The London sky.

2016-05-10, at 02:03:58
 
The London sky never really sleeps
It just slumbers a bit
It's so different to where I grew up
Where darkness engulfed me at nightfall
And everything grew quiet and still
Where the dark and the quiet
Covered me up like a blanket
And let me sleep soundly at night
 
The London sky never really sleeps
It just slumbers a bit
The constant light befuddles my mind
And I find myself wandering aimlessly
In the hopes of stumbling across
A dark, calm space
To put my mind at rest
 


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Poetry.

2016-03-12, at 23:22:52

In the green, green meadow

Beyond the ragged hill

I can feel your soul

Alive, still

 

You used to love to lie around

Cloud-spotting hand in hand

There was no mistaking about the fact

Your love for me was grand

 

Then came the winter

So cold, so dark

You fought so bravely

But it left its mark

 

I tried to help you best I could

But winter stole your heart

Now I can still feel you close to me

Alive, yet dead in part

 

In the dark, ragged water

Of the stormy sea

Death will bring

Your heart back to me



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#TBT

2014-08-28, at 16:27:28

#TBT to last November when I wrote this poem.

Mark was fairly normal

Or so he’d always thought

But somehow he got singled out

And by his school friends caught

 

They broke and bruised his body

And soon they reached his mind

They told him he was nothing

Until he became blind

 

He was not the only one

For similar was Lucy’s fate

They tore her down to nothing

And now all she knows is hate

 

They put all kinds of stupid thoughts

Up in her poor head
But they fail to realise
That soon she might be dead


Yet those are not the only ones
There are also people who

Don’t have any real friends

There’s no one they can turn to

 

They’re not invited to the parties

Ignored by all their “friends”

They’re forced to sit and play alone

And have to bring their own pens

 

The problem goes beyond the schools

Beyond the parks and playgrounds

It’s also on the internet

In messages and sounds

 

It’s not just the children

Though sometimes they are cruel

It’s also grown-up adults

Who should be more difficult to fool

 

What’s even worse than all of this

Are the people who don’t dare

To speak up when they notice

Someone crying in despair

 

If you ever see someone

Who’s picked on, lonely, hurt

Please give them a helping hand

And teach them they’re not dirt.



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Stop The Bullying.

2013-11-09, at 17:27:32

This poem was originally intended for Jack and Finn Harries' anti-bullying campaign.
If you'd like to help me out a bit, you can reblog it from my Tumblr >here<, and help me spread it that way.
People need to realise that they need to act when they notice that someone's being bullied,
and not just dismiss it as "playful banter".




Mark was fairly normal
Or so he’d always thought
But somehow he got singled out
And by his school friends caught 

They broke and bruised his body
And soon they reached his mind
They told him he was nothing
Until he became blind 

He was not the only one
For similar was Lucy’s fate
They tore her down to nothing
And now all she knows is hate 

They put all kinds of stupid thoughts
Up in her poor head
But they fail to realise
That soon she might be dead

Yet those are not the only ones
There are also people who
Don’t have any real friends
There’s no one they can turn to 

They’re not invited to the parties
Ignored by all their “friends”
They’re forced to sit and play alone
And have to bring their own pens 

The problem goes beyond the schools
Beyond the parks and playgrounds
It’s also on the internet
In messages and sounds 

It’s not just the children
Though sometimes they are cruel
It’s also grown-up adults
Who should be more difficult to fool 

What’s even worse than all of this
Are the people who don’t dare
To speak up when they notice
Someone crying in despair 

If you ever see someone
Who’s picked on, lonely, hurt
Please give them a helping hand
And teach them they’re not dirt.



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The Fault In Our Stars.

2013-08-08, at 17:51:42
 
Some of you might remember that I bought The Fault In Our Stars a while ago,
but I actually haven't gotten around to reading it before now. I'm about halfway through, and this really is one of those "Just ONE more chapter... *two hours later, at 3 A.M.* ... fudge." books that I love.
You feel so close to the characters, and Augustus sounds positively edible by the way he's described in the book.
 
I've had so much spoiled about this book,
that I know that there are going to be lots and lots of feels involved, and I really don't know if I'm up for it after reading Never Dry Tears Without Gloves. But it's such a wonderfully written and amazing book so far, that I really can't stop reading.
 
I'm so going to be up at 3 A.M. sobbing like a child, aren't I?


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Part 6: I did not die.

2013-08-05, at 11:10:39
 
The final part, part 6, of my Sherlock fanfic. 
>Part 1< >Part 2< >Part 3< >Part 4< >Part 5<
 

Sherlock was watching John from a distance. He was hiding behind the bush this time, so that it would be easier to sneak up on John if need be. He was frightened, because for the first time in his life, he could hear his heart speaking. It told him to reveal his presence at the graveyard, to let John know that he was alive, but his rational mind told him to wait a little longer, he still had some matters to tend to. He was also afraid that, however much John cried for him now, he'd be angered to know Sherlock had betrayed him like this, and Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of losing his friend again.

John was talking to his tombstone, and Sherlock tried to will the little old lady a few tombstones down to go away. John quickly solved that problem for him, though, by very loudly exclaiming "Oh bugger!" The lady gave him a weird look and waddled away. It was another headache that pained John. Sherlock knew that the same way he knew John was currently at the verge of tears. His stance and his right hand rubbing his temples told him everything. Sherlock took one step forward, but immediately regretted it and withdrew back into the shadows.

It seemed as if John was trying to gather up the courage to do something, it was fairly obvious. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that - is that..." His voice cracked. Sherlock waited patiently, eager to know what John knew within his heart.

"THAT I BLOODY LOVE YOU!" he cried. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he whispered ever so quietly, "I know, my dear. I've known it all along." John sat down next to the tombstone, and Sherlock really had to restrain himself. He enjoyed watching John sit there, though. His mind was content with just seeing his old friend, but his heart yearned for something more, and he felt it within his bones that this was the final battle - the battle where his heart would win, once and for all.

It was almost sunset, and John Watson stood up to leave. Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest as he realised it was now or never. The perfect moment provided itself when John turned to face his tombstone one final time, and started reciting the old bereavement poem.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep" John's voice carried all of the pent-up emotions he'd cradled for three years now.

Sherlock seized the opportunity to step out behind the bush and approach John. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, his own body betraying him, but still he managed to keep his voice steady. "I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow."

"No, it's not possible..." John exclaimed. He sounded shell-shocked, and Sherlock didn't blame him.

He proceeded to take a few steps closer to John as he continued the poem, "I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain." He noticed John was fighting the urge to turn around, possibly afraid of what he might see if he did.

"You're dead, I saw you fall!" John's military posture was back in place, his shoulders tense, which indicated great emotional turmoil, judging by the anger so clearly noticeable in his voice. Again, Sherlock didn't blame him.

Still, didn't let it dishearten him, "When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush." He knew John wouldn't reject him.

"Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the soft starlight at night." John jumped slightly when Sherlock accidentally stepped on a few dried leaves left from last winter.

"I'm just imagining things again..." John sounded almost as if he wanted to believe it was just his imagination. Perhaps it had been easier to accept his death than it would be to accept that he was back.

Sherlock leaned in closer to John, after three years deprived of any contact with his friend, he needed the intimacy. "Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die." Sherlock heard the tiniest crack in his own voice, and he knew John had heard it too. John knew for certain that Sherlock was real now, and so he turned around.

John's proud moustache shocked Sherlock, he would later admit, but it was only natural that John would get a moustache. For weeks after Sherlock's death, John had been too numb to bother with mundane things like shaving, and after he'd finally snapped out of it, he'd wanted to show the world he was no longer the man he used to be. That he was scarred. That he was broken. That he was a thousand years older and wiser than before.

He wanted to make John realise that he'd never left, so he told him about the clues. Sherlock could see the cogs turning in John's head, and his expression of realisation as he finally seemed to understand everything. The morse code. The candle. Everything. There was nothing Sherlock could do but to hug John, as tightly as possible. He was so glad he didn't have to hide anymore, that he'd gotten his friend back and that he'd soon be working again. God he'd missed his work.

"I have one question though..." John asked thickly. Sherlock hugged him just a little bit tighter, because apparently that's what you do when your friend is worried or scared. "Yes?" he said.

