#forever grateful for the changes in this scene

[bawbawbridgie]

the 'palace' scene

i have been WAITING to talk about this scene and it has finally come to it. this will be my last post in terms of the changes because i believe i have gone through them all (could be wrong).

instead of writing the whole scene (because that would make this post even longer), i decided to include an audio recording from the current broadway version (Joel Meyers & Erik Christopher Peterson 2024) and the original script. i recommend listening to it while reading the original script before reading the rest of this post.

alrighty, time to go into my thoughts. 

essentially, this scene has gone from a cute little moment between two besties having a lighthearted chat about their feelings for girls, to now a very intimate and quite emotionally vulnerable scene between them. 

removal of love interests: 

rose and scorpius’ dynamic is strictly friendship now with him only asking to be friends in which she still says no. that is a self explanatory change which results in no evidence of scorpius having romantic feelings for her. along with this, polly, another female love interest, is completely removed from this conversation. this takes away pretty much EVERY interaction scorpius has with a female interest in a ‘romantic’ way. 

now with albus; thank god no random mention of the older female professor ew. and no albus getting a girlfriend first. coincidently also removing all the lines referring to him having romantic feelings for female characters. without the statement of liking older women, it removes he emphasis on albus romantically having feeling for delphi in which we know was also changed in the scene with ginny and albus. 

now what does this do to the narrative and perception of these characters? when you remove the female love interests in this situation, it leaves a gap in the story. the gap being who do these characters now actually love?? and since this play is pretty much about ‘love can conquer all’, WHO ELSE ARE THEY MEANT TO PUT THESE FEELINGS OF LOVE ON TO OTHER THAN EACH OTHER???? you cannot deny that all these changes made are for the benefit of this relationship and puts a lot more emphasis on them and what they mean to each other. 

slight word changes: 

“marriage” to “allegiance” again relates to the removal of scorpius’ romantic feelings for female characters, completely taking away this whole part of the plot for him. like all he wants is to form a friendship with rose! platonic friends is what they are now. 

again removing “love” and changing it to “harmony” takes away the romantic feelings and just creates a nice friendship. but i do think its sooooo funny that they changed “love” to “harmony” because THAT would’ve been too far for them. as albus wants that palace with scorpius, having “love” would be confirming that they love each other. that can absolutely not happen. but aren’t they just kinda synonyms or am i stupid. also it wouldn’t be that controversial because they already used “love” as albus’ weakness WITH SCORPIUS IN THAT SCENE soooo… the creatives were just too scared to leave it the same. 

we also have the whole ‘in my head’ but we have gone through it in a previous post (https://www.tumblr.com/bawbawbridgie/748173064391557120/since-you-guys-were-begging-me-to-write-about-it?source=share). 

rose’s line is now changed to “if YOU TWO let it be weird”… WHY WOULD IT BE WEIRD???? firstly, he was only asking to be friends. and secondly, why would it be weird for albus? my boy didn’t do anything? it’s almost as if rose is implying something else? perhaps her finding out that something else is going on between them? mhmmm idk. reminder that rose is quite literally on the stage listening to this whole convo.

THAT line: 

i have so many thoughts on this line and what albus is getting at. is this albus’ way of admitting he has feelings for scorpius? is it albus ‘subtly’ trying to understand how his best friend feels about him by pushing the limits of their friendship and see how he’d react? is he asking him out? is he saying he loves him in his own way as he struggles with feelings? orrrr is it simply albus just asking him if rose, his cousin, is actually the one scorpius, his bestie, wants? this line is definitely up to how you all perceive it. for me, i personally feel it’s albus attempting to address delphi outing him because they never really expand on that moment, as well as attempting to push the boundaries of this friendship to see if scorpius wants more than this as well. 

i also find it amusing that albus says this after scorpius expresses he only wants “harmony” and an “eventual alligence” with rose. like scorpius hasn’t actually shown any romantic interest in rose so this means albus doesn’t even want him talking to her. god he’s obsessed with him. 

rose’s input: 

THANK GOD FOR THE REMOVAL OF “SCORPION KING” COZ HOW DID SHE KNOW???? whatever moving on. her cute little line, “you good albus?” eeeeee i love her new role in this scene. she is just looking out for the happiness of her cousin in which i assume she knows about the two of them being more than besties. fr she is also a big scorbus shipper by the end of the play and we love her for that. 

why tf did the creatives do this?:

ughhhhh i do not know. i guess this was the closest they could get without actually confirming they are together?? idk. i do find it amusing to think about the creatives trying to rewrite this scene and how proud they would’ve been when they created this line. kudos to you jack thorne and john tiffany. but in general with the changes, i have so many thoughts and theories about why/when/how they did this which i would love to dive into but it deserves a whole post dedicated to itself.

but i think at the end of this scene/play, this relationship is open ended like there is no definite answer of what they are and can be interpreted however you’d like. and i genuinely really like this, it’s somehow comforting. one question that i still ask myself (which could be quite problematic but here we go) is: are they actually canon? i have so many thoughts about this and could definitely do a seperate post but put simply… sadly no. PLEASE DONT HATE ME I WANT THEM TO BE CANON BUT I CANNOT 100% SAY THEY ARE!!!! and i have my reasons… but that’s a whole different issue.

although we would all like a CLEAR confession/answer (to get us out of our misery), but they are only 14/15 and finding themselves so who knows, maybe at dinner they worked out what they are but i guess we will never know?? ok bye sorry for all that xx

[sturnsdarling]

‘never have I ever, shared a girl with my brother’

Matt and Chris’ best friend takes an innocent game of ‘never have I ever’ as her opportunity to ask the boys something she’s always wondered

vibe check: THREESOME (obviously no contact between matt and chris the fact that this even needs to be said is insane). dirty talk, softdom!mattandchris, matt the much, double penetration (no lube mentioned but PLEASE USE LUBE i'm so fr), throat fucking (chris receiving), fingering, squirting, titty play, hickies, cream pie, multiple orgasms (i lost count), they both nut inside her (kill me now), cute mini aftercare literally anything you can think of is in this fic dude i could go on forever

5.3k words of pure smut

A/N: the build up/foreplay to the actual smut is basically the scene from challengers because that scene actually changed my life. anyways if you see my search history say anything about how to manifest thought into reality through detailed story writing mind your business.

love and cigs, merc

There was a city wide power outage in LA, you were hanging out at the boys' house with Matt and Chris when suddenly, the TV turned off and the entire house was pitch black. At first you all freaked out, Chris spouting shit about how this is the night you all die and reeling off the game plan for when an intruder comes in, you and Matt were slightly more collected, Matt immediately checking his phone and confirming the power outage whilst you joked along with Chris about how you were going to fight this supposed intruder.

It had been about an hour, Matt had gone to Nicks room to get all his candles and put them on the living room floor, giving you guys some illumination in the dark. Chris was playing music from his phone, feeling grateful for spotify's offline option. You guys had exhausted every talking point, and even Chris was running out of things to say.

At some point between boredom and death, you suggested a game of never have I ever, and the boys reluctantly agreed. You weren't really playing properly because they didn't drink but, at least it was something.

"never have I ever, lost my virginity on a bench in Boston" Matt said, raising an eyebrow at Chris who rolled his eyes, punching his brothers shoulder.

"oh my god, I fuckin' forgot that thats how you lost it!" you laughed uncontrollably, keeling over into the rug on the floor.

"I dunno why you're laughing so much, kid, you've definitely done worse" Chris tutted at you.

"oh yeah? like what?" you said, playful confrontation in your voice.

"d'you remember when I had to come get you from that dudes house because you threw up on his dick?" Matt interrupted yours' and Chris' conversation.

Your eyes went wide and you nearly spat out the soda in your mouth, trying to stifle your laughter.

"I remember that! you had to climb out the bathroom window because you were too embarrassed to go back out" Chris was keeled over in laughter.

"we've all been there" You shrugged, owning your embarrassing mistake.

"no, kid, we haven't" Matt chuckled, looking to Chris who's face was scrunched up in a confused laugh.

"oh, come on? you're seriously telling me you've never had an embarrassing sexual encounter" you pressed.

"none involving vomit" Chris spoke through his laughter

"and none where I had to flee the scene by jumping out a window" Matt added to Chris' taunting.

"whatever, you guys are just boring, you're lucky you have me to keep you entertained with my embarrassing ass life" You rolled your eyes, pretending to be offended.

"to be fair, once I did accidentally punch a girl in the face whilst i was trying to fuck her" Chris said, trying to stifle his laughter.

"how the fuck did you manage that" You burst into hysterics.

"it was every dark and fumbly and I was still basically a virgin, okay? I apologised like fifty times and she still made me leave" Chris said, a boyish sulk taking over his body.

"dude that's not as bad as the time I was this close to a threesome with these girls, and I got so anxious that I told them my dog had just died and ran out half naked" Matt said, pinching his fingers together and huffing

"not my boy trev, thats so deep bro" Chris shook his head, acting disappointed in his brother.

Matt bringing up his near threesome experience made your ears perk up, and a question you had always wanted to ask came flooding back into your brain. You had been friends with the boys for a while and, had shared stories of all of your sexual escapades, some funny, some incredible and some awful, you were all totally open with each other.

But, your whole friendship, you'd always been curious as to whether they'd ever been offered a threesome, or taken someone up on one. You knew that girls would approach them both, but if one had more interest than the other, the other would back off and let his brother do his thing.

You uncrossed your legs, laying them out flat and placing one over the other as you leaned back on your palms, arching your back slightly as you looked between the boys.

"I have another never have I ever" You said, breaking their conversation.

They both looked to you at the same time, their breath hitching in their throat slightly at the sight of your chest being illuminated by the flicker of candle light.

"never have I ever...shared a girl with my brother" you said with complete nonchalance, looking back and forth between the boys.

Chris and Matt side eyed each other and looked back to you, mouths slightly agape at your forward question.

"like, fucked the same girl on different nights?" Chris asked, being the slightly braver of the two.

you shook your head, "like, fucked the same girl, at the same time" your voice was getting more and more seductive without even meaning to.

They looked at each other again, and then back to you, both slightly stunned, and slightly turned on by you even asking them that.

"we've been offered" Matt shrugged, "but we said no"

"why?" you said, sitting up straight now.

"cause I don't really wanna see my brothers face when I'm tryna cum" Chris laughed, looking to matt who made and agreeing face.

"interesting" you raised your brow quickly with a downwards smile

"why's that interesting?" Matt said, an air of seductive curiosity in his tone.

you shrugged, "I dunno, I jus' think you'd probably enjoy it", you pulled your legs into a criss cross under you, "you don't think the idea of fucking a girl who's so horny for you that she needs another version of you, is hot?" you tilted your head at them.

The boys were slightly stunned, they'd never thought about it like that before. Chris shifted where he sat, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his crotch as Matts eyes were trained on you, his tongue pressed to his cheek as you smiled at him smugly.

"well, when you put it like that, I guess it doesn't sound too bad" Chris said, letting his eyes wander over your frame.

"I've got one" Matt said abruptly, you and Chris looked to him, "never have I ever, offered my triplet best friends a threesome" Matt smirked at you.

You rolled your eyes and Chris attention shot straight to you, "I did not offer you a threesome-"

"yes, you did" Matt cut you off

"I simply asked if you'd ever had one" you shrugged, pretending to have no idea what he was talking about.

"yeah, and then proceeded to tell us exactly why we'd like it" Chris raised a brow at you, not realising he was edging closer to you on the floor.

"was I right?" you said, cocking a brow at Chris.

"yeah, you were" Matt answered for him.

Suddenly, the boys had come significantly closer to you, sitting in front of you like two siamese cats waiting for permission to do something. Your attention flitted between them periodically, the tension in the air thick with anticipation.

"so what then? would you say yes, knowing what you know now?" you said, trying to maintain your confidence

Matt smirked menacingly as Chris' brows dropped, pressing his tongue into the side of his teeth and looking to Matt. Matt side eyed him and they both returned their attentions to you.

"depends on who was askin" Chris said, eyes trained on yours.

"are you askin', pretty girl?" Matt muttered, his long fingers coming up to play with a strand of your hair.

The pet name made your stomach flutter, you don't think you'd ever been this turned on in your whole life, the sight of the boys' growing bulges from under their joggers making your mouth water as they both gawked at you, waiting for permission to fuck you exactly how they knew you wanted them to.

You didn't reply, only smiled as you leant forward, pressing your lips against Matts softly. He leaned into the kiss instantly, his hand coming to your face to pull you into him. The kiss was slow and somewhat soft, Matt asking for polite permission to press his tongue against yours with a gentle swipe over your bottom lip. You granted him access, and he pulled you in deeper to him with his hand on your jaw. He led the kiss with a gentle dominance that was slightly surprising from him. Chris watched with a slightly open mouth, watching as your tongue lapped and pressed over Matts, growing increasingly desperate to know what you felt like.

You broke the kiss with Matt, and immediately turned your attentions to Chris, kissing him with the same tenderness that you did Matt. Chris was a lot more feverish than his brother, his tongue entering your mouth instantly as his hand came to cup the under side of your chin. He bit at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth before soothing the sting with a warm kiss.

You were reeling in the feeling of kissing them both, the differences between them being so apparent, and only serving to make you want to know how else they were different.

You broke the kiss with Chris and sat back with a content sigh, looking between the two of them as they gawked at you with puffy lips and hooded eyes. You smiled, pushing your hair back off your shoulders and letting it hang down your back, exposing your neck to them. The boys looked to each other and, in an instant, they were by your sides, mouths latched around your neck, pressing their tongues against the soft skin, trailing kisses down either side of your neck.

your whole body felt like it was on fire, the sensation of the two of them nipping at sucking at you neck making you whimper slightly. Matt trailed his kisses down your chest, pressing his warm tongue along the curve of your cleavage as it begged to be freed from your tight tank top.

Chris went in the opposite direction, moving his mouth up your jaw and capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss as Matt slowly tugged at the hem of your top.

You pulled at the strap of your vest, letting it fall down your shoulder and giving Matt silent permission to free your tits from their confines. He complied, ripping your tank down with brute force, making your tits bounce free. He instantly latched his mouth around your nipple, biting down on the flesh and soothing the sting with a wet press of his tongue.

You moaned into Chris mouth, and his hand instinctively found the nape of your neck, collecting a handful of your hair and tugging on it, pulling your head back as he rose to his knees, not breaking the kiss.

"you like having us both kiss you like this, huh princess?" Chris said, smirking down at you with his lips brushing over yours.

"mhm" you nodded, your reply coming out in a whimper as Matt continued to work your nipple.

"she said it herself, Chris, she's so horny for us that just one isn't enough" Matt chuckled, palming your tit in his large hand, using his other to tease the hem of your joggers.

You flinched at the touch, a small shiver running down your spine at the sensation of Matts soft fingers teasing your skin.

"so responsive" Matt uttered, his attention focused on how your skin came up in goosebumps under his touch.

"come here, baby" Chris said as he shifted over to rest his back against the sofa, pulling you slightly by your hair.

You obeyed his orders, coming to rest in between his open legs, your back pressed to his. Matt turned to face you both, watching as Chris pried your legs open, raking his hands down the inside of your thighs at an agonising place, moving closer and closer to your throbbing pussy, but stopping before he reached you there.

You whined as Chris moved his hands round to the outside of your thighs, and Matt chuckled at your neediness.

"oh, come on, Chris, look how needy she is for it, just give her a little taste" Matt looked you up and down, his eyes hooded

"you want it, princess?" Chris muttered, his lips pressed to your ear as he hooked his fingers around the top of your joggers.

you nodded, head pressed against Chris' shoulder with your lip tucked between your teeth.

"words, pretty girl, we need words" Matt pushed, leaning forward and squeezing your thigh, inching his hand down your leg.

"yes, please, I want it" you whimpered, picking up your heavy head to look between the boys.

"want what, baby?" Chris said, a smirk wide on his lips as he nipped at your earlobe

"I want you both, I need you both to fuck me, please" you said, desperation thick in your voice.

With that, Chris pushed down your joggers as Matt assisted in lifting your hips up. Matt pulled them down, eyes trained on your covered pussy as sticky juices leaked from between the lace. You were soaked, and he couldn't help but reach forward to touch you.

"look, Chris, she's dripping for us" Matt said, pushing a finger up your covered folds, collecting your wetness on his finger, showing the glistening substance to Chris, who's mouth was once again latched around your neck.

Matt continued to tease your hole, getting down to eye level with your pussy as Chris continued to hold your legs wide open for his brother, your back arching into his chest as Chris sucked purple marks all over your neck, one hand in your hair, the other pressing bruises into your knee. Matts hands pushed you open further for him as he pressed his tongue flat against your throbbing pussy, you released a guttural moan at the sensation, your head rolling back on Chris' shoulder, giving him better access to your neck.

Matt wasted no time, he had had a taste of you and now he was hungry. He pulled your panties to the side and latched his mouth around your pussy, pressing his tongue into your hole as his nose brushed against your clit.

Chris pulled his hand out from your hair and began to palm your tit, still relentlessly attacking your neck with wet, warm kisses and soft bites.

The feeling of Chris working your tits as Matt lapped and sucked at your pussy was euphoric, the moans leaving you borderline pornographic as the boys' groaned at the sound of you whimpering for them. Matt brought a slender finger to your entrance, moving up your pussy to suck on your clit as he slipped his finger into your sopping hole with ease. Almost immediately, you clenched around him, and he inserted a second finger, curling them upwards as he coaxed your orgasm from you.

"that feel good, princess?" Chris muttered in your ear, "you sound so fuckin' pretty when you moan, y'know that?"

All you could do was moan in response, any sense of coherence being ripped from you by the second as Matt lapped at your pussy like a man starved. He was moaning, actually moaning with every clench around his fingers, drinking you in like you were his last meal.

Chris twisted and pinched at your nipples, his grip on your knee never wavering as he held you open for Matt. You turned your head, biting down on Chris' jaw and pressing your tongue against the stubble there, he chuckled, and captured your mouth in a feverish kiss, groaning as you bit down on his plump bottom lip. His hand raked down your inner thigh, pressing and squeezing bruises into the flesh as he pressed his tongue against yours.

Matt sucked on your clit, burying his fingers knuckle deep inside of you and grazing your g-spot with his long fingers. You broke the kiss with Chris with a pornographic moan, your hands flying to Matts hair to push him desperately into your pussy.

"i think that means keep going, Matt" Chris chuckled.

Matt looked up at you, your mouth agape and brows furrowed as he thrust his fingers deep inside your pussy over and over again, his tongue running circles around your puffy clit. You couldn't help but grind against Matts face, and he moaned at the feeling, using his free hand to hold your hip, near enough forcing you to grind against his tongue harder.

Chris pulled at your hair, making you look at him again and locking his mouth around yours, tongue aggressively pressing and pushing against yours as he returned his hand back to palm your tits.

You were a whimpering mess, moaning and crying into Chris mouth as Matt brought you over the edge with his tongue. You covered Matts mouth with your cum, shaking and convulsing above him as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you. He unlatched his glistening mouth from yours and helped you ride out your orgasm, watching in awe as you bucked your shaking hips into his hand.

"look how pretty she is when she cums, Chris" Matt said, gaining Chris' attention

Chris broke the kiss and chuckled, watching as you shook against his chest, "the prettiest girl in the world" he muttered, raking his hand down your stomach and pressing the pads of his fingers against your pulsating clit.

You shifted against Chris, whimpering as you felt a wave of hot tingles rush over your body. Matt was curling his fingers inside you relentlessly, begging for more of you, and Chris was rubbing fast circles against your clit, using your own sticky juices as lube for his movements.

Your eyes where clenched shut, head heavy against Chris' shoulder as you bucked your hips into their hands, moaning relentlessly and unable to form a single thought. A second, fast approaching orgasm ripped through you, and you clenched hard around Matts fingers.

"please, please, please" you began to beg, unsure of what you were begging for as your orgasm hit you like a freight train.

You released a wave of juices over Matts hand, squirting up his arm as you lifted your hips, stuttering. Chris pushed you back down, chuckling as he watched you squirm.

When you finally began to come down from our high, the boys slowed their pace and Matt pulled his fingered from you, licking them clean and moaning at the taste of you on his tongue.

"you taste so good, pretty girl" Matt shook his head, pulling off his top with one swift movement.

Chris dipped his fingers in your pussy, inciting a small whimper from you, and pulled them out just as fast, wrapping his arm round you to taste you on his fingers.

"fuckin' delicious" Chris groaned, shifting you forward slightly so he could pull down his shorts, letting his leaking cock slap against his stomach.

You were completely spent already, mind reeling from the shattering orgasms you just experienced, but the sight of the boys undressing for you made you feel increasingly desperate. Chris situated you back against his chest, you were both planted on the sofa and he had lifted you up onto his lap, his cock pressed against your sensitive pussy. Chris pried your legs open once more just after Matt had removed your soaked panties, leaving you totally bare for them.

