Do you know why bookworms find it so difficult to pick their favourite book? It’s because we find little pieces of ourselves scattered throughout so many of the stories we read. Combine the stories and you figure out the person. One person isn’t just one story. It’s all of them.
This is so beautiful
We’re like Voldemort, shattering ourselves but needing every piece to be alive
content;this is really fucking sad, arguing, angst galore, making out, mention of horcruxes, no foreplay y'all i’m sorry, unprotected sex (let’s say she’s on birth control), sad sex(smut), riding, fluff/angst.
a/n;i know this is serious but now i can’t stop thinking about all those fuckboy memes like “a haha….. fuck, without me?” also this physically hurt me to write !! i’m sorry anon, this is way too sad, and i know you mentioned them having their first time, but i hope you don’t mind that i changed the story a little so they were together for the ‘last time’!!
you and ron had been arguing, and yelling, and crying, for hours now. it wasn’t intense, nor heated. it was cold, it was brash, it was heartbreaking and earth-shattering. you could feel a harsh weight in your chest much akin to a gaping hole that made your limbs feel heavy, and your head hot. that made you feel utterly weak. your face felt warm and swollen from all the tears that had run down it, and his cheeks were flushed pink, face blotchy.
you think, now, that you weren’t really that angry, just desperate. you just wanted an excuse, to create an argument, an argument that could very well have been your last. and you wanted to make him feel the way that you did, being left here while he went off to get himself killed, at least a little bit. but not too much. merlin, you wouldn’t have wished this feeling of hopelessness on anyone else.
ron weasley had a strong heart, so strong that it chipped away at himself with every person he loved. his friends, his family, you.
and he had a strong head on his shoulders, determined, courageous, yet burdened by endless insecurity.
and you loved him.
your voice cracked for what felt like the millionth time, as the argument reached its shallow peak, where you two were just silent, before finding another reason to argue again, “why can’t i just go with you, please, ron?”
“you wouldn’t be safe! i’ve told you this, it’s bloody dangerous!”
“you say that as if i haven’t always gotten you out of something dangerous! i was there when you got those stupid scars up your arms, i was there for you —”
“i know, i know—”
“merlin, ron, i’m always there! i’ve always been there when you do stupid shit with harry and hermione!” you pointed to your side, as if an invisible audience were observing you, “why on earth is it — is it up to you to decide now that you want to protect me?”
“because i don’t want you to get hurt, not because of me!”
“well, you’re doing a pretty fucked up job of that.”
you both swallowed, then sighed heavily, sitting down on his bed. he sat, hands clasped in his lap, body tensed. you pressed your hands into the mattress, leaning over it and letting your hair fall down into your face. this was so messed up. reaching over silently, without looking up, you took his hand in yours.
“don’t go,” you croaked, “i love you.”
“i love you too.” he whispered, not trusting his voice not to crack if he spoke any louder. but he didn’t give you an answer. he didn’t need to. you both knew there was no turning back on his decision, that it was something he had to do, that it was something you’d have to accept.
sniffling, you finally lifted your head, looking over at him with tears blurring your vision. you picked up his hand in yours, brushing your lips over it, and shutting your eyes.
he took you in his arms, gently grasping your jaw and kissing you softly. when he pulled away, you carefully pushed him back to you, fingers ghosting the nape of his neck as you both tilted your heads, breathing ragged, cheeks wet. you could taste the salt in your mouth as your tongue swiped over his, not in a battle for dominance, but a cautious waltz of need.
you climbed into his lap, bending down to meet his lips, arms wrapped tightly around the nape of his neck, desperate to just be close. he clutched your waist, kissing down your jaw to your neck, not feverishly, tenderly — he wanted to memorise every piece of you, and guard it with his life. for you, he would. for you, it was worth it. it was worth everything.
sliding down your tank top to your hips, he placed more wet kisses to your exposed breasts, paying attention to the way your chest rose and fell, licking over your nipples and suckling gently on the buds as you slowly rolled your hips into his.
