this is Georgiana. chapter one

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I had dreams of an older boy with large hands, and a gentle smile. Nothing about him stood out. He always wore the same jeans and sweater. He roughly had dark brown hair resembling mine and even darker brown eyes. He used to be my brother.

In the dreams, I noticed, he’d cautiously lift his legs over the largely rounded roots of the tree planted in front of my house, his crisp and clean black trousers riding up. He looked to be marching, a one-man band show without his instruments and a hand casually stuffed in his pocket. His cheeks, upturned as he made his way to the porch.

I’d wait for a while, sat on the red-bricked steps of my porch. Acorns always fell from the tree regardless of the season. This time it might have been fall or winter but it was definitely around noon. The orange flowers along the small fence on my front lawn were open and facing west indicating noon.

He flexed his neck as he ran his hand behind it. The gray walkway pavement was cracked by overgrown weeds. Yet, he missed every tiny yellow dandelion. Continue reading

Sink — One

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Nothing felt the same after fourth year for Hermione Granger. She saw more of life outside of her constant companions, books. Not the life of battles and constant brush with death. No, this was different.

It started with a small crush that snowballed. Slowly, she fell in love with Ron.

That love only grew as they spent more time together as Prefects during their fifth year. By the sixth year, Hermione believed she had control over her emotions.

Ron was the one.

She believed it with all her heart, so why wasn’t he here?

“Can you hear me, Miss Granger?”

Hermione’s eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. She could hear very well but said nothing.

“It seems she is aware of our presence but is incapable of replying,” said the man in a white coat.

Someone walked away from Hermione before speaking, “It will take some time to recover her memories.”

“So there’s a chance to fix her?”

That was Harry’s voice, sorely sounding, but Harry’s nonetheless. He was the first she recognized after waking up.

“To be completely honest, I would not be too hopeful about recovering them. The most important thing for Miss Granger is to rest.”

“You mean to say, there are consequences to getting her memories back?” Harry somberly looked at his friend.

“What kind?”

She knew this voice well but couldn’t put a face to it. Was it Ron? Thinking too much made her head hurt. The bed creaked as she slumped back into a deep slumber.

In her dreams, she sees Ron clearly. Best of all, she remembered him, Ron, with his red hair, freckled face, and ridiculously adorable smile. In her dreams, they were eleven. They were meeting for the first time.

She remembered pointing out the dirt on his nose, the way he wrinkled his face, and the giant misunderstanding between them.

The train rattled. The hanging lights flickered just a little.

She shut her eyes from the incessant flashing.

His brooding eyes stared back at her. His arms rested on the table as he watched her in silence. The mannerisms were different, they were not Ron’s.

The quiet sighs of the boy before her felt differently from Ron’s louder ones. Who is he?

“Obliviate,” she remembered saying.

There were gaps in her memories; that much she could understand from her own assessment and the conversations she’d listened to between Harry, the doctor, and someone she couldn’t remember.

She was told, sleep took over her more often because her brain was trying to fix what had been broken—what she forgot but it wasn’t like amnesia. She wanted to tell them, she’d done it to herself with magic. And they can reverse the spell and that would be it. Problem solved.

“It’s not that easy, Mr. Potter,” the doctor corrected Harry, “we’re talking about years of self-inflicted memory erasing. If we don’t know when it began, we could potentially ruin the memories she does remember.”

Oh, she thought. She’d been doing it for years, he said but even that she couldn’t remember.

In her dreams, she’s dancing in an empty hall with a faceless man. She’s dreamt it many times before to a point, she almost believed it to be real. She dreamt of sneaking out late after curfew to the Astronomy Tower, having small, sweet conversations but those dreams were never about Ron. She knew that much.

She hasn’t felt the same way since her fourth year. She saw more of life outside of her constant companions, books. Not the life of battles and constant brush with death. No, this was different.

Yes, still dangerous, but also fun.

It all started with a smirk and a glare.

Slowly, she found herself searching for his figure amongst the sea of serpents. Curiosity controlled her whims and curiosity only grew as they spent time as Prefects during their fifth year. By the time the sixth year rolled in, Hermione could no more control her emotions than she could Harry and Ron.

