mountainrusing
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Chase the moon and catch your dreams.
That’s what the kids do.
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nineteen by mountainrusing for Raw_ToastedMushroom
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
14 Jul 2025
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Nineteen. The world was hard to please.
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- Part 5 of marylily microfics
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Lily gets it, she really does. She just wishes she had a family like Mary’s whom she could also put first.
Series
- Part 4 of marylily microfics
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Lily without her coffee is a… barely-functioning human… but Mary would take any Lily anywhere.
Series
- Part 3 of marylily microfics
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flower bouquet by mountainrusing for knight_haaans
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
14 Jul 2025
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And all the flowers… go to Lily.
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- Part 2 of marylily microfics
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Recent bookmarks
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To The One That Shines Like the Moon by twoclosetothestars
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
25 May 2023
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A drunken love confession. Winter break at the Potter's. Realizing you're in love.
Bookmarked by mountainrusing
10 Sep 2025
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Barty never stopped sending her letters.
He never got hers until it was too late.Bookmarked by mountainrusing
05 Aug 2025
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your fool in this game for two by abillionstars
Fandoms: Deadpool - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Deadpool (Movieverse)
04 Aug 2024
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“Have you ever lived with anyone before?”
At Wade’s question, Logan pauses to think. Scratches his balls for a second, and says, “I lived at Xavier’s school for a while, before I left. Lived in a clapboard boarding house about seventy years back. A couple of times, I slept in a park with other people nearby. Do those count?”
“That was a rhetorical question,” says Wade. “Some might even call it an accusatory one. Mostly because—dude. I’m a fucking mess. But you’re even worse.”
(two loser loners, falling in love.)
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For audio lovers, the fabulously talented tha_rin has created a podfic!
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Bookmarked by mountainrusing
05 Aug 2025
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loony: in defense of luna lovegood by dirgewithoutmusic
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
20 Dec 2014
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Sometimes your spells will go bad. She knew that.
Luna mounted the thestral to the Department of Mysteries. She put her name down for Dumbledore's Army. When they called her brave she smiled like she knew things that they didn't.
She knew what she was getting into. She knew what she was doing. She drifted because she'd decided to drift, because she thought the best way to live on this earth was to tread softly. No matter how much she liked wrapping herself in whimsy, this was not a whim. It was a choice.
When Harry was grieving Sirius, she took his hand. "Things have a way of coming back to you," she said, with no blankets to hide under, with no skipping rocks to hold in cold hands, to hurl away when they felt like they were holding her down.
Luna had loss living in the pit of her stomach, yes and always, but she was the only one who got to decide what to do with that. She went out to visit the thestrals with strips of steak in her bag and loved the way their sloping wings looked against the sky.
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Bookmarked by mountainrusing
04 Aug 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
There had been a girl, dying, sitting beside Luna for a whole year of Charms. Ginny had been caving in on herself, rock falls under her rib cage and avalanches in the curve of her belly. How had Luna missed the roar and crash of that fall?
Luna didn't see her again until the next year on the Hogwarts Express. Ginny was tucked in a compartment all her own. She was pretty, freckled against her dark robes, her hair a little wild, her gaze a little gone. This was the settling dust, the jagged aftermath. Who was trapped under the rubble?
"Wrackspurts?" Luna asked her as she slid open the door.
Ginny tore her gaze away from nothing. "What?"
Luna drifted down into the seat next to her. "They make your brain go all fuzzy. They flit through your ears and nibble on all the good bits. It's like you can see, yeah, everything's clear--but you can't see, see? There's a grey fuzz over everything (except there's not, really) and breathing is happening in somebody else's body."
Ginny was looking at her now. People had spent the last summer wrapping her in well-meaning arms and calling her "--not okay, of course you're not."
"Yeah," said Ginny. "Wrackspurts."
"They make me think of my mother," said Luna and offered her some Bertie Bott's Beans.