"Are you coming home now?" Sherlock burst into a big grin, a genuine one, because yes, he was finally coming home again. "Yes!" he answered, without hesitation, laughing a relieved laugh.

They walked out of the graveyard hand in hand, since Sherlock could sense John still needed him as an anchor, to know that it wasn't just a dream, to know that he was really back for good now. While they walked, Sherlock told John about what he'd been up to during his three years of death. He told him that he'd sorted things out, that he was able to come back to the world of the living again. John didn't know how he'd done it, but apparently Sherlock had cleared his own name, all while being dead. They walked that way for a while, until they found a cab, which they quickly jumped into.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabby. Then, in retrospect, he faced John and added, "I know you haven't been staying there, but you haven't actually moved out, have you?"

"I... I couldn't go back to the flat after you, um, you know... Too many memories, I was flooded by a tidal wave of emotions as soon as I got anywhere near that place. But technically, it's still ours, yes. And all of your things are still there, Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to donate them anywhere after all, because of their sentimental value."

"So neither of you have sold or donated anything?" Sherlock sounded happily shocked as he caught John's eyes, seeking confirmation. London was rushing by outside of the cab windows, but Sherlock didn't care. His world, right now, revolved around John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and his flat. Soon enough, it would expand to Lestrade, work and London.

"Not a single eyeball. Well, apart from your money. It was donated to some charity, I'm sure they were very thankful for the generous amount." John sounded a bit concerned, he barely had enough money to get by, and he had no idea how he'd make it if he had to feed Sherlock too. Not that he ate, anyway, but the man had other expensive habits. He was determined to make it work, though.

Sherlock laughed, "I didn't need that money anyway. I'm sure the British Heart Foundation will put it to good use. Besides, I don't think Mycroft will complain about lending me some money until I can start working again."

John's jaw was hanging open, "How did you?... nevermind. I'd almost forgotten how remarkable you are." He smiled a happy smile that, for the first time in three years, even managed to reach his eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot: I think you'll be pleased to know that Mrs. Hudson kept your skull."

Sherlock smiled an amused smile and shared a knowing look with John, "Really? Did she now?"



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Part 5: I am the gentle autumn rain.

2013-06-08, at 15:02:00

Sherlock was once again sitting in his bush, waiting for John to arrive. He had been sitting there since three in the morning, determined not to miss John’s visit. It was already half past seven in the evening, and Sherlock’s legs were starting to feel unbelievably stiff, yet he was determined not to give up on Watson. He wanted to see John’s reaction to the candle he had left for him, he wanted to see if John had figured things out. The candle had been difficult to make, his writing nowhere near as neat and pretty as it used to be, since he hadn’t had anyone to write to for two years.

    Just as Sherlock thought his situation couldn’t get any more uncomfortable, it started raining. Sherlock groaned and tried to use the branches of the bush as a shelter, but it did very little to stop the heavy raindrops from finding their way down to him. The rain worried Sherlock, what if John wouldn’t bother lighting the candle because of the rain?  Sherlock sighed and darted out of the bush to steal someone else’s lantern. He ran past two rows of tombstones before he finally found one, and he hurried to shake out the candle and replace it with his own, because he knew that John would be here any minute now. 

   He had only just managed to place the lantern next to his own tombstone and thrown himself into the bush before John’s figure appeared further down the graveyard. Sherlock was very pleased to see he wasn’t using his cane anymore, but it also broke his heart a little, because it meant that John was doing better. That he was healing and moving on, without Sherlock. That he’d soon be OK again, without Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head to get rid of the thought and kicked himself mentally for ever thinking like that, he wanted John to be happy, whether it was with or without him shouldn’t matter.

  The rain had turned into a light drizzle by the time John reached Sherlock’s grave, and Sherlock found himself mumbling “Come on John, light the candle... I know you’re carrying matches, just light the candle already!” It horrified him. What if John had heard him? He’d have to be more careful from now on. Was this really what John did to him? Did John really mean this much to him? That he was willing to blow his cover, just so that John would know that he existed? Sherlock leaned his head in his hand and closed his eyes. Never had he thought that he’d miss another person more than he missed his work.

   When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he could see John through a small opening in the bush. John was staring vacantly at the candle, and Sherlock’s heart sank in his chest. Either John hadn’t understood yet, or he just didn’t want to understand. Either way, Sherlock knew he’d have to wait another year before he’d have another chance of revealing his presence to John. Sherlock watched while John put the lantern back next to the grave, and, to his surprise, placed a dozen black roses on top of Sherlock’s tombstone. Then John turned to walk away, and Sherlock quickly darted to the grave and took one of the roses before he ran back to his bush. He wanted to smell one of the roses while John was still in sight, but he’d had the sense to grab only one of them so that John wouldn’t notice they were missing, in case he decided to turn around to have a last look at the grave.

   Sherlock liked the black roses. They weren’t ordinary and boring, like normal red roses, and they didn’t smell quite as sweetly either. They were much like Sherlock himself, dark and gloomy, but extraordinary at the same time. John, on the other hand, was more like red roses; warm, inviting and incredibly caring. If you mix a bit of black with red, you get a deep red, the colour of Sherlock’s blood as it was trickling down his finger. One of the thorns had pierced his thumb when he had gripped the rose too tightly.
 
>Part 1< >Part 2< >Part 3< >Part 4<
 


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Part 4: I am the sun on ripened grain

2013-05-07, at 21:09:00

Sherlock was hiding inside a bush on the graveyard, his long, slender legs tucked in underneath himself in an uncomfortable angle, and looked at his wristwatch. If he knew John, he wouldn't be there for at least an hour still. His message was already in place, and all he could do now was to wait and to hope that John would remember any of the morse code he had learned while in the military. Sherlock didn't usually doubt John, but he was afraid that John had forgotten it after not using it for so long.

As the seconds ticked by, Sherlock grew more and more impatient, more and more anxious. Maybe John wouldn't visit his grave at all? He wanted to pace, but didn't dare to step out from the bush, for fear of someone spotting him when he was supposed to be lying in the ground just a short distance away from that very same bush. Instead, he had to settle for diving into his mind palace. Slowly and slyly, John had implanted himself everywhere in Sherlock's memory palace, and started pushing all of the relevant information away. Everything related to any case they had ever worked on together had been replaced by memories of how John liked his coffee, what his favourite sweater looked like, or the way his eyes lit up when he was happy. After Sherlock had faked his own death, the work-related memories in his palace had started to fade even more, and his palace had been his only means of grasping onto John. He had spent days on end wrapped up in his own thoughts, enveloped by John's mental embrace, walking around in a palace that only reminded him of how much he missed his companion.

Sherlock had just walked past a portrait of the Lumière brothers when he heard John's footsteps approaching the grave. He didn't even have to peek through the branches to know that it was John, but he could also hear that John was using his cane again. It hit him like a pang in the heart. He didn't want to look at John, because that would mean seeing how much distressed his actions had caused John, but he couldn't stop himself from glimpsing through the branches.

"Hasn't been sleeping properly, has regular appointments with Ella again, not living in Baker Street anymore, has stopped working, drank a bit too much yesterday evening, still carries his gun and, yes, his psychosomatic limp is back," Sherlock thought to himself bitterly. He got a sudden urge to rush out there and tell John that it was all a scam, and that he was actually still alive, but the part of his brain that still clung onto his intelligence stopped him from doing so. Instead, he sat there in silence and felt the gentle breeze against his chin, hoping that John would be able to decipher his message.

The words "Anyway, I'm rambling now... What I actually came here to say is - is that I love you," reached his ear, carried by the wind, and he wished with all his heart that John would just notice the tree branch already. John got up, though, and started walking away from the tombstone, apparently without having noticed the branch at all. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock crept out from the bush and retrieved the branch, utterly disappointed.

"I love you too, and I'm sorry you have to go through this, but one day you will understand. You'll understand that I'm doing this because I love you." Sherlock sighed and started walking away between the tombstones, and he had just disappeared behind the wall that surrounded the graveyard, when John came rushing back in search of the branch, only to find that it had mysteriously vanished.

Note from the author: A hug to anyone who can figure out why I put the Lumière brothers in there.



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Do not stand at my grave and cry.

