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A South Hams Epithalamion: A-roving - Wemyss's Appalling Hobby:
From the Party Guilty of Committing 'Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn'
A South Hams Epithalamion: A-roving

A South Hams Epithalamion: A-roving


Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;

Breath’s a ware that will not keep.

Up, lad: when the journey’s over

There’ll be time enough to sleep.

– Housman


Had Lely’s riotous Olympians and deep-drinking Wizards looked down from the painted ceiling that depicted Merlin and Arthur ascendant – as they might well have done, Wizarding paintings being what they were – they had noted, with approval (for Lely was always less restrained in his magical than in his Muggle commissions), Draco’s appearance.  Harry was certainly gazing on it with pleasure: the deep rose that had suffused Draco’s cheek, the parted, glossy lips, the dilated, glassy eyes, and the general air of stunned exhilaration.


‘D’you think,’ gasped Draco, with that unfeigned inconsequence that is the true mark of one left bouleversé by one’s lover, ‘that Albie and Scorpius kiss like that in private?’


Draco shivered, deliciously, as Harry leant in, his apple-sweet breath hot on Draco’s ear in a way always premonitory of the nibbling that unstrung Draco every time.  Harry chortled.  ‘Those randy little fauns?  Love, they kiss like that in public.  Let me see can we better what they must get up to in private, hmm?’  And Draco was lost in a deep, dominating kiss that left him undone, collapsing bonelessly against the oaken-panelled wall that Gibbons had declared wanted no improvement.  He rather saw than felt Harry pull him to his feet and bundle him away to bed.


Hanging breathless and wide-eyed over the fantastic balustrade, Albus had only time to breathe, ‘Go, Dad‘, before his own sole love, inspired by a fever of rivalry, dragged him away.


So, we’ll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.


Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon.

– Byron


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6 comments or Leave a comment
noeon From: noeon Date: June 18th, 2010 02:50 pm (UTC) (Link)
Dear God. I missed this in its original posting (femme just located the missing link). Should perhaps not have read in a public place. Beautiful, both visually and in the etching of sentiments. Enjoying the use of 'bouleversé' rather overmuch.

And Albus's little "Go, Dad" is utterly dreamy.
wemyss From: wemyss Date: June 18th, 2010 03:16 pm (UTC) (Link)

Thanks, love.

Couldn't recall had I posted it or not.
noeon From: noeon Date: June 18th, 2010 03:21 pm (UTC) (Link)

No, thank YOU :)

Darling, I should have remembered if you had. V glad to have it now.

(femme notes "I remembered it instantly. It's that memorable, six months down the road.")
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: June 18th, 2010 02:54 pm (UTC) (Link)
Every time I read this, I love it more and more and more and more....

This is truly one toe-curling, breathtaking kiss, dearest. I have to completely agree with Albus Severus' assessment. Go, Harry. Dear God. Beautiful.

(Also, Lely! <3!)
wemyss From: wemyss Date: June 18th, 2010 03:17 pm (UTC) (Link)

Isn't it.

And I'm having far too much fun with Aveline House architecture-porno.
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: June 18th, 2010 03:23 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Isn't it.

Dearest, your (and Aveline House's) architecture-porno is utterly delicious.

I would not object to more. Believe me. I'm about as voyeuristic about those two as Lely's Olympians.
6 comments or Leave a comment