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Where my treasure is a grave by ethelcainfest, everythingsbetterunderthestars
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
20 Oct 2025
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Summary
They were both widowed from the war.
When they met, draped in black and eyes dull, their hearts were hollow, their faces thinned from grief and survival, and they had little left to lose. Lily had never cared for the money; Narcissa had never cared for herself.
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Or, everything Lily has ever loved, she's loved it straight to death.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,333
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 12
- Kudos:
- 21
- Bookmarks:
- 6
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- 187
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
10 Jun 2026
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Carrots and daisies by everythingsbetterunderthestars
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
10 Oct 2025
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Summary
After Luna's mother passes, she cuts all contact with Ginny, who's left to miss her best friend until they reunite at Hogwarts. When they eventually rekindle their friendship, Ginny thinks she'll have a better chance at keeping Luna this time if she goes along with the silent agreement not to mention the years they spent apart.
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Or, Ginny and Luna have matching earrings from their childhood and surprise each other by both wearing them again on the same day.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,115
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 10
- Kudos:
- 18
- Bookmarks:
- 5
- Hits:
- 147
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
10 Jun 2026
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Tags
Summary
Strange thing, to stumble upon your most reviled foe, in this youthful form, at his worst moment.
Standalone.
Series
- Part 7 of love lost
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
06 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
A young man kneeling distantly in the dirt: auburn-haired and sweet, he clutches at a motionless girl in his arms. A jagged gash tears across her chest. He trembles around her, wand clutched haphazardly in his palm, sleeves stained with spots of bright blood.
He looks up sharply as you approach. His eyes, blue like the free sky, flicker.
You think he’s beautiful like this, bloodied and in pain. You want to break him further; you want him at your feet. You want to elevate him; you want to lead him further astray.
He doesn’t move, as though frozen, transfixed at the sight of you, for you are a stranger to him.
Odd, to be so starkly unrecognised by the very man who was your initial contact, your very first introduction to the wizarding world.
You couldn’t ever forget him. And he shouldn’t forget you. But this version of him is so young; it will be decades before he sets eyes on little orphan boy Tom.
Kneeling, you reach for him thoughtlessly, just wanting to touch your fingers upon this curious being, as though doing so would confirm that he is in fact real and not some strange illusion. But then, at last, he finds the will to unfreeze. His mouth falls open:
“Help her…” he breathes, “Please.”
His hand shudders, uncontrolled. Fingers spasming along the length of his wand. If he held it any tighter, he might snap it outright.
Well, when he asks so sweetly, you think.
You extract your bone-white wand, elegant heartless thing, from the holster hidden within the folds of your robes. Though your hand is made to spill blood rather than mend a bleeding wound, it is a versatile tool, capable of reversing the very damage it wrought. Just as you seize life, you must be able to return it too, or you cannot claim any domain over Death.
Though, in this case, the harm is not your doing. For once.
She doesn’t move; she doesn’t breathe. But through your delvings into Soul Magic, you’ve gained a sort of seventh sense. You can see souls—not only your own fractured one, but that of others. And you can see hers, still lingering there, floating, lost. As though dazed, as though in disbelief at its own passing.
You reach out with your magic, wand pointed to the heavens, and gather her soul. Like spun yarn, and your wand the spindle. She doesn’t struggle. Not conscious enough to resist. Fresh enough to be pliable.
You press the point of your wand against that sturdy heart-bone. The red recedes. You don’t bother mending her clothes.
She still isn’t breathing. Naturally. All you’ve done is sew a corpse shut.
You unravel the yarn of her soul from your wand. With each inch, you lay a binding spell upon her, tying her soul back into her body. It’s not the same as the natural bindings that keep a person alive, that anchor the soul to life. But like surgery stitches, they need only hold long enough for the soul to heal itself and seal back together. And it will.
Resilient thing, the soul. Murder may split it apart, but with time, with reflection, it will mend again. It is the natural way.
You would know. To you, it is an obstacle; to her, it is salvation.
Dumbledore gasps. Warmth is returning to her body. Her heart stutters, waking with a jolt, then finds its footing.
Wonder in Dumbledore’s eyes. “Ari...” His wand has dropped to the ground, forgotten in the grass. His palm is pressed to her chest.
You hum, impassive. You aren’t sure why you bothered to help him.
But then he speaks again.
“Thank you,” he cries. “Thank you.”
You’ve never seen him so uncomposed.
Will he not question what you’ve done? She was clearly dead. He must have realised that, for all that he begged your aid. He must have known the futility of pleading a random stranger to conjure a miracle.
And yet, you did.
Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, you suppose. Not unless you want to see gleaming teeth, a gaping maw.
It’s an ugly thing you’ve done, bound a freed soul back to confinement. Yet that is the condition all humans live under. An affront. An abhorrence. But you’ve never cared for rights nor wrongs, not as dictated by the world. Only your own rules matter, only your values. This is your unique code of honour.
