Dream A Little, Dream Of Me
TW !! somewhat graphic descriptions of nightmares.
xx SECOND YEAR | RAVENCLAW xx 
english ; thoughts │ wordcount ; 927
| xxx | ☽ MENTIONS ; @giovanni de'luca |
21 OCTOBER, 2024 ; DATE ☾ | xxx |
| xxx | ☽ OUTFIT ; x, description |
this is her posture at the end ; OOC NOTES ☾ | xxx |
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ᴍᴏᴏɴᴄʜɪʟᴅ ── ꜱɪxᴛʜ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ | ᴄᴀʟᴍɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴛᴀ 6 ; ᴇᴠᴀ 7 ; ꜱᴛʀ 4 ; ᴡɪꜱ 9 ; ᴀʀᴄ 6 ; ᴀᴄᴄ 8 |
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| ❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧-𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤, 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.❞ ☘︎ STAFF ACCOUNT ; ᴍᴀʟᴀɪᴋᴀ ᴏᴍᴇɴᴜᴋᴏ |
Dream A Little, Dream Of Me
_GDL_ |
───────────────────────────────────────────────── The night fell over Hogwarts like ink from a shattered quill, dark, thick and viscous, coiling itself between stone and silence, dipping into the folds of towers, the crooks of tall windows, and slinking down to the lake where the world seemed to breathe in wisps of silver. Giovanni moved through it with the deliberance of someone who had learned well how to vanish in plain sight, each step a quiet brushstroke across dew-wet grass, boots sinking slightly, making impressions the wind would blow away by dawn. His navy cloak, threaded from heavy wool, silk-lined in the colour of midnight oceans, skimmed the grass; he noticed the dew darkening the hem, and felt it, too, almost instantly. It was a good coat, tailored in Florence, and far too expensive for how carelessly he wore it now, dragging it through frost and root while the moon shone off its folds. For a heartbeat, he imagined it a living thing, a shadow sliding behind him, swaying with every motion of loyalty, comforting him in his solitude. Beneath the cloak, he wore no jumper, jacket or blazer despite the cold. His white shirt, nearly spectral in the lunar glow, clung to the planes of his shoulders and his chest where the dampness of his own quiet despair had made its mark. He wiped at his sleeve, but the dampness persisted, and with every furious swipe, he cursed his own body for yielding to tears his mind did not wish to acknowledge. There was no sound, no bawling, only the cold betrayal of his skin, prickled goosebumps and the silent ache that came with each swallow of sobs he had thought he could contain. The scent of his surroundings swallowed him; wet pine, glacial rock, and something lower, more metallic and bitter. Familiar like a memory. Not his, exactly, but the accumulation of a thousand others, steeped into the stone, like a vibration of the castle itself, of all the children who had played, wept, and dreamed within the walls of the castle. Childhoods that had passed here and dissolved like sugar in warm milk. It rushed into his lungs like glass-smooth water over stone, crisp, bright, and unrelentingly pure; Giovanni inhaled it as a burning pain. He was a son of stars, but tonight he travelled through the heavens like a rogue comet on black velvet, drawn by some gravity to which he was not aware. He meant to walk further, or maybe not, for he did not truly know where he was going, but something pulled him toward the shore of the lake. And there, at the edge, he saw her. Not first as human, but as a sliver of something that could not be held by the mundane, a spectre summoned by moonlight and need, a mirage the water played to distract the eye. But then she moved, and the illusion resolved itself into something harder and more precise. A girl, kneeling, her back to him. Her nightgown spilt like spilt milk across the ground, pale, soft, absurdly luminous in the dark. The silk caught light like water, clinging in places, billowing in others. It looked like it had weight, and also like it might float off her shoulders entirely if the wind asked nicely. She was a silent storm. He stepped forward, and the moonlight caught him, cool against his skin, leaching it pale as bone, glinting faintly on the damp crown of his dark hair. His eyes, ordinarily more blue than green in daylight, had taken on a peculiar sea-glass green beneath the night’s cold hand, the colour altered subtly, as if the moon had decided to see him differently. He could feel tension in every one of his muscles, the faint ache of one who had slept between grief and revolt, who had ever been witness and rebel. And yet, here was he, trapped by the child of the moon, a celestial mirror along the edge of the lake. He, too, was born of celestial fire, the scattered constellations of his lineage burning quietly beneath his skin, threads of starlight tangled in the dark of his hair and the pale curve of his jaw. Her hair, gold as honey pressed through sunbeams, fell in soft, tousled waves down her shoulders, catching stray ribbons of moonlight like fireflies trapped in silk. A few damp strands clung to the nape of her neck, telling of the fact that she, too, was trembling with something fragile and unspoken. He sensed the craven scent of her despair, even from here, across the lake; it was something sweet, something heavy, like crushed lilac and winter rain. She was crying. Not with sound, but with the subtle, grim rhythm of sorrow that moved through her body. Tears slid down her cheeks, catching and fracturing the moonlight like