Chris began to tease your folds with his throbbing cock as Matt freed himself of the rest of his clothes.

"you think you can take us both, princess?" Chris muttered in your ear, his voice cracking with every pump of his cock.

"mhm" you nodded, eyes fluttering at the feeling of Chris teasing your folds with his tip, "I can take it"

"good girl" Matt smirked, coming closer to you and Chris as he pumped his hard length in his hand.

Matt and Chris locked eyes and Matt cocked his head, Chris lifted you up slightly and let his cock slip out the way of your entrance. Matt pressed his tip through your folds, a needy whimper falling from your lips as Chris began to rub slow circles around the entrance of your asshole, preparing you to take them both.

"you ready, beautiful?" Matt said, standing over you with his tip pressed into your folds.

"please, give it to me" you nodded desperately.

Matt smiled a prideful smirk and with your words, pushed his girthy cock inside you. You both moaned at the sensation, Matts hands finding the backs of your thighs as Chris held you open for him. Matt bottomed out inside you, brows knitted together at the tightness of your warm pussy around him.

The feeling of Matt stretching you out, coupled with the slow rubs of Chris' gentle fingers against your hole made you feel light headed, moaning uncontrollably as Chris pushed one, and then two fingers into your gaping hole, using your own wetness as lubrication to slip his long fingers in and out of you. The feeling was unusual, but definitely not bad, the warm touch of them both caressing you as Matt rutted into your seeping pussy at an agonising pace, of Chris fucking his fingers into your asshole, stretching you out perfectly, was genuinely blissful.

You had never felt anything like it, and just as you thought it couldn't get any better, Chris lifted you up slightly, causing Matts dick to slip out of you momentarily. He inched his fingers into your mouth, and teased your hole with his long cock.

"bite down on me, baby, it'll help with the sting" Chris cooed in your ear as he pressed his tip into your clenched hole.

As Chris pushed into you, Matt did the same, thrusting his cock back into your warm pussy. You did just as Chris said, biting down on his fingers as Matt and Chris stretched you out completely. You cried out a moan, the sting only adding to your euphoria as they both began to fuck your gaping holes.

You were completely full of them, being thrust into from every angle as Chris fucked up into your tight asshole, and Matt thrust down into your weeping pussy, Chris fingers in your mouth, and Matts hands pressing bruises into the backs of your thighs.

They were both moaning and muttering, praising nonsense, filling the air with low grunts that were nearly drowned out by the moans that left your throat.

"y'taking us so fuckin' well, pretty girl, so fuckin' well" Matt grunted, planting a hard slap on the back of your thigh, kneading the flesh with soothing touches just after.

"so fuckin' tight around me, baby, fuck, you feel so good" Chris groaned feverishly in your ear, biting down on your lobe as he picked up his pace, fucking into your hole with animalistic passion.

Their praises made your head spin, and you felt yourself getting closer and closer to your third orgasm of the night.

"m'gonna cum, please let me cum, i'm- i'm- i'm" you were rambling, unable to think straight as the boys continued to fuck your holes.

"cum, baby, cum for us" Matt grunted, pressing his thumb over your puffy clit and rubbing steady circles over it.

"show us how pretty you are when you cum, princess, show me again, I miss it" Chris muttered into your ear, pulling his fingers from your mouth and rubbing wet circles over your nipple.

Your orgasm ripped through you, leaving a white sticky ring all around Matts cock as it leaked from you and down onto Chris' balls. Neither of them stopped their pace, fucking you through your high as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your whole body shaking in white hot euphoria as they filled you up. You were borderline screaming at this point, moaning their names over and over again as your whole body tensed.

"so fuckin sexy" Matt grunted, rutting into you with gritted teeth.

Chris watched as your jaw hung slack, slowing his pace in your asshole and pressing a few long, slow and hard thrusts inside of you.

"I need t'know what that pretty mouth feels like" Chris said, pulling out of you. The sting of him removing himself from your gaping hole being soothed by the cool, wet juices of your sopping pussy.

Matt pulled out, earning a whimper from you at the complete emptiness you felt.

Before you could complain, you were thrown about the sofa, head hanging over the edge with your legs pressed against your chest and your mouth stuffed full.

Matt was pounding into you, holding your legs tight against your chest but just open enough so that he could see your tits bounce as he rutted into you.

Chris had his hands wrapped round your jaw, softly caressing your cheeks as he fucked your open throat.

"you're so good, baby, taking me down your pretty little throat like this as Matt abuses your perfect pussy" Chris cooed softly, watching as tears pricked at your eyes, gagging around his massive cock with every thrust.

You loved it, it was exactly what you wanted. The feeling of Matt rutting into you, stretching you out and hitting your g-spot as Chris pounded down into the back of your throat, looking at you like you were an angel as he made you gag around him, was perfect. You reached a hand down to your pussy, and began to rub fast circles over your clit. Matt near enough growled at the sight, fucking you harder than ever, the sting of his skin slapping against yours only serving to push you closer to the edge again.

"keep doin' that, princess, keep playin' with y'self for me, kay? don't you dare stop" Matt grunted, breathy moans escaping his mouth with every thrust into your clenching pussy.

"you gonna cum, beautiful? you like having your throat fucked so much you'll touch yourself over it?" Chris smirked down at you, his pace into your throat never wavering as he periodically threw his head back, thrusting deep into the back of your throat.

You attempted to nod around him, whimpering and moaning around his cock at the familiar tingly feeling creeping up your spine. Chris moaned your name as he bottomed out in your throat, hips stuttering slightly as he reluctantly pulled out and began to thrust in and out once more.

You were clenching hard around Matt, and he knew you were about to cum, uttering encouraging praises to you in hopes of seeing you cum again. "come on baby, gimme one more, y'so fuckin' perfect, such a good girl, jus' gimme one more"

Your pace on your clit began to falter and you came all over Matts dick, moaning around Chris' length as tears fell from your eyes. The feeling of you clenching so hard around him gave Matt the push he needed, and with a few hard and fast thrusts into your sensitive and spent pussy, he came inside you, fucking his cum into you as he rode out his high, pressing bruises into your thighs as his head hung low on his neck.

"fuck, oh my- fuck" Matt groaned, leaning down and biting down on the bone of your knee, trying to steady his bucking hips as they chased the feeling of your warm pussy leaking his own cum all over his cock.

Your whole body felt limp, you were completely fucked out, and yet, as Chris continued to fuck your throat, you found yourself almost sad at the emptiness you felt when Matt finally pulled out of your throbbing pussy.

"Chris, you gotta feel how fuckin' tight she is, dude" Matt sighed, shaking his head and resting back onto the soft couch to catch his breath.

Chris pulled out from the depths of your throat and gave you a warm smile from your hung position over the sofa. He walked round, grabbing your legs and spinning you round so your thighs were spread for him, ass nearly hanging off the edge of the sofa as Chris lined himself up with your spent hole.

"you think you can take just a lil' more, baby? you wanna let me cum inside you as well?" Chris caressed your thigh with one hand and pumped his cock with the other.

"yes, please, Chris, fill me up jus' like Matt did" you whimpered, spreading your thighs wider for him.

Chris smiled, "such a good girl" pressing gentle touches into your thighs as he pushed his cock deep into your aching hole.

Chris' eyes rolled to the back of his head at the feeling of your tight, warm pussy sucking him in like a vice, "Jesus, fuck" he moaned.

You whined at the stretch, not even close to recovered from the pounding Matt had given you. Tears pricked at your eyes once more and you moaned Chris' name, pressing a desperate hand into his chest.

Matt came up beside you, taking your jaw in his hand gently and pressing a tender kiss on your open mouth.

"you can take it, baby, be a good girl and take it" Matt said softly, caressing your hair as you nodded, eyes fluttery and lips parted.

Chris was fucking into you like he'd never felt a pussy like yours in his life. Every time he pulled out, he was sucked back in by your clenching walls, reeling in the way you felt stretched out around him. Your tits were bouncing with every thrust, and with your tongue pressed against Matts in a needy, sloppy, moan filled kiss, you didn't notice Chris' hips begin to stutter. His pace began to falter as he became a rambling mess, thrusting in and out of you, cursing and moaning your name as you moaned into Matts mouth at the feeling of him effortlessly fucking into your g-spot over and over again with his lengthy cock.

With a final hard few thrusts, Chris' mouth was latched around the curve of your neck, biting down on the muscle as he came inside you, filling you up for the second time that night. He fucked you through his high, pushing his cum deep inside your already cum soaked walls.

Matts hold on you was gentle and grounding, him only pulling away from kissing you when Chris mustered the strength to pull out of your perfect pussy.

Chris reached down to the floor and put on his shorts, throwing Matt his and slumping down on the sofa beside you. You were sandwiched between them, Matts head rested on your shoulder and Chris laying over your stomach, your legs hanging open over the edge of the sofa. They were both panting, tracing small circles on your skin as your whole body relaxed into the soft cushion of the sofa.

You were exhausted, completely spent and desperate for sleep as you felt the boys' cum leak out of your sore pussy.

Matt lifted his head up, hooking his finger under your jaw to make you look at him, "you okay, pretty girl?" he asked softly.

You nodded with fluttery eyes and a weak smile, your hand caressing Chris' soft curls as he laid in your lap.

Matt smiled at you, pressing a gentle kiss on your nose, "you wanna go have a nice warm bath and cuddle up in bed with me n'Chris?"

you nodded again, eyes fluttering closed as you hummed, unable to form a sentence.

The boys helped you up, Chris passed you his t-shirt and helped you put it on, telling you to go easy and let him do everything.

They walked you to the bathroom, Matt holding you against his chest as Chris ran the bath and helped you step in, both of them easing you down into the bubbly warm water.

You sighed at the relief of the warm water covering you, your eyes closing and head rolling back on its hinge for a moment.

Matt was sitting down by the side of the tub, his finger tips tracing soft circles on your shoulders as Chris sat on the counter top, sorting the perfect queue of songs to help you relax as much as possible.

taglist: @sturniozalt@mattslolita@shaquilles-0atmeal@blahbel668@sleepysturniolo@le4hsblog @sarosfilms @joemamaaa42069 @2muchofaslvt @seluky10 @cherib3lla @jetaimevous

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Six

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Me writing this fic at superspeed like a monkey on cocaine. But instead the metaphor should be 'like peach on 5 caramel oat lattes'

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Oscar spotted the car first.

The long black Mercedes rolled into the hotel car park like it owned the place — gleaming and polished and too expensive for the dusty gravel. He stood at the edge of the stairs, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, heart hammering.

The driver got out first. Because of course Harper's mum had a driver.

Then the passenger door opened.

And Harper stepped out, stiff and silent and all wrong.

She looked like a stranger wearing his Harper's skin. Uniform perfect, hair scraped back too tight, posture like she'd been positioned. Her blazer was buttoned all the way, her chin lifted so high it looked like it would hurt.

Her mum — Victoria — followed. Taller. Colder. Every inch the ice queen he knew her to be.

She didn't glance at Harper as they walked toward him.

Oscar's gut twisted.

Harper finally lifted her gaze — and the second she saw him, the mask faltered. Just a flicker, but it was enough. Her shoulders dropped by a fraction. Her mouth twitched like she might cry, or run, or both.

He stepped forward without thinking. "Hey."

Harper stopped in front of him, didn't speak. She was pale beneath the tightness of her face, lips pressed into a line, hands fisted at her sides.

Oscar glanced past her to Victoria. "Mrs. Whiatt. Hello."

Victoria gave him a once-over like he was a piece of dirt under her shoe. "So. You're the boy."

Harper winced.

Oscar just nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

No point pretending this would be a warm, sweet exchange.

There was a moment of tense, brittle silence.

Then Harper turned slightly toward him — not quite reaching, but enough for Oscar to understand.

He took a small step closer and gently brushed his hand against hers. Didn't hold it, didn't squeeze — just let her know he was there.

She blinked fast.

"You okay?" He asked softly, eyes still on her.

Harper gave a tiny nod, and an even tinier shake of the head, all in one breath.

He stepped forward and ducked his head a little to meet her eyes.

"Hey," he said gently. "You want to come walk with me? Just around the side?"

Victoria gave a sharp sound — a sigh or a scoff, hard to tell. "She doesn't need a stroll, she needs a serious reality check. You both do."

Oscar ignored her. He looked only at Harper.

And after a second, Harper nodded. Small. Grateful.

She followed him wordlessly around the corner of the hotel, out of sight of the car and her mother. The second they were hidden by brick, Harper stopped.

Oscar turned to face her, voice low. "What did she say to you?"

Harper didn't answer. Instead, she leaned forward — slowly, like she wasn't sure she was allowed — and pressed her forehead into his shoulder. Just stood there, curled into him, not crying, not speaking. Just breathing.

Oscar wrapped his arms around her without a word. Held her there. Shielded her from whatever storm had just walked out of that car in heels and judgment.

"I've got you," he whispered.

—

The hotel restaurant was almost too pristine — white tablecloths, polished silver, candles flickering in little glass domes. It wasn't built for shouting, which only made the tension at their table more electric.

Victoria sat stiffly, sunglasses placed neatly beside her untouched coffee. Her mouth was drawn in a sharp, disapproving line.

Opposite her, Harper sat beside Oscar, her uniform blouse rumpled at the shoulders. She hadn't said a word since they sat down.

Oscar could feel the stiffness in her spine. He wanted to reach for her hand, but didn't want to risk stirring things up.

He kept it out of sight instead. Still held her in his own way. A hand on the base of her back.

Chris stirred his tea, calm and deliberate. "We're all here for the same reason," he said, voice low and even. 

Victoria's eyebrows lifted. "Are we?"

Harper flinched.

Oscar opened his mouth, but Chris raised one hand — not to silence, just to steady. "What I mean is: this isn't something we can undo. So now we need to make some decisions. And a plan."

"I already had a plan for my daughter," Victoria snapped. "It involved top GCSE marks, a fine art degree, an internship in Milan. Not..." she gestured vaguely at Harper, "teen pregnancy."

"I'm still doing my GCSEs," Harper said.

Victoria scoffed. "Harper, you can barely sleep through the night as it is. How do you expect to revise for ten subjects and handle being pregnant at the same time? Biology alone would be a farce."

"I'll manage," Harper said, voice shaking. "I will."

"You won't," Victoria replied, sharper now. "And don't act like this is a brave, romantic thing, Harper Grace. You are fifteen. You are ruining your future, and dragging this young boy down with you."

"I'm not dragging anyone—" Harper started, but Victoria wasn't finished.

"Hey, don't—" Oscar started at the same time, but he was cut off too.

"I trusted this bloody priceless school to keep you focused. On track. Disciplined. To keep you away from this kind of mess. I should've sent you to Les Monts when I had the chance." She snapped.

Oscar's jaw tightened. "She's not dragging me anywhere. And it's not the school's fault," he said, tone quiet but hard. "We made a mistake. At least we're not pretending it didn't happen and hiding it from everyone."

Victoria glowered at him. "You're awfully calm for someone whose future's about to be shredded."

Chris gave a short laugh — not amused, just tired. "Victoria. I think you'll find that Oscar already has a solid grasp in his future — contracts and all. He's an incredibly talented boy."

"I don't need parenting tips from a glorified mechanic," Victoria snapped.

Chris didn't flinch. "And I don't need moral lectures from someone who's treating her daughter like a brand embarrassment instead of a human being."

Victoria rose abruptly, her chair scraping back. "If you really think she can do this — take her exams, have a baby, live with the ridicule of being a teen mother for the rest of her pathetic life — then you're as delusional as she is."

Harper stood up too. Her voice shook, but it didn't break. "I don't know everything yet. I don't know how it's going to work. All I know is that I want to keep my baby, and I'm not going to let you bully me out of my decision."

Victoria sneered. "God. You're serious?"

Harper nodded.

Victoria let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "You're a child. You're clueless, Harper! Absolutely clueless. I'm telling you now, as your mother, that the right thing to do is—"

Oscar flew to his feet, his chair scraping loudly behind him. "No. Don't tell her what to do. This is her decision. Not yours. Not mine. Not my dad's. Hers." He said, stepping just slightly in front of Harper. "You're not listening to her. You're not even giving her a chance. You're just... you're just being horrible."

Victoria looked between them. At Chris, who was stood now too, just next to his son.

Then she turned, grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and walked out.

Harper stood perfectly still.

Chris sighed. "Well," he said, brushing off his lapel. "That went about as well as I expected."

—

The door to the restaurant swung shut behind Victoria, her heels clipping down the marble corridor. She didn't make it far.

Chris followed at a steady pace. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just relentless in that quiet, grounded way that had always made people underestimate him.

"Victoria," he said, voice calm. "Wait."

She stopped, spine rigid, but didn't turn around.

He came to stand in-front of her, not too close.

Hands in his coat pockets.

"You can scream at me. You can call me whatever names you like. But my son was raised right. He wasn't going to sit there and listen to you tear your daughter to shreds."

She turned then, furious. "You think I care what either of you think of me? You and your self-righteous, soft-spoken act — do you not realise what your son has done to my daughter?"

Chris tilted his head. "He didn't do anything to her, Victoria. She wasn't coerced. She wasn't manipulated. They're two kids who did something stupid and were brave enough to admit it and ask for help. I think that counts for something."

"She is fifteen," Victoria snapped, eyes sharp. "She still wears a school uniform. She can't even make it through an adult conversation without crying. And now she thinks she's capable of raising a child?"

Chris stayed silent a moment. Let the words land.

"You think that this will destroy your family name, right? That all this is going to boil down to is scandal, gossip, ugly headlines."

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

Chris sighed. "Yeah. I thought as much."

She blinked at him.

"You want out? Fine. I know how the law works, Victoria. Harper is only fifteen, but that girl is Gillick competent. No doctor, or surgeon, or midwife, would ever turn her away. Fifteen or not, in their eyes, she's an expectant mother, and that's that."

Victoria stared at him like he'd grown two heads.

"You're still her mother, Victoria, and I had to pressure her to tell you. I made her think that she had no other choice." He took a breath. "But she does. She doesn't need you, Victoria. She can make her own medical decisions and the school have a legal right to protect her confidentially." He stared at her. "Oscar and Harper will finish their GCSEs at Haileybury. Quietly. When their exams are done and the baby comes, she'll be old enough to decide what she wants to do next — and whatever that is, me and my wife will make it happen for her. And when all that is done, you'll never have to think about how much of a disappointment your daughter is to you ever again."

"You have some nerve." She hissed, voice low.

"I would do anything for my son." He said in response, equally as sharp.

"Why?" She asked, her nose wrinkled.

Chris looked at her — tired, clear-eyed. "Because he's scared. Because he's my child, and I love him beyond any reasonable measure." He took a short breath. "It's unfortunate, Victoria, that you can't see past your grief for long enough to see how desperate your daughter is to be loved by you."

Victoria stared at him emptily before she inhaled slowly. "They'll fail," she said. "Their exams. Their careers. All of it — that's the most likely outcome. You know it is."

Chris's voice didn't waver. "Fine. Then they fail together. Or they don't. Either way, they won't be alone. They'll be loved exactly the same either way."

Silence stretched.

Then she shifted her jaw and said, "I'll pay her school fees for the rest of the year. I'll allow access to her trust fund as soon as she turns sixteen. But after that? After that, I'm done, Chris. Done with her."

Chris gave the faintest nod.

She adjusted her bag. Smoothed her coat.

And walked away without saying goodbye.

—

Harper pushed through the restaurant doors, shoulders tight. She walked fast, like she was trying to outpace the heat in her cheeks. Her shoes made soft clicks on the marble floor of the hotel lobby.

The lobby was mostly empty — a single receptionist typing quietly behind the desk, someone in towering heels checking in.

Her chest rose and fell like she'd been running.

She dropped onto one of the velvet sofas near the windows. Folded her arms. Stared hard at the floor.

A moment later, Oscar appeared, breathless. He didn't say anything. Just sat beside her.

They didn't look at each other for a while.

Then Harper muttered, voice tight, "Sorry. I felt like everyone in that restaurant was staring at me."

"They weren't," Oscar said. "Okay, maybe the old man at the table next to us was. But he kept asking his wife how to pronounce 'tagliatelle' so I don't think he counts."

Harper gave a weak noise — somewhere between a huff and a sob. She wiped her eyes on the cuff of her school jumper. Sniffed. Then she whispered, voice cracking, "I'm going to get so fat, Osc."

Oscar froze. "What—"

"I am," Harper said. Her eyes were glassy but serious. "My uniform's already tight. I've gained weight since the start of year eleven. And it's going to get worse. I'm going to be, like, round."

Oscar's lips part, unsure if he should laugh. "I—"

"And I'll probably get stretch marks. And my boobs are going to get bigger, so I'll need new bras. And I'll be sweaty. All the time. And I'll — I'll waddle."

Yeah. That did it.

Oscar started laughing — really laughing, soft but uncontrollable. He bent forward, hiding his face in his hands.

