Italian culture is meeting people that come from different parts of italy, and not knowing if you should kiss them once, three times, hug, or shake hands
Italian culture is also forgetting who does what every time
rules: post a few lines of a wip. (this is a tomione/klaroline au and i really have no further explanations as to why this came to be, lol. some context: first meeting between tom and a vervain poisoned hermione, dragged to him by bellatrix as a gift of sort)
Hermione tried to stay still, force her legs not to shake from pain and fatigue, her eyes fixed on the hybrid; logic told her that she should probably avoid challenging him like that, her glare less than subdued, but instinct whispered that she shouldn’t get distracted, should keep the big, bad predator in the room always under watchful eye.
Finally, after a long careful silence, he spoke to her. “You may sit, sweetheart.”
Hermione blinked slowly. “What?”
Voldemort – just thinking his name in the privacy of her mind made her shiver – raised an eyebrow. “Sit. You can barely stand, and I can’t ask you questions if you’re unconscious or dying.”
Seeing as she was still too confused – baffled, really – to do as she was told, he sighed and turned to his Death Eater. “Abraxas, if you please?”
“Sure, Riddle.”
Hermione felt someone coming up to her from behind, then gentle hands began to carefully undo her bindings with only a soft hiss. Once her wrists were free, the Death Eater took her by her elbow and guided her towards an armchair – the same, actually, where Voldemort has sat just earlier – and she watched him as he picked up the ropes from the floor, his face frowning and his mouth twisted in a painful sneer, before he went away, leaving them alone with the door thankfully open. She didn’t know why she thought that would help her, but somehow it did.
“Now.” Her attention immediately snapped back to the hybrid, who hadn’t moved from his previous spot. “I will ask you a few questions, you will be truthful and honest, and I will let you drink some blood to cure those ugly wounds on your wrists. How is that for a deal?”
For some reasons, Hermione thought that challenging the hybrid would be a good idea. So she swallowed, and said: “I doubt I could tell you anything useful. Aren’t you always two steps ahead of everyone?”
His lips curved slowly in a smirk, and she couldn’t help but tremble.
me at 14: wow, protagonists in media my age! how relateable!
me at 28: WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CHILD SOLDIERS? WHERE ARE ALL THE ADULTS? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN AND WHY ARE THEY NOT BEING PROSECUTED BY LAW WITHIN THESE FICTIONAL UNIVERSES
In the same vein:
Me at 14: oh protagonists that are 17-20-ish, they’re basically adults, right?
Me at 28: Oh my Gods you’re babies who left you in charge?!
Ariel: Daddy, I love him! Me at 14: Yeah, girl, you tell him! Me at 30:
Marnie in Halloweentown: I’m thirteen, okay? I’m practically grown up! I’m certainly old enough to make my own choices – right?
Me at 7: Right!
Me at 13: Right! …Well, okay, maybe not practically grown up, but still, right!
Me at 28:
You either die young or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
This is so true
Me as teenager: Yeah, girl, you hook up with that older guy, this is super hot!
Me as an adult: all of these men should be arrested
miss job hunting back in the day when you could just ride into town on a horse and be like “i’m a doctor” and everybody was like “cool no need to see if that checks out or anything”
persephone's corner 