#unchosens

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] you and zelda were quite the pair tonight. i’m extremely jealo [UNSENT]

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] i often wonder if you were the brother i was meant to have and fate had us born to different families. i’d like to think that [UNSENT]

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] dio’s mustache causes me physical pain cass i don’t know if i can take one more second [UNSENT]

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] i know malfoy passing you over for the undersecretary position is a disappointment. but did you ever consider that now you’re open to other oppor [UNSENT] 

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] it’s not that i don’t think you could replace the dark lord. it’s just that i believe the dark lord can and will carry forth our cause, and the only thing i’ve ever known you to believe in is that you deserve power [UNSENT] 

[ eden dolohov ✉ → cassius rookwood ] nice work during battle. i know you’re frustrated that mudblood isn’t dead, but, all in due time. [SENT]

“it’s dasha’s birthday,” eden answers softly, more to the lingering embers in the hearth of the ravenclaw common room than cassius. she doesn’t know why she’s telling the truth — maybe due to her sleepless state (or the itching urge inside of her to share this solemn remembrance of her sister with somebody, anybody, since no other dolohov will). “she would have been twelve this year.” 

Send “Not Over It” and my muse will talk about something from their past that still haunts them to this day.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Leo murmurs, a poor excuse of a lie. There’s a lot that haunts him. He stalls, taking a drag from his spliff, watching the puffs of smoke fade away into the crisp night air. What he’d give to be able to disappear like that right now. “...I wish I had a proper mum, I guess?” he admits finally, voice ragged and hoarse. Leo’d like to be able to blame it on the cigarette. “I wish she hadn’t left me. I wish I knew her.” He looks down at the pavement, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “I know it’s more complicated than that, that it was more than just not wanting kids or whatever. But it still feels like shit, pure shit, whenever I think about it. There was a part of me that thought -- or just hoped, I guess -- that she’d show back up after Dad died, but she never did. I don’t think she ever will. And I don’t know -- I mean, I’m fine, I am. It’s not like I lie awake every night crying about it, but it just sucks. It really fucking sucks.”

The smile dies. Rots away, slipping from her features like tar dripping, and she looks at Rahim with a saddened expression. She wonders if they would have ever been friends, if it wasn’t for the things that tied them together so inseparably now. She thinks that maybe at least something good has come from all this. And not because he’s a Lestrange and her surname demands her to social climb, but because there’s something about him that makes her feel safe.  “Well shit, that’s fucking depressing,” she says, and she grins again, hand running through her hair. This is her best armour: her lips curled into a bright smile. Sometimes bordering on something evil, even, if the situation calls for it, but most often just a smile. Something innocent, something playful. A light in the dark, or something like that. She wonders what Rahim meant with his words, because she must have laughed in these past weeks, despite it never being sincere. Is he able to see through it all? She wouldn’t mind it, she decides. She trusts Rahim with it. “And what can I say? You made a funny joke. Take it as a compliment.”

the timeline in which they continue on from the current point in their lives to the best happy ending that is within their reach, where nothing that has happened so far is negated but from now on, the happy things start piling up.

‘the second wizarding war of britain and ireland was over before it started,’ some up-and-coming journalist writes in an all-too-soon retrospective in some paper that molly picked up on her way home from the grocers. she’s scanning through it with a protest on her lips when her fiancé (god, she loves that word) beckons her over for a taste of the marinara simmering on the stove. 

the paper lies discarded on the kitchen island in their little flat and molly’s got olive in her arms and the bright tang of herb-y, rich tomato sauce on her tongue. “perfect,” she compliments, and it’s just as much about the young woman’s cooking as it is about the young woman herself. 

part of molly wishes to reach back for the paper, read the article about their dead loved ones back out to olive, and curse every mistake in the reporting as if her words would form red inked corrections of the text. but this is what they’d fought for, she supposes. the right to the mundane, quiet moments in their lives, the right to simple pleasures like snogging in the kitchen as a pot of pasta boils.  she’ll read it tomorrow.