#(bellatrix black; thread.)

[impcrios]

@purfanatic

where : mask-making workshop .

regulus had never been much of a crafts person, but he had always loved samhain, so he found himself here regardles, he looks over to his cousin and smirks at his shit attempts at a mask and says, "tell me, cousin, do this look threatening?" he had never been good at crafts but he did try his best.

[bcrtiesjr]

and how the hell am i supposed to do that? — he thinks, as the mission is explained to them in detail. his face remains neutral, lips pressed into a thin, straight line. his mind tries to gather the most important pieces of the instructions, and he nods a couple of times to indicate he’s paying attention. or at least trying to. " easy peasy, " he murmurs, just loud enough to be heard. he needed to sound convincing, especially since he sometimes thought the dark lord could peer into his mind. he had to isolate his thoughts, keep them locked away in an invisible box just to get through the day. once he was left alone with bellatrix, barty rested his elbows on the table, fixing his gaze on her. she was intimidating. it took a great deal of effort to maintain the calm expression on his face. " it makes sense they’d pair us up for this—but i’ve no idea how we’re supposed to find that artifact in the department of mysteries, " he says, letting out a soft sigh. had voldemort never set foot in the ministry? not once in his life? lucky bastard. " maybe we should go at night. you know, it might be easier." he doesn’t feel the need to push the idea any further. " but it’s up to you, you’re the boss today. "

ft. 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 ( @silverbred )

[despiite]

✎ @misquigley plotted starter.

Fingernails dig into the meat of Bellatrix’s palms as the world seems to unravel around them, all loose ends and fraying edges while lights flash and people in uniform swarm and flit and comb the area. The wail of sirens sets off a pounding in her skull, but she breathes, slow and deep, counts up and back down and up again to ten. She cannot afford to lose herself in the thrum of hysteria - not again, not like before. Swallowing hard, she feels the contraction of her tongue, her throat, follows it down into her belly. She is here, now, in this moment. She needs something to focus on.

Misty. Where is Misty?

She finds her in the glare of the too late ambulance, tense and shaking in that irritating little man’s arms and, judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t really understand what is happening and either takes too much pleasure in the blonde’s apparent need for comfort or overestimates his own importance therein. It rubs her the wrong way and settles like an itch beneath the skin. She doesn’t want him taking her anywhere. She doesn’t want her out of her sight.

“Here, I’ve got her.” The look she levels at him doesn’t leave much room for argument, even if his mouth does open and close as though searching for some legitimate protest, and she cuts in, pulling Misty out of his grasp by the shoulders. “Misty… Misty, look at me. We have to go. Come on. We need to leave.”

[godblooded]

alana’s movements are announced by the incongruous weight of her cane — step, step, thud — the familiarity of her arrival. shaky movements. a gloved hand wraps around the back of a chair to lower herself into it, ignoring the precarious hiss of protest in her ankles, the throbbing ache in her hips. her jaw aches like it could beat off that beautiful face, fault lines of deep burgundy across the jut of her jaw.

beneath leather, those hands are striped with pure purple, articles of flesh put back together after being torn apart. the little lion is most glad it was the last night of her torture — she’s looking forward to the relief of another few weeks before her punishment comes back around. @despiite speaks and a faint, tired smile appears on the professor’s face. ah, how expected.

“the whole ocean is right here. are you just that dramatic?

— sorry.”

her mouth accommodates molars near the back of her tongue, painfully pointed, sinking just so into divots at the bottom. these fangs will settle into scar tissue and carve an easy hole to rest in — until she does all of it over again. her jaw aches again, punctuated, hard.

“how long have i slept?”

nine hours.

turns out being a creature, a beast is taxing on the body.

[crescenthistory]

Haunt Me, Then

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Synopsis: The Hunger Games AU; After your best friend miraculously won his games, you were never to see him again – until your last Reaping as an eligible citizen ends catastrophically for you and another one of your friends.

Words: 6.1k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, us of y/n, Hunger Games typical warnings, grief, implied loss, heavy hurt/comfort, talk of death and poverty, Capitol Citizen!Bellatrix Lestrange, same for barty sorry, angst, some fluff, childhood best friends (to lovers), physical affection, unwanted physical touches, creepy Capitol behaviour, heavy disassociation, strategically used characters, background bsf!marylene, implied that sirius got the finnick odair treatment, nb! it's a thg au but not thg canon compliant (aka i make the rules here)

A/N: this is sooooo exciting to me. your district is only implied (district 7) in this one and there are a lot of purposefully unresolved threads 🌝 there's more to come, if you want it. and yes – the title is from the wuthering heights quote "you said i killed you – haunt me, then"

Part Two

You hated Reaping day for more reasons than most.

While no person, whether they are of eligible age or not, enjoyed being in that town square annually, watching the Capitol representatives clown away on stage as your heart and ears thundered with anticipatory fear, you were left with the biting pain of the past, present and future all at the same time.

Stood in a sea of people, feeling both as if you were drowning and had a spotlight shining on you, you feared for yourself. You writhed beneath the thought of how many times your name had gone into that bowl in an attempt at keeping your loved ones safe, you winced at the knowledge that it would be just the perfect karmic timing for you to have everything taken from you this one last time.

Clutching onto Mary’s trembling fingers with one hand and Marlene’s little sister, Mabel, with the other, you feared for your loved ones. Your makeshift found family now consisted of the McKinnons, the McDonalds, the Pettigrews and you – and you could not bear the thought of how many of you were jammed into the plaza today. Marlene and her older siblings had aged out, but you, Mary and Peter were still in for your last year. Your mouth ran dry at the thought of how many years Mabel and the McKinnon and Pettigrew boys had left. Children. They were all just children – the very reason why you all kept consistently placing your own name in over and over again, to keep them safe. While you could never decide if you trusted the legitimacy of the arrangement that you could covertly buy someone’s immunity by placing your name in more times, you also could never help but try each year.

Thus far, it had worked. Mabel had at least never been picked. 

But then again, you knew of at least one person who was picked despite their supposed immunity. Odd how the guilt always forced your hand regardless; the risk was worth the potential reward.

You could feel Mabel’s breaths grow shuddering beside you, but could not bring yourself to look down at her. You just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shoved away the doomsday feelings brewing within your chest.

You felt guilty for even fearing for yourself, because you knew well how out of everyone, your name was in there probably the least amount of times. Apart from buying the immunity of one of your friends’ siblings, you had never needed to buy anything with tickets of your name. You had been financially looked out for to a much larger degree than most could dream, and not had your hand forced. At first, the help came through the direct acts of kindness from your best friend, and then later, you would somehow just always find exactly what you needed. Whenever the Capitol increased ridiculous taxes that felt as if they were specifically designed to wring you dry, there would be a freshly opened position for you to apply for, a wad of cash found in one of the boxes you looked through, even a charity basket by your door that you would always pass on to the rowdy McKinnon home. 

Part of you could hear his whispered promise to you whenever these blessings seemingly fell into your lap, but you pushed it down. It couldn’t be.

“I will always take care of you, princess”.

Above all else, being in the town square tore up your heart because you could only ever think of him. Of Sirius.

Of that day 5 years ago, when you had just started breathing normally after they called some girl’s name you did not know in the Reaping, only for your lungs to be ripped from you permanently at the sound of the reaped boy.

The second “Regulus Arcturus Black” boomed through the scratching speakers, your heart was shattered into a million pieces, never to be recovered, because it was followed up by a small yet firm: “I volunteer.”

When your head whipped to the side to witness your best friend in the whole world square himself against his inevitable death, you had found his sad grey eyes already fixed on you through the massive sea of bodies. You have no recollection of the sounds after that, but you know you were protesting, crying, trashing even, in the firm grip of Marlene as she forced you into a bear hug to stop you from trying to be a human shield for the one person you could not stomach losing. The sight of Sirius kissing Regulus’ head and squeezing Peter's arm before taking to the stage, shoulders squared and jaw lifted, already looking every bit like a child warrior, was burned into your retinas.

It took years before it was not the first image you saw whenever you closed your eyes. It still sometimes was.

That day, you had been certain your best friend was lost. When they let his loved ones bid him a quick goodbye in a solitary room after the ceremony, you had stood to the back with your hiccuping sobs, allowing Regulus the space you knew he needed. Marlene and Mary passed through, so did Peter, until it was just you left.

