Rachel’s Memories
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rachels-memories.bsky.social
Rachel’s Memories
@rachels-memories.bsky.social
61 followers 61 following 260 posts
Trauma makes drama
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[from Wizards Without Wands]
He became quite ardent, once we were back inside his locked and warded rooms. He made the most heart-rending declarations. And I cried. And I faltered, apparently - or maybe I tripped — when he led me over to the bed. "Come, come here -" he said, and I got another kiss, and another. They were like a promise. Or an apology. But — But I faltered. "What *js* it?" He was sitting on the bed, tugging on my hands, which, apparently, faltered. "You don't want it anymore? You don't need your old lover?" He dropped his hands, and mine. "Perhaps I embarrass you. Perhaps you no longer thrill to my touch. Perhaps you no longer want to hear my stories or indulge your little fantasies. Is that it?" No. No, that wasn't it at all. Why was I like this? Like a stone. Or a child. Obstinate...
December 23, 2025 at 9:05 AM
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[from Obsidian Brilliance]
"At school, your namesake plotted to waylay me after hours. He'd break curfew, knowing who would be on patrol — me. *I* would be on patrol, *I'd* be forced to escort him back to the dungeon... or *somewhere.* Oh, he knew what he was doing, even if he didn't know what he was doing. "One such night he loitered about near that shadowy spot under the arch, just *presenting* himself to be caught. "He sauntered along — it's difficult to imagine, but he baited me, he dia. So I reached out and grabbed his wrist, twisted it behind him and shoved him, face first, against the stone wall. "I enjoyed seeing him this way and for a while that's all I did, hold him at arm's length and watch him struggle, see how he would free himself, *if* he would free himself. With my limited experience in such interactions, I believed that he *needed* to struggle, perhaps replaying, or reliving, the bonds of his muggle parent. So, I didn't release him for some time. I let him strain, and fight, and swear. I was testing him, and learning him. "I had a lot to learn. "I fancied I knew what he needed, that I knew what he was. I was wrong.
December 23, 2025 at 8:55 AM
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[from Spellbound]
"Miss Chang, I take it you don't favor a *slow* seduction -" "Why should I?" "_ Or bother with consent." "Shut up - *Mr.* Malfoy." He angles up again. "Are you going to cut me down?" "That would be stupid, wouldn't it? You're a lot bigger than I am." "And you're a lot — *stronger* - than you look. Also a — an *enthusiastic* kisser." Lucius touches his tongue to his upper lip, expecting to taste blood. "Mr. Potter is a lucky boy -" Cho slaps him. Now he can taste the blood. These new Ravenclaws. Hmm. "Why, Miss Chang, I-" In one smooth rendering of movement, Cho jumps off the bed, backs away, reaches for her wand. Hermione adds her wand to Cho's, and then they're both standing poised, wands raised. "Ladies, ladies. Isn't this a bit of overkill?"
December 22, 2025 at 10:01 AM
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[from The Ribbon Gift]
Was he considering? Reconsidering? I couldn't see him, he was behind me, at the desk, and I heard the distinctive metallic tap of his cane. Then his wand being extracted. I imagined his hand gripping the silver carving. "Where do you want me, sir?" A sound of leather, twisting, creaking taut, then a release. "Over the desk," he said, and when I turned to it, he stepped aside in an odd, mannered glissade. In his hand, the snake's head, now narrowed to the hilt of a whip. Of course he had conjured it wordlessly — an elaborate thong ending in a knotted cracker, which he dragged, slowly, across the desk in front of me. He pointed, with the whip, to indicate the edge of the desk where I should place my hands. Does he use this whip with Narcissa? I wondered. Draco? Scorpius? Did he whip *Severus*? "Shall I scar you, my dear? Something nice to show your father?"
