#thestarwonderer

✨Kelia’s reference sheet.✨

I might add more, but don’t know what yet. (Ideas welcomed.)

✨In celebration of the first day of Hogwarts Legacy Pride Week, I gift to you the first “I love you” shared between Kelia and Amita.✨

Scene:

Throughout their year at Hogwarts, Kelia and Amita have been teaching each other their native languages—Hindi and Ukrainian. As the months passed, their bond deepened, built on shared curiosity, quiet moments, and a growing affection they never quite named.

But after the battle with Ranrok—after Kelia lost her arm and nearly her life—Amita found herself sitting at her bedside, afraid she might never get the chance to say the words she’d been holding onto. Even if Kelia couldn’t hear her, Amita needed to say them. And if there was even the slightest chance Kelia could, she wanted to say them in the language Kelia had clung to—one others had tried to strip away. A language of home, of memory, of love.

«Я тебе кохаю, Келія.»

(“I love you, Kelia.”)

🪴It’s the final day, and what best to end this week on then Amaryllis and Imelda as elders.🧹

Scene:

The golden light of late afternoon spills through the windowpanes, catching in the soft edges of the room—each corner filled with overgrown plants, framed memories, and the quiet hum of a life well-tended.

Amaryllis stands at the worn potting table, gently pressing soil around the base of a leafy plant. Her teal hair has faded with the flow of time, but her touch is as deliberate as ever. Each motion carries the calm certainty of years spent knowing what grows best.

By the window, Imelda hangs her broom on its peg and lingers. Her eyes track the familiar figure across the room—not searching, just watching, like she always does.

“You’ve repotted that one three times this month,” she calls out, tone dry, but affectionate. “Trying to get her to bloom out of sheer determination?”

Amaryllis doesn’t glance up. “She’s adjusting,” she replies calmly. “You’d understand, if you were a bit more patient.”

Imelda chuckles under her breath and steps behind her, wrapping her arms around Amaryllis’s waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. “I’ve lived with you for decades,” she says. “I think I’ve earned a medal for patience.”

Amaryllis smiles, faint and fond. “You still talk too much.”

“And you still pretend that’s not your favorite thing about me.”

After a pause, Imelda adds in a softer voice, “You know, I never imagined a future this… green.”

Amaryllis lets out a small laugh. “I did.”

Imelda leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Of course you did.”

🪴Amaryllis attending to her plants, while Imelda is making sure her girlfriend is hydrated.🧹

Scene:

The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting golden light over the garden’s edge. Among the rows of curling leaves and snapping red jaws, Amaryllis works in silence, pruning the snapping plants with gloved precision.

She doesn’t notice Imelda until a shadow cuts across the bed beside her.

“Here,” Imelda says, holding out a glass. “Because unlike your plants, you can’t photosynthesize.”

Amaryllis doesn’t even look up from her work. “I had tea this morning.”

“That was four hours ago,” Imelda replies, inching the glass closer. “And it doesn’t count if it was steeped with bark and whatever moss you foraged from the forest floor.”

Amaryllis finally takes the water—reluctantly, but with a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You fuss too much,” she murmurs.

Imelda smirks, brushing a bit of soil from Amaryllis’ sleeve.

“Y tú eres terca como una mula, Mari.”

(“And you’re stubborn as a mule, Mari.”)

There’s a pause—long enough to pass for silence, but weighted with intention.

“Thank you, Sol,” Amaryllis says, calm as ever, as she sets the glass beside her tools.

Imelda looks at her. “…Did you just call me the sun?”

“You bring warmth,” Amaryllis replies, returning to her pruning. “And you’re very difficult to ignore.”

Imelda lets out a soft laugh and sits nearby—just out of reach of the snapping plants, but close enough to stay in orbit.