@sportstudio_freemotion: HipHop 1 Kurs 🦈 mit @Eli🐸, jeden Freitag in Gelnhausen. DM 📩 für eine kostenlose Probestunde! #Probestunde #danceclass #videoclipdancing #freemotiongelnhausen #dancevideos #gelnhausen #class

Sportstudio Free Motion

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Region: DE

Saturday 07 October 2023 10:45:10 GMT

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Elmedina 03🇽🇰🇦🇱 :

Nur in Mainz oder auch in Rüsselsheim oder in Raunheim

2025-05-22 21:17:00

0

𝒩𝒶𝒿𝓁𝒶 :

@𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑎 ♱ ?

2023-11-11 18:26:22

1

Eli :

Kids on fire 🔥🔥

2023-10-07 11:06:30

2

jolien :

@Eliana also die choreo hätze ich besser gefunden 😅

2023-10-11 09:42:21

2

emersonwachter :

Kimberly

2023-10-07 11:26:05

1

stellaarmr :

@maria

2023-10-09 20:29:55

1

vivien :

@sofiedeinebff was das und was hat die eine an

2023-10-09 20:32:19

1

Sportstudio Free Motion :

HipHop 1 Kurs*

2023-10-07 11:10:25

0

francescacrdl_ :

wie heißt die musik??

2023-10-08 07:49:01

0

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#FANFICEDIT Lucius Malfoy—from his very first breath—had been devoted to his mother, Marcia. His grandfather, Brutus, often chastised him for what he deemed “a blatant sign of weakness unbefitting a Malfoy.” Marcia never minded. She was perfectly content to feel his small hands clinging to the folds of her robes, to see his bright eyes light up when she returned with some trinket, to run her fingers through his fine, pale hair and brush it herself. He was her child—her blood, her heart. As Lucius grew, the shape of their bond shifted, but its strength never diminished. He obeyed her counsel with a gratitude that bordered on reverence. He spent every moment he could in her company, attending to her requests before she even voiced them. And Marcia, for her part, never ceased to cradle his face between her palms, to surprise him with thoughtful gifts, and to listen intently to every word he spoke—as though no one else in the world could possibly matter more. When she died, Lucius shattered. He had always known she was mortal, yet the manner of her death—murder, cold and deliberate—tore something out of him that would never grow back. He raged like a storm unmoored, smashing everything within reach, cursing any man who dared cross his path. The Lucius who emerged from that grief was a quieter, darker creature—colder in the eyes, sharper in the tongue. From that day until the end of his life, his mother’s chamber remained untouched, preserved as though she had only just stepped out for a moment. Only a single elf was permitted to tend it, charged with dusting the shelves, keeping the hearth alight, and ensuring the air was always perfumed with the fragrance Marcia had worn. The fire never went out. The room was always warm, as if awaiting her return. Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he would sit in her armchair, the one with the pale green upholstery worn soft by years of her presence. He would close his eyes and almost hear her voice—a faint echo threading through the crackle of the fire. It was never quite clear whether he conjured it himself or if some remnant of her lingered in the room, but he never questioned it. Narcissa learned early in their marriage that the chamber was not to be disturbed. She had only met Marcia a few times, but she understood that her shadow was woven into every part of Lucius’s life. There were nights Narcissa would wake to find the bed cold beside her, only to know without looking where he had gone. He never spoke of it. Draco was told of his grandmother only in measured fragments: of her grace, her precision, the way her laugh could silence a room. Lucius did not speak of her death to his son—it was not a story for a child—but he ensured Draco understood the unspoken law of the house: the east wing was private. Years passed. Lucius’s hair silvered, his face grew sharper, but his mother’s chamber remained untouched by time. The perfume in the air never faded. The fire never died. And when the world beyond Malfoy Manor grew treacherous—when war came to their doorstep—Lucius found himself in that room more than anywhere else. It was there, alone, that he allowed himself to feel the weight of everything: the Dark Lord’s shadow, the blood on his hands, the unbearable knowledge that he had once been a boy who clung to his mother’s robes and believed the world could not harm him. In the silence of her chamber, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls, Lucius Malfoy would sometimes imagine a door opening. He never turned to see. #hp #hpfanfic #harrypotter #harrypotterfanfic #tomriddlefanfic #voldemortfanfic #fanfic #fyp

#FANFICEDIT Lucius Malfoy—from his very first breath—had been devoted to his mother, Marcia. His grandfather, Brutus, often chastised him for what he deemed “a blatant sign of weakness unbefitting a Malfoy.” Marcia never minded. She was perfectly content to feel his small hands clinging to the folds of her robes, to see his bright eyes light up when she returned with some trinket, to run her fingers through his fine, pale hair and brush it herself. He was her child—her blood, her heart. As Lucius grew, the shape of their bond shifted, but its strength never diminished. He obeyed her counsel with a gratitude that bordered on reverence. He spent every moment he could in her company, attending to her requests before she even voiced them. And Marcia, for her part, never ceased to cradle his face between her palms, to surprise him with thoughtful gifts, and to listen intently to every word he spoke—as though no one else in the world could possibly matter more. When she died, Lucius shattered. He had always known she was mortal, yet the manner of her death—murder, cold and deliberate—tore something out of him that would never grow back. He raged like a storm unmoored, smashing everything within reach, cursing any man who dared cross his path. The Lucius who emerged from that grief was a quieter, darker creature—colder in the eyes, sharper in the tongue. From that day until the end of his life, his mother’s chamber remained untouched, preserved as though she had only just stepped out for a moment. Only a single elf was permitted to tend it, charged with dusting the shelves, keeping the hearth alight, and ensuring the air was always perfumed with the fragrance Marcia had worn. The fire never went out. The room was always warm, as if awaiting her return. Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he would sit in her armchair, the one with the pale green upholstery worn soft by years of her presence. He would close his eyes and almost hear her voice—a faint echo threading through the crackle of the fire. It was never quite clear whether he conjured it himself or if some remnant of her lingered in the room, but he never questioned it. Narcissa learned early in their marriage that the chamber was not to be disturbed. She had only met Marcia a few times, but she understood that her shadow was woven into every part of Lucius’s life. There were nights Narcissa would wake to find the bed cold beside her, only to know without looking where he had gone. He never spoke of it. Draco was told of his grandmother only in measured fragments: of her grace, her precision, the way her laugh could silence a room. Lucius did not speak of her death to his son—it was not a story for a child—but he ensured Draco understood the unspoken law of the house: the east wing was private. Years passed. Lucius’s hair silvered, his face grew sharper, but his mother’s chamber remained untouched by time. The perfume in the air never faded. The fire never died. And when the world beyond Malfoy Manor grew treacherous—when war came to their doorstep—Lucius found himself in that room more than anywhere else. It was there, alone, that he allowed himself to feel the weight of everything: the Dark Lord’s shadow, the blood on his hands, the unbearable knowledge that he had once been a boy who clung to his mother’s robes and believed the world could not harm him. In the silence of her chamber, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls, Lucius Malfoy would sometimes imagine a door opening. He never turned to see. #hp #hpfanfic #harrypotter #harrypotterfanfic #tomriddlefanfic #voldemortfanfic #fanfic #fyp

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