2013-05-04, at 19:55:00

Part 3 of my Sherlock fanfic. >Part 1< >Part 2<

"Yet another year has passed, another lap around the sun. I'm still astounded you didn't know that," John smiled a little at the memory, Donovan had snickered quite audibly when the news had reached her ear. She loved everything that could make Sherlock look bad in any way, and that obsession of hers certainly hadn't stopped after his death. She had been the underlying reason to many of the news articles that had popped up about the famous detective after his death, "Sherlock Holmes - Moron or Master?" the most vicious of them.

"I thought this would be easier by now. I thought that I'd get used to not living with you, to returning home to a quiet and empty apartment at the end of the day, to eating by myself... not that you ever ate anything, of course, but you were always there to keep me company throughout my meals... I'm rambling now..." John gulped and clenched his jaw. The tears were threatening to overwhelm him, and he didn't want to cry in front of the old lady a few tombstones down, so he automatically slipped into his military posture.

"I'm afraid I don't have any roses for you this time, but I - eh, I have a confession," John's voice was shaking, and he clenched his eyes shut as if to compose himself, "It's a... it's a confession that I've been carrying around for a long time, I just didn't know it until now... unfortunately, I'm three years too late." John stared at his pained expression in the smooth marble, trying to gather up the courage to say it out loud, because only then would it truly be real.

"Oh bugger," he said and rubbed his temples as if trying to will away the headache that had suddenly exploded in his head. The old woman stared at him as if he was mental, wrapped her coat tighter around herself and slowly started to walk away from her loved one's grave. John couldn't help but think that he'd be like her one day, still returning to Sherlock's grave every year to mourn his friend. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that - is that..." John's bottom lip was trembling now, "THAT I BLOODY LOVE YOU! Why did you have to leave me here? There were surely other options, and I would have helped you... I would have done ANYTHING to just have you here right now!" John's resolve had finally crumbled, and he had to sit down next to the tombstone because his entire world was spinning around madly without any sense of direction.

He leaned his forehead against the cold marble, and tried to steady his breathing. "I love you, Sherlock." His breath created a slight condensation on the marble as he let the words sink in. He loved Sherlock. He had known it for quite a while, that he had thought of Sherlock as something more than a friend, that maybe he had been Sherlock's date after all. He had soon dismissed the thoughts, though. Partly because, while Sherlock undoubtedly had cared a great deal for him, he didn't actually think Sherlock felt the same way about him, and partly because thinking about it hurt too much. Thinking about the road they could have traveled, of what could have been... it tore open the wound of Sherlock's death yet again. John didn't know what had finally made him utter the words, but he knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn't change anything. Sherlock was, and would forever be, gone.

As the sun began to set over the orange-coloured sky, John stood up to say his last farewell to Sherlock's grave. He was just about to turn around and leave, when he thought of the candle that had been waiting for him on Sherlock's grave the past year, and so, seeking some form of comfort in the old poem, he started quoting it:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep" he began, his voice shaking more than ever.

"I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow." a deep, rich and very familiar voice continued.

John could practically feel the earth underneath his feel crumble, he could feel himself falling... "No, it's not possible..."

"I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain." The voice drew nearer, making John's heart skip several beats.

"You're dead, I saw you fall!" John exclaimed almost angrily.

"When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush." Nearer still.

"Of quiet birds in circled flight, I am the soft starlight at night." There was a slight rustle of something heavy stepping on the dry leaves behind John.

"I'm just imagining things again..." John whispered, looking too afraid to turn around to confirm it.

"Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die." This time the voice was a mere whisper, whispered directly into John's ear. John could feel Sherlock's warm breath against his cheek, and as he slowly turned around, he found Sherlock's beautiful face mere inches from his. His features were, if possible, even sharper than before, his cheeks a bit more hollow. As the last rays of the setting sun reflected in Sherlock's grey eyes, they looked as if they were glowing, and John was completely mesmerized.

Sherlock's lips curled up into a small smile at the look of surprise on John's face, and he tutted and said, "Honestly, John, you didn't know? I left you plenty of clues." But his voice wasn't truly disappointed. Suddenly, everything clicked into place in John's mind, and all of the anger he had felt towards Sherlock for hiding fizzled away. All that mattered was that Sherlock was there, that he was alive, and that, judging by the tight hug John was currently enveloped in, Sherlock felt something similar to love for John too.

Sherlock wasn't phobic of touching people, he just rarely found it necessary. Having been separated from his best friend, and the only person Sherlock could claim to actually love, for three years made Sherlock a bit impulsive, which was why he now found his arms wrapped around the shorter man. "I never left, you know. I've been looking out for you, while trying to hide in the shadows." he said, a bit groggily, which was very unlike him.

"I know, I've felt your presence. One question though..." John said, worry building up in his chest, making his throat feel thick.

"Yes?" Sherlock said patiently.

"Are you coming home now?" John hadn't intended to sound so much like a lost puppy, but he just couldn't help himself. He never wanted to let go of Sherlock again.

Sherlock's lips curled up into the most genuine smile Watson had ever seen on his face, "Yes." he said, without any hesitation.

John nodded and reluctantly released his grip around Sherlock, but couldn't quite let go of him completely, so they ended up walking out of the graveyard hand in hand, Sherlock's long coat flowing behind him in the wind.

 


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Do not stand at my grave and weep

2013-04-29, at 18:15:17

I decided to continue my Sherlock fanfic. :)

Two years, to the day, after Sherlock had died, John Watson once again caught himself coming up with excuses so he wouldn’t have to go out for a drink with Lestrade. This time it wasn’t because John had one of his ever so often occurring headaches, because he actually had something else to do, or even because Lestrade reminded him so much of the life he used to lead that he felt as if someone had ripped his heart out. No, this time it was because John Watson wanted to make visiting Sherlock’s grave on his deathday every year a tradition, however painful it may be.

 

 

    “No, sorry Greg, I can’t. I have a meeting with Ella today, and I really can’t miss it,” John huffed hastily when Lestrade called him. He had been busy all day with an especially tricky case, a man had died and they still hadn’t figured out what killed him. He didn’t even bother pretending to be as good as Sherlock, because no one ever would be, but he did his best and paid his rent.

 

 

    “But you haven’t seen Ella for months...” Lestrade started with a confused tone to his voice, before John cut him off with a quick “Oh, sorry, I have to run. Cheers!” because he had just remembered he wanted to buy Sherlock some roses before the shops closed.

 

 

    Had Sherlock been alive, John would never have bought him roses. They would just have ended up in the bin for distracting Sherlock with their scent, or for piercing the oh so delicate skin of his slender fingers. John liked to make sure others knew just how loved Sherlock had been though, and so he opted for a dozen black roses. Just as he stepped out of the shop, it started raining. John Watson didn’t mind the rain, because it reminded him that he was still alive, and that he hadn’t died with Sherlock.

 

 

    When he walked through the graveyard, the sun was already low in the sky, shining from behind a dark cloud. He crouched down at Sherlock’s grave, not wanting to sit down like the year before, because the ground was so wet. There was a small lantern next to Sherlock’s neat tombstone, with a candle inside. John found it very strange, because he didn’t think anyone else would care enough about Sherlock to bring him a lantern with a candle. John fumbled around in his inside pocket for the small box of matches that he still kept there. He had started carrying a matchbox when he realised that Sherlock needed his cigarettes to function properly. It was a habit he had yet to break.

 

 

    He flicked open the small hatch that kept the glassdoor of the small lantern shut, and shook out the candle. He lit the match against the side of the box, and felt the warmth of the fire against his cold fingers. He looked down at the candle, and, with a confounded look on his face, read the writing that was carved into it with childlike letters.

 

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep...

 

Around him, the world stopped turning, and he could no longer hear the pitter-patter of the rain falling down onto the surrounding trees. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and was once again back in our world. He looked up to the grey sky and felt the raindrops trickle down his face.

 

 

    “No, it can’t be. He’s dead. He is definitely dead, I checked his pulse and I saw his corpse. Someone just thought this would be a nice gesture and left the candle here,”  he whispered to himself, again and again, like a mantra while he rubbed his tired eyes, as if to make the writing go away. Suddenly, John couldn’t get home quick enough, so he left the black roses on top of the tombstone and mouthed a quick goodbye to his old friend. Then he walked away with quick, long steps. He had long since stopped using the cane.  

 
    When he turned around and looked back towards the grave, he found it odd that one of the bushes swayed a little, although there was no noticeable wind. Had he been close enough to count the roses, he would have noticed that there were only eleven roses lying on the tombstone, but since he wasn’t, he pushed it out of his mind and began his walk home.


