Sasha had travelled the east coast of France—through the all consuming beauty of Strasbourg, where her Father had shown her exquisite gardens of both luxury wine and luscious fruit, and every specific dated fragments of Strasbourg's architecture, from the ancient buildings to ones that still upheld the devoted scaffolding, deep at work. Her eyes wandered over every shining beam that placed on her face, she allowed each beam to coat her skin with its very own kiss. It was easy for her to enjoy every second.

Next up was Grenoble, more ancestry working its way through even the cobbled streets, even the creaky floorboards. It was all history. She travelled more and more. There were more and more letters, and none as a response. Nonetheless, why should that stop her? Of course, Sasha would continue with every mindless rant, her mind was rambling, and each letter her neat, put together handwriting, scrambled into an unknown mess of words and highly descriptive adjectives, none that he would understand (no offence, of course).

Alas, Sasha was rather defeated. There was a small, little to none correspondence between her and another best mate, Jorja Spindle, but considering one is in France, and the other is in the pristine United States, specifically New York City, it had grown somewhat hard to keep in touch. And Sasha was not angered, she never had been with Jorja, but it was only now, when in a foreign country, she had felt foreign in her own head. James felt foreign to her.

Oh how she wished that her chirpy little helper of an owl could grab him and snatch him, or chant some ridiculed tale to make him alert, to be somehow provoked. To get him to notice when she's not around. How horribly selfish, and, well, wrong that sounded. 'Cause James Fleamont Potter was Sasha's best friend, and there should only be some boundaries that aren't to be crossed. It was as if those were the only rules James chose to follow, sometimes, ironically.

BOUNDARIES THAT ARE NOT TO BE CROSSED!
(Made by Sasha Lull's imagination, circa 1974.)

RULE 1.
Do not ever flirt with each other.

RULE 2.
Don't be each other's sympathy dates at a ball.

RULE 3.
Don't ever try to 'practice' kissing each other.

RULE 4.
Do not seduce.

RULE 5.
Don't catch any feelings. Don't fall in love.

Sometimes Sasha hated her very own interesting, yet twisted imagination. She hated that she had her very own version of boundaries she, herself, would never, not ever, cross. She knew she could stick to random Ravenclaw or Gryffindor boys, or occasional Slytherin girl, and that would be that. No James Potter on the brain.

Of course, this 'mastermind' plan had failed. He had been all that was on her mind, all summer. On brisk evening walks, and her own rolled cigarette, Sasha reflected on any last interaction she had with James. Again and again, there was nothing that had gone wrong. Not even slightly.

Because James was the easiest person to speak to. He was the easiest person to talk relentlessly to, about anything. He was a person who was embedded in warmth and further, compassion. He had a heart entwined with other people's feelings, emotions. It was all that he was—more so, he was a fantastic friend, and though Sasha would hate to admit it, one of the best Quidditch players she knew. Probably the best. Hush now, that was a forbidden secret, because even with his pool sized ego, there was his courage and ability to care. To be James was to care wholeheartedly.

Which is why a very huge, perhaps even large, segment of Sasha's gut knew he would write back, and just like that, her worrying catastrophes of "What if's?" was final. Finished. Whilst reading the letter, her own heart had plummeted, and it took a mighty fall at that. Sirius, was all she thought. Part of her felt absolutely demanding and selfish for what she expected off of James, a position that was not her own. No longer thinking of why, she had already gained the answer. That was what felt bloody awful.

A undeniable lump had been created in the crevices of her throat, and she had picked profusely at her nail beds. Bloody awful. With much haste, and sudden direction in what to do, she got out her quill, and a fresh piece of parchment. Her words were practically scribbles. Unintelligible.

James,

Don't worry in the slightest. I do miss you loads, of course. Send Sirius my love and these strange sweets I found. I think he would like them. You're a great friend for looking after Sirius. You really know how to uplift someone, it's a rare gift.

Hope all is well, make sure to tell Effie I miss her too. I'm due to be staying in France for a bit longer, my dad has his hands full with some kind of business. Fuck knows. Keep me updated and tell Remus I'm sending him some chocolate also.

Well done on your French,
Sash x

Bang. Her father was back. The door slamming shut.
"Dad, are you back?" Sasha's voice echoed. Fuck, they really needed to decorate this empty apartment. It was painted a pale blue, but no frames, nor plants were at place. It was as plain as a sardine can. In response to Sasha's yell, her father, Arthur, played a scratchy record. She believed it to be The Kinks. The melody was soft, and the smell of the wood burning was heavenly. It was crisp in the nights of now Lyon, and it seemed like every person was still out, these small dots of humans enjoying their evening. Sometimes Sasha liked to guess how many people were wizards/witches, or estimate how many believed in magic, muggle or not.

At a singular glance, you would think anyone could be a muggle, but, Sasha found it so hard to believe not everyone had just a speckle of magic in them. It seemed impossible. She knew her dad was magic. She knew her mum wasn't. That was all she really knew about her mother. She knew her name was Juliet. Juliet Morgan.

But with a slam of another door, fear bolted through Sasha's veins. It was very easy for her to grow frightened and sometimes, inconsolable. That was bad. And it was bad enough that her father had left without a trace, like he always did.

Slam! goes another door. They were banging left, right and centre. Arthur's incapable fear and frantic nature was of course passed along the line, and it seemed to go straight inside of Sasha's gut, or her heart, or her beating mind.
"Dad!" She shouted, and stopped her penniless pacing, running down the slippery stairs made of wood.
"Dad, dad. What's wrong with you?" It's as if she had been trying to gain his attention, her bug–like eyes meeting his stubbled chin, and to his darkened eyes.

"Pack. We need to leave." Was all he said. But with a firm nod from Sasha, it was a done deal. Her heart raced, but no matter how much it soared with anticipation or a messed up sort of adrenaline, the fear was palpable. Anything and everything could prepare the teenager that stood in front of the mirror. Every folded piece of fabric was placed with perfection, hand by hand (she wished she could use her wand).

With a harsh puff of air, the candle she had lit previously blew out, and now, in front of the mirror, it was dim. Only darkness is what filled the room.
"Hurry!" Arthur bellowed from the thin, peeled at walls—Sasha wouldn't be surprised if the neighbours could hear him. In a breeze, she zipped up the torn bag. She packed light.

Within the next second, she was downstairs by the mantelpiece, and she could only see Arthur's pure paranoia, and how he was locking up every door, cleaning up every speck of dust in sight with his wand. Clearing her throat, he snapped his head around to face her.

"Grab hold of my arm. No nausea, please. We simply don't have time." He spoke. Deadly silent, almost.

Suddenly the creeping bile of sick—out of stress and lack of reason—had been swallowed down.

SID'S CORNER :D
look at me committing!!!!!!!!
also arthur's fc is oscar isaac .... #DILF