perfect places

   contrary to popular belief, a lot of work went into being gilderoy lockhart. he may have mastered the science of boyish grins & artfully tousled hair by his twelfth birthday, but the man liked to consider himself a continuous work in progress ––– an unfinished puzzle, eager to find its next piece. as far as gilderoy was concerned, there was no such thing as too perfect, but as he sits in his favorite armchair with dozens of curlers encasing his sandy locks that breezy, autumn afternoon, he allows his thoughts to drift elsewhere.

   times were changing. he’s not referring to the stench of war dancing through cobblestone streets, or the loom of dark forces, threatening to destroy everything he holds dear. no, there were more important matters in question  –––  his love life, for example. a beautiful blonde had captured his heart  (  & his wallet  )  & he’d stop at nothing to win hers. cupid was beckoning. who was he to resist the trappings of true love?

   the sound of knocking draws him from his innermost fantasies. merlin on toast. he couldn’t be seen in such a state ! heartbeat quickening, he rushes into the bathroom just as the yelling starts. daisy hookum, as always, had impeccable timing. stripping off his polka dot bathrobe, he throws on the closest set of clothing he can find & nearly forgets to pluck the curlers from his hair before making a beeline for the door. that was entirely too close.

   “well, isn’t this a surprise?” baby blues widen in shock, as though he hadn’t heard her bellowing outside his door for the past five minutes. “daisy, darling, you’re looking lovelier than ever.” as if his gaze isn’t too busy flirting with an undercover camera lens, hidden behind a nearby rosebush, to notice his guest’s appearance. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

It was the always the same with golden boy. Daisy was met with the same boyish smile -- an act to cover up the much more clever, intelligent man beneath it -- and the same flirtatious introduction, like he was greeting an old flame he hoped to rekindle. Only this time, the press was the only thing trying to rekindle this love affair, if you could even call it that.

Gilderoy had opened his door and greeted her, but was looking right past her. No doubt he was looking for undercover cameras. Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, Daisy lifted her hand in front of his face before snapping his fingers. 

“Over here golden boy! This isn’t a photo shoot,” she said, before pulling the newspaper out from under her arm, and unfurling it just inches from his face, “You seen this?! I need it gone. Now. So work your magic, do your little prince charming act with that Rita Skeeter lady or whoever you need to and get it gone, y’hear?” 

date: july 21st, 1979 time: 4:58 pm location: daisy’s flat

@daisyhookm | closed

Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. Every atom of him was desperate to reach her. His heart beat a sharp tattoo against his ribs. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to regain some control.

For the first time ever, Wales was the last place he wanted to be. Home wasn’t home, not when he didn’t know how she was. Not when he couldn’t be there for her. That was his job, as her best friend, as her person.

Did he really have a right to call himself that, though? After the fight they had gotten into, he wasn’t sure if she would even want to be around him. He couldn’t do nothing.

So he took a few more deep breaths, and spun on the spot. He hoped she would have wards up to protect her flat, so he concentrated on landing on her doorstep. Never in his life had he been so happy to take a deep breath of the dirty London air. He was home.

Wasting no time, he buzzed up to her flat—hitting the button over and over again.

Daisy could see Tilden standing at her door as she peered out her window, careful to stay out of his sight. Biting her lower lip, she thought about what it would mean to let him inside. He’d see the cuts and the bruises, but everyone saw that. No, he knew her to her core. Daisy knew the second he saw her that he’d see the way she carried herself had changed; her arms clasped tightly around her body like armor. Her voice was softer. Her light had dimmed, and she couldn’t take his pity. 

He’d hold her and he’d cry. Maybe not at first, but he would eventually. Yelling and screaming about how she hadn’t told him what had happened to her would quickly turn to tear streaked cheeks and red eyes. He’d pull her tight and never let her go. She was broken, but the last thing she needed was to be caged. 

Finally, Daisy found the courage to open her window, and to yell down to the boy who meant so much to her, the boy who she knew wanted nothing more than to protect her.