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Tally Marks At His Tombstone.

2013-04-10, at 09:37:00
 

It was exactly a year since Sherlock had died, and John Watson once again found himself standing in front of his grave. He didn’t know why, there was no point in talking to Sherlock’s tombstone. He knew that Ella would have tutted if she had seen him here, he was supposed to be moving on, after all. But he couldn’t let this day go unnoticed, he couldn’t stop his feet from carrying him here, and he couldn’t stop himself from feeling the pain of the giant hole Sherlock had left in his heart. His whole world had been wrapped around Sherlock from the moment he first met him, but he didn’t realise that until he was already gone.

    John sat down on the ground next to Sherlock’s grave, and placed the single black rose in front of the tombstone. He leaned his elbows against his knees and rubbed his tired eyes. He was always tired nowadays, and not the kind of tired he used to be after Sherlock and him had stayed up all night solving a case. The sick, heartbroken kind of tired.

“I... I don’t know what one would be expected to say in a situation like this. Perhaps a normal person would say nothing at all, a normal person would certainly not sit here and talk to an inanimate object. But I’m not normal, am I? You weren’t normal either, that’s probably why we worked so well together. Anyway, I’m rambling now... What I actually came here to say is - is that I love you,” John’s shoulders sagged as he buried his face in his hands, trying hard not to let the tears escape him, his face betray his emotions.
    After John had collected himself, he knew he really should go, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it quite yet. So he sat there, feeling the slight chill of the wind against his face, looking around at the graveyard that could have been quite beautiful, hadn’t his friend been buried there. That was when he noticed the tree branch not far away from where he was sitting. Weird lines had been carved into it, some of them shorter and some of them longer, and they were gathered in groups of three or four, apart from a single, short line. They looked a bit like tally marks, except there were no diagonal lines. John found this very odd, but didn’t think any more of it.

“I suppose I should get going, I can’t sit here forever, no matter how much I wanted to,” he said, and got up on stiff legs, leaning against his cane. He took a few steps forward and stroked the top of the tombstone, his fingers leaning against the cold marble. “Goodbye, Sherlock, my old friend.” He pursed his lips together into a thin line and started walking away from the graveyard.

    It was only when he was sitting in the cab on his way back to his apartment that he realised what the, as he first thought they were, tally marks meant. They weren’t tally marks at all, but were in fact morse code.

“Could you turn around please? Turn around! I need to go back, I - I left something at the graveyard!” he said, sounding maybe a little bit too panicked, because the cabbie gave him a weird look through the rear-view mirror. He obliged, though, and turned the car around at the next crossing.

    John hurried over the graveyard, anxious to get to the branch. He should have recognised the morse code straight away, after spending so many hours learning it during his military training. When he got to Sherlock’s grave, though, the branch wasn’t there anymore.
John let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes and whispered, “Come on John, focus now... The
the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate...” However much he focused, he couldn’t remember all of the lines. “Short short long short, or was it short long short short? Then long long long... but what came after that?! I know it ended on just a short line, for sure,” he muttered to himself. Once he decided to sit down and draw everything in the soil, however, it took him less than 30 seconds to figure out. Sherlock would have been proud.
    John was still confused, but there was a slight flame of hope burning inside him now, hope that Sherlock might not be gone after all. He knew it was stupid to hope, but he just couldn’t help himself.  After he got up to leave for the second time that day, he noticed that he didn’t have his walking cane with him.


He had left it in the cab.


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Gred and Forge.

2013-04-04, at 09:49:09
Source.
 
Here's a HC about Fred and George I wrote on April Fools':

It was the evening of April Fools’ Day, and George had had a busy day at the store, with a lot of customers still looking for a last-minute prank to pull on their family or friends. Someone had accidentally dropped a bag of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, which lead to the whole store going completely dark. George had been forced to calm down many hysteric children and clean up an enormous mess afterwards. Because of the panic that had arisen, people had knocked down items from the shelves, and even managed to topple a shelf in their hurry to get out of the store. George had been relieved that the alarm, indicating theft, hadn’t gone off even once.

    He was still cleaning up the remainings of a shattered bottle of a love potion, glad that no one had been affected by it, when the clock behind the counter hit seven, which usually meant that he could close up the store and go up to his flat to lie about until it was time to get up and go to work the following morning again. That wasn’t an option today though, since April Fools’ also happened to be his birthday. He used to love this day, being able to prank everyone and spending the day with Fred, but since his death a year ago… nothing had been the same. Molly, however, wanted George to visit them at the Burrow for a family dinner, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. As if everything was still all right.

    After he finished cleaning up, he looked around the shop. He stared at the dust, dancing through the last rays of sunlight gleaming through the windows at the front of the store. After everyone else had left, the store was eerily quiet, and George felt lonelier than he had felt in a very long time. This was supposed to be his favourite place on earth, this was where he was supposed to spend his days along with Fred, coming up with new things to sell and to drive their families crazy with. Now it just felt like a prison.

“I miss you, Freddie,” he whispered into the silence. He wiped away a tear that was forming in the corner of his eye, and was just about to get his coat to leave, when a Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-bang suddenly set off around the store.

    George was confused, because he was the only one in the store, and he didn’t understand how else it could have exploded. It all made sense though, when the firework was done flying a lap around the store and instead came flying straight towards George; it was a miniature version of the dragon that had chased Umbridge before they left Hogwarts. The dragon circled around George a couple of times, before George let it fly out through the door. He turned the sign on the door around so that it now said “Closed,” and walked to get his coat with a sad smile on his face. 

 

Fred missed him too.

 


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Repost: Black angels and white snow.

2013-01-25, at 12:44:35
A short story I wrote a while ago, enjoy. :)

The icicles are glittering and shining, the snow lies white on the ground. The wind blows chillingly in under  Zacharias' leather jacket. The wind whips through the snow, and creates small whirlwinds of snow. If you'd pour out a bit of cocaine now, you'd never find it again. It would be united with the soft snow, and be forever gone. Zacharias doesn't like the thought of that.

He reaches for the inside pocket of his leather jacket and fumbles around until he can feel the empty bag, which had been stuffed with cocaine just a week ago. He then makes sure the money is still lying in his other pocket, and that it didn't fall out when he fell off the icy stone he had been sitting on earlier.

The wind makes the trees sway, and whips cold snow into his frozen face. An owl hoots behind a snow-capped spruce. Zacharias hoots back. Three short ones, three long ones, three short ones. After the last hoot has died out, a head appears behind the spruce. Then the rest of the body follows, after sharp eyes carefully scans the environment to make sure Zacharias really is alone.

Zacharias doesn't notice it's a woman at first, but when she  starts walking towards him, she releases the waist long, raven black hair she had been hiding under her beanie. Her eyes glide over Zacharias' face like a pair of icy blue crystals. She hooks her gaze into Zacharias' eyes, and Zacharias has a feeling that this isn't a woman you mess around with. She also looks very muscular for a woman.
"Are.. are you Laila?" Zacharias stutters.
"Depends on who's asking," the woman answers with a slightly hostile facial expression. Zacharias can't help noticing that her flaky lips don't move very much at all.
"Zach.. I'm Zach," Zach says, with a little more courage this time.
"And what do you want from me... Zach?"
"I'm just wondering if you.. if you could sell me some cocaine?" Zacharias says and clears his throat.
"How much are you willing to pay?"
Zacharias extends the small pack of money towards Laila.
"That won't get you very far," Laila huffs, "But I'll do you a favor, I'll be a bit kind, just this once. You'll get a full bag, just because I pity you. You must have been through hell and back to get here," she adds in a whisper, because she's sneaked up to Zacharias now. She sounds vaguely amused.
"But I haven't been through any hell.." Zach mumbles, but hands her the money anyway.
"So you thought it would be a fun thing, that it wouldn't be so dangerous. But you were very, very wrong," Laila hands him the bag and starts walking back towards her spruce with long, cat-like steps. Zacharias turns around and starts walking home.

When Zacharias gets home, he starts planning how he'll distribute his cocaine. He thinks that he can do one line on Thursday, two on Friday and five on Saturday. Then there will be a few leftover lines for Spike too, because Spike and Zacharias are going out on town on Saturday.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday pass quickly, and suddenly it's Saturday. There's a knock on Zacharias' door, and when he opens it, he sees the scarred face that's helped him throughout his life, with anything, anytime, anywhere. No questions asked.

