She wasn’t sure what had possessed her – but she always felt so very understood in November’s presence, in spite or perhaps a little because of things she had said of her once (bold, coarse, alarming, too free), before they had even known each other well. If anyone felt the weight and power of a poem, it was her – her heart lurched a little at the squeeze of their hands, and her gaze latched onto the trail of tears down November’s pale, almost waxen cheek. She wanted to touch her there as if to test the theory of its softness – and if she could not grasp at Ophelia anymore, November Malfoy was a fitting substitute.
So she turned more towards her than the grave, and lifted her free hand to rub one of the stray tears away with her thumb, tracing over her cheekbone with vague, inexplicable curiosity. “Come home with me,” she suggested, on impulse. To Ireland, she meant, and the Dempsey estate – so that they could spend more time together today, because she didn’t feel inclined to surrender November’s company to anyone or anything more mundane just yet, and they were already holding hands. That felt halfway to disapparating.
So she turned more towards her than the grave, and lifted her free hand to rub one of the stray tears away with her thumb, tracing over her cheekbone with vague, inexplicable curiosity. “Come home with me,” she suggested, on impulse. To Ireland, she meant, and the Dempsey estate – so that they could spend more time together today, because she didn’t feel inclined to surrender November’s company to anyone or anything more mundane just yet, and they were already holding hands. That felt halfway to disapparating.
a sublime set by Lady! <3