“I can’t, Tilden. I cant.” 

The nature of her injuries, was what had stood out to Edgar as he had ready the small slip of parchment delivered by an unfamiliar owl. It was a bit suspicious—someone refusing to go to a hospital, requesting to meet in his own home. It was like something Edgar could have recalled reading in some children’s story, rather than what he had expected would have happened when he woke up that morning. It could also be dangerous. Edgar has made his views about the wave of pureblood supremacy quickly sweeping the wizarding world more than clear, and he knows there is more than a handful of people who would not be mourning him if he was to join to the ranks of those murdered in their homes.

Still, foolish or no, Edgar wrote back inviting her to come, even in he couldn’t say exactly why. Perhaps it was the mention of her connection to this Tilden Toots. Granted, that man was also next to a stranger to Edgar, but he had seemed honest and kind. Edgar can’t picture the man keeping company with those who would be plotting to kill him. Yes, Tilden’s name certainly added a bit of sway in the decision to invite this woman to his home, but in the end all Edgar could think was the chance that this truly and simply was a person, hurt and in need of help, and Edgar’s heart was always with those hurting.

Edgar answers the door, oddly calm despite the whisper in his head that tells him this could be a very bad idea. “You must be Daisy,” He greets, eyes quickly scanning over her. There’s no immediate or noticeable injuries, a good sign in terms of the immediacy of the situation, but she still seems to be discomfort in the woman’s posture—though at this point Edgar can’t be sure if that’s from being uncomfortable at the situation or in pain. “Come on in. Sorry the place is a bit…” Edgar trails off, trying to find a word for his flat. It’s not dirty, he’s not home much to make a mess of it, it’s just, “dreary,” he decides eventually, making a note to put something, anything, here to make the place look a little more lived in. “I’ve just put the kettle on, if you’d like a cup of tea?” He leads her through the doorway of the living room into his small kitchen, gesturing to one of the two chairs set around a small table. “Why don’t you take a seat and we can talk about how I can help you?” 

"I’ll have a cup of chamomile, if you have it. I read once it relaxes the muscles or something like that,” she said, pretending she hadn’t been tearing through whatever medical research books she could find in her overstuffed bookshelves. In the last week, Daisy had been desperate to find anything to help ease the pain. Empty potion bottles and torn pages littered the floor of her flat. The sight of Edgar’s so-called “dreary” home was a welcome sight. Something about it felt so empty, so safe from the outside world. It didn’t look like anyone had actually lived here in a very long time. 

Daisy crossed the room toward one of the armchairs Edgar had gestured to, pulling her arms close to her body once she’d sat down. “I-- um, it’s hard to explain. Perhaps I should just show you.”

Before Edgar could say anything, Daisy pulled off her top. He was a medical professional after all. They were both adults; she was sure Edgar had seen a woman in a bra before -- not that she was worried about him looking at her breasts. No, he’d be far too distracted by the scars and cuts that covered almost every inch of her. The shirt she’d tossed aside had red marks from where some of the scabs had torn off. Some of them refused to heal, as if they were meant to be a constant reminder of what had happened. 

Then there were the bruises, the black and blue hue painted all over her skin. She could hardly lay down at night without taking some sort of sedative to put her to sleep. The pain from lying on the bruises was too much. But the physical proof of what had happened was far from what Bellatrix had done to her state of mind. 

“There’s more,” she muttered, before mustering up the courage to look at Edgar, almost ashamed of her injuries, “That’s just the top half of me.”

