Katherine Frances's Blog, page 220
June 20, 2016
"It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it."
- Oscar Wilde
Kim Shimmers and the Black Prophecy
A Harry Potter Fanfic by me (and the 3rd installment of the Kim Shimmers series)
This Harry Potter fan fiction (as long as all goes according to plan) will be posted at the beginning of every week. The pictures above are not mine, though I edited some.
Chapter 8
Do Something
The beginning-of-term ceremony was the most boring yet. Well, it hadn’t really been the fault of anyone except circumstance (Kim had already sat through sorting once, and it was really not something that got better with repeated trials) and the new defense against the dark arts teacher, Professor Umbridge decided she needed to add to the speech. She was squat and pink, and had a breathy, high voice that made Kim want to extract her eardrums.
After it was finally over and everyone was standing to head off to bed, Kim hurried over to the Gryffindor table to find Fred and George, who she hadn’t managed to catch up with since she’d lost them exiting the train.
“Hey,” Ron was yelling over the crowed of Gryffindors as she passed him. “Hey you lot! Midgets!”
“Ron!” Hermione chastised across the table. Kim snorted. Watching the two of them prefect was very entertaining, since their ideas of how to go about the job were quite different.
“Well, they are,” he said, shrugging, “they’re titchy…”
“I know but you can’t just call them midgets…First years…” Hermione’s voice faded into the buzz of chatter as Kim approached Fred and George down the table. They were chuckling as Fred bent down to speak low into a first year’s ear.
“Trust me, he loves it! He’s my brother, I should know. He doesn’t even like being called Ron, he much prefers Ronnie.”
Kim smirked and put her hands on her hips, waiting for them to notice her. George looked up and wiggled his brows as the first year nodded at Fred nervously and squirmed away.
“Starting early I see,” Kim said.
“Hey, you,” Fred said, his eyes falling on Kim and immediately softening like they did now… She still wasn’t used to it. He swept forward and put his arm around her waist, pulling her a bit closer. “Sorry we lost you before. Got caught up with stuff for the shop… you’re not mad are you?”
Kim realized she was staring at her a bit blankly, mostly because she was again utterly struck by him. His warm eyes. The tenner of his voice, how different it sounded when he talked to her like this than when he talked to anyone else. She blinked a few times and stuttered for a second.
“Uh, n-no. No, I’m not, why would I—
“Good,” he said with a fond smile as George meandered around them, trying very hard to ignore their private, and yet not private at all, moment. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not he should wait for Fred or just head off.
“Because I wanted to ask you something,” Fred continued, starting to lead her forward at a meandering pace, leaving plenty of space between them and George up ahead.
“Ask me what?”
“I wanted to request your presence on the night of this coming Tuesday.”
“S-sure… What for?”
“You’ll see,” he said slyly.
Kim narrowed her eyes. Usually this was the sort of thing he said when he was wrangling her into doing something she’d get detention for. “How much trouble are we talking?”
At this Fred burst out laughing as Kim smiled along with him. He bit his lower lip as he sighed out the last bit of laughter, glancing at her with the look of someone who’d had a warm flame kindled inside them. He then pressed against her side, shocking every nerve on the right side of her body, every piece of her tingling with his closeness. The side of his face touched her hair, his nose brushing just above her ear so his breath tickled down her spine when he said, “I’m hoping a lifetime’s worth.”
Kim’s heart sped up in her chest as he slid away from her, their eyes meeting. She knew hers must be asking a thousand questions, but she couldn’t manage to speak a word of them because all she seemed to know in that moment was the sensation of his breath caressing along her neck. She wanted to draw him back to her, invite him to never leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said with a small smile, touching her as long as possible before he was too far away and his hand had to fall back to his side. He turned to stride down the hallway, catching up with George and giving him a playful nudge.
“Well that certainly looked more than friendly, you liar,” came a familiar voice, startling Kim from staring after Fred. She whirled around to see Clemon standing there, smiling at Kim beneath an arched brow. Kim laughed, rolling her eyes and coming to walk beside Clemon, heading for Ravenclaw Tower.
“I-… didn’t lie,” Kim said, referring to her many claims at the end of last year that she and Fred were probably over. She’d been miserable about it at the time, and somehow saying that they would never be felt easier than saying they might be and turn out to be wrong. “At least it certainly seemed like things were going downhill at the time.”
“Well what are they now?” Clemon pressed.
"Perhaps the most tragic thing about mankind is that we are all dreaming about some magical garden..."
- Andrew Cornege (via landscape-photo-graphy)
June 19, 2016
"‘How do you know when it’s over?’
‘When you love the memories more than the person. That’s how..."
‘When you love the memories more than the person. That’s how you know.’”
- kissingqueens (via wnq-writers)
Reblog this if you think writing is an art
I literally had to reblog this twice in a row
It takes creativity. It is the act of putting something on paper, that when others see it, a unique picture is drawn in their mind. All guided by the author. I definitely call that an art.
Wait, there are poeple who don’t think writing is a form of art??
The post was practically perfect in every way, and then somebody went and added Julie Andrews, thus shooting it into the realm of utter and absolute perfection.
"I am a criminal. The pen is my knife and the paper is my victim.
I create wounds with each word, and..."
I create wounds with each word, and each finished composition… is murder.”
- Runoliam (via wnq-writers)