A foreign twinge of affection stirs. Something softens in your chest. You reach out your hand, and place it upon his, still resting upon the girl’s chest, newly unbroken.
“Take her home,” you say. Your voice is flat, baring nothing. “She needs her rest. So do you.”
You will follow, of course. You would see more of this, more of him, now that your original goal is out of reach.
Perhaps this isn’t such a bad trade after all.
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Tags
Summary
Voldemort has traveled a long way to kill Dumbledore.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 86,292
- Chapters:
- 10/10
- Collections:
- 23
- Comments:
- 1,414
- Kudos:
- 5,256
- Bookmarks:
- 1,719
- Hits:
- 102,219
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
04 Jun 2026
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James Potter Willingly Goes To The Library by strwbrryj4m
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
15 Mar 2021
Tags
Summary
James Potter does not frequent the library. Certainly not during his free time. Certainly not on a Saturday afternoon.
But this Saturday afternoon James Potter can’t stop thinking about Remus Lupin and his lycanthropy (which James both recently discovered and recently discovered the severity of) and James decides that he must find a solution. He must.
So, James sets off to the library.
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This is for Remus Lupin Fest 2021! A sweet lil fic about the beginnings of James and Remus's friendship :)
It's prompt 55, which is included in the notes!!
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,469
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 10
- Kudos:
- 171
- Bookmarks:
- 28
- Hits:
- 1,382
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
29 May 2026
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Summary
Remus dies in the Battle of Hogwarts and is greeted by an old friend, who incidentally also has some experience in being a dead father. One-shot.
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
29 May 2026
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Summary
After fighting with Lupin in Grimmauld Place, Harry wondered if his father would have approved what he had said to Lupin. Fortunately, James comes to give Remus his piece of mind. Set during Deathly Hallows.
Series
- Part 4 of Missing Moments
- Part 1 of Dreamverse
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
29 May 2026
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Tags
Summary
She presents him with his own little stack of flash cards. They're colour coded by study unit, but the card on top just says his name in glittery pink gel pen.
E d d i e
Christ, she's dotted the i with a little smiley face.
If he looks at her for too long, he feels a pull like gravity – like standing at the top of the quarry and looking in. There’s a pull from somewhere deep in his chest that wants him to lean forward and fall.
He almost does.- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,286
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 3
- Comments:
- 87
- Kudos:
- 1,597
- Bookmarks:
- 264
- Hits:
- 7,965
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
28 May 2026
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Summary
Parvati's mark is a promise of a future where someone loves her. But that doesn't mean getting there is going to be easy.
Series
- Part 2 of Marking Us Both
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
26 May 2026
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Tags
Summary
Everyone in Hogwarts has heard the rumours about them, but only the two of them know the truth.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,040
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 18
- Kudos:
- 721
- Bookmarks:
- 46
- Hits:
- 7,053
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
26 May 2026
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Summary
Hermione is not used to being told she's beautiful. Fleur is planning to change that.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,342
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 50
- Kudos:
- 1,506
- Bookmarks:
- 114
- Hits:
- 30,631
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
26 May 2026
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Tags
Summary
Some people make a lot of fuss about their marks. Ginny doesn't see the point. Things will work themselves out, right?
Series
- Part 1 of Marking Us Both
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,053
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 83
- Kudos:
- 1,803
- Bookmarks:
- 186
- Hits:
- 15,553
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
26 May 2026
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Summary
I force away the memories from before, of sun dresses and naked legs, of lipstick and alcohol, of freedom that never did me any good.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,100
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 10
- Kudos:
- 73
- Bookmarks:
- 12
- Hits:
- 1,548
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
25 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
This is what I like to think:
Our young nation, rising from the ashes of a corrupt and decayed one, is carried forward by a wave of hope and courage; and at the very front line, most eager of all because they have found their place at last, the Soldiers of Life.
These girls, my girls, they are soldiers, risking their bodies to give life, letting their flesh be shredded for the sake of others. I am their healer, their teacher, their general; I lead them and they follow, as willingly as Ruth followed Naomi.
*
In truth, they are as faithless as Judas, or most of them are, and you can't always tell who. Faithless as Judas, yes, but also blind as newborn kittens and stubborn as unbroken foals. It hurts me, to have to use the cattle prod, to hear their cries and watch their thrashing bodies. It hurts me to the point where I want to moan with them.
Yet I do not lose hope. We belong together, we are women. Some day, when they have fulfilled their duty, some of them will perhaps return to stand like I do, looking at a sea of red. They will pick out the faces from the red lump, will learn how to connect with each and every one of them, and will inspire in them love and fear.
I always use my gentlest voice when I teach.
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It is vain to long for recognition. I am content to do my duty in the place He has found for me. I do not long for children of my own, I stopped having such dreams years ago. I long for my girls' swollen bellies, their complacency, their faith.
