Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝕽emus may not have Moony's Mystic Makutu like Willow has Willow's Weird Witchcraft, the spooky intuition she seems to use to her advantage in situations she wants to have the upper hand. He may not have that, but he can tell when his being is troubled.
And ever since she had gone to see Dumbledore for their latest 'meeting', she's been preturbed, jittery and fidgety. Her pearly locks seemed to have formed a curtained wave naturally from how often she's been running a hand through it to keep it busy, her nails are more shorter than usual from biting or picking at them and there's a distant haze in her eyes that tells him something is plaguing her mind.
And whilst she plasters on a big smile for everyone else, he knows. He absolutely knows there's something keeping her from showing that dimple in her cheek he adores.
He raises his head up from his chair across from her in their secluded spot in the library, his eyes studying the way she stares down at her transfiguration notes, the same ones she has been for the past twenty minutes he might add. His heart clenches in his chest when she exhales and inhales in a practiced rhythmic pattern, closing her eyes briefly until he whispers,
"Willow?"
"Mmhm?" I hummed in acknowledgment, flitting my eyes open to find the boy with a broody expression on his face, allowing his eyes to dance over my face. He tilts his head back and crooks his finger at me silently, the sound of my chair scooting back echoing against the bookcases as I shuffled around to his side of the table, blinking down at him.
He pushes his chair back ever so slightly to make room, one of his arms banding around her waist when she plonks herself down on his lap, his other hand reaching up to smooth his thumb over her brow bone until she relaxed into him. She sighs softly, dipping her head down, his mind telling him to be as patient as she is with him, with her as he slips his hand to brush her hair back, craning his own neck down to allow their foreheads to touch lightly.
"Tell me what to say" He murmurs, my palm flattening against his chest as I thought to myself for a few moments on his words before finally whispering feebly just for him to hear,
"Tell me to smile"
It's probably an odd thing for me to ask him to ask me to do, I just somehow know that if I can't find the way to smile myself, if it comes from his low, soothing voice, if he's the one asking with the best intentions, I can do it for him. Not a fake, plastered on smile, a genuine toothy one, the same I find myself often doing around him without really realising.
I like how he doesn't ask the questions i'm aware he's desperate to inquire about, why ever since I had spoken to Dumbledore i've had a dip in my mood. Instead, he wants me to decide how to approach the topic, and that makes my heart warm significantly inside my chest. He's truly special.
He retreats his forehead, pressing two fingers under my chin to raise my head up to him, locking our gazes as he now smooths his thumb over my plump lips, obeying as he insists quietly,