"Stop laughing at me!" Harper said, whacking his shoulder, but she was suddenly giggling too, tearfully. "This is a disaster."

"Waddle," Oscar wheezes. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be laughing. I'm sorry, babe."

"You're an awful boyfriend!" Harper said, grinning through tears. "I used to model, you know? I was in Vogue when I was eight. And now I'm going to be, like, ginormous."

Oscar caught her hand. His palm was warm.

"You're going to be the fittest pregnant girl ever," he said solemnly. "I promise. And we'll find you a school uniform that fits, alright? Even if we have to go diving in the lost and found bin."

"Oh my god," Harper groaned, collapsing sideways into the cushions. "Don't say that. I'll throw up at the thought of it."

They laughed a bit more, then let the quiet settle. It was softer now. She shuffled over and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I don't want to go back in there," she said. "I don't want to talk to her anymore."

"Yeah. I get it."

"But she came."

"Yeah. She came."

"I wish she still loved me." She whispered. "The way she used to when my dad was alive."

Oscar hesitated, "Her loss."

Her fingers tightened in his.

—

Harper's head rested against Oscar's shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. The soft lobby light made everything feel far away, like they were on pause from the rest of the world.

Then the entrance doors opened.

Chris stepped in alone.

His jaw was tight, shirt collar slightly undone. But his voice, when he spoke, was steady. "She's gone."

Harper sat up slowly. "Gone where?"

"Back to wherever she came from. She left about twenty minutes ago. I just — I had to go for a walk. Clear my head."

Oscar blinked. "She couldn't even be bothered to come in and say goodbye?"

Chris gave a tired breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. But it's fine. We don't need her"

Harper's breath caught. "What? But I thought—"

Chris crouched in front of them, meeting her eyes with that same evenness he always had — calm, but honest.

"Telling her was the right thing to do, Harper. But you're fifteen. A smart, capable girl. Any doctor will see that. And in England, there's a law. A doctor will see you, and if they think that you're Gillick competent — which you are — then you will no longer need your mum to be at any of your appointments with you, okay? You can make all your own decisions, appointments; all of it."

"That's a thing?" Harper asked, barely believing it.

"It is," Chris confirmed.

Harper blinked fast. Her hands trembled in her lap.

Oscar reached for them.

"I'm so sorry for how your mother reacted, Victoria," Chris said.

Harper bit her lip. "It's fine. I — I guess I'm used to it." She said.

Oscar let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "So what happens now?"

Chris stood up, a little stiff. "Now? You both eat something. You use the hotel amenities that I've paid an arm and a leg for. We'll find a clinic taking new patients, a nice one — private. Then you'll both go back to school tomorrow like it's any other Thursday. And we take this day by day."

—

The lights were off, but the bedroom wasn't silent.

Sam snored softly in the other bed — limbs sprawled in every direction, one sock half-off, duvet twisted like he'd fought a small animal in his sleep.

Harper lay curled against Oscar under his blanket, her little brown teddy bear bunched between them. She was warm and still in her uniform shirt, her skirt folded neatly over the back of his desk chair.

Oscar's arms were around her, bare feet cold against the wall.

They whispered, low and soft.

"One day, you're gonna get caught here, and all hell is going to break lose," he said into her hair.

She shrugged, cheek resting against his chest. "You always say that. I never do."

He kissed the top of her head. "Yet."

A pause.

Then Harper whispered, "I liked the doctor."

Oscar blinked. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "She didn't talk to us like we were stupid. Like we'd done this on purpose for some reason."

Oscar winced. "Your mum—"

"She's always like that," Harper murmured. "Just not always in public."

Oscar tightened his grip. "Dad said he'd make sure she doesn't try to take you out of school."

Harper didn't say anything.

They stayed quiet for a minute.

Then Sam stirred. Sat up.

"Jesus," he muttered groggily, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Piastri, is there a girl in your bed or am I dreaming?"

Oscar groaned. "It's two a.m., mate."

Sam blinked blearily. "It's Harper, ain't it."

"Shhh."

Sam blinked harder, then seemed to register the tension in the air. "Shit. Is something wrong?"

Oscar hesitated.

Harper sat up slowly, but didn't say anything.

Oscar rubbed a hand over his face. "We weren't gonna to tell anyone yet, mate."

Sam just looked at them, eyebrows drawn together.

Then Oscar sighed. "She's pregnant," he said.

Sam didn't speak for a second. Just sat there.

Finally, he choked out, "Jesus everloving shit-dicks. Like — she's actually pregnant?"

Harper nodded. "Went to the doctor today. She took my blood. Scanned me. I'm nine weeks."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah." Oscar said.

Sam laid back, wide-eyed. "So... are you gonna keep it?"

Harper glanced at Oscar. He gave her a soft nod. 

"Yeah. Yeah. I think so," she said.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Fucking hell. A Haileybury baby."

"Yup," Oscar said.

Sam just said, "Shit." Then, after a long beat, he said, "Do you want me to... like... go sleep somewhere else?"

Harper laughed — a soft, surprised sound. "No. It's fine."

Sam yawned. "Okay. Cool. Just — if you guys start doing anything gross, I'll throw my rugby clogs at you."

Oscar snorted. "Right. I'll keep that in mind, mate."

They all lay back down — Harper nestled into Oscar's side, Sam flipping his pillow over and rolling to face the wall.

Somewhere between real life and sleep, Harper whispered, "We have to tell the headmaster."

Oscar nodded into her hair. "Dad said he'd come in tomorrow." Then he added, with a sleepy snort: "If Sam doesn't tell everyone first."

Sam's voice, muffled in his pillow, "Oi. I'm a right good secret keeper."

Harper laughed again — a real laugh, this time. "You're also a bloody eavesdropper!" She said. Threw her teddy at him and then said, "Throw that back, Sam. Or I'll beat you up on the astro in front of everyone."

"I can't fecking fight a pregnant woman!"

She giggled into Oscar's chest. "Exactly."

—

The headmasters office was warm but formal, heavy with old books and dark wood. Rain tapped at the tall windows. The second week of January.

Harper sat stiffly in her school uniform, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Oscar beside her, jaw clenched. Chris, calm and collected in a charcoal jacket, sat across from the Headmaster — a tall, greying man in his sixties, stern but not ever unkind.

The Headmaster's fingers were steepled. He was looking at them all very carefully. "So. Let me see if I have this correct. Harper is currently nine weeks pregnant?"

Chris nodded. "That's right. We've confirmed it with her doctor. We're arranging further care, but I thought it best to involve the school immediately — for transparency, and for planning."

Harper stared at her shoes. Oscar moved his pinky to lightly touch hers under the table.

"Well. This is... not exactly uncharted territory, in my time here. The priority, of course, will be Harper's wellbeing, and her education. Have you thought about what this means for your GCSEs?"

Harper nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I assume you're both still planning to sit them in May?" He asked.

Chris answered for them. "They are. We've already discussed options for additional tutoring, should Harper need to take any time out or modify her timetable. Me and my wife will cover any associated costs — private revision sessions, supervised study, exam adjustments if needed."

The Headmaster nodded, visibly calculating. "We'll need medical documentation for any special arrangements, but yes — that can be managed. Our priority, beyond safeguarding, is continuity. You've done well so far, Harper."

Harper glanced up, startled.

"Your latest maths results were spectacular. And you are incredibly bright across your humanity subjects. I don't want to see this derail your potential grades."

"It won't." Oscar said.

"I hope not." The headmaster remarked. He leaned forward then, clasping his hands. "There's the matter of boarding arrangements. We cannot allow cohabitation in any capacity."

Oscar blushed. Harper stiffened.

"Understood. We're not asking for that. They will continue to sleep in their assigned dorms. But I'd like to request flexibility — later curfew when necessary, private space when needed."

"With appropriate supervision and documentation — fine. I can also reach out to the local authority's safeguarding officer. It's procedure. Not punishment." He said. 

"Okay." Harper whispered.

"And your mother?"

Harper's shoulders drew in.

"Victoria Whiatt is... aware. She's chosen not to be involved." Chris said.

The Headmaster watched Harper closely. Then, finally, he nodded. "You have my word that discretion will be maintained. No silly assemblies. No whispering in corridors. But you both must stay focused. I would hate to see your academics, Harper, and your promising career, Oscar, suffer."

Harper finally looks up at him. Her face is pale, but steady. "I'll revise really hard. I swear."

Oscar nodded in agreement. 

The headmaster looked at Chris. "And Oscar's racing?"

"His manager is already aware. I'll be sitting down with the owner of his karting team tomorrow, but I'm sure that with our assurances that this will not affect his performance in the kart, then this won't be a problem. Oscar's talent — a baby doesn't change that."

"No. No, it doesn't." The headmaster agreed.

As they filed out, Oscar stayed close to Harper, hand on the small of her back. She breathed out slowly, like holding the air in any longer might've killed her.

"Proud of you." He said.

"Proud of you." She echoed.

NEXT CHAPTER

[sunnami]

❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.” 

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all. 

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips. 

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly. 

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest.  “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting. 

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number. 

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.” 

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.” 

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.” 

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock.  “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life.  “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.” 

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”  

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.” 

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup. 

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.” 

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.” 

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy. 

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.” 

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few. 

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.) 

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire. 

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster. 

“Reveal yourself,��� you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.” 

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother. 

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.” 

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?” 

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.” 

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?” 

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.” 

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?” 

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks. 

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.” 

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think. 

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance. 

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends. 

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?” 

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.” 

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.” 

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work. 

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf. 

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes. 

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance.  “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.” 

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.) 

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless. 

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand. 

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight. 

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins. 

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position. 

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children. 

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?” 

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls. 

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally. 

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the  emptiness of your unbroken charade. 

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.) 

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots.  The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you. 

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.” 

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?” 

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks. 

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the  hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter. 

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably. 

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.” 

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?” 

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!” 

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?” 

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.” 

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?” 

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it. 

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow. 

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear. 

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.” 

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought. 

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion. 

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails. 

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must. 

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor. 

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes. 

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.” 

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!” 

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.” 

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side. 

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second. 

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?” 

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?” 

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.” 

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you. 

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt. 

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.” 

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?” 

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.” 

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders. 

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms. 

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly. 

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.” 

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.” 

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background. 

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!” 

Turns out, you are not fine. 

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen. 

 —

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly. 

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.” 

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly. 

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin. 

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you. 

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.” 

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius. 

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half. 

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.” 

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds. 

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!” 

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights. 

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!” 

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick. 

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.” 

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.” 

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close. 

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair. 

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.  

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.” 

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors. 

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.” 

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.) 

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.” 

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase. 

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.” 

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway. 

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling. 

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you. 

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior. 

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?” 

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly. 

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others. 

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern,  as well.” 

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades. 

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.” 

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself. 

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you. 

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?) 

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House. 

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?” 

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.” 

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.” 

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more: 

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!” 

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets. 

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary. 

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?” 

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?” 

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?” 

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.” 

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.” 

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.” 

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses. 

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders. 

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes. 

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words. 

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them. 

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell? 

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive. 

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.” 

You want to go to sleep already. 

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport. 

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.” 

You miss your cat. 

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.) 

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself. 

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus. 

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument. 

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under. 

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!” 

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms. 

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger. 

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask. 

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters. 

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included. 

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy. 

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva. 

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose. 

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone. 

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.) 

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands  rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena. 

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire. 

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!” 

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands. 

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes. 

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain. 

But there is nothing. 

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom. 

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes. 

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.” 

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.” 

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat. 

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me. 

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.” 

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile. 

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side. 

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you. 

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms. 

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor. 

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever. 

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books. 

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to. 

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic? 

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons. 

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else. 

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!” 

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.” 

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw. 

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated. 

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.” 

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold. 

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time. 

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another. 

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies. 

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you. 

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.” 

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?” 

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare. 

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.” 

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.” 

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye. 

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”  

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones. 

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival. 

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy. 

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in. 

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”) 

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane. 

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor. 

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S. 

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?” 

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his. 

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing. 

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl. 

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.” 

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie. 

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.) 

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her. 

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?” 

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.” 

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching. 

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.” 

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . .  I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground. 

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home. 

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak. 

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.” 

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!” 

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.” 

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room. 

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle. 

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents. 

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.) 

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?” 

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.” 

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same. 

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans. 

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain. 

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”) 

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time. 

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely? 

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all. 

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders. 

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to. 

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!” 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.” 

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!” 

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!” 

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!” 

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!” 

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?” 

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.” 

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life. 

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor. 

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne. 

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.) 

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks. 

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard. 

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.” 

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death. 

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.” 

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!” 

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation. 

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.” 

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?” 

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word. 

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name. 

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.” 

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills. 

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix. 

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.) 

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours. 

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one. 

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed. 

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams. 

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even. 

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm. 

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him. 

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.) 

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter. 

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.” 

“I promise. . .  you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.” 

You pass out in her arms. 

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes. 

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream. 

You are tired. 

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give? 

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this? 

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now. 

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you? 

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself. 

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back. 

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit. 

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.” 

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest. 

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with. 

You let your weight shift over the window. 

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly. 

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?” 

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.” 

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.” 

You stay silent. 

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice. 

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.” 

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion. 

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days. 

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then. 

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve. 

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation. 

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother. 

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands. 

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her. 

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!” 

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands. 

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!” 

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.” 

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.” 

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.” 

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake. 

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!” 

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor. 

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

[russilton]

George has opened up a bit more about his dad in a new article for the daily main (without paywall below) and it's a genuinely gut wrenching read. If you want to go in knowing while George doesn't acknowledge it as such, his descriptions of his dad's behaviour are very clearly abusive.

It’s poolside at the Ritz-Carlton, South Beach, Miami, and a sun from central casting beams down. Just beyond the adjacent cream sands the day before a shark was spotted amid the white caps of the Atlantic.

Some observers gawped. Many recorded the scene on their phones, quelle surprise, while those in the water rushed to dry land with almost comic alarm, the terrified tripping as they waded to safety.

Now all is quiet, and staff bring over watermelon juice as George Russell sits down to talk. Aged 27, the Norfolk-born driver has contended with the sharp-toothed critters of Formula One to emerge as the outstanding British performer of today.

His consistently accomplished drives for Mercedes this season, and the end of last, underline his rightful status as successor as team leader to no less than Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion he acknowledges as the GOAT.

Russell’s route to Formula One was not travelled on a red carpet. He picks up the story of a hard taskmaster father, Steve, and his protective mother, Alison, of their parental rows over his treatment, and the £1.5million they scrimped and saved to fund his career – and tells for the first time how he has now repaid them every penny of their investment.

‘It was hard,’ he says of his father’s tough love. ‘From the age of seven to 16 you are not mature enough to recognise what your parents are doing for you.

‘My father was working every day from seven in the morning to nine at night to earn his money to take me racing at the weekend. As a kid you question, “Where’s dad?” Oh, he’s at work. “Why’s he at work?”

‘And then we go racing and he is quite stressed from his job. And if I was making silly mistakes, he’d be dead angry with me. In those eight years, there were happy times, but there are lots of sad memories from my parents fighting because of how hard my father was being on me. My mum was trying to hold it all together.

‘It was, “You’re not winning.” The expectation was to be on pole and win every race, at least always be on the podium. Even times when I did win, it wasn’t sunshine and glory on the way home. It was, “But you could have done this better, done that better.”

‘He has moulded me into the guy I am today. He would always want the glass full. He would see where I could have improved while never seeing the positives. I continue the mentality of looking at where I could have done better, while ensuring I see the positives. Otherwise, it can be a very slippery slope.

‘I can now see it with my brother: his kids are starting go-karting and he is working his a*** off to give them the chance. Life isn’t simple, with the stress of work and the rest. And I will forever be grateful for what my dad did.’

‘I just accepted the way he dealt with me. I accepted that if I didn’t win, he wouldn’t be happy with me. And that the journey home would be a long one, and most likely end in tears.’

Did young George get the silent treatment?

‘No, I’d be b******ed,’ he recalls. ‘I see it now that kids who are born with a silver spoon in their mouths don’t have the same work ethic as those who had massive discipline over them from a young age.

‘My father was working every day from seven in the morning to nine at night to earn his money to take me racing at the weekend.'

‘If I could turn back the clock knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t change a single thing’

‘So, from my father’s perspective, would he wish that for those six, seven, eight years that he had a closer relationship with his son? Maybe. But those years set me up for life.

‘If I could turn back the clock knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t change a single thing.’

How is Russell’s relationship with your father now, I wonder. Closer?

‘Hmm, yeah,’ he says. ‘What was amazing with my father is that when I was signed by Mercedes (on their Young Driver Programme eight years ago) he opened the cage door and let me fly.

'It went from being a super-controlling, super-emotional, b******ing every time I didn’t do well, to suddenly feeling he could pass me on to the next chapter.

‘Now he supports me from afar every single session. He is taking care of grandkids.’

Steve Russell was involved in agriculture, a seed and wheat merchant – his factory a first port of call after harvesting prior to distribution. ‘He sold the business to fund my racing,’ adds Russell. ‘In 2012.’ Russell was just 14 then.

‘For where we lived, my father was an exceptionally successful man. But in that industry success was making a profit. Now we are in a world of unrealistic wealth with billionaires around us.

The Norfolk-born 27-year-old has now made 133 grand prix starts, with three race wins

Mercedes boss Toto Wolff’s ardour for world champion Max Verstappen seems to have waned, just as Russell’s results increasingly make their own argument

He is out of contract this year but remains confident of re-signing. His results should make that a slam dunk

Russell's new Mercedes AMG One, which has a top speed of 219mph and accelerates from 0-186mph in 15.6sec

‘We could have lived a very happy life had he not done that. I have paid everything back that he spent on me. I made it clear that as soon as I made money, I wanted to pay everything off. It was about £1.5m.’

The dividend can be measured, among other achievements, in the car Russell has just bought – the AMG One supercar. A limited edition of 275, the coupe was initially listed at $2.7m (£2m). It has a top speed of 219mph and accelerates from 0-186mph in 15.6sec.

It is the first car Russell has ever bought, having started on the road in a white Polo bought by his parents – 60bhp, top speed of 100mph with a following wind. And there was no reduction for Mercedes’ top driver for his new car. He chose a navy blue that glistens in the sun. His racing number – 63 – is inscribed at his request.

He intends keeping the car forever (despite receiving an offer worth double what he gave for it), to go with his company G Wagon and the vintage 300 SL he hopes to add to his portfolio.

Three cars – that’s ‘all’ he wants in his garage at home in Monaco; no huge collection. All are Mercedes, we note, a telling symbol of his commitment to the Silver Arrows.

He is out of contract this year but remains confident of re-signing. His results should make that a slam dunk. Both he and boss Toto Wolff are talking optimistically of a successful conclusion, probably this month or next.

Helpfully, Wolff’s ardour for world champion Max Verstappen seems to have waned, just as Russell’s results increasingly make their own argument.

With Russell in Miami, as she is at most of his races, is his Spanish girlfriend Carmen Montero Mundt, 26. She did not know he was a racing driver when he stood in for a friend who was due to go on a date with her. That was in London in 2020. She is upstairs on the terrace as George and I talk. He pays her this tribute as his rock in a volatile world.

With Russell in Miami, as she is at most of his races, is his Spanish girlfriend Carmen Montero Mundt, 26

The Mercedes driver has paid tribute to his girlfriend, labelling her his rock in a volatile world

She did not know he was a racing driver when he stood in for a friend who was due to go on a date with her back in 2020 in London

‘As for Carmen I feel lucky having her around. She is my emotional support in the world of instability I live in.'

‘I left school at 13 and have very few friends to be honest,’ he says. ‘It can be a lonely life. You are in different hotels, different countries, different time zones, different climates.

‘Mondays are emotional hangover days after a race. A slap in the face if you are on a high after a good result, and a slap in the face after a bad one if you dwell on it. I play padel to get my mind off things, rather than sit inside scrolling through social media.

‘As for Carmen I feel lucky having her around. She is my emotional support in the world of instability I live in. I wouldn’t change anything in my life now or what went before.’

Now he is off for a run – a peaceful 7km, next to the ocean where the sharks prowl.

[agneslovestheinternet-blog]

FUCK YOU, don't leave me

Part Three: Heat (Part One, Part Two, Part Four, Part Five)

Gally x Fem!Reader, NSFW!!

Considering your antics last month, your friends are shocked to see that both you and Gally have been allowed to come to bonfire night tonight. They would have been shocked to see both of you entering the woods only minutes apart, if they had noticed. Although this imminent confrontation is going to end in a very different kind of heat; the type that threatens to change your dynamic forever.

