#dark doxy

[timecapsuleprintscie]

Mr Pooch, Sausage Dog in a suit

Vintage Poster, Home Decor, Victorian puppy dog, Dark Academia, Goth Occult Poster, Dark Academia Decor

[nautarot]

its her its the dachsoul

[pauho]

<strong>in Explore:Boet&Harvey. Winner Through her lens 2023 <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/barbaravanderlinde/">by Barbara van der Linde</a></strong> <br /><i>Via Flickr:</i> <br />Best friends

[ppomumgranatum]

the dance of love's sweet potion.

also available on Ao3

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

tags: fluff, one shot, you POV, house-neutral reader, jealousy, protective

word count: 5.3k

Warnings: MAJOR HEADCANNON, the books and the potions are all in my head just for the sake of this story, characters are in their 7th year, I finally caved and wrote the cliche protective and jealous seb and i fucking love it

Summary: When a potion meant to repel backfired, it became a mishap that turned your world upside down.

Notes: I was craving some fluff, so a fluff was created ❤���

Revulsaroma is a powerful potion that demands careful handling and discretion. Designed for specific situations where deterring unwanted advances or repelling individuals is necessary, its potency requires utmost caution. Ingredients: • 3 drops of essence of skunk cabbage • 2 crushed doxy wings • 1 teaspoon of powdered Boomslang skin • 4 ounces of extract from a Devil's Snare vine • 1 pinch of powdered Basilisk fang • Hair from the person brewing the potion

You carefully traced your finger along the intricate words laid out in the book you had kept from your parents’ dusty collection on potion making and meticulously followed the instructions. Taking advantage of the quiet after hours, you used the station at potion class to get on with your mission.

You’re not a pro in potion making per se, but the way you precisely measure out ingredients, stirring the potion with such poise, you feel as skilled as Professor Sharp– if he was plagued with a horrible disease of a red-haired boy goes by the name of Leander Prewett. 

For weeks, Leander had been following you around so relentlessly and constantly asking you out. It was cute at first but now it was starting to feel like pure harassment. Despite numerous rejection, it didn't seem like he’s the type of guy who understood the concept of boundaries and your patience was wearing extremely thin. 

You remembered an old potion you once came across when you were younger– Revulsaroma, a repelling potion. You figured it was time to revisit those pages since you’re in a dire need for a solution. 

You stirred the components inside of your cauldron with a pinch of determination, distress, and a lot of rage. The earthy and putrid notes filled the air and it was probably going to stick with you for a while but you surely hoped this was going to be worth it.

When the potion finally came to completion, you carefully transferred it to a pumpkin juice bottle to trick Leander into drinking it.

“Alright, that looks good.” You sighed in relief as you put the bottle down and stared at the securely stored dark liquid with pride, knowing that soon you’d be able to take a break from the unwanted attention. At least for a while just until you could figure out a permanent way to stop him, 

You proceeded to clean up your station and returned some tools that you took from the inventory room, making sure that everything was back in its rightful spot. Because Merlin knew that you couldn’t take another chide from Professor Sharp about the importance of being responsible and organised.

Just when everything was about to be restored to its pristine state, you heard a loud retching coming from the other room. When you rushed outside, you saw your bestfriend, hands desperately grasping the edge of your station, body racked with violent gagging, and breath ragged in a grave attempt to gasp for air.

“Sebastian?” You exclaimed while rushing to his side, “Are you alright?”

“Came to—bleughh—look for you,” Sebastian managed to say in between his guttural heaves.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice trailed off when you saw your pumpkin juice bottle collapsed and empty. Right at that moment, your eyes widened at the realisation that Sebastian just drank your Revulsaroma. “No, no, no. You bloody, bloody idiot!” 

Quickly, you summoned water from an empty jar that you found nearby and gave it to Sebastian who was still fighting the disgusting taste stuck in his throat.

Gulping down the entire water in a matter of milliseconds, Sebastian attempted to catch his breath, “Your pumpkin juice— is expired, by the way.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, Sebastian!” You ran your fingers through your hair in distress. What was already a pretty stressful situation just got a whole lot worse. 

“What?” He was truly not getting your frustration. He gagged once more, recoiling whatever last bit of that disgusting liquid he's tasting.

“That’s not pumpkin juice!” You scowled and gestured abruptly.

“What is it, then? Poison?” Every muscle on his face seemed to tensed up, still.

“Why would you fucking drink that? It was meant for Leander.” You grunted.

His grimace was then taken over by disbelief for a moment, “Gods, killing Leander is a bit extreme, don’t you think? Even for me.”

“No—ugh,” You sighed heavily, feeling totally overwhelmed. Slumping on your station, you rested your head on it "This is bad. It's really bad."

“You're freaking me out. What is it?”

You lifted your head from the table, meeting his concerned gaze with a weary expression.

“It’s a potion called Revulsaroma. It is supposed to repel whoever drinks it.” You admitted.

Sebastian was still focused on getting the foul taste out of his tongue, but his eyes were quickly narrowed in the scrutiny of your last sentence, “And why exactly are you trying to repel Leander?”

Catching Sebastian's look, a twinge of guilt pricked at you. You winced inwardly, realising you'd never really spilled the beans to Sebastian about the whole Leander debacle. Partly because you didn’t want to give him the wrong idea and thinking that there was anything romantic going on between you and the Gryffindor boy. 

The line on your relationship with Sebastian had always been blurry, if you could be honest. You’re obviously friends—best friends—but at the same time, the chemistry between the two of you would be such a waste to stay as friends.

You’d occasionally exchange innocent flirting, teasing each other and bantering in a way that felt more than platonic. You couldn't deny the butterflies in your stomach that fluttered every time he smiled at you and the way you felt when he complimented you.

Things had been going very well lately, and you'd like to think you had a shot to turn it into something more.

But now, he’s consumed the one thing that was going to seal the chance you have with him. Because whatever feeling he was going to feel, the potion was supposed to make him feel it so strongly. 

The thought of losing Sebastian terrified you.

“That’s not what we’re supposed to be focusing on.” You diverted the topic and reached out to your book, checking for things to look out for. Your eyes trailed the ink that explains the detail of the potion.

You noticed Sebastian had shifted his weight from the corner of your eye, moving somewhat uncomfortable in his feet.

"But what does that mean for me?" he asked.

You sighed, trying to collect your thoughts. "According to the potion's effects, you're supposed to start feeling aversions towards me," you explained, gesturing towards the brewing cauldron with a frustrated gesture. "and I have no idea how to reverse it.”

Your voice was heavy with disappointment. The same emotion was written all over Sebastian's face. There was silence as you both processed the fact that there was no quick fix to this mess.

“So, I’m supposed to hate you? Just like that?”

“That’s kind of the whole point of the potion.”

Sebastian's eyes scanned the cluttered laboratory, a look of resignation settling over his features. "Well, this is just great," he muttered under his breath. Sebastian's complexion turned paler, a nauseous expression crossing his features, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Sebastian stood there, his hand pressed against his stomach, unsure if the wave of nausea washing over him was solely due to the potion's effects or the unsettling thought of hating you.

But then he felt his body teetering on the brink of collapse. You grappled his arm to provide support but his condition worsened in an instant and he started to fall backwards. Using every ounce of your strength, you were struggling to keep him upright because damn this boy was heavy. And when his weight eventually bore you down, you lowered him down gently.

There was no response even after you called out his name and shook his body. His breathing was laboured and you were panicking. You didn’t know the potion would be this strong.

Spotting a group of students who were passing by outside of the classroom, you called out to them for assistance. Sebastian was then taken to the infirmary and was given proper treatment by Nurse Blainey.

You had to awkwardly explain what caused the brunette to lose his consciousness. Given the fact that you were practising and using potions for non-study purposes, disciplinary action was necessary and you were required to attend detention tomorrow.

When you returned to your room that night, all you did was shift around in your bed. Spending the entire night thinking about Sebastian and how he will wake up in the morning hating you.

But for now, all you could do was wait.

 - 

When the sun rose, you were quick to get back on your feet and head towards the infirmary to check on Sebastian before breakfast started. But to your surprise, he was no longer there. Nurse Blainey said he woke up all energetic and there were no signs of any disturbance so she allowed him to get on with school.

You were slightly relieved to know that Sebastian was feeling better. Although the question of his feelings towards you remained unknown.

So you ventured on, heading to the Great Hall for breakfast. Moving along with a crowd of students who were also making their way to the venue you suddenly bumped into someone.

“Oh, sorry.” You glanced up to see it was no other than Sebastian, “Hey, I was looking for you.”

You’ve caused some traffic considering you abruptly stopped in the middle of a walkaway crowd. Some were bumping into you and muttered under their breaths in annoyance. It was a horrible time to be upsetting people—hungry and grumpy people.

So Sebastian dragged you away from the crowd. You were caught a little bit off guard at the sudden tug on your elbow. Your feet were almost stumbling around trying to catch up to Sebastian’s pace.

“Are you insane?” Was the first thing he said when you found a quiet little corner away from the bustling people.

Your stomach clenched. 

This was it. 

The memories you shared for the past two years dramatically flashed before your eyes— the adventures, the late night studies, the stupid unfunny jokes he made but you laughed at them anyway— fuck. 

This was it.. he hated you.

“Why would you tell Nurse Blainey the truth about everything?” He sounded quite aggravated. Unexpectedly, it was not for the reason you thought it would be— albeit he should be angry towards you for no reason at all considering the potion.

Your mouth gaped open but you were struggling to find the words. 

"You could've just said it was a bad batch for our assignment," He explained. "You didn't have to get detention for it."

“What?” You finally managed to sputter out.

“Blainey said she gave you detention.” He added, “I feel bad.”

You can’t feel bad for someone you hate unless they fall into lava and viciously die or something. Because to feel bad meant having empathy, and to feel empathy meant he cared, which meant he didn’t hate you and the potion never worked.

Right?

“So you don’t hate me?” You asked carefully.

His tensed brows gradually softened as realisation dawned on him. He was so focused on you that he never really thought of what the potion was supposed to make him feel.

“I don’t, actually.” He sounded relieved and as were you upon hearing his confirmation, “I guess the potion never worked after all.”

Relief washed over you like a cool breeze on a hot day. Though you started wondering if the potion didn’t work on Sebastian, it might’ve not worked on Leander either. Which meant you were back to square one, trying to figure out how to deal with his annoying arse. 

But it was a problem you didn’t want to think about too much at the moment. You were just glad your friendship with Sebastian remained intact despite the unfortunate mishap.

“So what did Blainey assign you to do?”

“She said Scribner has been fussing over some organising issues.” You grumbled, “She told me to give her some assistance after classes.”

“Yikes.” Sebastian said, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” You retorted, “Are you really feeling alright?”

“As normal as I can be.” He smiled reassuringly, “Though, you still haven’t told me why you were trying to repel Leander.”

“He just..” You hesitated for a moment,  annoys me.” 

Technically, you didn’t lie. Leander’s entire antics had been nothing but annoying to you. Sebastian only pursed his lips and nodded. Be that as it may, his eyes were looking at you rather dubiously. But he didn’t pry further.

–

After breakfast, you had some time to kill before class started. You found yourself seeking solace in the quiet lounge area near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. With a book on Revulsaroma in hand, you sought answers in its pages that you might have missed. It explained further about its history and the past research on this potion. As you delved deeper, a particular section caught your eye that described a crucial detail—

The Revulsaroma potion's effectiveness in repelling a drinker is contingent upon the absence of strong positive emotions towards the potion-maker. If the drinker harbours genuine affection for the potion-maker, the potion's repelling properties may be nullified or significantly weakened. This phenomenon is attributed to the potent influence of positive emotions, which can act as a counterforce against the potion's intended repulsion.

Before you could dwell on it further, Leander plopped beside you out of nowhere and casually draped his arm around your shoulder, interrupting your thoughts.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He greeted you with a smile so charming if he wasn’t so pushy about it you could see yourself giving in to his cheesy escapades. You subtly shifted away from the sudden proximity, hoping he would take the hint some time.

“Good morning, Leander.” You replied politely.

He seemed to be undeterred by your subtle attempt because he leaned in closer, “So, I was thinking, with the weather getting nicer and all, let’s take a trip around the highlands.” He sounded so enthusiastic for a suggestion that’s so inappropriate, “We could explore the beautiful scenery. My family has this cosy little cottage just outside of Keenbridge that we can use. What do you think?”

You scrunched up your nose because it sounded bloody ridiculous, “A bit intimate, don’t you think?”

“What’s wrong with a little bit of intimacy?”

“Nothing wrong with it, of course. If you’re a couple.”

“Oh, come on. You’ll love it.” Leander’s enthusiasm didn’t waver, if anything he sounded even more excited. 

“It’s too much—”

He interrupted you with a tone so persuasive, “Okay fine, how about just a simple Hogsmeade date, then?”

You sighed at his persistence. It’s really getting too much. 

“Leander, it’s really sweet but—”

Suddenly, your conversation was interrupted by a looming shadow casted over the both of you. Glancing up, you saw Sebastian standing there with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“I’m going to count to three, Prewett, and you are going to stand up and get your arse the fuck out of here.”  He demanded.

“What are you going to do about it if I don’t?” He was annoyed  by Sebastian's sudden intervention.

The brunette’s gaze was focused on the way Leander had his arms wrapped around your shoulder and the way his hand was caressing your arm at the same time. Then he stared dead into Leander's eyes, “You don’t want to find out.”

Somehow you found yourself caught in the middle of the sudden hostility. 

“Sebastian.” You warned him softly.

“Ignore him.” Leander didn't care for the threat. But Sebastian wasn’t having it and when Leander was ready to ignore him and continue his conversation with you, Sebastian grabbed him by his collar that it forced Leander to stand up, and he dragged the red haired boy away and slammed his back into a nearby pillar.

“I told you to fucking stand up and get out of here.” Sebastian scowled.

“Get your filthy hands off of me.” Leander attempted to shrug off Sebastian’s grip but it only grew tighter.

“Then you better get yours away from her.” His voice was so low and menacing. You had no idea what possessed him, because as aggressive as Sebastian could get he wouldn’t be so quick to resort to anything so recklessly physical unless it’s necessary— at least not anymore.

“Are you both out of your minds?” You stood beside the conflicting boys, “Stop being children or you will get into trouble.” The confrontation was drawing more attention from onlookers, and you could sense the tension rising. 

A crowd started gathering around to see what the fuss was about. Students nearby paused and turned their heads, curious about the commotion. Whispers and side conversations began to buzz through the group as they watched the confrontation unfold.

You felt a bit awkward with the sudden attention. The whole thing was getting more dramatic than you'd anticipated, and you just wanted to find a way to sort it out before it got worse.

“What is your problem, Sallow?” 

“You are the problem, Prewett. Can’t you take the hint?”

“It’s none of your business.” The Gryffindor boy was defensive— as anyone would be if someone just randomly shoved you into the wall and told you what to do. 

“It becomes my business when you decide to harass her.”

“You are making a scene. Stop it.” You warned them, hoping they would steer away from the conflict. But they were still too busy with each other.

“Trying to be a big hero, aren’t you? Protecting her?” Leander was clearly taunting him. Sebastian wouldn’t usually allow himself to be bothered by whatever nonsense Leander would do. But this time was different,  “She doesn’t need you. She can make her own decision.”

“And she did, when she said no.” Sebastian retorted sharply, “So back off.”

“If you are so worried about me taking her out then you should’ve asked her first. Don’t come here and act all heroic because you missed your chance.” Leander fired back, “If you weren’t such a coward—-”

There went the last cell of Sebastian’s brain that allowed him to think rationally when he decided to punch Leander in the face, sending the red-haired boy stumbling and his nose bleeding. 

“Sebastian!” You stepped in between them, trying to push Sebastian back behind the line he just crossed. His eyes were glaring and breaths were rather ragged from the anger, “What the fuck are you doing?”

After being punched unexpectedly, Leander's pride and dignity were hurt. He wouldn't tolerate being attacked without retaliating. He mustered all of his anger and frustration to punch Sebastian with all of his force. 

But before he could, Sebastian struck again, landing a second punch on his face. Leander stumbled backwards again, but this time he was quicker to get back on his feet and lunged forward, swinging his fists wildly. 

Sebastian was able to dodge a few of his blows, but Leander managed to land a couple of powerful punches on Sebastian's cheek. 

Sebastian stepped back, his face red from pain and anger. Now the two of them had no choice but to fight, and you had no choice but to look for some help. Luckily, it wasn’t long for you to reach Professor Hecat, because when you returned to the brawl, Leander was already pinned to the floor with Sebastian on top of him, landing more punches.

Professor Hecat swiftly casted a spell that immediately shoved both of them away from each other. 

The two boys stood there with battered faces and were later sent to the same detention as you.

You had no desire in conversing with idiots, so when the three of you shared the space on one of the library aisle, organising books, you gave all your might to ignore them, especially Sebastian.

You thought he’d left his impetuous behaviour back in the catacombs two years ago, but clearly you were wrong. The way you aggressively shoved books into places allowed Sebastian to notice that you were furious.

“I know you’re angry at me.” He said, breaking the silence.

