The gardens down by the waterfront was one of his favorite places to have her. It was far enough away from the church that they could make a fair amount of sound without the fear of being caught. There had been a few times - how could there not have been - that they were careless, needing each other in broad daylight with her golden locks shining in the sunlight like a halo around her head. Sometimes it was almost as if God himself was giving his blessing to their union. Yet Killian knew that couldn’t be true because what they were doing was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Emma Nolan was an angel sent to him from heaven above and he worshiped her as such.
My mother tells me that making boys fall in love is like feeding them honey.
She says ‘start with a little’
A kiss. Fingers brushing together.
She says eventually they start coming back for more.
Hands sliding down spines, hips pressed together so tightly it feels like a collapsing building.
'They all become addicts my darling, wanting more and more till they’re drowning in it.’ She whispers.
I think about this when I’m kissing you. When we’re tangled in the sheets. When you breath my name into my thighs.
I pull you closer and swear I can taste the honey in our mouths.
“He looks at her like she puts the stars in the sky”
She arrives at the
beginning of Draco’s fourth year.
Saunters in amongst
the other Beauxbatons girls, smothered in blue silk and soft mouths and giggles
that fluttered in their throats like butterflies. And there had been so many of
them; a mirage of powdered cheeks and rouged lips and practiced, purposeful
perfection, Renaissance paintings with rounded edges and placated smiles – but
it was her that caught Draco’s eye and never quite managed to let go.
Because he knows
myths, has ran his fingers over age-old ink that told tales of vengeful gods
and spinning wheels, gingerbread houses and maidens dragged beneath the ground
and he’s never understood the Trojan war, no, didn’t understand how pretty eyes
and a slender fingers could cause bloodshed –
But she feels the
weight of his stare against her shoulders. Glances over and meets his eyes.
He thinks about
trees falling in an empty forest and whether they make a sound.
He’s in the owlry
when he sees her again, tying a green ribbon around a letter addressed to his
mother. A coat of snow has been draped over the castle, frost etching patterns
against window panes and boots leaving imprints of wherever you go.
Draco’s breath fogs
in the air, words catch in his lungs as he turns and sees her, an apparition, a
A fur collar is
brushing against the slope of her jaw, pinned with a diamond brooch that’s ostentatious
and spectacular and matches precisely the color of her eyes. “Hello,” she says,
words dripping icicle-cold down the notches of his spine.
“Hello,” he replies,
because he’s a gentleman, extends his hand and marvels in how much smaller she is than him. How her
fingerprints seem to match his despite all reason.
A blush – fine and
faint and vaguely reminiscent of the ice dusted roses in his mother’s garden –
suffuses the grooves of her cheeks. “You’re,” she starts. Stops. Heart stutters
like it’s drowning. “You’re the Malfoy boy, aren’t you?”
And he wonders just
how much she’s heard.
arrogant and sullen, bratty and petty and widely despised. Because he’s sharp
edges and sharper words, the pomegranate that had tricked Persephone and the
curse that turned King Midas’ touch to gold. Because he can’t imagine anyone
who didn’t benefit from it like him,
no, not when his morals have firmly affixed themselves to his last name until
he can’t quite tell the difference.
“Yes,” he says, as stiff
as a starch collar. His Achilles heel is pulled taut. Then, “How do you know
who I am?”
She lowers her eyes.
The flutter of her lashes reminds him of the flapping of an owl’s wings against
the pale, pale sky. “I asked about you,” she replies, and his heart skips a
He’s in the library,
sat at a table in the back beneath color painted windows that cast stories
against the floor when under the burden of sunlight, fingers smudged with ink
and every word on the page somehow translating to the width of her smile and
the depth of her eyes.
A stray parchment –
his first attempt at his potions essay – is hanging languorously off the table.
Ink is speckled across the fine wood of the table, ink blots that they show you
in a therapist’s office and ask, “What do you see?”
preferred the hazy certainty of crystal balls.
And a weight is
settling into the chair beside him, the girl, with a textbook in her arms and a
question on her mouth and –
“Of course,” he
says, pushes his things aside so she has more room. “I could use the company
It’s not exactly
He hadn’t been able
to concentrate before and now all he can see if the blur of her smile in his peripheral,
a striped tie that abides to no house, long fingers and porcelain cheeks and a
lock of hair tucked behind her ear.
“I’m going to set
this whole school on fire,” she sighs. Giggles at the laugh that rumbles in his
chest like a thunder stroke. Sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. Pauses for
one heartbeat, two, and says, “Would you like to go for a walk with me? I need
a break, I think.”
It doesn’t matter
that they’ve been studying for barely ten minutes.
