Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Severus,
I’m sorry this took so long. The two nurses before me were not brilliant in their records keeping and storage. This is most interesting to read. I have also sent a copy of it to the headmaster. I hope you find it useful.
Poppy

Tom Marvolo Riddle
1938 – 1945
Slytherin
Orphanage, second boys ward on the left, first door
Upper Hangleton, England

11/9/38 Broken left humerus, lower ¼, flying accident – spelled to heal. A.N.

15/12/38 Face swollen, difficulty breathing, spots on skin with severe itch after dinner. Determined to be allergy to strawberries in berry pie, which he has never had before. Calming potion, anti – swelling potion, instructions not to eat strawberries. A.N.

25/5/39 Twisted right ankle, fell up stairs in dungeon five A.N.

1/10/41 Chronic headaches, hearing hissing. Calming potion, headache tonic, alerted head of house and headmaster, instructed to spend more time outside and less time in library. K.O.

23/5/42 Snake bite, right hand. Noticeable bite marks, swelling, red/purple 3 inch diameter. Unsure of breed, snake got away in dungeon 7. Administered generic anti-venom potion. Overnight for observation. Released 24/5/42. Mr. Ogg alerted to snake in castle. K.O.

16/6/44 various hexes from DADA class. Spots, boils, jelly legs, lower arm trans. into snake tail. Unhexed, Dumbledore transfigured arm back to human. Headmaster alerted. K.O.

10/10/44 Bludger to head, unconscious, spelled broken bones. Kept three days
and nights for observation. Note: snores, talks and hisses while asleep – advised about NoMoreSnore potion. K.O.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She tried to resist opening it. She sent the owl into the night with a treat and put the letter in the dustbin. She went into her workroom and closed the door, only to open it twenty minutes later, glaring at the dustbin.

Muttering, Jasmine stomped to the dustbin, raised the lid and fished out the offending parchment envelope. “This is it, this is the last one. I’m not opening any more of these. He’s insane. He’s a jerk. He’s …”

She sank into a kitchen chair, reading.

“He’s a romantic bastard who makes me hot just by existing,” she sighed.

13 February
Dear Jasmine,

Where were you? I asked myself as I awoke in the dark… I had been holding you just moments ago, your sleep warmed body snuggled next to mine. The thought of you obsesses me, I think of you, I dream of you, I conjure the image of you when I need you the most. I’m so caught up in the very thought of you it doesn’t seem enough. I find myself searching the crowd that gathers in my kitchen for your face – isn’t that twisted? Knowing it’s impossible, but looking anyway.

I dreamt of walking up to you in some crowded place, the details of which I didn’t get, but people weren’t screaming for Aurors when they passed by me. You were standing alone as I approached. I raised my hand to your cheek; my hands are rough and your skin so smooth, yet you leaned into the caress. We kissed forever, then we were lying together in your beautiful bedroom, touching each other with the tenderest of hands. The flush of your skin mirrored my own as our breathing got heavier. I got even more excited when I heard your breath catch every time I did something that you liked. You made those tiny sounds when my mouth was on your breasts, you giggled when my tongue played with your navel – you are so ticklish, beautiful Jasmine-mine. I can still hear the moans you made when my mouth was between your legs and my fingers were deep inside of you. You grabbed my hair – do you remember? You dragged it over your body and rubbed it over your breasts, murmuring that it was like the finest silk and you never wanted to feel any other fabric on your skin again. Beloved woman, I will never cut my hair if it gives you so much pleasure. You pulled me over you before I made you fly with my hands and mouth but your sweet sounds told me what you wanted. Your fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking and guiding me into you and I thought that I could die just from that. When I was buried inside of you, you whispered that you loved me and I couldn’t help but smile. I could hardly speak but somehow I managed to show you that you were loved, too. We started moving together, slow and easy and then you scored my back with your nails and demanded that I move faster, that I was driving you crazy. Your body was so sweet and tight and demanding and giving that it was hard to hold on to my control while I pumped into you. I wanted to let go and pour myself into you but I wanted to watch you shatter around me first. And you did shatter so beautifully. Like spun glass – first there was another of those sweet sounds that I hear in my dreams. It was a high pitched moan – my name or what you could manage of it – and then your legs fell from around my waist to the bed and you pushed yourself up against me. You bloodied my back when you scratched me but it only made me go harder because it excited me that I was making you lose control enough to do that. Your eyes were closed but I wanted you to look at me, when you did, I lost myself in your blue eyes, so full of wonder and delight and passion. I could lose myself in your eyes, Jasmine-mine. You tightened around my cock, pushing and pulling. I stopped pumping into you and buried myself as deep as I could inside of you as you held your breath and rode it. I felt every muscle in your body tense then shiver and tense again. Then you bucked against me and I lost it, too. When I recovered, I was still inside of you and you were watching me, still pulsing around my cock a little bit. You had the most serene and loving smile on your face. You wanted me to stay on top of you but I didn’t want to crush you so I moved off and tucked you into my arms. You fell asleep whispering “I love you.” I tried to stay awake but fell asleep, too. An hour or so later I awoke just to hear your breathing. Then I woke from my dream of you – and you were gone.