♚ ̖́- — The minute the little wench was in her grips, a genuine smile grew on her face. Bellatrix never did like the flower child, even back at Hogwarts. They were too much of a child and who was she if she didn’t put the flower in her place? Not a good bully, that’s for sure. Now, she could have just asked for her lunch money but taking her safety was way more fun. Her grip only grew tighter as she laughed. “ Did you really think that running would work? I will always find you. You can bet on that. ”

Of course, Bellatrix did have better things to do but she had to take a small break and torment the girl. It wouldn’t be fun if she didn’t fight back. The spitting was juvenile but the headbutt? Now that’s what she’s talking about. She let go of the girl and placed a hand on her head as she was knocked back. “ You’ll pay for that. ” Her wand raised and her favorite curse, her favorite spell escaped her lips. “ Crucio. ” 

Bellatrix personally knew the pain that came with that spell. But now, she enjoys conflicting that pain onto others and her favorite target had to be Daffodil. “ You think that hurts? Just wait. You don’t even know the meaning of pain yet. ”

It felt like a wildfire was coursing through body, scorching every single nerve, burning her from the inside out. She squirmed on the floor of her flat as her muscles twisted tighter, until she almost couldn’t breathe from all the pain. Daisy gasped for air between screams, hoping someone -- anyone -- would hear her. She wanted to get up and fight, but when she reached for her wand, Daisy noticed it’d fallen out of her pocket and rolled across the room. She was surprised one of Bellatrix’s lackeys hadn’t picked it up and snapped it in half. No, they were too preoccupied with watching her writhe in pain, and Bellatrix was teaching them a master class. 

Daisy’s vision went in and out, with each spell the death eater casted causing more pain to bring her back from the darkness. She hated feeling so helpless, hated her body’s reaction to pain. If only she could just stop feeling at all. Daisy wanted to rip her nerves from her body, to pull them out all at once and strangle Bellatrix with the pain she’d made her feel. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything at all -- except scream. 

Burns and scars -- those were things Daisy could fix, or at least attempt to. She sorted through her cupboards, using strange salves and potions she’s picked up from apothecaries across the globe. They were supposed to be souvenirs. She didn’t buy them with the intention of ever having to use them. Still, it’d been a week since Bellatrix and the two other death eaters had attacked her. The burns still felt like fire, and the scars still tore open when she slept, leaving red stains all over her sheets. But that was nothing compared to the night terrors. 

Daisy refused to go to St. Mungo’s. The last thing she needed was for this to turn into something bigger. One visit to a healer would become interviews with aurors and ministry officials and she’d be branded as a victim in the prophet. Daisy wasn’t a victim; she was a survivor. 

Lucky for Daisy, she didn’t need to go to the hospital to see a healer. They hadn’t really talked in weeks -- not since that day -- but a few days ago Tilden had mentioned some healer named Edgar. He’d made the same list of people that needed to appear at the ministry for some odd reason. Truthfully, Daisy didn’t really understand it all, but she found herself oddly thankful that a healer had made the list. 

After looking him up at the Hospital, Daisy had sent him an owl asking for a private session at his home. She didn’t really explain what had happened, only that she wanted to keep things private because of the nature of her injuries. As she tapped on his door, Daisy wondered what terrible thing he must’ve thought had happened to her to make him agree to their session.

♚ ̖́- — She wanted to laugh at what’s going to be a failed attempt at Chrysanthemum behalf. Bellatrix knew exactly what was going to happen this night and poor, poor Bluebell had no idea. It was almost enough to make Bellatrix feel bad. Okay, that was a lie. Bellatrix would never feel bad about this whatsoever. Not when it comes to a simple torture mission. 

Her head tilt as the girl jumped out of her seat. She didn’t move an inch though. Let’s see what little Peony does next, mind you that no matter what it is, Bellatrix will be very disappointed. After all, nothing this little wench does is ever thrilling. Except when she screams. Her eyes trailed down at her hand that’s holding onto the wand for dear life. Aw, she actually thinks she can put up a fight. 

“ In the flesh, dear. ” There was no need to hide her identity. After all, she’s not about to leave behind any proof that she was even here in the first place. “ Please quit your stuttering. It’s not very lady-like you know. ”

Bellatrix took a step towards the girl while the others moved around freely in the house. They found their places around Lavender in case she tried any funny business. Really, Bellatrix would have liked to be alone with Daisy but considering how important she was to the cause, that wasn’t the case. 