“Oh really? Didn’t think you’d notice. I was being subtle.” You replied sarcastically.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what had gotten into me.” His voice was soft but outright, “You know I don't fight muggle-style.”

You remained cold. There was nothing about his apology that made you feel better. So you continued to ignore him and he tried to speak up again.

“Can we talk?” He pleaded but you ignored him. You picked up a stack of books and moved to the next aisle to shelve them in their proper places.

Sebastian followed you behind, not backing down, “I’m really, really, sorry.”

He seemed genuinely apologetic, but you were reluctant to give in. After all, his actions had caused this entire mess and resulted in the two boys getting detention.

You didn’t want to argue with him, but you couldn’t resist making a point.

“Tell that to Leander and his broken nose.”

Sebastian let out a scoff, “I’m not sorry about that.”

“Seriously Sebastian? You hit him first. He just reacted.” You turned to face him this time.

"He was harassing you," Sebastian defended himself, "I had to do something."

"Did you have to punch him in the face? Repeatedly?”

“Why are you defending him?” His tone was rising, "What do you expect me to do? Just stand by and let him flirt with you?"

“What is so wrong with that?”

“Because—” Then he stopped himself. Eyes flustered and flicked between yours like he was trying to gather his own thoughts. Then he let out a frustrated sigh,  “Leander is a self-oriented, self-indulgent, arrogant, selfish, insufferable jerk.”

You shook your head in disbelief and stared dead at him in the eye, “Well, right now it sounds like you were just describing yourself, Sebastian.”

Before you could say anything else, you left him alone in the aisle and this time he didn’t follow you.

—

It was Saturday morning, and while you had no classes to attend, you were still stuck with detention for a portion of the day. Not only did this eat into your weekend leisure time, but you also had to spend it without talking to Sebastian.

You sighed as you placed books somewhere in the corner of the library right where they belonged. 

Couldn’t help but think that spending your weekend somewhere in the castle, perhaps the undercroft, reading books and being alone together with Sebastian was where you belonged. 

Time sure felt lonely without his presence.

Then as if he could read your mind from miles away he showed up, “Do you like Leander?”

Shocked and confused by the sudden question you turned to find Sebastian standing at the end of the aisle.

His face was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, a visible reminder of the fight he had gotten into with Leander. A purplish bruise marred his cheek, and a small cut above his eyebrow was still fresh. Despite his battered appearance, his eyes were focused intently on you, filled with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“What?” You asked.

“I spent the entire night thinking about you. I thought maybe you like Leander, because why did you defend him so much yesterday?” He rambled.

You opened your mouth to say something but Sebastian wasn’t finished.

“But then I thought, if you liked him, why did you want to repel him with the potion?” He continued, “And why did you reject him when he asked you out? Five times, over the past month.”

You opened your mouth again, but this time every single word you have learned seemed to have fallen over your head because not a single thing came to your mind.

There were two things that surprised you.

One, Sebastian spent the entire night thinking about you.

Two, Sebastian knew that Leander had been asking you out.

And your brain did not know which one to stress about first.

“You knew about Leander?” You finally said.

“We share every class everyday. You don’t think I’d notice?” He replied with another question, “He wasn’t subtle about it either. Was I not supposed to know?”

You fell quiet, unsure of what to say next. The more you opened your mouth, the more you found yourself with nothing to say. 

Sebastian waited for your response, but when it did not come, he continued, “Why did you keep rejecting him?”

You shrugged, slightly flustered, “Simply because I don’t want to go out with him.”

“Why did you not tell me about him, then?”

“It wasn’t worth mentioning,” you replied, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Sebastian stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe your answer.

“It was pointless,” Your tone was rising slightly, “It’s not like I would ever date Leander. I wasn’t even giving him a second thought. So It doesn’t matter.”

Sebastian was silent for a beat before he spoke again. “It matters to me.”

Your pulse raced, and the air suddenly felt tighter.

Sebastian was staring at you, his eyes intent and penetrating. The silence stretched on, and you had to force yourself to look him in the eye

“Everything about you matters to me. You’re my best friend. We’re supposed to share everything, right?” He added, “Isn’t that what best friends do?”

As you stood there, guilt was eating you inside out. Your decision to leave him in the dark unexpectedly hurt him more than you thought. The look in his eyes was so unfamiliar you couldn’t pinpoint his emotion.

He took a step closer.

“Why do you care so much? It’s just Leander.”

“Don’t you get it?” He said softly, “It’s not about Leander. It’s about the fact that he’s been asking you out, flirting with you relentlessly, being so close with you.. in a way that is supposed to be only for me.”

You stood there, stunned. His words hit you like a bolt of lightning, and you felt a mix of shock and confusion wash over you.

Sebastian took another step towards you, his gaze steady and unbreaking, and it was piercing through your soul.

“It’s supposed to be just for me” He repeated the phrase as if he was talking to himself. The look in his eyes was intense, and you could feel how important this was to him.

A moment passed until you realised that you should respond. The longer you stayed silent, the worse it felt. So you spoke up, “Are you jealous?”

“Yes.” He simply replied.

His response set your body ablaze. You could feel your heart pounding in your throat.

“I was supposed to hate you, but instead I woke up that morning in the infirmary and I couldn’t be more sure that I am utterly and completely in love with you.” His voice dropped, “And when I saw you with Leander and hearing all the things that he said, I meant it when I told you I had no idea what had gotten into me but all I knew was every single cell in my body was on fire.”

You thought for sure your heart would explode as all of this sunk in. You had expected anything but a confession. Your heart was beating so fast and hard that you had to concentrate on breathing, or else it felt like you couldn't breathe.

“I spent the entire night thinking about all of the time we've spent.” He added, “I can't stop thinking about the sound of your laughter. The way you'd still genuinely laugh at the most unfunny joke I would tell. Or how your usual bright eyes would fall into a deep immersion when you read. And the way your delicate finger hovers over the edge of a page, turning it over.”

A smile tugged on the corner of Sebastian's lips as he recalled every little detail about you that only he would care about. The beat of your heart went faster with each syllable that came out of his mouth and every nerve in your body was shaking.

“I always wonder how the touch of those fingertips would feel on my skin,” There were so many things he wanted to say to you. Every detail of you that made him so desperately in love, “and how perfect your fingers would be intertwining with mine.”

For a moment, you were one-hundred percent sure this was all a dream. Because everything around you seemed so blurry and all of the sudden everything felt surreal. But when Sebastian took another step closer, and another until he was close enough to grab your hands and intertwine your fingers together, the haze dissipated. The way his touch alerted every single nerve in your body, you knew that this was real— he was real and he was in love with you.

The two of you stood there, inches apart, staring at each other with your emotions overflowing.

“We belong together.” You could see that his intensity and raw emotion was getting the better of him. His words were coming out quick and sudden, “I should’ve asked you out long before Leander did. Just another stupid mistake I made.”

He inched closer and closer until you felt Sebastian's breath on your lips, and your body trembled in anticipation. You took a deep breath and let yourself fall into the moment.

“You could’ve been too late, you know?” You whispered.

“Am I?”

You shook your head and smiled against his lips, “No, you’re not. I’ve been stupidly waiting for you.”

Sebastian's voice was soft and tender as he spoke again, “I’m glad we’re both stupid enough, then. And for many other things that make me glad you're finally mine."

“Even the potion?” You smirked.

“Especially the damn potion.” A smile spread across Sebastian's face.

Your breaths were laced with desire, and your thoughts went to the first kiss between the two of you were going to share. It felt surreal to have arrived at this moment that you had both anticipated for so long.

Your lips were close enough to touch. Your hearts were beating so loudly. And in this moment, it felt like a moment out of time.

When his lips met yours, the world seemed to melt away and everything else faded into the background. It was everything it had built up to be—hot and passionate and exciting.

You kissed him deeply and all was right with the world. Sebastian's hands wrapped around your back, and yours around his neck. 

Your senses were all focused on Sebastian, on the kiss and the way he made you feel. This was what you had been waiting for, and it was everything you dreamed of and more.

When you pulled away, your eyes were locked and you found yourselves smiling uncontrollably. There was nothing left to feel awkward or unsure of, and it felt as if a weight had been lifted.

Sebastian brushed his fingers through your hair. You were finally getting your happiness.

"I love you," He whispered against your lips.

“I love you, too.” you replied softly, brushing your noses together.

You spent the rest of the day making out in the deepest corner of the library, neglecting your detention. And when Madam Scribner found the two of you some time later, all dishevelled, you were granted another detention time.

But neither of you cared. Because it was all worth it.

In an extremely rare case, the Revulsaroma potion could have an unprecedented effect, completely opposite to its intended repelling nature. Rather than nullifying or weakening, the potion might paradoxically amplify and reinforce any existing strong positive feelings that the drinker harboured towards the potion-maker. Due to genuine and deep-seated love for the maker, the drinker might experience a surge of intense emotions that can be both overwhelming and consuming, such as, jealousy, protectiveness, and overwhelming affection.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.2k

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It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. “It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

[syoddeye]

Do you have any ghoap x reader recs???

imagine me dramatically opening a trench coat full of watches, but the watches are fics

my ghostsoap x reader tag - i've reblogged a lot of fic

scrap metal muzzle by @/391780

fields, doxies, demesne by @/pricetagged

don't leave me locked in your heart by @/ohbo-ohno

fruitful, dark hours by @/pricegouge

sirius c by @/ceilidho

@/peachesofteal's ghoap x reader list, i especially recommend the pit and simple math. very different stories, so check those tags.

[gothy-froggy]

Won’t you Join Me? II

Gamurra/gonna/cotta- (1300s-1500s dress)

Chemise- (undershirt)

Cottehardie- (fitted overgrown)

Giornea- (overdress, special occasion)

Cloaks/Mantles- (outdoor protection)

Houppelande- (floor-length overdress, flared sleeves)

Pialine- (functional high heels)

Hose- (socks, stockings)

Kirtle/Cotte/cote- (typically formal)

Doxy- a prostitute

Wod/wood/woodnesse- (mad, madness, insanity)

Tarhos Kovács x Noble!Fem!reader

Warnings: Violence, reader having ptsd symptoms, obsession, blood, Tarhos’ nature, not proofread, darker themes, most likely historically inaccurate, dialogue written to be easier to follow along

Summary: Tarhos has met the opposite of himself at a ball some time ago. He couldn’t stop thinking about the noblewoman whether he noticed or not. The night of his attack on the people of Portoscuro he had sent his faithful three to snatch her away and keep her remain within the castle he claims as his own. His obsession grows as much as her disdain for him and she sets a mission for herself: find and rescue Duke Toscano.

·:*¨༺ ♱ † ♱ ༻¨*:·

How many moons has it been since the night?

The night of anguish screams from the strangers, friends and relatives of Portoscuo. The night of when hungry, raging orange flames engulfed the homes of many and crawled onto the streets. The night of when human lives came to an end and pets scattered to safety, wondering if their owners would be alright.

The night of when a certain knight had given into his sins. For what use and for what purpose?

Darknesses of despair only seemed to grow bigger as the Duke of Portoscuro was nowhere to be seen. The snap and crash of collapsing buildings and thuds of collapsing people. Innocent people.

Guilty people as well, she thought as looked into the mirror. Ropes of her wet hair and white undergarment. Phantom touch of dirt and blood still lapped over her skin. And if listened closely there were the phantom noise of her people screaming as flames swallowed them whole, blades piercing through skin.

Never-mind that. Those thoughts will be visited later in the future. Just not now.

Her hand over her other to prevent from it trembling any longer, she stood and reached for the oil lamp. She owes Portoscuro to find its Duke, to find Vittorio. A low hum on the heavy door slowly opening as the light seeps into the hallway from her lamp.

The throbbing mass growing in the pit of her stomach. Last time she laid eyes upon Tarhos was when…

“We can’t do that now, can we? Sir wants you, my lady.”

The man cackled as he picked her, arm under her knees. Due to her struggling and fighting. He let out a growl before setting her down. His armored hand gripping her wrist tightly as he pulled her through the screaming and busy streets.

She was shoved lightly into something rough, hard and cold. The form of an armored man.

An armored man…

She looks up, seeing a familiar helmet and hair strands spilling out through its visors. Breathing so quiet it was as if it wasn’t there. And stood as still as statue, as well as tall of one.

“…Tarhos?”

Her gaze hardened and her jaw clenched. She needed to find Vittorio. He could put an end to this. Tarhos did this. She should hate him, want an end to him for this. Right? It was hard to tell if meeting Tarhos made her sacrifice a piece of morality or if she was tricking herself with what ifs.

What if it was a big misunderstanding? Maybe he had a reason?

No. She saw what happened. He ordered it and now Vittorio was gone. In the undergarments she sneaks into the abyss of the long hallways and big staircases. The only source of light being the fire she holds in her grasp.

It was quiet. So, so quiet.

The soft glow leading her inches in front of her until she reached the end of the wall she has been following. Gods, she didn’t even really have a plan. How could she? Everything was going too fast and the impulsive decision to what— save her Duke? Assuming that he was alive? She peaks her head over, minding the flame of light source and keeping it as a short distance. She didn’t see anything other then the blanket of darkness around her. Not a single noise either.

Her mind wasn’t quick enough to process the split second that had passed by. A calloused hand clamped over her mouth. A muffled gasp was suppressed too much to a make noises. She struggled, trying to fight back— attempting to use her elbows to jab at the person. Just to do something. She wouldn’t give up now. Not when she hasn’t even seen the Duke.

The hand pressed too firmly over her mouth. Her screams were muffled to quiet noises as she was pulled away from the corner. The lantern slipped through her fingers. The shattered glass dancing until their last moment on the cold ground. The warm limited light died down until the darkness engulfed it.

“She tried to escape, Sire.”

“A little dove eager to flap its pretty wings!”

“Should we kill her?”

“No! That’s his lady he fancies! A king needs his queen after all…”

“Quiet! She is awakening!”

Three voices hushed into silence as the woman stirred awake. Their intense gaze watched as she sat up from the disorienting slumber. But none of their gazes were as intense, are frightful as the one’s who eyes could not be seen. He sat across the scene before him in the blood stained armor with his trusty claymore by his side.

There she was. The woman—the noblewoman who had offered her hand to him. Danced under the moonlight despite her status. He had known then that she was different. His cloudy pale eyes’ gaze piercing through the brown strands of his hair that spilled out of his armor visor.

“What is the meaning of this,”

She narrowed her eyes, her tone rasped a little. Using her hands as support as she sat up. White undergarment night gown, hair highly improper. Unkept for all to see. Oh would she been shamed by her family and society for allowing men to see her in such a state.

“Why? Why have you done this?”

The fallen knight barely moved in the slightest. He was fascinated by the ruin of her image before him. My would she be so looked down upon for this very moment. Metal lightly clank as he stood. His protected plate armored hand holding the sides of her cheeks, forcing her to look up.

“You shall stay here. Confined by the walls of what is now mine.” He stated in a guttural whisper as he was inches away from her face. He wasn’t one to talk much, but it was important for her to know his expectations.

The very knight she had offered a dance to was responsible for what has happened to her own. Her very own family…her friends, her Duke. Gods where was her Duke?

“Unhand me,” She lowly barked her demand. Staring him down.

“Where is Duke Toscano? What have you’ve done with him?”

“That is not for you to know, my lady.”

“Come now, Durkos. Let Sire tend this moment.”

His faithful threes snickered. Watching things unfold. Tarhos stared at the woman. His heavy helmet lightly hit the ground. He tilted head, revealing his face.

Her throat tightened.

He looks…different. Less living they she had seen him last. His eyes faded, less color on his skin. He seemed colder.

“The Duke means what to you?”

“The duke means well to me as much as the others.”

“Think of him no longer. It will do you no good.” He gruff.

“And why so?”

“He does not matter. That is why.” The corrupted knight snapped. A huff of air through his nose. He rise, returning to his ruling chair.

“Return her to her chambers.” He ordered.

·:*¨༺ ♱ † ♱ ༻¨*:·

Having been tossed back into her room, she had thought in silence. She had wondered; could she slip through the window? It was a massive risk, a simple fall to her death or worse. Yet her windows were barricaded. She searches. Looking for something to use to perhaps break through. She needed to do something.

Luck was upon her. As the town’s temple had taken slight damage from the ambush. She grabbed the stone from the wall tucked behind the bed.

She stopped.

Footsteps. Deep footsteps making their way, creeping towards her chambers. She quickly stuff it backed into the wall before hurrying to the other side of bed before plopping down onto it. The heavy doors to her chambers draw out an opening.

“You will eat amongst us.” Tarhos’ monotone voice ordered. He took his step into the room, closing the door behind him. The silence only growing as neither of their gazes shifted away.

He stares down at her.

“You have not forgotten me. That I know of. You’ve spoke of my name that night.” Spoke in a lower volume. Taking note how her guarded gaze never wavered.

“You are different.”

“And I had thought that you were.”

“I am.”

“In the worst way to ever exist.”

The silence lingers.

“Do you remember of the night? You had offered your hand to someone below.” Tarhos questioned.

“Do you remember what you have said?”

“It holds no value any longer. You, are a monster—”

“I am.”