I think about you so much, Jasmine. I would kill to be able to actually live them with you. Here are some of the random musings and daydream thoughts that I find myself sinking into every day…. After making love, as you fall asleep, safe in my arms, I can see myself staying awake, to hear your breathing and to trace the lines in your face, trying to remember every detail…. Snuggling under one of your beautiful quilts, as a huge snowstorm blanketed the countryside, exploring the nuances of a single kiss, your soft lips, your teeth and tongue, the taste and feel of you…. Pretending we didn’t know each other in Flourish and Blotts, trying to seduce you, rubbing against you in front of the Astronomy section, sneaking in a kiss or a caress, when no one is looking…. Rubbing my beard or hair over the sensitive skin of your nipples, your belly, the inside of your knee and thigh, against your neck…. Going shopping with you, watching your taste in and sense of fashion as you choose things, waiting outside the dressing rooms with the other boyfriends and husbands for you to come out with a new outfit on…. Walking by Anastasia’s Unmentionables, you ablush at my quietly leering comments about seeing you in and out of some of the outfits in the window…. Watching the excitement build in your eyes as I bind your wrists with your hair so that you can’t move in that big bed and then tracing your body with my tongue until you scream in pleasure…. Walking through Diagon Alley with Arielle and Harry, knowing that we’re a kind of a family, and thinking of adding to it…. Running an ice cube across your lips, down your neck, across your collar bones… circling your breasts and nipples…. Watching the goose bumps start as the ice cube trails down your body to end up melting in your navel…

Since these are some of my random thoughts of you – perhaps you will share yours with me, if you have them. Please write back, Jasmine. I need to know that I’m not the only one wanting.

Be careful. With the mass Death Eater exodus from Azkaban, you’re even more of a target than ever. Keep your wand at the ready all the time and take care of Ari. Please be careful and stay close to home as much as you can.

Happy Valentine’s Day – will you be mine?
Sirius


She swallowed hard, shifted in her chair, then froze. Wiggling was not the best thing to do; it made it worse. No, it made it better. After carefully setting the letter on the table, she folded her arms in front of her and dropped her head down to rest on them. It caused her hips to push back in her chair. She couldn’t help but moan as the hard seam of her jeans pressed against the soft flesh of her labia. She was tender, her nerves alight from reading his letter; her skin was flushed. Her breathing was shallow. Because her head was tucked down, she found herself inhaling the warm scent of her own skin and perfume; she’d never found her own scent to be arousing – until today.

Deliberately, she shifted again, enjoying the thrill of rough pressure of denim against satin. Slowly, her hips rocked side to side as she concentrated on the muscles around her opening. Eyes fluttering closed, she conjured a mental image of Sirius on the last day she’d seen him. He had held her hands over her head, his body pressed into hers, his mouth capturing hers on a groan. Her fingers had fallen into his long hair, smooth as satin, soft as silk, tangling in her fingers. She’d felt his hardness pressing into her belly through his tattered robe. If she concentrated enough, she could still feel his lips and beard. Her hand drifted beneath the table and her nails stroked over the fabric covering her zip. Slipping her feet out of her pumps, she explored the texture of the suede with her toes, then curled them into the wood of the kitchen floor.

Letter in hand, eyes fixed on the words, she stood and slowly made her way upstairs with a hint of a secret smile.

Sirius,

Please stop writing to me, I can’t take it anymore; your letters are getting to me even more now. I tried not to open the last one, but did. I could almost feel your body next to mine. I don’t know what kind of charm you’re putting on these letters to make them irresistible, but it’s working. I will never – ever admit it to you, though.

They are irresistible, just as, I fear, you are. With every letter, I find the need to respond to your words even greater. It isn’t fair!

It isn’t fair what you made me think about and do when I went upstairs to sleep a little while ago. I was so absorbed in it that I brought your letter to bed with me; the thought of you next to me, doing those things… I couldn’t resist touching myself. I know that you’re going to enjoy reading that – or you would if you were to ever read this – which you won’t.