“ Don’t you know? Nothing is ever safe. ”

Laughter filled the room as this flower freak practically cowers in front of her. But before she could left up her wand for her favorite spell, something flew directly towards her. A fucking egg? The witch threw an egg at her? Now that was funny. She moved to catch the damn thing but once it was in her hands, the heat wasn’t expected. “ Oh for fuck’s sake. ”

Bellatrix dropped the damn thing, not bothering to see if it cracks or not. She and the others followed the girl into the kitchen. Bellatrix’s hand reaches out and yanks the witch as hard as she possibly could. “ Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done with you yet. ” She didn’t bother to hide the smug look in her face as her hand gripped the other’s arm as tight as she could.

Five steps away. Four steps away. Three steps... two steps. The door handle was nearly within Daisy’s grasp when she was suddenly tugged backwards. Bellatrix gripped her arm so tightly, she could feel her nails digging into her skin. Once again, Daisy was face to face with her school bully. Only she wasn’t a bully, not anymore.

Looking into her eyes, Daisy could see that wrath had consumed Bellatrix. She’d become so engrossed in this bullshit war, that she’d began to mirror everything that it stood for. It reflected back at Daisy in the cold, emotionless gleam in her eyes. Bellatrix wasn’t a bully anymore, she was a villain. We’re not done with you yet, she said. Well, Daisy wasn’t either. 

She spat into Bellatrix’s face, knowing the consequences it would bring. Just seconds later, Daisy used what little freedom of motion she had, to head-butt her. Wands could do damage, sure, but Bellatrix would be expecting that kind of fight. Daisy knew fighting back would only make the death eater more angry, but she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Especially not in her own fucking home. 

date : 15th august, 1979. location : falmouth falcon’s training pitch. status : closed to @daisyhookm

─ The stares of zir team mates as Emma walked by had been painful. Ze had only decided to take three months off training season to rest but to them, it seemed as though ze had lifted zir own wand to set fire to all their brooms. In some ways, it felt the same to zir as well. While zir team may not have been the highest scoring team on the Quidditch roster, the Falcons were infamous for their fights and stunts. They entertained the crowd and they suffered the pain of doing so together. For zir to leave without explanation would no doubt feel like betrayal, for ze had been there for many breakdowns and contract terminations. 

Once a Falcon, always a Falcon.

With a heavy heart, ze had stepped out to teach a small Quidditch lesson to some paying students, most who only wanted to catch a glimpse of zir face. Emma had been rather reclusive lately, avoiding the press and declining live meet and greets.

After the stragglers had gone, chased away by management for asking too many questions, there had only been a handful that stayed. The ones that came for the lesson and not the teacher. Zir smile had been genuine whilst talking about the sport, there was no doubt that this was zir one true love. Emma could only hope some of zir enthusiasm had rubbed off the participants, leaning against zir broom as they said their goodbyes.

“Oh, Miss…Miss Hookum?” A laugh that was thankfully stifled before it could escape. “You seemed very well-read about the sport. Are you a Quidditch historian or something?” Emma tossed the other a cheeky smile. “Heck, you know more than I do.”

It had been a while since Daisy had learned something new. While she was traveling, life was so colorful. It seemed every day was a new adventure, full of new things to learn about. Now that she was back living in London, life felt dull and grey. Even her flat, now fully unpacked and decorated with different trinkets from her travels, seemed to bore her. Everything felt so familiar, but not in a good way. 

So when Daisy say an ad in The Daily Prophet for quidditch lessons from the pros, she jumped at the chance, catching the next train to Falmouth. Admittedly, Daisy wasn’t incredibly athletic. She was fit, and was more than capable of going on long strenuous hikes ot spending an entire day walking and exploring a new city, but she never was very good at sports. 