His parents did not show up.

While Sirius had kept up the facade with the others, his face crumbled when it met yours in your momentary privacy – save the Peacekeepers by the door. You had been hugging your front to keep from falling apart, but the second he slumped back against the desk and opened his arms for you, you were wrapped up in them.

At just 13 and 14 you were each other’s worlds. Grown up as neighbors, surviving just about everything together.

And it was because he was just 14 that you had no belief he could survive the games – at that point, no 14 year old had, and no matter how strong Sirius Black was, it took more than strength to break through that harrowing cycle.

Sirius had let his first few tears slip and fall into your hair, holding onto you for dear life. You can’t remember what you said anymore, just the way he smelled, just the way he held you and the murmurs he whispered into your skin as he swayed you.

“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you.”

You hoped to the gods you had said it back.

Though you did not know that then, you had been correct. Your best friend was lost that day – but he survived his games. 

It had been a torturous few months, forced to see him paraded around like a piece of meat, only to suffer through one of the longest games anyone had seen. You had sworn you would not watch it, but could not resist taking a peek at a small screen you snuck into your bedroom, crying as you caressed his dirtied face that looked so void of the Sirius you knew. Sometimes he would find a nearby camera and stare into it as he fell asleep, almost as if he could actually see you, feel your touch. You hoped it comforted him; that thought had you returning to the screen almost every night. The only nights you didn’t were the ones where you and Regulus slept in the same bed to keep each other sane, tethered.

When you two eventually woke up to the news that he managed to outlast the final tribute overnight, you cried until you laughed only to laugh until you cried.

On the day of Sirius’ return, you had made everything ready; dusted his room, bought the ingredients for his favourite dessert, orchestrated for his parents to be elsewhere, planned what to say with Regulus, who was equally as teary. Except when the Capitol Carriage swept up by the entrance and you ran out to greet him, only Peacekeepers exited the carriage, forcing you to step back. The blinds of the carriage were shut. 

You stumbled, entirely bewildered by the situation, sharing deeply concerned looks with Regulus. You had tried shouting for Sirius, you had tried asking the Peacekeepers, but you were left with nothing but silence.

While you were dumbfounded, Regulus grew agitated. With months worth of guilt piling up, it was easy work for them to bubble over into anger; he pushed past the Peacekeepers to try and bang on the wall of the carriage, yanking on the locked door handle. His screams of Sirius' name were cut off in an instant when the Head Peacekeeper slammed the back of his rifle against Regulus' neck. He lurched, tried to regain his footing, before he crumbled to the ground.

Acting more on instinct than anything else, you dragged him off to the side and held him tight to your chest, as if that would protect him. With an unconscious Regulus in your lap, you were forced to watch them carry down all of Sirius’ belongings, packed haphazardly in bags, and shove them into the back of the carriage. 

It drove off without you ever even catching a glimpse of Sirius. 

The next time you saw him was a few days later, on a broadcasted interview where he announced his permanent move to the Capitol. Clad in shining black clothes that could have fed the entirety of Districts 11 and 12, he had taken on the persona of the Casanova of the Capitol, the goading gladiator, the wicked victor. At just 14, he had made history.

The day after that, Regulus disappeared without any warning or trace. 

All you had was a seemingly private note slipped beneath your pillow that said “Don’t go looking” – you never told anyone about it. No one seemed willing to talk about him either. You were left completely and utterly alone. 

Grief settled into your veins, and you did the only thing you could: you settled into routine. Sweet, hard-working routine to keep your storms at bay until you had made some sort of life for yourself. With one job as a wooden toy carver and another as a wood sculptor, not to mention the dinner rotation at the McKinnons and the Pettigrews, you kept busy. You could pretend to forget.

Until you couldn’t. Each year when you were forced into that town square, the memories haunted you viciously, cruelly – taunting you with how little you understood, how much time had passed. Beneath it all, there was a simmering of the one emotion you never could get rid of in the grief and confusion; love. It was the singular thing that powered all within you, ranging from the determination to the resentment. Oh, how you loathed how much you loved and missed your Black brothers.

You felt Mabel jump beside you at the crackle of the sound system, as the new Capitol representatives got ready to commence the Reaping. You shared a quick glance with Mary, acknowledging how the younger girl had to be your priority right now.

“It’s alright, Bel,” you whispered, shifting to hold her tighter against your side. “That sound means it’s almost over. Soon we’re done.”

Mary squeezed your own hand in return, almost as if to say take your own advice. You smiled meekly at her, and she rewarded you for your efforts by momentarily placing her forehead on your shoulder.

The younger girl just buried herself into you and you sighed to make yourself softer. It was her second Reaping, which meant it was far from her last. You understood her fear well, but still, you wanted to quell it.

The further the representatives got into their speeches, the longer the same old video droned on for, the more you disappeared from the current moment. It was hard to differentiate between past and present in these few heavy minutes, so you preferred to be in neither, to float up and out of your body. The only thing grounding you was your two friends pressed up against you, and that was all you needed. Nothing they could say up there was of any meaning to you except those two harrowed names.

Sirius never attended the Reapings the way some of the other victors did. They would line up at the front, on occasion even make speeches themselves, but never Sirius. He had yet to be a mentor, but you knew that victors were supposed to have a meeting of sorts before each game, where one of them was selected for the year. You often found yourself wondering where that meeting took place, if it was at the Capitol or nearby, if you unknowingly were standing just a couple hundred metres from him where he waited backstage or on the train.

A part of you hoped to never find out. A part of you hoped to never be near him again.

Most of you knew that was a poisonous lie.

These were thoughts you promptly pushed away. They did you no good – it had been made clear to you that you were not to think of the noble victor Sirius Black anymore.

The muscles in your back tensed tighter, shoulders hiking higher and higher the longer into the speeches the Capitol representatives got. Knowing that a name was soon to be pulled, yet you kept yourself disconnected.

Almost over, almost over.

The sudden outburst of sound and emotion around you – cries of relief, gasps of shock, whispered reactions – alerted you to the fact that a name had been called.

However, it was Mary’s loud sob and her face turning towards yours with nothing short of horror written over it that told you it was someone you knew.

One glance up into her grieving eyes told you that no, it was– it was you.

After so many years of just barely dodging it, you had been reaped. You were reaped. You were reaped. If your thoughts mere moments before had been a cloud, dragging you up above the crowd, they now became an anchor, cementing your feet to the ground.

“Mary…” you began, but were cut off by a static crackle.

“Y/N L/N? Come now love, don’t be scared.” The glee and excitement in the Capitol woman’s voice was nauseating, but it did kick you into action – and everyone else around you too, as the crowd seemed to separate to form a physical beacon on where the three of you stood, pressed together.

Your body moved on instinct; it was as if you were possessed by Sirius’ memory, pulling Mabel's crying form against you and kissing her head much like he had done with Regulus, squeezing Mary’s shoulder with a tight-lipped smile much like he had done with Peter. Ignoring your heart and mind screaming through sobs and anger, you released yourself from both of their grips to walk down the metaphorical red carpet leading up towards the stage. Chin tilted up, face schooled into nothingness. Eyes burning at the lights that suddenly shone upon you, fighting to keep from squinting. Forcing the tremble away from your fingers by balling them up into fists as you began to ascend the steps to the stage. 

“There we are, darling,” the male Capitol representative, who you had yet to bother learning the name of, essentially cooed at you, reaching out a hand for you to take.

You walked past it and assumed the position to the right of them both, staring emptily into the air. 

He chuckled in a low, menacingly lilting tone. “Okay, well, we can see what kind of tribute we just selected, can’t we, Bella?”

“We sure can, Barty,” the woman, Bella, replied with a gleaming smile. “As for her comrade in arms…” she trailed off for dramatic effect before dipping her fingers with their ridiculously long and sharp nails down into the pot.

From a distance, it was easier to distort the sounds of their voices. Now up close, you couldn’t help but hear every word passing between the two representatives, no matter how loud the screaming in your own head was.

No. No, no, no, no.

“... Peter Pettigrew!” Bella shouted cheerily, with a screeching joy that all but punctured your eardrums.