Stop dreaming, Helena says one afternoon. They don't love you.
Her hand around the teacup is fat, fingers like small sausages. She was not a Believer, before; she only was saved after the Liberation.
We're guards, she says. It's our job. We can't afford to be nice. They don't know what's best for them.
On the last, at least, we can agree. I smile and raise the teacup. None of the girls likes Helena, of that much I'm sure.
*
Don't think it's easy for me either, I say during a lesson, my voice thick and raw.
They blink uneasily; they don't understand. How could they? I cover my mouth with my hand again, remove it. I must not lose control. Showing my feelings is good, it helps me connect. But I can't let them question my authority.
It's difficult for all of us, I say, Satan's images are still strong in our minds. Let's learn how to overcome them.
*
Aunt Lydia, Janine says, and I like the sound of my name on her tongue. I used to have another one, before, a much less pretty one, with lumps of consonants that obstructed one's breath.
Aunt Lydia, may I sit down?
Yes, dear.
I smile at her. I like it when she calls me aunt.
I make Janine a cup of tea, a little well-deserved indulgence. Meek and mild-mannered, she has taken the lessons to heart. Yet she's so starved for affection, for approval and caresses, as if the Saviour's love couldn't fill her all by itself.
Janine will make me proud, and yet I will miss her when she's gone. Her education ends in just a week. I pray to have these selfish considerations lifted from my heart.
*
For every year that passes, the memories grow weaker. The time before becomes more vague and grey. Every night I thank the Lord for this.
My body isn't as strong anymore, but I don't need it to be. I am not a vessel of Life, only of Hope, and Hope does not require young, supple limbs.
It was never my destiny to be coveted, to be whistled after like a dog and picked apart like a piece of meat. Satan tempted me, made me cry at night because boys didn't look twice at me and because some of them called me rat and ugly to my face. Little did I know, then, of my Lord's mercy, that he spared me the humiliation and sorrow that comes from being used, like so many were in the old times, used and tossed away like a piece of rubbish.
My girls are all beautiful in their own way, if only because of who they are and what their bodies can do. They do not deserve that humiliation any more than I did. They deserve the honour that comes from our newfound Empire, built on rocks, not on sand.
*
The Particicution is justice, revenge, the destruction of the destroyer by his own victims. It warms my heart.
I tell the girls to line up, and the prisoner is brought forth.
According to the charges, the crime was heinous. I do not question the information given to me. At any rate, it doesn't matter. The man, the thing, will suffer.
I tell them what he has done. I see murder in their faces, the Life-givers longing to kill, on my signal. A surge, a storm, a roaring fire, women learning of their own power.
I blow the whistle.
And I stand back, waiting for the tide of red.
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The Daughter's Tale by Meltha for Serenity_Ribbon
Fandoms: The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
23 Dec 2018
Tags
Summary
What happened to the girl in the white dress?
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 955
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 4
- Kudos:
- 64
- Bookmarks:
- 8
- Hits:
- 656
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
25 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
I remembered a mother and father, dimly, on the edge of memory. There was a cat, and a house, and a doll. There was a forest, and mother running with me, though I felt sleepy and confused, and then there was nothing. I woke up in a cool, white bed, remembering the story she had told me about the brother and sister who met the witch in the gingerbread house. Appearances were sometimes very wrong, and the pretty little room felt as wrong as ever. The doctors told me everything I had ever seen had been a dream, I had been sick, and wasn’t I so happy to see my mother and father again now that I was all well? They brought in two people I’d never seen before. Wouldn’t I be a good girl and try to remember them?
I bit the doctor. He must have nearly lost that finger, but the taste of blood in my mouth was real. I remember the woman’s look of horror. They’d given her a crazy daughter, and she had only this one chance. Her husband had laughed, though, thought it was hilarious. He was already underestimating me. But then they all do that to every girl.
The choice was simple, even for a five-year-old. Learn to pretend to be good, learn to pretend to forget, learn to pretend to submit. The other option was death. Of one kind or another. Now I realize they probably wouldn’t have killed me. A female with working ovaries and a potential lifetime of children? The other option was the Red Centre.
I learned to hold my tongue. But I didn’t hold my mind. I always knew. I refused to forget.
They called me Sarah. I was told by the woman who said I was her daughter, but to whom I bear no resemblance at all, I should feel gratitude for having a name. Many women do not. They are Ofs. So long as I behaved, I wouldn’t lose my name. That’s what they told me.
Of course, they had already taken it once, so I didn’t trust them.
I was no fool. I had working eyes and ears and brains. I still remembered my letters, though I couldn’t read properly. Most importantly, I remembered that they lie. All of them, even when they don’t know it. So I learned to lie beautifully, keep my face passive as stone, but I refused to lie to myself.