prisms, and Giovanni felt, without warning, that he had been stripped bare. A reverent hush settled over him, the kind of silence that hums through a cathedral, heavy with awe as he watched her. Her hands were pressed into the earth around her, and he could see her fingers trembling as they brushed roots and grass, leaving delicate crescent imprints in the soil. Her shoulders shook, rising and falling in a rhythm too exquisite for human design. Was she human? Was she a spirit? Was she an angel? The wind lifted her hair, carrying stray curls like threads of starlight across the night, and Giovanni’s eyes traced every motion, as her lips moved in silence, parting and pressing together again, the faintest whisper to the night itself, as if she were saying a prayer only the moon could hear. Giovanni wanted to hear that prayer, wanted to pry it from her hands, from her lips so that he too could whisper his secrets to the moon. Her eyes were fringed with shadowed lashes, looking navy blue as the deepest night, yet luminous in the way that darkness held its own light, where they both were now, under this blanket of obscurity. A sudden impossibility struck him; that the moon had chosen her as its emissary. The lake before her both mirrored the world and unmade it at once, her reflection swaying with the water, doubled and trembling, as though even her own image feared to stay with her, here under the moonlight where she fractured across the ripples, silver where the water kissed silk, gold where hair caught light. Giovanni’s heart beat in a slow, aware rhythm, half afraid that even his breath would shatter the spell. Angelo della luna… He did not move closer, though he wanted to, he could not. He was a shadow clinging to shadow, a boy whose grief had made him still, who had come to the night seeking nothing but his own escape, and yet had stumbled upon her, an illumination that seemed near unfair in its perfection. The wind stirred, he felt it caress the roots of his hair, and the chill cut through his cloak, but he felt nothing. His thoughts were entirely consumed by her. Silk that shimmered like frozen water, the glimmer of tears upon her lashes, the delicate arch of her neck as she lifted her chin slightly, listening to the night. He thought of Florence, of gold-adorned halls and the rigid expectations of a family he could never fully inhabit. He thought of his own reflection in the lake, as he looked down, light and anguished, and for the first time, the comparison seemed irrelevant. All the wealth, all the status, all the aware control he had cultivated meant nothing compared to the ephemeral, bright beauty of a girl who cried by the lake like the child of a supernal body. Every ripple of silk, every quiver of hair, every shiver in her body struck him like a note of music, frail and aching. Her shoulders lifted once, twice, and he thought he saw laughter escape her, though it was a hollow, broken thing that resonated with some unspoken grief. She tilted her head toward the lake, and the moon crowned her hair with a halo of light. Her tears were starlight in motion. Giovanni felt a sudden, unexplained desire to reach out, to touch the impossible, to anchor her for a moment in the individual world. But he did not. He could not. Stars glittered above, mirrored in the lake in broken constellations, and the water carried her reflection like a frail promise, shifting with every ripple. The air smelled of frost and damp earth, of rain yet to fall. He found he could not distinguish where he ended and the night began. Her gaze remained toward the lake, lost to him, lost to herself. Every sense of his was sharpened. Every heartbeat was loud. And he, pale, tall, uncheerful hair falling into his stormy eyes, bone structure carved with impracticable precision, skin apparitional against the night, mirrored her as the child of the stars, orbiting a frail satellite of sorrow and light. The lake reflected only her, the moon, and the quiet obsession of a boy who had never believed in angels until he saw one kneeling on the bank, weeping in moonlight. He remained, cloak discarded at his feet, hair mussed, damp white shirt clinging to his light skin like a second layer of light. Across the lake, he stared, immobile, entranced, star-born and suspended, and the child of the moon knelt beneath her silvered halo, unsuspecting of the constellation before her. ────────────────────────────────────────────────── | _GDL_ |
ooc pinterest . ency . playlist . owl |
*ੈ✩‧₊˚Star-pale, celestial, neither flesh nor blood.⋆⭒ ࣪ .⋆
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Dream A Little, Dream Of Me
xx SECOND YEAR | RAVENCLAW xx english ; thoughts │ wordcount ; 1078
| xxx | ☽ MENTIONS ; @giovanni de'luca |
21 OCTOBER, 2024 ; DATE ☾ | xxx |
| xxx | ☽ OUTFIT ; x, description |
here ; OOC NOTES ☾ | xxx |
| XXX |
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XXX |
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ᴍᴏᴏɴᴄʜɪʟᴅ ── ꜱɪxᴛʜ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ | ᴄᴀʟᴍɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴛᴀ 6 ; ᴇᴠᴀ 7 ; ꜱᴛʀ 4 ; ᴡɪꜱ 9 ; ᴀʀᴄ 6 ; ᴀᴄᴄ 8 |
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| ❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧-𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤, 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.❞ ☘︎ STAFF ACCOUNT ; ᴍᴀʟᴀɪᴋᴀ ᴏᴍᴇɴᴜᴋᴏ |