December 21, 2025 at 9:15 AM
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[from My Dearly Demented]
"And I will tell you, I never touched muggles in the course of... interrogations. I gave orders and then I stayed out of it. I tried *not* to touch them." "So you didn't, *personally*..." "Generally, no. Disappointed?" Rose files *that* away for later. For now, she gauges the result of her smoothing potion, and begins coaxing out his natural waves and texture. She looks at them in the mirror - the two of them. The way she stands behind him, his hair in her bare hands, an odd juxtaposition, with odd similarities. Or maybe not so odd. Rose's own hair is almost as light and not so very red. It's not red at all. Then, their eyes. His, a grey so cool it's almost silver. Hers, as dark as his are light. The deepest of browns, like her mother's... "I *could* report to you, muggle-type things she says and does -" "Who?" "My mother." Another laugh — a single bark. "And what do you suggest I *do* with this information?"
December 21, 2025 at 9:08 AM
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[from Wizards Without Wands]
"They couldn't save him, heal him?" "No, the idiots." He sighed, then brightened. "Do you want to see the portrait?" Lucius was already up and moving, donning his dressing gown and striding toward the west stairway. I scrambled to follow. It was pitch outside. Our shadows rose, banked, and chased us through the corridors to the library. Abraxas' portrait hung in the appointed place, the *proper* place, above the tall fireplace. Abraxas in a gilt high-backed chair, posed in the formal manner, and painted with a palette both muted and deep. "It doesn't do him justice, really," Lucius said. We both stood there looking at it. I'd seen it before, of course. Abraxas displaying the same imposing, aristocratic bearing his son would inherit, the same strong features and piercing gaze. But where Lucius' haughtiest expressions bordered on mirth, his fathers' seemed the purest scorn. He *was* beautiful. Beautiful, aquiline, grim. To young Lucius, he was the father, the ruler of the House, the Malfoy patriarch. And what else?
December 19, 2025 at 8:52 AM
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[from Demented & Desired]
She has pursued him, worried him, tugged on his sleeve, kissed him with abandon. She has blossomed in his arms, under his hand, around his fingers. She has shown him *things.* He wants more. He wants more of what he has forgotten, what has been twisted and taken away. He doesn't even think of her blood status anymore, really, and that definitely doesn't sound like him. But it must be him. And he *wants* — what he had. Before. He wants everything that has made *this* with *her.* He wants the year of flirtation and seduction, the months of bold requests, and the days of bolder demands. He wants to feel her— again. And again after that. He wants to hear her, her cries and her sighs and her antagonisms. What kind of pureblood *is* that?
December 18, 2025 at 8:39 AM
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Divisive, you say? It’s ‘dank’ [from Mid-Century Modern]
"In that instant, I forgot all about curfews and punishments. Minerva was leaning against the dank wall, weeping into her hands. "I'd startled her, and she was trying to straighten her robes and hide the evidence, but I could still see her tear-stained cheeks. "My private and proper professor would never have permitted herself to weep in public like this. But tonight, walking the halls, she had been, apparently, overcome. And there was a moment, a frozen moment of twisting jealousy for that dead muggle, who made her weep, and wander the halls at night. "I watched as she worked to pull herself together, and I wondered, what would a gentleman do? A gentleman would say comforting phrases, offer her a handkerchief. He would wipe away her tears, kiss her tears, taste the lovely salt of lamentation. "But I had no handkerchief. And no time to conjure one.
December 16, 2025 at 8:42 AM
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another one [from Mid-Century Modern]
"I am. Would you like to continue, Lucius?" "Might as well. I don't have anything else to do today. So I'll answer your question. It didn't go on long, not long enough for anyone to cast suspicions, certainly not long enough for any kind of affair. But I did stay a long time in her rooms that night. "She held me in bed, with the blankets drawn around us. She stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. She whispered in my ear, soft, flattering things — nothing about being a little terror. '''Such a handsome boy you are, she said. 'But you know that already. You don't need me to tell you..! '''Oh no, but I *do* need. Please tell me -' I said, like a boy, a *needy* boy. ''Shh. Come now, she said, and drew me closer still, and I found the best, the softest place to lay my head. And I was suddenly jealous of any children who might suckle there.
