LOST, have you seen _? is how it starts. And the pompous, golden spell-fire of air purifying bubbles as they kill themselves with handshakes and hugs and self-righteous egotisms of Magic Prevails!
The British Center for Magical Disease Control says it's a magical mutation of Plague. She thinks - and she'd know - that the CMDC are (most definitely) full of shite. She knows Ebola when she sees it, she'd said. Ordinary, non-magical, muggle Ebola.
She finds their pride amusing.
HPHGRW
They stop at a cafe somewhere in Newcastle. Survivor count dwindling and Body burnings duet with 'It's the End of the World as we Know it' (she'd always liked to hope that humanity had a tad more class than that, this is what happens when people stop caring) and government officials appealing for calm.
Harry licks their initials HRH, etched red and raw into her forearm (she never did suffer boredom well) and plants a kiss against her forehead. She smiles, a funny sought of a thing, because she knows they worry, but it's all she can give them.
She wants 'Family Jewels' era Marina and the Diamonds and to see her parents again, she wants Florence and the Machine and her Head of House.
She wants P.J Harvey and the oldest Ogdens she can get her hands on.
There are fewer people on the streets these days.
HPHGRW
She's knuckles deep inside herself, turned away from the oh fucks and yes' on the bed beside hers.
She's not ready.
They each have their own madness to settle themselves to first, and she isn't quite there yet.
She sucks in deep when she cums.
The Hilton Somewhere (anywhere, nowhere) reeks of ash.
HPHGRW
There are fields outside of time that have watched her twirl to her own emptiness. Dodging hands only she can see that pop up from below to trip. She makes a dance of it: a Pirouette here, a Jete, Glissade.
She doesn't like to think of the others. Just resigns herself to the fact that they're gone and crawls in between her boys in the grass.
They trace her lips and her eyes and the curve of her neck with their fingers. Rest there heads atop her breasts in the sun. They've come to judge well-being by their physical proximity to each other.
The wind whistles through the leaves above and, thinking King's The Stand, she listens for The Walkin' Dude.
HPHGRW
The bass drops through her innards in the dark of the club, throbbing all the way down to that new favorite place between her thighs. More than a few sets of eyes follow her hands as they travel her body in the smokey black, like a map it's only just now occured to her to learn, and her hips sway with the willful momentum of each pair.
Her boys watch from a corner.
They are fascinated by her now. Her movements, her silence, her body; which, as their species dies, only seems to become more vivacious, more vital. Her insanity, so different from Harry's whose is again, so different from Ron's.
They love her like this, moving and free and crazy and theirs.
She laughs, delightedly, hysterically, fixing her eyes in their direction as she swings, rolls and sways her hips to the beat. Her contrary little mating dance amongst the decay.
She's ready.
HPHGRW
They have her sandwiched between themselves against the hotel room door just as soon as the lock snaps. Ripping and tearing anything unfortunate enough to be in the negative space between them. They take her with almost no preparation and it's painful and it's real and she loves it.
"We're okay" she moans, through the hands and the pleasure and the atrophy. Harry winds her hair around his fist and pulls, biting down just hard enough into the arch of her neck, Ronald moans as her muscles squeeze him in response.
There's a dead man on the other side a little way down the hall but that's okay. She has her constants, everyone else can burn.
"We'll lock the windows and the doors when the Blackbirds come to ferry us away."
HPHGRW
The world ends on a wednesday.