Samira Wiley for Bello Mag
"My best day had to be the day after I wrapped Guardians of the Galaxy. I was very homesick and coming home to my wife, and my home, and to my son, who was at the time 13 months old. My wife told me there’s a chance he won’t recognize you—but that’s okay that happens all the time. He doesn’t know, he might be a little shy…"
Teddy Lupin, who ends up in Hufflepuff, just like his mom and always worries about other people first.
Teddy Lupin, showing little James how to ride a broom and helping Rose braid flowers in her hair.
Teddy Lupin, with his blue hair undercut and nose ring, which…
Remember old Fleur Delacour? She’s got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ‘er Eeenglish. And Bill’s been giving her a lot of private lessons.
But my Bill and Fleur feels, my Bill and Fleur feels. The eldest boy, the best boy, with his accolades and his earring and his dashing escapades, breaking curses in pyramids, the boy who comes home when he’s called. The girl so beautiful she is inhuman with it, vain and selfish until you see quite how selfless she is.
They are both of them monsters: the werewolf, scarred fighting his parents’ war returned, and the veela, struck beautiful by her grandmother’s life, something ghastly hidden in her bones. They both carry an otherness they did not ask for. They are both judged for their perfection (head boy and champion of Beauxbatons, brave and beautiful, honorable and fair), judged for the way they seek after it (his long hair and his earring, her prettiness, her vanity), and judged for its lack. He is scarred and she loves too hard, she is not a gentle soul.
During the second task, they took each of the competitors’ most precious people: Harry’s best friend, Cedric and Krum’s sweethearts, and Fleur’s little sister. I like to think she worries about it, how much her own life orbits around this little life almost a decade smaller than her. I like to think she worries about it, worries about Gabrielle but also worries about how much she worries, worries about what people will think. I like to think that at fifteen, when a tiny Gabrielle climbed into Fleur’s lap, Fleur decided she didn’t care. She gathered her sister close and worried all she wanted about everything except what other people thought.
I like to think she worries about Bill, when she first starts feeling her orbit shift in his favor. Gabrielle will always be tucked under her wing, but Bill’s hand is in hers, and for the first time in a life of flights and flitting and others’ eyes on the hem of her robe, that hand feels like it should be there. And Fleur worries, because she can feel her orbit shifting, toward this handsome ex-Head Boy with Egyptian sand still between his toes.
I like to think she worries about it, about him, up until the first time she sees Bill with his brothers, amid a gaggle of Weasleys, until she sees him with his one and only baby sister.
Ginny is small and wiry, sharp as a sharpened rosebush branch. Fleur knows something about beautiful, dangerous things. Ginny hates her at first, and Fleur smiles, flits by, moves on. She decided a long time ago not to care about what other people thought. The important thing here isn’t the way Ginny rolls her eyes at Fleur, or the way Ginny will one day learn that they both have hard darknesses under their pretty skins; Fleur likes the way that Bill teases his little sister, falls into the rhythm of his family, wrapped up in a warm possession of these people he loves. She remembers that they are both here because they have wrapped themselves up in a war, to save lives, to save others, to save their own. She stops worrying about Bill. He will understand about Gabrielle.
The beauty and the beast; the boy and the land-bound siren; the least interesting quality in either of them is the shape of their skin. She is vain, selfish, petty, pretty, and she falls whole-heartedly into a war that isn’t hers.
Fleur is horrified when Molly thinks she will leave Bill for his scars, she is horrified that anyone would think her love skin deep, because Fleur Delacour, above all, knows what it is to be skin deep. They have been casting her as that all her life, this perfect beautiful child, the talented student, the lovely young lady. People swoon around her in the hallways when they aren’t rolling their eyes at her vanity.
This was her skin, not her vanity. This was her birthright, as much as Harry’s green eyes or Bill’s red hair and the war on his heels, This was so far from her self.
These were her selves: Fleur weeping furiously on the shores of the lake, and kissing Harry and Ron when they bring Gabrielle back to the air; Fleur at Shell Cottage, gracious, exhausted, in love in a war zone; Fleur shouting a grieving Molly Weasley down in a Hogwarts tower, declaring how foolish it would be to stop loving a man based on his scars. She is beautiful enough for both of them, after all. They are brave enough for each other. They have both always had the monster in their bones, perfection hounding their heels, little siblings who are all the reason they need to fight to make the world a brighter place.
Few look past Bill’s scars, past Fleur’s luminous beauty, but they look at each other, hold hands, cling tight. He sees her sharp, sharp smile while he grins with his wolf’s teeth, bleeds from his big heart. Between them, they make the world a brighter place, a better one, and don’t care who notices, who sees, who understands. They do, and that’s enough.
Let’s talk about the times Robin survives Marian, when she is the fair memory who haunts him all his days, the wild eyes he learns to live without, the part of his heart he teaches to heal;
And the times Marian survives Robin, when she stands at the firelight’s edge and looks over these brave…
Anonymous said: Prompt suggestion! Write a quick story of falling in love for each of Tamora Pierce's the Circle of Magic characters. :):):)
Sandry took her embroidery up to the highest wall of the duke’s citadel. The guards there nodded recognition. They knew this petite brunette and she knew each of their names. She found her little niche, with its comfortable out-of-place chair in it, and curled up with her feet tucked under her skirts. As Sandry chose her thread, she looked out over the land, out to the slums and the markets, the ships swaying gently in the calm harbor, all the way to clean lines of Winding Circle far in the distance. She had seen this place through earthquakes, pirates, plague, and murderers, through censuses and visiting dignitaries, her uncle’s heart attack and a half dozen tax collections. All her siblings had gone out and walked the world, learning new horizons both inside themselves and out. But Sandry stayed.