Genre: enemies to lovers, SMUT (starts abt 4.1K words in there’s lots of exposition)

Word Count: 7.3K  Read Time: 25 minutes (it’s a long one, ik, bear with)

Warnings & Info: protected, drunk p-in-v sex, despite the fact that both characters are drunk when they have sex there is very clear implied, physical, and verbal consent!! slight mutual masturbation, missionary, virgin!Gally & virgin!Y/N, underage drinking, strong language, “we shouldn’t be doing this” vibes, Gally's thoughts in green, Y/N's thoughts in blue

Author’s Note: I’ve never written smut before but I have had sex so how hard could it be? I hope you guys love this part; I absolutely loved writing the woods scene and I truly think it is the best writing of this whole fic thus far so tell me what you think! Part 4 will be the final part!

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As you were cleaning the med-hut, Gally was changing out of his work clothes, taking a moment to wipe his face with a clean towel and inspect the muscles in his arms, feeling suddenly self critical. He had never really cared about his appearance before, but something about the content of his dreams lately had him wondering things he’d never wondered before, like if his hair was cut too short or if his muscles didn’t compliment his height. He cursed at himself for acting like a dumb teenager with a crush, but that didn’t stop him from picking out his best shirt, (the one he never wears while working), and running his hands nervously through his hair. He walked out of his hut quickly, trying to shake the thought of what expression might be on your face when you see him tonight. 

Now that you were back in your hut that you shared with all the Glade girls (Elsie, Lireale, Gia, Ariana and now, supposedly, tonight’s greenie who hasn’t remembered her name yet), you peeled your Med-Jack uniform off methodically. You hesitated over your clothing trunk before changing into the closest thing to a nice outfit The Glade affords you; a deep red, v-neck top with a small black bow in the middle of the v (courtesy of Lireale’s sewing skills) and black pants that are tighter fitting than your work pants. You were grateful that all of your roommates were already at the bonfire, as you were sure that at least one of them would’ve asked you snidely who you were trying to impress tonight, if they had watched you pick this outfit.

If everyone’s going to be staring at me tonight, I might as well look good.

You ran your fingers absentmindedly through your hair as you tried to shake the feeling that this idea of Alby’s was going to go terribly wrong. You were pretty sure Gally had moved past his murderous rage from that night, but that still left his regular rage, and that’s not much better. Although he did offer to stay home tonight which suggests a lack of rage entirely and besides that he’s probably been too distracted lately to want to come after you. Feeling you’d procrastinated enough, you walked to your door, prepared to face whatever fresh hell this night had in store for you.

As it turned out, there wasn’t much hell to be had currently. You and Gally had both been greeted by your respective friend groups with shock and delight. They were trying to be non-invasive and avoid pointed questions about how the hell you managed to be here tonight, but you both noticed their eyes darting between you two in the dim light of the bonfire, waiting for the tension to break. After settling into the festivities with a lot less apprehension, you decided to make a pit stop at Frypan’s table, to ask for something you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey Fry!”

“Hey Firecracker,” you cringed at the nickname. “How’s your night going? Are you thinking of setting the place on fire again?” his eyes flashed mischievously.

“No no, my arson days are behind me, Fry. I could use a drink though,” you slipped in, slyly, hoping Alby hadn’t gotten to him first.

“Shit, you know Alby would kill me if I gave you one,”

Fuck, he had gotten to him first. Either that or he was just demonstrating common sense, you thought to yourself. It was actually the former. The day after the incident last month, Alby had forced Gally to clean out his entire stock of his drink and hand it over to Fry for safekeeping. He had also forbidden Fry from giving Gally any of the ingredients to make more. When Alby had finished with you earlier that night, he had marched straight up to Fry and made him promise under threat of a week spent in The Pit to not give you or Gally even a drop of alcohol tonight. Frypan had tried to tell him that Gally utterly terrified him at the best of times and he was sure he already hated him for taking away all of his drink in the first place. He further explained that you were a friend of his and because of those reasons combined he didn’t think he’d be very good at resisting either of you, but the leader wasn’t having it.

“Pleeassee Fry. You know bonfire nights are the only nights I ever drink. And I’ve been doing really good this month,”

“I don’t know…” Fry was getting nervous. On the one hand you had a fair point, one he’d already considered you’d make. On the other hand, he had just gotten back into Alby’s good graces after an incident of his own two months ago that involved an out-of-control smoke bomb and he didn’t want to jeopardize his leader’s favor.

“Just one glass, I promise I won’t do anything stupid. I just want to hang out with my friends,” Fry looked nervously from left to right, half expecting Alby to appear and scold him on the spot. But against his better judgement and in line with what he told his leader would happen anyways, he reached behind him and filled a mason jar of Gally’s signature elixir.

The night had quickly blurred into an orange colored haze from there. You downed your jar as quickly as you could, feeling the familiar warmth of it spread first to your cheeks then to the rest of your body. You laughed with your friends, played a convoluted drinking game with your fellow Med-Jacks, introduced yourself to The Glade’s newest female greenie (promising her that you weren’t normally this chatty), and got dared to take your top off by an equally drunk Slicer who’d always had a thing for you. You didn’t comply….obviously. And yet, through all the camaraderie and the feeling that things were finally getting back to normal after the horrors of this last month, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You’d turn your head to try to find the pair of eyes responsible for this feeling, but that only led to more blurry vision, the alcohol in your system disagreeing with the movement. 

“I’m going for a walk,” you blurted out suddenly to Lireale, who’d been singing an abstract melody over a very out of tune guitar Thomas was absentmindedly strumming.

“What! Are you crazy?” she slurred back at you, trying to snap her mind back to reality to keep you from doing something excessively stupid for the second bonfire night in a row.

“I just need some fresh air,” 

“Are you fucking kidding me Y/N? We live in a Glade; this whole place is fresh air!” she hissed. You couldn’t help but giggle at her outburst. But something was nagging at you and you just felt like you had to get away from people for a while.

“I’m just gonna walk to the little river past the deadheads and then I’ll come back. Promise,” Lireale’s expression shifted from shock to exasperation. It was clear she wasn’t winning this fight and there wasn’t much use in arguing with you; you’d always been stubborn to a fault.

“Fine. But if you’re gonna go skinny dipping, make sure you keep your clothes right next to the water so no one can come over and steal them from you,” You smiled at Lireale’s practical advice, rising from your seat in the grass and giving her an unsteady kiss on the forehead before taking off in your desired direction.

Gally watched your slightly stumbling figure disappear into the darkness of the woods, his interest piqued. He’d been stealing glances at you all night, trying to ignore how much he liked the shade of your top and how he never noticed that you got even prettier when you got drunk, with your hair all astray and a giddy look on your face. Every time he’d feel that familiar heat of desire bubble in his chest, he would dig his fingernails into his palm, trying to use the pain to bring him back to reality. Despite his terrible nail-biting habit leaving his fingernails flush to the skin, they still left small crescent shaped markings and he was beginning to believe they’d become permanent with how often he was having to police his own thoughts.

His looks had gone from quick glances to several uninterrupted seconds of staring as more of his drink began to flood his bloodstream. He’d let Alby believe that he’d given his whole stock to Frypan, but he’d swiped a bottle from an undisclosed personal store under his bed before heading out for the night. No fucking way I’m doing tonight sober, he’d thought to himself before taking the first swig.

So now here he was, plenty drunk with his eyes blurry, his cheeks flushed, and his groggy mind just now beginning to realize that maybe adding copious amounts of alcohol to an already stiff inner cocktail of repression, frustration and desire wasn’t exactly the best way to calm his racing thoughts. He tried to snap out of his lustful haze by tuning back into the spirited conversation his friends were having around him as they lounged on the grass.

“...would fucking kill him before he even tried. Right Gally?” Ben asked indignantly, clearly looking for backup.

“What? Kill who?” Gally muttered, trying to focus his eyes on Ben’s face and figure out what side of this undoubtedly pointless debate he should be on.

“Minho wants to fuck Y/N,” Zart stated bluntly, flashing Gally an evil grin as he watched Minho’s eye widen with fear.

“I do not! I just said she was kinda hot!” Minho blurted back, his voice slurring. He did not want to start a fight with Gally over this of all topics and he was regretting ever mentioning this opinion in Zart’s presence, who he should’ve known wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“And I said don’t even think about it because you’ll fucking kill him if he gets within ten feet of her,” Ben finished with an arrogant tone. He was unaware of the sudden tension that fell over the group as they watched Gally think over this information. They were hoping they hadn’t set him off like last month’s incident when one of them, (no one could remember exactly who), revealed that Builder’s crush on you that made him pick a fight with you in the first place.

“Why can’t you shanks ever focus on anything other than girls?” Gally hissed, hoping his blatant hypocrisy wasn’t showing on his face. The group breathed a collective sigh of relief as he seemed no more angry at this prospect than he normally would be.

“Because we’re teenage boys,” Newt piped up from the corner, smiling to himself as he took a deep sip from the mason jar in his hands before passing it to Ben.

“And fantasizing about girls passes the time faster,” Ben continued, taking another sip from the jar and shuddering at its bitter taste. The rest of the circle grunted in agreement as he passed the jar to Zart.

“And we’re all pretty sick of just fucking our hands in the shower every morning!” Zart finished grandly, holding the jar in his hands in front of him like he was making a toast. This sent a chorus of raucous laughter through his friends and Gally went an even further shade of red. He was hit with the flashback of the fantasy of you that had him partaking in that very activity this morning when he suddenly realized he probably shouldn’t be around his friends anymore tonight. Too many eyes are on him and too many potential questions could be formed about just what had gotten him so flustered these past few weeks. 

“Alright guys, I’m turning in for the night,” Gally stated which elicited disappointed groans from all. “Hey somebody has to keep you shanks in line when you’re all hungover tomorrow,” he glared at a small group of the youngest Builders in The Glade, who had been listening in on the conversation without participating. Gally rose to his feet slowly to avoid stumbling like a drunkard and began taking off in the direction of his hut, nodding curtly at the goodbyes his friends called out. Minho scrambled to his feet upon realizing Gally was leaving and rushed to catch up with him, though his head was spinning quite unpleasantly.

“Hey Gally! I’m sorry about that. I’m not gonna do anything with Y/N, I swear. I’m just-I’m really drunk, man, and we were talking about our types and, ya know, which of the girls in The Glade are closest to it and someone brought her up and all I said was-” he rambled nervously as he half jogged next to Gally’s surprisingly swift gait.

“Jesus, Minho, calm down,” he shoved a forceful hand against the Runner’s chest. “I don’t give a shit man, I know it’s all talk,” he dismissed as he took up walking again. 

“Yeah all talk definitely definitely,” Minho repeated breathlessly, relief washing over him as he realized Gally hadn’t noticed how he was spending more and more of his dinners in the Med-hut with you these past few weeks. The increased closeness that was tentatively budding between you two wasn’t anything yet but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t all talk.

“Get some sleep, man, Ben said you guys are running the outer sections tomorrow,”

“I will, in a bit. ‘Night Gally,” Minho stopped for a moment and willed himself to calm down. It’s nothing, he thought to himself as he meandered his way back over to his friends. I barely know her; we just started talking, he continued in his head. Gally probably won’t murder me if I make a move…probably. He was so preoccupied in his own anxiety that he failed to notice that Gally had veered very distinctively off course.

“Where the fuck is that shank going? I thought he was going to bed,” Zart exclaimed, watching Gally cross from the path he’d been on towards his hut to a path towards the woods.

“I don’t know, it’s Gally mate,” Newt responded, trying to sound nonchalant but secretly logging this in his mind to ask his friend about later when he was sober and during daylight hours. “Hell’ll freeze before we figure him out,”

Nobody from Gally’s circle of friends in the grass had seen you slip into the woods ten minutes earlier. And nobody from your group of friends by the bonfire had seen Gally change course to follow in your footsteps. The Glade remained blissfully unaware of the imminent collision of its two most-at-odds members. 

Gally wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what made him change course for the woods at that specific moment. He knew he really shouldn’t have, and that the fallout of you two meeting face to face again would most likely end in strict punishments for both of you. But he couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment. He couldn’t deal with the searing heat that was coursing through his body just beneath his tanned skin for even a moment longer. 

Gally was steaming mad. Not at Minho, for thinking you were attractive, not at that Builder from last month for having a crush on you, not at Alby for punishing him, Newt for questioning him, his crew for making fun of him, the entire Glade for whispering about him or even at you for so consistently irritating him. He was enraged with himself for a multitude of reasons; letting his otherwise unperturbed mind be corrupted by mindless teenage sex fantasies, looking at you that night in the Med-hut when he should’ve just kept his eyes to himself, feeling the distinct burning of lust boil in his stomach, for the first time since he had arrived in The Glade. So he was going to do something about it.

He marched through the pitch black of the woods with a renewed vigor that sent a little more coordination through his drunken body. He finally spotted you in the exact spot you had told Lireale you would be in; sitting next to the little pond past the deadheads, your right hand absentmindedly stirring the still water. 

“Y/N!” he barked, making you startle as your ears took in the sudden gruff tone piercing through the silence of the woods.

“Gally?! What the hell are you doing here? Did you fucking follow me??” you yelled, spinning around to face him and jumping to your feet, ever-familiar venom searing through your body that was at peace moments ago.

“No!” Gally snapped back, his voice not reflecting the brief panic now filling his mind. He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to you until right now. “I’m just so fucking tired of this shit!”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

Gally faltered slightly, trying to find a justifiable reason to be as upset as he was. Without warning, he found an abundance of them that began pouring from his lips like a suddenly opened dam.

“All of this! This whole last month; it’s been fucking ridiculous! You burned both of us for no fucking reason and now we have to tiptoe around everybody here like we’re fucking criminals. We had to apologize to each other like we’re fucking five years old and come to this stupid bonfire night again this month because Alby wants us to put all this shit behind us; but fuck that! I can’t fucking stand you, Greenie!”

Fuck, she looks really…

“Good! Glad we’re on the same fucking page Gally. And it wasn’t for no reason, you dumb shank; you called me a slut in front of the entire Glade! Did you think I’d just lie down and fucking take that?? And you’re not the one Alby threw in the pit every night for a month straight; count your fucking blessings, asshole, at least everyone doesn’t think you’re a deranged fucking arsonist!”

Is he seriously doing this now? I know his timing is always shit but…

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Everybody always thinks you’re just the defensive one but you start fights just as much as…”

“Me?! I would be perfectly happy to never get into another fight again but every time there’s something to complain about, we all have to hear it from….”

“You know that’s not true. Face it Y/N; you fucking love this!”

Silence snapped into place like the final piece of a puzzle as soon as those words left Gally’s mouth. You felt the heat of your anger traveling up to your cheeks but also down to your stomach, creating a dizzying sensation you weren’t familiar with. You barked a forced laugh to try to diffuse this new feeling.

“I love this? What the hell is there to love about this?!”

Is this why I’m always so mad at her? I mean what the fuck kind of coping strategy is…

“This is the reason you and I can get through all the bullshit of living in this prison. Because if we’re fighting with each other, we can’t really think about anything else,”

We’re insane. I think he might actually be…

“Right, so what am I supposed to do, thank you?”

“Maybe it’d be a nice change of pace,”

You both hadn’t noticed it, but you had been stepping closer to each other this entire exchange. You were no more than six inches apart now, breathing heavily, both sets of eyes roaming the other with greedy contempt, almost hungrily.

“Fuck you, Gally,” you finally managed to spit out, almost breathless, the heat in your stomach coiling into tight knots. “Fuck you, Y/N,” he hissed back, positively burning up now.

And suddenly, as if this had been the plan all along, Gally was grabbing your waist and pulling you into a hot, angry, pent-up kiss. His calloused hands grabbed at your hips as his tongue explored your mouth vigorously, finally connecting the heat that had been building up in both of your bodies. He was kissing you like you were the last woman on earth. And you might as well have been.

Despite any protests you should’ve had, you let yourself enjoy the sensation of being manhandled by Gally. He was feeling you up desperately, his hands now slipping underneath the fabric of that damn red v-neck top, snaking their way up your back and then back to the front, his fingers fiddling with the underwire of your bra. He felt his blood rush downwards to where he really wanted you and he was sure that with you pressed up against him, you could feel it too. He disconnected his lips from your mouth and started trailing hot kisses down your neck, sending stifled moans and gasps tumbling from your lips. You pulled away slightly and he adjusted his head to look you in the eyes.

“Are we really fucking doing this?” you questioned, trying for the same angry tone you had used before but your voice was too breathy now.

“Yeah. Fuck it,” Gally responded hoarsely, surprisingly accepting of this objectively insane situation.

“Then let’s go to your hut,” 

“Are you serious?” Gally questioned, only to be absolutely sure this wasn’t just a convoluted revenge plot.

“Deadly,” you whispered back. The heat in your stomach was now replaced by an intense pulling sensation. You needed him. In ways he couldn’t give you while you were both standing fully clothed in the middle of the forest.

Gally disconnected his arms from your body and grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the original path he had told his friends he was taking. That felt like a lifetime ago. Bonfire night was still going strong in the distance, so undercover of the intense darkness of The Glade, you and Gally snuck in the back of his hut and he shut the door as quietly as he could. 

He crossed the room to where you were now sitting on the edge of his bed, (just like you had been in all of his fantasies over the past three weeks), pulled your red top over your head and threw it in a ball on the ground. He admired the expanse of soft skin that was now open to him as he stood above you. He wanted to really take it in now, not like that quick glance in the Med-hut, and several tension-filled seconds passed with his eyes roaming your chest greedily, watching it rise and fall with a quickened pace.

“Are you just gonna stare at me or are you gonna fuck me?” you snapped bravely. You could tell that the alcohol in your system had drafted that response. Gally shook his head slightly to break his gaze and looked apprehensively in your eyes.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” he faltered, hot guilt washing over him as he began to consider the consequences of this action for the first time.

“It’s a terrible idea,” you replied, chuckling slightly. You tried to look him in the eyes but couldn’t tear your blown pupils from his lips, which you wished dearly were planted back on your neck at this moment.

“We’re both really drunk,” Gally continued, tentatively running a calloused hand over your shoulders. You felt yourself ease into the contact, your heart rate rising to match your shallow breathing.

“We’re also not supposed to be anywhere near each other,” You lifted your arm to run a hand over Gally’s forearm. The strong muscles from years of manual labor felt like heaven under your soft touch. The Builder’s breath hitched at the innocent contact, feeling a mixture of comfort and lust spread through his body.

“We hate each other,”

“Well we don’t have to right now,” You let a smile spread slowly across your face.

Consequences be damned.

Gally didn’t respond to this statement, he just pulled his blue shirt off of his body and threw it on top of your red one. This triggered an avalanche of movement from the both of you as two sets of shaking hands flurried to undo belts, boot laces, and waistbands, worried that if they moved any slower, all momentum for this batshit idea would be lost.

When the movement finally slowed, you were both down to your underwear, you laying on Gally’s bed with your head on the pillow, your hair forming a halo around you. Gally was still standing at the side of it, his toned chest heaving, and you beckoned to him with your finger. You had both come to a non-verbal conclusion that the less you talked during this exchange, the better, and so a comfortable silence fell over the hut.

Before he joined you on the bed Gally rummaged in his bedside table for a small object he had long given up on ever using; a condom. These had started coming up in The Box every month as soon as the girls did. Alby had begrudgingly given a few to every guy in The Glade, muttering that he didn’t want anyone having sex in the first place, but if they did, he certainly didn’t want to increase the population.

Gally eased himself onto the bed, straddling your body, setting the small foil packet next to the pillow. He lowered himself down to you agonizingly slow, arms bent on either side of your shoulders. You rose your head to meet him, pink lips and alcohol-laced breath meeting once more. You pulled out of the kiss for a moment to bite down on his lower lip which triggered an uncharacteristic whimper to fall from his lips. He took this as a signal to begin placing needy kisses down your neck again, and though the heat of his lips felt divine on your skin, you wanted to move on to the main event. After all, you didn’t drunkenly strip down to your underwear in the living quarters of your worst enemy just to make out; if you’re going to make a terrible decision, at least see it through.

You started tracing your hands down his abs, hitching your fingers in the waistband of his boxers. Gally started a little at the contact, grateful that his face was pressed against your collarbone so you couldn’t see his blush deepening. He’d never had anyone touch him like this and he was quickly becoming addicted to it. All the fantasies he had conjured up of you in the past three weeks couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing. 

He felt his blood throbbing in his cock as he left several purple hickies on your chest, lavishing in the moans you made whenever he’d bite down. He finally pushed himself up on his knees, shifting from side to side as he pulled his boxers off awkwardly, leaving himself now totally exposed. You took his cue, unhooked your bra and shimmied out of your panties, throwing them both off to the side. You both took a moment to admire each other, having to stay very still to avoid the blurred vision that came when you moved too fast.