December 15, 2025 at 9:16 AM
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[from Mid-Century Modern]
'''Lucius," she said, and then her bemused and tender expression dropped away. She stroked my temple with the backs of her delicate fingers. 'You understand that we can only be like this now, and here! '''In your rooms?' '''Yes.! ''Then I will come to your rooms every night! ''I will not admit you" '''Oh..! "And *that* was a whipsawed finality I was not prepared for. I heard her say 'now and here, but I didn't want to hear it. There were so many other things to say, and do. I ached for all the things. Perhaps, if I could just stay in her rooms, in her soft bed, wrapped in the blankets that held her scents... She could teach me. And I could learn. "And then I remembered. The reason I had come to her rooms that night. It seemed ages ago.
December 15, 2025 at 9:09 AM
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They really do go *on* about it 🧐

[from The Ribbon Gift]
"I loved your present, you know." He blushed and blushed, but he reached up toward my hair. In the most tender, hesitant gesture, he folded it back over my shoulder. (It made me think of *you,* my friend.) He tried to retract his hand, but I caught it and brought it to my mouth for kisses. "I'm sorry, oh Lucius, *please*-" "Shh. What would you like to beg for?" "For you to - I don't know— 'lose control' again." "That would be dangerous for both of us, I'm afraid. I am only allotted this, or any, existence by leave of your father — the auror, in case you've forgotten — and I assure you, he hasn't *forgotten* anything." The boy *stared,* perhaps at the way I had just killed the mood so effectively. "But I will have what I wish of you," I said, hastening restoration of said mood. "You will?" He threw his arms around my neck with what I can only describe as youthful enthusiasm. "I mean yes, do that-!"
December 13, 2025 at 9:10 AM
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Well, isn’t this a repeating theme? 😏
[from Truth, Justice, and the Wizarding Way]
He watches as she unwraps his bandage and oh, the ritual, the sting! "You are enjoying this." Honestly, he doesn't know which is better: the pain of *cleaning,* or watching her *work.* He tries his old friend, flattery. "You do have healing skill, Hermione. You are careful. And controlled." "From the king of control, that is quite the compliment." And his ego, or the ghost of his ego, tugs on his sleeve for inclusion in the conversation. "Oh yes, I *am* careful. Exceedingly controlled. My father taught me everything he knew. And more." Oh no, no! Don't go *there* "Not so careful with *me.*" "Exceedingly careful with *you.*" "Then, why send me, so carefully, away?" "Think about it. Meanwhile, on a closely related topic: You still haven't answered my question."
December 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM
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#Psycho #JanetLeigh #AnthonyPerkins #AlfredHitchcock #ChristmasMovie

It’s a Christmas movie!
Series of screencaps from Hitchcock’s movie Psycho. The top panel includes the date that concludes the film’s title sequence: Friday, December 11
December 12, 2025 at 4:23 PM
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[from The Dreamer and the Dreamed]
How can he even *begin* to approach this? No. There must be no hesitation in his eyes. He must do what's *necessary.* "Your scents are telling me that you're ready. You're ready to do what you've imagined, what you've dreamed." "What, *here*? Now?" "Why do you think I've warded this room so thoroughly? It *is* my house, after all." "Your house seems to be full of Death Eaters at the moment. And Snatchers." "And my sister-in-law." She says nothing. She doesn't know the extent of that madness. So he just lets the concept rest in the air for a moment. Just a moment, though. He really doesn't want to think about what is happening right now, all around them, in his house. "It *js* dangerous," he says, finally, in a rare display of understatement.
December 11, 2025 at 8:46 AM
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[from Wizards Without Wands]
"For how long, though?" I looked, and looked. His eyes were wide, filling with greed, and fear, and shock - at his own audacity. I beamed. "From the beginning, Albus. When you were just a boy, full of questions and unchecked candor, following closely at Scorpius' heel. And now, now you are so much more. I will *never* let you go, my dear." A shudder wracked him, and he seemed helpless to it, as though he might fall to pieces were I not holding him. And rocking him. And petting him. "I know.. you are young, and inexperienced, and a bit traumatized..." "I am not -" "Oh but you are. And so, perhaps you will trust my experience, and my years?" He frowned and nodded once. "I do. I will. I always have."
