For we must all learn to howl.

Hands shake, tremble. Where is it?! Clothes shoved aside, books thrown to the floor. All care is forgotten when you lose yourself like this. Forcing drawers open, tearing through boxes. The lights are too bright - Where the fuck is it oh god where is it I need it I need it now where is it - but sound is muffled through the roaring in your ears. I couldn’t have just lost it where is it Fingers rake through hair, down cheeks, up arms. Red trails follow, and frustration wells in your eyes. And then you wrench a side open in desperation – I found it. I found it. Thank god. Clutch it to your chest, weeping in relief and shame. How far can one fall? That is an answer you don’t want or need – after all, you stare it in the eye every day. It's something I need.

A patronus, she thinks, is the scent that coffee brings as steam rises out of the mug, warm and inviting against the steady drumming patter of the rain outside and the petrichor it wears as its perfume. It is the warmth of a hug, the safety and intimacy shared between two people who trust each other enough to open their arms to the other. It is the quiet click of a camera shutter, nestled between the mountains and the sea, the flowers and the sky, the   kuma   and the   kitsune . It is the ocean rushing back and forth to meet dry sand. It is the stars that shine bright in the night sky. It is the feeling of home when you lose yourself in a book, an animation, a place where you don’t even speak the language. It is you looking around you and whispering " tadaima "... And her wolf leaps out from the tip of her wand and prowls around her - graceful, protective - glowing brighter, stronger than silver. How does your patronus appear to you?

I. It's the smoke you watch unfurl from his mouth - he's trying to take longer drags now, and even as he fails, even as the stick burns out faster than ever, you lose yourself in the cancer you breathe in as the amber glows bright with each inhalation. It's the way you close your eyes in acceptance of this blissfully agonising slow death, only to open them and find yourself the subject of someone else's attention. The wispy tendrils remind you of a purr, soft and seductive and reeking of death and disease. They curl ever so lazily around the cigarette, around his fingers. And then you watch as the smoke moves upwards, carried away by the wind. They say that joss sticks and incense carry prayers and wishes to the gods - what if cigarettes were to do the same, you wonder. The gods may listen when one is praying, but perhaps the gods also pay attention to what smoke may carry when a person lights a cigarette. II. It's the way he creates - he sits down and picks...