Prompt Post 4!
The first, second, and third posts are now shut down for prompting. All new prompts must be posted here. Any new prompts posted to Prompt Post 1, 2, and 3 will be deleted without warning.
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'Love is not soft, like those poets say.
Love has teeth which bite, and the wounds never close.'
Esmeralda wakes from a dream, a nightmare, in the early hours of the morning, her body bathed in a thin sheen of cold sweat, her heart racing, sending a painful rush of blood to thunder in her ears and head, like the insistent beat of distant war drums.
Something is coming.
Someone...
In a futile attempt to calm herself, to relieve her frantic lungs and quell the trembling of her limbs, she draws her knees up, hugging them against her chest, and takes a deep breath. Once, twice, again and again, until her pulse is slow and steady, until the sharp ache in her ribcage is dull and almost forgotten. She inhales, taking small comfort in the familiar smells of 12 Grimmauld Place.
Damp, decay and dust, pipe smoke, bacon, freshly brewed coffee...
There are other smells too, the last fragments of her dream, faint and already fading, like the dying embers of a fire.
Fine leather, old parchment, red wine...Esmeralda shivers. ( ... )
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Molly is bustling around the kitchen, making breakfast for the motley group assembled around the table. Sirius and Remus both look rough, although not quite as rough as Tonks, who visibly blanches when Molly sets a laden plate of bacon, eggs, and sausages before her, with an indulgent and oblivious smile. Esmeralda picks at her own breakfast, appetite vanquished. Thankfully, no one seems to notice, although Tonks and Quasi eye her closely during the unusually subdued meal.
Meticulously dissecting a sausage, Esmeralda finds herself thinking about her friends, and about their schooldays in Hogwarts, and these thoughts inevitably stir memories which she would rather forget. Still, she allows herself to probe deeper, like a child picking at a scab. It is forbidden and it hurts, and she knows she should leave well alone, but oh, it is so delicious, a familiar ritual of penance, strangely soothing, despite the pain it causes ( ... )
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The love potion is almost like a symphony, intricate and delicately balanced, each layer a song in its own right, the sum of the parts coming together in a devastating crescendo. Oh, Esmeralda remembers it so well, although she wishes that she could forget.
First, there is incense, light notes of amber and patchouli and sandalwood, comforting and familiar.
Then, there is ginger, raspberry, lemon, three sharp notes, so bright and cloying that she can almost taste them.
Suddenly, without warning, there are dark notes, loud and violent notes, overwhelming her senses until she feels as though she is drowning...
Fine leather.
Claude's riding gloves, soft and supple, exquisite against her skin as his hand wraps around her throat, squeezing gently, whilst the other follows the curve of her thigh with firm purpose...
Old parchment.
Claude's robes, her face pressed against his chest, inhaling deeply, breathing in the dust of ancient books, which clings to him like a second skin...
Red wine.
Claude's lips...his clever ( ... )
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