Current mood:	fucking exhausted
Current music:	nelly furtado, try

see you standing there, wanting more from me
A little (really little) Potter. What else?



[Potter, 'Pieces']

You find them everywhere.

You never know when, or where, or what they’ll say. They are not sophisticated, and not practiced. They are random and sometimes make you laugh and sometimes make you blush.

They are not love poems, or love letters, in the common senses of the words. They are simply pieces of his heart, and you sometimes feel as if they serve to patch the gaping whole in your own chest where your heart used to be, before he made off with it.

All in his scrawling, messy hand that you used to think was illegible, but is now almost as familiar as your own.

In the margin of your History of Magic notes that they borrowed after spending the entirety of the lecture playing hangman. You weren’t wearing socks today and all I could see was the freckle on your ankle.

In your Daily Prophet, underneath the Quidditch scores. Your eyelashes sometimes get tangled at the corners.

On spare bits of parchment he leaves in your bag. I am absolutely overwhelmed by you.

On Honeyduke’s receipts after Hogsmeade weekends. I will buy you Sugar Quills forever. Even though Chocolate Frogs are far superior.

Underneath the heading for the chapter you’re studying that day in Arithmancy. I can still feel you.

And your favourite, so far, on the inside of your wrist, after you both fall asleep, sprawled on Common Room floor, cramming for a Potions exam. i love you.



Harry/Hermione - They are not sophisticated, and not practiced.

And a not-so-sekrit message to queenofalosart - It SO is. Hy-fucking-sterical.