thrift dress

Gotham Headcanon

Oswald drunkenly rants about his personal life to people all the time

  • I bust him out of Arkham for what? So he can get with this bitch? I don’t fucking think so.
  • Who does she think I am? I’M THE KING OF GOTHAM, BITCH.
  • So what? She can tell riddles? ANYONE CAN TELL RIDDLES, JIM!!!!
  • What does she have that I don’t? I mean— look at that ratty ass thrift store dress. I wEAR GUCCI
skin & bones

pairing: draco malfoy x hermione granger

setting: modern, non-magical, post-break up au

word count: 697 

written for: @silvermaze [happy birthday, lovely! xoxo]


It’s a crisp, clear day in early November when it happens.

Hell freezes over.

Hermione Granger—all five and a half feet of her, smooth brown skin and chapped pink lips and a thick cloud of hair pushed back off her face with a red cotton headband—she steps through the jingling side door of the midtown Starbucks Draco does most of his writing at.

It’s been…years, technically, since he’d last seen her. Years. Years since he’d sold his first play, and years since her blog had gone viral, and years since he’d stopped instinctively searching for her at industry parties, in hole-in-the-wall Brooklyn diners, on crowded fluorescent-lit trains hurtling around like pinballs beneath the city streets.

She looks almost eerily identical to how she’d looked when he’d ended things. Black tights. Knee-length sweater dress. Raggedy thrift store Burberry scarf. She’s got a scuffed leather jacket on, and shiny brown Oxfords, and the antique seed-pearl locket he’d given her for their very first Christmas together.

Draco can’t help himself.

He stares.

She hasn’t noticed him yet.

He continues staring.

And he feels a swift spike of adrenaline, electric and fierce, pummel him in solar plexus—an urge to do something, say something, act and react, because—

His second play had been a tragicomic exploration of classism at an elite, all-boys Connecticut prep school. Hermione hadn’t reviewed it on her blog—hadn’t reviewed anything Draco had written, ever—but she had, at the time, shared without comment a snippet from a New Yorker article about “pretentious Ivy League dropouts with Tempurpedic trust funds polluting the Broadway shadows with their fourth-generation WASP guilt”; and Draco had always known, somewhere deep deep deep in his gut, that Hermione had been the one to give him a chance, back when they’d been dating. It had never been the other way around. He wonders if he should’ve told her that. Before. During. After.

Now.

“Hermione?” he blurts out, unable to completely mask his astonishment.

It takes her less than a second to recognize his voice—and then she’s stiffening, posture going ramrod straight and jaw visibly clenching, and when she finally turns to look at him, there’s a wary spark of irritation in her eyes. They hadn’t parted on good terms. It’s harder for him to remember that than it should be.

“Draco Malfoy,” she says, and it’s not—it’s not quite a greeting. An invitation for further conversation. She states his name like she’s making an observation. Like he’s furniture. Decoration. Unnecessary. It stings, frankly, and he guesses that was her intention. “This is a little…down-market for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s good for inspiration,” he immediately answers. He doesn’t blink. He’s afraid to. “The people here. They’re—normal.”

She lifts an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the line beginning to form at the register. “The people at the Times Square Starbucks are normal to you,” she replies, in that same vaguely incredulous tone she used to reserve for biweekly dinners with his parents. “Really.”

Draco doesn’t blush. He’s twenty-eight fucking years old. Pretty girls with judgmental smiles and intimidation in their veins didn’t get to him like this. Nott anymore. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” she says, somewhat dryly; somewhat bitterly, if he’s being honest with himself. “I don’t think I do.”

Silence descends, awkward and heavy. “How’ve you…been?” he tries, before wincing. “I just—I read your critique. About Shakespeare and, and feminism. Last month. In the Post.”

Surprise colors her features. “You did?” she murmurs, gaze flicking from the Adam Ant sticker on his laptop, to the doubtless idiotic expression on his face, to the slightly dry blueberry scone sitting on a napkin by his elbow.

“Yeah,” he sighs, because of course he did. He’s read everything she’s ever published. “Yes.”

She pauses, opening her mouth like she wants to speak again—but ultimately, she doesn’t, just studies him with a quizzical tilt of her head, the moment stretching on and on and on, for so long that it doesn’t end so much as it…fades.

“You…write here, then?” she eventually asks, clearing her throat. “Often?”

He relaxes.


Three days later, she comes back.


2

Last week, I visited Tokyo Disneyland for the first time with @victorianme. For the occasion, I dressed up in a Village Belle inspired outfit. And of course, I had to bring my book bag!

Dress: Thrifted/vintage
Blouse: Heather
Bag: Innocent World
Shoes: Clarks
Hair ribbon: Sash on the dress

Notes I Found in the Thrift Store Dressing Room

             Do not try on more than six items at once
             ^ but you can buy as many as you want
       
No one can catch you in here
       
             Check your pockets
              ^ I found a heart in the breast pocket of a wool sweater
                                                             
                         No one is looking at you
             
    There is a door to Narnia in isle 3
     ^ this is true, I live there
     ^ there is also one in your apartment,
                               you just have to find it
                                                                                     
                                                                           You look fine
       
            Please don’t fear your own reflection
                           
      I found a coat made of unicorn fur
      ^ maybe that’s where they all went
       
If it has a stain don’t buy it
         ^ this rule does not apply to people
                               
                         You can’t fill your empty spot with new clothes
                          ^ watch me
                                                                     
                      Love is all you need
                            ^ this is a dirty lie
   
   Help, I broke my heart
   ^ tie it back together with a scarf from the back row
   ^ I tried this, it works

Stop sucking in, you don’t need to be smaller
                         
Not even god can help you now
^ you are your own god

—  A.O.A.M. || Notes I found in the Thrift Store Dressing Room
2

since I haven’t posted a recent selfie in a bit i’ll just tb to summer 16 when the world was bright & forgiving. btw i thrifted this dress, it’s one of my favourites! catch me on the regular on IG