was there with Olga in the morning. Shura hurries me to end my writing, because it’s time to go to bed, but I certainly do not want to go to sleep. Count Schulenburg brought for Alexei a German rifle, a helmet in a case, a backsword, epaulets of the 147th regiment and a sash with silver tassels, a piece of shrapnel and, it seems, bullets. The carved rifle and the backsword, were given to be cleaned, the case was also stained. Alexei was very happy. It seems he is going back tomorrow. It is necessary for me to end.

I wish you all the best. I kiss your hands and feet 1 000 000 times. I’m waiting!
Your faithful servant loving you with all her heart
13-year-old Nastasia (Shvybzik) ANRPZSG
May the Lord keep you. +
Sleep sweetly and see me in your dreams.

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thesecondsealwrites  asked:

Take my jacket it's cold outside(from 100 ways to say I love you..i think.) For Josie x Adaar. ❤

For @thesecondsealwrites‘s Kissing Day prompts. Josephine x Vidomeda Adaar, romance/fluff. 822 words. Thanks for the prompt! :)

This scene was partially inspired by this adorable and beautiful art of Josie by @kirkwallgirl.


Snow 

Snowflakes fell lazily from the grey sky, whirling and dancing in the air before tumbling onto the thick white blanket that already coated the Skyhold grounds. The snow had come upon them unexpectedly overnight. The evening before, the castle had been in the last vestiges of autumn. Now they had been thrust deep into the depths of winter. 

Vidomeda loved it. 

Growing up as she had (roaming the northern coasts of Rivain and Antiva with a travelling band of players), she had never seen snow. She would encounter travellers from the south who spoke of cold days and endless nights, but it was something that seemed so far-fetched, so fantastical to a child of endless summer. She remembered distinctly the first time she had seen snow as an adult. She had been huddled in the attic of a run-down cottage, somewhere in the middle of Orlais. Her mercenary company was surrounded by the very same bandits they had been hired to kill (it was early days… everyone had to start somewhere). The tables had been turned on them and they were slowly being smoked out of their hiding place when snow began to fall. Vidomeda remembered it dusting the windowsill of the attic window. The storm hit, and hit hard, scattering the bandits to the wind while Vidomeda and her company remained safe within the walls of the cottage. 

It had felt almost magical, like they were touched by fate. Nature had come to their rescue that day. And snow always reminded her of it. 

(It also reminded her of how she had almost died after the Battle of Haven, but she tried not to dwell on that too much.) 

“You can be such a child, you know.” 

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3

Let me get you a fresh cup of hot coffee.

Fit to be Your Romeo ~Mark ft. JB~ ღ

Request: How about when another member kisses you unexpectedly (JB) and your crush sees (Mark) it can end however you write it :)        

Comments: I saw this as the perfect oppurtunity to incorporate my love of Romeo & Juliet in here, so I really hope you like how it came out! omg i love this scenario GAHH

“No, no, no, no, no, you’re not putting enough emotion into it!” Mr. Park let out a long sigh after the tenth pair of students tried to recite the lines of Romeo & Juliet to each other. And yet again, in his eyes, they failed. He rubbed his forehead and looked out to his students. “Can someone please come up here and recite the lines like you mean them?”

         You sat in one of the auditorium seats in the back with your best friend Yura, reading over the lines in the play. It shouldn’t be that difficult to recite them with feeling. “Should I go up there?” you asked.

         She furrowed her eyebrows and watched as yet another pair got up on the stage to say the same lines again. “If you want to be ridiculously criticized by that crazy man, then sure,” she answered.

         You chuckled and laughed as well. “He does have a point, though. Everyone’s just blatantly reading the lines without emotion.”

         Yura looked at you ridiculously. “Oh my gosh, who are you and what have you done to my best friend?” She grabbed you by the shoulders. “Who are you?”

         You laughed and pried her arms off. “Calm down, it’s still me,” you assured her. “I’m just saying it’s the truth.” You absentmindedly let your eyes fall on Mark for a brief moment. “I wouldn’t mind getting up there and give it a try.”