No. 

You squeezed your eyes shut from the first syllable, fighting the shaking taking over your body. Heavily, your shoulders slumped and your face began to fall at the revelation, before you scrambled for any and every piece of strength in your body to square up once again and face the literal sound of the music.

Deep breaths. 

In the corner of your eye, you saw him climb the stairs to stand beside you. For only a brief second, you dared glance over, only to see the pure terror written all over Peter’s face, only to immediately regret it and whip your face forward again. You knew in your heart that you were not making it out of these games – and unlike with Sirius, the feeling settled like wings on your shoulders instead of rocks. If you were honest, you knew Peter would likely not either, but you could at least fight for him, in the hope that he would.

The man Bella had called Barty came up behind you both and placed a strikingly cold hand on your shoulders, twisting you to face one another. It was custom to shake hands with your fellow tribute, but for the Capitol representatives to lay hands on you like this was certainly not. You fought back the urge to shake it off.

“Now if the tributes may shake hands,” Barty said with a wicked grin, speaking loudly enough for the microphone a metre away to pick up on it – thus too loudly. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

Peter’s hand was trembling with such force that he could barely move it away from his body. With a quick sideway glance at the cameras, you reached forward to grab it, steadying it even as you shook it. Peter could not meet your gaze, and not a single part of you could hold it against him; you merely squeezed his hand reassuringly. That had to be enough for now.

As soon as you let go, Bella closed the Reaping Ceremony with a flourish. 

You kept your chin elevated and your gaze empty as you began to move, lest it meet any of your friends and family in the many separated crowds. You weren’t sure if you would be able to keep it up if your eyes locked with Mary’s parents, with Peter’s brothers that he had to leave. Instead, you walked behind the walls with a pin straight back and let the Peacekeepers lead you through the townhouse, room after room, keeping all your emotions balled up. You signed some papers in one room, received a bag with a uniform in another. Finally you walked into the very same room that broke your heart 5 years ago, where your friends and family were already waiting.

The goodbyes were a flurry. Nothing felt real.

You hugged every one of the McKinnon siblings goodbye and nodded weakly when they begged that you would come back home to them, unable to make false promises verbally. The eldest, your Marlene, was the only one who did not plead; she grabbed each side of your face with a determined look and forced you to meet her eyes. “You will come home, Y/N. You will. I am not giving you a choice, you are making it back to us. Do you hear me?”

Even her, you could only spare a nod. But you listened and held her gaze through every word she spoke to make up for it, which seemed to be enough for now. Her hug was even more crushing now than when she kept you from running after Sirius and getting gunned down during his Reaping.

Mary had been silently crying through it all. When she hugged you, your collar was instantly wettened, and you could not help but wonder if this was how it felt for Sirius when you cried into him. You hoped it wasn’t, even as you knew it was. 

When every cheek was kissed and every I love you uttered, you sized them up with a resolved gaze. You let it drag carefully over them all, committing them to memory, one last time. 

Marlene could see what you were doing. With minimal movement, she shook her head – not admonishingly, but the correction was clear nonetheless. You will come back. You gave her a tight-lipped smile, and gave them all a final nod before exiting, allowing Peter to enter for his own goodbyes.

You stopped to say something to him, to hug him or give any reaction, but he scurried past you before you could. Even as you kept walking, your heart was sinking.

There was only one Peacekeeper waiting for you in the hallway. 

“Where do I go now?” You hated how weak your voice sounded, but at least there were no cameras here to catch it this time.

“Mrs. Lestrange is waiting for you around the corner. She will take you to meet your mentor on the train.” Even in your shock, you were baffled by the extreme lack of emotion in his voice. It was almost like talking to a robot, except it had distinctly human eyes. You supposed that was something to get used to.

“Thank you,” you replied, unsure if that was a common custom with Peacekeepers. You were lucky enough in 7 that their presence was limited.

You heard Bella before you saw her, she was excitedly recapping the entire Reaping process to Barty, as if it did not just end and he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He didn't seem to mind; he was twirling around himself, as if your metaphorical dead body was his favourite meadow to frolic through. Her clapping hands and screeching voice made you sick to your stomach, but her eyes might as well be cameras in the court of public opinion, so you picked your facade back up.

“I was told you would take me to the train.” You interrupted one of her tirades, and when her head snapped towards you, there was a second of blazing fire in her expression before she realised that it was you – a new plaything. The glee set back into her within a second.

“Oh, this was the part I was the most excited about.” She smacked a kiss to Barty's cheek before grabbing your elbow to drag you away with her. You had to clench your teeth not to rip it away from her – these Capitol people were handsy. “It’s about time for a reunion, don’t ya’ think?”

You weren’t sure what she was saying most of the time, though you rarely were with Capitol people. Yet the pinching feeling in your stomach did not recede to make space for confusion, nor did your shoulders lower even a fraction.

There was a special entrance to the train that you could access through the townhouse, so that you would not be too swamped by onlookers. Bella was explaining the whole ordeal to you somehow, but as the metallic train came into view through the windows, the blood rushing through your head got louder and louder, even more so than her pitchy voice. 

With this entrance, you only had to walk a meter unsheltered in the transition between the townhouse and the train. Shortly after the first gust of wind hit you was it again shut away as you stepped onto the metallic floorboards.

“Where are we going?” You found yourself asking Bella, unsure if she had already answered this or even if she was in the middle of a sentence.

She looked at you as if you were dumb, but it did not lessen her unnerving smile even a fraction nor stop her quick strides through the many corridors of the train. “Well, to meet your loverboy, duh.”

You stopped in the middle of a step, staring at her incredulously, unsure if you heard her correctly. A frustrated groan escaped her when she had to stop too, looking at you as if you were quite tedious. You knew who she must be referring to, but you had no idea why she would. At least like that.

“Am I not to meet with my potential mentors?” You tried to force any emotion out of your sentence.

“You’re being so silly, did you know that?” Bella took your arm once more, jostling you along with her. “Your mentor has already been decided, stupid. He’s waiting just over there, come on.”

You stumbled slightly in your step from how forcefully she dragged you. You were unsure if she even knew that she was gripping you as hard as she was, or if there was some serious disconnect between her mind and body. 

She only let you go in favour of ripping open a rather large oak door and releasing an unnecessarily loud “ta dah!”. 

The back you were met with was one you would have recognised in every life. 

He stood hunched over a table, hands splayed out so wide they were shaking, black curls hanging messily in his face, breathing ragged. At the sound of Bella’s entrance and you being ushered in, he whipped around.

It was Sirius. Of course it was. Your heart wanted to say it was your Sirius, but you could clearly see that he wasn’t. 

Though he looked different than he had on the occasional glance you stole of him onscreen, he still didn’t look the way you remembered either. No longer was he the scrawny boy you grew up with, the one you messed around in fields with, the one you read books with, the one you cried with and slept beside and walked beside and lived beside. Before you stood a weathered man, sharp in his handsomeness, pointed in every one of his features, guarded by an army of layers yet wearing more emotions than suited him. He had a few tattoos creeping up the side of his neck, the onyx ink shining in contrast to his pale skin.

The one thing that remained the same was the utter heartbreak spelled out in his eyes. It was the same as when you saw him last, only perhaps worse.

No, it was decidedly worse. When the stormy greys landed on your face, flitting about so rapidly that you were unsure how he could even see, lips parting ever so slightly, whatever tormented him settled in deeper. He looked inconsolable.

Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. As if he didn’t know what to say, as if there were no words.

His attention was abruptly shifted over to Bella when she clapped her hands together in mirth. “Isn’t this exciting!” she exclaimed, looking back and forth between you. “Aren’t you going to hug in greeting? Aren’t you going to ki–”

“Bellatrix.” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth, all of his pain schooled away in favour of a burning fire when he faced her. His voice was so much deeper than you remembered, so much hoarser. “Get lost. This is a meeting between mentor and tribute.”

“Oh, this is hardly a meeting or classified in any way, Siri. Just–”

He cut her off once more. “I won’t tell you again.” He eyed her with a severe glare. “Leave us. Now.”

It looked like Bellatrix wanted to fight him on it, but after looking between you three more times, she evidently decided she had gotten enough out of this endeavour. “You’re too serious, Black,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t bite her face off, you dog, she needs it for the interviews.”