you didn’t want to think of it as a goodbye. but he’d left you no choice, informing you just a day before his departure that he’d be going to hunt for horcruxes to help his friends. and it was such a selfless thing to do, and it was so ron, running into a battle with no armour on. it was an act of wavering courage. yet you couldn’t help but feel fury burst through you, entangling with your worst fears, your pity, your desperation, your sadness.
you wanted to keep ron weasley protected, away from everyone else, away from hurt, away from the trials of life and death. it was unrealistic, but you craved it nonetheless, and you let that want course through your veins, blood burning. you could feel it in your wrists, at your pulse, at your throat, in your stomach, simmering. these were shallow, scalding waters that you waded through, knees giving in, heart giving out.
he moved you to the centre of the bed, taking off his shirt and letting it fall to the ground; you studied him for a moment, broad shoulders, freckled skin — you thought he was beautiful. then you eyed his arms as he leaned over you, covered in deep, white scarring, circling up to his bicep, the cause of the scars even having lashed out at his waist, licks of ivory decorating the sides of his torso. and, pulling your tank top and shorts down, his eyes devoured all the newly exposed skin too.
you didn’t speak — you couldn’t speak. your hearts were still aching and this was merely a distraction, a last dance.
he trailed desperate kisses down to your waistline, then hooked your panties down, kissing over your inner thighs, making you squirm. then to your hips, and your waist, lengthening the distance between you and what you wanted most.
not wasting another second, he kicked off his own pants and underwear, and slowly dragged the head of his cock over your slit.
he found his voice somewhere, buried in the pit of his stomach.
“are you ready?” he rasped, swallowing.
“mhmm.” you nodded, and wrapped your legs around him, hands grasping his shoulders as he eased himself in, just like he’d done many times before.
you groaned quietly together, closing your eyes and savouring the feeling one last time. you clenched tight around him as he set a slow pace, hips gently thrusting against you, both letting little moans slip from your mouths, throats dry from all the shouting and crying. the feeling of fullness enveloped you as he thrust in as deep as he could go, making you gasp and wrap your arms around him tighter.
“so good for me, love. feels so good.” he muttered between pants, the words only making you pulse around him tighter. you had a bizarre urge to both cum and hold off as long as you could so this would go on as long as possible, as long as you needed him on you, inside you.
the sex was soft, bittersweet, filled with random kisses, both rolling your hips against each other. sometimes with ron, it was urgent, needy, desperate, brutal. and despite feeling all of those things at once, you grasped onto each other and never picked up the pace, clammy hands and warm skin, quiet groans and pounding hearts.
“ronnie, i wanna ride you.” you mumbled against his lips, as he allowed you to ease off him, finally straddling his hips once he was slouched against the headboard. you lazily rocked your hips against his, dragging your soaked folds over his shaft, finally letting up and sliding onto his cock once he pinched at your hips and gave you a desperate look.
“fuck, y/n. so tight around me, riding me like that.” he groaned, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear as you wrapped your arms around his neck for support, head buried in the crook of it, bouncing steadily and moaning every time the new position made the thick head of his cock hit your g-spot.
“i love you.” you groaned, hips meeting his and no longer bouncing, just rocking back and forth, rolling your hips against his slowly.
“i love you too. so fucking much. never wanna leave you.”
“don’t.” you sniffled again, eyes filling with tears once more.
“i don’t want to.” you began riding him properly again, slowly, as he met your thrusts, rutting up into you. the crack in his voice was evident, and you avoided sobbing again by pressing your head even further into his neck, kissing the pale skin softly.
moaning, you bit your bottom lip, “i’m gonna cum, baby.”