"Are you going out tonight, or?.." Spike says with a grin, then he leans lightly against the doorframe.
"Of course I am," Zacharias says and answers Spike's grin.
"Is your mum home?"
"Dunno. Don't think so. I haven't seen her this week," says Zacharias offhandedly, like it's the most natural thing in the whole wide world that you haven't seen your mother for a week. Because to him it is. A shattered family and an alcoholic mother is his life.
"Good, can we do a line each before we leave then?"
"Sure, but would you like anything to eat first?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not very hungry," Spike grins, and stomps right into the flat without removing his muddy boots first.
"Suit yourself then," Zacharias shrugs. He then goes into the kitchen and looks for a remotely clean glass among the mess that's piled up in the sink. A plate slides loose and falls to the floor, where it shatters into a thousand pieces. Zacharias mutters, but lets the shards of the frosted glass plate lie on the dirty laminate flooring.

Zacharias puts the glass back onto the sink without drinking anything, then he walks to his room, where Spike has already found the bag of cocaine that Zacharias had hidden so carefully. Zacharias laughs, and thinks that Spike really knows him far too well. Spike pours out cocaine into two neat lines on a plate he found under the bed. He then takes out a short straw from his pocket, holds out the plate and the straw for Zacharias, but Zacharias shakes his head and nods towards Spike, and says, "Guests first, you know that.."
Then Spike presses his finger against his left nostril, while he uses the straw to snort up the cocaine through his right one.

He then hands the plate and the straw over to Zacharias, who imitates what Spike just did.
Spike and Zacharias are lying on the bed, waiting for the drug to start working.
"Ey, Zach. Remember that time when the High School boys attacked us? That was fun, wasn't it?" Spike says, and smiles widely. Zacharias thinks he looks as crazy as only he can be.
"Fun and fun.. I didn't think it was very funny to get a broken arm. Do you really think it's that damn fun to walk around with that scar in  your face?"
Spike smiles and shows off a shiningly white smile.
"Yeah, I do! It makes me look tougher, and people have been telling me I look older too. Have you any idea of how cool it is that people think you're 19, when actually, you're just 16?" Spike asks with a smug expression plastered on his face.
"That's just because of the drugs," Zacharias mutters grumpily.
"Let's go! It's far too boring here, I want some action!" Spike jumps up from the bed and starts looking for his leather jacket, Zacharias finds his own jacket after a moment of searching. 

Once out on town, it doesn't take them long to find a gang of familiar people. The rest of Zacharias' band The Hairspray Hooligans are there too, but they're too drunk to take any notice of Zacharias. The gang moves through Vasa city, wreaking havoc and destroying numerous swings, staircases, climbing frames, mailboxes and lampposts as they go. Then they stop outside of Subway, because apparently someone in the gang is hungry. So everyone press themselves through the door, and manage to disturb the few diners that were already in there, eating peacefully up until a minute ago.
But Zacharias and Spike stay outside, a short distance away from the door.

Zacharias takes out the small, black plastic plate he always carries around in his pocket, and the straw. He then takes out a small bag with white content. He stands so that his back is facing the wind and pours out two neat lines on the black plastic, the contrast is stark.
The streetlight flashes. In the corner of his eye, Zacharias can already see the black angels, and he knows that if he pulls this line now, they'll only become more visible. The black angels scare him sometimes.
"Ey, Zach, are you going to do  your line or not?" Spike hisses impatiently, while he's glancing around nervously, especially at the door.
"Of course I am," Zacharias answers calmly, and repeats the process he's so familiar with by now, then he hands the plate to Spike.

The black angels are dancing around him, around and around in fast-paced dance. They're pointing at him, laughing at him, pressing their sly faces close together to whisper about him, they're mocking him for his weakness. That's when he sees her. Like a red angel with golden hair, she's standing there, and the black angels are slowly fading away as his feet start walking towards her of their own accord, there's nothing he can do about it.
When he's finally standing in front of her, he's shaking, but he's still trying to start a conversation. 
"Hi, I'm the singer in The Hairspray Hooligans, have you heard our music?" he squeaks out.
"Sorry, I don't associate with junkies," she answers, purses her nose and takes a puff of a cigarette a boy in designer clothes hands her. The boy gives Zacharias a triumphant look and takes the girl's hand. Then they walk away, leaving Zacharias there alone, empty as a black hole.

The days pass by and Zacharias tries, to no avail, to find the beautiful girl again, but he can't find her anywhere. He feels like she's his only hope, like she could make everything ok and help him through his weakness. Laila isn't around anymore either, so he struggles with getting cocaine again, just when he needs it the most. But when he finally gets some, he buys enormous amounts, all by himself.

It's Friday, and Spike's knocking on the door again, then he drags Zacharias out on town. They eat at McDonalds, they laugh, and Zacharias feels completely welcome and safe with Spike. Spike starts a ketchup war against Zacharias, and they get thrown out and banned from McDonalds, both of them completely covered in ketchup, and they're laughing like they've never laughed before. Zacharias is lying crouched up on the snowy ground, and Spike has to lean against a lamppost because he's having difficulties standing up. For a moment, Zacharias actually forgets the girl that's been haunting his mind for the past week. And that's when he sees her.
There, at a street corner, she's snogging a guy in tight pants and a leather jacket. The streetlight flashes. Zacharias feels like someone's hit him very hard in the stomach.

The roof above him is spinning, the whole room is rotating. It's his room, but he doesn't recognize it. He bites his lower lip so it starts to bleed. It tastes like copper. The taste of the blood makes him feel sick. Then he falls asleep, surrounded by black angels that whisper in his ear, whisper about death and hell.

It's morning when Zacharias wakes again, and the angels are gone. Instead his mother is sitting at the bedside. She's crying, and her mascara has painted thick, black streaks down her wrinkly, spotted face. Zacharias wants to ask her why she's crying, but his throat is far too dry, he can't make a single sound. So she starts talking instead.
"Spike called me from your cellphone yesterday, he told me that you'd taken far too much cocaine, that it was serious this time.. so I came and picked you up. Everything is my fault. I'm a bad mother, and if I had only been a better mother from the start, you would never have started using drugs," she sobs.
The cocaine, Zacharias now remembers that he did four lines at once.
"Thankyou mum. Can you leave my room now?" he asks sternly, ignoring his mother's tears.

His mother sighs and cries some more, but then she finally leaves him alone. Zacharias thinks. About his mother, who is never there. About the cocaine, that he can't get enough of. And about the girl, that he can never get at all. Because she doesn't associate with junkies. He lies there and thinks for hours.

When he's done with the thinking, it's already dark outside, and his mother has popped her head into his room several times to ask him if he'd like anything to eat. But now he knows. He knows what he has to do. 
He pokes about his drawer, looking for a pen and paper, and when he finds what he's looking for, he thinks about what he should write, but he can only think of one thing.

"I'm so sorry, I love you Spike." he writes with a shaky handwriting and leaves the paper on the pillow, he then does two last lines of cocaine, and hides the rest where he knows only Spike will find it. He takes his leather jacket and sneaks out into the night.

He's standing very close to the edge and wonders if anyone will miss him. Spike will miss him, and Zacharias will miss Spike too. "Soulmates until death tears us apart," Spike would always say when they were lying in Zacharias' bed, higher than two skyscrapers. Then he'd grab Zacharias' hand and hold it tight.
His mum, she'll probably miss him too. But Zach's missed her his whole life, so he thinks that it's her turn to miss him a little.
And the girl, she probably won't even know he's dead.

He's standing on the edge, watching the black water rush by. It's the only thing that hasn't frozen yet, but it's icy cold. The black angels are back again. They're happy. They know they'll soon get what they want. Zacharias takes off his leather jacket and his cellphone, and lays them down on the snowy ground a short distance away. He walks back to the edge with heavy steps, a tear falls from his cheek and he whispers out into the night. "For you, because you'll never be mine," he whispers, and the wind snatches his words away as soon as they leave his lips. Then he falls. He is no more.

The wind creates small whirls in the snow. The icicles are gleaming. The streetlight flashes, then dies.


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Another one of my HC's.