She found her horizons here, sewing in her uncle’s court while posturing nobles thought her busy hands meant that she wasn’t listening, wasn’t thinking, wasn’t taking their plans apart piece by piece—
Sandry watched as the street lamps were lit, one by one, down the long sweeping streets. Her needle dipped in and out of the cloth. She was seventeen and she was in love with this life. She could never, would never love anything the way she loved this weight of responsibility on her shoulders.
He was a fire-eater who performed in the univeristy courtyards, all grins and sharp cheekbones, letting dangerous things dance over his hands.
Briar would fall over laughing when he heard and he would tease Tris for years. “For you, Coppercurls? Of course they’d be someone who spat flames from their mouth for fun.”
After his performances, the fire eater would wash his hands off with precise care and slip into the university libraries. He was no mage and he had no rich father to pay his tuition, but he read (almost) as fast as Tris. He stacked books high and knew when to talk about ancient hieroglyphs and when to shut up and turn pages.
And he wasn’t afraid of her.
Tris thought about falling in love when he listened to her thesis abstract with rapt attention and asked piercing questions when she was done. She thought about it when he slipped her his favorite book instead of a kiss.
But Tris fell in love when she took him out into a storm and he gripped her hand like he wanted to be there. She fell in love when he touched the lightning curling through her hair. Every hair on him stood on end and he didn’t drop his hand.
Meeting Rizu had been like the first time Daja had pulled gold wire, in Frostpine’s workshop at ten. It had opened up a whole new world. It had given her a whole new life and put something beautiful in her hands. The metal had sung to her.
Gold was the kindest metal, the most forgiving, and Daja, for all her work with iron and all her fame with copper, would always have a special place for it in her heart.
But she didn’t look for gold when they got back to Emelan. She made nails and hinges and horseshoes. She kept a sketch of Rizu that she tried not to look at too often. Daja did not feel beautiful. She did not feel worthy of beautiy.
Briar dragged her out to pubs. Daja left them early and didn’t listen for her brother coming home hours later with a guest or two.
Sandry dragged her to tea with her uncle and to weaving exhibitions that bored Daja to tears. Her saati meant well. They were still trying to relearn each other, after years of growing apart. But every now and then Daja would see that spark in her saati’s eyes and remember that at her very core Sandry was always Sandry.
Daja dragged herself out to visits at Lark’s and trips to various local smithies. The grander they were the worse she felt. Gold engravings and elaborate, lovely work lined the tables. Daja’s hands felt too big, clumsy and sooty. Rizu had traced her palm and called her beautiful, once, but when Daja had asked her to come with her Rizu had begged her to stay, and Daja had left anyway.
So Daja went to littler smithies, the ones tucked in the back of stables or renting out the bottom floor of a grumpy two-penny-bit mage’s apartment. Daja talked horseshoes and wagon repairs and charmed their anvils if they asked it of her.
Helen’s smithy was behind a stable. She was a small woman, for a smith, but clearly deeply heavily muscled despite the fact she only came up to Daja’s sternum. She barely looked up from her engraving work until she saw the glint of Daja’s copper hand. Scrambling up (this is when Daja realized how very tiny she was), Helen reached out for Daja’s arm with all of Sandry’s careless vivacity, but didn’t touch.
“A long story,” supplied Daja.
“something I’ve never seen before,” said Helen and lifted her eyes to Daja’s. “May I?”
Daja waited for her hand to pull back, defensive, for the back of her head to whisper damning things about girls who left beautiful, soft, loving young women in faraway courts and walked away.
But this smith, who still hadn’t given Daja a name and wouldn’t for two visits more, much too distracted by talking living copper and hammer preferences, she was looking at Daja with eyes that were a warm, pale brown, almost gold. She had soot on her cheeks.
Daja unfurled her copper fist and offered it to her, palm up and open.
Briar left a beautiful, content woman in his bed and hopped out his window to get to the sheltered garden at the back of Daja’s house. It was his house, too, he supposed, but it didn”t feel like it.
This garden though, with its thick fragrant jasmine and flowering ground cover, did. He’d tucked a patch of soft moss into a shaded corner. Running his fingers through it as the cold moonlit air banished the last lingering traces of his bad dream, Briar remembered a patch of moss in the dank parts of a cell he had visited three times. It had given him his name.
When Briar was ten, he had reached out on a sunlit garden path and a pea shoot had twined itself around and around his fingers, singing in a language he hadn’t learned yet. He knew it now, could convince the plant to grow another way, or cure it of mold, or call all its buds into riotous bloom.
He felt so distant, now, from that moment of sunlight and incomprehensible joy.
These hands had bled and curled in pain. They had bled others dry, too. It was defense, it had been war, it was for Evvy and Rosethorn and—he still woke at night from sweat-soaked dreams.
He felt like he had years of grit under his fingernails, not good soil, not loam but grit: rocky grey earth that never grew anything but twisted weeds.
And maybe he did.
Beautiful things could grow in unlikely places: Chammur’s rocky passages and Hajra’s hard streets, a cold dank cell and the ugly battlefields they’d left high in the Gyongxe mountains.
Briar was standing here in the cold night air, in this garden he’d built for his sisters. These hands he had buried in the jasmine— they made medicines and coaxed his shakaans into the shapes they needed. They teased Evvy and they brushed over the collarbones of lovely, laughing women. These hands were his and they were worth loving. Even stained, even soiled, even with the grit of all his losses and worst moments tucked into them, they were his.
Black Jessica rabbit
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