She only just now noticed how close Tarhos had gotten. The helmeted head near inches away from her very own face. The noblewoman didn’t need to see his face to know there was more he wished to say.

“You will eat with us.” He reminds. Creaks of the door closing from his departure left her thinking to herself. She will dine before she forces her way out of this chamber prison.

And that she did. Uneased and wary as she watched his three men. Alejandro was the loudest of the bunch. The servants were horrified. Servants that were once nobles themselves. That was obvious as the woman’s hand light shakes as she pours him another drink. Snatching her hand swiftly she lets out a soft gasp.

“Keep the drinks flowing, sweet.” A little hiss of his s’ can be heard.

Sander spoke from time to time. His voice had more base, more naturally projected than the others. Often teased and bothered by Alejandro.

Like Sander, Durkos was quiet. Only quieter. She understood. Stealth, brutal strength and then a mad man she suppose.

And then Tarhos Kovács. Truthfully the scariest of them all as it seems he’s his three men combined into one. And he’s a monster. Barely human.

The frightened servants served the feast. Once more, the Helmet came off. It only confirms that her eyes gave her reality and not an illusion. He just seemed so much less lively than the night she offered him a dance. It sickened her truly.

“I’ll eat up what’s on your plate if you don’t start eating, m’ lady.” Alejandro similarly like the old hag who was rumored of being a witch within the town. Wicked. Twisted.

“Eat.” He, the Knight, ordered.

Her nerves had made her hands tremble little. She began to eat as she stared at the plate. Chewing her food, she plans as she kept the appearance of doing anything but planning. But it quickly ends once she noticed Tarhos’ eyes refused to look away. Refusing to be studied, to be figured out she stops.

“We’ve heard the story of the two of you meeting.” Alejandro’s clawed fingers hits the table. His unnerving grin never fleeing from his face.

“A little noblewoman not only greeting a knight upon a ball, but offered a dance as well? Oh must your family be ashamed!” Alejandro slammed his hand on the table loudly with a wheeze induced laughter from his own cruel joke.

“Silence, Alejandro.” Durkos finally spoken up at the table.

“What? Tis nothing but the truth, is it?” Swinging his neck to the stiff noblewoman sat in her chair. His head cocked to the side.

“A wealthy little noblewoman has done the forbidden. Multiple in fact. She greets a knight, offered a knight a dance. And then what happened next? She exposes herself to a group of men in her undergarments and her hair down. She would be considered a doxy or slut.”

“Enough.”

Any laughter, spoke words or chewing one’s food quickly died down. Tarhos how stared Alejandro down with his cold, light fading eyes.

“Return to your chambers.” He orders to the unfortunate woman who was only just exploited for one’s crude joke moments before. She wasted no time. Fluttering away from the table and into her room.

The only sound that was made after was the shift of clothes of the jailer from Durkos jabbing him with his elbow before following behind his future queen. Ensuring she was retrieving to her room.

·:*¨༺ ♱ † ♱ ༻¨*:·

‘I best be careful,’

She thought as she stared down upon what could be an unfortunate end to her life. A fear lingering—inducing fall to her death as she was high above within the castle. Her delicate fingers bruised and bled from smashing the stone block against the stone wall and the barricaded windows to make her escape. Even from clawing in desperation and frustration.

Faith was put into the foggy memory she has of the castle. Hoping to find the dungeon and with Vittorio inside as well. It was on the side from where she was at. With carefully placed footing and hand placements, she goes on her way. Her own mission. Each progress, each set back and standing still was a high risk. For the building was not made for people to walk over it. Her already damaged fingers gripped tightly to the surface as she nearly slipped to her grave. Looking up at the sky, she prays. Believing in a single God, Gods or none at all, she needed the prayer and needed it to be heard. Small winces from the pain. Yet pushes onward.

She had remembered a small opening when she reached the other side where she can drop into. The garden from where she was at was near. Somewhere that will make her date with the ground easier and quieter. A hiss of pain seeped through between her teeth as she took her fall into the garden. Blood trickling down of a fresh cut on the right arm from a sharp corner of the estate. Pay no attention as there was a mission to complete.

She slipped through back inside of the walls. Searching and searching for the dungeon opening. On alert, the woman scans the hallway. Backing up to the corner to move into the next phase of the maze.

A sharp step back against the wall the stomach of a beast lingering in the darkness. Sander, keeping guard of the wing. She remains in the darkness like him. The brute turning his gaze away from new smaller hero. Hopping across the moonlit floor to return to the shadow.

His grunts and grumbles as he shuffles down the hallway. She follows behind within the shadow. He did a sharp turn shortly after one of her leaps into the shadow. His eyes lingering at the moonlit filled ground.

“Hrmph,” The noise huffed out gently as he turns around and takes the corner. The lack of dedication, attention to the shadows had left her unnoticed.

There, was the arch frame. The stone spiral flight of stairs descending into the darkness below. Small patter of her feet as she goes down the spiral stairs to the bottom.

“My lord,” She laid her eyes upon him. Battered and bruised. Her fingers wrapped around bars of his cell. His hand weakly gripping the iron barrier next to hers.

“What are you doing here?” Vittorio’s voice rasped from his neglect. He was a mess.

“I came for you, Toscano.”

“You need to leave.” He watches her as she scrambles to find keys. Not here.

“The jailer carries the keys. There is no way. You must go, my lady.”

She went back to him as she analyzed the bars. Using force to shake them, to see if there’s any weakness.

“Listen to me,” Toscano whispers his shout. His hand over hers.

“You must flee. It is too dangerous.”

“But the people need you—“

“He has taken over! There is no way of setting me free. Not without those keys.” He explains as his exhausted eyes looked into hers. His eyes traveled down to the gash on her arm.

“He did this?”

She looks at her arm.

“No, he did not. During my fall,” She breaths.

“He locks me in chambers. Forces me to eat among him and his men.” The woman continues to try to damage the bars.

“All of an offer I have made him. A dance.” She huffed. Growing frustrated by the second. The bars refusing to budge.

“Listen to me. Listen well.” Vittorio’s hand went through the space between bars as he gripped her hand.

“You must to leave. Find a way to break me free then so be it. But if you can’t, you must run. And never look back.” He warns. Intensity in his eyes made it very clear. No room for arguing.

“Now go.” The Duke squeezes her hand before letting her go. He watches her run up the stairwells.

Understanding one thing that matters the most in this situation; do not get caught near the dungeon. It would be unwise to do so. She swiftly escapes.

Alas, she was in the wing where her chambers await. She tightened her jaw as she placed her hand over her arm. The pain only really starting to hurt.

“You!”

A gasp disturbs the silence of the castle. The armored hand, similar to some type of clawed monster gripped her shoulder roughly. Those same piercing gaze and unnatural, sharp teeth grin staring down at her.

“Now how did you escape your chambers, little lady?” He eerily purred. His grip tightening and had forced her to let go of her arm. Revealing the cut.

His eyes narrowed slightly for a moment. Quickly turning into amusement. Imitating a cat enjoying playing with its prey.

“Well, well, hurt are we? How did that happen?” He clicked with his tongue before opening the door. Alejandro pat her shoulder twice and shoved her inside the room.

“Sit tight, m’ lady.” He closed the doors to her chambers. Standing there for a few moments she processes.

He was getting someone. Tarhos she assumes. Quick on her feet she hurries to the other side and begins hiding the loosen stones. Swept the crumbs of underneath the bed. There was slight damage to the barricades blocking the window. But perhaps they wouldn’t notice. Or have thought she had used practically anything in the room for its results.

Standing in front of the plush bed she looks at her lightly raised hands. Bruised yellow and purple. Small and big cuts. Bloody. Filthy. Once an elegant, smooth skin has been tainted by the world she had lived above. Forced to feel the life of a class hers saw as worthless peasants.

Harsh swing of the doors made her jolt. The looming man let his hands slide down as he walked towards her with the energy of an angered man. In his under clothes; simple long sleeves shirt and pants. Hair spilling down over his shoulders with his slightly clouded eyes glaring intensely through the strands of his dark locks.

Without saying a word and placed his calloused hand on her back and shoulder. Nearly throwing her on the bed with a low growl. He pulled her arm out, tilting it from time to time. Tarhos didn’t even bother to notice the nervous state that set in her eyes. He ordered Durkos and Alejandro for their assistance as Sander stood by the door as protection.

No comfort from the sting of the alcohol Alejandro passed to Tarhos. It was clear that he was fuming in some type of emotion. Which emotion though was undetectable. Durkos offered the bandages.

“Ow,” She winced softly. Tarhos briefly glanced up, continuing to wrap the wound moments after the exchange. His touch only softening a little. Hands moving to her other arm to see if there were other wounds that had went unnoticed. Being clear, Tarhos left with Sander and Alejandro. Durkos remained behind to clean her up. Making sure the minor cuts weren’t infected.

“We have underestimated you, my lady.” A slight muffled voice lures her out from her dream and back to reality.

“In all respects. We believed that you would be…standard for your class. Clearly that is not the case.” The cloth wiping against her cheek to gather the filth. He gets up. Wandering around the room, eyes scanning the room. He stood in front of the window and faced the stone wall.

He lingers longer.

Turning his gaze to hers. Failing to sense any unease from the woman. He went back to the window, fingers brushing over the dented barricades.

“Rest soundly, my lady.” He pushed one door open and made a quiet exit. Now alone in the room, she lies in the plush mattress on top of its covers. Staring up at the ceiling.

It started with a sniffle. Then the sting of the corners of her eyes. Her porcelain mask finally shattered as her sobs spilt from her mouth. She threw her good arm over eyes before resting the hand on her forehead as she cries.

Her town was destroyed. Family was gone, friends’ fate being unknown. Her Duke thrown into the dungeon and clearly tortured. And she was now kept by the monster against her will. The noblewoman now wonders if there even is a chance, a way out of this nightmare.

·:*¨༺ ♱ † ♱ ༻¨*:·

Fresh sunrise lights the room, warming the stone made room. The lady’s nightgown rests as waves spilt on the covers as she remained a slumbering state. Her eyes opening as a flower blooming in the lenten. Slight puffy eyes from her weeps of the night.

A few knocks upon the door made her sit up in her bed. She got under the covers. A servant slips through the door and held her hands.

“Good marrow, my lady.” The woman greets. Just as the servant from last night her hands trembled lightly. She grips on the other to keep them steady.

She knew that voice.

“Rosuccia?”

The brunette looked up. Rosuccia, her dear friend was alive. Perhaps she wasn’t alone in this castle. The noblewoman got out of her bed and wrapped her arms tightly around her. Her face over her shoulder, against her neck.

“Gods, you’re okay,” She whispered, sniffling as Rosuccia places her hands on her back.

“Oh thank the gods that you are well!” She pulled away, holding her hands in her.

“When the others spoke of a woman, I did not think it would have been you.” Brushing her hair away from her face.

“I was sent to help you dress for the day.” The two decided on a dress before dressing her. Fixing the fabric and going to her hair, Rosuccia spoke up once more.

“There are only so little of us who were spared. The others are either tormented or killed.” She gathers her hair, braiding it. Adding ribbons within her hairstyle.

“My dear friend. He wishes to wed you.” She reveals, causing the noblewoman to freeze. The brunette places the braided hair into a bun and turn her to the mirror. The reflection revealed the dress. They were the most finest fabrics, biggest headpieces, lovely of patterns and colors.

The cotte; a complimenting color, the train following behind her, buttoned, the low neckline and sleeves fell down over her knuckles.

“A special occupation?” She questioned her dear friend. Rosuccia guides her to sit as she placed the socks over her feet. Placing her heeled shoes over before guiding her to rise.

“He requests for you to be in finer clothing.” She called out her name as she stopped at the door, looking back. A nervous smile forced upon her face.

“Please, be careful.” She opens the door as she waits for her to exit. Silence accompanied them on the walk down the long halls. Nothing dreads more than the large doors leading to the throne. Entering and having to walk closer to the knight felt like a ball chained to her body, dragging and slowing her down.

Tarhos’ eyes lingered through his helmet as he rose from the throne he now claims. He didn’t need to speak to know he was expecting her to follow. Into the garden, she stood by his side tensely. His armored hand taking her cheek into his palm. Cautious to not bother her peace.

“You will be able to eat soon enough.” Reporting as they cease their walking into the garden. The metal was cold, but his warmth by soul—rather what little he had less—made her fall into the touch for a brief second.

He caused it all.

She reminds herself. She restrains herself and pulls away from his touch.

“Why am I here?”

“To be my wife.”

“What?”

His hand went to the curve of her neck connecting to the shoulders.

“You are to be my wife.”

Rosuccia wasn’t lying. Her hell hasn’t even begun. He loomed down towards her face as she hit the stone structure and the her back.

“I have chased a feeling for my entire life I had once felt.” He lifted the hand up to her cheek. To others it would be a lover cupping her cheek. But the reality is a twisted sense of power.

“I want you to be there. I will wed you.” Tarhos demands in a stern, low voice.

The lady shoves his hand away as her brows twisted with fury and disgust.

“You set fire to my town. Destroyed my house, slaughtered the people, tortured our Duke and you stand before me expecting me to agree to marrying you?” She jabs a finger at his chest.

He could hurl her. Strangle her, beat her to death, use his claymore to strike her down if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t. He stands there and let her.

“You. Are like no other.”

“I should have never offered you that dance.”

“This isn’t about the dance.” Tarhos had a hand slither to her torso. It had rested on her ribcage.

“You fucking wod!” She shouts towards him.

“You’re mad. Absolutely mad…” The woman pushes him back to escape the stone wall. No efforts granted freedom from his grasp.

“What happened to you?” Tarhos didn’t respond. He releases her. His hands returning to his sides.

“I remain the same. That I have always has.” He took a flower within the garden. Half were ruined by the brutal attack. He placed it in her hair. A gesture more out of possessiveness, not love.

“Despise me all you wish. I will not let you go, and make you my wife.” He rolls up her sleeve to the right arm. His hands going over the bandage ghostly. The helmet tilted down. Expressing how much he wonders what had caused the injury.

“Come,” Tarhos guides her back into the grim castle. There within the room of an office were servants being watched by the Carnifex. Laying out a dress that was far more than appropriate for wedded bride. It was perfection. The houppelande of sorts filled with colors. Accompanied by fur. She could only imagine the jewelry that will soon come into play will enhance its beauty.

She stood still as she stares at the dress. Failing to notice the Knight snuck behind her. He raised her hand up, slipping a ring over her fingers.

“You will rule beside me. And you will be my wife.”

…

..

.

·:*¨༺ ♱ † ♱ ༻¨*:·

A/N: Apologies for disappearing within writing for about 1-2 years so I wanted to make this one longer. It really can be my internal critic, but I think I’ve done much better writing. I also had to redo so much for getting the timeline lore incorrect so this kind of made me frustrated, haha. Hopefully you enjoy and maybe there will be a chapter three!

[cosmicpearlz]

yours for the time being |5|

summary: what happens when your academic rival of years proposes an offer of fake dating? pure chaos.

pairing: gryffindor!jude bellingham x slytherin!reader

a/n: it’s taken a while for me to write this but thank you for being on this series journey with me! enjoy my loves <3

a typical saturday night. aka the day where the famous slytherin parties take place. most nights it was for winning matches and others, it was just for the hell of it. the common room decorated in various halloween decor. the group deciding last minute to have a costume party. taking the idea from the muggles and what they do to celebrate the holiday.

"you look smoking hot," pansy whistles at you, as you made your way downstairs. your costume being a vampire. a mini black dress and a black velvet cape with dark red platforms to match the fake blood that dripped from the side of your lips.

"so do you love!" you clapped for her sexy cat costume.

"i think we all look good," draco chips into the conversation.

"you're literally dressed as a wizard. talk about no originality." draco rolls his eyes at theo's statement.

"simplicity is way better than over doing it."

"you didn't put any effort into it," blaise says and stares at the slytherin boy as if he had grown two heads.

"haters are my motivators," draco said, as he walked away to finish putting more snacks and drinks out. it was amazing how much alcohol you guys managed to sneak in.

theo dressed as cupid. supporting the red wings and having the heart bow and arrow. blaise was dressed as beetlejuice. even having his hair spray green and having the exact face paint. you loved that your friends went all out. well minus draco.

"let's pregame this shit and see where the night takes us," pansy yells, not that she had to, but she wanted to get her point across. you guys cheered and each grab a shot to throw back. you missed the way theo, blaise, and pansy smirked at each other. it was going to be a long night.

-

jude felt stupid. why had he let his friends convince him to go to a slytherin party. the gryffindor boy hadn't spoken to her in weeks and now they both were going to be in the same vicinity. 'maybe we still would have been together if i didn't hurt her feelings'. is all he could think about. maybe he would've been by her side right now and maybe just maybe they would've had cute matching costumes. the boy was dressed as a vampire. the top hat and the stupid cape. he decided to put fake blood on the white button up shirt instead of having it on his face.

"you ready mates?" harry shouts for jude and ron. the other gryffindor boy dressed as captain america. ron dressed as spider-man.

"i'm ready to drink to my heart's desire."

