throw pillows velvet

The Signs in a Grand Log Cabin
  • Aries: On a fishing boat in the middle of a lake. The water is rigid but inviting and they're catching plentiful fish. The lake is calm and only the sounds of frogs and woodland deer can be heard.
  • Cancer: Inside the cabin watching the rain drizzle down upon the lake, and upon the windows of the old longstanding log cabin. Watching every stroke of the raindrops disappear into the Earth as they run down the glass panes of the window.
  • Taurus: On the porch, but no one knows that. They're rocking back and forth on the old creaky rocking chair that has been there for decades. Old, wise, and beyond its years. Taurus sits upon the old oak tree, watching the dawn creep up on the shallow waters.
  • Gemini: Hiding away in an abandoned treehouse. Time seems altered when in a treehouse. Time itself creeps slower, feels thicker, like diving into molasses. Thick, sweet, and drowsy. They watch the world as it continues on, while staying in their timeless haven.
  • Leo: Laying on the couch in the living room of the Cabin. Smothered in wool throws and velvet pillows. Watching whatever they find vaguely interesting or intriguing. The cabin smells of vanilla and baked goods. The aroma could make anyone fall asleep.
  • Virgo: Playing solitaire on the oak kitchen table. Playing the cards like puppets on a string. Spades dancing and hearts breaking. There's a feeling of possibility in the air; almost magical. Libra watches. They look down and Virgo deals the cards down, then Libra looks back up at Virgo, and then back down. Virgo won again.
  • Libra: Sitting across from Virgo. They're watching with fascination as Virgo flips and studies the cards like text books. Libra traces their fingers across the deep gashes in the wood of the table. Feeling every cut, scratch, dent and blemish in the table. And traces it back to the end. Over and over again.
  • Scorpio: Hiding away in the master bedroom. The soft blankets on bare skin is their favorite feeling. The scent of lavender fills the room. The bedroom is dark and genuine; it's rhythmic heartbeat fuses with the bed's occupant as their breathing slows to a null, deep breathing.
  • Sagittarius: Hiking around the grounds and paths. The crunch of wild berries and branches under the boots of the lone walker. They wander freely, like a child in a pumpkin patch. They inhale the secrets of the forest and exhale details of life away from total serenity and bliss.
  • Capricorn: Studying the constellations. They lay a blanket on the bare, rich earth and sit down, only to look up and wonder the whole time. The Stars twinkle in their knowledge hungry eyes as they study the orbs from which they themselves are made.
  • Aquarius: They can be found many places. But they always follow one pattern; they're reading something or other. There they are, sitting in the biggest chair in the room. Their stature is demanding and poise. Elegance is in their nature. Glasses marks are scattered across their nose. They look up with impending power and turn everyone stone cold.
  • Pisces: Daydreaming in the same room as Aquarius. The walls are old and grand. Calming and heavy. Drapes are closed and the only light in the room is the flame from a single candle. They look out the dark window only too see stars. The same stars Capricorn are looking at.
  • And when they all look up, they all see the same stars. They all see the same constellations. They all see their creator.

Pairing: Harry Potter x Pansy Parkinson

Setting: Post-war canon AU; alternatively, loosely based on this

Word Count: 2,639

The war ends.

Hogwarts is rebuilt.

Everyone under the age of nineteen who isn’t locked up in Azkaban with a Mark on their arm goes back to finish their seventh year—

Except Pansy.

She spends the summer at her parents’ house, wiling away sultry sunny afternoons to a monotonous looping soundtrack of crashing waves and shrieking seagulls—and she brushes up on her Italian and she drinks enough Campari to stain her tongue a dark, lurid crimson and she twirls her hair around her fingertips, wishes fervently that she had the proper complexion to dye it something different, something like rich copper or gleaming auburn, streaks of starkly unnatural burgundy overshot with fiery orange highlights—but she’s pale-skinned and pink-cheeked and has to just…sigh as she paints her nails the exact same shade of red as freshly spilled blood while not thinking at all about how or why she’s now a veritable expert on the subject.

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