2012-11-26, at 10:07:01
It was the summer after James II’s 17th birthday, and Harry was staying with Ginny and the children at the Burrow for the summer. Not because they didn’t have anywhere else to live, but because they appreciated time with the family, and felt like they got to relive old memories by staying at the Burrow (which had been magically enlarged and was now taller and more rickety than ever) every summer.    
     Harry had agreed to practice dueling with James in the garden, and some of the younger children in the family, along with Teddy, were hanging out of their bedroom windows to watch. Molly, Hermione and Ginny were standing in the kitchen doorway, worried about how the duel would end.    
     They started by bowing for eachother, turning around, walking away from eachother and then turning around, so that they now were facing eachother again. Then Teddy, who was hanging out of Ron’s old bedroom window with Victoire Weasley, sent up a green spark from his wand, to signal the start of the duel. Spells and charms began to fly between the two contestants immediately, and they were now moving in a circle.    
     James threw himself behind a rosebush to avoid a disarming charm, whereas Harry grabbed a rusty cauldron on the move and used it to reflect charms back towards James. They ran around the garden, exploding a few cauldrons and trampling over several garden gnomes in their hurry. The children were cheering and clapping their hands, and Ted was holding a giggling Victoire in his arms, kissing her neck gently.     
     From above, it was hard to see who was who of the two men. They both had the same jet black, untidy hair, and similar facial features. They would almost have looked like twins, hadn’t it been for the thin, lightning-bolt scar and the difference in eye colour.    
     After about half an hour of dueling, they were both beginning to tire, even though the audience did not. Finally, James hit Harry with a disarming charm. Harry’s wand flew through the air in a graceful arch, and landed an inch away from a stunned garden gnome.     
     Harry smiled, held up his hands in a gesture of defeat and said, “Nice one, James!” The words reminded him of someone, long ago, who had said that very same phrase to him. It hit him like a blow to the heart, and the smile on his face faded instantly.     
     Without a word, he summoned his wand using wandless magic, gave a very confused looking James a curt nod and turned to walk out of the garden to the front yard. Ron, who had just gotten back from an errand in London, but who had witnessed the last half of the duel, started walking alongside Harry. He flung an arm around Harry’s shoulder and guided him to the rusty, battered Ford Anglia that was parked in the middle of the yard and took him out for a long, quiet fly, while Molly served dinner for the rest of the family, and James soon forgot about the whole event.   
     When Harry curled up in bed next to Ginny that night, he took out the only remaining piece of Sirius’ two-way mirror. Just for a brief second, if even that long, he thought he saw Sirius’ silver grey eyes stare back at him, and he remembered what  the man had once told him.The ones that love us, never really leave us. Not really.


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George's first Christmas without Fred

2012-10-02, at 20:50:38
It was the first Christmas George would spend without Fred. The whole Weasley family was gathered in the Burrow, well, everyone except for Fred. The months after Fred's death had been tough on George, and he had isolated himself from the rest of the family, focusing all of his attention into work, so he wouldn't have to deal with his emotions. He hadn't cried, never shed a single tear, he was too numb for that. But now it was Christmas, now there was no work, and now he was surrounded by his family. He could feel all of the barriers he had built up slowly starting to crumble down, but he knew he had to keep up his facade, cracking jokes and keeping a smile on his face. The smile never reached his eyes though, and every time he smiled he was reminded of his twin brother's last smile.
    Everyone in the Weasley family were gathered around the table, crammed closely together, waiting for Molly to serve them the Christmas Dinner. Suddenly a loud bang was heard from the kitchen, and fireworks came rushing through the door, wreaking havoc and knocking over the Christmas Tree, until George tiredly banished them with a wave of his wand. Ginny was giggling, and when she noticed that she had George's attention, she winked at him. He managed a smile back. Seconds later, a fuming Molly Weasley appeared in the doorway.
"FRED! GEORGE! How many times have I told you not to leave your products lying around!" she bellowed, but then suddenly she grew very pale. George, on the other hand, had taken on a sickly green shade.
"I'm sorry, mother, it won't happen again. Now if you all excuse me, I forgot I still have some things I have to unpack. I'm not feeling very hungry anyway, so you can start dinner without me."
George stood up and started walking towards the stairs. The room that had been filled with light chatter and laughter only moments ago, was now absolutely quiet. Everyone's faces were turned against George's back, while Bill went to the kitchen to levitate their food onto the table, and Molly quickly hurried up the stairs after George. The remaining family members exchanged worried glances, and when the food graciously landed on the table, no one made a move for it.
    Molly knocked on the door to the room George was staying in, his and Fred's old room.
"George darling, I'm so sorry," she said when she had slipped through the door. George was sitting on his bed with his head in his hands, "I'm still not used to the idea that he's.. that he's gone." Molly took a stuttering breath.
George looked up from his place on the bed, clutching a Weasley sweater with a big "F" in his hands, pain etched into every line of his face. Molly rushed towards him and embraced him, holding him tightly, sitting down beside him on the bed.
"I don't want him to be dead.." George whispered, his voice cracked, and finally the tears came. Once the dam was broken, there was no stopping the tears. George cried silently against his mother's shoulder until he had no tears left, all while Molly kept stroking his back and telling him that it was ok to cry.
    After what seemed like hours, the two of them descended the stairs. By this time, the others had almost finished dinner already, but they had been careful to leave food for George and Molly. George no longer tried to cover up his pain under a fake smile, but he got many reassuring smiles as he sat down.
"I have some fireworks I would like to show you," George said in a loud, but shaky, voice after they were all done eating, "So I would be glad if we could go outside right now?"
There was an instant noise of chairs scraping against the floor, and they all made their way outside, not quite sure what to expect. After George lit the firework, it exploded in an enormous, golden version of the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes sign against the night sky. As the three W's faded, an even bigger F took their place, glowing red and gold.
Arthur conjured a dozen glasses of butterbeer, Hermione gave George, who had started crying again, a warm hug. Everyone took a glass, Arthur raised his into the air, "To Fred!"
"To Fred!" everyone echoed, and Harry and Ron flung their arms over George's shoulders, still staring up at the gigantic F.
The F glowed in the sky throughout the night, but when the first ray of the morning sun peeked over the horizon, it faded, and George finally lowered his gaze and glanced around the room. Exhausted, he went to bed, but not before he gave Fred's old sweater a hug and said, "Merry Christmas, Fred."


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Neville/Luna HC

2012-09-25, at 17:32:55
Neville climbed the stairs to the Ravenclaw tower with a pair of dirty shoes dangling from his hand, his cheeks a bit flushed. He had asked a 7th Year Ravenclaw for directions, who had glanced at the shoes and burst out laughing.
   When he got to the top of the stairs, he looked puzzled. Unable to think of a better solution, he knocked the knocker against the door. A soft, melodic voice sounded from the Eagle, "What work can one never finish?"
"Oh dear," Neville sighed, and sat down at the top of the stairs.
   After half an hour had passed, and Neville still wasn't even anywhere near of figuring out the answer, a silverblonde head came bobbing up the stairs. Neville jumped to his feet, "Luna! Luna, I've got your shoes!" he said enthusiastically as he waved the shoes in the air.
Luna's eyes blinked at him from a few steps below, a big smile spread over her lips and all the way up to her big eyes.
"Oh, someone actually bothered to read my list! Thankyou Neville, I almost thought I would end up going home without my shoes!" she said, and then she lifted the hem of her robes to reveal two fairy-pink socks with a few dozen holes.
   Neville blushed and mumbled something about seeing them dangle from the Whomping Willow and recognizing them. Luna's eyes widened further, and then she flung her arms around him.
"Oh Neville, you shouldn't have! That tree is dangerous!"
Neville unconsciously brought his fingers up to touch his lip, and Luna noticed it was split and swollen. She dug around in her pocket until she found her wand, pointed it at Neville and whispered "Episkey," then she gently pressed her lips to his. Another 5th Year Ravenclaw chose that very moment to walk out of the Common Room, standing completely paralyzed in the doorway for a few seconds before walking down the stairs, glancing curiously over his shoulder. Neville's face reddened, and a small yelp of surprise escaped him. Luna giggled and took his hand in hers.
"Come on, if we hurry to the Great Hall, there might still be some pudding left, you can sit at the Ravenclaw table!" Then she left the shoes at the top of the stairs and started dragging Neville in the direction of the Great Hall, and Neville wore an expression of overwhelming joy.