"jude, you made that sound incredibly depressing," hermione says, coming down from her side of the common room. she dressed as a fairy. a matching costume that she wanted to do with luna.

"well lets get to it. don't wanna be late," jude mumbles, already walking towards the common room door. he was nervous to see her. what costume would she be wearing? is she as miserable as he is? did she even miss him? will she be wearing that sweet vanilla perfume that drives him crazy? his mind runs a million thoughts.

-

the party is in full swing. everyone holding a cup or two and dancing to the music. your friends had been sneaking glances at each other all night. not that you were really paying attention. too focused on the guy in front of you. a handsome ravenclaw that was about jude's height. maybe a little shorter than him. you know what they say, to get over someone, you must get under someone new. although, you were comparing the boy in front of you to the boy that secretly held your heart.

"so, i found it crazy that we were able to spot a group of doxies. in the middle of spring, right before-" every word fell upon deaf ears, as you watched harry, ron, hermione and jude walk in. suddenly, you felt sick. matching costumes with the one person who you avoided. ever since that day, nothing was normal.

"excuse me," you didn't wait for him to respond, walking away immediately to get a drink. taking a red cup, you poured yourself a drink and downed it. going for a second before pansy stops you.

"you alright love?"

"jude is here."

"why don't you wait in our dorm room? just take a breather really quick," you nodded and maneuver your way around dancing bodies. pansy's eyes follow your movement until she couldn't see you anymore. only then did she wink at harry and the plan was in motion.

"mate, can you help me find something?"

"like what?" jude raised an eyebrow at harry. a drink in his hand, while he heavily eyed his friend.

"i think i lost my ring."

"we just got here and you weren't wearing a ring."

"do have to spell it out for you?"

"what are you talking about?" harry dramatically sighs.

"i had a one-night stand with this slytherin girl and i left my ring in the room. i need to get it now while we're here," harry lied. a damn good lie if you asked him.

"you're impossible mate, lead the way," jude nods his head at harry to take the lead. harry leads the two of them upstairs. catching the eye of hermione and pansy, he slightly nods. step two was officially underway.

-

you sat on your bed, twirling the drink around in the cup. platforms and cape long discarded. what were you suppose to say to him? how much you truly were sorry? that you wished you could take it all back? how ironic that the minute you try to push him away and out of your mind again, he shows up. like he always did. even before the fake dating. he was a pest that wouldn't budge. a stupidly handsome pest.

"it should be in this one." you heard a muffled voice speak from outside the door. the door swings open and jude is pushed inside. you gasp quietly and sit up straighter.

"y/n?" jude stutters out in confusion.

"hi," you softly spoke. the two of you turn attention to the door that was slammed shut. a realization washes over you.

"jude open the door!" you hop off the bed and walk towards the closed door. he turns to pull at the knob, and it was no use.

"it won't open."

"and it won't open until you guys make up!" pansy yells over the loud music. "or make out! whichever comes first."

"no pressure though," ron says. 'no pressure my ass' you mumble to yourself.

hearing the footsteps grow in distance, you knew that they were long gone. you sigh and sit right back on the bed. jude stands there, unsure of what to do. only then does he realize the matching costumes. his heart swoons and breaks all at the same time.

"you're welcomed to sit," you pat the spot next to you. no use in prolonging the situation. it was now or never at this point. jude sits on the bed, making a point to sit at the end of the bed.

"matching costumes, aye?" he looks at you with a lopsided grin. it didn't reach his ears like it normally would've it, but you found it endearing anyway.

"yeah. maybe we're connected in some way," you said, while looking down at your lap. picking lint off your dress that wasn't anywhere to be found.

"like soulmates?" you lift your head meeting his gaze. oh, how you've missed those chocolate brown eyes.

"yeah maybe."

the silence takes over the room again. internally, you were panicking. what do you say? would it be worth it?

"soo."

"soo," he mimicked you. something that you both were used to. you let out a breathy chuckle.

"how are you and lavender?" turning your eyes back to the bottom of your dress. missing the way jude looks at you as if you were crazy. he felt somewhat offended.

"me and lavender? what are you on about?"

"i seen you guys," you shrugged your shoulders. the gryffindor boy scoffs.

"what are we doing here y/n? you put your friends up to this?"

"why would you think that?"

"you're trying to rub it in. well congratulations, you win," jude's voice seemly increasing by the minute. it left you dumbfounded.

"what could i possibly be rubbing in? i'm in the same boat you are!" your own voice getting louder as well.

"yeah right. i doubt you feel anything like the heartless slytherin you are." ouch.

"that's not true!"

"yes, is it. you don't care about anyone but yourself. you've proven that long before." jude was being mean that this point. his yelling and the hatful words that spewed from his mouth.

"that's not true jude! you're absolutely wrong."

"how can i be wrong? huh?"

"because i care about you, you fucking idiot," you yelled, which sends him into silence.

"you're the one that broke it off."

"yeah, because you've hurt my feelings and i don't want to continually go through that."

"i've apologized for it and i spilled my heart out to you. i told you that i would continue to apologize for it." tensions rising once more.

"right right, you're soo apologetic that you turn around and call me a heartless slytherin who only cares about herself," you crossed your arms and faced the wall. you refuse to cry in front of him. jude sighs and looks down at his lap.

"i was just upset. i didn't mean it," jude says in a quieter tone.

"so, every time you're upset with me, you'll throw how slytherins act like this in my face? how i'm a person that feels nothing?" you looked into his brown eyes with glossy eyes.

"y/n i care about you so much that it scares me. i don't know how you feel because you won't let me in. that's all i'm asking-"

"jude i like you too! is that what you want to hear? i hate that i hurt you but you have to understand that i was protecting myself. i've spent so long building walls to guard my heart and here you come. in a few months, you've managed to-"

jude doesn't let you finish, instead placing a hand on your cheek and bringing you in for a kiss. it was tentative until you start kissing him back. the boy's confidence boosts, and he slides his other hand to your waist. pulling you closer to him. you grab the collar of his cape and press into him more. lips crushing together. you missed the way his lips felt on yours.

he bites your lip, asking for permission. you allowed it, opening your mouth just enough for his tongue to squeeze through. without breaking the kiss, you straddle him. one leg sitting on either side of jude's thigh. naturally, his hands find your waist again. tongues exploring each other and fighting for dominance. the kiss comes to stop, hearing something break from the other side of the door. pulling away, you both looked at each other. it wasn't long before you guys share laughter.

"i've missed you," jude's laughter quieting down to confess to you. you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug and placing your face in the crook of his neck.

"i've missed you too." jude's arms hug your body tightly, sending warmth to spread throughout you. his head leans into yours and places a kiss onto your head.

"so, what do we do now?" you lift your head to face him, questioning where you go from here. jude gazes into your eyes, a small smile etching its way to his lips.

"we try. think you can manage that?" rising an eyebrow in a teasing manner. you grinned back at him.

"yeah. i think i can manage that."

"to that i have one thing i want to ask you."

"which is?"

"will you officially be my girlfriend? before you answer, know that we need to have open communication and i need you to let me into that pretty little mind of yours," jude says, ending his sentence with playfully pinching your side. you laughed and pushed his hand away.

"let me think about that."

"y/n."

"i'm kidding. of course i'll be your official girlfriend." jude smiles again, pulling you in for another kiss. you knew then that you guys were gonna be just fine. as long as you had each other.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

This is the snippet of the Magic Lords AU. Note: This AU leans into several common tropes in the HP community, and commonly with the ‘Indy Harry’ part. However I wanted to give it a little pizazz in my stuff. Sort of. The reasoning behind the potions and such are not greed or power. It’s not explained here but it is in the future. I also wanted good Ron and Hermione cause I love the golden trio. As well: I had to much fun and this is a very rough draft meant to get my thoughts in order.

Three adults hurried into a room, one was South Asian with green eyes, and long black hair kept in a ponytail. Another was a tall, pale skinned freckly redheaded man. The only woman had black skin and curly hair.

“We don’t have much time,” Ron said as he shut the door behind them. He glanced out the window to see dead corpses shambling about in the street. “Percy can keep them distracted but he’s the only Reaper in England right now, they’ll know who did this.”

“We can do it,” Hermione said, dumping her bag onto the table in the room. “Three cores, three wishes.” She listed. “Three hearts, three souls, three goals.”

“Destroy Voldemort earlier,” Harry said.

“Fix the Ministry,” Ron stated.

“Save the world,” Hermione nodded. She began arranging the items in front of them. A shard of the Mirror of Erised, a doxie wing, a piece of dementor’s cloak, a phoenix feather, a unicorn tail hair, a rune stone, a pinch of time sand, a potion bottle with three strands of hair twisted together glowing pink, a owl feather and three vials of blood. The group moved to grab their items, sitting around the table. It already possessed the right circle and runes on top, with other things added.

“One way trip,” Harry said to them. “You sure about this?”

“This world is dying,” Hermione replied, holding his gaze. “It’s been dying for years but no one listens because the Light won, and everything is well. The balance has been toppled to far.”

“We can change things,” Ron agreed. He looked at the vial in his hand. “A lot of things…” he swallows. Harry looked at his partners, feeling his heart warm.

He’d been ready to do it himself, take on the burden. But Hermione stopped him, told him she knew what he planned and wouldn’t let him do it alone. They were stronger together, she reminded him. Three cores of magic, light, dark and grey.

It was only later, when they began researching, that they discovered their soulmate status. It was a shock, and led to them all taking purging potions. Which only led to more horrifying discoveries they raged over.

It made their plans solidify more.

“Lady Magic, Sir Time, Mix Death,” Hermione began chanting. Ron and Harry joined in, calling upon the neutral entities of magic. “We beg thy boon, we ask for help.”

“The world is lost, magic is dying,” Harry said.

“We have lost,” Ron said.

“Please let us turn it back,” Hermione said, reaching out to drop a phoenix feather on the table. “I am Light Cored and offer this.”

“I am Grey Core,” Harry said as he reached out to place the vial with hair ontop of the feather. “I offer this.”

“I am Dark Core,” Ron said strongly, his eyes hard as he reached out to place the mirror shard onto the table. “I offer this.”

On it went, repeating the motions until Hermione had laid down the unicorn hair and rune stone, followed by Harry with the time sand alongside the owl feather. Ron followed with the dementor cloak and doxie wing.

“We ask, we please,” Hermione said as the table began glowing. “We offer up what we need.”

“Those who have harmed us, we have taken from.” Harry said strongly.

“And we offer it up for judgement,” Ron said as he opened the vial of blood to pour on the table. “Molly Weasley, mother of mine, who attempted to force my core to change. Who slipped potions to me in an attempt at stopping my Dark Magic from rising. Who tried to stop me from being with my soulmates. Who harmed my Reaper brother similarly. I offer her blood.”

“Monica Granger,” Hermione said in a strong voice, “Mother of mine, who lied about her heritage as a Squib. Who hated I was born with magic she could not use, and whom chose to slip potions to me in an attempt to harm and control. Who blocked my love for both soulmates out of an ideal of proper. I offer her blood.”

“Ginny Weasley,” Harry said, pouring the blood out. This was the tricky one. Ginny’s harm to him was much, but compared to others it was a weaker claim. If Snape was alive, his blood would have been much better. “Who potioned me to love her, who attempted to force me into the light, who tried to kill my soulmates, who lied and has blamed me for everything, I offer her blood.”

The table glowed and then-

Darkness.

Harry was the first to wake, sitting up to find that they were in the room they’d vanished from. But it was different. Much dustier, and filled with things. One of which was a stack of papers he picked up, given they had his name on them. Sort of.

Harrison Jacob Pervell stared at him from the front and he began flicking through them, his mind somehow understanding what happened.

The three beings they begged a boon from had gone a step more to give them identities. Harrison Pervell was a 27-year-old wizard who had been educated in Canada. Not under the ridiculous Ministry that the British liked to think was the only one there but under the Canadian Parliment of Magic. He'd attended the Great Lakes School of Magic, and had apparently gotten a masters in history, defense and Transfiguration.

Wild.

A groan had him glancing to find Hermiome lifting her head, and Harry paused. Her face was different, a higher set of cheekbones and a rounder chin.

“You look different…” Harry said.

“Magic changed us so we could exist with our younger selves. Our souls were already different after our binding, and it never happens the same way twice… how… oh…” Hermione blinked as she picked up her own set of papers. Magic obviously had helped with that knowledge.

Ron woke up last and the three began trading the information.

Hermione was now Hermione Arabelle Zabini, the line her mother had been from. She'd also gone to Great Lakes. She had a mastery in potions, runes and arthimacy.

Ron was Rognvaldr Odin Weasley, who also went to Great Lakes. His masteries were in charms, Dark Magic and Divination.

“Blimey, we got what we need.” Ron said with a grin. “The Weasley line in Canada was the one that held the Lordship, left cause Dark Magic was getting a bad rep in England.” He told the others, eyes glittering.

“Fun to shove in Molly’s face,” Hermione said viciously. They all traded dark looks.

After Voldemort died, they’d left for Australia to find Hermione’s parents. They found that Monica murdered her husband, and was in jail. It was the beginning of the end. They returned heartbroken to England, only to be launched into fighting to prevent all werewolves from being killed. Stopping anyone from being sent to prison just because they were Dark.

They’d screamed until hoarse, fighting those who they fought alongside once to protect people. No more war, no more discrimination.

Not everyone agreed, and this was when the beginning of the end happened for them. Hermione caught Ginny slipping a potion into Harry’s food, and told Harry. They’d gotten the proper tests done and…

It unleashed a horror.

Harry was love potioned every single day since he was sixteen, by Ginny. She was brought to trial for it, but unfortunately was let go with a slap on the wrist because no one considered it that bad. More so since they’d never had sex or gotten married.

Molly certainly thought so, and her words made the trio very nervous. Nervous enough to get tests and purges done.

Ron discovered his mother had been feeding him potions designed to block Dark Magic, preventing his magic from manifesting properly given his core was naturally dark. Plus, he found out his mother purposely gave him a faulty wand in their first year to force his magic into a Light path. His wand later on was chosen by his mother for the same thing. He was Dark, unicorn hair did nothing but limit him.

The confrontation with Molly about it, followed by the rest of the Weasley children being tested caused a large stir in the Wizarding World. People hated Ron for being Dark, and began talking about striking his name from the list of heroes. Many praised Molly for her actions. Ginny sure did with her loud praise for trying to ‘stomp out the blemish on their family’.

Only the male Weasleys didn’t. Bill was disgusted and moved away from England entirely to France with Fleur. George stopped going to the Burrow at all. Charlie left for Romania without a backward glance. Arthur left the Burrow to move in with Percy, who was also a victim of Molly’s ideaology. In a way, even worse. He was a Reaper, a person naturally attuned to Necromancy. Molly had him so heavily potioned, it was a wonder he was sane.

“We should have…” Ron had once tried to say, but what could he say? The knowledge of Core Suppression was little in England. It wasn’t illegal like it was in many other magical societies. No one knew the emotional issues it caused, how Dark Magicals who had their magic forced to attune to Light Magic would have trouble with empathy or the regulation of their feelings. No one knew Light Magicals got more and more emotionless, cold and unfeeling. No one knew Grey Magicals got more lost in their minds, their dreams dazed.

No one knew.

The potions to also have Ron overlook Harry though, that got some backlash. Not much, given people were convinced Ron was evil for his core. But there were a few people disgusted and disturbed Molly thought that the idea of a soulmate trio was wrong. Polyamorous relationships were welcome in the Wixen World, and to know Molly didn’t approve was baffling.

Similar potions were in Harry and Hermione, but their results had other things. Such as Hermione discovering her mother had been trying to steal her magic with illegal potions to siphon them to a rune stone that her mother would use to give herself magic. Of course it wouldn’t work- it was impossible to move magic to another person. But it weakened Hermione considerably. Plus, potions that caused Hermione to have horrible periods, a curse to have bad teeth, the list went on.

It was how Hermione learned the truth of her mother’s status as a Squib. Blaise Zabini, cousin to Hermione, was disgusted by his family who had allowed it. He wasn’t a pleasant person, but he firmly believed that if Hermione had magic and was family she should have been protected more.

The potions to hyper focus on learning, potions to make her more emotional- those came from another person. A person Harry was affected by most.

Severus Snape.

Potions to limit magical power, potions to limit mental strength, potions to make someone have temper fits- the list went on what was found in Harry. But all were connected to the potions master. A confrontation with his Headmaster Portrait, spelled to only admit the truth, revealed Snape had long since figured out about Horcuxes after examining the cup Bellatrix had and the Diary. He knew Harry would die, and cared little about it. Snape wanted Harry dead.

He wanted the child dead for dating to survive when Lily didn't. The man just wanted revenge on the world itself as well, for mistreating him. Or how he viewed it.

Harry couldn't deny the man had a bad past. Abuse from his parents, being bullied as a teenager- it was awful. But his actions were inexcusable even before you considered the potions. Willingly working with Death Eaters only to betray them when the woman he was obsessed with was in danger. Spending time with people who cursed others ‘just for a laugh’ was as bad as James Potter and the other Maururders. Bullying children out if pettiness, threatening to murder a pet- all of these were things that laid on Snape’s shoulders.

