Status: updates AT LEAST once a week
Where's My Happy Ending?
1
It has been two years since I received my epiphany, and each day, without him, i find it harder and harder to breathe. He saved my life the day that he destroyed Lord Voldemort.
I had always known that my feminine features would eventually get me into trouble, but i was not expecting the Dark Lord to take a liking to me the day that i was enrolled into his service. I can tell you that he was just as vicious between the sheets as he was during combat. I still bear both physical and emotional scars to prove it. He turned me into a 'work of art'. Pale, spidery, shimmering silver scars weave their way over the silken, porcelain skin of my back and down the length of my spine, right to my ass, to form the perfect glimmering image of a writhing snake, it's mouth agape, prepared to strike at any given opportunity. Pretty vines wind across my shoulders and down my upper arms. It was the Lord's way of marking me as his, to me they are horriffic reminders of what was and what could have been. Even now, two years after his death, any lover that sees my battle-scarred flesh runs in fear, terrified that a piece of his shattered soul will seek them out and destroy them. It is no wonder that I have been celibate since his death.
Cold and lonely, I wander through the village of Hogsmeade, wrapping my coat tighter about my lithe frame, the biting wind pushing my platinum hair into my flint-coloured eyes. Barely concealed stares and cruel or pitying whispers follow me everywhere I go. How I loathe it. I do not go to the Three Broomsticks, it is illogical, the whispers and stares will only be worse there. So instead, I head to a quaint little teashop, lace adorning the misted windows, the 'Madame Puddyfoot's' sign glittering with a thin, yet pretty layer of frost. The bell tinkles angelically as I step through the door, and I smile. The cinammon smell warmed me right to the tips of my frozen toes as I inhaled. All too soon, my 'moment' was shattered as I was sent sprawling by someone that was incredibly eager to get out of the cold.
"OhmyGod! I'm so, so sorry!" I froze as the deep velvety voice caressed my (now very red) ears. A large tanned hand was extended in front of me. I reached for it, albeit reluctantly, and had to focus on not flinching when sparks flew, literally. They flitted around our clasped hands as he helped me up, but then hissed before disappearing as he snatched his hand back upon seeing my pale face.
"Malfoy." He nooded curtly, and left through the door from which he had come.
"Potter..." I sighed, no longer wanting a warming cup of cocoa. I just wanted to leave, to go home, to curl up in my comfy armchair next to the roaring fire whilst watching a sappy rom-com. And with that thought in mind, I disapparated with a sharp 'pop'.
I had always known that my feminine features would eventually get me into trouble, but i was not expecting the Dark Lord to take a liking to me the day that i was enrolled into his service. I can tell you that he was just as vicious between the sheets as he was during combat. I still bear both physical and emotional scars to prove it. He turned me into a 'work of art'. Pale, spidery, shimmering silver scars weave their way over the silken, porcelain skin of my back and down the length of my spine, right to my ass, to form the perfect glimmering image of a writhing snake, it's mouth agape, prepared to strike at any given opportunity. Pretty vines wind across my shoulders and down my upper arms. It was the Lord's way of marking me as his, to me they are horriffic reminders of what was and what could have been. Even now, two years after his death, any lover that sees my battle-scarred flesh runs in fear, terrified that a piece of his shattered soul will seek them out and destroy them. It is no wonder that I have been celibate since his death.
Cold and lonely, I wander through the village of Hogsmeade, wrapping my coat tighter about my lithe frame, the biting wind pushing my platinum hair into my flint-coloured eyes. Barely concealed stares and cruel or pitying whispers follow me everywhere I go. How I loathe it. I do not go to the Three Broomsticks, it is illogical, the whispers and stares will only be worse there. So instead, I head to a quaint little teashop, lace adorning the misted windows, the 'Madame Puddyfoot's' sign glittering with a thin, yet pretty layer of frost. The bell tinkles angelically as I step through the door, and I smile. The cinammon smell warmed me right to the tips of my frozen toes as I inhaled. All too soon, my 'moment' was shattered as I was sent sprawling by someone that was incredibly eager to get out of the cold.
"OhmyGod! I'm so, so sorry!" I froze as the deep velvety voice caressed my (now very red) ears. A large tanned hand was extended in front of me. I reached for it, albeit reluctantly, and had to focus on not flinching when sparks flew, literally. They flitted around our clasped hands as he helped me up, but then hissed before disappearing as he snatched his hand back upon seeing my pale face.
"Malfoy." He nooded curtly, and left through the door from which he had come.
"Potter..." I sighed, no longer wanting a warming cup of cocoa. I just wanted to leave, to go home, to curl up in my comfy armchair next to the roaring fire whilst watching a sappy rom-com. And with that thought in mind, I disapparated with a sharp 'pop'.
♠ ♠ ♠
I love this one.constructive criticism is welcome, as always.