She seemed to all but float out of the room, but closed the door behind her with a loud bang. You kept your head craned sideways, eyes burning a hole through the door where she left, leering. 

The silence in the room felt more deafening than the volume of the plaza had. You had no idea what to say – this was nothing like what you could have imagined.

You and Sirius, alone in a room. Something you had craved more than words could explain, but that you now backed away from with every fibre of your being.

“Princess.” Sirius breathed the word out like he had been choking on it. Before you had the time to turn your head fully back towards him, he had swept you up into a bone-crushing hug. “Y/N,” he whispered into your neck, almost reverently. 

A minute ago you were walking down the hallways with an awful stranger, and now you were embraced by someone who, despite everything, was painfully known to you. It did not compute in your mind, everything was whirring and screeching, and unlike what he once could, Sirius did not quiet the noises.

He almost did, though. Just almost. With his arms around your back, fingers splaying around your ribs, with your nose shoved against his neck as he cradled you, his scent taking over your senses, you could almost fall into it. Could almost fall into him. Your Sirius.

He smelled the same.

You reared backwards out of his touch, back hitting the wall as you stumbled. Your eyes felt wide, almost like a cornered animal, your lips parted as you stared at him. You realised you were breathing heavily. If he was startled by you ripping away from him, his face didn’t show it.

Studying his face now gave you a wave of deja vu so strong, it almost made you dizzy. There was no way you could communicate anything effectively at the minute.

“Sirius, what the fuck?!” 

You hadn’t meant for your voice to be so loud, but not even that drew a reaction from him. Kicking yourself off the wall, you walked past him – leaving a large amount of space between you – dragging your fingers through your hair as you did so. You began a sentence multiple times, but no coherent word came out. “Why are you here? What just happened?” you ended up whispering, feeling pathetic at how close to a whimper it was. “Who–” You stopped. That was a sentence you did not have it in you to complete. 

Who are you?

When you turned around to face him, you found that he had followed after you, keeping a respectable distance but still within arm’s reach, as if he couldn’t allow you to get further than that. For the first time since you stepped into the town square, tears began to fight to well in your eyes. Sirius didn’t look away from them.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper, insistent and imploring. “Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“For what?” You choked out, wrapping your arms around your stomach, not much unlike you had during his Reaping. Sirius’ gaze flitted down to your arms before moving back up, and it was as if you could see the memory playing across his irises.

He heaved a deep breath before rubbing his hands up and down his own face. When he lowered them, he gave you a look of defeat.

“I– let’s start over again,” he said then. He gave you a rueful smile. “Hi, princess.”

You looked at him, uncertain of whether you should start crying or laughing. You settled on a scowl in between. “I’m not sure you get to call me that anymore.” You looked away from his face as you said it, unwilling to see his reaction. “But sure. Hi, Sirius.”

When you dared a glance at him, he had his lips pressed together and a look of remorse in his eyes. You hated that you could still read him like this, for more than one reason.

“I was roughhoused onto the train last night. Told that I was to be the mentor of these games, whether I’d like to or not, no more information.” He said, as if that explained anything.

You couldn’t help the bite in your reply. “Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I was just given a death sentence. And now I have to face my ex best friend who I haven't seen in five years. This is some awful joke.”

This time you didn’t avert your gaze, the simmer within you for once bursting into a flame, however short-lived, and you got to witness how his face jerked backwards as if you had slapped him. In some way, you kind of had.

Your anger was not mirrored in his expression, but a form of determination took over his face as he spoke. “You weren’t. You weren’t.” 

“What?” you asked dumbly, yet uncaring of sounding it.

Sirius stepped towards you, gingerly taking your hands into his own. His touch burned, the new awkwardness of the gesture burned. “You weren’t given a death sentence. I wasn’t and you weren’t. I bloody swear to you, Y/N, you will make it through these games.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from his touch, but you managed to at least not lean into it. There was a dangerous gloss coated over his grey eyes when you met them with your own, and for a second you got lost in them. Your voice cracked as you asked, “Why?”

Sirius let out a humourless laugh and suddenly brought you back into a hug, as if he just couldn’t help himself. Your hands were trapped between you in an embrace with one of his, but he rested his forehead against your temple and seemingly breathed you in.

“I am so, so sorry you have to ask that, princess. I’m so sorry, but I had to go.”

You shivered in his hold. These were words that you dreamed of – but had they not been nightmares? You shook your head but made no other move to remove yourself.

"It's been five years, you know? I'm not sure we even know each other at this point."

Sirius' answer was immediate. "I know you." He pressed his forehead firmer against you. "I know you."

The emotion in his voice rendered you speechless.

He pulled backwards without releasing you from the embrace, leaning away just enough to catch your gaze with his. It felt like the floor was giving way beneath you. His hand on your back travelled up to your cheek. “I'm sorry for it all. Always. And I’m sorry for calling you princess when you just asked me not to,” he added with a hint of the sheepish smile you once loved.

You opened and closed your mouth, absolutely dumbfounded, and he just stared at you patiently. Warmly. Desperately. 

“Sirius–”

You were cut off by the door swinging open once more, causing Sirius to physically spring away from you, suddenly putting multiple metres between you at the sign of new guests. You almost stumbled at the change in positions, and you saw his hand twitch when he cast a glance your way, as if it ached to steady you.

“Now that the lovers have had their private greeting, maybe it’s time to include the other tribute in your strategies, Siri? Or are we just going to let itty bitty Peter die at the cornucopia?”

Bellatrix’s high pitched voice pierced through your ears, and you felt a mountain of guilt fall on top of you when your eyes fell on Peter cowering behind her, his eyes flitting wildly between you and Sirius. In your whirlwind of emotion, you had almost forgotten that he was as doomed as you were.

One glance to your right showed you that Sirius had no idea Peter had been reaped too. His brows furrowed and his lips fell into a decidedly downturned frown. “What– no, Pete,” he breathed out, arms falling to his sides.

“Hi, Sirius,” Peter squeaked, seemingly uncertain about what their dynamic was now, but relieved at at least being acknowledged.

Sirius stepped forward and physically nudged Bellatrix to the side as he pulled Peter in for his own hug. The sight stung in a way you couldn't communicate.

Over Sirius’ back, Bellatrix was grinning at you wickedly.

“Seems like you three have a conundrum or two to work through for us, don’t you?” Barty said cheerily as he emerged from behind Peter, clapping his hands down on his shoulders and making the younger boy jump in fear.

Bellatrix laughed as if that was just the funniest joke, and all but skipped up to you to tug at your cheek while turning to look at Sirius’ face that became increasingly stony at the sight of Bellatrix’s hands on you.

“Don’t you, Siri?” she pushed, giggling in a nearly maniacal manner. “Luckily, the Capitol is still far off. Gives you just loads of time to catch up, yeah?”

Part Two can be found here<3

[asoftsighh]

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ sirius black x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

sirius patches you up after you fight someone in his honor

1.3k words

By the time you make it to The Fat Lady, your knuckles are stinging. There’s blood on them too, although you’re unsure if it’s yours or someone else’s. You’re not even sure if you got in more than two solid punches. 

You murmur the password quietly, ignoring the astonished look The Fat Lady gives. You step through the portrait hole, praying that the rest of the Gryffindors are already at dinner. That’s where you should be too, with the rest of the boys. Devouring the lavish food Hogwarts never seems to run out of. 

What you find, no, who you find, in the common area is not what you were hoping for. Sirius looked like he was readying to leave, coming down the spiral stone staircase that leads up to the boy’s dormitories. His defined eyebrows are raised, mouth slightly open in shock, when you meet his eyes. You know what he sees: a black eye forming paired with blood knuckles. Within moments, that expression is completely wiped, replaced with something harder, something that might prove whatever the hell has been happening between you two the last few months.

Sirius is right in front of you before you can explain, hand gently gripping your chin to tilt it up toward him, trying to get a better look. “Merlin, what the hell happened to you?” He asks, his face taut. 

You try to open your mouth and explain, but close it before doing so. He points to the red couch sitting in front of the fireplace. 

“Sit,” he says firmly, although not unkindly. He steers you with a gentle hand toward it, as if preparing for your obstinance. 