That said, sports still fascinated her. She loved learning and watching different sports from different magical cultures. She even some muggle sports interesting. How could two different sports be called football? Daisy wondered how that didn’t confuse anyone. Quidditch was the sport she was most well-versed in. 

Going to Hogwarts, quidditch was a huge part of the student culture. But, at the time, Daisy never had any interest in playing. She’d much rather watch from the stands and be able to see everything that was happening. Now, Daisy was desperate. She needed to do something new, to learn something new, and this was her chance. She’d never been good at sports, but damn it, she was going to try. 

Flying on her broom wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was trying to catch different balls as they were tossed across the field, dodging bludgers as they flew left and right. She was nearly knocked off her broom a dozen times throughout the whole session, but that didn’t squash her determination. 

When Daisy’s feet were finally back on the ground she’d be lying if she didn’t say she was relieved. Riding dragons was easier than this shit. When one of the instructors approached her afterwards, she tried her best to not look so exhausted. Daisy was already ready to sleep on the train ride home. However, zir comment almost surprised her, leaving her feeling a little more awake.

“Nah, I just know a lot,” she blurted out, not realizing how pretentious she sounded until the words escaped her. “Oh! No, I just mean I study a lot of different things. I like to learn, especially about lesser known things. People don’t really focus on the history of sports. They just watch and don’t really think about where it all started. I’m not a know-it-all, I promise.”

Lots of people dreamed of fame and glory, of having crowds of people shout and scream for them as they walked down the street, of seeing their name sprawled across the front page of The Daily Prophet. Daisy was not one of those people, so when someone who’d been staring at her for nearly ten minutes finally worked up the courage to ask if she was the girl in the gossip column, she was less than thrilled. Tearing a paper from the rack at the front of the coffee shop she’d been waiting in at the time, she flipped through the pages looking for someone who would likely just resemble her -- or so she hoped. 

When she finally found the picture, she tore the page out, crumpling the rest of the paper in her hands despite the barista’s yelling, insisting that she pay for it. Daisy stormed out onto the streets of Wizarding London, with a look on her face that parted people on the sidewalk like the red sea. 

Fucking golden boy. All it took was one visit, one coincidental run in with Gilderoy fucking Lockhart and she was on the front page of the gossip section. How the hell had they kept their little fling a secret? How had she never graced these pages before? Daisy didn’t know the answer, but she sure as hell was happy about it. But now her face was plastered across the pages with the headline ‘GILDEROY LOCKHART’S MYSTERY WOMAN.’

Before she knew it, Daisy was outside his apartment, banging on his door. Not long after that, the paparazzi appeared, their floating cameras flashing behind her. Fucking golden boy. She could read the headline now --- ‘TROUBLE IN PARADISE FOR LOCKHART AND HIS MYSTERY LOVER.’

“Gilderoy fucking Lockhart, you open the door right now or I’ll blast it open, you hear me!?”

Daisy laughed. How could she laugh? She looked at Daisy, then back at the picture and something snapped - that picture looked personal as if Daisy took it after an intimate moment - but it couldn’t be… 

Could it?

No. If Gilderoy had any kind of relationship with Hookum, Charity would know. She was his number one fan, the one that wrote the most passionate, beautiful letters. She was the president of his fanclub, the one that knew all his steps (and pictures, for that matter). “I have never seen this picture before”, her voice sounded weird when she spoke, her cheeks redder than before. "I have seen all Gilderoy’s picture but that one, it must be important, because you kept it. And it must be personal, like… like you two had some sort of relationship…Which I totally didn’t know of, I wonder how you two kept it secret… but I would have known about that… I would…“, she stopped talking when she noticed she talked too much. 

Charity looked down - nervously. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”.

Yes. Of course she looked crazy. But Daisy knew better than to call anyone crazy. She was sure plenty of people looked at her and thought the same thing. Sometimes they were even rude enough to actually say it to her face. At this point, Daisy wasn’t sure what she should say, although, that was hardly something she ever knew.

“I took the picture. We, uh... were sort of a thing for a bit? Nothing serious. Pretty short lived and on and off.”