I was eleven when I stumbled on the resistance. One of the Marthas in my father’s house was part of them. She spoke too loud and never checked who might be listening, but then she did think I was a bit stupid. I had cultivated feigning that particular trait. It was something men seemed to find admirable and women unthreatening.
When I was thirteen and showed signs of fruitfulness (a pretty name for bleeding), my rather relieved mother explained to me I would soon be married to a fine man, and if all went well, I would have a child quickly. I don’t think she ever quite forgot her first image of me, covered in that doctor’s blood. I doubted I would be missed much. Regardless, I had no desire to become the bride of one of the commanders or their sons, so I tried something rash, utterly foolish.
I ran away. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew who I was trying to find. I had picked up enough bits of information to suspect who might be part of the resistance, and I was nearly certain the chauffeur who had once worked for Commander Waterford was in it. Waterford was dead now, arrested in a purge, and if half I heard about him was true, I only regretted he couldn’t be killed more than once. Nick, the chauffeur, had been reassigned to another influential man. There were murmurs, less than words on wind, that he knew something. I found myself knocking quietly on his door just past midnight.
“Who...?” he said, then stopped mid-sentence when he saw me.
“Mayday,” I said, and in spite of myself, my voice cracked. “Please, Mayday.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he said.
“Not yet, but I will be soon,” I said. “I have to get out of here.”
“Who are you?”
I laughed.
“I have no idea.”
He got me out. I was adopted by a sympathetic couple who helped smuggle women from Gilead, and I got an education. I survived. And I helped over five hundred handmaids, Marthas, and unwomen cross the border.
My mother. It was from her that I learned the name I had forgotten.
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Tags
Summary
Moira is a trans woman, and she wants to watch it all burn.
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
25 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
A lot of women can’t be sorted properly. A whole lot more than they’ll admit. There are some who were just too educated, some dykes, the incorrigibles who aren’t docile enough for proper women’s work no matter how much they’re beaten. There’s all the women who aren’t white and have to be taken out of the breeding pool, either sterilized into Marthas or exiled. Or executed. Most infertiles are just made into Marthas, but there are some who can’t be put away in the kitchen. A lot of disabled women end up dead, not fit for breeding or for work, even in the Colonies. And then there are the people like her, who they try hard to pretend don’t exist.
Moira would have been exiled or executed immediately if they’d known at first. There were some people high up who were sympathetic, and she had plenty of friends in the community – the community that no longer exists – who did their best to help her. So she avoided the physical examinations that would have shown she was a gender traitor (not an official term, because they officially don’t exist, but she’d heard it used).
She escaped when a new round of examinations came. She didn’t tell anyone that was her reason, of course. After her first escape, they couldn’t do the examination because it would’ve shown that she was being more maltreated than technically legal. The second time, she wasn’t as lucky.
By then, they had an (unofficial) policy for gender traitors. They obviously couldn’t breed, and were too feminine to be true male citizens but not female enough to be wives or Marthas.
Those who didn’t pass well enough were executed. Those who were pretty, who looked enough like they were cis women, were given another job. There are always men who want something special.
So here she is. They did something to her, before they brought her here; she’s not sure what, but she knows she doesn’t think as well as she used to and the others don’t either. The incorrigibles need to be kept down. Part of it’s the drugs they keep pumping through the air system, aphrodisiacs and downers. But a lot of it’s permanent. Her head clears partially in the dorms at night, but there’s always a film in front of her eyes.
All of the girls, all the incorrigibles, they work together. They’re willing to do whatever it takes, all ready to go – go away, go down with the ship if that’s where it ends.
One was a chemist; she’s assigned the formulation. One has a client who gives her drugs from outside. A couple of the larger dykes volunteer to act as muscle.
A sweet girl volunteers to set it off. Once, she would have been exactly Moira’s type. Her voice is lilting. She’s a dark, bluish black. Some of the clients like a bit of color. They must have felt she was too pretty to waste. She remakes their outfits, sometimes. She was an oil painter before.
They wait until 22:30. The peak time for important Commanders. The Aunts are doped just enough to be slow. The chemist has passed the explosive to the artist. The artist passes the Aunt, who barely looks at her. All the incorrigibles have been detaching themselves from their clients, and now move towards the door.
The clients are more down from the drugs pumped into the air than the girls, not having had years to build up tolerance. It takes them a while to notice they’re being left alone. By the time they do, the muscles have arranged themselves strategically, slipping out of their heels and swinging their fists. All the girls run for the doors, left open by an Aunt who had been in the business before everything changed.
The drugged men, too many of them, take them down. The doped Aunts awaken enough to start coming after the girls with shock batons. The girls are screaming and running and fighting.
The wall blows out. The ceiling starts to fall and now everyone’s running, clients and incorrigibles alike.
Moira can feel the heat push at her back like the rush of air from an oven but so much harder, the light and fire more blinding than concrete in a Texas summer, heat haze warping her vision and making the ground waver. Her ears hear the high pitches of screams and the bass waves of fire but nothing in between. She can’t tell which way is up, the sky the same dizzy red as the ground.