December 11, 2025 at 8:39 AM
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[from Age is Just a Number on a Potions Bottle]
She sat straight upright, only to lean over again, and peer at my hand. "That silver design is unusual. ..." and she reached out to touch the sterling serpent. "I'm sure I've seen it before..." "That seems unlikely, doesn't it?" "Does it?" She gave me a sharp look. "Are they *your* jewels?" "What are you trying to say, Professor?" She was upright again, and looking me over. Then back at my rings. I confess I had neglected to reconsider my jewelry choices while under the potion's grip. Neglected to select a proper fake name, too. I did pay some attention to teenage sartorial choices of the day, however; which is to say, no sartorial choices. "Where *did* you get those jewels?" "Where did I 'get' them?" I inhaled with proper offense, and gave her the eyebrow for good measure. "Why do you care?" "You are being, you are - *insubordinate,* Malfaux." "Then you'd best punish me for it, Professor."
December 9, 2025 at 8:44 AM
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I don’t have ‘fourth’ but I do have several ‘fours ‘ and in this case, “fourteen’ —

[from Bright Little Lies]
"I said, will you be going home for the holidays?" "Home?" "I do see why you wouldn't want to. Things must be rather unpleasant there..." And now, Lucius takes his hand away, and steps back a proper distance. "To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised your self-righteous 'protectors,' McGonagall and Dumbledore, were so... content to leave you there, all those years ago - how old *are* you now, Harry -?" This seems... important, somehow, though Harry isn't sure why. "Almost fourteen, sir." "Mm. Well, it seems... cruel. Especially for such a *famous* young person such as yourself." "You're saying they *knew*?" "You think they didn't?" Harry can only gawk, and feel the cold dusty air on his cheek.
December 8, 2025 at 10:19 AM
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[from Skipping a Generation]
Scorpius is in bed, in Lucius' bed - and the scents are everywhere. In the bedclothes, the velvet that drapes the four-poster, and when Scorpius reaches for him, Lucius is right there - looming in the dim, giving Scorpius his weight and warmth, his skin and his scars - and Scorpius is — Scorpius doesn't know, really, what will happen. "What will happen is — you will be bound to me. Always. It is not like a spell you can break, not even in death. It is old, dark, family magic." And there is the sense that his mind is not his own, and yet still his own - *more* his own. It is power and will and — And *years* — * Ages.* Scorpius breathes, and tries to prepare.
December 8, 2025 at 10:12 AM
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[from The Dreamer and the Dreamed]
In the dreams, Lucius teases, beguiles, and gives *pleasure.* In reality, he is subject to the whims of bloodthirsty guards and their osculatory enforcers. And the mud-blood is left unsatisfied, unfulfilled. Un-done. She may not get it, yet — why she feels sated... yet empty. But she will, soon enough. The brightest witch is a quick study. Either that or Weasley will have to spell it out for her. And *then,* where will Lucius be? He'll be wrestling with *this* dilemma, in this place, for one thing. And leaving a giant, permanent stain on the family name, for another. When they take his soul, he wonders, will they will also take his soul bond? What will become of her, then? Perhaps she'll track him down and molest him again, force him to remember. That wouldn't be so hard a penance for his crimes. A fair exchange for the bittersweet dregs of his psyche.