It was obvious that Charity was a fan -- maybe even more than that. What was Daisy supposed to say? That she left him without a word? That she thought he was an arrogant toe rag more often than he was a real human being? Or that part of the reason she left was because they could never see eye to eye on what real writing was about?

Suddenly it was clear to Daisy that she and Charity likely wouldn’t see eye to eye either. Especially not if she was this big of a fan of golden boy. Still, Daisy had a feeling Charity was about to hit her with a million more questions. 

Alice takes pause, her stare going blank. She blinks – once, twice – before her brow finally furrows with confusion. “What joke — ? ” she questions, so far gone that she can barely remember the words spoken only mere moments ago. Still, she brushes it off, in a fit of giggles ( no one could ever say that she’s not a giddy drunk, that’s for certain ! ). 

“Uh – not too much, really,” she answers, trying her best to remember what the heck has even happened in the time that Daisy’s been gone. With the haze the of alcohol she’s consumed, it’s even more difficult to call upon her memories. 

Her tone grows somber once she recalls, the air around them turning into something far more serious than called for at what’s meant to be a happy reunion. “The world’s a mess, Daisy. At least, our little corner of it is. That’s what you’ve missed.” 

It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to hear. Daisy lived for the highs in life. She lived for adventures and things that made her feel far, far away from something so terrible as what was happening to her friends. She didn’t want to hear that the world was a mess. She didn’t want to hear that people were in hiding or that they were suffering. All Daisy wanted to do was drink firewhiskey and forget about the troubles in life. 

“I see...” she said, not really sure what else she was supposed to say.

Instead, Daisy popped up from her seat and headed back into the kitchen, looking for something, anything to keep her mind busy. That, and she definitely needed another drink. She tilted her glass back -- it was still at least half full -- before emptying it into her mouth. Another drink, she thought. 

♚ ̖́- — Surprises were mindless, pathetic, ridiculous, stupid. It doesn’t matter if they are good or bad, expected or unexpected. She didn’t give a damn about any surprise, well with one exception and that involved her sisters. People she suspected are dead and rise from the grave is not anywhere near that one exception. So imagine her surprise when she caught sight of a familiar witch who she would have sworn was long gone. It appears her efforts were in vain. Not that she would kill the witch herself, not at that moment. 

Oh no. Bellatrix had better plans. The plans might not be better for Desert Rose but at least she’ll be alive when she was done with her. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll even leave the witch’s sanity intact. She’s saving the whole ‘destroying one’s mind’ for the special someone and Daffodil was not it. 

Just because she has a mask on, doesn’t mean that Diascia won’t know who’s on the other side of the wand. No, Bellatrix wants her to know. Sure, she should be keeping her head down due to that ridiculous accusation but if no one has proof of her involvement, she is certain that the claims will be dropped and the focus will move elsewhere. And if they aren’t, well, Bellatrix is willing to do something a little extreme. 

There was no knock on the door, only a nod towards a few others in mask. If things go sour, she’ll thrown them under the bus in a heartbeat. Bella had no reason to care for them and so she doesn’t. What she does care about is hearing Dahlia’s screams bounce off the walls. “ Knock knock. Anyone home? ” She singsong’d as they burst into the room. A hand on her wand as she wandered into the next room spotting her target. 

“ Looks like we found a flower boys. ”

It was a familiar voice, one that sent shivers down her spine. It was the same voice that taunted her in school, that chased after her in the halls, jinxes at the ready. Her voice was smooth, confident, like she had the upper hand and had absolutely no fear of losing it. But Daisy wasn’t all that afraid, because the witch that voice belonged to had always underestimated her. 

In one swift movement she pushed herself up out of the chair to face Bellatrix. She’d said boys so Daisy knew she wasn’t alone, but when she turned around she wasn’t ready to see three Death Eaters in her flat. Daisy gripped her wand tight, not sure whether she should throw the first spell. She knew Bellatrix wasn’t here to talk.