As you sit, you see him in the corner of your eye, hurrying back up the stairs he had just descended. No doubt going to get the small medical kit he had stolen from Madam Pomfrey a couple years ago. The same one he used to patch James up after he gets hexed by a couple of Slytherins or when the full moon is harsh on Remus (when is it not?)

He comes back down in a moment, maneuvering around the furniture and forgotten textbooks to crouch in front of you, the small kit in his hand. He lays it down on the rug beside him to reveal its measly contents: some bandages, a sewing needle and thread, and a half empty bottle of a healing salve. 

His voice breaks the silence first. “Who did this to you?” He asks, his voice is low now. Controlled. Not angry yet, but close. 

What happened earlier floods back into your mind. The words blood traitor and disgrace are so clear that you can almost see them before you. You swallow, your throat dry as he cleans off the blood from your knuckles with a damp rag he must’ve grabbed before he came back down. “It was one of your cousin’s friends. Bellatrix, isn’t it?.”

His hand stills on yours for just a moment, then continues to wipe the bumps of your knuckles. His other hand holds your wrist steady, his thumb running over your pulse point. 

You keep talking because if you stop to look at him for any longer, your heart will start to beat in a way that only seems to happen when he’s around. Like it’s trying to beat its way out of your chest and go to him. 

Despite that, you struggle to explain, but you know he’ll never let you go until you do. “She was whining about.. you. Said that your parents should be ashamed of what they’re son has become. Someone who hangs around ‘half-breeds’ and ‘muggle-borns.’”

He lets out a slow breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. At some point, he had pulled out bandages, now carefully wrapping your knuckles in the tan gauze. You’ve only ever seen him this meticulous with his hands from when he’s holding his vinyls or involved in a prank. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” He says slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks up and finally meets your eyes. 

Sirius has always been the most beautiful boy you’ve met. That’s the only word that seems appropriate to describe him, with his pale skin, high cheekbones, and defined jaw. He looks like he belongs in one of those magazines that the younger boys read, the ones with men and women dressed up in fancy clothing, posed in dramatic poses. 

You must make a face and strain an injury, because something burns and he tsks. “It’s not like I was just going to sit there and listen to that rubbish. I mean, would you if they were talking about me? Or James?”

You both know he wouldn’t have. Sirius is not an extremely rash person, but he has never backed down from a fight, whether he has his wand ready or not. Especially if it is in regards to someone he loves. Someone who would do the same for him. 

He’s shaking his head now, reaching for the salve jar. You like this version of Sirius most, you think, despite the circumstances. The one that doesn’t feel the need to fill every second of silence with a tease or joke. He mutters something under his breath that sounds close to “idiot.”

When he looks back up at the jar, he shifts to sit up higher in order to reach your bruising eye. You let both of your eyes close as you feel his warm breath against your skin. The salve is cool on your bruise, but eases the stinging in mere moments. 

“Don’t tuck your thumb in next time, gorgeous. You're lucky you didn’t break your hand,” he says. His voice is softer than before, a mix of amusement, disbelief, and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint. 

You can’t help but smile at him, something he quickly returns. It’s not his wicked smile, nor his teasing one; it’s a soft one, a small upturn of the corners of his pink lips. His hand, still by your eye, moves to cup your cheek, thumb drawing a line beneath your bruise. You lean into it automatically, trying to act casual despite your quickly increasing heart rate. He has always had this kind of effect on you. The warmth of his hand lingers even after it drops away. He clears his throat as he puts the salve and leftover bandages back into the stolen kit. 

“I’d do it all over again, y’know,” You say quietly. You’re not sure what made you say it; maybe it was the disbelief in his eyes when you told him about the reason, or the way his hand lingered on your face. Or maybe it’s because all of his touches and looks seem to linger these days. Watching you across the table at the library when you pretend to read, making you a plate at breakfast when you’re late so James doesn’t steal all of the fruit you love. 

He swallows and says softly “I know you would.” He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “Just next time, maybe tell me beforehand? I’d like to have your back properly.” He looks like he wants to say more, with the way he’s studying your face, but chooses not to. Instead, he just stands up, brushes his hand over your hair with a casualness that doesn’t quite match the look in his eyes nor the longing on his face. 

He holds a pale, long fingered hand out to you, offering you one of those small smiles. “Come on, love. Let’s get out of here before James sends a search party.” You take his hand before he’s even done talking. “I’d also love to see the damage you’ve done to poor Bellatrix’s friend.”

You smile to yourself as you walk, still hand in hand, toward the portrait. All the blood and bruises might be worth it, you think, as long as Sirius still holds your hand afterwards. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think about Molly Weasley?

I have a lot of thoughts about Molly Weasley. I think she’s a fantastic character,  just not in the way that JKR intended. 

I think the intention was to make Molly kind of a mama bear. Fiercely loving, fiercely protective, hot tempered… but you know. In a cute way. In a warm way. I do think that Movie!Molly threads this needle. (I also think that her bear-ears hairstyle is perhaps intentional.) 

Movie!Molly gets her big duel with Bellatrix, she gets (reasonably) annoyed at the boys for stealing the car. Her only spicy moment is the Howler… which is softened and made more comedic by 1) including a nice message for Ginny at the end 2) including a tongue-sticking-out moment, which turns the whole thing into more of a joke on Molly. Now it’s your mom being kind of weird and embarrassing… versus her public shaming you, toxic tik-tok mom style. The Howler is much worse in the book: “​​I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS.”

So let’s talk Book!Molly, because there’s a lot there. She’s a Prewett, growing up in a more *typical* pure blood family as opposed to being a “blood traitor” Weasley. (Cedrella Black was disowned for marrying a Weasley, Lucretia Black married a Prewett no problem.)  Molly also married Arthur really young, and really quickly. It’s even lightly implied they married too quickly - 

“I just think [Bill and Fleur] have hurried into this engagement, that’s all!”  “They’ve known each other a year,” said Ron (...)   “Well, that’s not very long! I know why it’s happened, of course. It’s all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they’re rushing all sorts of decisions they’d normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center —”  “Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.  “Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley.

There’s some psychological truth to that. (Also, Molly and Arthur were 100% hooking up while at Hogwarts:)

“[The Fat Lady] was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the dormitory at four in the morning —”  “What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement. Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling.  “Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,” she said.

And the timeline’s too fuzzy to know for sure…  but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Molly getting pregnant with Bill was one of the reasons she and Arthur got married so fast. 

It’s hard to say, because you never get a great sense of their relationship, but I’m actually not sure how compatible the two of them are, or if they would have gotten married at all if it hadn't been for the war and all these external factors. There is an ongoing conflict between them: Arthur is a political radical who seems to enjoy upsetting the Malfoys - he’s not playing nice, he doesn't have a prestigious job, he’s not getting a promotion anytime soon, and he’s fine with this. His interest in muggles is fringe counterculture stuff, and his hobby is illegal. And Molly… is pretty establishment. She wants her sons to be Head Boys and Prefects, and then she wants them to get jobs at the Ministry:

“Mum went mad at [Fred and George after finding their prank candy.] Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms. . . . She’s furious at them anyway. They didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.” “And then there was this big row,” Ginny said, “because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.”

Like we hear about this interaction secondhand, which softens the emotion, but I’m sorry? Molly burned their order forms? She wants them to do jobs they very clearly have no aptitude for, instead of being entrepreneurs? Arthur sides with the twins, and of course he does. They’re anarchists just like he is. But it *really* bothers Molly, and this conflict just keeps coming up. 

[sidenote. You cannot tell that Arthur Weasley, once he was in his late 20s/early 30s, once he had grown into himself a bit. Tell me that this man didn’t once think “you know, I really should have married a Muggle. That would’ve been perfect.”’]

But back to Molly Weasley, nee Prewett. She wants a big family, and there is no way this doesn't have something to do with the fact that both her brothers were just brutally killed. She’s trying to distract herself, fill some void, find some meaning. The fact that it doesn’t work (because how could it, she’s got just buckets of unprocessed trauma) is maybe why she is so set on having a girl. Maybe a little baby girl is what she needs. 

