miriamblue31

[miriamblue31]

JAMES POTTER: “Lil’ Crouch, my man! How’s it goin’ with that sore throat of yours? Still sore after our little get-together?” EVERYBODY IN HIS VICINITY: "What in the everloVING FUCK" BARTY CROUCH JUNIOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: "Throat's better, the ass still hurts tho, but thank you for asking" REGULUS BLACK, heir to the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, currently being stalked by Potter and trying not to crack under pressure: "I'm going to drown myself; K bye"

[miriamblue31]

TMW you stopped your fic draft in the middle of a conversation and now you have no idea where you wanted to go with it...

"The following days his dreams were traitorous. They kept replaying on loop the Unspeakable Potter Incident (UPI, for short). There was something mortifying to have a nervous breakdown just because someone said something they shouldn’t have said (it was something forbidden; something only the Gods have the right to utter and that something was the truth).

He didn’t get that much rest on those following days. He didn’t get much of anything – food, rest, information, things done, etc. Regulus was embarrassed, mortifyingly so. It truly wasn’t that big of a deal; it was the early morning, on an empty hallway, protected by the shadows of the night looming overhead. He may have exaggerated a little bit, but that was neither here nor there, and it certainly wasn’t any of Potter’s business. His lesson stayed true. The man needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

The unforgiving thing was how James Potter kept appearing in Regulus’ life after the UPI. It was like the boy became the devil himself, a really annoying iteration of Lucifer – whereas Regulus was becoming Lilith, trying to avoid the temptation of punching that snake in lions’ clothing in the face with the branch he kept climbing on. At every corner, there was Potter, smiling like the Cheshire cat. At every doorway, the older boy appeared out of the shadows like he just lived in the middle of them.

Regulus was feeling haunted, exasperated, watched. He didn’t even understand how the annoying idiot knew where he was or where he will be, and he certainly didn’t understand how he had the time to basically stalk him across the castle.

“Fancy meeting you here, Redgie!” Regulus didn’t jump. He was startled, and he thankfully, managed to keep the light shriek to himself. Think of the Devil and he shall appear.

“I am sorry, Potter, but the R.A.B. Fan Club doesn’t meet until three ‘o clock, in the ‘Classical Latin’ classroom; if you want I can forward you an invitation” His friends definitely found his little situation funny. But after three full weeks of this, Regulus was starting to regret ever being born. His poor mother, carrying him for nine months, training him to be a perfect gentleman at all times, and James Potter nearly managing to undo all that progress in so little time.

“Lil’ Crouch, my man! How’s it goin’ with that sore throat of yours? Still sore after our little get-together?” The Bane of His Existence^TM spoke."

__________________

And that's where I left it 3weeks ago and now I have no idea why James was insinuating he fucked Barty's throat raw (which he didn't btw), while stalking Regulus.

HELP

[miriamblue31]

My dearest Everything,

I am writing to you during a brief period of rare solitude amidst the ceaseless tumult of battle—a fleeting calm that permits these words to spill forth from my heart, as undaunted and insistent as the northern wind. For the past two and a half years, I have borne witness to horrors and wonders alike, yet it is the memory of you that sustains me in the deep and shadowed hours. I plead with you for the continual absence of my person as I put pen to paper, understanding that even though my heart is far away on these frozen fields, remains inextricably bound to yours.

You must understand, my love, that the passion you have ignited within me is burning brighter and brighter even as the walls of Frostfire Citadel—a name as harsh as the land we stand on—are covered in frost. The lightning that blazes the skies in the early morning is a reflection of the burning ardour that consumes my soul for you; It is as though the very heavens have conspired with fate.

The wind here howls like a wounded beast, and the snow never stops falling. It clings to our coats, our lashes, even our spells, as if trying to freeze us from the inside out. Some nights, I think it nearly succeeds. But then I think of you—your laugh, the curve of your handwriting, the way your fingers curled around mine that last night at King’s Cross—and I am warmed from within, if only for a moment.

I find comfort in contemplating of your warm embrace and the dulcet tones of your laughter throughout those charged moments when the tempest roars and the stars dare not peek through the gathered stormclouds; these are the rare comforts that buoy my spirit, as steadfast as the ancient oaks that line the misty glens of our homeland.

I dream your name and like gentle zephyrs in a barren winter, it stirs the very embers of my heart! I often reread your letter, the one which you left on my nightstand that wretched day. A private soliloquy of longing that sets my soul ablaze with a yearning as profound and endless as the starry vault of night. In your every line, I hear the gentle susurration of devotion and the whispered hope of a love that defies the cruel confines of this transient mortal coil.