I was blushing as I read your letter and when I put it down, I realized that I was breathing harder and too warm. I closed my eyes and could feel your hands and mouth on me. I remember when you kissed me on the porch – how I wanted to hit you and kiss you at the same time (I still do sometimes, when I allow myself to think about you). I wanted so badly for you to touch me more that night, for your hands to caress my breasts, for you to take my nightgown off and move your mouth from my lips to my breasts and then lower. For just a few seconds, I wanted you to take me on the porch that night you left me. It’s been so long, I want to explore your body again – to stroke your face and chest and hear you speak to me in the dark, telling me what you want and what you like.

As I fantasized about you, imagining your hands on me, I touched where I wanted you to touch. I had been wearing my nightgown but took it off so that I could feel “your” hands. I saw myself in the big mirror in my bedroom and had the fast thought that what I was doing what stupid- that I was allowing you to manipulate me into wanting you – but I ignored that thought. Instead, I closed my eyes and lay back, my hands stroking my breasts. They are well more than a handful, a mouthful and too large to fit in the bowl of a champagne glass. What was it that was said, anything more than that is a waste? I suppose I was lucky that you have big hands. I remember your mouth on them, though, that night when you made love to me. I couldn’t help but think of it when I tugged at my nipples, stroking my nails over them. They got harder and even the slightest touch made tingles shoot through my belly. I think I could spend forever with you just touching my breasts, I think it would be a lovely evening seeing if I could come just from it. I do think that I could. With your beautiful, talented mouth and the feeling of your beard on my skin, I don’t think it would take very long, either.

I spent a long time imagining you there but eventually, my hands did move down my body. I didn’t spend much time on my belly – after all, there can’t be much exciting about stretch marks and I was just tickling myself. I had never realized how much I enjoy running my fingers through the hair below my belly. Its texture is fascinating, a bit wiry, but very soft. Each hair is flat and smooth on two sides, but thinner on the other two sides, they are almost sharp – I don’t know how to better describe it. My fingers didn’t exactly tangle in the hair, I was able to comb through it easily, but the curls individually trapped each finger for a moment. It was a bit like finger combing through wool that is smooth with lanolin – how prosaic. My fingers were caught and released so easily, but the sensation was lovely. Every movement tugged lightly on the skin, making those tingles even more… more. I delayed reaching between my legs, instead spent a long time just exploring the textures of hair and skin, and the softness covering the hard bone underneath it. I found things out about my body that I didn’t know – or perhaps had forgotten. The area of skin, just to the side of the curls, but not on the thigh – connecting the two… the skin there is so thin and tender, for a moment, I was afraid that it could rip if I scraped a nail over it. Of course, I thought about it and realized just what a stupid thought that was – even though the skin there is so sensitive and seems to have been made just to feel the brushing of your lips or the press of your hips right there-

Eventually, I did part my legs even more – enough for you to fit between them – and ran my fingers between them. The hair there is more sparse, but there does seem to be quite a bit of it. I couldn’t imagine putting my mouth there – it seems that you would get a mouthful of hair, though I suppose that’s why women remove the hair from there. I couldn’t help but wonder- were you disgusted that I don’t do that? I fear that I’ve become a bit paranoid about it – though there’s no reason to be, all things considered.

I slid a single finger in between the lips – I moved easily, I was so wet from teasing myself and thinking of you. I found my clitoris – there has to be a better name, that sounds so clinical but everything else sounds so… dirty, I guess. What I was imagining you doing wasn’t dirty, though. As I stroked that little spot, it wasn’t swelling, blossoming, budding or even much of a nub as they call it in books. (How silly – it was just a small bump, I’ll give you “nub” then, that was firmer than the softness around it.) I thought of you, of how much I wanted to feel your tongue just there. The nerves came alive under my fingers and the tingles grew to a throbbing that seemed to be in time with my heartbeat – then twice my heartbeat, then an urgent hum that ached and demanded that you do something – anything else.

My other hand had been exploring everything else below it. Every movement was accompanied by a tingle – though that sounds so tame for what the feeling was – a little sparkler under my skin that was shimmering and guiding my fingers to more. I dipped a finger inside of myself and realized several things at once: that I was so slick and you could move so easily inside me to give me what I wanted, that your fingers are a lot bigger than mine, and that I normally didn’t do this- instead, I just pick up my wand for two minutes instead of touching and feeling – what a waste. I wanted you inside me so much right then and there was nothing that I could do to even get the same feeling of fullness and the satisfaction of being completely a woman.