In the main timeline of the book, Molly 100% needs enrichment. She needs to start breeding alpacas or join a book club or get a job. (Job could be cool, especially since she has no kids at home and money is an issue.) Like come on, Molly is intense, Type A, and powerful. Possibly one of the best duelists in the entire series. She takes out Voldemort’s number two, and Bellatrix has already defeated Sirius - incredibly talented and powerful in his own right. I do think that the reason JKR made this choice (instead of letting Neville have a confrontation with Bellatrix, which would have been more narratively straightforward) is because (whether consciously or unconsciously) she doesn’t like the idea of one of her good-guy GUY characters hurting a woman. So Molly defeats Bellatrix with magic mom powers, which is the same reason Narcissia can lie to Voldemort’s face I guess.

What Molly definitely does NOT need to be doing is obsessing about her kids' significant others. Like take Fleur. (Who I think we as readers were meant to dislike more than we actually did?)  Fleur is great. So when Molly has a problem with her… then starts trying to matchmake Bill with Tonks… until Tonks (another fan favorite) also starts annoying her… it makes Molly looks really unreasonable. Also, let Bill have his long hair and earring. 

She gets weird about Hermione in Book 4, after she believes Rita Skeeter’s write-up that she's some sort of temptress playing Harry and Krum off each other. Instead of, idk, asking Harry (who she thinks of as a surrogate son) she sends Hermione a passive-agressive comically undersized chocolate egg. Harry and Ron get huge ones. That’s not cute, or funny.

Also, Percy and Penelope Clearwater. I know the real-world reason Percy hides his relationship in Book 2 is so he can be a red herring acting all suspicious… but in universe, I guess Percy just wants to date someone without his mom being weird about it? Like Penelope Clearwater is nice and normal and fine. Why is he hiding this relationship?

Then there’s Molly the disciplinarian, which we mostly see in the context of Fred and George (although there is also Ron being public-shamed by the Howler.) She is constantly giving the twins a hard time about their life choices, their jokes. Ron says “I remember Mum walloping Fred with her broomstick." Then yeah, she burns their order forms. She does feel bad about this later, and after the whole thing at the Quidditch World Cup hugs them and says, “What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough O.W.L.s?” It’s meant to be a sweet moment, but this would annoy me just a little. It’s a little like saying, “I’m glad I don’t have to think of myself as being a bad mother.” 

I also want to point out Molly's pretty clear favoritism. Fred and George are the problem children, Ginny is the baby (although we almost never see her and her mother interact, so it’s actually very hard to say what their relationship is like), and Percy is the golden child. We see how this sort of sets him apart from all his siblings, how he's described as pompous and full of himself, but also how he’s secretive and hides things from his family. It’s kind of precarious being the golden child, and when he finally does stop pleasing his mother he falls hard. (Although I will always be a big believer in Daddy Issues!Percy. That has to be why he commits that hard to Barty Crouch Sr that fast, and then ignores that many red flags.) 

And of course Ron is the invisible child. Almost the first thing we hear him say is, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.” That one can slide. Molly’s got five kids at home, she made corn beef sandwiches, not everyone is going to be equally happy. But Ron’s clothes.  Molly makes her own clothes, she's defined by her facility with household magic. She knits Ron sweaters... but at least two of them are maroon despite the fact that Ron hates maroon. His room is  plastered top to bottom in bright orange Chudley Cannons merch. She couldn’t make him an orange sweater? There’s also the issue with the dress robes. Ron clearly doesn’t like them (“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress.”) But he is the one who cuts off the lace trim later, and he doesn’t do an amazing job. I know that it's a joke, but like. That sounds like a job for Molly.

We do get Horcrux!Hermione telling Ron that he is the “Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter,” so this idea of Molly picking favorites is *kind of* in the text. But Horcrux!Hermione is wrong about Harry/Hermione being a thing, so maybe we’re meant to read this as Ron’s baseless anxiety? It doesn’t feel like that though. What it actually feels like is an unresolved plot thread. 

So here’s my take on Molly Weasley. This is someone who is pretty high-powered, who suffered a period of emotional upheaval, then got married and started having kids because she kind of thought that was what you do - and it wasn’t as fulfilling as she thought it would be. I think a lot of her comments come off as *meaner* than JKR intended, because let’s face it - JKR has a kind of mean sense of humor. And if I want to speculate further… I think there are quite a few parallels between Molly Weasley and JKR. I don't think she put them there consciously.

[crimsononsnow]

House of Secrets

inspired by way to much tiktoks about this situation lol

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The Black family estate never truly slept. By day, it was a mausoleum of whispered traditions and cold-blooded elegance. By night, it breathed differently—shadows stretching long against the stone, candlelight flickering in gilded sconces, the hush of old magic curling in corners. And tonight, it held secrets within its ribcage, waiting for the moment they would collide.

Sirius crept down the corridor, feet silent against the dark wood. He knew every loose floorboard, every painting that stirred if you lingered too long. The house had tried to smother him since birth, but he had learned its weaknesses, the small defiant ways to move unseen.

At the turn near the library, he felt the warmth of Remus before he saw him, that familiar scent of parchment and something wilder underneath. His fingers brushed against the threadbare sleeve of his jumper.

"You’re late," Sirius whispered, smirking.

"And yet, here I am," Remus murmured back, lips quirking, eyes glinting in the dimness.

Before Sirius could pull him into the dark, footsteps. Another figure emerged, just beyond the reach of candlelight.

Regulus.

He wasn’t alone. A mess of untidy hair, round glasses reflecting the torchlight—James bloody Potter.

Sirius froze. Regulus did too. For a second, the silence was sharp enough to cut.

"Oh," James said, blinking. "Er. Hello?"

"Are you fucking my brother Prongs?" Sirius hissed.

"Shut up," Regulus snapped, a flush creeping up his neck.

Sirius turned indignantly to Remus. "Did you know about this, Moony? Oh, of course you know."

Then—another sound. From the opposite end of the corridor, two more figures drifted in, wrapped in hushed conversation. Andromeda, moon-pale in the dimness, a freckled, golden-haired Ted Tonks beside her. His hand had been at the small of her back, a brief touch before she stepped away.

Sirius barely had time to register this before another set of footsteps.

Narcissa. And—Alice Fortescue?

"Well," James muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is… unexpected."

A final rustle of fabric, and Bellatrix stepped from the darkness, Rita Skeeter’s painted nails curled around her wrist.

Silence.

Ten pairs of eyes flickering between each other. The air thickened, tangled with disbelief, realization, the weight of what this meant.

Bellatrix was the first to speak. "What," she breathed, voice all sharp edges, "in Merlin’s name is happening here?"

Sirius found his voice. "That’s my line."

Rita let out a slow, delighted laugh. "Oh, this is rich."

Narcissa’s lips parted in shock, her usual poise faltering. "Bella, you—?"

"Andromeda," Bellatrix cut in, eyes narrowing. "Explain."

"I believe," Andromeda said evenly, glancing at her sisters, "that we all have more in common than we thought."

Sirius let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant."

Regulus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is a disaster."

"Depends how you look at it," James offered. "Bit of a miracle, really. All of us sneaking about in the same house, for months, without realizing—"

"Shut up, Potter," Regulus muttered, but there was no venom in it.

Silence stretched again, but this time, it felt different. A truce. A fragile thread connecting them, woven through shared defiance, shared recklessness, shared rebellion.

Then, Bellatrix straightened, Rita still coiled at her side. "This never happened."

"Agreed," Narcissa said swiftly.

"Absolutely," Andromeda added.

"Obviously," Regulus muttered.

James grinned. "I don’t know, I think—"

"Shut up, Potter," Sirius and Regulus chorused, and for the first time in years, their voices didn’t clash.

No more words were needed. One by one, they vanished into the shadows, slipping back into their separate secrets. But something lingered in the air, something unspoken, something undeniable.

The house of Black had always been full of ghosts. Tonight, it simply gained a few more.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[impcrios]

@silverbred

it wasn't that he didn't see aurors, there were just some that came into st. mungos more than others. what he had know of bellatrix was that she had a steady hand when it came to aurors so he was surprised that she was even here. "looks more nasty than it is," he says with a smile that he would give any patient. "i'll patch you right and get you a potion for it." he eventually says, using his wand to go over the wound, it was always a steady hand, he had worked hard for this. "let me know if it hurts." he says gently. "must have been a nasty case, i know you're a well auror, black."