She falls and turns. The sky resolves itself. She can see, see clearly, like the film that’s been over her eyes for years has finally pulled away. She can see the building, mostly caved in, one wall standing. She can see the fire, two stories high. She can see a Commander on the ground. She had him once. He was an ass.
She watches the fire burn.
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Tags
Summary
There’s still enough of us up here that we have to stand close; our dresses overlap in a line of uninterrupted white against the tired pale brown wood of the stage. The symbolism of it, the line of feminine white on the right and the tall black Angel uniforms on the left, must look very nice in the framed shot I’m sure the cameraman is getting. Hidden behind the folds of our skirts, Verity’s fingers find mine. I clasp them tight in an overlapping hold. I try not to look at the black edging the corner of my vision.
~
What is it like, finding yourself and your love in a country determined to erase them both?Bookmarked by mountainrusing
25 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
I didn’t have a nickname until I met Verity. I didn’t even know that was what it was called. It sounded strange: nickname. Nick is a nickname of a name, I know now, which is its own kind of delightful. But ‘nick’, too, is a short sharp cut, an accidental hurt. I think hurts that are accidental hurt a little less, because at least you know there was no meanness behind it. I remember when I ran too fast and skinned a knee; my first mother would smooth a bright cartoon Band-Aid on it and give it a kiss. Sometimes small accidental hurts feel like that. Like the world is giving someone a chance to kiss it better.
It’s an odd word for an odd habit, nicknaming. Shortening names, replacing names, out of affection rather than use or designation. That’s not how names work in Gilead. But Verity was Rescued later than me. She remembers more things about how it used to work.
The first time, I think I asked her where the rest of my name went. No, I didn’t say that, but my face did, and she laughed and explained.
—
Verity was a changeling child. In public or in front of our mothers, she was the best Daughter of Gilead I’d seen: reserved, pious, tidy. She knew more verses than most Commanders, and she knew them by heart. But alone, she was transformed, transformative. Creative and curious and full of benevolent mischief. We played catch with our embroidery hoops, flicked our thimbles back and forth till our pointer fingers bruised, folded scrap paper into dolls for games of pretend that spanned years of visits.
One of our most beloved games started the day I found out she was a thief. We were ten. We wouldn’t realize how lucky she was to get away with it for several years yet, but even at that age, we knew to keep each other’s secrets.
She shifted around oddly, and I nearly squeaked to see her reach all the way up her skirt. From beneath her petticoat, she brought out an honest-to-God entire Bible.
We traced the gilded edges and fanned each other with the tissue-thin pages, giggling and glutting ourselves on the novel taste of forbidden fruit. Within a year, we were brave enough to underline verses in soft, careful pencil strokes, and we had cemented our new favorite game of pretend enough to improvise new lines that felt as real as the ones we had read.
—
Our hands are sweaty by the time the Commander in charge of the Prayvaganza walks past us to mount the stairs of the stage, and I know we should let go before he sees us. We’re only hidden from the front and the side, and he’ll be behind and above us, giving the speech and directing the ceremony. But I can’t do it.
I knew this was coming for months. Mother even told me she was proud of the arrangements she’d made for me, that she was sure I’d be cared for. Verity’s mother had used the same word. Arrangements. Like they were discussing a seating chart, or a flower bouquet, rather than pledging their daughters to strange older men for the rest of their lives. The Commander is up on the stage now, but I still can’t let go of Verity’s hand, even clammy as it is.
Verity—smart, changeling Verity—pulls her hand from mine. I embarrass myself with an involuntary choking sound. She rests the outside edge of her pinky against mine. We’re veiled; I don’t have to fix whatever it is my face is doing.
—
We would slip into the game as easily and eagerly as gasping fish into water. I was Ruth, and she was Naomi. We had added kissing and weeping to our routine for verisimilitude, but when we brought our shaky hearts fully into the light, nothing about it felt like a game anymore.
My Ruth, she would murmur, and I would gasp, My Naomi, at the taste of her words.
—
“Today is a day of thanksgiving, a day of praise,” said the Commander into the microphone. Last year there was a squeal of feedback after the first syllable, and Verity and I met eyes across our mothers’ laps and bit our mouths against laughter. I can’t believe how thoughtless we were to laugh, seeing our classmates arranged into their new lives. The heat of my Naomi’s pinky against mine is the only thing tying me to my body. I watch the little red and white pond of Handmaids quietly rustling and I feel, with sudden and excruciating clarity, that we are the same. I am not better than them. I have never been better than them. We are all of us being handed around to different men in different ways. I wonder if this is what it’s always been like, to reach womanhood. Verity would know, I think. Verity always knows.
I give a start when I hear her soft alto voice begin to sing, and I am glad to join. I can take a little pleasure in our voices sounding the words together.