Draco piqued her curiosity.

end of chapter one

a note from me.

I wrote a version of this chapter some long time ago as aira isane and then reworked it again as a one shot in a Harry Potter Fanfic forum only to rewrite it one last time as a short story/novella. I’m still working hard on learning writing but I thought, the more I share, the more people can critique and help me grow. 🙂

You can anticipate reading the rest of this on Wattpad where I’m publishing a lot of my works lately.

Also, Tuesdays are my HP days so… I expect to schedule them up on those days.

first one done! and I got an editor.

Completely published the first chapter of Are You Listening? This is Georgiana. on Wattpad. Woohoo.

Here’s a bit of a “preview” for the chapter.

Georgie Chp 1 Prev

You can access the story by clicking on the image.

Also, I got an editor. Woohoo. Check me out, I’m going places. LOL. Seriously though, my projects are coming to fruition one by one and it’s making me really really happy.

story 05 — Caroline Allen

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Caroline Allen liked to stare out of her window, her tea at hand and a cookie within reach. Her hobby consisted of two things: walking and reading. She often did both together, which has gotten a good share of laughs and mocking from her neighbors. They were cruel indeed, but she didn’t give their disdain any thought. She, unlike the rest, saw the good and the shiny in people.

Yes, the shiny.

Out in the sun room of her dingy home, sat a pair of rocking chairs, the wood splintered and frayed at the edge, clearly antique and have lived longer than she. But she would often sit there by herself and read a thrilling book. She loves the sun as much as she loves the moon She doesn’t have many preferences. She isn’t picky, but she likes sitting. She likes how the sun kisses the flowers that she’s grown. She loves it when it rains and hearing the pitter-patter of the water against her windows. To her, they are magic.

Magic means a great deal to Caroline. It shaped the way she grew up and still lives. Magic was her life.

Now don’t go thinking that she’s a magical creature or holds the power to cast you into oblivion. No, not the magic she’s grown up with. It’s the kind that comes from the subtle things she’s grown to lie. For example, she likes the old lady at the end of the block who smiles at her.

Maybe, that isn’t quite as magical as say, someone casting a spell for the cloudy weather to turn clear, but it is, nevertheless, magic to Caroline.

Caroline likes the subtle things. She likes how animals coo at the sight of one another. Or how the ants carry away the crumbs she leaves at her front steps. She doesn’t have the urgency to stomp on them the same way others might do. She likes to watch them travel about and explore. She often imagines conversations they hold with one another, human talk and she would role play and realize, their life is as much important as hers.

She likes how the trees dance as the wind sings. She likes how the world cries together. She, especially, loves the way nature seems to work as one. She loves that a lot.

Caroline doesn’t have much to dislike. She dislikes the stain on her coffee table her mug had made, but the next day, she’d found it very artistic and even went as far as admired her cup for doing such a great job. She dislikes it when her foot lands atop a spider scurrying off.

When Caroline Allen died ironically, with a book at hand during her daily walk, she realized she loved death as well: How you could never tell when it’s coming. She liked that a lot, the uncertainty. But she disliked leaving her kettle still steaming and the cup of coffee outside her sun room. She disliked that very much.

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Update and Babble: Jill

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Jill owned her own antique shop, one that’s been passed on from generation to generation. She, unluckily, received it from her grandmother rather than her mom. Long story short, her mom along with her father left her. Left? Well, they didn’t exactly up and packed to go run away. They simply left, eyes closed and their bodies buried back from whence they came.

She often only put up things that would remind her of a fairy tale, a world in which she could run away to because her home reminded her too much of her lack-of-parents childhood.

She’s now 27, and the accident in which rendered her parent-less was a mere 12years ago. Mere? Well, really, it isn’t just merely 12 years. It’s just time passed by fast and she’s all grown up now, running her own business and all. But it isn’t a tragedy: to grow up without parents. It’s regretful, yes. Painful, yes. But she’s got her own family now, a daughter—two—and a loving husband.

She’s gotten her happily ever after, after all.

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