But Daisy was smart. She knew Bellatrix liked to play with her food before she ate it. If Daisy let her believe she’d cornered her, perhaps she could stall just long enough.

“B-Bellatrix,” she stammered, almost proud of her acting. Daisy quickly moved towards the fireplace, shoving her wand in her back pocket before turning her back to the fire. A gripped wand meant she was ready to fight. She wanted Bellatrix to think she had time to play. 

“How... how did you find me? I-I thought muggle London... it was supposed to be safe!” she yelled. 

Daisy wrapped her arms around her torso as if she were trying to protect herself, but it was all a part of the charade. At her side, one of her hands was casting a wandless spell, drawing something up from the ground behind her. It burned her hand the second it touched her skin, but it was the only distraction she had. They were expecting spells and hexes, not a red-hot flying dragon egg.

Just as quickly as the egg had risen into her palm, Daisy abruptly chucked it at Bellatrix and ran for the kitchen, hoping to make it out the back door and apparate before they knew what was happening. She didn’t even see if it hit Bellatrix or the other death eaters before she made it into the kitchen. 

She laughed joyfully, a wide smile spreading across her face as she did so. “I would assume so… I feel as though, if I were to ever go traveling, I would want to avoid the ‘tourist hot spots’ as it were” she explained, her eyes darting between the boxes at their feet. She would have loved to travel but in her youth, her now ex-husband had had a lot of control over her every day movements and once she had separated herself from him, her parents had fallen ill. She thought perhaps she used her excuses to stop herself from diving into the unknown, but pushed away the notion. She was simply in no position, financially or otherwise, to leave England and travel to the far corners of the earth and she wasn’t sure it would ever be likely to change. 

“Do you have a favourite? Continent, I mean” she clarified, hastily, pulling herself out of her own thoughts. She was fascinated to know what was inside each other the boxes that currently lay at their feet, begging to be opened and examined - and she hoped that Daisy would give her the chance. What is the point in collecting if you never show your collections to anyone? At least, that was how she had always felt. She bent down and picked up a box as Daisy had done, finding it to be a little heavier than she had anticipated but once she was off of the street, her wand would do the rest of the work for her. Sometimes, she felt blessed that she had the use of magic and pitied muggles who did not.

“Oh, horror stories, war stories… stories that involve terror and death and all manner of terrible things. Stories that do not have a happy ending or have no ending at all” she reeled off, as she followed Daisy up the stairs. perhaps it was unwise to enter the home of a perfect stranger, but Sybill had always been, without meaning to be, a risk taker. “Some people don’t like to hear stories that upset them… I sense though that you are different in this regard… if I shared my experiences, you would not tell me to stop talking”.

“South America,” she said, without a thought. Daisy wasn’t sure if it really was her favorite, but it was at the moment. Her travels had been tainted by one person. When she thought of certain places she thought of how he’d never go there with her, but when she thought of South America her memories were warmer. She remembered each and every seed she’d collected for Tilden. She remembered the forest of walking trees and how Tilden would have loved it. When she thought of South America it was as if he was there with her the entire time. It wasn’t empty. He’d done that to her. 

“I -- uh, have fond memories of the forest of walking trees. Have you heard of it? Giant trees with roots that slide out from the earth and serve as legs. No one really knows where they’re going or why they walk, but it’s fascinating to watch.”

Sybill was right. Daisy loved all kinds of stories, even ones that weren’t so happy -- as long as they weren’t her own. She fancied herself a storyteller, but she knew no one wanted to hear every kind of story. It seemed Sybill understood that too.

“You’re right. I’m open to hearing most stories. It’s how we learn about our world, the bright and the dark parts of it. I wouldn’t mind hearing a few of your stories.”

despite complex history,  he couldn’t be happier to run into an old chum.  four years was a long time  &  the sting of betrayal had dissipated eons ago,  but perhaps there’s a small part of him that still holds resentment on how they left things.  luckily,  that part is presently monopolized by a man who’s liquored up  &  coasting off a fruitful afternoon.  his face is without a cloud as he welcomes his friend with the disposition of a feather drifting through the breeze.