“Sometimes I feel discouraged, and deep I feel the pain, in prayers the holy spirit, revives my soul again.”
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As Weeds Fall in the Weeping Brook by hlae for SegaBarrett
Fandoms: The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
21 Jun 2015
Tags
Summary
There is no rest for the wicked. Not even in dreams.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,682
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
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Bookmarked by mountainrusing
24 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
You don’t hesitate behind that mud wall in the empty bazaar, trembling like a snowflake in the wind. You scream wildly, you charge into that alleyway, leaping onto Assef, desperate fists pummeling his back. For a moment, you feel alive; then rough hands throw you to the ground. You hit the narrow walls, brick scraping against your clumsy fingers as you scramble for a hold. The snow is cold against your bare neck. You’re breathing fast, you look up—
Or perhaps you grab a rock, run in and hurl it at Assef’s head with a shout. Surprisingly, it hits him; your aim was never very accurate the few times Baba was in a good enough mood to play baseball with you. He cries out and spins around. You’ve lost momentum, stumble to the ground, but it doesn’t matter; Assef has one hand fisted in your coat and another swinging back—
Or maybe you just jump in front of him and let him beat you: a momentary agony for a lifetime of peace.
In these fantasies, you never see Hassan’s face.
—
“What’s the matter?” Soraya asks. You are usually good at not waking her up when you have one of your fits.
“I don’t remember.” The crickets chirp, matching the beat of your thudding heart. You don’t know if you’re telling the truth. You don’t want to remember.
When she only looks at you, patient and loving, you say, “I can’t make it past this scene.”
She yawns, blinks her dark eyes at you. The moonlight, seeping through the fluttering curtains, highlights the curve of her cheek. For a moment, you want to tell her everything. Then she turns and the light spills across the sheets, leaving a puddle of darkness on your lap.
“Skip ahead,” she says, already half-asleep. She’s often tired, peeking into Sohrab’s room in the middle of the night.
You want to tell her, life doesn’t work like that. Instead; “That’s clever of you,” and kiss her forehead.
You stare at the ceiling until morning comes.
—
Sohrab moves like a ghost. When the nights are cloudy and the light illuminating your bedroom is nothing but a faint hue, you wonder if he is.
Maybe it’s you, not him. You don’t realize he’s at the table until halfway through your morning meal. He’s quietly tearing pieces of naan, spread with cherry marmalade. Soraya must have given it to him. Soraya must have noticed him. “This was my favourite breakfast,” you told him once. He didn’t respond, and you hesitated, because you didn’t know what Hassan’s favourite breakfast was.
—
It’s the Hassan of your childhood. The only way you knew it was him and not Sohrab was through his smile. You’ve seen it a million times, and you unconsciously smile as well. He hands you a knife.
“Go on,” he says.
“Go where?”
He points; a lamb is strapped to the ground, one yellow eye swiveled to look right at you. It doesn’t move, merely waits.
You turn to protest, but Hassan is gone. When you twist around once more, the lamb is gone, and it is Hassan on the floor, smiling gently and waiting.
You try to drop the knife, but you’re not holding it anymore. Instead, you are cupping hundreds of pomegranate seeds, and when you open your hands, they rain down, dying Hassan like a river of blood.
—
“Maybe we should get some help,” says Soraya carefully.
“Are you unhappy?”
Soraya makes a sound like she wants to laugh, but it turns halfway into a quiet sob. “I’m worried about you.” Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed; she’s as luminous as ever, but instead of a feeling of love you feel a burst of irritation.
“I’m okay.” You don’t feel hungry anymore. The chair where Sohrab sits is empty. He had finished and left without a sound.
Soraya makes a noise of frustration. “It’ll pass,” you try again, “I’ve been having trouble with the novel, and Sohrab—”
You cut yourself off, but Soraya should understand. What would you say? With Sohrab, here, and no one to stand beside him and teach him how to be a boy.
You think about how when she had said we, she meant you.
—
In your dreams, you are not a liar. In your dreams, you are not a coward. In your dreams, Baba is proud of you, Hassan and Ali never leave—
—
You can’t do this. The floor is littered with crumpled pages, and the one you are working on is ripped with the force of your rubbing. You put your face in your hands.
“It’s just writer’s block,” Soraya said, fondly exasperated. She’s exasperated a lot, recently. The bags under her eyes are deep and you feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe you do need help.
It’s not just writer’s block, you want to tell her. “I am so khasta,” Sohrab had said. You are, too. Sometimes you wish you had never returned to Afghanistan. Sometimes you wish you had never left. Beyond that, you wish you hadn’t been born who you are; that in another life, you wouldn’t have spent half of it in ignorance and the other in shame.
-
Tags
Summary
Pages 91-93 from Hassan’s perspective, where Amir throws the pomegranates at Hassan.