[shiyorin]

Time to silly headcanon

Primarchs but they are in Hogwarts Au

Because everyone need Hogwarts au :v

Lion El'Jonson 

Top marks in everything but has a resting bitch face

Secretly a big softie but acts aloof

Skips class to nap in the forest

Once stupefied a professor but claims it was an accident

They think he is Slytherin but he is Gryffindor

Fulgrim

Slytherin prefect, always flawlessly styled hair and robes

Always changing hair and outfit more than Luna Lovegood

Hosts lavish potions parties in the Room of Requirement

Already opened a beauty salon in Hogsmeade on weekends

Perturabo

Ravenclaw but always in detention for arguing with teachers

Could single handedly build a new Hogwarts over summer

Always scribbling dark fortress designs instead of notes

Enchanted the suits of armor to attack people who irritate him

Jaghatai Khan

Always late to class because racing brooms in the halls 

Sends letters via hawk instead of owl

Hufflepuff seeker, fastest broom in the game

Enchanted his motorcycle to fly

Leman Russ

Gryffindor team captain, chill dude until someone mentions Slytherin

Parties in the Forbidden Forest weekly

On a first name basis with the giant squid

Sneaks hip flask of firewhiskey into class

Rogal Dorn

Hufflepuff prefect, stickler for the rules  

Enchanted the suits of armor as a personal army

Constructed multiple secret bases around campus

Reported Peeves to the headmistress at least weekly

Konrad Curze

Not actually a student, caretaker is convinced he's a ghost

Lurks in shadows muttering about "justice"

Won't stop leaving creepy notes in people's bags

Has never been seen in daylight

Sanguinius 

Gryffindor seeker and favorite student of professors

Runs free tutoring for anyone struggling in class

Tries to help everyone even if they’re mean to him

Secretly a vampire but hasn't told anyone yet

Ferrus Manus

Technically should be in Ravenclaw but hangs with Gryffindors

Top of the Transfiguration class

Always transfigures things by accident when angry

Stockpiles spare parts in the Room of Requirement

Angron

Kicked out of every class for flying into homicidal rages 

Secretly takes care of magical creatures in the forest

Pranks people by putting curses on bludgers

Weekly visits to St. Mungo's due to "outbursts"

Why is he Hufflepuff???

Roboute Guilliman

Head Boy and Ravenclaw prefect patrols the halls excessively 

Top marks in every class and pays attention except Prophesy

Binds rule books to smack people who break curfew 

Daily schedules include color-coded classes and chores

Mortarion 

Constantly skipping herbology to smoke strange plants out back 

This Slytherin always smells like a wet grave and fungi

Hoards Doxys and bowtruckles in the damper closets 

Enchanted his robes to be self-cleaning but they’re still grimy

Magnus the Red

Runs the wizard chess club and gobstones club

Has a psychic duel with Professor Trelawney weekly 

Secretly teaching advanced magic to other houses in the Room of Requirement

Uses crystal balls to gaze into the future of quidditch matches

Somehow became the most hated Ravenclaw

Horus Lupercal

Charismatic Gryffindor prefect and heir to Dumbeldore

Talented chaser who carries the quidditch cups every year

Top marks but still finds time for partying with Slytherins

Already has several Hogsmeade businesses lined up for after graduation

Lorgar Aurelian

Runs Slytherin religious cult meetings in the Forbidden Forest

Always gets plucked from class for excessive proselytizing 

Has enchanted murals all over the school of super holy scenes

Constantly blessing other students whether they want it or not

Vulkan

Hufflepuff chaser, always lets the snitch go 

Best at Care of Magical Creatures, even the dangerous ones love him

Secretly bakes the best cookies in the kitchens 

Constantly in the hospital wing due to "potions accidents"

Corvus Corax

Introverted Ravenclaw, knows all the hidden passages

Best student in Defense Against the Dark Arts

Skips classes to research advanced transfiguration

Owl delivery? Nah he climbs in your window

Alpharius/Omegon

No one knows if they're the same person or twins   

Always seen disappearing around corners and through secret passages

Top marks in Potions but no one knows which one is which

Pranks people by polyjuicing as other students

[pricetagged]

Navigation

Hello, welcome. You can call me Báir, Báirseach, pricetagged, tagged, whatever (she/any) (: Summaries, content info. and links to Ao3 can be found by clicking the titles below the cut.

All COD (this is a sideblog. Main username, likes, follows are different).

18+ only MDNI.

I post dark content (labelled and tagged) as well as other.

Please do not repost or feed to AI.

Will write for reader/all the 141 boys, and possibly some nikolai and nikto and others.

Will not write: underage, necro, scat, beastiality, infidelity, animal or child abuse. May add more as I think of it. Anything else is fair game, though (see dark warning above).

Hopefully, it goes without saying, but no racism, classicm, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc., etc.

Asks are open - feel free to send a message.

Anons: 🐙👻

Tags: báirseachwrites ; báirseachrambles ; báirseachasks; báirseachtags

Simon 'Ghost' Riley/ Reader

(don't you know) that death is a very stable job Knight!Simon AU, 18+. part i 4.8k l part ii 8.9k

sacrum 2.7k simon grieving reader's death in a deeply unhealthy way. GN. Angst.

butcher paper 2.2k drabbly thing with young, butcher's apprentice!simon falling for and defending plus-size!reader.

fool's gold (pyrite) 3.8k Pirate AU Hangman!Ghost 18+ dc

Simon 'Ghost' Riley/John 'Soap' MacTavish/ Reader

fields, doxies, demesne 12.6k Puca/Fae!Ghoap AU - 18+, dark

orcish 1.2k fantasy!ghoap scammers - kidnapping

Simon 'Ghost' Riley/ John Price/ Reader

lorica 2.2k kidnapping ficlet - dark

Captain John Price/ Reader

the hand that feeds drabble series, tbc - dark, 18+. Obsessive, possessive John/married reader. Stalking. Sabotage.

John 'Soap' MacTavish/ Reader

melrose 9.9k vampire!Johnny AU - 18+, dark

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/ Reader

raft of the leucothea 1.5k shipwrecked ficlet.

Drabbles and Thoughts (<300 words)

Simon gives a massage

Butch lesbian Soap

Simon 'The Menu' AU

Price 'Misery' AU

Price 'Car Trouble Kink'

Simon lives in your house

Stalker in your house (pairing up to you)

141 hire a maid for Price

[littlemissgeek8]

Sample Saturday

I've missed a few WIP days because of life this week, but I got tagged by @thatgaymerguyb earlier so I figured why not toss out a bit I haven't shared from Chapter 3. Largely because I had fun writing some of the servants gossiping about Varric and I want to share it. :3

One young woman, an elf with ochre-colored skin and frizzy hair just a shade or two darker, beckoned Darvia over to sit beside her. As she collected a shirt to mend, Darvia realized the young woman was familiar--it was the same bright-faced servant who'd rescued her from the boredom of her room that first night! "Never thought I'd see someone like you working down here with us!" the elf said, her voice light. "You're the Viscount's new girl, aren't you?" Darvia could feel her face starting to get hot. "Can't be, she's not his type," a human woman across the room spoke up, her dark eyes peering out from under her shaggy black bangs. "You've seen the others, she looks nothing like them." "I'm telling you, she's the new girl!" the elf said, indignantly. "I'm right, aren't I?" She paused. "Oh, and I'm Liris, by the way!" Darvia really just wanted to get to work mending, but she nodded her head anyway. "I suppose I am? I don't know much about the other girls, though." Liris practically bounced in her seat beside her. "Oh, I can help with that! I saw all of them!" The young woman had to put her needle into the garment she was patching before she stabbed herself in her excitement. "There were... about a handful of girls. Five, maybe six? All dwarves, all of them dressed so pretty. Jewels and brocade and silks and velvets..." Liris sighed with longing, and a few of the other girls joined in. "Nobody said much to us about what was going on, and it was only one girl at a time too. But a lot of us had suspicions." "My money's still on girls he brought in from the Rose," the dark-eyed girl said. "He's rich, he can spend money on--" "Molle!" Liris yelped, cutting her companion off. "It's not nice to say such things about the Viscount!" "You think he doesn't know his way around a doxie? He's still unmarried at his age. He's visited the Rose." It didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what kind of establishment this "Rose" was, and Darvia wasn't sure she liked the implications. But, he was also a grown man with his own money, and far more powerful than she. Who was she to judge anyway? "They could've been Merchant's Guild representatives," another girl offered, this one a thin, sandy-haired elf. "Business deals and all that." "An' hangin' off of him the way they did?" Molle said with a scoff. "Y'don't hang off someone's arm like that if you're talkin' business." "But they clearly had money, they could have been from rich houses..." Liris chirped up from beside Darvia. "I still say they're marriage candidates!" Darvia's face froze and she very nearly missed her finger with the needle. "You're readin' too many romance serials again," Molle said, shaking her head. "Who could ever believe that kind of drivel?" The other girls laughed, and Darvia forced a half-hearted chuckle, but she couldn't help feeling bad for the young elf woman. She was after all, correct, but the notion scared Darvia enough she couldn't bring herself to agree.

Gonna toss out some tags to @hyperions-light @biowaredisasterbisexual and @thedissonantverses since I know they've been following my work. <3

[colorsunimaginable]

the spare // chapter seventy-one // death eater ! tom hiddleston oc x plus size ofc - voldemort wins au

story summary: 

While on a mission to avenge the death of her best friend, Ilvermorny graduate Melisa Alder finds herself in the middle of the fight to defeat Voldemort. Upon capture after the Dark Lord's triumph, she's being sold at an auction with other muggle borns and blood traitors. Her only hope is also her only bidder - the tall, dark, and handsome Thomus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's younger half-brother. Is he just another Death Eater or is he hiding more than just his face beneath the mask? Will she realize her true potential to be one of the resistance's greatest weapons?

*a Voldemort Wins AU with Tom Hiddleston cast as an OC x a plus size protagonist* *takes place in The Auction universe by Lovesbitca8*

words for this chapter: 7.2k

warnings for this chapter: romantic smut, death

banner by: @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST

Chapter Seventy-One:

Tonight I'm restless. My body says it's because I've laid around too much, and my mind says… too much.

It's been weeks since Caelan visited for Kyle's emergency Floo call, and yet I still hear Kyle's voice clear as day in my head.

… After all, he was trying to follow your instructions…

My own hollow words repeat back. Wait, so did… did I write the wrong thing? Is it my fault he's dead?

The only person who can figure that out is you.

We'd ended the call with a plan in place. I obviously agreed. I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite if I turned down a call to action like that.

After turning over for the umpteenth time, Thomus' fingers drift down my exposed arm. My fingers catch his and squeeze them. Instead of comforting, it only amplifies the anxiety refusing to let the tightness in my chest ease. My eyes open to meet his in the hazy darkness.

"Can't sleep?" he murmurs.

I swallow nothing down a dry throat and nod.

He brings the back of my hand to his lips, kissing and whispering his words to me. "Something on your mind?"

I sigh and close my eyes, discreetly sliding the last metaphorical lock into place in my Occlumency walls. When I open them again, I just shrug. "I think I'm going to make a Sleepy Time potion."

"…sleepy time?" comes his hesitant voice.

I hold my breath as I sit up, letting it out heavily before speaking. "You know what I mean, don't bully me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says quickly. I hear and feel his smile as I lean down to give him a quick smooch before hightailing it out of there.

As part of The Plan, I'd converted the attic into a dark room as a cover for brewing the bombs. It had been fairly easy to get Thomus to go along with it. After all, he's the one that bought me a camera and several rolls of film, even he admitted to wondering when I was going to bring up the subject.

On my own, I'd gotten the attic itself prepped — covered the window, shoved all the storage into one side of the room, etc. Thomus and one of their maintenance elves, Bobby, installed a brewing counter complete with a working faucet and sink. It was Thomus' idea to squeeze in a slanted ladder and turn the ceiling tile into an actual door with a hatch.

Once I've crawled up there, I use magic to pull the string on the single light bulb hanging over the middle of the counter. I've got a crate of supplies for just about any potion I can think of. Okay, mostly anything. Someone smartly left out the deadlier materials.

I grab a small pewter cauldron from a shelf below the counter and set it above the fire grate. Then I use magic to lift the heavy crate onto a stand next to the counter, low enough for me to easily see inside and rummage. A few sprigs of Lavender and Valerian, a cracked doxy egg and a (heaping) spoonful of the Syrup of Hellebore go into a mortar and pestle. I work out some self-hatred and anxiety until it all becomes a finely ground lump of goo.

Two days ago, Caelan was supposed to be here with the package I need. I've been to the creek nearly a dozen times, and I'm starting to worry Thomus suspects something, especially if he keeps asking me whats on my mind.

But I think I'm just projecting because he really hasn't said anything about it specifically. Tonight he only asked because it's not like he can ignore how I toss and turn. At least he wasn't pushy about it.

"Aquamenti," I murmur, watching it fill the cauldron. With a rubber spatula, I scrape the goo into the water and stir with a glass wand. After I light the small fire, the potion turns pink, then red as it gets hotter. All the while I set the wand to slowly stir. As it hits the right color red, I magic the cauldron to hover in the air while it cools. Then I lower the cauldron again and watch until it turns a dark purple.

The hot cauldron follows me, leaving behind a trail of steam as I descend the stairs and turn into the kitchen. I swing open the refrigerator door and step back, allowing room for the pot to settle itself on the metal shelf within.

Ansti, I haul on some warm clothes before trekking to the creek as quietly as possible. I told myself I wouldn't check again until morning, because I had just done so before bed, but here I am, following the well-worn path. I cast an illusionment orb that floats dimly along the water's edge. My hearts pounding, hoping that maybe this'll be it.

Disappointment crashes heavily in my chest when my side of the bank turns up empty. When the ball floats across the water and along the opposite bank, it stops above something that reflects the orb's light. I hold my hand out and widen my fingers enough for the light to brighten a little, just enough for me to see the grey plastic cooler and white words YETI on the front.

"What the fuck, Kyle?" I say aloud. One of his parents has got to be a No-Maj.

Still, I laugh at the absurdity with a bit of relief mixed in, and quickly set about discreetly transporting the cooler to the attic.

I'm not sure what I expect to find inside, but it robs me of any humor I might have had. Two bakers dozen potions the size of glass coke bottles stare back, and sitting on top is a familiar composition notebook. Only now there's blood on the edges, bleeding into the ink.

I take a deep breath and hold it in my hands, the pages flopping open to a paper shoved inside it. There's few words on the note, but the message is clear.

There's going to be an attack on Edinburgh to rescue the Lots, and this friday night at precisely 1 am, these bombs need to detonate. Have -

There's a knock on the attic door and I've never dropped, closed, and hidden something so fast in my life. When he opens the hatch, I'm in front of the piles of junk, moving it around like I'm making more room when I'm really burying it further.

"Sorry," I prompt. "Am I making too much noise?"

"No," he says quickly. He looks like he wants to say something else, mostly because his eyes never leave me. "I was… hoping you'd made enough for two."

"As a matter of fact, I did," I smile gently. "It's currently cooling in the fridge. I was just cleaning up." He doesn't move, so I add, "So I'll be down in a moment."

"Right." This spurs him into motion. "I think I'll make some tea."

The hatch closes and I release a tension-filled sigh only after his footsteps fade. I turn back to the pile and immediately pull the notebook back out.

— them at the creek that morning. Things should escalate quickly after they go off. Be prepared. - k.g

The heavy feeling in my chest drops to my stomach and I experience a sudden desire for tea, too.

~*~

After hiding the notebook again, I join Thomus in the kitchen. He's casually pulling the tea set together while I pull out the new cooled cauldron. Soon we're sitting at the table with tea and full potion vials in front of us. I hold the cup with both hands, sipping slowly in attempt to let the warmth soothe me.

My mind doesn't want to calm down, though. It's busy thinking about the problem waiting for me upstairs. I hope there's extra Willow root, I think idly. There's never fucking enough.

"Will you have dinner with me on Friday night?" Thomus blurts out.

I'd been looking at him, but not really seeing until my focus narrows in on him. His eyebrows are raised in the center and there's a slight part in his lips, making him look vulnerable.

Then I blink as my brain finally processes his words. Friday?

"Mmm, yeah?" I say slowly. "Don't we normally have dinner together most nights?"

He shifts nervously in his seat, breaking the eye contact and chuckling. "Of course, I meant will you come out to dinner with me?"

"Like… to a meeting?" I ask, the distain clear in my tone. "Another Death Eater one?" The fact he didn't expect my answer is written all over his face. He leans back in his seat, as if the surprise physically pushed him. I'm confused why he would be, so I press. "Or is it something with Jake?"

"No, it's none of that," he says with a subtle shake to his head, then gives a dry laugh. "I didn't think asking you out would be this hard."

Then it clicks. "You're asking me out on a date?"

"Yes!" He leans forward again. "It's also your birthday and I thought it'd be a nice way to celebrate."

It feels like someone has tipped me out of my chair, my sense of gravity suddenly displaced. Yet I haven't moved at all. I can only stare at him, feeling so out of body.