He raked his eyes over your chest, admiring the curve of your tits that were previously concealed in your bra. Fuck, she’s hot. Without thinking about it, he reached for his cock with his right hand, slowly pumping himself as he trailed his eyes to the wetness pooling between your legs, his eyes widening and the knot beneath his navel begging for release.

You took your time admiring his hulking frame and the muscles flexing in his right arm as he quickened his pace, sliding his hand up and down his surprisingly-massive cock. You liked seeing Gally like this; his jaw slack, eyes glued to you, cock leaking precum that made his calloused hand glisten in the low light and most importantly, his mouth kept firmly shut. It was such a turn on, you reached your own right hand down to your heat and slipped a finger inside, pumping slowly and growing wetter by the second, preparing yourself for him. I can’t believe I want him, but I really fucking do.

As if he had read your thoughts, Gally took his right hand from his cock and his left from his waist to grab your thighs with both and spread them further apart. You removed your right hand from its place between your thighs and gently grabbed his cock, trying to mimic the pumping motion he had been doing moments before. 

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Your hand on his cock felt about a hundred times better than his own and it was all he could do to suppress a moan. He let himself throw his head back, his eyes rolling, before the part of his brain that hadn’t gone fuzzy from the friction finally remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He put his large hand over yours and guided it back to its place next to your body. He then reached for the foil packet sitting next to the pillow and ripped it open quickly, sliding the slick latex over himself clumsily, needing to adjust it several times. He felt his cheeks grow hotter, feeling embarrassed at his lack of experience being shown so plainly but he shook it off quickly.

He gripped your waist with his left hand and with his shaking right hand, gently guided his cock to your slick opening. Lining up his tip to your willing hole, he pushed his hips forward slightly when a searing pain suddenly wracked your body.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed suddenly, jolting Gally out of the beautiful relief he had begun to feel. You grabbed his cock instinctively, keeping him frozen in place with just his tip sheathed inside of you.

“What? Are you ok?” he asked worriedly, his heart rate rising with anxiety. He was sure at this moment that you had realized how colossally stupid this was and you were going to shove him off of you, slap him square in the face and then run straight to Alby, who would ensure you’d never get this close to him again.

“I’m fine, it just stung a little bit. I’ve never done this before and…fuck, Gally you’re a lot bigger than I thought you’d be,” your voice was light and as soon as those words left your mouth you began to regret it. You watched a small smile spread quickly across the Builder’s face.

“I’m…big?” he repeated slowly. He’d never tell you, but this appraisal from you about his size had his heart leaping. Like any teenage boy he was naturally insecure in that department and hearing you use that adjective sent his ego inflating to a massive size.

“Fuck off! I’m a virgin, everything’s big to me,” you reasoned hotly, not wanting him to get any cockier than he already is. You were pretty sure that Gally would be considered big to any girl, regardless of their experience, but he didn’t need to know that you thought that. You let your grip around his cock go slack. Your body still wanted more of him even if it was going to prove slightly difficult now.

“So am I. I’ll just, uh, go slower? And you tell me how it feels, ok?” he responded with a softer tone that was laced with uncertainty. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anyways so he would welcome the feedback regardless. You nodded slowly and he lined himself back up, pushing slightly inward again, watching your face scrunch up with pain again. He stopped, pulling back slightly.

“Hold on, I think I know what might help,” you said, readjusting your body until your hips were angled up instead of parallel to the bed so he’d be thrusting down, not forward. “Try again,”

“You sure?” he raised an eyebrow at you, beginning to worry this wasn’t going to work at all. Despite his long history of negative emotions associated with your presence, he found his mind cut through his lust with concern; he really didn’t want to hurt you.

“Positive,” you nodded, meeting his eyes with a determined gaze. 

Gally lined his cock up to your entrance for the third time, not having to bend over so much due to the new angle. He braced for your pained whimper as he pushed his hips down towards you but he got no such sound in response. Though it still stung slightly as he pushed his tip inside of you, a warm, pleasant pressure spread slowly beneath that feeling, starting to overpower it.

“Are you good?” Gally asked, trying to conceal the shake in his voice from the mind-melting pleasure he was getting from finally being half inside you.

“Yeah, keep going,” you muttered, trying to get used to the warm feeling of your body enveloping him.

He obliged quickly, sinking more of his cock slowly inside of you, gripping your waist tightly now. He was now realizing that it was going to be difficult not to cum after one stroke as the new sensation of your heavenly inner walls already had him teetering on the edge. The experience of his cock filling you up felt more and more natural the deeper he thrusted. He finally bottomed out with a groan, his pelvic bone now pressed against yours.

“Gally,” you moaned softly and he could definitely tell that it wasn’t a moan from pain. His cock twitched inside you at the sound. She’s moaning my name. I can’t believe this is real.

“Feeling good, Y/N?” he stuttered back, the pressure underneath his navel building up massively as he began to slowly thrust his hips back and forth, watching your face intensely for any sign of discomfort. Your face flushed at the sound of your name falling from his lips. He is big.

“Yes, fuck me faster,” 

You had meant for it to be a command but it came out in the form of a whimper. Nonetheless Gally complied quickly, cutting the time between each stroke in half, experimenting with pulling more of his cock out of you just to slam it back harder the next time. Your moans had begun to fill the air around him, just like he imagined they would. The feeling of your pussy wrapped so tightly around his cock, pulling him in, was so otherworldly it blew any sexual release he’d ever given himself with his own hand right out of the water. 

He forced himself to open his eyes and look down at you, your body recoiling from each thrust, sending your tits rippling in a hypnotizing circle. He stared down at where his cock disappeared inside you, practically drooling from the sight. He tightened his grip on your waist, now using his arms to pull your hips back and forth on his cock, instead of him thrusting his.

You started seeing spots in the corner of your vision at this new move. You could feel your wetness leaking down from where his cock was sliding in and out of you and the pressure was building in between your hips. You marveled dumbstruck at what little strength it took for him to move your entire body so easily. 

“Keep…going…like…that,” you managed to sigh between moans, your hands now reaching up to his shoulders, fingernails digging into his tanned skin. This stinging sensation sent shockwaves through Gally’s body, who now locked into his task with laser focus. He listened to the faint squelching noises of your wet core taking his cock so well as he slammed your hips repeatedly against his, even harder now.

“Fuck Y/N. You’re…so…tight,” he was having a harder time pulling you off his cock to thrust harder due to how hard your walls were gripping him.

“Gally��you’re so-….big. Fuck! You feel…sooooo…good,” you moaned back, almost crying from the feeling of how well his massive cock was filling you up. You felt like you were about to be ripped apart from the strength of his thrusts, but you just dug your fingernails into his back deeper and squeezed your eyes shut, letting the pleasure roll over your body.

Gally was trying to hold out for your orgasm but at the sound of his name leaving your lips again in such a sensual tone and the praise you were giving him for his efforts, he just couldn’t hold it in any longer. He felt the heat surge into his pelvis and barely had any time to warn you.

“Y/N…sorry...I’m gonna-” but his sentence was cut off by you pulling him down into another sloppy, wet kiss. As you pulled away from him slightly to bite down on his bottom lip, he felt his pleasure finally curl to a finish. He thrust violently into your pussy and held his position deep inside of you, feeling his warm cum spurt out of his pulsing cock and into the condom. He let out a few very undignified moans into your mouth, and was too high off the feeling of you wrapped around him to feel embarrassed about it.

“I know you didn’t-” he started, slowly opening his eyes to meet your glazed ones underneath him. You were coming down from the high a lot quicker than he was, your lack of climax not really bothering you as you somehow knew this wouldn’t be a one-time thing.

“It’s fine. Next time,” you nodded at him with a wink, watching the shock color his sweaty face.

“Wait,” he paused briefly, pulling his leaking cock out of your pussy, eliciting a groan from both of you, “‘Next time’?”

“Yeah,” you sat up gingerly to meet his eye level. “Isn’t fucking me better than fighting with me?”

“Well, yeah…”

He withdrew his legs from around you gingerly, reaching for the towel he’d used to wipe his face before he left for bonfire night. He removed the condom wrapped around him slowly and tossed it gently into the garbage by his bed. He then focused on wiping both of you down, trying to ignore the slight spin the room had now. He was still reeling but was trying to be functional. It’s certainly a hard line to walk between; hating someone so much yet cumming harder than you ever have while inside them. The mix of annoyance and need he felt while looking at you was curdling in his stomach, making him feel slightly nauseous.

“...but I didn’t think there’d be a next time. I didn’t think there’d be a first time. I mean; what the fuck is this?”

You took the towel from his hands and finished wiping yourself clean, then swung your shaking legs over the edge of the bed, turning your head to face Gally. You felt the absence of him inside you like a chunk had been taken from your flesh. You hadn’t realized how much attraction had been simmering under your hatred for him until the tension finally broke. But despite your confused feelings, you were determined to gain the upper hand on him and win the war of indifference.

“You’re seriously pulling a “what are we”?” you chuckled.

“No, fuck no,” he recoiled with disgust that was slightly forced. “Y/N, we're both drunk. I kinda thought we’d regret this in the morning and never talk to each other again,” He hoped that wasn’t the correct assumption.

“Is that what you wanna do?” you posed innocently, standing finally and turning to face him with your hands on your hips. You tried to keep your desire for him out of your tone and you weren’t sure if you were succeeding.

“Not really, no,” he muttered, dazed at his new view of you, his eyes scanning up and down your body. His cock gave a weak throb, somehow still slightly hard even after its monumental release.

“Ok well then, let’s just do this. But maybe, sober and not like, directly after biting each other's heads off? We don’t have to talk, just meet up and…” you trailed off suggestively, posing this proposal as you searched his floor for all the clothing items you had haphazardly tossed there. Gally reached down for his boxers and pulled them over his half-hard cock.

“You sure? I feel like you’re just gonna get really mad at me and we’ll have another thing like last month and I really don’t wanna-”

“Oh my fucking god Gally do you want to fuck me or not?? What is your fucking deal?” you snapped, pulling your shirt over your head and reaching for your pants, forgetting about underwear entirely. Gally suddenly knelt down in front of you, gripping your wrists in his strong hands.

“Of course I want to fuck you again, shank! You think I can cum like that from my own hand? I just think we hate each other and this is gonna end terribly. I’m trying to avoid getting burned again; literally” he accented the last word with an acidic tone, all the dizziness from his orgasm now completely worn off and irritation at your attitude replacing it. 

“Clearly the only time I don’t hate you Gally, is when you’re inside me so let’s just do that and we’ll be fucking fine!” You shook your wrists from his grip and finished pulling your pants up in a huff.

“Fine,” he turned from you to pick up his shirt.

“Great,” you stood up with your boots in your hands and sat at the edge of his bed to put them on. You both dressed the rest of the way in a stubborn silence, with you realizing you had forgotten your underwear and just opting to shove them into one of your large pockets and Gally trading his tough cargo pants for linen shorts. He usually slept in just his boxers but he didn’t want to be undressed around you any more than he had to be. The argument that sprouted took both of your attention from your confusing feelings of lust and fondness towards one another and back on a much more comfortable plane; arguing came as easily to you two as breathing.

You finally stood fully dressed and made your way to the door. You had your hand on the doorknob, ready to make your escape when Gally broke the silence.

“Wait Y/N. Are you good?” He didn’t clarify what exactly he was trying to check that you were good with but between the concerned look on his face and the earnestness of his tone, you could tell he was strictly referring to your trial and error in the bed earlier. Gally’s stomach was twisting into knots as you thought over your response with your back still turned to him. He was torn between genuine concern for your wellbeing and embarrassment at treating his enemy so gently.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answered, turning to face him and nodding with wide, honest eyes. You tried to conceal the ambiguous pang that rattled your chest as you realized his care for you. Sure it was the bare minimum but this was Gally; kindness is not a strong suit of his.

“You’re not hurt?” he clarified, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

“Um, I’m a little sore. Like I might have trouble walking tomorrow,” you broke out into a playful grin to diffuse the tension, “but that’s a good kind of hurt, you know,”

“Ok,” he nodded to reassure himself, chuckling slightly and relaxing slightly at your appraisal of the situation. “Can’t wait to see you limping around the Med-hut tomorrow,” he cracked sarcastically, returning your grin.

You scrunched your nose up and narrowed your eyes as you put your hand back on the doorknob. “Fuck off Gally,” you muttered without your usual flair as you swung the door closed behind you.

You snuck back to your hut in silence, realizing that was probably the only time you’d ever said that phrase and didn’t really mean it.

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Tags: @katie-tibo @my-little-universes @cthood @decaffeinatedpuppygiver

[guardianspirits13]

There is not enough appreciation out there for the fantastic balance of both comic relief and the voice of reason found in (Netflix-era) Foggy Nelson.

In my experience, characters who take on the voice of reason tend to also be the straight man (in the comedy definition) and also a party pooper towards the more reckless or rowdy characters in a situation.

Similarly, I'm sure we've all had the experience of beloved characters being reduced to comic relief in adaptations of our favorite media and how frustrating the erasure of meaningful character depth can be (don't get me started on Jesper in the SaB show, Kit I love you but the writers did not do you justice).

I've noticed many authors struggle to reconcile charismatic or silly characters with darker moments- I do wonder if this has anything to do with the so-called irony epidemic on the internet right now where everything has to be a joke. It has always bothered me when characters I care about are either never present during serious scenes or act uncharacteristically immature and remain unable to read the room in heavy moments.

Neither of these are a problem when it comes to Foggy because he's treated as a character and not a trope. He is to his core a genuine person who cares about his friends and wants to do the right thing. The fact that he is so easygoing is actually a boon to his career as a lawyer because it disarms his legal opponents and allows him to catch them off guard. He also is great at diffusing tension and de-escalating high-stress situations.

He's likeable and fun, but it never detracts from his determination or the gravity with which he treats his work. He's more responsible and better at communicating than Matt, and he's less impulsive and more cautious than Karen. He's very emotionally intelligent and reads people arguably better than Matt can- listening to all the heartbeats in the world won't measure up to understanding and appealing to a person's inner nature as Foggy demonstrates his ability to do time and time again. He can hit people where it hurts with only his words.

This is not to mention his thorough integrity and refusal to budge on his morals. He advises Karen again and again to not go outside of the law as much as it may help her investigation. He insists on being the bigger person and still finds it in himself to forgive Matt every time he fucks up while also not hiding his feelings of hurt and betrayal. He learns that Matt is going to kill Fisk and despite all the harm Fisk has caused and how much it may benefit society to see him gone, he still reports it to the police because he knows that Matt taking a life will fundamentally change him in a way he can never recover from.

And I am forever grateful that he was spared the fate of being reduced to a walking database of quips that so many MCU characters seem to meet.

I think this gif sums it up nicely:

10/10 character. No notes.

[ilions-end]

i finished statius' ACHILLEID. thoughts thoughts thoughts:

i knew going in it was a VERY short unfinished epic, but i didn't know it would be FUN?? if i ever get that time machine, FIRST THING i go back and find one publius papinius statius, i lock him in a room, and i'm NOT letting him out until he's finished the achilleid!

achilles is statius' BLORBO in a way neither homer, quintus nor virgil have blorbos. statius likes achilles to be strong and pretty and graceful, but most of all ENDEARING even when he fails. and he fails a lot, because this is him still figuring out how to be an adult, not to mention a prophesied legend literally everyone is waiting for to step up

the one thing that gets tiring is just how many prophecies permeate the achilleid. nothing's left to chance, there are so few unknowns. even ODYSSEUS was aware that from peleus' wedding there would come a child destined to be a central warrior in an upcoming gigantic war.

as it stands, the achilleid is more of a... thetisiad? she is very centered in the narrative (we spend more time looking at things from her point of view than achilles') and there is SO MUCH SYMPATHY for her, oh my gosh!! she loves ONE person, her son, the only worthwhile thing she got out of a traumatizing marriage, and she despairs that he's fated to die young in a silly human war.

also i'm a deidamia defender forever now. so three-dimensional, so clever!

aughhh i love how much characterization statius puts in, even in the small scenes! my favourite example is odysseus and diomedes as they walk up to lycomedes' place (literally just moving characters from A to B). diomedes teases odysseus, and odysseus is delighted to be teased. that night we're told odysseus CAN'T SLEEP because he's too excited about showing off his plan the next morning!

the unveiling of achilles is completely different from the chagrined defeat/"achilles is a fucking idiot" ways i've heard it retold! i love that it's collaborative, it's a mutual triumph. it's just as much achilles (who's been suffering in gender dysphoria hell for a year) longing to be exposed as it is odysseus LIVING for showing everyone (especially diomedes?) how clever he is. it's not just the shield and the spear and the bugle, it's odysseus playing the part of the siren, whispering in achilles' ear that he knows who he is and describing how glorious he will be on the trojan battlefield. it's achilles' grateful relief at being ALLOWED not to pretend anymore as he rips off his own dress even before the bugle calls

also it's very important to me that the moment he's no longer hunching over trying to make himself look small and inoffensive, we're told achilles is taller than both odysseus and diomedes

i KEEP IMAGINING how good statius would have made the rest!! especially because as book ii ends, achilles regards odysseus as a cool uncle; he's the guy who rescued him! i want to think statius would have put in the big mystery quarrel achilles and odysseus are said to have had early in the war, something to drastically change that affection. i want to know how statius would have handled troilus, and the gods. augh statius you roman BLUEBALLER

an assortment of story beats still revolving in my head:

chiron is such a sweetheart!! he's SO gallant with thetis, he's so affectionate with achilles. he HIDES HIS TEARS when achilles leaves, awww

statius writes out phoinix completely. as a phoinix stan i object. sure chiron can raise young achilles, but i NEED phoinix to tend to him as a baby

i enjoy how achilles EXPLODES into a mess of teenagerly hormones when he first sees deidaima. it's so funny that thetis is looking on (and we get my favourite simile of the achilleid, of a herdsman delighting in a young bull snorting and foaming at a beautiful heifer) like "aaaaand there's my son's sexual awakening. i see! well, we can use that" and THAT explains why achilles is so willing to commit to the female disguise

(listen. listen. few things mean more to me than the love between achilles and patroclus. but achilles is a teenage boy at the age when a fucking breeze will give him a boner, and deidamia is the most beautiful and the cleverest of her sisters. i really enjoy a story where achilles and deidamia are neither "fated eternal true love" or one's a sneaky opportunist. it's much more compelling that they're both knots of budding emotions and bodily feedback)

i notice that statius never uses the name pyrrha, he doesn't seem to have a fake name at all, just "achilles' sister"

lycomedes is SO honoured and proud that thetis is entrusting her daughter to him. i feel sorry for lycomedes, he seems so earnest and hasn't done anything to get tricked

the one thing i can't forgive statius for is that after spending SO much time establishing that achilles and deidamia (who knows he's a guy) are genuinely into each other, it feels like statius goes OUT OF HIS WAY assuring us that their first sexual encounter is rape. sure they talk right after, deidamia forgives him, AND i understand there are social rules that makes deidamia more "honourable" and "worthy" when she resists, but like. sigh.

aLONG with the previously mentioned interplay between odysseus and diomedes as they walk up to lycomedes' court, there's a simile where they're both starving wolves on the hunt. so sexy it's almost illegal

the feast scene is SO FUNNY omg. all of achilles' careful feminine training dissolving because odysseus and diomedes are there with their boundless masculinity for him to feed off of. deidamia practically WRESTLING achilles back down on the couch every time he forgets himself and behaves too much like a man. odysseus chatting with lycomedes SPECIFICALLY trying to rile up achilles, and then after the women have left (achilles dragging his feet and looking back, YEARNING for their male company) odysseus specifically praises the maiden's "almost masculine" beauty (because ohh he suspects. he just needs to prove it in the morning. he can't SLEEP for it)

when they depart, achilles earnestly swears to deidamia that no other women shall ever bear his children. i find it interesting as a reminder of the social rules of its era. neither of them expect achilles to be sexually exclusive, just not fathering potential heirs. which again makes me wonder about the contraceptives in ancient greece

on the ship towards aulis, diomedes begs achilles to tell them all about his feats and training with chiron, and achilles is so shy about it! who can blame him! diomedes has a WAY more impressive track record

odysseus is SO good at firing up achilles' outrage at paris even as he's just catching him up on what the war's about. and he's so pleased at how easily achilles' outrage can be directed! you KNOW that would have developed in such an interesting way AUGH THE REST WOULD HAVE BEEN SO GOOD.

[bodybaggage]

Phantom in the League pt.2

The Reality of Phantom

---

The atmosphere in the Watchtower had become decidedly less tense after Danny’s revelation. The League was still processing the idea of one of their own being the ruler of an entire interdimensional ghostly kingdom, but they were professionals. They’d seen stranger things.

Well, most of them had. Flash was still stuck on something that Danny had casually dropped during the initial conversation. The speedster tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

“Okay, okay, hold up,” Flash finally blurted out, snapping his fingers as the thought clicked into place. “You said your name is Danny Fenton, right?”