I spent a few minutes playing, rubbing over myself, my fingers sliding in and out, dreaming of you, trying to imagine some kind of life with you, sex with you – anything with you that didn’t involve these letters. I lost myself in images of you, either from memories or my imagination. I can’t describe them to you, I honestly don’t remember many of them – looking up into your eyes, with your hair falling around us as you filled me, the feeling of you biting my shoulder, your beard rubbing my chest as you nipped me, the cold of the night air and the heat of your body and your words of love and passion filling my head…

I had to grab for my wand to finally make myself come; I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t actually remember getting it, or saying the spell that makes it shiver and sparkle but I came to with it in my hand. It was good, a long, slow orgasm that made my toes curl up and my body twist like a glorious snake and my thighs clench together to try to control. I came calling your name. I still have a tiny, hollow ache inside, though, the one I get when I come alone, thinking about you.

Sirius, I want you in my bed, I want you in my life. I don’t know how and I damn well don’t know why after what you did, but I do. I don’t know how to do it, but I know that, right now, you’re the only person that can make this ache go away. I also know that being with you would be one of the most stupid things I’ve ever done.

I’ll wear white on this horrible Valentine’s Day. Others joke about wearing black on V- Day (Maybe we should start calling it Voldemort’s Day) but I can’t even wear the color anymore without thinking of you. I hate this day so much- like every other single person, no doubt. I can’t be yours, as much as my inner self desperately wants to be. I refuse to admit to anything more than a longstanding teenaged crush that was bizarrely consummated. I’m an adult now and refuse to pine for you anymore. As much as your letters thrill me, I just wish that you would stop writing to me so I can get on with forgetting about you. As long as you write to me, I can’t do that – which is why you do it, I suppose. Yes, this one made me hot but I’m putting it down to it being Valentine’s Day. This is it, though. No more reading your letters, no more quasi-journal responses, no more letters that I’ll never send.

It’s after 2 and I’m going back to bed, where I should have been a long time ago.

J.


The letter Jasmine had written late last night lay where she’d left it on the table, “Sirius- 14th February” written neatly on the outside. It was waiting for her to take it upstairs so that it could molder away in the inlaid box by her bedside. She’d forgotten to take it up when she’d stumbled to bed last night. In the weak light of the foggy morning, she’d stared solemnly at it and vowed, once again, that it would be the last response that she’d pen. Her reaction to last night’s letter had been extreme, no longer would she allow that convicted criminal and proven liar to evoke such a response.

Dumbledore’s owl had come and gone. While she finished her response to his morning letter, Florentine stood on the table, preening his feathers and having a conversation in clicks, hoots and trills with Faust. Arielle was upstairs dressing – or was supposed to be upstairs dressing.

“Mama!” the little girl bellowed from her bedroom.

“What?” was her mother’s response.

“I need help!”

Jasmine rolled her eyes and wrote her great-grandfather’s name on the outside of the folded parchment. From Ari’s tone, there was no blood, no pain and no fur flying. Arielle’s clothes were laid out on her bed, her shoes on the floor in front of it. A shiny pink hairbrush lay on the dresser next to the ribbon that Ari would wrap around a ponytail that; after long practice, she could finally put her own hair up. This was clearly not an emergency.

“Come down here! I’m not going to scream like a banshee and neither are you,” Jasmine called up, hoping that she didn’t sound like said banshee when she was disclaiming it.

Arielle tromped down the stairs, her dress on backwards. The buttons that should have been in the front were in the back and Ari was struggling with the tie belt. “Mama, I can’t tie it, it’s not comfortable,” she whined.

“Baby, it’s backwards,” giggled Jasmine as she dropped her quill to the table and stood.

Florentine hooted at her.

Leaving the table, Jasmine waved at the letter, “Sorry, Florentine, please take that, then you can go hunting or sleep or whatever.”

The owl clicked his response but Jasmine was too busy sorting Arielle’s clothing to notice. He flew out of the open window, bound to deliver the letter clutched in his beak.


An hour later, Jasmine returned from delivering Arielle to Anne-Mette’s house. The ladies had spent a few minutes chatting while the children changed into dress up clothing; Ari had stayed to play. After making herself another cup of coffee, Jasmine sat at the kitchen table to read the Daily Prophet. Seeing the letter that had yet to go upstairs into the bedside box, Jasmine reached for it, intending to take it upstairs immediately. Automatically, she looked down, expecting to see Sirius’s name and the date – Valentine’s Day.

‘Albus Dumbledore.’

“No,” she whispered. “No… no, no, no, no,” she chanted. Frantically, she scanned the table for the other letter. There was none. She called for Florentine but he didn’t emerge from the barn.

The name on the letter mocked her. She ripped it open with a small prayer.

“Dear Professor Grandpa…”

Her shriek resounded through the house and yard, “FUCK!”


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

All potion ingredients acquired after a very long night, Centaur testicle difficult to find. One centaur now gelding. The potion will be ready in three months. Happy Valentine’s Day – you may certainly consider this a completely platonic version of a box of chocolates.

Yr. servant