Until I give him a tight-lipped, joyless smile, dying inside. "Yeah, it's my birthday."

His hopeful smile fades. "Is it the date or celebrating your birthday that you object to?"

"Um," I hesitate, taking a deep breath as I look down and set my untouched cup on the table. I've got a dozen reasons to say yes and a dozen reasons to say no, too. The 'no's' are making a bit more sense tonight.

"A little bit of both?" I say gently. "I'm not really feeling super celebratory at the moment and -"

"It's alright," he says, reaching across the table to cover my wrist with his palm. "Some other time." The smile's returned, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

~*~

When I wake from my dead sleep after noon the next day, Thomus is gone and I waste no time climbing up to the attic. I uncover the YETI cooler enough so I can prop open the lid.

I clutch Eric's notebook to my chest as I stare down at the bottles, willing the dreadful feeling in my gut to go away. With my feelings under control, I take a bottle to the counter. It's halfway full, presumably with room for my own additives.

Laying the notebook down flat, I begin to gently flip through the pages until I reach a familiar spread. The pages are worn, stained with ink and coffee. A potion recipe I remember reading after Christmas while a little drunk. There's more notes than there were before and many are crossed out or circled.

A few pages down and I find the film developing potion I wrote. I'd been worrying I'd written it wrong, but everything seems to be correct. There's an anecdote below it, too. He explains that he tried it and got the expected results, but what follows is numerous attempts to combine the two recipes. None of them were successful.

I carefully read through each attempt. He'd been quite thorough and specific about what changes he made. It's nice to see he'd taken my advice about the bursting mushroom powder and weighing the willow root, but regardless they weren't the results he was looking for.

And honestly? I kinda see why. He was combining the potions… literally. What he really should have done was make something new altogether. He hadn't taken into account ingredients from the developer that would be useless for the purpose of the potion. Which, unless he was a magical photographer like me, he wouldn't have known. Also, he'd kept the original combustion ingredient, and that only amplified the additional combustion ingredient from the developer, making the planned explosion too strong.

It's a bit of a relief to know it's not my fault Eric passed, but I'm still leaden with guilt by association.

I sigh and lean my palms against the counters edge, hanging my head. Of course, in addition to brewing the bombs, I also need to actually develop some film. Never know when Thomus will decide to pop up.

So I get to work.

~*~

Hours later, there's strips of processed film hanging from a string tied to the roof supports and bottled up bombs tucked neatly away back into the cooler. When I descend the stairs, it doesn't surprise me it's almost dark out.

There's familiar music and voices coming from the TV in the living room. Thomus is lying on the couch, passed out under a blanket. I stand by his feet to get a peak at what he's watching, Willow.

Madmartigan and Willow are sneaking through the snowy camp of the enemy, discussing how they're going to rescue Elora. I quickly get taken by the scene, eager to watch once more what happens after the handsome hero gets covered in fairy dust.

I feel the smile on my face fade as Madmartigan confesses his love for Sorcha… and it's then I realize Thomus repeated those lines back to me in his dream. Oh my god.

Some of the conversational bits were left out, but he really memorized the one liners. Or has he really watched the movie this much to be spitting out scenes in dreams?

I look back at Thomus, still sleeping, oblivious to the way my heart is shattering at his feet. The potential for what we could be might hurt most of all.

Val Kilmer's voice reaches me with this line, "Death, next to love, is a trivial thing."

The broken pieces inside my chest continue to tear me up, sharp edges bring out bitterness to sweeten my despair. Sure, love never dies, but it can change and morph into something so ugly and cold and utterly lifeless that it might as well be fucking dead.

I start imagining the reality where I don't belong to him anymore. Not because I'm free, but because it'll be someone else's name on my arm.

Before I can think twice I surge forward, dropping to my knees next to him. The backs of my fingers drift down the side of his face, and when I see him start to stir I lean down to smother his temple with kisses. He turns onto his back and his arm swings around my head to hold me for a more targeted kiss on the lips.

"Would you hate me if I changed my mind about wanting to go out for my birthday?" I ask before I chicken out.

"Hmm? Oh, no… Of course not," he murmurs. "What changed your mind, if I might ask?"

I pull back out of his arm and lie my head on his chest with my hands tucked into his sides. "I think I realized I was stupid for not taking the opportunity to leave the house," I say. It's only a white lie, true enough without baring my soul.

I'm going to want it to look back on.

"I understand." His lips turn up in a small sympathetic smile as he tucks hair behind my ear. "And I'm also glad you changed your mind."

My head pops up and I smile. "So where we going?"

~*~

All Thomus had said was, "Dress nice". And I did, really nice.

However, we quickly discover that the black knit-eyelet lace dress with short sleeves and a sweetheart neckline is maybe just too nice for him, in the sense that we barely make it out the door before he's threatening to bend me over on the couch.

With his hands all over me, I hardly notice that we've left the cottage without my leash and collar.

We Apparate to a quiet courtyard and walk out hand in hand to a bustling village center. I'm hit with the smell of ocean water before I even see the harbor. It's pretty busy on this warm Friday night and my pink hair blends right in with the crowd of modern No-Majes.

The Italian restaurant is easy to find, especially if you follow your nose and the accordian playing La Vie En Rose. It sits on the corner of the square adorning red awnings lined with white Christmas lights.

The hostess asks our seating preference to which I'm quick to answer. "Booth, please."

Thankfully the only one left at this time of night is one in the back corner furthest from any kitchen activity. The place is also fancy enough they have a white table cloth with thick rolled napkins and water already waiting. Thomus orders his usual scotch, while I'm plenty fine with water.

Absently, I rub at the sore spots on my neck while looking at the menu, suddenly feeling self-conscious as I try to think what to order. I'm torn between wanting to pig out on a pasta dish while also not wanting to be perceived as a pig while I'm on what's really my first date ever.

And also possibly my last one.

"Do they hurt?" Thomus asks. "Your neck?"

A blush quickly spreads across my embarrassed smile and I nod. "But I asked for them."

The heat in his gaze is evident. "And I definitely made sure."

The waiter returns with Thomus' drink and takes our orders, starting with Thomus because I'm still torn.

Then I remember that this could be my last good meal for who knows how long, I've got twenty-six bombs timed to go off four hours from now, and it's my fucking birthday. I'm stress eating.

When it's my turn, I ask for the lasagna pasta.

After the waiter takes our menus and dips, Thomus and I busy ourselves with sipping our drinks. I'm not sure what to say really, so I let my eyes roam the restaurant and beyond to the wall on our right.

"So…" I say, looking back at him. "How'd you find this place? Have you been here before?"

"My mother lived in a cottage not far from here," he says easily, happy to share this information with me. "She used to bring me for my birthday as well."

"Who did you live with most growing up?"

He gives a dry chuckle. "To my father's dismay, my mother for a majority of my early years. I'd stay with my father periodically, of course, but I certainly put up a fight."

"Hm, I don't blame you. Your mom seemed way more fun."

"My father could have fun," he says playfully defensive. "They just had very different ideas of fun. Father, for example, preferred sport and politics. During the summer months, after a long day meddling in the Ministry, he would come home and force Lucius and I out onto the field to play Quidditch 'till it was dark."

I make a face. "Ew, forced physical activity."

He chuckles. "It wasn't all that bad. I did come to enjoy it."

The waiter brings our garlic bread and I take a moment of silence before enjoying my first bite.

"That any good?" Thomus asks, unravelling a roll of utensils and laying the napkin on his lap.

"Mmm-hm," I hum out appreciatively. "Very good. Really made this date worth it."

"Don't speak too soon," he says. "The night isn't over yet."

Teasing him, I give a dubious look while taking another bite. Then I force myself to put it down to leave room for our entree. "How can it get any better than garlic bread?"

"Strawberry cheesecake," he says simply. It's his perfect delivery and his knowing I'm a slut for strawberries that makes me burst with unexpected giggles. His eyes crinkle in the corners as he chuckles with me and then sighs. "I love you."

I was on the tail end of my laugh, but it quickly quiets as the words process and oh my god oh my god oh my god starts on a constant stream in my head.

Of course, the waiter chooses that very moment to appear with our orders. He rattles off the dish names, placing them in front of us, but unfortunately my brain is still in the rebooting process and I can only utter a 'thank you' for him. With silent patrons and a busy restaurant, the waiter swiftly disappears.

Our eyes have barely left each others. Thomus is clearly waiting for my reaction, while I… After the initial surprise, I take a few breaths and aim for a more neutral expression.

I use my left hand and reach for his across the table. His gladly meet mine and I grasp his fingers, turning my wrist up to expose my forearm. My eyes finally leave his only to look down at the tattoo of his name etched into my skin. I make sure his eyes follow.

"Is this love to you?" I ask softly, using my finger to point to the tattoo specifically, so there's no doubt. "Because if it is, I don't want it." His eyes meet mine again, and I continue. "Because if you're serious, what're we really doing here? Is this a relationship? I know we play pretend really well at parties and at home, but…" I finally look away from him as I try to find the right words. "I can't and won't pretend that I'm okay with this."

When I look back at him, his eyes are awash with shame before he closes them tight. He tries to pull his fingers out of mine, but I don't let him, keeping my eyes on him.

"I don't have any control over this," he says, his eyes opening hardened. "From the beginning I've done all I could to protect you."

My eyebrows shoot up, but the frown remains. "Protect me? From who? Men like you?" I respond coldly.

He looks as if I've slapped him and this time he successfully pulls his hand out of mine. "I'm not like them."

"Oh, you're not? Well, you sure fooled me."

"How's everything tonight?" the waiter drops in. I start, having completely forgotten the food in front of me. He notices our untouched plates. "Everything not to your liking?"

"Sorry," I say, throwing up a smile and unravelling my own napkin to pull out my fork. "Too busy running our mouths."

Thomus doesn't give the same fake show for the waiter, and who, sensing the tension, gives us space again. Thankfully, I'm hungry enough that the sour turn of the conversation hasn't ruined my appetite and I dig into my pasta. After a moment he starts to eat as well.

We finish our meal quietly. I spend the rest of the time using Occulency to shove everything down, a blanket emotion over how I really feel hearing him say he loves me. By the time we leave the restaurant, I feel pretty numb. It's still hours before the bombs go off.

With his hand at my back, we walk through the square, towards the Apparition point. I smell the sea air again and my steps slow as I look at its source. "Can we stop by the beach?"

He begrudgingly agrees, although his hand behind me goes to the back of my arm and grips my elbow. As if he's keeping me anchored, like he's suddenly worried I'm a flight risk.

I follow signs, taking us closer to the sound of crashing waves in the dark. The beach itself is packed and rocky, making the steps to the water easy. I pull Thomus with me until we're standing side by side, somehow holding hands now.

It's dark enough the stars stand out bright and full of life. It's comforting to spot the same constellations I've always seen no matter where I've lived. My home in Virginia. Ilvermorny. Here. Always the same no matter the distance.

I hear more of the warm wind rustling our clothes than I do of Thomus beside me. When I glance over, he's obviously contemplative, staring at the stars.

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice soft because I'm not sure if he'll accept it.

The corner of his mouth turns up. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he sighs. "I'm the one that should be apologizing to you. Over and over, and over again."

Then he turns to face me, taking both my hands in his. "Would you allow me to provide proof of how I feel? Proof I've changed and I'm not the man you fear?" His eyes are swimming with hopeful determination.

I kiss him first — so overwhelmed by how elated I feel that it makes the most sense to kiss him senseless. 'Yes," I gasp. "Please, I want to be wrong."

Thomus takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeper. "I was hoping you were going to say that."

He steps back, grabs me on the tattoo and Apparates.

~*~

We arrive at a cemetery, not unlike ones I've been in before. It doesn't take me long to recognize which one when I start to read the last name on the headstones. Malfoy.

Thomus walks ahead of me down a beaten path in the lush grass to the back of the fenced in area. Jutting out of the hillside is a black mausoleum and seems to be our destination. He's pulled his wand out and cast the illumination spell, showcasing the glistening granite twin columns guarding the door. The soft light reflects in the door's stained glass window, but it's too dark to be able to discern true colors. Patterns depict a skull nestled in a bed of flowers with an M designed to be the center focus. Opening the mausoleum door, he steps back and holds out his hand for mine.

Even though it's dark, I can still tell the mausoleum insides are bigger than it seems. I take his hand, but don't move even when he starts to.

"I was going to bring you here, regardless," he reassures me, seeing the uneasy look on my face. "It was your real present, I promise."

He kisses me on the cheek and I find my feet moving when he pulls me past the threshold.

Like I had thought, the inside is bigger than the out. At first I thought we've entered a library, considering the rows and rows of boxed tombs stacked to the ceiling.

"If all these people in here are Malfoys, who's buried outside?"

He takes a second to answer, like he's trying to remember. "House elves mostly, I think. Perhaps a few black sheeps of the family who hadn't been fully disowned," he explains. There's something about his tone that's off, but I don't have time to think on it further because his steps quicken after we round the next corner.

He keeps going, but I pause when I see what's at the end of the aisle. Well, who.

Rodolphus Lestrange is sitting with his back to the wall, a very large chain connecting him to it. He's leaning an elbow on his propped up knee and sports a bored glare on his brow. His handsome face is bruised and bloody, staining his shirt and crusting dry on his knuckles.

When Thomus starts to speak my confused gaze meets his. "As children, Lucius and Rodolphus would write my name in mud on the old headstones—"

He's cut off by Rodolphus scoffing loudly. "Is that what this is about?" he says and rolls his eyes. "Bloody hell get it over with already."

Thomus sighs and walks back to me, taking my hands in his. Excitement sparks in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he gazes at me.

"I figured it out," he states proudly.

"Figured what out?"

He smiles and squeezes my hands before releasing them, taking steps back towards Rodolphus. "You said to cast this curse, Rodolphus cut his thumb and mixed your blood with his to write runes on your skin, correct?"

"I think they were runes, " I say softly. "I didn't get to see them."

Rodolphus snorts and Thomus glares at him. "Well, I know for a fact they were runes. Runes that specifically linked himself to you with the only evidence being —"

Thomus grabs the slack of the thick chain connected to a hoop on the wall and tugs hard. Rodolphus' arm goes flying back, smacking hard against the stone. He groans and protests, but Thomus ignores him, grabbing his fingers and bending them out, exposing his palm. He takes his wand and points it at the pad of his thumb.

"—this thin little scar, right here."

My heart starts to thud heavily in my chest as my anticipation rises.

He looks back at me. "You have one, too," he says matter-of-factly, pointing to his own cheek. Reflexively, my fingers go where I remember being cut, but there's no scar there. "But it's extremely faint. He tried to heal it, but because it was from the ritual, it doesn't just go away."

His angry eyes go back to Rodolphus, his tone colder. "And if my research proves correct —" With one quick motion of his wand, he slices off Rodolphus' thumb.

I'm the first one to gasp, my jaw hanging open as I watch the flesh drop to the floor. Rodolphus watches it fall away too, and when he looks back at the gaping wound on his now thumbless hand, I suppose the shock wears off. He releases a roar of pain and anger as he thrashes against his restraints, making a grab for Thomus.

Thomus easily shoves him away and shoots to his feet when he sees me visibly cringe and back away. "What's wrong, darling? How do you feel?"

"I—I'm okay," I respond, unsurprisingly breathless. Then I take a moment to assess if I notice anything different.

But that burning feeing in the back of my throat that I ignore all the time is still unfortunately present. Thomus looks at me hopefully, but his face falls reading mine.

"I feel… the same," I say, keeping the disappointment out of my voice.

"It's not tied to a little scar, you idiot," Rodolphus snarls, leaning forward and smiling like his words are meant to hurt. "It's the blood. I am keeping it alive."

Thomus' face darkens as that information sinks in. He steps between me and the man against the wall, pointing his wand at him. "Is that so?"

Rodolphus' smile fades and sets into a hard frown as he sizes up the other man. "You wouldn't."

"Oh?" Thomus says mockingly. "And why is that? You think I give a damn about you?"

Rodolphus scoffs. "No, I know you don't. I'm talking about her."

Thomus glances at me. "She already hates you—"

"I'm not talking about that fat cunt, I'm talking about my wife," he spits. Thomus visibly starts at what Rodolphus called me, but keeps still as he continues. "Despite what you may think, she and I were made for each other. Do you really believe whatever crumbs of affection she stores for you truly compare to how she feels for me? Her father's been dead a long time. Don't you think if she wanted to be with you she would be? This new cry for attention is truly pathetic, even for you."

"I don't care about what she thinks," Thomus says. "This has nothing to do with Bella and everything to do with this woman, right here." He motions towards me. "Because you're right, killing you over something as shallow as jealousy is pathetic, and quite frankly, I wouldn't have waited this long if that was how I felt."

He breaks eye contact with him, looking down and then back at me. His blue eyes are swimming with remorse. "I thought he wouldn't hurt you when I was so close, but my arrogance and carelessness cost you… and it always costs you." The raw pain in his voice tears a hole in my heart.

"Merlin, listen to you," Rodolphus cackles with disbelief. "It's like you've been bewitched! Has she got you taking a love potion?"

