'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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♱
'Are you wasting away in your skin? Are you missing the love of your kin? Drifting and floating and fading away Do you smell like a girl when you smile? Can you bear not to share with your child? Drifting and floating and fading away Little lune, all day
Little lune, porcelain Do you carry the moon in your womb? Someone said that you're fading too soon Drifting and floating and fading away Porcelain, are you wasting away in your skin? Are you missing the love of your kin? Nodding and melting and fading away'
Hera rejoined the table at lunch, resuming her usual seat beside Sirius and helping him finish off his halloumi salad for lunch. Their conversation was centred around the lightest of things — namely, her appreciation for his ability to make a good salad and him shortly reminiscing about a smoothie phase he'd had when he first moved out.
Sirius had joked and said it was like Jackson Pollock lived there — there was no furniture at all, just a few of his paintings, records and a turntable, a bed and a blender. She hadn't known he used to paint — no one had, apparently, but Hera couldn't help but take in every word of his Basquiat and Da Vinci musings and how they'd inspired him. Hera could only wish to become more creative in the visual aspect.
"I'd love to be in a band, but I have no musical talent — I write little poems sometimes, and I guess I could be good at writing songs, but other than that... " She murmured, looking up at him every now and then, mindlessly dragging her nails through the cracks in the wood. "My friend and I used to joke and say we'd have to sleep with Donaghan from the Weird Sisters to get anywhere in life, "
"Where's the joke in that?" Sirius furrowed his brow.
Hera feigned shyness, "There isn't one; we just wanted to sleep with him. The groupie thing kind of appealed at the time — as it does with most fourteen-year-olds, "
The riotous happiness about the group was soon making its way across Hera's features; she greeted Tonks, who had turned up to escort them across London, gleefully laughing at Tonks' persuasions of Mad-Eye that her short, bubblegum pink hair would attract far less attention on the underground.