❛  i know you’ve been away for a while,  but surely you’re aware my accomplishments are far too abundant for the likes of street corners.  ❜   a vault filled with precious jewels  &  caviar served upon platters of gold wouldn’t be worthy of his bountiful endeavors.  with a galant extend of the arm,  his gaze settles upon stacks of packages,  curious mind dying to know what sort of vast treasures lay beneath cardboard  &  tape.   ❛  allow me to assist with those boxes while you tell me all about your worldly adventures?  i do love a good story.  ❜

Daisy could smell liquor on his breath as he got closer. It seemed golden boy hadn’t changed a bit. She could still remember the late nights and drunken kisses like they were yesterday. Daisy never did forget a lover, despite how many she’d had. But Gilderoy was different. Despite all their fights, he was the last person she saw before she left four years ago. It’d been a long time, but seeing him, smelling that warm alcohol on his breath, she could almost feel his fingertips running over her skin once more. 

Still, despite the memories, Daisy didn’t feel nostalgic for the past. At least, she told herself she wasn’t. She had tokens from all her travels, reminding her of where she’d been, but kept little from her past lovers. She packed away any photos and kept them in a box, but not for sentimental reasons. They, like the places she visited, were just another stop along the way, and so they deserved to be remembered somehow.

“Well, you’ll hear nothing about banshees from me, if that’s what interests you. But, I can tell you about my time with some Chinese Fireballs and let you sample some firewhiskey I made myself, if that suits you.”

Usually, people looked at her strangely or asked her why she ‘talked such nonsense’, comments which she had overlooked many times in the past, but she was presently surprised when Daisy did not seem to either notice or want to mention them, perhaps out of awkwardness or simply because Sybill could say what she wished around her without fear or persecution. The latter would soon be determined, she was sure, although nothing about the young woman in front of her screamed for her to run and hide, as if facing a monsters. 

She seemed to Sybill as serene and beautiful as her namesake, holding herself well against the world around her, blooming even in the rain. Her inner eye smiled at her, pushing her towards the woman - the need to get a closer read on her was powerful, but she felt that it usually was and she was able to control herself more the older she became. Her curiosity with people only encouraged her inner eye further in it’s pursuits for visions and truth. “All parents wish for their daughters to remain innocent, pure and untouched forever, but the world has it’s own plans for us that they cannot shield us from” she informed her, simply, smiling.

“A traveller? How fascinating, would you mind me asking where you have been? I have longed to see the world, but alas, it was not meant to be it seems” she murmured softly, and though her eyes expressed sadness, her smile never wavered. “I am also a storyteller of sorts, though not one that many like to hear if it does not fit their world” she chuckled lightly. “Many dear, many stories I could share but where to begin? I am never sure, what would you like to hear…”

“Lots of places. Every continent, to start. There’s things inside these boxes from each of the places I’ve been. I’m more for small towns than big cites though. I’ve been to France and Italy, but there’s so much more out there than the Eiffel Tower and the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

Daisy had always preferred less touristy places. Sure, it was nice to visit, but those places had been so commercialized. She liked to experience culture, and places like Paris and Venice barely scratched the surface. It was the small towns, the little villages, the places where tourists had never heard of or dared not go that were really interesting to her. The untouched places were where the real culture was. 

Listening to Sybill talk about stories she wouldn’t want to hear piqued her interest. Daisy had never heard a story that she regretted hearing. They were always filled with adventure and old myths and so much spirit. Stories were the heart of culture, and the only way to really get to know someone. She wasn’t quite sure what Sybill meant, and that only made her more curious. 

“What kind of stories would people not want to hear? Doesn’t make much sense to me,” she said, grabbing one of the boxes and heading up the stairs, hoping Sybill would follow.