#what an awful thing it must be to be a prophet. knowing something terrible is coming but that nothing can be done to change it

[nexus-nebulae]

literally remember saying earlier this year, "oh the winter weather was awful, this means we're gonna have a horrible tornado season this year" and like. yeah once in a lifetime tornado outbreak that seems to still be ongoing a day later sadly makes sense

[azems-familiar]

everything i write on this chapter feels like word salad so i'm dropping another little snippet from what i wrote last night (i'm 7k words into the chapter but still have the entire great gate to write, whoops). in an attempt to feel less like word salad.

-

“The rulers of Bruma have long had dealings with Cloud Ruler Temple. Never have I doubted your dedication to the Empire…only that we could do aught but sit and wait for a hero to save us.” Her gaze flicks from Martin to Sorona, lingering a moment; this time, there’s something appraising in it, Sorona thinks. “Now it seems the Blades offer us both an heir to the throne and a Hero, if the rumors are to be believed.”

The rumors, hm? Sorona can’t help but wonder which rumors the Countess means - those about her activities, or those about Martin? The subtle emphasis on Hero, the second time she says it, is obvious too, and Sorona doesn’t shiver, but part of her wants to. It reminds her of Emperor Uriel and the weight of the Amulet in her hands and prophetic dreams. A simple hero is one thing. A Hero, on the other hand, is a tool of Fate and the gods, and to have been called one by the forces that set her life on this path is one thing - to hear it from someone she’s never met, someone entirely unrelated, is another.

“I wouldn’t have told Commander Burd what I did if this war was a lost cause,” Sorona says quietly, even though she knows she shouldn’t speak, because it seems like the Countess expects something from her, and she has no intention of talking about- whatever Divine inspiration Emperor Uriel believed in in front of her. Her fate isn’t the Countess’s business. And then she takes a deep breath, because she knows what she’s about to say is even more out of line, but some part of her has to make sure it’s said. “Martin has a plan to end the war. It isn’t a good plan, it  isn’t the best plan - but it’s the only plan, and he wouldn’t ask it of you otherwise. Listen to him, and trust that he wouldn’t ask you to risk your city without due cause.”

The Countess’s eyes sharpen. The Emperor’s first name is a very powerful tool, Sorona remembers Ocato telling her; this time, at least, she’s being deliberate with it. Let the Countess realize she isn’t undermining him, that she trusts him, even with this terrible single plan of theirs. Especially with this terrible single plan of theirs.

Martin doesn’t contradict her, and slowly, the Countess inclines her head. “You avoid confirming or denying your own status, I see. Humility, uncertainty, or something else, I wonder?” She shakes her head, though she doesn’t seem precisely disapproving - there’s still an intrigued light in her eyes as she looks at Sorona, after all. “Very well. Though your words do fill me with some dread, I’m no fool - I can recognize and appreciate the necessity of desperation. All rulers must be intimately familiar with the mathematics of survival. Tell me your plan for my city, and how it will help us end this war, and I promise to listen.”

Into the silence following that declaration, Martin speaks. He tells the Countess of their ritual to chase Mankar Camoran into Paradise, and how the last object of power they need for it is a Great Sigil Stone. How the only way to find one is to let a Great Gate open somewhere and venture inside it to close it. How Bruma is the only place in Cyrodiil reliably being targeted by one, and how his public presence in the city will encourage the Mythic Dawn to redouble their efforts.

How he was there in Kvatch the night the Great Gate opened, and how he spent the long, cold, dark hours sheltering everyone he could in the chapel and praying to Akatosh. How he understands better than anyone save the few men Kvatch sent to reinforce Bruma the awful risk he asks of her, and what might become of the city should they fail. How cowering behind their walls will do nothing to save those without walls to protect them, and they must act for what’s right, even at the risk of such terrible devastation.

“Perhaps there has never been such a thing as Divine intervention,” he says softly - and then he turns and looks at Sorona, such a warm weight in his eyes, and she remembers fighting through the streets of Kvatch with him and him looking at her the same way. You brought hope. We needed it. Desperately so. “Or perhaps Divine intervention stands before us, writ in our own actions, and we merely fail to recognize it, because what we expect from the gods is something so very mortal: hope.”

