i survive on the breath you are finished with
She watches the sky, most nights.
It’s not something that ever appealed to her, before; neither the science nor the magic. But it was something she did that year, when it felt like the stars were the only fixed points in her life. Whether it was the three of them, or just the two; whether they were by the sea or in the city, in the deep of the woods or in a field of heather.
The stars, at least, stayed the same.
She didn’t think about it at the time, never realized the habit was forming and she certainly never thought it would be one of the only habits to remain.
There is the scar on her forearm, her fingers tracing over it. There are the protective spells, uttered in a whisper when she locks up for the night. The solitary messenger bag, sitting innocently in her closet amongst beads and sequins and silk, always overlooked but at the back of her mind.
And this, sitting on her roof, picking out the stars through the light and fog of London.
Written last night while I was waiting for the sugar and eggs to beat for my hot sponge cake. They have to beat for 20 minutes, so. I was thinking about Potter, as you do.
It’s not something that ever appealed to her, before; neither the science nor the magic. But it was something she did that year, when it felt like the stars were the only fixed points in her life. Whether it was the three of them, or just the two; whether they were by the sea or in the city, in the deep of the woods or in a field of heather.
The stars, at least, stayed the same.
She didn’t think about it at the time, never realized the habit was forming and she certainly never thought it would be one of the only habits to remain.
There is the scar on her forearm, her fingers tracing over it. There are the protective spells, uttered in a whisper when she locks up for the night. The solitary messenger bag, sitting innocently in her closet amongst beads and sequins and silk, always overlooked but at the back of her mind.
And this, sitting on her roof, picking out the stars through the light and fog of London.
Written last night while I was waiting for the sugar and eggs to beat for my hot sponge cake. They have to beat for 20 minutes, so. I was thinking about Potter, as you do.