Danny, who had been silently dreading this part of the conversation, nodded hesitantly. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“And you’re a teenager?” Flash asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as he zipped over to scrutinize Danny’s face up close.

“Last time I checked, yeah,” Danny replied, leaning back slightly from Flash’s sudden invasion of personal space.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. So you’re telling me you’re not some ancient ghost who’s been around for centuries, pulling strings from behind the scenes?” Flash’s eyes were wide with shock. “You’re just… a kid?”

“Hey!” Danny protested, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not just a kid. I’ve been through a lot, okay?”

Wonder Woman stepped in, placing a calming hand on Flash’s shoulder. “Barry, remember what we discussed about making assumptions?”

Flash blinked and gave her a sheepish smile. “Right, sorry. It’s just… wow. You’re younger than some of the villains we’ve fought.”

Green Lantern rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing at Batman, who remained as stoic as ever. “Uh, so… not to be insensitive or anything, but you’re, uh, you’re dead, right? Like… you’re a ghost?”

Danny sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah. Half-ghost, technically. But, yeah. I died… sort of.”

The room fell into a brief silence, the weight of Danny’s words settling over them. It wasn’t something the League was accustomed to dealing with—death was part of their lives, yes, but having a teammate who had already crossed that threshold was… different.

Superman, ever the symbol of hope, stepped forward, his voice gentle. “Danny, we won’t ask how it happened. It’s not our place, and we respect your privacy. But if you ever need to talk about it, we’re here for you.”

Danny offered him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Supes. It’s, uh, a bit of a sensitive subject. But I appreciate it.”

Batman, who had been observing quietly, finally spoke up. “If you’re the King of the Infinite Realms, that means you’re responsible for a vast number of spirits and entities. Your age doesn’t change the fact that you’re capable of handling this responsibility. We trust your judgment.”

“Plus,” Flash added with a grin, “you’ve got us to back you up. We’ll make sure you don’t get overwhelmed with all that kingly stuff.”

Danny chuckled, feeling some of the tension ease. “Thanks, guys. It’s nice to know I’ve got some backup, especially when things get… complicated.”

There was a brief pause before Green Lantern asked the question everyone had been thinking but was too polite to voice. “So… do you, like, age? Or are you stuck as a teenager forever?”

Danny shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. Clockwork—you know, the Master of Time—he’s my mentor, and he’s hinted that I might age slower now, but he’s never been clear on the details.”

Batman nodded, his mind already analyzing the implications. “You’re in a unique situation. If your aging process is altered, it could affect how we approach future missions and strategies involving you.”

“Yeah,” Flash chimed in, grinning. “But, hey, look on the bright side! You get to be the youngest member of the League indefinitely! Think of all the birthday parties we can throw.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. “As long as you don’t make a big deal out of it, I’m good with that. And for the record, I don’t really do birthdays. Kind of lost the appeal after, well, you know… dying.”

The room fell into a brief, awkward silence before Flash cleared his throat. “Right, sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“It’s fine,” Danny reassured him with a smile. “I’m just still getting used to all this myself.”

Superman nodded. “We’ll respect your boundaries, Danny. You’ve already proven yourself to us time and time again. Your age doesn’t change that.”

“Agreed,” Wonder Woman added. “You are more than capable, Danny, and your youth is not a weakness. If anything, it speaks to your strength and resilience.”

Danny felt a warm surge of gratitude toward his teammates. He had been worried about how they’d react to the truth, but they had accepted him without hesitation. “Thanks, everyone. I guess I’ve been carrying this around for a while, and it feels good to finally let you all in on it.”

Batman’s voice, as calm and commanding as ever, broke the brief silence. “We’ll need to adjust some of our protocols now that we know the full extent of your abilities and responsibilities. But for now, we have more pressing matters to attend to. The dimensional rifts.”

“Right,” Danny agreed, snapping back to business mode. “I think I can close them, but I’ll need to figure out what’s causing them first. It could be something from the Realms leaking into your world.”

“Then we’ll start by monitoring the rifts and gathering as much data as possible,” Batman stated, already strategizing. “And Danny, if you need to access any resources from the Watchtower to help with your investigation, you have full clearance.”

Danny grinned, feeling more confident than he had in a long time. “Thanks, Bats. I’ll take you up on that.”

As they all prepared to leave the briefing room, Flash lingered for a moment, leaning in close to Danny with a conspiratorial grin. “So… do you have ghostly powers that let you pull pranks? Because I’ve got some ideas.”

Danny’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, you have no idea, Barry. Just wait until you see what I can do.”

With that, the two exchanged a knowing look, and Danny couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. The truth was out, and despite the initial awkwardness, the League had accepted him for who he was—both as Danny and as Phantom.

And with that acceptance came a new sense of belonging, one that made the title of King of the Infinite Realms feel just a little bit lighter.

pt. 1

---

don’t mind me, im just mass posting my drafts rn👩‍🦯

[jaal-ama-daravv]

dissecting the emmrich romance scene (lich path)

dissecting the graveyard scene dissecting the alternate romance path dissecting the argument scene (lich path) mortal vs lich romance path emmrich x rook cinematic

Emmrich Volkarin - Dissecting the Lich Romance Scene fair warning you're in for an emotional rollercoaster

first, i wanna touch on this from our previous dissection (argument) -

"What if I can't bear that for eternity?" Oh, Emmrich. his entire soul aches over the inevitable future that awaits rook. i think this line is so important for emmrich because 'bear that for eternity" implies Emmrich will either, a) go rogue trying to bring rook back c) live with so much grief over his lost love it changes his soul forever in a dark, yet unknown way. and quite frankly, all of these are incredibly sad, and that just hurts. i thoroughly, full heartedly believe that there is no concievable way that emmrich just 'moves on' and 'accepts' the death of rook as previously stated in the lichdom scene. sry bioware, but youre wrong on that one as if he was 'fine' with it, he wouldn't of had a massive panic attack over rooks death and his grief. COUGH, the eternal flame. i could rant for hours and HOURS about how emmrich in the lich path is absoloutley devastating if rook were to pass on, because he is so compulsively, irrevocably in love with them. and not only is he in love with them, he has the love he has yearned for, for over 20 years. its huge for him which is evident given how both romance paths have him terrfied of how much he loves you.

Additionally, Emmrich grew up poor. This would impact his view on society and love. But more impactfully, it would impact his view on himself. His self-worth. Emmrich likely thinks he doesnt deserve this type of love. Hence the attempt to push Rook away and act over-suave at times.

anyway, to the SCENE -

immediately we are hit with this, to which Emmrich replies stating that he did it not to scare the citizens. what a load of huff. youll see why thats a straight deflective lie soon -

don't you worry handsome man, youre not alone emmrich expressing his fear of losing rook, and/or losing eachother, continues to be a major dynamic between these lovers

oh rooky, im so proud of you for opening up about your feelings. (remember the argument they had prior, it was fort knox up in here)

rook expresses clear fear and gratitude that they were able to escape the fade. I do believe that the line "I was afrad I'd be there forever" is a parrelle to emmrichs lichdom - as they would of spent eternity without eachother. hence why this next line, hurts so much -

the raw emotion, the crack in his voice when he says this line tells you everything you need to know. he is so grateful to have rook back with him. I do believe in this moment that emmrich has a moment of realisation of his love for rook, and just how immensed and attached he is with her. which is why he later vows that nothing will part them ever again, "not in this, nor any other world" (cough, soulmates). idk man, i have a feeling that emmrich would find rook's spirit in the fade (or any other world) if they passed on, and he'd never leave.

key point back to the lichdom decision scene -

man would go full blown rogue, scarlet witch rogue, i see it now.

I also want to touch on the "you're here with me" line. this, this is important considering what happens directly afterwards - remember how i mentioned desire a few posts ago? lets break it down, "you're here with me." Emmrich has held a consistent view throughout the whole romance that "its gratifying a fresh-faced adventure took any notice in me at all", does emmrich also possess the belief that the love he so dearly desired may not of been possible in his life time due to his age? i think so. which is why desire and the "wow, you're here with me" is so, so important. Now watch closely -

he looks defeated, ashamed - "why would someone like her be with someone like me? let alone, desire me."

the pose, how he is holding his chest and his body up against the coffin, the disbelief and sadness that is pained over his face. he is heavy with angst. this man wants rook, body and soul. he is SO in love with her. god my heart breaks typing this. he is so in love with her, but is so afraid that she doesnt want him now that he is undead - I will add in here to think back to when he was mortal, 3 flirts lines in total were regarding his looks. UGH, just stab me - ps the music in this scene rips out my heart, stomps on it, and shoves it back into my chest bloodied and bruised.

when rook touches him, his face unstiffens and his body relaxes. he looks at her nervously, but before he can address her or admit his pain, rook has NOTICED (YAY - take that argument scene rook) what is bothering emmrich, because she loves him so much, maybe even more, regardless of his undead figure. "You don't have to hide your face from me" is just a perfect way of phrasing that you are made for eachother. rook reassures emmrich of her undying love for him.

its that gomez and morticia dynamic, unwavering, obsessed dedication to eachother. a bond that strengthens the other. for emmrich and rook at least, theri dynamic is so strong I wholeheartedly believe the death of one, would break the mind and soull of the other.

there is so, so much emotion in this scene and most of it is written into the facial expressions and movements of the characters. watch how the fear of death becomes easier now that emmrich knows that rook loves him truly -

im not crying, you are -

this WRECKED me. because there is a slimmer of hope in his voice and particularly the words he chose. "I will let nothing part us again, my love" emmrich is a lich lord, with powers we dont understand just yet (cmon sequel with rook & emmrich), it is safe to say though that emmrich and rook would fight for and protect eachother to the death so that they may not be parted. This also takes me back to my original point of not letting anything part them, nothing - not even death. hence my belief that emmrich would do anything to find rook in the fade or any other world.

"Not in this nor any other world" - do i need say more? the hope seeps through, its not alot, but its there. don't get me wrong, he still has a crippling fear of death, but its, different. different in the sense that if rook was to pass or trapped somewhere, he would get them back and find his way to them, at all costs, one way or another.

the rest of the scene is very, very sweet and shows them being happy for the extra few hours they have together before facing untold danger - by either rook being able to see the fade through emmrichs eyes, or them boning again. actually i think both lead to boning.

this scene has me in absolute tears everytime I witness it because it is so powerful. it is hopeful. it is pure committment of their relationship and bond to eachother. combining this with the knowledge of the argument scene and having played through the mortal romance path, this - is extremely emotional.

Both romance scene are emotional and touching in their own regard - however, I do think the lich romance scene is more deep due to the dynamic. It is not about simply coming to grips with mortality, it is coming to grips with mourning your lover for eternity, and if you cant bear it for eternity, (which he wont, cmon) he is afraid. afraid of losing, rook. his heart. his dearest heart, and of losing himself because rook is, and I quote, "the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me."

mourn watch rook and emmrich are on a whole other level, and that level is something that is told in the minute details, the edging looks. the tone of voice. there is hope in this scene and a sense of overwhelming love and acceptance, but, there is also impending grief. which makes this story so real.

you can feel emmrich yearning for rook throughout the entire romance path because of the fated connected they share, in this and any other world. you can feel it. but this, in the lich scene? there is yearning, acceptance, hope, grief, joy, and melancholy all in one. without a doubt in my heart, these two, are made for eachother, in every world.

I shall break down the mortal romance scene next ♥ see you soon

[vidduality]

SPOILERS for Episode 6 of the Avatar Live Action series

AKA why this episode makes me SO grateful for this adaptation (re: the Zuko flashbacks and the Agni Kai).

----

Wow.

I admit, I was really worried at the idea that Zuko might potentially fight back in the Agni Kai against his father in the live action. I expected to HATE it, and it's certainly a bold change, but it fits in SO WELL with why Zuko is the way that he is (and why he works so hard to push down his empathy whenever Aang tries to reason with him).

The Agni Kai - Zuko obviously did NOT want to fight his father. He still tried to apologize and beg for mercy, but in the end he was just too terrified of his father to disobey a direct order.

But when Ozai left him an opening to see what he'd do with it, Zuko couldn't bring himself to actually land a blow that might burn him. Making his lack of ruthlessness the weakness that Ozai ends up mutilating him for - even straight up telling Zuko that compassion is weakness and then demonstrating by holding his own child down and lighting him on fire - adds a layer of depth that only enhances the original scene (and in another stroke of genius, we see Ozai nearly in tears himself. He's convincing himself of this lesson as well as Zuko, which was likely passed down to him by his own father). Honestly, this to me is even more heartbreaking than Ozai burning him for refusing to stand and fight. Zuko did everything his father asked and he still failed, because his family has distorted what it means to be honorable and believes Zuko's capacity for mercy to be a shameful weakness unbecoming of an heir to the throne.

The 41st Division - And here come the waterworks. Assigning the very people Zuko was hurt so severely for trying to save to his ship as it's being cast out of the fire nation (presumably forever, with the Avatar not having been seen in 100 years) is SUCH a brilliant addition. His crew resents Zuko for being stuck on this impossible mission with this bratty, angry child. And Zuko is too ashamed of his "weakness" to explain why they were assigned to him.

I can totally see Zuko's hurt at their lack of respect making him even more angry (especially after everything he went through to save them from being sacrificed), and his seemingly irrational anger at them just continuing to make them resent him more in a neverending feedback loop of anger and disrespect that's been growing and festering for 3 years.

Which makes the scene at the end when Zuko's crew finally learns about how he saved their lives (as well as why he's obsessed with the avatar, why he's banished, what his scar means and why he's trying so very hard to rid himself of empathy, even if he can never quite manage it when it counts) so much more impactful. I SOBBED when the 41st Division stood at attention and showed him their utmost respect and loyalty, possibly for the first time since they've been on that ship. Zuko's soft "what's going on?" at finally being honored by his crew is just imprinted on my brain.

The seed of the idea that his compassion may NOT actually be what was shameful about his banishment afterall can finally begin to take root.

I just, damn, I love this episode so much.

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Three

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Are you ready? Because I'm not ready.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper regretted everything the minute they hit the incline.

"This was your idea," Oscar said, not even out of breath.

"I hate that you're actually good at this," she wheezed.

He grinned and reached for her wrist mid-stride. "We can stop."

"No." She panted. "If I stop now, I'll never start again. They'll have to airlift me out."

They were deep in the woods behind the school, the quiet part where no one really went except Oscar when he was doing his trainer-mandated endurance runs three times a week. It smelled like wet moss and pine needles and early autumn.

He slowed to a walk, just enough for her to match pace, then slung an arm lazily around her shoulders. She leaned into it, grateful and exhausted and warm in a way that had nothing to do with her temperature.

They didn't say anything for a while. Just breathed. Let the trees hush them.

Then, softly, "This is where I come when I need to think," he said.

Harper glanced up at him. "Or avoid people?"

"Same thing."

She smiled and nudged him. "You've been doing that more lately."

He shrugged. "It's been... a lot. Winning the British championship. Leading the WSK. Talking to teams. My dad's getting anxious about sponsors."

"And Mark?"

"Always calm. But I can tell he's pushing a bit harder now. It's all getting a bit more serious."

She nodded, quietly. "Yeah."

They walked until they hit a small clearing; soft grass, dappled light, the faint hum of wind through the trees.

Oscar dropped to the ground first, tugging her with him, and Harper let herself fall beside him. Their fingers tangled without thought. Her heartbeat still hadn't slowed.

"You really hate running, huh?" He teased.

She turned her head toward him. "I don't hate it."

He raised a brow.

"Okay, fine. I hate it. But I like being with you," she said, eyes soft.

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "That's a good enough reason to torture yourself?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against herself and she giggled breathily against him, shifting to her knees and pressing close to him.

And when she whispered, "Can we... just stay here a while?" He nodded, no questions, no pressure, just a gentle hand on the curve of her back.

They didn't... plan it.

They didn't even really speak about it as it happened.

They moved the way they always did — with instinct and quiet understanding, with laughter in the middle and too many nerves and awkward fumbling that quickly gave way to something softer.

They were teenagers, yes. But more than that — in that pretty little clearing, they became each other's firsts. And it wasn't perfect. It was fumbled and awkward and probably a bit out of order — but it felt right.

It felt like theirs.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in the grass and the quiet, Oscar drawing invisible lines on her shoulder, Harper tucked into his side like she belonged there and nowhere else.

"I don't think anything has ever felt that perfect," she whispered.

He kissed her again. But her lip. Made her giggle as he said, "You made it perfect."

—

Harper tiptoed into their bedroom just past curfew, hair messy, hoodie zipped up to her chin, and a dazed sort of softness clinging to her features like afterglow.

Jane was already in bed, face masked, glasses on, reading some dystopian paperback with a wildly dramatic title. She didn't look up.

"I know what you did," she sung.

Harper froze halfway across the room. "What?"

Jane turned a page. "Please. You've got pine needles in your hair and your skirt is on backwards.'"

Harper flushed. "Oh my God."

Jane finally looked at her. "Was it good?"

"...Yeah," Harper whispered, and then suddenly grinned, wide and a little overwhelmed. "Yeah, it was."

Jane set her book down and patted the edge of her bed. "Come here and tell me everything, you naughty, terrible girl."

Harper crossed the room in two steps, crawled under Jane's blanket like they were twelve again, and for the first time in a long time, let herself glow.

—

Monday morning, Harper's phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down to see the sender: Viard Admissions.

Opening it felt like swallowing a stone.

The email was clinical, polite — an official acceptance letter to the elite boarding school in Switzerland her mother had threatened. Lines about curriculum, dates, and fees, but beneath every word, Harper could feel the cold weight of control.

She stared at the screen, heart sinking.

The rest of the day was a blur. Her smiles felt forced. Her laughs, hollow.

At lunch, she barely touched her food. During math tutoring, her mind floated, distracted by the looming exile.

Oscar noticed.

He cornered her between classes, hands stuffed in his pockets, brows furrowed.

"Hey," he said gently, "you've been off all day. What's wrong?"

Harper shook her head, trying to hide the tightness in her throat.

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell me."

She hesitated, then finally exhaled. "My mum." she admitted, voice cracking. "She emailed my mu acceptance letter. To that school in Switzerland she was threatening me with the other week."

Oscar's jaw tightened. "That's shit," he said.

"Yeah," Harper whispered. "I feel like I've found somewhere I belong, and now she's trying to take it away."

Oscar reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You do belong," he said firmly. "Here. With me. And with our friends. People who care about you."

Harper blinked back tears, the knot inside her loosening just a little. "Thanks, Osc," she said softly.

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "We'll figure it out, yeah? Together."

—

Saturday evening, their bedroom was buzzing with whispered giggles and the fresh scent of cucumber.

Harper and Jane lounged on the floor, wrapped in fluffy blankets, their faces slick with a honey-avocado facemask as they binge-watched Mean Girls for the third time that week on Jane's laptop.

"Oi, we're coming in!" Matt's voice boomed from outside their door.

The door swung open to reveal Matt, Sam, and Alfie — each armed with their own packets of face masks and towels, looking both sheepish and excited.

"Um, what the hell are you guys doing here?" Jane asked, raising an eyebrow at them.

"We're your new beauty consultants," Sam grinned, holding up a jar of what looked like expensive aloe mask (which he'd definitely stolen from whichever girl he was currently dating).

Alfie was already spreading a pink goo over his cheeks, looking hilariously out of place in the girls' soft dorm lighting.

Harper laughed despite herself. 

"Fine. Whatever. But only if you promise not to mess up the blankets," Jane bargained.

Matt plopped down on the floor, slapping a bit of mask on his nose and grinning. "Deal."

The night unfolded with half-serious skincare advice, sarcastic commentary on Mean Girls, and a lot of laughter.

At one point, Alfie tried to reenact the "You can't sit with us" line — but with a face mask so thick it practically obscured his words.

Harper messages Oscar a sneaky picture she'd taken of them.

Oscar: I asked them to keep an eye on you. Sry if they were annoying lol. Wish I was there x

Harper stared at the message and pulled her knees up to her chest with a hitched smile. 

Harper: Thank you. Love you

She held her breath as he typed.

Oscar: Love you too.

And it was that easy.

—

Jane's birthday was always celebrated in style.

The music thrummed through the room, warm and electric. Harper spotted Oscar across the room, his eyes locking onto hers with something intense — a mix of nerves and something more.

He moved toward her, hand reaching out gently to take hers. She didn't hesitate.

They stepped onto the dance floor, bodies close but careful, hearts pounding louder than the beat.

Oscar's hand found her waist, steady and reassuring. Harper's fingers curled lightly around his neck, breath catching in her throat.

They swayed together, the world narrowing to just the two of them — the noise, the lights, the rest all fading away.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and Harper's pulse quickened. When their lips met, it was soft at first — tentative, like testing the water.

But the kiss deepened, filled with all the restless energy and longing they'd been holding back.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

"Happy birthday, Jane," Harper whispered, smiling shyly.

