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Series of Vignettes by Review TeamPermanent AccountSolarism

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Rating: PG-13. Created: November 2nd, 2005. Updated: August 15th, 2007. Read Reviews (54)
Disclaimer: Characters, the magical world, etc, is property of J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros, not the owner of this fic.

Series of Vignettes
By Solarism





Series of Vignettes is a collection of drabbles and one-shots strung together under one umbrella story. They won’t all correlate or make sense, but they all have something to do with romance. They span every era and quite a few pairings in the fandom. They are sometimes sweet, other times dreary, occasionally poorly written, and frequently far too wordy. Hey. It gives me an excuse to procrastinate on my real stories, and… gives me more time for NaNoWriMo 2005! Enjoy.




I. Arabella’s Hair




Pairing: witch!Arabella Figg/Sirius Black
Rating: PG-13 for mild language and mature themes
Category: AU romance
Completion: One-shot, completed



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And he had always loved her best when she wore her hair like that, twisted up with little loose ends spilling out and downward, tickling at her neck, tracing themselves against the side of her jaw in that way that made his fingertips attempt to curl up with envy. He loved her when she’d wear it that way just for him, smiling rather awkwardly and trying to hide it, because she was wearing her hair up and it was spilling outward, going everywhere, laying low. He wished that she would wear it that way always and match her clothing and her personality to those little dangling strands, with her bra straps and shoelaces and sharpened wit all slightly loose and disorderly, the little hints of lighter brown in her eyes breaking out of order and twisting up like steam. The way those strands of long black hair would fall so simply, so tastefully against her smooth, creamy neck, the way she would push them behind her ears with the back of her hand, the way that she looked when she was trying so hard not to let him know that it was for him, all, everything, simply and undoubtedly for him, was when he loved her best, loving her in that obsessive way that all men do when they are in the presence of something that they could never hope to perpetuate.

And when he kissed her on the neck, he’d push the little swirling ballerina hairs away, sinking his lips into her skin and breathing in the scent of her shampoo, ignoring the smell of the Forbidden Forest that always clung to him during this time of the month, after his secrets had been exercised and the twigs had been freed from his robes. When he came in, it was to meet her and those hairs that slipped away from her bun and tumbled down in a little cascade of bounce and twist, and it was Arabella’s hair that he buried his nose into to relieve it of those dog-smells, those things that he was usually so fascinated by. He allowed the way they dangled there, dangling so simply and so elegantly, to become his master, his entrancement fed and provoked by the way that she didn’t even know what it meant to him to have those hairs there, by the way that she didn’t know that he probably loved her hairs much more than he loved her some of the time.

And when he was done planning with James and with Peter and with Remus, when he had extinguished the lamplight and passed through the cobwebbed interiors of long-lonely passageways, when he’d brush softly and silently against a tapestry trying so fiercely not to wake the sleeping paintings, he thought of her, coming back always to the way that she’d worn her hair, the way that she put it up for him and how the little pieces fell out just like that, just so calmly, so rationally. In a world where there was not much to look forward to, her hairs were his. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was the Black family scorn for love of a person, for passion for someone of a lower class than they, but he felt that those hairs were sometimes all he had to live for, all he had to grasp when James talked of the future to them and all of a sudden graduation was rushing closer and closer to meet them and to usher them into the vast, great, terrible, horrifying beyond. He didn’t want to let go of them, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He hated his mother, his father, his brother—he lived and breathed as a Potter, not as an aristocrat, but a Potter, a family of such tainted purity, and that made him an outcast in all that he knew except for Arabella’s hairs and the way that they didn’t match her, the way that she always looked surprised when she noticed one had actually strayed into her line of vision.

And Arabella, one of the first, he was sure, to abandon all hope, provided no comfort except to let him kiss her hard and press his teeth into her neck, grinding his body against hers, which was probably all that he was looking for anyway. Still, he knew that she wore her hair like that especially for him, because she knew he loved it, because she understood somehow in her shallow, frightened, self-conscious existence that he somehow needed it, because she loved him in her own way and even though she blushed, she wanted him, she wanted him to see her with her hair that way if it pleased him, wanted him to want her.

And he knew that he loved at least her hairs. That was what mattered. That was what was important.

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