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A Luna/Pudding HC

2012-09-01, at 15:53:23
Luna came skipping through the halls at Hogwarts, against the tide of the people making their way back to their dormitories after dinner, while she was hurrying to get some dinner before it magically disappeared from the tables. She had been out on the Hogwarts grounds, searching for Nargles, and been so consumed in her hunt that she had completely lost track of time. She just hoped that there'd be some pudding left, pudding was her favourite food.
As she was about to pass through the doors to the Great Hall, she almost ran into Cho Chang, who was on her way out of the hall with her friend, Marietta Edgecombe.
"Oops, I'm sorry Cho, I didn't see you coming. I've been out hunting for Nargles, and I saw quite a few. You don't know if there's any pudding left, do you?" she said enthusiastically.
Cho smiled and said sweetly, "It's OK, Luna. I'm sure I saw some pudding at the other end of the Ravenclaw table."
Luna smiled a goofy smile and started skipping towards the table, and Cho's friend Marietta turned around to look at her, before she whispered, "She's not quite sane, that one.."
When Luna reached the Ravenclaw table, she noticed that, to her delight, Cho had been right about the pudding. She quickly sat down next to a 7th Year boy, who looked at her weirdly and moved two seats to his right, but Luna was completely oblivious to his existence.
All she could think about was the sweet, sweet pudding that was soon to be hers.


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Black angels and white snow

2012-07-26, at 20:26:19
The icicles are glittering and shining, the snow lies white on the ground. The wind blows chillingly in under  Zacharias' leather jacket. The wind whips through the snow, and creates small whirlwinds of snow. If you'd pour out a bit of cocaine now, you'd never find it again. It would be united with the soft snow, and be forever gone. Zacharias doesn't like the thought of that.

He reaches for the inside pocket of his leather jacket and fumbles around until he can feel the empty bag, which had been stuffed with cocaine just a week ago. He then makes sure the money is still lying in his other pocket, and that it didn't fall out when he fell off the icy stone he had been sitting on earlier.

The wind makes the trees sway, and whips cold snow into his frozen face. An owl hoots behind a snow-capped spruce. Zacharias hoots back. Three short ones, three long ones, three short ones. After the last hoot has died out, a head appears behind the spruce. Then the rest of the body follows, after sharp eyes carefully scans the environment to make sure Zacharias really is alone.

Zacharias doesn't notice it's a woman at first, but when she  starts walking towards him, she releases the waist long, raven black hair she had been hiding under her beanie. Her eyes glide over Zacharias' face like a pair of icy blue crystals. She hooks her gaze into Zacharias' eyes, and Zacharias has a feeling that this isn't a woman you mess around with. She also looks very muscular for a woman.
"Are.. are you Laila?" Zacharias stutters.
"Depends on who's asking," the woman answers with a slightly hostile facial expression. Zacharias can't help noticing that her flaky lips don't move very much at all.
"Zach.. I'm Zach," Zach says, with a little more courage this time.
"And what do you want from me... Zach?"
"I'm just wondering if you.. if you could sell me some cocaine?" Zacharias says and clears his throat.
"How much are you willing to pay?"
Zacharias extends the small pack of money towards Laila.
"That won't get you very far," Laila huffs, "But I'll do you a favor, I'll be a bit kind, just this once. You'll get a full bag, just because I pity you. You must have been through hell and back to get here," she adds in a whisper, because she's sneaked up to Zacharias now. She sounds vaguely amused.
"But I haven't been through any hell.." Zach mumbles, but hands her the money anyway.
"So you thought it would be a fun thing, that it wouldn't be so dangerous. But you were very, very wrong," Laila hands him the bag and starts walking back towards her spruce with long, cat-like steps. Zacharias turns around and starts walking home.

When Zacharias gets home, he starts planning how he'll distribute his cocaine. He thinks that he can do one line on Thursday, two on Friday and five on Saturday. Then there will be a few leftover lines for Spike too, because Spike and Zacharias are going out on town on Saturday.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday pass quickly, and suddenly it's Saturday. There's a knock on Zacharias' door, and when he opens it, he sees the scarred face that's helped him throughout his life, with anything, anytime, anywhere. No questions asked.

"Are you going out tonight, or?.." Spike says with a grin, then he leans lightly against the doorframe.
"Of course I am," Zacharias says and answers Spike's grin.
"Is your mum home?"
"Dunno. Don't think so. I haven't seen her this week," says Zacharias offhandedly, like it's the most natural thing in the whole wide world that you haven't seen your mother for a week. Because to him it is. A shattered family and an alcoholic mother is his life.
"Good, can we do a line each before we leave then?"
"Sure, but would you like anything to eat first?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not very hungry," Spike grins, and stomps right into the flat without removing his muddy boots first.
"Suit yourself then," Zacharias shrugs. He then goes into the kitchen and looks for a remotely clean glass among the mess that's piled up in the sink. A plate slides loose and falls to the floor, where it shatters into a thousand pieces. Zacharias mutters, but lets the shards of the frosted glass plate lie on the dirty laminate flooring.

Zacharias puts the glass back onto the sink without drinking anything, then he walks to his room, where Spike has already found the bag of cocaine that Zacharias had hidden so carefully. Zacharias laughs, and thinks that Spike really knows him far too well. Spike pours out cocaine into two neat lines on a plate he found under the bed. He then takes out a short straw from his pocket, holds out the plate and the straw for Zacharias, but Zacharias shakes his head and nods towards Spike, and says, "Guests first, you know that.."
Then Spike presses his finger against his left nostril, while he uses the straw to snort up the cocaine through his right one.

He then hands the plate and the straw over to Zacharias, who imitates what Spike just did.
Spike and Zacharias are lying on the bed, waiting for the drug to start working.
"Ey, Zach. Remember that time when the High School boys attacked us? That was fun, wasn't it?" Spike says, and smiles widely. Zacharias thinks he looks as crazy as only he can be.
"Fun and fun.. I didn't think it was very funny to get a broken arm. Do you really think it's that damn fun to walk around with that scar in  your face?"
Spike smiles and shows off a shiningly white smile.
"Yeah, I do! It makes me look tougher, and people have been telling me I look older too. Have you any idea of how cool it is that people think you're 19, when actually, you're just 16?" Spike asks with a smug expression plastered on his face.
"That's just because of the drugs," Zacharias mutters grumpily.
"Let's go! It's far too boring here, I want some action!" Spike jumps up from the bed and starts looking for his leather jacket, Zacharias finds his own jacket after a moment of searching.

Once out on town, it doesn't take them long to find a gang of familiar people. The rest of Zacharias' band The Hairspray Hooligans are there too, but they're too drunk to take any notice of Zacharias. The gang moves through Vasa city, wreaking havoc and destroying numerous swings, staircases, climbing frames, mailboxes and lampposts as they go. Then they stop outside of Subway, because apparently someone in the gang is hungry. So everyone press themselves through the door, and manage to disturb the few diners that were already in there, eating peacefully up until a minute ago.
But Zacharias and Spike stay outside, a short distance away from the door.

Zacharias takes out the small, black plastic plate he always carries around in his pocket, and the straw. He then takes out a small bag with white content. He stands so that his back is facing the wind and pours out two neat lines on the black plastic, the contrast is stark.
The streetlight flashes. In the corner of his eye, Zacharias can already see the black angels, and he knows that if he pulls this line now, they'll only become more visible. The black angels scare him sometimes.
"Ey, Zach, are you going to do  your line or not?" Spike hisses impatiently, while he's glancing around nervously, especially at the door.
"Of course I am," Zacharias answers calmly, and repeats the process he's so familiar with by now, then he hands the plate to Spike.

The black angels are dancing around him, around and around in fast-paced dance. They're pointing at him, laughing at him, pressing their sly faces close together to whisper about him, they're mocking him for his weakness. That's when he sees her. Like a red angel with golden hair, she's standing there, and the black angels are slowly fading away as his feet start walking towards her of their own accord, there's nothing he can do about it.
When he's finally standing in front of her, he's shaking, but he's still trying to start a conversation.
"Hi, I'm the singer in The Hairspray Hooligans, have you heard our music?" he squeaks out.
"Sorry, I don't associate with junkies," she answers, purses her nose and takes a puff of a cigarette a boy in designer clothes hands her. The boy gives Zacharias a triumphant look and takes the girl's hand. Then they walk away, leaving Zacharias there alone, empty as a black hole.