Oscar grinned, his fingers brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Best party ever."

—

The door clicked softly behind them as Oscar guided Harper inside his bedroom, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

She pointedly ignored the insane amount of mess.

"If you get caught here, we're both fucked," he whispered, pulling her close.

"I won't get caught," Harper replied, snuggling into his side as they settled onto the rumpled bed.

Oscar wrapped an arm around her and tugged her flush against him.

Then Harper shifted, her voice soft but animated. "I started this new coding camp online. It's... complicated, but kind of awesome."

Oscar tilted his head, interested. "Yeah? What's it teaching you?"

"How to build games. It's a bit elementary, but I'm learning how to work with CSS more efficiently."

Oscar smiled, fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "That's pretty cool."

Harper hummed. "I know. I'll show you the video game when it's done. Won't be anything special, but it'll still be cool."

Oscar pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm glad you're here."

Harper nodded, resting her head against his chest. "Me too."

—

Harper's stomach churned as she made her way through the quiet halls toward the headmaster's office. Her mind raced with possibilities — had her mum found out about  the late-night escapades? Had somebody seen her sneaking out of the boys dorm? Was she in trouble?

She knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

The headmaster looked up, a warm smile on his face. "Harper, come in. Have a seat."

Her heart pounded, but she took the chair offered.

"I wanted to talk to you because I've been hearing some very good things," he said. "Your math level has improved significantly over the course of the term — and I understand that with dyscalculia, this is something to be very proud of."

Harper blinked, surprised.

"I understand that there's been some study sessions with a few of your classmates during your free time in the common rooms. A few teachers found the pinned-up schedules amusing. But that kind of initiative is impressive."

She let out a relieved breath, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, sir."

"It really is a fantastic turn around, Harper. Keep it up."

As she left the office, the tension eased from her shoulders.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

—

Oscar sat on the sofa in the common room, phone balanced on his knee, his parents' faces bright on the screen.

"It's been great to hear from you, mate," his dad said, smiling.

Oscar grinned. "Yeah. You too."

The door opened softly, and Harper stepped inside, still catching her breath from P.E., cheeks flushed.

She paused, then eased herself down next to Oscar, curling up against his side.

Oscar glanced at the screen and said, "Harper's here."

Oscar's mum smiled warmly. "Hello, Harper, sweetheart."

"Hi," Harper murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head on Oscar's shoulder.

Oscar slipped an arm around her, fingers gently brushing her hair.

The conversation continued quietly, but Harper drifted off, the soft rhythm of Oscar's voice and the warmth of the room lulling her into a calm nap.

—

The cafeteria was quiet, soft morning light filtering through the windows. Harper sat at their small table, pushing her usual bowl of Weetabix aside.

"I'm not really feeling up for that," she said softly. "Just some toast, yeah?"

Oscar looked up from his cereal, eyebrows knitting together in quiet concern but not pressing. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, sliding a plate across to her. "Whatever you want."

Harper nibbled at the edges, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but she shrugged it off.

"Just feel a bit gross, probably nothing," she muttered, a bit frustrated. "Maybe it was that chilli we had last night. It tasted weird."

Oscar reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "If you want, I can find you some ginger tea? My mum always made me drink it when I got sick."

She smiled faintly, grateful for the thought. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though."

She shuffled closer to him throughout breakfast, until she was practically on his lap as the ready of the sleepy students came pouring in.

Jane slammed her tray down on the table and said, "Can you believe that the prom theme is going to be 'Pirates'. I mean — who the hell came up with that?"

Harper giggled against Oscar's shoulder.

—

The bell had just rung, and students spilled into the hallway. Harper was making her way slowly toward the common room when she spotted Oscar waiting near the door.

He caught her eye immediately and fell into step beside her.

"You feeling okay?" He asked quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Harper shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Better. Still a bit off, but it's nothing."

Oscar studied her for a moment, concern softening his features. "Want me to walk you back to your dorm? Or maybe grab some fresh air?"

She nodded, grateful for the offer. "Yeah, that'd be good."

They walked together, the afternoon sun warm on their backs, and Harper leaned just a little closer to him.

—

The last weeks of the school year felt heavier somehow — classes wrapped up, corridors buzzing with end-of-year chatter, but Harper's thoughts kept drifting.

She sat beside Oscar on the astroturf, the chill in the air making them both pull their jackets tighter.

"Four weeks," she murmured, voice soft. "That's how long you'll be gone."

Oscar nodded, eyes tracing the frost on the pitch. "I know. It'll feel like forever."

Harper looked down at her hands, twisting the little rope bracelet Oscar had given her. It was black and white; the colours of a chequered flag. The finish line.

"I'm going to miss you," she admitted, the words tasting strange but true.

Oscar reached over, fingers brushing hers. "I'll miss you too. But it's not forever. We've got FaceTime, texts..."

She smiled faintly, though the lump in her throat didn't go away. "Promise you won't forget about me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. It was ridiculous, but she was feeling just a tiny bit delicate.

"I promise, babe," Oscar said, squeezing her hand.

She took a deep breath and let his words settle something in her chest.

—

The snow had started falling just before dusk, blanketing the city in soft white as Harper and her mother walked briskly up Fifth Avenue. The holiday lights sparkled across shop windows, casting golden reflections against the ice-slicked pavement. It should have felt magical — it usually did — but this year, everything felt off.

Her mother was walking a few steps ahead, as always. Perfect posture, sleek gloves, eyes forward like she was leading a press conference instead of walking to her parents' townhouse.

"Straighten your scarf," she said without looking back. "You're not ten."

Harper didn't answer. She just adjusted the scarf, more out of habit than compliance.

Her grandparents' house was beautiful in that cold, museum-like way — all polished marble and antique chandeliers. They were kind enough, but Harper always felt like a stranger to them.

Dinner was stiff. Conversation danced around neutral topics — school, future plans, the weather in London — but never quite landed. Harper could feel her mother's eyes on her every time she spoke, like she was a sentence away from saying something inappropriate.

When dessert was served, Harper quietly excused herself and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, her phone already in hand.

She laid across the bedspread, scrolling through old photos of her and Oscar — blurry selfies after he'd climbed out of his kart, the one where he'd fallen asleep during a maths session, the video of him trying orange marmalade for the first time and gagging like it was poison.

Her chest ached.

There was a message waiting for her.

Oscar: Made it to the beach before Mum could shove a Santa hat on me. Send help. Miss you.

She smiled, blinking hard.

Harper: You'd better FaceTime me tomorrow. Or I swear I'll swim to Australia just to see you.

—

Harper sat cross-legged on the guest bed, the soft hum of New York traffic muffled by snow and distance. Laughter floated up faintly from the living room downstairs — the clink of glasses, her grandfather's booming voice, her mother's delicate laugh, like porcelain.

She stared at her phone until it buzzed, the screen lighting up with one name.

FaceTime Incoming: Oscar

She answered immediately.

Oscar's face appeared, backlit by sunshine. He was sitting outside, shirtless and tanned, with the ocean glinting behind him.

"Merry Christmas," he said, grinning.

Harper smiled, the tightness in her chest easing a little just at the sound of his voice. "Merry Christmas, beach boy."

"Snow yet?"

"Everything's white. Including the tablecloth. And every single guest."

He huffed out a dry laugh. "You okay?"

Harper nodded, though it wasn't entirely true. "Better now."

He looked at her through the screen, really looked. "It's been weird not seeing you almost every day."

"It's horrible," she admitted, flopping back on the bed and bringing the phone with her. "She made me wear this velvet dress that itches like hell. I would sell my soul for a hoodie and one of your perfect plates of breakfast toast."

Oscar chuckled, lying back on a sun chair, mirroring her position. "We had a barbecue. Dad burned the sausages. Classic."

There was a pause — not awkward, but full.

"I miss you," Harper said softly, picking at a fraying thread on the sleeve of her dress.

"I miss you too," Oscar replied, quieter this time.

Neither of them said it, but it hung in the space between them: I love you — unspoken, but understood.

"We'll be back home soon," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Ten days."

"Not like I'm counting."

Oscar smiled. "I'll call you tonight. Properly. When the house is quiet."

"Okay."

"Go be elegant and miserable," he teased.

"And you go burn in the sun."

"I'm wearing SPF."

She smiled again, softer now, the ache still there, but bearable.

"Bye, Osc."

"Bye, Harps."

—

The train ride had been long. The platform cold. And Harper's suitcase wheel had started squeaking halfway across campus.

But none of that mattered the second she saw him.

He was already there — leaning against the gate near the common room, hoodie half-zipped, hair sun-lightened from two weeks under the Australian sky. He looked taller. Or maybe she just missed him that much.

Oscar straightened the second their eyes met.

Neither of them said anything at first. He just stepped forward and took her suitcase handle from her hand like it was second nature, like she hadn't been gone for 28 days, 16 FaceTimes, and countless messages.

Harper looked up at him, trying to smile but it wobbled. "Hey."

"Hi," he said, and his voice caught on it.

She opened her arms before she could think better of it, and he pulled her into him like he'd been holding his breath since December.

His nose tucked against her temple. "You're freezing," he murmured.

"You're warm," she whispered back.

They stood there for a while, unmoving, while students bustled past with post-holiday energy and distant laughter filled the air. None of it touched them.

Finally, Harper leaned back just enough to look up at him. "You got taller."

"You got sadder," he said gently. "But you're back now."

She nodded, eyes stinging. "I missed this."

"I missed you."

They didn't kiss — not here, not in-front of everyone — but his hand found hers and didn't let go as they walked the familiar path toward the dorms.

Back to routine. Back to toast and maths study and Astro nights and quiet, stolen moments.

Back to where they belonged.

—

Harper was half-draped across Jane's bed, a leftover Quality Street melting on her tongue, while Jane rooted through her suitcase with dramatic flair.

"I forgot how depressing the lighting is in this room," Jane muttered. "It's like they want us to slowly wilt."

"You're very tan though," Harper said through a yawn. "So it looks fine."

Jane straightened up triumphantly, holding up a pink silk scrunchie like it was a crown jewel. "There it is."

Harper blinked. "That's what you were hunting for?"

"Excuse you — this scrunchie survived the Atlantic Ocean." Jane dropped it on her desk and flopped beside Harper. "I swam on Christmas Day. It was freezing. I highly recommend getting your period before beach season. It was the first year I didn't have to stress about leaking in the Mediterranean and attracting sharks."

Harper smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

A beat.

And then another.

And then—

Her face drained of colour.

"Oh."

Jane tilted her head. "What?"

Harper sat up, very suddenly, like the air had gone too tight. "I haven't... I haven't had mine."

Jane blinked. "Like—"

"I didn't think about it, I just—" Harper's voice trailed off as she stared at the wall. "I've felt sick. Tired. I haven't wanted my Weetabix."

Jane was still for a beat, then reached out and put a steadying hand on Harper's knee. "Okay. Breathe. It could be stress. Travel. Life."

Harper nodded slowly, but her brain was moving a million miles an hour. "Yeah. Yeah. Totally. Stress."

But Jane could see it in her eyes.

That switch had flipped.

Something inside Harper knew — whether or not she was ready to say it out loud.

—

She didn't knock.

She didn't even hesitate.

Harper shoved open the door to the boys' dorm common room, heart in her throat, fingers trembling, her mind screaming in spirals. Oscar was on the floor with Alfie and Matt, half-focused on a Mario Kart match, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, looking so calm it almost made her dizzy.

He looked up immediately.

And stood up faster than she'd ever seen him move.

"Hey— Harps?"

She just stared at him for a second, trying to speak, trying to make the words form. She couldn't do this with anyone else. Only him.

"I—" Her voice broke. "Can we talk? Please?"

"Yeah. Of course." He was already crossing the room, grabbing her hand, guiding her down the hallway toward his room without another word. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Oscar turned to her, brows knit with concern. "What happened? What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced the words out before she could second guess them.

"I think I might be pregnant."

Silence.

Not judgment, not panic — just... stillness. The way Oscar always went quiet before a race, centring himself.

Harper blinked fast. "I haven't had my period. I've been nauseous, tired, my brain's a mess. And I didn't notice— I didn't think—" Her voice cracked. "I'm not saying I am. But I might be. And I don't know what to do."

Oscar stepped forward and gently took her hands in his, grounding her.

"Okay," he said simply, his voice steady. "Fuck. Okay. We'll figure this out."

Harper let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. "I didn't know what to do. I just panicked."

Oscar's eyes softened. "Yeah but you did the right thing. You came to me."

She nodded, chest tight, and leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, warm and sure.

"Whatever happens," he murmured, "we'll handle it."

Harper sniffled. "I'm fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen."

He closer his eyes. "Shit, yeah. I know. Me too." He laughed. 

Nothing about this situation was funny.

She couldn't help but laugh too, a warped, wet kind of sound. 

—

The chemist in the village was almost empty. Harper kept her head down, winter hat pulled low, scarf wrapped high. Oscar stood beside her, tall and quiet, his hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over his hands. He didn't say much — didn't need to — just waited beside her.

They didn't look at the packaging too long. Just grabbed the one that looked familiar, Oscar paid in cash, and they left without a word.

—

Back at school, they slipped into the small student toilet block behind the science building — the one Oscar had jimmied the lock on once during a thunderstorm. It was quiet. Private. The only place that didn't feel like it had ears and eyes everywhere.

Harper set the box down on the sink with trembling hands.

"You don't have to stay," she whispered.

Oscar shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay."

She went in, closed the door, and a moment later, came back out holding the test in shaking fingers. He didn't look at it. He just held her free hand and guided her to sit on the windowsill.

They set it down on the ledge between them.

A timer on Oscar's phone started counting down.

Two minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

Oscar's thumb stroked the inside of her palm, rhythmic and slow.

Harper stared at the test, as if watching it would make it kinder.

Her voice was barely a breath. "I'm scared."

"I know," Oscar said. "Me too."

Thirty seconds left.

The world outside the window was silver-grey, students scattered across the grass in the distance, oblivious. Everything felt fragile.

Fifteen seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Harper's grip tightened.

"Do we look?" She asked.

Oscar nodded once. "Together."

She reached for the test with trembling fingers.

—

The rain had started again. A soft pattering against the windows that filled the silence like a lullaby.

Oscar lay behind her on her narrow dorm bed, one arm around her waist, the other tucked beneath his head. Harper was curled into herself, facing the wall, her fingers gripping the edge of the duvet like it might keep her from floating away.

He hadn't said much when she showed him the test. Just took one look at her face, reached out, and pulled her into him.

Now he was just holding her.

Breathing with her.

Letting her be silent.

Her cheek was damp against the pillow, but she wasn't crying anymore. She felt wrung out, like all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, like her bones were vibrating with too many thoughts that had nowhere to go.

Oscar pressed his nose into the back of her shoulder. His voice was a whisper. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't answer. Just nodded once.

He didn't say it to convince her. He said it because it was the only thing he could offer — his calm. His presence. His belief in her, in them, in the idea that they'd somehow survive this.

His hand slid down to rest gently over hers.

She swallowed hard. "I don't know how far along I am."

"We'll figure it out."

She turned in his arms then, finally facing him, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. "I don't feel like a real person right now."

Oscar blinked slowly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah. I feel a bit out of it too."

She let out a small, watery laugh. 

And then she tucked her head into his chest, and he held her tighter, as if he could anchor her to something solid.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, it was quiet.

NEXT CHAPTER

[samcvrpenters]

word count: 1.8k+

pairing: secret service! caitlyn kiramman x criminal! assassin! fem reader

summary: after betraying her, caitlyn vowed to hunt you down and make you pay for your crimes. but her vengeance slowly turns into more and she finds herself wanting your affection and attention

warnings: weapons, violence, a not very well written fight scene, mentions of death

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

is she meant to be grateful for your incompetence? for your ungraceful, egotistical betrayal to the national security agency? if you even think you’re correct on any of those assumptions then you’re dreadfully wrong, because she has vowed to hunt you down and lock you up in a blacksite never to see the light of day again.

she never expected it.

how could she? you were ever so kind and polite to her since the first day you met her in the office.

it may have been a little suspicious; your wide eyes and happy smile supported that, yet her judgement became clouded because, well, it was the first time she saw someone so happy to jump into such a job, and she wanted to trust you.

she instantly had put in an application to become your handler, and it took many discussions with her superiors and her own handler to allow her into the position, but when she was given it, she took it with enthusiasm.

she wanted to lead you.

she believed you could do marvellous things for the agency and she wanted to make you feel like you could reach your potential if she was the one who was looking after you— if she was the one who was ready to take care of you.

your aim was a little shocking, to say the least. in a good way, though. maybe that should have pointed to the fact you had done this before.

but caitlyn was blinded by her own adoration for you and she had made every single effort to make you better than you ever were before, so she adjusted the small things that you were unable to do and she did make you better.

looking back on it, she should have known.

she sits in her office now and she dwells upon the fact that you had betrayed her and her trust.

she’s wearing gloves, and her fingers are tapping against the mahogany table, which is covered in knife marks. she should be glad she’s took it out on the furniture. not on anyone else, because she doesn’t want to get into as much trouble as you have.

where even are you?

she doesn’t know.

she wants to know, but she’s unable to find out because you keep your tracks so well hidden that she can’t locate you in the slightest. she’s proud, in some way. she taught you that. but at the same time, treason is treason. and it’ll be treated severely, like any other criminal would be treated.

the phone rings. a loud, sharp sound that causes caitlyn to flinch because the unfortunate loss of you has caused her a lot of grief.

she reaches for it, her hand wrapping around the material, a clicking noise signifying she’s answered it, and the other person on the phone speaks instantly, like it’s such an important matter that everything else can wait for this.

her eyes widen when the voice says that they’ve found you.

at first, she’s ecstatic. she wants to embrace you and hug you and tell you that everything will be okay. because you had to be manipulated into this. this isn’t your fault. but that’s not how it works, and she’s forced to change her mind as her hand reaches for the gun on her desk.

and then she’s walking out, and the door slams behind her when she doesn’t even have the courtesy to shut it quietly.

in an instant, all thoughts of what to do with you when she gets you is flooding through her head, drowning any feelings she has. she needs to arrest you. if that doesn’t work, shoot you. and if that doesn’t work, shoot you again. and again. and again. and there’ll be blood everywhere and your blood will forever coat her hands and her gun and her mind and she’ll never be able to unsee it.

she’ll hallucinate.

she’ll always see you— bullet holes over your body and your body drenched in red. she knows that’s how it’s going to work.

she finds you.

she will always find you.

“you need to stop!” her usual honeyed voice is twisted with malice, some sort of callousness that stops her typical self from entering the conversation.

because she’s here to arrest you.

not love you. again.

perhaps that’s what hurts so much: the fact she shared so much of herself with you and she allowed you to touch her and hug her and embrace her and comforted her. now all of that is gone and she knows she needs to make you pay.

“you’re not even aiming your gun at me, agent kiramman.” your voice rings sharp in return and your eyes are fixed through the scope of your suppressed sniper rifle. “how about you try to intimidate me and then i’ll stop?”

how do you know without even looking?

it doesn’t matter, because she’s scrambling to pull her handgun from her holster, her finger resting against the trigger guard as she takes a step forward.

she isn’t putting her finger on the trigger. yet.

but the muzzle of her gun is pushing through your hair and to the back of your head.

“come with me. and i will make it a lot safer for you. it’ll be a lot easier for the both of us if you comply.” why is she being so stern? this isn’t how she usually acts with you.

oh well.

does it truly matter? no. not really. because you know she won’t pull the trigger because she doesn’t want to see blood pouring from your head whilst she cries against your corpse.

“you won’t pull the trigger.” you drawl, hands tightening against your sniper rifle, which is mounted on a stand for the time being. “i know what you’re like. and i have too much faith in the fact that you love me that i don’t believe you’d be able to shoot me.”

it’s true.

she still loves you. even with what you did.

“stand up.” her voice is a hiss and she shoves the gun against your head again, jaggedly, as if she doesn’t actually care about your health. but if that was the case, she would’ve shot you already. “stand up and we might take it easy on you.”

you can get out of this situation in a heartbeat. she knows that. are you just entertaining her? do you want to play with her heart? her feelings? do you want her to experience these contrasting emotions of hate and love?

“you’ve gotten predictable, agent kiramman.” what’s with the formalities? are you trying to seduce her, or something? manipulate her? distance yourself from her? she’s not sure. “because i know you won’t do anything. how about you lower your weapon and i’ll lower mine, and we can talk, hm?” you sound like you’re mocking her.

her hand is gripping the gun tighter, and she’s shoving it against the back of your neck instead, and with that, you whip around.

grabbing onto her hand, you roughly push her arm up, above your head, so if she did decide to pull the trigger (whether it be out of surprise or pure anger), you wouldn’t get shot.

and you’re pushing her against the roof of the building, twisting her arm back behind her body, before managing to get her onto the surface and looking up at you.

it’s like she didn’t even try to fight back.

but you’re gripping onto her shoulders, keeping her against the surface of the roof, nails digging through her clothes and into her skin.