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
24 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Amir agha finally wants to talk to me. I can’t hang the clothes to dry fast enough. I may not be ready to tell him about what happened the night I ran the last kite for him, but things could finally, finally start to go back to normal.
I bound towards him, overflowing with nervous excitement. I didn’t realize how starved I was for his company until I was interrogating him about everything he had been doing since we last held a decent conversation. Our estrangement was partially my fault, but it could all be better again, I knew it.
Amir agha led me to sit in the shade of the pomegranate tree. He always led. Some of the things he said made me wonder if I should resent my position or chafe against it, but I never did. I couldn’t. Amir agha was my friend and it made him happy to be in charge. Making Amir agha smile made me smile. I saw no reason to change anything.
He started to gather some of the pomegranates into a small pyramid and I helped. Finally, finally, Amir agha sat down to read the page filled with his writing, shapes I would never be able to understand, but I didn’t care. As long as Amir agha was there to read them to me, I would be content. He set the pages down and picked up one of the pomegranates, weighing it in his hand. I was a little confused, but not less excited. Was he going to act out the story instead?
“What would you do if I hit you with this?”
Was that part of his story? It didn’t sound like it. Was Amir agha trying something new? Amir agha wouldn’t actually throw it at me. I was Amir agha’s friend. Amir agha never truly admitted it, but I knew it to be true.
“What would you do?”
Amir agha wouldn’t actually throw the fruit at me; it was like the time he asked if I would eat dirt for him. Amir agha was just testing one of his thoughts. I knew my answer. I would do nothing if he threw it at me. I was going to say so, but the pomegranate exploded against my chest before I could say a word. Pulp landed on the story Amir agha was going to read to me, obscuring some of the words. I stared at the juice splattered across my chest in shock. Amir agha would never actually throw it at me.
“Hit me back!” Amir agha ordered.
No, Amir agha. I looked up at him, and I knew. I knew Amir agha had seen what had happened that night in the alley. I knew he had watched and hadn’t done anything. I knew that this was why he had been acting so strangely.
I didn’t blame him for being there. It meant he had come looking for me. I didn’t blame him for not saying anything. I would have been too scared as well. I wouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t blame him for not doing anything. I would have been too scared as well. I wouldn’t have done anything.
“Get up! Hit me!” Amir agha insisted.
If our positions were reversed, I would be just like Amir agha. It didn’t make it hurt any less.
Slowly, I stood up. I forgive you, Amir agha. I won’t hit you back, I tried to say, but the pomegranate had knocked my breath away.
Amir agha threw another. “Hit me back!” he demanded.
No! I don’t blame you! I forgive you! I screamed in my head. My mouth just hung open slightly, struggling to draw in the air I needed to tell him so.
“Hit me back, goddam you!”
No! I’m not going to hit you, Amir agha, I can’t. A pomegranate struck my stomach, driving my breath away just as I regained enough to speak. I refused to double over and break the eye contact I was struggling to keep with Amir agha. I forgive you, Amir agha. Another struck my shoulder. I forgive you, Amir agha.
“You’re a coward! Nothing but a goddam coward!”
Three more pomegranates hit, and after each one, I repeated: I forgive you, Amir agha. The last one landed between my feet. Amir agha fell to his knees, exhausted. I picked it up and stepped forward. Finally, finally, he met my eye. My breath returned all at once as I slammed the pomegranate against my forehead. The juice splattered and a few droplets landed on his face. One traced a line down his lip, just like the scar on mine. Amir agha didn’t even notice. “There,” I choked out as my eyes burned. “Are you satisfied? Do you feel better?” My throat closed and I finished the rest of what I wanted to say in my head, hoping Amir agha understood. I forgive you, Amir agha. Can everything go back to normal now? Please?
I didn’t wait for Amir agha’s answer as I trudged down the hill, blinded by salty tears mixing with the pomegranate’s sour juice.
When I reached the bottom, I rubbed my eyes with a clean patch on my sleeve and looked back up. Amir agha was crying at the top. The sun behind the tree obscured any other details. Amir agha didn’t turn to look at me. Amir agha wasn’t going to follow me. Nothing was going to go back to normal. I still forgive you, Amir agha.
-
Tags
Summary
“Lily. What’s this?”
“What?” Lily asked, dimming another lamp.
Remus gingerly pulled it out of the bag.
“The firewhiskey? That’s for the game.”
His frown deepened. “I thought we were playing chess.”
“We are.” She dimmed the last of the lamps. The lighting in the room was much more comfortable now, bright enough to read by, but low enough to feel cosy.
Remus turned as she approached, still holding the bottle. “I didn't think chess mixed well with alcohol.”
“Oh, it definitely doesn’t,” Lily assured him. Her eyes danced merrily in the firelight as she took the bottle from his hands. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“… I don’t follow.”