The days pass by and Zacharias tries, to no avail, to find the beautiful girl again, but he can't find her anywhere. He feels like she's his only hope, like she could make everything ok and help him through his weakness. Laila isn't around anymore either, so he struggles with getting cocaine again, just when he needs it the most. But when he finally gets some, he buys enormous amounts, all by himself.

It's Friday, and Spike's knocking on the door again, then he drags Zacharias out on town. They eat at McDonalds, they laugh, and Zacharias feels completely welcome and safe with Spike. Spike starts a ketchup war against Zacharias, and they get thrown out and banned from McDonalds, both of them completely covered in ketchup, and they're laughing like they've never laughed before. Zacharias is lying crouched up on the snowy ground, and Spike has to lean against a lamppost because he's having difficulties standing up. For a moment, Zacharias actually forgets the girl that's been haunting his mind for the past week. And that's when he sees her.
There, at a street corner, she's snogging a guy in tight pants and a leather jacket. The streetlight flashes. Zacharias feels like someone's hit him very hard in the stomach.

The roof above him is spinning, the whole room is rotating. It's his room, but he doesn't recognize it. He bites his lower lip so it starts to bleed. It tastes like copper. The taste of the blood makes him feel sick. Then he falls asleep, surrounded by black angels that whisper in his ear, whisper about death and hell.

It's morning when Zacharias wakes again, and the angels are gone. Instead his mother is sitting at the bedside. She's crying, and her mascara has painted thick, black streaks down her wrinkly, spotted face. Zacharias wants to ask her why she's crying, but his throat is far too dry, he can't make a single sound. So she starts talking instead.
"Spike called me from your cellphone yesterday, he told me that you'd taken far too much cocaine, that it was serious this time.. so I came and picked you up. Everything is my fault. I'm a bad mother, and if I had only been a better mother from the start, you would never have started using drugs," she sobs.
The cocaine, Zacharias now remembers that he did four lines at once.
"Thankyou mum. Can you leave my room now?" he asks sternly, ignoring his mother's tears.

His mother sighs and cries some more, but then she finally leaves him alone. Zacharias thinks. About his mother, who is never there. About the cocaine, that he can't get enough of. And about the girl, that he can never get at all. Because she doesn't associate with junkies. He lies there and thinks for hours.

When he's done with the thinking, it's already dark outside, and his mother has popped her head into his room several times to ask him if he'd like anything to eat. But now he knows. He knows what he has to do.
He pokes about his drawer, looking for a pen and paper, and when he finds what he's looking for, he thinks about what he should write, but he can only think of one thing.

"I'm so sorry, I love you Spike." he writes with a shaky handwriting and leaves the paper on the pillow, he then does two last lines of cocaine, and hides the rest where he knows only Spike will find it. He takes his leather jacket and sneaks out into the night.

He's standing very close to the edge and wonders if anyone will miss him. Spike will miss him, and Zacharias will miss Spike too. "Soulmates until death tears us apart," Spike would always say when they were lying in Zacharias' bed, higher than two skyscrapers. Then he'd grab Zacharias' hand and hold it tight.
His mum, she'll probably miss him too. But Zach's missed her his whole life, so he thinks that it's her turn to miss him a little.
And the girl, she probably won't even know he's dead.

He's standing on the edge, watching the black water rush by. It's the only thing that hasn't frozen yet, but it's icy cold. The black angels are back again. They're happy. They know they'll soon get what they want. Zacharias takes off his leather jacket and his cellphone, and lays them down on the snowy ground a short distance away. He walks back to the edge with heavy steps, a tear falls from his cheek and he whispers out into the night. "For you, because you'll never be mine," he whispers, and the wind snatches his words away as soon as they leave his lips. Then he falls. He is no more.

The wind creates small whirls in the snow. The icicles are gleaming. The streetlight flashes, then dies.



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~Sitting on this bench~

2012-07-16, at 22:24:41
~Sitting on this bench~

For a brief moment
That bench, it was my home
We talked all day
And you played me a song

Never have I been happier
Than on that bench with you
It was nothing special
But I hope you felt it too

Now I'm lonely
And that bench
It breaks my heart
I can feel it tearing me apart

Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you
Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you
All alone, without you

We wrote our names upon it
So it would always be our place
And if I close my eyes
I can still picture your face

I wish that I could go back
To those times I spent with you
Even though smiling
Smiling was taboo

Now I'm lonely
And that bench
It breaks my heart
I can feel it tearing me apart

Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you
Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you
All alone, without you

And even though it sometimes creaked
It never fell apart
It was on that bench
You really captured my heart

Now I'm lonely
And that bench
It breaks my heart
I can feel it tearing me apart

Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you
Because I need you here
But there's nothing I can do
I'm sitting on this bench
All alone, without you

I'm sitting on this bench
Sitting on this bench
You know, I'm sitting on this bench
Sitting on this bench
Singing my song
All alone, without you


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It's written in the Chocolate Frogs

2012-06-20, at 17:45:00
A Rose/Scorpius HC.

It was Rose's Fifth Year at Hogwarts, so she should have been used to being away from home by now. Hogwarts was her second home! But still had moments when she would just lie on her bed and cry all day because of how much she missed her mum and dad. Especially her dad.

This was one of those days. She had been lying on her bed for hours already, and all her friends could do was to hover around in case she needed them.
Then suddenly a girl from Sixth Year popped her head into their dormitory and asked, "Is Rose Weasley here? There's a pale, blonde Slytherin boy looking for you at the portrait hole."
Rose lifted her head up from her soaked pillow and looked at the girl, "Scorpius?" she croaked.
"Uhm, now that you mention it, he probably is that Malfoy boy, yeah," and then she disappeared.
Rose could feel her friends' eyes on her as she stood up on her unsteady legs, wiped the tears from her cheeks and walked out of the dormitory.

When she got down to the Common Room, she could indeed see Scorpius Malfoy arguing with the Fat Lady.
Rose thought it looked like he wanted to draw his wand and curse her, but he was holding at least a dozen Chocolate Frogs, so there was nothing he could do.
He seemed to sense her presence though, because suddenly he looked away from the painting and straight at her instead, and his eyes instantly lit up and a small smile played on his lips. Rose could feel her cheeks burning as she crossed the room in just a few leaps and flung her arms around his neck.
Scorpius laughed softly as some of the Chocolate Frogs fell out of his arms and onto the stone floor. Rose picked them up and then she dragged him inside, yelling "He's ok" to the Fat Lady.
"I heard my fair Lady was feeling a bit down," he said with a bow, as he dumped the Chocolate Frogs onto the Common Room sofa.

Rose was still feeling upset, so she buried her face in the crook of Scorpius' neck while he stroked her back.
"Are you feeling homesick again?" he asked, his voice full of concern.
Rose nodded sighed against his neck, his platinum blonde hair just reaching down to tickle her face.
"Aww.. Well, as you might have noticed, I brought you some Chocolate Frogs to cheer you up." Scorpius gave Rose a small kiss on the top of her head.
Rose giggled, sat down on the sofa and started unwrapping a chocolate frog, after she threw one at Scorpius who followed her lead. The shrill voice of the Fat Lady could still be heard through the portrait, "A Slytherin! In MY common room! It's a an outrage! It's a scandal!"

Scorpius finished unwrapping his Chocolate Frog first, and loudly exclaimed, "I got your Uncle Harry!" as he looked at the card where the small figure smiled at him.
"And I got my dad," Rose smiled, tears in her eyes, as Scorpius handed over his card.
She also happened to get a card with her mum, a card with her Aunt Ginny, a card with her Uncle Fred and a card with her grandma Molly.

When she said goodbye to Scorpius that night, getting a last kiss goodnight and many jealous looks by her fellow Gryffindors, she felt happier than she had felt in months.
And as she lay in bed that night, still with a warm feeling in her stomach after all the chocolate, she had almost her whole family there with her on her bedside table.

The last thing she did before she fell asleep, was to take out a Chocolate Frog card from her drawer. On the card was a sleeping Draco Malfoy, and she gently whispered "Thankyou," before she put it back in the drawer.
She couldn't imagine a life where Draco Malfoy hadn't accepted her relationship with Scorpius.


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