He says yes and can’t
help but compare the gossamer in the trees to the way her hair blows in the
wind, the gold of the eking sunlight to the apple of her cheeks, the rippling
of the lake to how he perceives her to be – everything below the surface.
They settle into a
routine by the time Christmas magic is flickering in the air.
He walks her to her
classes, helps her with her homework at night. She sits in the stands at his
Quidditch practices and loops her arm through his elbow when their footsteps
echo against the castle floor. She wears his jacket when it’s cold and they
discreetly pass notes during class, pretend that the smudged ink on their palms
doesn’t quite communicate how they feel.
She tells him of
France – all muted colors and crisp days, flowers blooming like pulses beneath
skin and people like dolls dressed for antique stores. Asks him to read his
mother’s letters to her when they come and lounges against his lap in the
We’re friends, he
tells Blaise, irritation lacing beneath his scalp as he twists his fingers
around the handle of his broom. Mud is caking the soles of his boots, sweat
congealing at the base of his spine.
And Blaise smirks.
Shuts his locker door with a clang. “Sure,” he says, reaches down to unlace his
gear. “You might be friends – but I hardly think that’s what you’d like to be.”
Draco doesn’t quite
know what to say to that.
It happens at the
against an ink-dark sky, orchestra crooning and champions shuffling across the
floor like it’s all a game of chess. Queen, King, Bishop, Knight.
are at her elbow bend as he murmurs into her ear, watches as goosebumps arise
on her arms from the cold and her laugh is quiet, tinkling like the crystals of
the chandeliers. Checkmate, he thinks. Keeps himself from staring at the line
of her collarbones and the fullness of her mouth and the way that her dress
droops just the slightest because, god, she’s a storm that he thinks he wants
to chase but tornadoes always have had a way of swallowing everything in their
“Dance?” he asks,
holds her waist and her hand and wonders if her heart, too, is burgeoning an
He whirls her around
the glass floor until her cheeks are stained a watercolor pink and he feels
dizzy, drunk, like he’s Dionysus and she’s the wine. And it’s all very inescapable,
“It’s too warm in
here,” she murmurs, sweat gathering in the pool of her clavicle. Strands of
hair frame her face, look impossibly similar to a halo as he leads her outside
into the chill and she glances up at the snow dotted sky.
He looks at her.
At the bend of her
neck and the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her mouth as she sighs.
He looks at her like
she put the stars in the sky, gathered up dragon bones and threw them to the
horizon until they were little more than specks against the cosmos.
He looks at her and
he can’t quite help it, no, can’t quite help the way his fingers trace the
shard of her cheek, heart strings tremble like the string of a lyre in his
chest and –
It feels like
destiny, when he finally kisses her. Bittersweet and melancholy and sugar spun
days, honey sweet summers, the wine he’s been forbidden to touch and the
ambrosia of the gods.
Let’s talk about Eve. Let’s talk about her nakedness. Let’s talk about how she got tricked by something Adam named, there is power in names. Perhaps if he had called it a rabbit instead of a serpent, none of this would have happened. Let’s talk about how she offered him the fruit.
Let’s talk about Pandora. Let’s talk about how beautiful she was. Let’s talk about how much she loved her husband and how she loved curiosity more. Let’s talk about how she got tricked too. Let’s talk about how she released everything except hope.
Let’s talk about her. Let’s talk about her ocean blue eyes and her honey spun hair and her olive skin. Let’s talk about how she got warned about you. Let’s talk about how you burned her until her flesh evaporated. Let’s talk about how she reformed into a spear that ripped you from your toes to your temples.
Let’s talk about me. Let’s talk about how I didn’t know you were the forbidden fruit or the forbidden pithos or the raging inferno. Let’s talk about how you dressed up in wings and a robe and called yourself an archangel. Let’s talk about your flaming sword of vengeance.
Let’s talk about you now. Let’s talk about how your sword is actually a plastic torch that really, wouldn’t even make a good lightsaber. Let’s talk about your hands. Let’s talk about your legs. Let’s talk about your throat. I thought I knew everything about you, but I missed out something. I forgot to taste the forbidden. I forgot to cut your heart out of your chest and take a bite. I forgot. Let’s talk about that.
Good boyfriends went out and bought their partner a cake for their birthday. Great boyfriends baked their partners a homemade cake for their birthday. But Pearl wasn’t a good boyfriend…nor was Pearl a great boyfriend.
No, she was a drag boyfriend, er, girlfriend, and she was going to give Violet something special to remember this night.
I’m not sorry that this is up late cos I am at home and spending time with my lovely family. I wanted to write this about the past, but I know nothing about American history. Literally nothing. Seriously, until I was about…thirteen…I thought you chose your presidents by which candidate looked the most like naturally formed faces in the cliffs. Honestly.
This is short, and not very good at all. I’m busy.