[dreammakcr]

She could have contradicted his words. Said that she never meant what she'd said and that there was nothing wrong with his blood status. Lies. Bellatrix knew the truth and she knew the kind of world she wanted for wizard kind. That being said, tonight didn't have to end in an argument. "You know my opinion on the matter has not changed," she simply said.

A brow arched at his insistence, confused as to why he still wanted her company, but she wasn't opposed. "Oh, you know. Causing as much chaos as I possibly can. And of course helping Cissy plan for her wedding. You did hear about that, yes?"

He titled his head to the side and sniggered, shaking his head in disapproval. “I Never wanted to lose you as a friend, Bellatrix. I always valued our friendship until you told me that you wanted nothing to do with me and that I shouldn’t be a wizard because I’m a half blood” he stated and frowned slightly. John titled his head at what she then spoke of and just sniggered, not giving her the satisfaction of a reply.

“No no, Stay here, Im feeling rather nostalgic too” he stated and gave her a grin on purpose. “So, other than killing half bloods and such, what else have you been doing?” He asked simply and sat back, folding his arms in front of his chest.

[greenerteacups]

Hi GT. I hope this message finds you well. I am sending all the good vibes and we'll wishes your way! ♥️♥️♥️ I hope you've had a wonderful summer.

I'm such a big fan of your work. Lioneheart is amazing and has stuck with me for such a long time.

I was wondering if you had any other stories you'd like to explore one day (even if you never get the chance to write them.) Whether it be fanfiction or original work, I was just curious because sometimes I feel as if I have hundreds of stories inside that I could tell, and I am not sure how to pick just one and see it to completion.

First of all, thank you! This is a fun one. I have a few enduring ideas for longfics I may or may not ever write (i.e., ideas that would have been projects already if I didn't have an ongoing longfic). I don't get stuck in them mostly because I try to remind myself that the idealized story you imagine when a concept occurs to you will never actually exist as it does when it's unshackled by the constraints of execution. What you'll get if you actually sit down and hack it out is (1) a real and imperfect piece of writing, and (2) the satisfaction of having written it, which is by far the more reliable source of motivation, if we're being honest. That being said, here are some ideas I've always wanted to explore, if and when I finish Lionheart:

I've always wanted to write a longform canon-divergent Tomione fic about Tom Riddle's 7th year at Hogwarts. Big honking political melodrama ft. the original Knights of Walpurgis, a Triwizard Tournament, and realistically functioning time travel (hence why this one's always been kicked down my list of projects, because writing a time-travel plot is like running through a minefield made of trampolines). I've already got character concepts sketched out for the Hogwarts cast — sooooo many fun ideas for the teenage Walburga. But I'd still need about a week of solid fic preproduction on the plot alone before I was ready to boot up and start writing, and it'd take at least 250k words — closer to 300k, if I'm being honest about myself. So this probably won't see the light of day anytime remotely soon, if ever.

A canon-compliant Dramione war fic, diverging from the Malfoy Manor chapters in Book 7, picking up from a speculative thread I read once about what would happen if the war didn't end after Voldemort died at the Battle of Hogwarts. I've always thought it would be fascinating to see who Hermione and Draco would become if they were actual soldiers in the war (and my disappointment with how Book 7 handled the "war" of it all has been established). That being said, Book 7 of Lionheart will probably give me a lot of similar ideas to chew on, so I don't know what my appetite for this one will be once I'm finished with it.

Durmstrang AU. This one's barely a fic concept so much as it is a mental moodboard — I just want to worldbuild the hell out of Durmstrang. And the international wizarding world, generally. It's a delicious sandbox.

A longform canon-compliant fic or series of fics about the previous generation of Blacks (Sirius/Bellatrix/Narcissa, namely). If you look at the books, there's a huge amount we don't know about the fall of the Blacks. I always found it bizarre that the sisters and Sirius seem to be the only ones left by 1995. No one else has a claim? No one else from this all-powerful wizarding family wants to step in and claim this big honking townhouse in the middle of London? Or its attendant fortune? Dude, what happened? Also, we don't see nearly enough of the Black family melodrama in canon. They lose 4/5 children of a generation in the span of almost single decade. And then (presumably) all of their parents die in the span of another. Goddamn. Just imagine the character work you could do there.

A No Chosen One/Voldemort Wins (The First Time) AU where Hermione never gets her letter, and meets Draco much later in life as a self-taught witch. The dynamics I have in my head for this are really enjoyable, and it would be a chance to finally write Hermione POV, plus the Draco I've cooked up for this universe is [chefs kiss]. I also just love the idea of Hermione as a feral witch-child running around muggle London. I love it a lot.

[fugamalefica]

Analysing Voldemort's Opinion of Severus Snape

Why does nobody ever question Voldemort's murder of Snape when he knew Dumbledore didn't have to kill Grindelwald to win the wand? Voldemort knew Grindelwald was once the master of the Elder Wand. He knew Dumbledore defeated him and locked him in a prison. He was also fully aware that the Wand was now Dumbledore's. Voldemort never thought murder was the only way to win the allegiance of the Elder Wand and he had two expert wandmakers as his prisoners who would have confirmed this.

Voldemort knew he didn't need to kill Snape to win the allegiance of the Elder Wand but he did it anyway because he never trusted him. This thread is woven subtly but intricately through the books. Even after he killed Dumbledore, Voldemort used Legilimency on Snape when he was giving him information:

'Saturday ... at nightfall,' repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened upon Snape's black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort's face and, after a moment or two, Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.

Bellatrix in Spinner's End had information that only Voldemort, Snape, and Harry knew (the Philosopher's Stone and Snape becoming an obstacle) as LV didn't mention it in the graveyard, which clearly indicates they had a discussion about him where he shared his mistrust of him with her but they both reached different conclusions. Since Bellatrix escaped Azkaban six months after Snape rejoined Voldemort, it's obvious he was still not sure of his loyalty.

'A hundred reasons!' she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. 'Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you've lived in Dumbledore's pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the Philosopher's Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago, when we battled to retrieve the prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at your mercy for five years?'

LV also sent Wormtail to Snape's house, who according to Snape liked to eavesdrop all the time. He was clearly sent as a spy by Voldemort to keep an eye on Snape.

'Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me.

'My apologies,' said Snape. 'He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don't know what he means by it... you were saying, Narcissa?'

Voldemort clearly saw the Elder Wand as an opportunity to finally get rid of Snape. He even told him that although he is talented, he is no longer that valuable to him.

... my Lord, their resistance is crumbling -'

'- and it is doing so without your help,' said Voldemort, in his high, clear voice. 'Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there... almost.'

He was seeing it as a gamble from the start. Snape, if truly loyal, could prove very valuable and useful to Voldemort with his talents and inside information. Yet, if not (i.e canon) he could risk a lot, but he probably underestimated the damage Snape could cause if he wasn't loyal.

There's also a very strange claim going around, usually perpetrated by some Snape fans, that Voldemort was fond of Snape when the books never imply such a thing. His murder of Snape leaves that completely unambiguous.

‘I regret it,’ said Voldemort coldly.

He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. It was time to leave this shack and take charge, with a wand that would now do his full bidding. He pointed it at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upwards, off Snape, who fell sideways on to the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. Voldemort swept from the room without a backwards glance, and the great serpent floated after him in its huge protective sphere.

He's really twisting the knife here with the cold 'I regret it', followed immediately by his own declaration of his true feelings in his own mind: there was no sadness in him, no remorse.

Useful was all Snape ever was to Voldemort, and when that usefulness ended, so did Snape's life.

[lycoryspreachin]

the black sisters as the fates or the moirai is such an obvious yet scarcely explored parallel. three sisters bound by their eternal duty, destined to thread life, to twirl and strain and extinguish the existence of all beings. a sister who implants the seed of life, one who navigates it, and one who cuts it inevitably. andromeda for the new life she offered herself and her family, narcissa for carrying and witnessing the lives of everyone around her ( her parents ( she made sure she fulfilled the expectations of her house ), her own family ( lucius including when he went to azkaban and draco), her sisters, harry, regulus probably,  etc…)  and bellatrix for spreading death and being the only one of the sister whose death we know of. the three of them present a glorious portrait of the moirai, showing their implication and perhaps explaining their link and connection to all of the characters.