“cum for me.” he breathed as you obliged (without much choice), body twitching as your orgasm washed over you powerfully, eyes screwed shut, thighs squeezing against his.
sensitive, he kept rocking up into you slowly, shallow moans building up from the back of his throat, voice raspy, “gonna cum, shit.”
you felt the sudden warmth as he pumped load after load of cum into you, and you kept your eyes closed, holding onto ron tighter than you thought possible as his trembling hands caressed your waist.
“can we stay like this, a sec’?”
his cock began to soften inside you, and he mumbled against your shoulder after a moment, “yeah.”
so you just held each other, breathing and hearts slowing down.
you mumbled into his neck. “promise you’ll be safe?”
you could feel him smile softly against your shoulder.
Things I might make my horcrux in Voldemort’s shoes, for maximum amusement:
My victims’ coffins, skulls, or gravestones. Let’s see Harry Potter willingly desecrate a grave.
Hogwarts itself, or some piece of it (maybe that’s what’s wrong with the place, it’s someone’s horcrux).
If I can get to it, the Sorting Hat, the Quill of Acceptance (writes down every magical birth in Britain), or Book of Admittance (the record the quill writes in).
A galleon, because it’ll be easy to attribute the negative feelings to intense greed.
While driving home from the beach last weekend, my wife and I started discussing Voldemort’s horcruxes (as you do) and we were talking about whether the different horcruxes had different abilities. For example, could all of them potentially make a new, living Voldemort, the way that Tom Riddle’s diary almost became fully corporeal when it was draining the life from Ginny?
My wife contended that not all the horcruxes had that ability, and the reason that the diary could do that was because it was the memory of Tom Riddle, and was simply bringing that memory to life. That statement led to a fascinating idea…
Each horcrux represents a specificpiece of Voldemort’s soul that he wanted to tear away from himself
Now you might be thinking, “That’s nothing new. We’ve known that each horcrux was a piece of Voldemort’s soul since book 6.” But what I’m saying is that the horcruxes weren’t just random pieces of his soul. They were specific pieces.
Or to be more precise, these specific pieces:
Gaunt’s Ring - His history
Riddle’s Diary - His identity
Slytherin’s Locket - His fears
Ravenclaw’s Diadem - His doubts
Hufflepuff’s Cup - His pleasures
Nagini - His humanity
Harry Potter - His purpose
Have you ever wondered why Voldemort went to the trouble to create six horcruxes intentionally? (Plus one on accident.) I mean, just one horcrux could have kept him from dying as long as he kept it safe. Why would anyone intentionally tear off SIX pieces of their own soul? Unless they were pieces that you didn’t want anyway…
I believe all of these horcruxes, with the exception of Harry, were meant to contain aspects of Voldemort that he believed were holding him back from achieving his fullest potential and fulfilling his destiny. And that tearing off those pieces not only drastically altered who Voldemort was, but each piece defined what that horcrux could do, and how things changed once each one was destroyed.
To support this theory, let’s look at each horcrux in detail…
(This gets pretty long, and includes lots of spoilers for anyone who hasn’t finished all the books yet, so I’m going to put the rest of the post under a link.)
This is a fantastic question, and it actually brings up a piece of evidence for this theory that I had totally forgotten about!
InThe Tales of Beedle the Bard, the darkest story by far is “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart.”
In that story, the main character is a handsome and skilled warlock who believed that emotion was a weakness. He saw his friends become foolish when they fell in love, so he “resolved never to fall prey to such weakness and employed dark arts to ensure his immunity.”
The way the warlock accomplished this in the story was to remove his own heart, and keep it locked in a crystal case.
Later in the story the warlock attempts to place the heart back within himself, but “it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned, and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse.”
In Dumbledore’s notes on the story, he points out how similar the heart in this story is to a horcrux. “He is dividing what was clearly not meant to be divided…”
While “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart” is regarded by the wizarding world as simply a gruesome fairytale, I believe that it is similar to “The Tale of the Three Brothers,” in that although exaggerated over the ages, it originated from an actual historic account.
In short, based on the evidence in “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart,” I would say the answer to your question is, “Yes.”