“are you just going to lay there?” you hiss out. if she was being rough, you might as well do the same. “say something. do something. get up, caitlyn! aren’t you mad?”

but she’s staring up at you.

it’s as if she can’t look away from you because she’s so enamoured by you.

and then she snaps out of it, and her knee lifts into your abdomen with no caution whatsoever, and you find yourself groaning and letting go of her shoulders. she’s pulling herself up and round to grab your own arms, rolling you over onto your back and she’s pulling you up so you’re sat up, before shoving you back down again.

your legs are wrapped around her waist and it’s almost as if you’re trying to pull her back around so you can roll her over again.

“stop trying.” she breathes out, and she’s moving her hand to grip the back of your hair.

a rather compromising position, which would be seen as something different if the two of you weren’t trying to fight each other.

“fuck you.” you groan out, and since your other arm is free, you manage to smack a punch right across her face, a satisfying crunch erupting from her nose to prove you’ve broken it.

she groans in response, and lifts both hands to cover it, the fabric of the gloves absorbing the blood as she covers it.

and you’re running back to the sniper in the time that you have and opening up the case next to it and pulling out your own handgun. the one you were given to by the nsa.

it was surprising that you had kept it.

“emotional entanglements are unacceptable in a professional, dangerous environment yet are inevitable. is that what you said, caitlyn?” your head tilts to the side and your finger rests against the trigger, ready to pull it if needs be. “if that’s true, then why have you become so attached to someone that you’re meant to arrest? to kill?”

a step forward and you’re closer to her.

she’s not moved, her hands still holding her nose before she pulls them away once the bleeding had subsided.

“it’s unfortunate, really. i enjoyed being in your bed yet your affiliation with the person i was meant to kill in the agency made it stop.”

a sigh escapes your lips at her silence.

“i’m giving you the opportunity to run away, caitlyn. be blind. not brave.”

she needed to act like she had never seen you. and that would make everything so much easier because then you wouldn’t have to worry about her reporting you and she wouldn’t have to say a word.

you were making this easier on her, but she wasn’t making this easier for you.

she doesn’t know why she takes the opportunity. she just does. maybe she doesn’t want to hurt you, and she doesn’t want you to hurt her, but she leaves the rooftop and she’s sprinting down the stairs and back to her car.

“false alarm.” that’s the only thing she mutters to her partner as she steps into the car.

she’ll find you one day. officially. it’ll be printed on documents that she was the one who find you. but to say she’ll take you in? no. she’s sure it will read that she decided to join you.

no matter what the cost is.

[foggynelsonarchive]

This blog was created to celebrate Foggy, and Foggy is life, colors, cinnamon rolls, warm mornings, silly jokes, law, honesty, truth and justice...

But it is an almost impossible task not to talk about Foggy without remembering the disaster called Born Again and all its nuances. Born Again had a nasty effect on good memories about Daredevil and that will take some time to change.

The debacle ranges from Foggy's death scene, which was filmed and released over and over again, to interviews with showrunners, producers and actors who seem content to belittle a character who has been a part of Marvel for over sixty years. And I won't even mention how they don't mind belittling Elden either.

From Dario Scardapane saying Foggy is the comic relief and giving Karen Page the role of Foggy as the heart and soul of Daredevil.

Sana Amanat saying that ten years have passed and we have to move forward in a courageous way.

For them, killing Foggy was a courageous act.

No, killing Foggy wasn't a brave move, but it was cowardly and lazy writing.

Foggy's death was in vain, it wasn't even the main motivation for Matt to stop being DD.

I can't control how someone reacts to certain situations, nor do I want to, but while Deborah Ann Woll posted a comic panel about "one has to go" and Foggy was one of the options, laughed about having someone else's blood on her face, then laughed about how they destroyed the show and now has reason to celebrate being the heart of the show, Charlie Cox, however, is the only one who still shows any empathy about the death of Foggy Nelson.

I loved Karen. I loved meeting Karen Page in the flesh. I love that she found in Matt and Foggy a family, a home, and security that she never had.

But if you think about it, they're all lonely there.

Matt and Karen...

And even though Foggy has a huge family, he doesn't fit in, that's not his world. His family of choice is Matt and Karen.

And I will always repeat that what made the series special was the trio.

Season 2 will make the same mistake. Foggy will leave a void that – although Dario tries to fill by giving Foggy's place to Karen – will never be filled.

And while I see her fans mocking Foggy's fans, the fans of the romance and love triangle celebrating, I just wonder if we were ever on the same side. The answer is no, apparently. Foggy has always been the third wheel for these fans. For Dario and his team, he is nothing more than an disposable extra.

At least Charlie, Daredevil himself says that Foggy is the heart of the MCU and for that I hope to be forever grateful to him. Thank you Charlie Cox.

[jweekgoji]

can you do something thing similar to part 2 of Sentinel Prime/Reader where reader becomes more cold towards sentinel prime due to being annoying as reader went to controlled sentinel prime around like some dog to stay away from reader as reader meet D-16 after the race scene to happily introduce each other like a idol/fan relationship and given D-16 a sticker that looks similar to reader (I hope you are doing okay and well and make sure to drink water<3)

Sentinel/Prime!Reader/D-16

tw: depressing thoughts from reader, slight Sentinel's manipulative behavior, possesiveness, jealous!Sentinel, no relationship between Sentine/D-16 in this one. word count: ~2000 a/n: some changes in canon. story happens after the death of 13 Primes, but before TF:One events where they go to the surface. No one knows the truth apart from Sentinel. sorry for not posting much last week. was busy with deadlines, but now I have a little more time. thank you for your request anon, I hope you're doing okay too. :)

The day Sentinel personally informed you about the deaths of your siblings changed you forever. No matter how many cycles passed, you always blamed yourself for it. Why didn't they take you with them? Didn't call for help? Were you so weak and foolish that none of them told you of their plans.

If you had been there, things would have been different. Then none of this would have happened. Everything would be like it was before; everyone would be happy. You'd be happy.

Now, the only company you have is Sentinel. The only one who, no matter what, has always been there for you.

Any other bot in your position would be grateful. Sentinel is still your rock even now, even though every time you hear his voice, you want to rip out your audio receptors with your bare servos.

You were never there that day, but he was. A lucky survivor, he informed you of a most horrific event. The quintessons had sneakily launched an attack on the Primes, brutally wiping out every last one of them. Not even the Matrix of leadership was left.

Zeta...how will you be without him? How will Cybertron survive without him? Primus, may he give you strength.

From that moment on, Sentinel, as the only one close in rank, spent all his time to find the matrix.

“I understand how you feel right now. You deserve some rest,” Sentinel draws out his words sweetly, leaning closer to you. “Please let me handle all of this.”

You agreed.

Can you be blamed for that? Hardly. In a moment of weakness, when your thoughts clouded over the loss of your brothers and sisters, grieving through the night to continue the cycle in the morning, you constantly felt tired. At times, even your guards barely saw you outside your chambers, only Sentinel visited you every evening.

Much has changed on Cybertron in that time. The flow of energon dried up, and new sparks were more and more born without t-cogs. The matrix of leadership was never found, slowly dooming you to a meaningless existence.

How low you have fallen. Resorting to something so horrible...you had to mine the few resources that Primus left behind. You wonder if the other Primes are disappointed in you.

You hear a barely audible click behind you. The door to your chambers opens, revealing Sentinel in all his glory. Your optics narrow slightly as you turn around to look at him. The advisor seems to be getting used to your more...intimate relationship, now barely bothering to notify you of his upcoming arrival. Now he acts as if the two of you are truly close.

Sentinel gives you his signature smile, the complete opposite of your facial expression now. Tired, irritated, saddened. Not the most outstanding features for one of the Primes.

“Ah, so early and already awake?” Sentinel pretends to be surprised as he walks into your chambers. “That's my Prime. Feeling a little better today?”

You spare him a short glance, as you sit on your recharge slab. The sheets scattered everywhere, probably all curled up because of how restless you are during your recharge.

You mutter your answer, only for Sentinel to hum in agreement, as he approaches you closer.

“I was thinking about that maybe, since I've been working so tirelessly for the past 50 cycles...we can organize an Iacon 5000 together,” Sentinel purrs, placing his servos on your shoulders. Still tense as always. “What do you think? Iaconians are all waiting for their beloved Prime to show up.”

You sigh. Are you even sure you can handle it? Of course, you love your people, you will do anything for them but right now, still grieving you don't know if you have any strength left; but as a Prime this is your job, your responsibility. Even if it hurts, you still have to do this.

Your optics locked on where Sentinel's servos hold you. Something in his touch made you shiver, the disgusting feelings building up down your throat. No matter how much he does this to you, all you wanted was some peace and quiet. With Sentinel around, it was never an option.

“I will be there,” you say with not much enthusiasm.

For a brief moment, Sentinel was happy. Finally, maybe you started getting over their deaths, maybe even start appreciating everything he had done for you? Hmm? It's about time.

He stood there expectantly, as if waiting for something from you. A little bit of praise will be great. Of course, it's the least you can do for him after all this time he cared for you, but he will take what you give him, for now.

His silent presence didn't mean anything for you. What was he expecting? Haven't you given him your answer already?  You sigh, waving your servo in a shoo motion.

“You can be free. Make sure everything is well-prepared.”

Oh, another broken heart.

You held back your promise. Following Sentinel, a loud voice in the background introduced you as you stood on the platform beside your advisor. The voices of a thousand Iaconians cheered your name, as if your mere presence was a blessing itself.

In a way, you missed it. So many new, naive faces. You really had been saddened by the past for so long that you hadn't had a chance to meet the present face to face at all. And even still, they loved you. The young, poor miners were so full of admiration for you, even though they had never had the chance to see you for real.

You were so engrossed in your own thoughts that you hardly noticed the smug smirk on the corner of the lips on Sentinel's face. He leans a little closer to you, whispering softly.

“I told you they still love you,” he flashes a glance toward the crowd, ”Just relax and observe. Tonight will go perfectly.”

You were only partially paying attention to his chatter, nodding your head whenever he opened his mouth. It was hard to tell if he actually noticed it, or if he didn't have the courage to confront you about it. Still, he never stopped.

“I was thinking about asking you to accompany me on one of the meetings I have planned tomorrow with senator...”

“How about going out tonight? After the race, hmm?”

“Me and you. At Maccadam's. Together.”

“I didn't know that we now invite miners to participate in the race too,” you say.

“I'm sorry, what now?”

Sometimes, ignoring the Sentinel does have its benefits. Sometimes it benefits more than just you. You weren't that interested in this day, another long, monotonous day when you have to wave and smile just so no one will notice your anxiety. How wrong you were.

Two bots, with no t-cogs, snuck into the race unnoticed and were some meters away from winning? Primus, what a day. If your first smile was a genuine one, the one emotion the Sentinel had worked hard to achieve, your companion was far from happy.

His optics focused on the screen, showing the red-and-blue bot running alongside the grayish one. Flickering back and forth, he had no idea how it had gotten that way. This day had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect! When Sentinel turns to you, opening his mouth to express his frustration, he immediately shuts up. Someone so insignificant, someone who isn't him, has managed to bring you joy.

He's doubling the daily shift for the miners starting from tomorrow.

D-16 walked awkwardly in a circle, almost biting his fingertips in an attempt to somehow curb his anxiety. Scrap, scrap, scrap—the mere thought made him want to swing and slam his helmet against the wall.

“Relax, D, it's not that bad,” Orion shrugged.

“THEY were here,” D-16 emphasizes on your name and status.

“It could have been a lot worse?” Orion smiles awkwardly.

D-16 sighed tiredly. He appreciated his friend's attempts to reassure him in some way, but at the moment, he wanted to either strangle Orion for his idea or strangle himself for agreeing to such a risky venture in the first place.

“How much worse can it get? Do you have any idea how disappointed they are in us right now?” he looks at his friend unhappily. How can Pax be so indifferent at this point? When their careers and futures are on the line? “No, we're going to go and explain everything to them right now, I'm sure that-”

D-16 turns around to leave the room in a hurry as his face collides with something. For a moment, he thought he had hit a wall, but as soon as he lifts his head up....

“Are you okay?” you ask calmly.

The poor miner immediately recoils back, his face heating up, giving off a noticeable blush on his cheeks. His mouth is wide open, but not a single word comes out of his mouth. Orion gives him a light shake to make his friend finally come to his senses.

Luckily for him, Orion spoke up first to try to stand up for D-16 and explain to you that it was only his fault alone, but you only shook your head.

“You did a very good job today,” you smile. “Both of you were amazing.”

This time, it's Orion's time to be silent. He stares at D-16, whose optics were literally glowing with admiration. Knowing what a die-hard fan his friend is, it's a miracle he didn't melt immediately in front of you.

“And you,” you point to the D-16, poking your finger lightly at his chassis. “Be more careful.”

In response to your words, D just nods his head quickly. At that moment, it seems that all his strength has left him, so much so that he can't even lift his own tongue to answer you. The low mech in front of you tries to straighten his back, as if attempting not to show his bad side.

“O-Of course,” D blurts out, his vibrant, large optics focused on your every word.

You pull out two miniature, shiny stickers, offering them to Orion and D-16, to which they gladly accept it...well, D with much more obvious enthusiasm than Orion. He had to physically restrain himself to not accidentally damage it with how much he's excited right now.

He could easily recognize which series the sticker was from. It sparkles with colors in the light, limited edition, and shows off your alt mod if held at the right angle! To whom did he sell his spark to get such good fortune?

Your moment is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Airachnid, who immediately darts her gaze at you, then examines every corner of the room with her intense stare. Her optics bore into yours, and for a moment, her usual bored look changed to one of momentary surprise.

“There you are! I've been looking all over Iacon for you, and here you are with...” Sentinel immediately enters after Airachnid, he barely has time to say anything inappropriate before he notices the presence of the very two that he still has a lot of problems to clean up because of. “...with our honored participants in the recent race!”

Sentinel smiles strainedly, covering his words with a short chuckle. His servo rests on your back, slowly pulling you farther away.

“You could have told me you were here, I would have dealt with all of this,” he notes.

“I've already dealt with it, Sentinel,” you remind him, giving him a stern look. You're still a Prime. His desire to meddle in your affairs annoys you more and more every day. “Make sure they're fixed well.”

Sentinel, gritting his teeth, nods obediently at your words, removing his hand and instead, hiding them behind his back.

“As you wish," he turns to look at Airachnid, silently giving her a nod.

 That day, you never had a chance to visit that little miner, who couldn't take his eyes off of you the whole time. You wonder where he went after?

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

warnings: ANGST (see very bottom for spoiler warnings), confrontation, anxiety, fear

word count: 1.3k

tag list: @foxin5billion, @persiar9, @ivoryandflame , @victoriaholland & @zen3ca

masterlist

Chapter 11

Silence. There was too much of it, it was filling the room and suffocating you.

“Pop..” You said, attempting to break it.

“Shut your mouth.” Your father said, stepping towards Joel. You prayed that Sarah would stay in your room to avoid the scene that played out before you.

“She’s an adult.” Joel stood tall.

“Hasn’t always been.” Paw gritted.

“What are you implying?” Joel’s jaw clenched.

“I just want answers and I want em’ now.” Pop said, his own jaw mirroring Joel’s.

You took the ice towel from Joel’s hand as he turned his back on you and faced Pop.

“I can’t believe you’d even imply that I’d ever have eyes for her when she was…” Joel’s shoulders puffed out, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I simply asked a question, what’s keeping you from giving me a straight answer, son?” Pop was only a few inches taller than Joel, but he towered over him, his lip twisting with anger.

Joel hesitated and then pleaded for your father’s name. “How long have we been friends? You know I’m not that kind of man” There was a beat before he said, “we started takin’ up last winter.”

Pop looked at you for confirmation and you nodded. Your throat was tight and tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Don’t cry, puppy.” Pop sighed, running his hand over his face, and then taking a seat at the kitchen table, much to everyone’s relief. “Just what the hell kept you from telling me? How can you not expect me to be concerned?”

Joel turned to look at you. He wanted permission to come clean. You nodded, wiping your tears and you took your seats beside each other.

So he sat across from Pop and told him most of the story. You joined the conversation, telling Pop the part about how you’d denied your connection multiple times before deciding to give it a shot. Sarah eventually emerged from your room, handing you the dress. You changed in the laundry room, afraid to be far away from Joel and Pop while they reconciled. When you rejoined them, Pop was pouring shots of whiskey.

“And if you hurt him, I’ll deal with your ass, pup.” Pop teased, but you knew he truly did value his friendship with Joel. Their friendship was solid, you were grateful that Pop could see reason.

The men laughed and Sarah rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You musta’ never dealt with her during her lady time.” Pop cackled.

And then it dawned on you. Your lady time. It was a joke, meant to make you laugh, but you froze momentarily and then excused yourself from the table, heading to your bathroom. You had been so distracted with holiday stuff that you’d forgotten about your cycle completely. Your hands shook as you dug around under your sink for the untouched box of pregnancy tests you had stashed. You unwrapped one and peed into a little paper cup.

Five minutes felt like forever. You lined up three tests, all activated and generating their results on the lid of the toilet. You suddenly didn’t have an appetite for Christmas Eve dinner. Your heartbeat was drumming in your ears as you heard the sound of the bathroom door creaking open.

You jumped, using your body to shield the tests on the toilet seat, but the wrappers and box were all over the sink. Sarah stared at you, holding her arms out for a hug. You were confused, but you leaned into her and hugged her back.

“Girl, you are not slick. Rushing to the bathroom after a period joke?” Sarah, your ever observant companion patted your back and then froze in your arms. She called your name once, twice. But you knew. She wasn’t slick either. Her physical reaction was a dead giveaway to what she saw behind your back while embracing you.

You reluctantly turned around to face them. The three little plus signs taunted you from the lid of the toilet. You felt faint. Sarah pulled your arm and you collapsed in her arms, whimpers turned into quiet sobbing as she held you.

“No, no, I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to hold me like this.” You said, wiping your tears with the back of your hands. Your face was hot and wet with tears, you knew your makeup was probably long gone.

“Listen to me.” She said, brushing your hair from your face. “Are you listening?” She asked.

You nodded.

“You are going to be fine. I am going to be fine. Dad is going to be nervous first, and then he will be fine too. Although I advise waiting until after dinner to tell him.” She smiled, hugging you tighter.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.” You thought about what Joel had said on Halloween. “He is not going to be alright.”

“He is, because I want this for you. I love having you in my life, you’ve made him happier than he’s been in a long time. You make my life better.”

“Sarah…” You whispered.

“I wouldn’t lie to you. This isn’t like with his ladies of the night. This is the real deal. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone other than you.”

“Seen him like what?”

“Up and ready to face each day in the morning. He has a pep in his step that just seemingly developed out of nowhere. He’s more confident, more involved with me, less absorbed with work. I think he’s finally allowing himself to be happy.”

“He hasn’t told me much about how he feels.”

“He’s just like that. Dad is Dad, his actions are always louder. That little scene was his way of saying he loves you, he wants to protect you.”

“Jesus Christ, how much do I owe you for the crisis counseling?” You chuckled, sniffling and pulling some tissue out to blow your nose.

“We’re even now, I guess.” Sarah grinned, tears forming in her eyes. “Seems we’re locked in for life n, huh?” She said, motioning towards your stomach.

“I guess so!” You giggled, looking back down at the tests. You picked them up, staring at them in disbelief. You were going to be a mother. Joel was going to be a father again. You felt a pang of guilt in your stomach and stored the tests in the box.

“Let's get back out there.” Sarah said as you washed your hands.

You nodded, taking a makeup wipe and wiping off the remaining makeup from your eyes. Your eyes were puffy and your lips were swollen from crying.

The guys had just finished setting up the table; Pop was slicing the turkey and Tommy was handing out beers. He set one down at your place at the table.

“Beer for Christmas dinner?” you said in a joking tone.

“Well excuse me,” Tommy looked playfully offended, taking it back.

“Only the finest for you.” Joel pulled out a bottle of red wine from the fridge. You figured one small glass wouldn’t hurt.

Pop said grace over the food and you held onto Joel’s hand, squeezing it three times very slowly. One, I, two, love, three, you. You hadn’t expected him to, but he returned the three squeezes and smiled gently. He was happy. He was free to show interest in you. There would be no more sneaking around or hiding. Everyone was still together, one big family. About to get a little bigger. You tried to hold down your dinner as everyone around you cracked jokes and ate enthusiastically.

Joel was smiling. You admired him while he ate. The flex of his jaw as he chewed made something stir just below your navel. He was yours, he would be a great father, he already was. You thought about what Sarah said. You made him happy, inspired him to do better, to be better. You hoped that wouldn’t change when he learned the news.

spoiler warnings: unplanned pregnancy!!!