Maewonders
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"I have needs," he blurts out, and then his face does something awful, crumbling almost, before he catches and rights it out of habit. "Fuck. That came out wrong. I don't mean—I'm not—" His hands are shaking. "I need help, Pen. And I think you might be the only person I trust enough to ask."
Colin asks. Penelope gives. Neither of them is prepared for what happens when the structure starts to fail.
Bookmarked by Maewonders
27 Feb 2026
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Hermione Granger survived two years in enemy hands. Or so she claims. But in a war where minds can be tampered with, survival is no guarantee of freedom. The Order watches her now, suspicion mounting as one question weighs heavier than the rest.
They say no one escapes the Harrower whole.
So how did she?
***
“I built my heart out of ice on purpose, Granger. I needed it like that. It’s what kept me alive. How dare you set it on fire. How dare you fucking ruin me.”
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Bookmarked by Maewonders
12 Feb 2026
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They stared at each other, just stared, she didn’t know what to say next, and maybe he didn’t either, and then suddenly he was grabbing her hand and tugging her inside, making her land hard on his lap as his other hand reached around her to pull the curtain of the photo booth shut.
“Malfoy,” she gasped.
“Hide with me,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Hide with me, will you?” He smiled. “Not from me.”
Bookmarked by Maewonders
09 Feb 2026
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Penelope hauls ass through Kensington, pushing past yummy mummies and tourists, yanking her phone out of her bag haphazardly as she fast-walks. Diving through a group of Italian tourists trying to take a photo outside of Harrods, Penelope opens up her period tracker app absently. Her vision fuzzes and focuses on the little red blobs hover over the dates.
Huh. She's late. By five days. Which — she's not exactly dedicated to remembering to mark down her periods in this stupid app (Eloise told her not to use it anyway, says the company is probably selling her data onto advertisers so her personalised ads can sync up with her cycle). And her periods aren't particularly regular.
She is so busy staring at the red blobs she almost walks into a posh old lady wearing a Chanel jacket coming out of Harrods. She apologises and hurries on, opening Whatsapp.
Pen: period's late. what if I'm pregnant
Edwina: haha. with whose sperm? you can't get pregnant from masturbating to pictures of pedro pascal
Penelope swallows, a lump in her throat. Because — right. She never told Edwina about Colin, did she?
OR: the one where Penelope gets an abortion
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Bookmarked by Maewonders
11 Nov 2025
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Colin is a new man, and he might take his pick of the Ton's beauties — so it makes little and less sense that he finds himself at a ball (he forgets whose — forgets nearly everything, in fact), struck dumb by the sight of her.
Penelope Featherington. Standing at the refreshment table with an eclair in hand, her eyes wide as she darts her gaze about to make sure no-one is watching her (not wide enough, apparently, for she does not see him).
Has she always been so… has she always been so? So much, so plump and spilling, so soft all over? Fresh and bright as the cream oozing from the end of her eclair, and he wonders if he pressed his thumb into the swell of her decolletage, how deep would it sink? How would she dimple and spill beneath his touch?
He watches, transfixed, as her pink tongue darts out to wet her plush lips, so rosy and pretty (the same colour as her round blushing cheeks). Watches those little thumb-print dimples appear as her mouth opens and she bites into the eclair, her lashes fluttering at the sweetness. God, to be the chocolate upon her tongue, the soft pillow of the pastry with the cold, clear cream within! Colin's mouth floods with saliva.
Bookmarked by Maewonders
08 Nov 2025