"I'm not under any spell. I'm in love with her," Thomus proclaims. My body freezes with awareness as he says it aloud for the second time tonight. It feels as unreal as the first time.

Rodolphus rolls his eyes before narrowing them at me. "Of course you are. The apple never rots far from the tree— just like his mother. You don't even know what he's done, do you?"

Based on my expression, he breaks out another grin. "Oh, Thomus, you really are a hypocrite. What would poor Henry Prewett think if he —"

A green light flashes from the tip of Thomus' wand and it temporarily blinds me in the dark space. When it's gone, so is Rodolphus' soul. His body sags against the wall, eyes still staring at me, only now with an unfocused gaze.

As my mind tries to process that my chest starts convulsing and the burning bile in my throat moves forward, making me cough. A bit of nausea and I'm sinking to my knees letting out a wet raspy sound. I lean on my palms as the sound becomes more of a gurgle and try to clear my throat until I'm coughing so hard dark tears start to flood my eyes. They fill my vision until I'm blinded and when I blink, I feel them run down my cheek to drip onto my hand.

Thomus gathers my hair as I give a final hard cough and the gunk shoots forward in pieces. First it lands on my tongue, bitter and acidic, and I quickly spit it out. My eyelashes are encrusted with tears as I try to get a peek.

Blood. That's really all I see. There's blood splatters and a sickly yellow discoloring amongst the red clumps in the middle of it all.

I sniffle and use my fingers to wipe away left over tears from my cheeks. Despite how gross this all is, I do feel an extreme sense of internal relief, but my body's also drained of energy.

When I bring my fingers away to study the thick substance from my cheeks, they're dark red. The tears that landed on my hand are as well.

"It must be the curse," Thomus says gently, a hand on my back. "Ugly coming out as it was going in."

I sniffle again, unsure what to say in response - especially as my eyes lock onto Rodolphus. When Thomus notices, he quickly grabs my hand and tugs in the direction of the exit. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

Still in a daze, I just nod and follow him. Fresh air outside the mausoleum fills my lungs and helps me think.

We return to the cottage and I discover cleaning me up involves Thomus perching my butt on the edge of the tub and then waiting while he wets a washcloth. Normally I'd insist on cleaning myself, but everything I do for the next few hours I want him involved. Instead I gather up the courage to ask him what I need to ask.

"Who's Henry Prewett?" I ask gently, looking at him.

His expression hardens until he's frowning and a muscle ticks in his jaw. "What does it matter?"

"Well, it kinda seems like you killed Rodolphus before he could tell me… So, I think it's kinda important."

Thomus closes the tap and comes to stand between my knees, tilting my chin up with his finger. He looks me in the eyes. "I was going to kill him either way."

With deliberate slowness, he takes the cloth and strokes it down my cheek. The wetness has me reflexively yanking my glasses off and depositing them next to the toothbrush cup. He's gentle as he moves the warm cloth over my face.

Thomus could have his secrets, I sure as shit have mine.

"Are the lines gone?" I ask. Tonight I'd especially caked on foundation to hide them.

He rubs specifically between the outer corner of my eye and my eyebrow. "Yes, actually."

"Thank god," I let out with a sigh of relief, my shoulders moving with it. "And I'm guessing my makeup's fucked, too?"

"Oh, without a doubt," Thomus replies smoothly and wipes my eyelids.

I feel my lips curl involuntarily, but it's only a bandaid over how I really feel.

Which is dead. I feel dead inside.

Eventually my expression reflects that and when I open my eyes, his meet mine as his fingers caress my jaw.

"I adore you," he murmurs.

My pulse and breathing quicken as I take in his face, eyes bouncing between his. Even my lip quivers in my effort to keep the tears at bay.

He frowns. "What's wrong, darling?"

I'm going to miss you. I don't want to leave.

"I want to say it back," I whisper. "But how can I when it feels like I don't even really know you?"

He's initially happy by my words until they really settle in, and his expression becomes reserved.

"I don't know who you are when you leave here, Thomus, gone for days or weeks at a time, doing who knows what in the name of that asshole, and that really bothers me. I don't know if you're actually over Bellatrix or why you really killed Rodolphus. I don't know how you can be a Death Eater and still claim to love me as if I'm you're equal and not your property."

As my voice had grown, so does the physical distance between us. I've pushed him away to stand at the doorway to my room.

Standing there all alone, he looks lost.

"Have you really thought about what it means to love me?" I hear myself ask.

"Of course I have," he presses, taking small steps towards me. His hands are open, as if calling me back. "If things were different…"

I sigh heavily and back away, shaking my head and rubbing my eyes as I sink onto the edge of the mattress. "But you don't see they could be different? You don't see you have the power to actually do something about all this?"

"And I am," he insists, following me into the room with earnest desperation clear in his voice.

"Was Rodolphus supposed to be proof?" I ask when I find the courage to look at him.

"It's the start," he swears. "Just the start."

He's gotten close to me again, hands unable to stop from moving over my shoulders and my arms. Along with his words, they're meant to be reassuring, but doesn't dull the sharp blades of apprehension tearing me up inside.

"And where does it end?" I whisper. "I don't think we're going to get out of this with a 'happily ever after'."

He leans in and kisses my temple. "It ends with us — together."

It physically pains me to listen to his hopeful declarations. Because he just… doesn't know.

I twist my face to glance at the bedside clock. Less than two hours.

When I finally touch him, I latch onto him with my arms and my legs. The bed's at the perfect height for this perfect koala hug. I feel wrapped up in him as he leans into it, hunching over me with his arms around my shoulders and head ducked next to mine. Turning my face towards his, I begin to dust kisses over every part of his face I can reach.

"Will you make love to me?" I whisper after several seconds winding myself up internally to be brave and say that outloud.

Neither of us have ever referred to it as that before, but Thomus doesn't complain. In between increasingly feverish kisses, our clothes peel off without us moving from our spots. My heart sings when his skin finally touches and undulates with mine as I'm pulling him with me up the bed. I settle on my back and he settles between my spread knees, ass cheeks cradled by his thighs.

He takes his time kissing me, an elbow planted behind my shoulder, that hand spread around the back of my neck. My undies are the only barrier between his cock and my pussy and he makes that known by grinding against me, the head of his cock nudging right into the cleft of my clit. I moan against his lips and rake my short nails down his back, eliciting a deep groan from him too.

His kisses slow and I bring my knee up to hold the back of my thigh when I feel his hand finally reach down. Swift fingers push aside the damp fabric and he drags the head of his cock up and down my wet slit. As he slots it against my entrance, my hands move from his back to cup his face, holding it.

Inexplicably, I find the bravery to keep my gaze on him, even as he slowly slides into my tight hole and an uncontrollable gasp inflates my chest, he holds my eyes captive as he sinks every thick inch inside.

Pleasure overrides my ability to maintain eye contact and I crane my face up to kiss him again. He lets me have my sloppy sex-brained kisses before his fingers slip into the hair at the base of my skull and grip my roots. It releases another gasp that has my breathing pick up speed as he pulls on my head until it dips back. He drives me crazy with his slow, languid thrusts, as his lips dive to taste my neck.

If I thought missionary couldn't get any better, I'm severely wrong when — without pulling out — he folds my legs against my chest and keeps them trapped between us. My knees are pinned down by his shoulders as his hips slot in between my thighs perfectly. The weight of him and this angle grinds my clit against his flat pelvic area and when he starts to roll his hips, I'm too lost to form words.

With him fully bending me in half, it brings him face to face with me, and while all the communication I can manage are moans and whimpers, I keep my eyes on him, on his face. His beautiful blue eyes stare right back at me, pupils blown, almost forehead to forehead.

When I start to cum, I don't say anything, not that I'm even capable of more. It's a wave that starts from my pussy and rolls throughout my body and seems to go on and on. He continues to fuck me through it, undoubtedly noticing the increasing tightness and slick from my cum surrounding his cock. It spurs him on, making him groan and pound into me harder.

He doesn't stop, so the orgasm just doesn't stop. So many different waves of it that I lose count and they crash through my body as he fucks me unrelentingly.

The best part? We've kept eye contact the entire time, and so when I reach the final crest of my orgasm, I get to watch as he becomes lost to his own.

I refuse to part from him once we've separated. The orgasm tore down my emotional walls, creating just enough of a hole to let the misery come flooding in, and I'm desperate to soak in the remaining minutes with him, even if it's while asleep.

When we awake from the burning of his summons, it's well past 1 am, and I can't help but linger in his goodbye kiss, begging for it not to be my last one.

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

time can't stop me quite like you did (A Graveyard fic)

Graveyard fics are fics that I started and will never return to. Some are vague outlines, some are 4 sentences, some are 40 pages. But if they haunt me, I want them to haunt you too.

OH BOY! Here is the 40 page fic lol.

It is the first fanfiction I ever started to write, and boy does it show. I do not have the time, skill, or energy to go back and make this fic good. But it will always have a special place in my heart for what it could have been.

Anywho.

Harry and Ginny get stuck in a time loop during the start of OOTP, stuck at Grimauld Place. They start to actually form a friendship during this time because they are the only two reliving the same day over and over again at Grimmauld. I wanted it set here because it gave Harry the opportunity to have more time with Sirius. It allowed Harry to get to know Ginny earlier. It allowed shenanagans and it allowed angst with no reprocussions because they got to relive the same day over if they fucked up.

Fun fact! It was also based on a Bellarke fanfiction, Meet Me in the Morning! It is just a time loop fic for Bellamy and Clarke for the first season of The 100, but it is what inspired me to write this.

Below the cut are some of my favorite scenes I wrote and an outline for where the fic was going! (Beware it is quite long!)

Chapter 1.

Opened with Weasleys et al. having to clean a room, and Ginny is having major deja vu because they did this yesterday?

Ginny lurched forward to snap the lid of the music box close. “Okay”, Ginny said, turning to everyone in the room, “Am I insane or did we do this yesterday?”

“You’re insane,” chorused the twins from the back corner of the room. 

“No, we definitely did this yesterday,” Harry chimed in. 

“Okay, you’re both insane,” replied Ron. 

“No, yesterday you idiots opened this same box and Crookshanks ate the doxy eggs in the corner.” Ginny pointed at her brother, “And Fred, you definitely took doxy eggs yesterday. I distinctly remember,” Ginny panicked to a room of blank stares. Only Harry seemed to not be looking at her like she had two heads. 

“I think the house is getting to you, Gin,” George said.

“No, I am with Ginny on this one. In the wardrobe Ron and Hermione were cleaning, Sirius’s Grandpa has an Order of Merlin for ‘Services to the Ministry.’ Ron tried on the medal and wore it for the next hour after we found it,” Harry pointed out.

George walked over to the wardrobe and dug around the opened drawer, pulling out an emerald green handkerchief that had dark spots splattered on it which could be blood, picking something small up and not so discreetly tucking it into his pocket, before proudly brandishing a gold medal with a big M on the front. 

“Merlin, it’s Merlin!” George exclaimed.

“You’re going to do all of my Divination homework for me this year, mate,” Ron said, reaching for the medal in George’s hands. “Look at me,” Ron said, placing the medal over his head, and puffing out his chest to brandish the medal, “Order of Merlin, First Class award winner.”

Fred snatched the medal off of Ron. “I don’t think they hand out Order of Merlin’s for being the biggest git, Ronnikins.”

“If I ever win an Order of Merlin, it will be because I put up with you,” Ron said, snatching the medal back. 

“Okay, but how did you know that Harry?” Hermione asked.

“I told you, we did this yesterday!” Harry exclaimed.

“No, Harry, we did not,” Hermione retorted.

“Okay we didn’t,” Ginny said, pointing at the group, “But Harry and I did.” 

It is important to note that Slytherin's Locket is in all the stuff that they are cleaning (that is an important tool that will become important later!)

They try talking with the adults and they can't come up with a solution. They think that Voldemort may have done something to Harry in the graveyard or someone at the ministry did something to Harry during his hearing and Ginny gets mad at all them for forgetting her. Harry and Ginny relive the next few days in frustration.

our next scene takes place on top of the roof of Grimmauld Place

“Well, I had the stupid thought that maybe if we both stayed up all night, the clock couldn’t reset. And I thought, why not at least start our night out here. We can go back inside later if you get too cold, Mr. I’m-too-good-for-a-jumper, but for now, being under the stars is nice. We don’t get out much anymore,” Ginny rambled.

“It’s not stupid.” Harry reassured her.

Ignoring the swoop in her stomach again, Ginny layed down on the blanket and stared up at the stars. She had always found the night sky fascinating. When she would sneak out at night to steal one of her older brother’s brooms for a night fly, she would always end the night staring up at the dark sky above her. Coming up on the roof at night made her feel slightly more at home, even if the sky does not get as dark nor the stars as bright as they did at the Burrow. 

“Why do you think it was us?” Ginny softly asked. “Why us and not you and Ron, or the twins? Or not even all of us?”

Harry joined Ginny laying down on the blanket, his arm slightly pressing against hers. Neither one moved. Ginny regretted throwing on the jumper so that her skin could actually touch Harry’s. Still, she could feel the heat radiating off of his arm that made her entire body flush with warmth.

“I don’t know,” replied Harry, turning his head to face Ginny. “I keep thinking back to the first day, maybe there was something we did just the two of us that caused this, but I keep drawing a blank. We were all in the drawing room cleaning, we all ate the same food all day. Ron and I played chess that night and you and Hermione watched, but why wouldn’t Ron and Hermione also be experiencing this if that was the cause. I just don’t know.”

“No one seems to know,” Ginny said in response, thinking back over the last several days when the adults tried to help, but no solution was given. 

Ginny looked down at Harry’s wristwatch. Five minutes until midnight. Making it past midnight is their first big obstacle, if they could make it to the 15th, then maybe they can break free from time’s grasp on them. 

“I’m sorry if I somehow caused this,” Harry whispered.

Ginny sat straight up and turned to Harry. “Let’s get one thing clear, you are not apologizing for something that is not your fault. Especially when so much of what is going on is unknown. You got that, Harry Potter?”

“Gin,” Harry said sitting up, “Let’s be realistic, when I am around, things have a tendency to go to shit. People get hurt because of me.”

Ginny understood immediately. Cedric.

Ginny placed her hand over Harry’s, “You were not the reason Cedric is dead, Harry. You didn’t kill him.”

“But if I didn’t tell him to grab the stupid cup with me, he would still be alive.”

“And if I didn’t write in that damn diary, I would not have been the reason so many people were petrified two years ago. I could have directly killed every single one of them, they were all just lucky. Harry, I understand the guilt you are carrying right now, but I also know that it was not our fault those things happened. It is Tom’s fault.”

Harry studied Ginny’s face, trying to understand. “I’m sorry, I sometimes forget everything you’ve been through.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny shrugged, “I’ve mostly moved on. Try not to let Tom control me anymore than he already has.” 

Harry bumped Ginny’s shoulder with his own, “Voldemort sucks doesn’t he?”

Ginny snorted. “That is one way to put it.”

Harry grinned down at Ginny. She could feel her cheeks begin to pink again. It wasn’t the same when she used to turn into a tomato and freeze up next to him. This felt warm like a summer day at the Burrow. Comfortable and Safe.

And then Ginny woke up.

Chapter 2

this chapter is really just the getting into shenanagans chapter. They fly brooms through the halls together. They completely destroy a room they are supposed to clean to get our their frustrations. One day Ginny pretends she is sick because she doesn't want to deal with it all and Harry brings her food.

The end of this chapter they go to Hogwarts to corner Dumbledore to see if he can actually help them because he avoids Grimmauld, so they haven't got his advice yet.

Inside the Headmaster’s office sat their headmaster himself behind his desk, hands gently crossed on the desk in front of him. The famous twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye was absent. Dozens of picture frames of former headmaster’s sat behind him. One of them gave a loud scoff at the sight of the two teenagers. The voice of Phineas Nigellus spoke, “Your mother is quite upset with you, child. She is making such a ruckus, yelling at all your siblings. My worthless great-great-grandson is doing quite a horrible job at calming her down.”

Dumbledore raised a hand in the air, and Phineas Nigellus immediately quieted down. “Please Phineas, can you return to your other frame and inform Molly Weasley that her daughter and Mr. Potter are safe in my office.” Phineas gave another grunt, but quickly existed left out of frame. Dumbledore returned his focus to the pair in front of him. “Now, why do I have the pleasure of this early morning visit from two students who should be at home right now?” Dumbledore asked them sternly.

Ginny rarely interacted with her Headmaster. A quick hello in passing in the halls on sporadic instances. Then there was that one time her second year he invited her up to his office to share some hot chocolate to see how she was holding up after the events of her first year. She was intimidated and lied saying she was fine, then promptly ignored the offer to seek him out if she were to ever need anything. So when she was lightly scolded by her Headmaster, she looked down at the ground in shame.

Harry, however, had no such qualms of embarrassment. “We need help, and I was hoping you could provide that for us, sir.” The bite and anger that was in Harry’s voice at the start of the summer was back as if the sight of Albus Dumbledore triggered the feelings of resentment and anger to return.

“Harry… I need you to take a moment to collect yourself.”