Oh, how I crave to be the breath that mingles with yours; the one who, in the quiet intimacy of twilight, might steal softly upon your countenance a kiss as sweet as the dew upon an early rose. You write of a tempest and of grim tidings, yet I ask you, my love, to suspend these horrors and let us instead dwell in that ineffable realm where only our hearts commune—a realm where our souls merge in a rapturous, clandestine ballet of emotion and desire. In the stillness of the early morn, when the world yet slumbers, I think of you—and it is as though the very air swells with the promise of our unbridled unity.

I, too, have felt the ceaseless pull of your memory, a siren call that has rendered every quiet moment a desperate search for your essence. The days, long and wearisome without your laughter, are punctuated by the soft whisper of a name spoken upon the breeze, a symphony of love that resonates within every fiber of my being. I yearn for the touch of your hand—the gentle press of your fingertips that speaks of a tender intimacy, of a connection forged in realms unknown to the mere clatter of earthly affairs. How wondrous it would be to allow our hearts, each a solitary flame in darkness, to glow together as one, kindling a light that no shadow of despair could ever hope to extinguish.

In the quiet recesses of my mind, I muse upon the divine alchemy that binds our souls—a bond as ancient as time, yet ever new, as if each beat of my heart were the gentle knocking of destiny at the door. I imagine us adrift on a sea of endless dreams, each sigh a testament to the unspoken covenant that binds us in spirit and in truth. The very idea of our destined union fills me with a bittersweet rapture, a sweet torment that renders me both fragile and invincible. For what is love if not the subtle, sacred interplay of hope and longing, the delicate art of entwining two destinies until they are indistinguishable from the very fabric of the universe itself?

Yet, there is a pall—a suspenseful dread—that clings about us this twilight of war. Whispers from the front, gathered around small fires, describe a covert development. Our esteemed leader, Albus Dumbledore, has confided tidings so enigmatic and portentous that notwithstanding merely igniting our hope, the frigidness of scepticism quickly smothers it. We've hoped before. We've watched that hope be turned to ash. We've buried it alongside friends we loved more than words can hold.

There have been rumours that Voldemort, whose eerie designs plague every dark nook of our beleaguered lands, is preparing a final, cataclysmic act—a pivot of fate that may extinguish the flame of free enchantment for evermore. Something darker than dragons, darker than Inferi even—something twisted and old, drawn from the forgotten edges of magic. Villages on the outskirts are vanishing, not burning—just…gone. Whispers recount a clandestine scheme, hidden beneath layers of arcane sigils and sealed with runes of despair. Neighbouring villages vanish overnight, leaving naught but an oppressive silence, the trees charred, the snow untouched, and yet not a soul remains. They say the air smells faintly of a ghostly trace of copper and ash, and the earth itself resists being touched. I have seen the maps. The void is spreading. I confess, my sweetest, that these grim accounts have set my heart thrumming with both terror and a fervour to end the tyranny that seeks to devour us whole.

There are rumours—terrible ones—of chambers built underground, charmed with silence, sealed with blood runes. Entire families, rounded up under the lie of sanctuary, never seen again. The few who escaped speak of gas brewed by Potionsmasters loyal to Voldemort—a fog that strips the soul before it stills the heart. I do not know if it is truth or fear-spun legend, but I do know this: he will stop at nothing. And neither will we.

There is, however, an exquisite irony in our plight. For though our ranks have been beleaguered by loss and the incessant drumbeat of approaching doom, a furtive glimmer of hope has been kindled by that same source which often inspires the loftiest of dreams. Dumbledore himself has delivered a message, replete with the weight of wisdom and the subtle promise of deliverance, yet shrouded in the cloaks of secrecy that render its true meaning elusive. In hushed tones and furtive glances, our comrades discuss the possibility of an artefact—ancient and hallowed—that may yet turn the tide against this encroaching darkness. But I confess to you, my beloved, that even as I dare to entertain such prospects, a trembling uncertainty laces my every thought, and the night seems to tremble with the portent of what is to come.

In the quiet hours before dawn, when even the restless souls of war are lulled into a temporary stillness, I allow my thoughts to drift freely to you. I recall your refined manner, your gentle cadence, and the eloquence with which you imbued even the simplest of words with their own delicate music. There, in the luminous memory of your presence, I find a reprieve from the inexorable march of destiny—a promise that even in the midst of such pervasive despair, beauty endures.

I try to hold fast to your my inner light, my dearest; for in the longest night, it is that very radiance which will guide me through the darkness and lead me to the dawn of a reawakened world—a world where I shall return to you, an unbroken soul redeemed by the love we share. Until that luminous day when destiny decrees our hearts must beat as one, hold my words close as you would a cherished secret, and know that my every breath is but a silent ode to you. For in the vast, immeasurable tapestry of existence, you remain the singular thread that enlivens my soul—a note of eternal beauty in the grand symphony of life.

I am writing to you from the battlefield, as I have done for the past two and a half years, and I find myself begging for your forgiveness yet again. With my love, my soul, my being, I beg that you forgive my absence.

Yours, in every whispered hope and silent sigh,

Your Jamie

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