[impcrios]

the hardest part of having sisters, narcissa thought, was loving them both when they were so different. narcisa had listened to bellatrix for a moment, their face impassive of anything, because at the moment, they didn't feel anything. there was nothing that bellatrix or andromeda could say to them at the moment that would sway them. they were just tired. "that's very presumptuous of you, bellatrix." narcissa says with a sigh, holding their mug of tea up to their lips. they hated coming to black manor, but while narcissa might not have been the biggest fan of their mother, they still came, regardless for tea. "haven't you heard from mother?" narcissa smirks. "it's unbecoming." narcissa jokes, their mother had always said to hold your deck before you play your cards, it was a game of chess, not checkers, that was a commoner game. "i do not." narcissa says, and stands firmly in it. "the mark is quite ugly," she says, not even caring to admit it, "plus there are many ways that one can be productive in the cause without it." she says, raising an eyebrow. there was a reason why narcissa was an associate, but there was another part of her, that couldn't accept that fate for herself. if bellatrix had wanted it, she certainly wasn't going to talk her out of it, and perhaps bellatrix had written andromeda off, but narcissa never would, and that was something that no one would ever know about. "more tea, sister?" narcissa asks, holding the pot.

bellatrix & narcissa : for @impcrios

"you know, i always thought you would be the one who would end up different than...well her." bellatrix said, referring to their sister who had turned out to be a traitor. she didn't like to speak about andromeda, she didn't even like to breathe her name. however, narcissa hadn't exactly aligned with the death eaters either, she had also let bellatrix down in more ways than one, and as bellatrix stood there and clicked her tongue, she realized that she had two siblings who were more alike than she thought. maybe, SHE was only the loyal soldier in the family.

"do you have any...intention of taking the mark cissy?" she asked, her hues on the female, as she pursed her lips, her hopes that her sister would say yes, even though she knew deep down, that she would end up saying no.

[lilywalkers]

the black sisters as the ancient greek fates. narcissa as clotho, the one who spins the thread, because she's the youngest daughter and the mother, the one who provided the family with a new heir. andromeda as lachesis, the one who measures the thread, because she's the one who got away, the one who really got to live her life. and bellatrix as atropos, the one who cuts the thread, because the one thing she's always been good at is killing, no matter how much she's been betrayed and cast aside.

[trothplighted]

could you say more about the Black family and hereditary mental illness? I’ve seen the term “Black family madness” used in ways that made me feel kind of uncomfortable like there was a certain amount of voyeurism and sensationalizing occurring. I haven’t really seen the concept treated seriously/respectfully.

Sirius is clearly deeply depressed in OOTP, Tonks is deeply depressed in HBP (though I feel like HBP Tonks is in pretty stark contradiction of her OOTP characterization and I very much dislike her confronting Lupin about rejecting her in front of their whole social circle). Bellatrix clearly very much the worse for wear after Azkaban but not in an especially great place before going in either? Andromeda has almost no dialogue or action, so it’s hard to say how she’s doing, except that she gave Tonks a very Black Family First Name which is an odd choice for a person who was disowned after running away. Kreacher describes Walburga as mad with grief after losing Regulus. Do you think her portrait’s behavior accurately represents her end of life behavior? Other portraits don’t seem to deteriorate into that kind of instability. Regulus himself has a bit of Q-Anon energy.

I guess I sort of talked myself through this in your inbox! Still very interested in your thoughts, though!

There’s a couple things I want to get out of the way.

The first is that hereditary strangeness, illness, unspecified trouble, etc - all that is a pretty classic feature of gothic literature. If you’re a House Black fan and you haven’t read “The Fall of the House of Usher” (the Poe original. We don’t acknowledge Mike Flanagan’s existence on this blog) you really should, because it’s Patient Zero for a lot of fan discourse on this family and for a lot of tropes around gothic families. Beyond that I’ll recommend Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Guillermo del Toro’s Crimson Peak, the self-proclaimed ‘first gay gothic novel’ Gaywyck, V.C. Andrews’s Flowers in the Attic, and Ava Reid’s Juniper & Thorn if you want further reading/watching material in this vein. The idea that families in gothic novels pass down what’s wrong with them to their children and great steps must be taken to escape the influence of their houses and ancestries, and that inherited illness can define your life for good or ill, and that prestige or arrogant pride or aristocracy or some other kind of influence in a community is a corrupting rot, is a central theme in all of those cited stories. Incest is also a central theme, overtly or subtextually; those two threads wind about each other until they’re inextricably bound together.

So from that angle, the Black family madness is simply an expected end goal of putting a gothic family right out of The Shadow over Innsmouth into a middle grade urban fantasy series, especially with the motifs of decay and intermarriage/inbreeding and mouldering wealth and isolationism. Ignoring that is imo willfully ignoring their literary ancestry, and failing to engage with their narrative DNA. (An alternative flavor of gothic family is found in the Gaunts, and yet another flavor in the Dumbledores of 1899 - this is a trope Joanne returns to repeatedly.)

There are going to be people who discuss it in an ableist fashion, because ableism is baked into our society on a truly fundamental level. There are also going to be people who discuss it in a slightly sensationalized fashion, because in all of the above examples the sensational and sensual tone of the story is purposefully done. But it’s not a clear-cut question of “good, respectful representation” and “bad, voyeuristic representation”. People who see themselves rendered faithfully and respectfully in “bad” stories exist, and people who believe the most authentic versions of their mental illnesses or family relationships are found in “unrealistic” stories are going to continue to fight for their right to exist in an ugly, non-idealized fashion.

I’m one of them. I have an aunt who had multiple psychotic episodes with serious lasting delusions throughout her life and whose career and family and stability were all trashed and ruined thanks to her untreated illness, and I share many of her diagnoses. I have addicts and criminals in my immediate and extended family. I have a family history of incest on both sides and very narrowly avoided being one of the victims. I have deep and lasting generational trauma on both sides because fuck colonialism. And so I see myself in the Blacks, and especially in the complicated mess of loyalty and revulsion and yearning to escape and knowing nobody else will ever know you as well as the people who share your name do. Add in the homophobic repression and the abuse and the toxicity and it gets even more relatable, unfortunately.

So for me, ignoring the Black family madness or arguing it doesn’t exist because it’s all ableism by the fandom or claiming that nobody involved in the plot was mentally ill - it carries the implication that my own life and my own family history are Bad Rep, which is something that I get sick and tired of when it comes to fandom takes on mental illness. Sometimes you are going to be sick forever and sometimes you’re also going to either be heroic or villainous. Sometimes your illnesses will directly lead you into being cruel to other people. Sometimes you’ll be both intensely violent and toxic and highly highly susceptible to grooming and abuse. Sometimes you are also going to want to find some romance or dark beauty in your own life, and if your life is never going to be a healthy one by abled standards that can include finding things to sensationalize or render sensually about your own brain.

Because that’s what’s really at the heart of all this. I am not going to get well. I can get better. I can fight to become stable and keep myself in check. I can improve. I can settle into the house of my bones and find peace. But I won’t get well. Cognitive behavioral therapy and medication and being a Good Little Insane Person who’s properly ashamed of her illnesses and works to render them in fiction in ways that are palatable to sane readers won’t save me. And there’s nothing I or anyone else can do to make the sanes love me or tolerate me. There’s nothing gained by trying to make them accept me or love me, either. I’d rather take my chances with the Blacks.

There isn’t much for me to say on the individual characters that you didn’t say in your initial ask. Nobody we see who’s connected to that House seems to be okay. All of them are marked by tragedy and all of them are kind of nuts. The only thing I’d add is that it’s probably very likely that Walburga deteriorated over time as a result of personal stresses - the death of her brother, the death of her favorite son, the loss of her heir, the death of her husband. She suffered immensely, and she took it out on the world in warped and unhealthy ways. And that’s sadly typical of all of us who live inside brains full of knives. It doesn’t erase or justify her racism and eugenicist philosophy and abuse. She’s still responsible for all that. But being abusive and antagonistic doesn’t magically make her sane, either.