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Most Precious Things...

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life were the two birthday presents he got for his birthday after being bit. It was bought for him in London by his mother and father while he was still in the hospital. 

  • A black stuffed dog who his mother happily called Snuffles and he would never change the name 
  • A book filled with fairy tales titled Beedle and the Bard

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was a small book he got from the second hand shop in Diagon Alley when he was nine, having saved up what he could will his allowance and buying it when his father let him come with him to the shopping area to restock on potion ingredients. 

  • The small book Hogwarts: A History, was marked up and dog eared. Filled with the dreams of a boy that was slowly coming to reality that he would never get there but he could still dream 

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was the letter that was handed to him by the man that played gobstones with him in front of his fire place on his eleventh birthday. The green ink shining with his name, the March sun pouring into the room, and the worst day of his life changing into the best day quickly. 

  • The letter was opened by never to damage the envelope. On the front it read his name, and on the back the wax seal to the school he only dreamed about in really bad nights 

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was the new trunk he got when school began. All his other things may have been second hand, or from his father but the trunk was not. 

  • His name engraved on the front proudly, his father smiling at him. He took the best care of it he could because he knew this was a gift that his parents had worked to most to get him even with the cost probably being high.

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans that he found on the nightstand by his bed after his first full moon at school. 

  • He ate them all but kept the box safe and undamged the best he cold, thanking Madam Pomfrey every time he saw her for every gift she left him after that. 

The most precious things in Remus Lupin’s life was a photo album he recieved when returning from Christmas in second year, already having the front page filled with funny moving pictures of the three boys that stayed in the dorm they shared

  • He filled it as quickly as he could over the years that they shared, making sure to capture every moment.

The most precious things in Remus Lupin’s life were the three animals that stood in front of him when he walked back into the dorm after Christmas break in fifth year. A young deer, a immature dog, and a little rat. 

  • They had done so much, and were still doing more. He never knew how to thank them other then burst into tears that were licked off my a dog’s tongue.

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was the way his friends carried him without complaint, helped him without hesitation, and the way they made him smile when he couldn’t begin to think of something happy in his life.

  • They brought him joy he never thought possible, and hope he never dreamed of having.

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life were the tender hugs, and secret kisses that he would wake up to, or fall into when he was distressed. 

  • The smell of wet dog, and barking laugh, and kind eyes helping him find his way through the worst parts of his life.

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life was the name. The name that told him he belonged, that was one of them. 

  • Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Four brothers that could do anything they set their minds to and would never be apart

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life were his friends; James Potter, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Lily Evans. They held him up and he in turn tried to do the same. 

  • When they were around he felt like he could do anything he put his mind to. But one by one they faded, and slowly he began to once again feel alone.

Remus Lupin kept his toy dog, his two books, his box; he kept the photo album all tucked away safely in his trunk his father gave him. The things it couldn’t hold made him feel alone once again. It couldn’t hold the jokes, or the laughter, the kisses or the love. It couldn’t protect his friends from death’s door or a traitorous path. 

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life took a long time to admit. She had ‘his’ eyes at time, but sometimes they changed. Her hair could be fiery like her or settle for soft colors like she was at times. 

  • He was scared to love again, scared to get close. He had lost so much, how could he add another thing to his trunk? What if she broke, what if she died? Who would be left then to stand by his side?

The most precious thing in Remus Lupin’s life took a long time to find one that he could hold onto long enough that he knew it wouldn’t be taken and wouldn’t be meaningless. It was small, and frail; held closely in his new love’s arms. Soft brown hair like his slowly turning blue. It slept soundly, it had tiny hands and a tiny face. 

  • He got eleven days with this precious thing, before he was taken away from it. He got eleven days, gazing upon what he had made and feeling whole again. Feeling the joy of his friends’ smiles, feeling the laughter, and feeling the pride. He wouldn’t take back those eleven days even if it meant changing everything that happened, changing everything that went wrong.

This one thing at least, was right. 

"Canonically, River Song does not have a life outside the Doctor."