“Ginny and I have been stuck reliving the same day over and over again!” Harry yelled, each work punched with emphasis. “WE HAVE BEEN STUCK FOR MONTHS AND NO ONE CAN HELP US! YOU WON’T HELP US!” 

Harry seized a glass instrument on the table and threw it against the wall. Ginny recognized the seriousness of the situation they were in and the hurt that Harry felt, but she did want to give him a score of 9 out of 10 for that throw.

 Harry’s chest heaved, “I WANT TO BE NORMAL! WHY - DO - SHITTY - THINGS - KEEP - HAPPENING - TO - ME?” Harry yelled, voice hoarse with emotion. He kicked at the leg of the small wooden table causing it to crumble to the ground. 

Ginny cautiously took a few steps forward, “Harry?” she questioned, voice soft. Harry whipped around to face her, eyes alight with rage. However, they softened when the green eyes met her brown. Harry turned back to Dumbledore, much stiller than before.

Dumbledore slowly rose from his desk and walked around to his pensive in the corner of the room, ignoring Harry as he walked past. He picked up the basin and brought it to the center of the room, floating between the three of them. “Miss Weasley,” Dumbledore turned to her, “I am trusting you with sensitive information, that I have full faith in that you will keep to yourself.” Ginny could only nod at this request. 

Dumbledore spoke to Harry, “There is a prophecy.” Then he pulled out his wand taking a silver stream of a memory from his head and placing it in the pensive. A figure began to rise out of the basin. Professor Trelawney spoke in a loud, harsh tone. 

“THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES. . . . BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES . . . AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT . . . AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES. . . . THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES. . . .” 

A quiet hum fell over the room. Ginny held her breath, not wanting to be the first to make a sound. Eventually, Harry was the one to break the tension. “What… what exactly does that mean?” Harry paused, drawing in a breath, “Does that mean me?”

“Everything that has happened to you, is because Lord Voldemort decided it to be when he chose you.” Dumbledore stood in front of his pensive, but looked directly at Harry. “He marked you as an equal on that fateful Halloween evening in Godric’s Hollow.

Chapter 3:

The moping, but surprisingly, moping by Ginny and not Harry after hearing the prophecy. She thinks that the only way to end the time loop is to do something drastic. So, Ginny kills herself.

Thankfully, she wakes up the next day and Harry is not happy with her.

The bedroom door opened with a bang.  

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked, “We aren’t dressed yet!”

Ginny pulled back the blanket over her head and peered at the doorway to see a very disheveled Harry. He was still wearing his pajama bottoms and a shirt two times too large for him which must have once belonged to his cousin. His hair was sticking up out of place more than usual like he had literally just gotten out of bed. 

“Ginny,” Harry sighed, almost looking relieved. And then his attitude shifted. Ginny noticed his eyes darken and his posture stiffen before he strode over to her bed. 

He was pissed. 

“What the absolute fuck was that, Ginevra Weasley!” 

Oh, he is using her full name. He is really pissed. Angrier at her than he was at Dumbledore. She just hoped he wouldn’t chuck any crystal lamps at her head.

“Do you realize what the consequences could have been for your actions yesterday? Do you realize how incredibly stupid you were?”

He could be as mad as he wanted to be, but he was not going to call her stupid. She thought about this long and hard. She was not stupid. Ginny jumped out of bed and stood toe to toe with Harry, not planning on backing down from his anger.

“Obviously I knew what the consequences were going to be, Harry. Did you even read the letter?”

“Did I even read the letter?” Harry spluttered, “Yes I fucking read the letter. I read both of them. I realize you have some flaws like how feisty and short-tempered you are, but, damn, I never realized how selfish you could be too! Did you even think about how everyone would react when they found you dead? No, of course you didn’t!”

“How dare you? Of course I did, Harry! I thought about it for days!”

“For days!” Harry shrieked. “And you didn’t think to maybe tell me?”

“You know exactly why I didn’t tell you. You wouldn’t let me try!” Ginny pushed back.

“No shit, I wouldn’t have let you try because it was a dumb idea! If you brought it up to me, maybe you would have realized the consequences! Did you think about your family? You should have seen the way your mom sobbed all night long. Or the way Fred and George did not laugh let alone smile for the entire evening. Ron cried for hours blaming himself for something entirely not his fault! Hermione was the one who found you! Her scream echoed through the house and scared all of us!”

Hermione finally spoke up after hearing her name, “Harry,” Hermione said warely, “What are you even talking about?”

Harry put his hand up in Hermione’s direction, not even looking at her. “Not now, Hermione!”

“Oye! Don’t yell at her, she didn’t even do anything wrong!” Ron’s voice echoed from somewhere behind Harry.

“See, Harry!” Ginny yelled, ignoring the audience they have, “They don’t even remember. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work, let’s move on!”

Harry growled at those words. “Fuck Ginny! I remember! You killed yourself yesterday, and I will always remember that! Yesterday was the worst day of my life! You know what the worst day of my life was before then? The day you got taken down to the Chamber of Secrets!”

“Why do you even care so much if I really did die?”

“Merlin, Ginny because,” And then Harry, as though without thinking, or truly even planning it, grabbed her face, pulled her up to him and kissed her. 

Oh.

Ginny was frozen in shock for a second, trying to fully grasp what exactly was happening. And then she was kissing him back. As a little girl, she had always wondered what it would be like to kiss Harry Potter. She imagined it to be soft and tender, maybe he would brush her hair back behind her ear before he leaned down to press his lips to hers. She never expected it to be so heated. Ginny wrapped her arms around his back and pressed her entire body into him. Minutes ago she had died, but now she had never felt more alive.

The rest of the chapter is them just trying and miserably failing at secret dating during the various days that they keep reliving.

“You would think that we would know enough hiding places by now to not keep getting caught.”

“If Sirius gives you the talk again, that is on you.”

The end of the chapter is when the reveal that the chest Slytherin's Locket is kept in also happens to have a broken time turner in it! (oooohhh)

Chapter 4: (This is where we jump the shark)

Harry and Ginny sneak out of the house and go on a date at Diagon Alley! But war is a thing, and Harry and Ginny should not be wandering around Diagon Alley all by themselves and lol, guess what, they get kidnapped by death eaters and taken to Voldemort.

They go to Malfoy Manor, and they realize that the best way to escape is actually by killing themselves because they know it won't actually stick thanks to Ginny's early attempt. They also are worried that if Voldemort kills Harry that then the prophecy might actually stick, so Ginny kills Harry by stabbing him with a knife. Unfortunately, before she can turn and kill herself, the Death Eaters stop her and take her to Voldemort.

A dangerous thought crossed her mind.

This was either going to extend her pain or kill her sooner. She hoped to Merlin it would kill her sooner. 

“Do all 16 year old boys keep a diary, or was that just something you did Tom?”

Voldemort stopped torturing the Death Eater who captured her and turned to face Ginny.

“How dare you use that name, little girl! How did you know of the diary?”

“I wrote in it. We became fast friends. Unfortunately it's gone now. Harry destroyed it, and killed your pet snake as well. You can thank Mr. Malfoy over there for giving it to me.” 

A flash of light was sent Ginny’s direction, she didn’t even have time to recognize that the color was not green before she fell to the ground in excruciating pain. It was like every nerve fiber was on fire and then on ice. It was unbearable. Ginny couldn’t tell if she was screaming or not. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and her head felt like it was going to explode. And then it was over. 

“You gave one of my horcruxes to a teenage girl?”

“My Lord, I was not aware that it was a horcrux.”

“Avada Kedavra!”

Unfortunately for Ginny, it was Lucius Malfoy that fell to the ground dead and not her. 

From her position on the floor, Ginny could see Voldemort kick Lucius Malfoy’s body out of the way before he sauntered over to her. Voldemort crouched down to Ginny’s level, pointing his wand at her.

“You might think that I would be thankful to the person who killed Harry Potter.” Voldemort said, tracing a pattern across Ginny’s face, “But they would be wrong. I was to be the one to kill the boy, and yet a teenage girl does it instead. My only question is why?”

Ginny let out a whimper as Voldemort’s wand continued to jab her cheek. 

“You speak when Voldemort speaks to you,” Voldemort sneered.

“I didn’t want you to get to Harry, Tom -” before Ginny could even finish the sentence, Voldemort sent another cruciatus curse at her. Somehow the pain was more excruciating than the first time the spell hit her. 

“How dare you! Potter may have killed the basilisk, but he did not get to Nagini. You will become quick friends with her.” Voldemort said, standing up and walking away from her. The familiar sounds of parseltongue were heard. Ginny looked up to see Voldemort’s pet snake slithering towards her with its jaw wide open. Nagini striked, biting down on Ginny’s neck. 

The pain was different from the cruciatus, but just as painful. 

“Kill me, please just kill me,” Ginny begged. And then Nagini struck again.

Ginny wakes up. And then it is basically a repeat of the time that Ginny first killed herself where Harry crashes into her and Hermione's room panicking that Ginny is dead.

The chapter ends with Ginny asking Harry if he knew what a horcrux was.

Chapter 5: LAST CHAPTER!

Everyone finds out what a horcrux is and realizes that the locket is one. We destroy the locket! With the sword, Ginny also gets to do it because Ginny deserves to destroy a horcrux!

And, like I have said before, I just really like digging into Ginny's trauma with Tom. So like the boggart scene in I Go On Too Many Dates and in the other graveyard fic, Haunted, I have Ginny face Tom again.

“How are you going to open it?” Ginny asked.

“Parsaltongue,” Harry replied, the answer somehow obvious now to the both of them. “Ginny,” Harry warned, “it is going to fight back. Are you sure you want to do this? I am sure Dumbledore-”

“Harry, we both know that it has to be one of us,” Ginny interrupted, “and you got to do it last time.”

Harry nodded at her, and set the locket down on top of the table. A quick swing down and then this nightmare would all be over. Ginny’s hands tightened on the handle of the Sword of Gryffindor. Just one swing.

With a hiss from Harry, the locket springs open.

With shaky hands, Ginny lifts the sword above her head. Just one swing. Why can’t she swing? Looking down at the locket, the eyes that have continued to haunt her nightmares for the past 3 summers stared back at her. Then the voice that haunts her began to speak.

“Ginny, I have missed you. Look at you, all grown up, but still so young. So naive. So stupid.” 

Out of the locket’s windows, two figures grew: one of Tom Riddle, the other of Harry. 

Ginny lowered the sword out of shock.

“Ginny, stab it!” Harry shouted from a million miles away. 

The voice of Riddle-Harry was much louder. “Do you really think that I could truly love you? That this bond we have formed was not out of desperation? Are you that stupid that you think I will continue to want to be around you once we break free from this loop?”

Ginny backed away as the figures of Tom Riddle and the dark Harry sauntered towards her. 

Tom Riddle spoke next. 

“I know everything about you Ginevra Weasley. I know how you hate to be coddled because you are the youngest. I know that worry that you disappoint your own mother because you are not the daughter that she always wanted. I know that even though you are a Gryffindor, you are still terrified.” Riddle stood directly in front of Ginny, “terrified of me. You have so many demons, and they all look like me, don’t they? I haunt your dreams. Hasn’t it been so nice not dreaming lately? You have almost forgotten about me? You have gotten to live out your childhood fantasies of being the love of Harry Potter. 

“Do you really want to lose that?” Tom Riddle asked, a long, cold finger hovering over Ginny’s cheek. Almost to brush away a nonexistent tear.

No, she didn’t want to lose that at all. Tom terrified her. The diary may be long gone, but Tom was still a part of who Ginny was since the Chamber. Ginny looked over to the real Harry. Her Harry. Harry was the reason why Tom’s voice that used to echo around her skull, had softened to a whisper. The risk of nightmares returning and Harry moving on was worth ending the loop. It was worth ending Tom. 

Ginny rushed forward with the sword brandished over her head and swung down on the metal locket, shattering it into pieces. Both Tom Riddle and Riddle-Harry vanished with a scream. Ginny dropped the sword to the ground, sinking to her knees next to it. Warm arms embraced her. Ginny turned to the familiar scent of Harry that was her best source of comfort during the past few months.

“He’s gone,” Whispered Harry, muffled by Ginny’s hair. Ginny clung on to Harry tighter. “He’s gone,” Harry repeated, “But I’m not going anywhere. It’s going to take a lot more than that for you to get rid of me. If one thing is for certain, Gin, it’s that you and I are stuck together.”

Ginny gave Harry a watery smile. “I know.” She could still hear the chill of Tom’s voice echoing around her skull. She knew this would only ignite the nightmares that have plagued her since the Chamber because Tom was right: she is still scared of him. 

“Let’s go to the roof.”

Ginny and Harry just held onto each other for the rest of the night, whispering words of reassurance to each other. At some point, Ron and Hermione came up to join them. The four of them stared up at the stars, very few words passing between them, waiting for the clock to strike Midnight. 

“Guys!” Hermione said, sitting up straight. “My watch says it's 12:04!”

“It’s past midnight?!”

“It’s past midnight!”

“Ginny!” Harry shouted, picking her up by the waist and spinning her around. “You did it, you’re amazing!” Ginny giggled.

“You do realize they are not going to forget this time and we will actually have to deal with the consequences of my family knowing we are dating, right?”

“You are so worth it.” Harry said, grinning down at Ginny and kissing her. 

AND THAT IS IT!

I have honestly had thoughts about what comes after all of this: Harry basically being like "lol no" to Cho as soon as he saw her, Ginny breaking up with Michael Corner because she basically cheated on him for over a year with Harry. The fact that, technically, both Harry and Ginny aged a year despite not moving forward a day, so does that then cause them to lose the trace a year earlier? The fact that we know about horcruxes a year earlier, and destroyed one a year earlier, so how does that impact the rest of the story.

etc. etc.

The world will never know

[scarlet--wiccan]

hi I'm really interested in your thoughts on 1)June Covington as scarlet witch(and her power). 2)standalone character. 3)how she compares to Wanda Maximoff.

I don't think there is any worthwhile comparison between these characters. June Covington, more widely known as "Toxie Doxie" is a supervillain who was recruited to Norman Osborn's "Dark Avengers" as the "Scarlet Witch." Most of the characters in this team were villains posing as recognizable heroes, and some of them do have connections to the hero they were impersonating-- Bullseye and Hawkeye, Akihiro and Wolverine, etc.-- but there is no relationship between June and Wanda. They don't even have similar powers. Wanda's abilities are hard to replicate, and I suppose that, in context, it makes more sense to replace her with a tricked out scientist than some other witch or spellcaster, but among the other Dark Avengers, June as the Scarlet Witch always felt like a weird choice.

I do think she can be a really fun character. The super smart, morally unhinged hot female doctor/scientist isn't exactly an original trope, and in some ways, June feels a little reductive standing next to Karla Sofen, but she's also way more committed to the bit than Karla and I really like her current design. I wouldn't mind seeing her in more stuff.

[heartofspells]

I would love to hear more about S&R! 🫶 And if someone has already asked you about it, then tell me about your personal fav, because I'll eat up anything that comes from that brilliant mind of yours.

Bri! Please. You know I'll always drown you in all my wips and silly little ideas. BUT! This one. Oh, I love the idea of this one so much. The S and R stand for Sirius and Regulus because I love thinking about them when I give myself the space and freedom to do it. Their story is just so very tragic, and it hurts my heart, but it's also interesting to explore.

That's pretty much what this is. An exploration of them. Small snippets of their lives growing up together. How they banded together and how they drifted apart. I've done this before, but this one will be different, except I can't really explain how. All I can say for now is that it will center around Sirius' memories as he's once more thrust back into and trapped inside Grimmauld Place. It is also inspired by a song!

It's not a place he'd ever expected to return, this cold house that feels more alive than he does most days. Furniture that moves on its own, some with teeth that try to snap whenever he walks past, curved and ornate arms of chairs stretching outwards to pull him in close. The portraits mutter and shuffle, but there are voices and words trapped inside the peeling panels of wallpaper, heinous things that only come out at night but hints of whispers in the shadows of conversations never overheard by true ears. As quiet as it had always been, it's quieter now, the house itself devouring the sounds of those that come and go, leaving him more alone than he'd ever been as a child no matter what he'd thought at the time. For all the people that fill the walls throughout the day, for all of Kreacher's grumblings and his mother's banshee-like screams, there is a palpable absence that penetrates the frosted parts of his skin and the blackened, charred pieces of his soul that he had though would never breathe with life again. His second night inside the house, he turns a light on. When the morning comes and the sun filters through the doxy torn curtains, catching heavy dust motes and shimmering over spiderwebs, he leaves it on. Sometimes Molly turns it off. She flings the curtains open and claims that the house needs natural light; so much better and healthier than the artificial glow of a lamp. Unnecessary. He turns it back on. He sits and stares at it for long hours, wondering if the possibility of it glowing through worlds is too silly and foolish of a notion. Perhaps it's too little too late, but he keeps it on if for no other reason than that his little brother had feared the dark. Like a moth to the flame, it had drawn that small face into its comfort. Maybe, however fanciful the thinking might be, Sirius can do it for Regulus again.

Wip ask game