EMaz
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Summary
Everyone holds something close to their chest.
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only the heartless fly by NoFootprintsInSand
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
08 Feb 2026
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“You like sitting here, boy.”
The Captain. He is right behind her, she can feel it. She knows his steps, she knows them very well; she has learnt the acoustics of them trapped in the old wood of the ship. How then, she thinks furiously, could she have missed his approach?
She stiffens. Adrenaline, creature of arrested fight-or-flight, slithers swiftly up the column of her spine and settles on her shoulder.
Run, it whispers into her ear. Run, now.
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Summary
Appetence: defined as an attraction, a natural affinity, or an instinctive desire. In other words, it's a cosmic sort of bond that clouds the mind until all thought is consumed by that singular point of infatuation.
When Voldemort divines what Harrie Potter truly means to him in the graveyard, a festering obsession begins. His horcrux. A part of his wayward soul, crafted from his marrow, magic, and might— his very own damning appetence.
He knows what has been kept from him, what rightfully belongs at his side, and now?
Well.
Now, he wants her back.
** Currently under minor revision **
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She turns a corner and there he is.
It seems he has come looking for her too.
He looks… different, she hazily has time to think. He’s down to a black singlet and black trousers; somewhere along the way he has disposed of his duster and the gun, though he is still carrying all the knives. His knuckles are bruised. His hair is wild, standing every which way and falling into his eyes.
And his stance…
It is terrifying.
Head held low and forward between hunched shoulders. Contours tight and rigid, tension singeing him. Violence an aura almost warping the way she perceives him. Fingers clenching and unclenching. And the scars on his face are so dark with blood that they are almost crimson.
An overhead back-up light hits his face, and she sees bared teeth. She sees eyes so infernal that they override even her Omega hormones, pierce through to the primal survival instincts lying fallow in her hindbrain.
“Ah,” he says, his voice low and full of sharp edges. Like he’s gargling on flint. “You came. Good. Good girl.”
She throws the wrench at him and turns and runs.
OR: Hermione is only meant to observe, NOT engage. Strict orders. Ironclad.
Oops.