MELS: It was late. I took a bus. 
RORY: Er, you stole a bus. 
AMY: Who steals a bus? 
MELS: I returned it.

RIVER: Oh, look at that. Berlin on the eve of war. A whole world about to tear itself apart. Now that’s my kind of town.

RIVER: Well, I was on my way to this gay Gypsy Bar-Mitzvah for the disabled, when I thought gosh, the Third Reich’s a bit rubbish. I think I’ll kill the Fuhrer. Who’s with me?

RIVER: I seem to be able to fly her. She showed me how. She taught me.

DOCTOR: We have to let her make her own way now. We have too much foreknowledge.

KOVARIAN: So, they made you a Doctor today, did they? Doctor River Song. How clever you are.

RIVER: I’m on the first night of 12,000 consecutive life sentences.

DOCTOR: River Song could walk in and out of the prison like the walls aren’t there.

RIVER: Oh just a few Sontarans, chased me halfway across the galaxy. I probably shouldn’t have asked them if they were on a hen night.

GUARD: You’d better get down here, sir. She’s doing it again. Doctor Song, sir. She’s packing. Says she’s going to some planet called America.

RIVER: Amy, stay back!

RORY: So, what kind of doctor are you?
RIVER: Archaeology. Love a tomb.

DOCTOR: You could come with us. 
RIVER: I escape often enough, thank you. And I have a promise to live up to.

GUARD: She had the lipstick. The hallucinogenic lipstick. She tried to use it on me. Your tricks don’t work in here, Doctor Song.

DORIUM: Well now, word on the Belt is you’re looking for time travel. 
RIVER: Are you selling?

CLAUDIO: Cleopatra will see you now.

COMMANDER: So. I return to my command after one week and discover we’ve been playing host to Cleopatra. Who’s in Egypt. And dead. 
RIVER: Yes. Funny how things work out.

RIVER: A fool would say the work of the Gods, but you’ve been a soldier too long to believe there are Gods watching over us.

(to the TARDIS) RIVER: What’s the matter with you? What are you doing? What’s wrong?

RIVER: I dated a Nestene duplicate once. Swappable head. It did keep things fresh.

RIVER: I’m River Song. Check your records again. 
DALEK: Mercy.

RIVER: I needed to see what was in your vault. Do you all know what’s down there? Any of you? Because I’ll tell you something. This ship won’t reach its destination.

OCTAVIAN: Doctor Song was helping us with a covert investigation.

RIVER: I’ve travelled in time. I’m a complicated space time event too.

RIVER: The prison ship’s in orbit. They’ll beam me up any second. I might have done enough to earn a pardon this time. We’ll see.

AMY: Heard there was a freak meteor shower two miles away, so I got us a bottle. 
RIVER: Thank you, dear.

AMY: I killed someone. Madame Kovarian, in cold blood. 
RIVER: In an aborted time line, in a world that never was.

RORY: Where am I? How the hell did I get here? 
RIVER: I haven’t the faintest idea, but you’ll probably want to put your hands up.

GRAYLE: So I understand. Melody Malone, the detective who investigates Angels.

RIVER: Let’s see, crime boss with a collecting fetish. Whatever you don’t let anyone else see has got to be your favourite.

DOCTOR: Travel with me, then. 
RIVER: Whenever and wherever you want. But not all the time.

ANITA: How do you know they’re not androids? 
RIVER: Because I’ve dated androids. They’re rubbish.

LUX: Professor Song, why am I the only one wearing my helmet? 
RIVER: I don’t fancy you.

DAVE: I don’t want to sound horrible, but couldn’t we just, you know? 
RIVER: This is her last moment. No, we can’t. A little respect, thank you.

RIVER: If you die here, it’ll mean I’ve never met you. 
DOCTOR: Time can be rewritten. 
RIVER: Not those times. Not one line. Don’t you dare.

RIVER: Madame Vastra. 
VASTRA: Professor. Help yourself to some tea. 
RIVER: Why, thank you.

Canonically, you’re wrong.