“You've never heard of drunk chess? It’s quite simple: you take a piece, you drink.” She cocked her head, holding up the bottle. Her smile had a teasing edge to it now. “That’s the challenge. How many pieces can you take before you lose your edge?”
(Fuck JKR. Trans rights are human rights.)
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
17 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
her eyes were deep enough to drown the world
—
A trained dog would play chess better than James. The appeal of playing chess with James was watching his gradual descent into madness as he tried to remember which way the knights moved.
—
He sat back as his queen strode over. He was pretty sure this was it. But it was possible for her to foil his plans. If she noticed.
Lily idly played with a strand of her hair as she studied the board. Then, dismissing the move as irrelevant, she moved her attention to the other side.
Remus struggled to suppress his grin. He had her.
Lily's gaze flicked to him. “Remus. What are you smiling about?”
Fuck. “I'm not smiling.”
He was definitely smiling.
Now there was a smile playing around Lily's lips too. “Remus,” she said warningly. “Don't lie to me. You're smiling. Do you have a plan, Remus?”
Remus fought to school his expression. He lost.
“You do have a plan!” Lily’s voice was full of mock outrage. “Remus Lupin! Are you conspiring against me?”
This was too much. Remus buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
“Remus Lupin! You are drunk! You are drunkenly conspiring against me!”
With considerable difficulty, he got himself under control. “Lily. I would never conspire against you.”
She scrutinised his face. “I can trust you, Remus?”
He nodded.
“You would never give me your solemn word and then stab me in the back at the first opportunity.”
Remus tried very hard to look perplexed. “Who would do something like that?”
Lily tilted her head to one side. “Why are you smiling like that, Remus?”
Somehow he managed not to start laughing again. “It's difficult not to smile… at someone so beautiful.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Lily's lips. “That is a very good reason.”
—
“Remus!” Lily shrieked.
He cracked up. The look on her face was priceless. He finally understood why people drank.
His queen threw her pawn off the board.
Lily pointed an accusatory hand at the bottle of firewhiskey. “Drink!”
He picked up the bottle and shuddered as he took a sip.
“Give it here,” Lily ordered. “It's my turn. Rook to H7.”
Remus obligingly passed over the bottle and she took it, watching with satisfaction as her rook smashed into his queen.
“She deserved it,” Lily said.
Remus shook his head disapprovingly. “So bloodthirsty. Rook to H7.”
His own rook advanced towards hers. He beckoned for the bottle, taking a much larger gulp this time. If he had to taste the stuff, he might as well drink enough to be worth it.
“Ha!” Lily cried, pointing at him. “You slipped! I knew you would! King to H7.”
Remus waited while her king pitched his rook off the side of the board. “Rook to H1,” he said softly.
She froze. Her eyes darted over the board, going wide. Her king had nowhere to run; he took off his crown and threw it, clattering to the space in front of him.
Lily raised her head again. Her eyes were glossy in the firelight; cheeks alight with colour. “Remus Lupin, you backstabbing bastard,” she breathed.
Remus grinned, biting the inside of his cheek. Something about the way she was looking at him made him feel like he was floating. Or maybe that was just the firewhiskey. “Sorry, Lily.”
She stared at him for another moment, then sighed. “Oh well. All's fair in love and war.”
Remus's heart stuttered a little at the word ‘love.’
“I'm sorry, Remus. I don't think I can play another. I keep getting distracted.”
—
“I’m afraid I might hurt you.”
Lily giggled.
Remus frowned. This was his darkest secret — he had never spoken of it to anyone, even James.
“I'm sorry,” she said through giggles. “I promise I'm taking this seriously. It's so sweet you're concerned. But you won't hurt me, Remus. You couldn't hurt a fly.”
“I could,” Remus insisted.
She moved towards him again; he put up a hand to stop her and she caught it, pressing his wrist to her lips.
He tried to pull back his arm; she didn't let him. “I've… killed animals, Lily. Tortured them alive, torn them apart…”
Lily raised her brows, lips still moving steadily against the heel of his hand. “While you were human?”
He hesitated. “Not yet. But the werewolf is— always inside me, always wanting to do those things. Sometimes I have thoughts. Disgusting, violent—”
“Thoughts don't count, Remus.” She was brushing kisses over his knuckles now. His skin tingled where she touched it.
“Please, Lily. I could never live with myself if I hurt you.”
Lily shook her head, holding his index finger close to her lips. “I know you're scared, Remus. But it's safe, I promise. I trust you, even if you don't trust yourself. Do you trust me?”
-
Tags
Summary
"Have fun with your husband today?"
Helga's always made her stupid.
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
14 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Helga’s voice is cutting, not at all warm like it had been a few moments ago, making an announcement in the Great Hall.
Rowena thinks it’s funny their relationship brings out the Hufflepuff’s snappy side.
Then again, this goes both ways. Rowena’s known for being smart.
Only stupid women get into relationships while married, but, “I wouldn’t trade these moments for anything, Helga.”