December 7, 2025 at 8:50 AM
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[from Playdates at Malfoy Manor]
I nuzzled her fragrant neck, pushed my face into her golden locks, and murmured my desire. "Oh Rose, Rose, should I be strict with you? Are you my naughty little girl who needs her strict Daddy?" "Yes, Daddy. Naughty..." I slid my hands up from her waist until I could hook them underneath her arms. And I lifted her up, up - so slight, my perfect girl - and lowered her, slowly, to my knotty lap. Where she immediately wrapped her legs around me and straddled me, squirming and wriggling into position, and giggling delightedly once she got there. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her, rocked her, *hugged* her while I leaked helplessly in my trousers like a teenager. "Rose, you are, hmm... you are *straining* Daddy's... *patience.*"
December 6, 2025 at 8:52 AM
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[from Bright Little Lies]
December 6, 2025 at 8:47 AM
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[from my WIP, Head in the Clouds]
They pass each other in the street. They are not strangers. They know each other by sight. By wariness. By a world of history between them. They make no outward acknowledgements; the inward acknowledgments are many. His affect is blunted, but his eyes scan the street. His pace is stuttering and stolid, hers even more so, if that is possible. They pass each other, and they watch each other pass. She passes as recovered; he as reformed. They are neither. The next day it happens again. A happenstance between random pedestrians. Or is it something else? Something planned, plotted, timed. When the WALK sign flashes, do they traverse those yellow lines and continue their separate paths? Or does she hesitate, in the middle of the city street? Does he? Can they even have separate paths?
December 4, 2025 at 8:51 AM
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[From my WIP: The Alternate History]
Narcissa watched him with his potential recruits, particularly the ones who responded to his sexual pressure. Since it was Lucius, that would have been practically everyone. Narcissa would perch in some prearranged, pre-spelled spot, and watch as Lucius cooed and complimented the poor second- or third-year until they were overcome by the attentions of the beautiful and intimidating prefect. "And they all want you to dominate them," Narcissa wondered after one such assignation. "Most do." "So it's their secret desire, it's what you promise them?" "Usually." He shrugged, halfheartedly. "It's just... easier." "Easier for *you.* There's no one with a secret desire to dominate *you*?" He leaned over to murmur in her ear. "Just you, Narci." The prefect's rooms were famously private, but Narcissa said nothing. She knew what he wanted her to do. "You're not going to freeze up on me, are you?"
December 3, 2025 at 9:16 AM
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[from Age is Just a Number on a Potions Bottle]
I sighed, as if this was the last, instead of the first — the *only* — thing I wanted to do. "Stand up," I said. "I'm going to kiss you." She didn't move. "Come on, Granger." I stood there in front of her with my hands out. "You - not Luke or Louis or any other Malfaux. It's what this is all about —" Luke Malfaux was me, or at least he tasted like me, so I have nothing bad to say about kissing him. He was delicious, and kissing him was a bit of narcissistic fantasy. But he was she, underneath it all, and now, kissing *her* was one hundred percent, unadulterated, prickly Granger. She fought me. A little. She rose, stepped into my arms and once there, she twisted and arched delightfully. Then she attacked my mouth with fervor, with her hot little tongue and her sharp little teeth. "Let me take you upstairs," I said, through a growl - but also trying to be formal and proper. "Unless you're hungry and want to go back down for dinner..."
December 2, 2025 at 8:30 AM
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Another thing that *belongs* [from Skipping a Generation]
He arrives quietly, and even in the fading daylight, Scorpius can see the spark come back into Lucius' eyes. He can see the way Albus lowers his lashes and lowers his head and finally lowers *himself* to a spot on the grass. As if it's a typical spot, a familiar spot, a spot at Lucius' feet where they both think Albus belongs. Finally — it feels like finally - Lucius pats the bench to his left and Scorpius takes a seat there. The three of them sit in silence for a few moments, while the organic murmurs of the garden settle around them. Albus asks for stories, as expected, and, as expected, Lucius obliges him. Of course they are stories Scorpius has heard before and while he'd like to retreat to the shadows, he'd promised Albus to be — present. So here he sits, listening to Grandfather speak the important histories, all while gently *nudging* Albus' shoulder with his knee at the salient points - nudge nudge nudge — until Albus is fully resting against Lucius' leg. Practically clinging to it.
December 1, 2025 at 9:07 AM