—
Luna's mother's name had been Pandora. Luna did not know the story that went with that name -- it was a Muggle one. Ginny, a proud Weasley, didn't either-- her father's interest lay in Muggle tech, objects, knickknacks, not its old stories. But an eight year old Neville Longbottom had been certain he was a Squib, and certain he would be tossed out of his grandmother's storied house and onto the hard Muggle streets as soon as his Hogwarts letter failed to arrive by owl. He had studied for it. Neville knew what a rubber ducky was for, and how to use a telephone, and one late sleepless night tucked into the Room of Requirement he told Luna the story of Pandora.
A girl was given a box and told not to open it. "I think she was a Ravenclaw," Neville said solemnly. He had scars on him now, hard lines of muscle and a rigid spine, but he still wore the careful earnestness of the round-faced first year who'd drawn his wand on his friends when he thought it was the right thing to do.
A girl named Pandora had been given a box and she had opened it and let out every horrible thing, because curiosity does that sometimes. It burbles green, bubbles purple, and the whole world goes dark.
"But tucked into the bottom of the box," Neville said, glancing at the kids who had gathered close. He was thoughtful, not uneasy. People flocked close when he talked now. He would never ask for the attention, but the boy would always shoulder any burden handed to him. "Tucked in the bottom was hope."
—
"He's not gone," Luna said. "I remember him. So do you."
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wallflower: in defense of susan bones by dirgewithoutmusic
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
18 Oct 2014
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When she was small, Susie’s aunt Amelia had taken her to work whenever her parents asked her to babysit. She toddled around her office. When Susie was older, she got to sit under her aunt's desk in court and listen to her give out rulings, verdicts, decrees.
There was tradition there, scripts and structure, and Susie had felt herself lean into them, comforted, strengthened. Over the years, she saw so many ways the system could be corrupted. Umbridge used it like a blunt weapon and blood purists had snuck into it for years like burrowing termites, undermining the foundations, making it their own home.
When Susan Bones was twenty-three she would look across her steaming mug and the Ministry breakroom table, and see Hermione aching to burn it all down to ashes. Susan wanted to scour it to its roots, instead, wear it down to its rebar and concrete, and then rebuild from the old, worn foundations on up.
“Your parents died for you,” Susie told Harry Potter once. “My aunt died for this. Now either shut up and get me a fresh cup of coffee or try to drag me out of here before I finish this.”
But that was a war away. That was a childhood away from now.
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Bookmarked by mountainrusing
04 Aug 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
She was tracing into those ceiling cracks Justin’s best doodles, Hannah’s laugh lines, the lines in the palm of the first person she ever held hands with, the palm lines of the first person she ever saw die, a sixth-year Gryffindor whose hands she had clutched so tight on that Great Hall stone.
She wondered how her parents did it, and then she realized--
This was not the first war or the first loss her parents had suffered. This was not the first time they had come home and found their home no longer fit over their shaking hands, their lumps of scar tissue.
Her mother went out into the garden with her wand and her trowel. She dug up tired old bushes and laid out new soil.
Her father sang while he cooked breakfast and hugged her mother for too long when she came in smelling of fresh grass trimmings.
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Susie had seen her aunt's eyes light up when she had pounded that gavel, age six and giggling. She had watched her aunt in court, that straight spine, that precision, that fairness measured out in even hands. It had not been the life her father had chosen, but her aunt had spent hers building something. Susie refused to mourn anything about her but her death.
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Going through a war, or a life, without a mark, a scar, a wound, a loss—there’s not a one of us that came out of this clean. This meant she fought.
You have to make things your own, laying out new earth or filling your too-small kitchen with song. You have to live in your skin. It’s worth living in.
Susie learned the lines of scar tissue on her arm, like cracks in a ceiling, like the specific pattern of fissures and gouges that made a place its own. She traced her fingers over the raised scars while she studied obscure legal texts in her first little office, and felt like she was flicking her wand, casting ward circles, like she was circling this and claiming this, calling it her own.