For a long moment, the Countess just watches the two of them, something indefinable in her gaze. Then she smiles, something small and sorrowful, and bows her head, and in the steely slump of her shoulders, Sorona sees resignation and reticence and resolve all in one. “Very well. If Bruma falls, the Empire falls with us. So be it. You will have your Great Gate, Your Majesty, and I pray everything you have said is true.”

“So do I,” Martin murmurs, and in the lines of his forehead she reads his own quiet, desperate doubt. “So do I.”

[sunflowerabyss]

Charms of Fate: Chapter 6

Pairing: Professor!Remus Lupin x Fem!Professor!Reader

Series Masterlist

Plot: Amidst the echoes of a bygone era, you return to Hogwarts years after parting ways. What begins as a journey fueled by nostalgia transforms into an unexpected reunion with Remus Lupin, now a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. As the past intertwines with the present, the two former classmates navigate the complexities of grief, the resurgence of friendship, and the unwritten chapters of their shared history in this tale of rediscovery and the magic that binds them together.

Warnings: none (if there are, please let me know)

_____________________________________________________

The staff table in the Great Hall was lively with subdued chatter as you hunched over a newspaper, your focus on the article about Sirius Black's reported sighting. The news sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of nervousness and curiosity. Why would Sirius, a notorious figure, be heading toward Hogwarts of all places?

Your gaze shifted to Harry, who sat among the students, absorbed in his own thoughts. The realization struck you like a lightning bolt. That's right. Sirius was Harry's godfather, and it suddenly made sense. He must be coming here for Harry. Concern etched lines on your forehead as fear for Harry's safety gripped you.

Munching on a muffin absentmindedly, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story, fragments missing from the puzzle. Remus' absence didn't go unnoticed, and you missed him terribly, though you understood. Last night was the full moon, hence Snape's unbearably awful timing of interrupting what would have had you kicking your feet the rest of the night in your bed.

A scowl formed on your face as the realization dawned upon you that Snape had managed to disrupt what could have been a pleasant evening. Glancing in his direction, you found him smirking as if he knew what you were thinking about, seemingly pleased with the disturbance he had caused. The satisfaction evident on Snape's face only fueled your annoyance, leaving you to grumble inwardly at the unfortunate turn of events.

As the time drew near to start your class, you picked up the Daily Prophet, intending to scan the headlines before heading to your classroom. The day unfolded predictably until the end of your last class. Amidst the shuffling of students leaving the room, Hermione Granger approached with an urgency in her expression.

Hermione said, "Professor, Snape gave us an essay on werewolves."

Your heart skipped a beat, frozen by Hermione's revelation. However, she wasn't finished.

Hermione continued, "I know about Professor Lupin. I know he's a werewolf. Harry thinks Snape's trying to poison him. He saw Snape taking potions into the DADA classroom."

Feeling the weight of the information, you hastily closed the door and cast a muffling charm. Hermione, seeking confirmation, sat down as you explained that Remus hadn't shared anything about his condition, but you harbored suspicions.

You stated, "I believe he is, but Remus hasn't told me anything. And please, you mustn’t say anything. Not even to Harry and Ron.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief but remained cautious, promising to keep it between the two of you. The conversation continued, with Hermione expressing concern about Snape's true motives.

Hermione asked, "Do you think Snape is really trying to poison Professor Lupin?"

You assured her, "No, it's most likely Wolfsbane. Snape might be many things, but I doubt he'd go that far."

After Hermione left, a surge of rage propelled you to Snape's office. Throwing open the door, you found him muttering something sarcastic.

In Snape's dimly lit office, you confronted him, the air thick with tension.

You exclaimed, "How dare you?"

Snape, looking up with a sneer, retorted sarcastically, "Clearly, the concept of knocking before entering is beyond your comprehension."

You fired back, "I know what you're doing, Snape. Trying to expose Remus, get him fired. What's your endgame?"

Snape leaned against his desk, an inscrutable expression on his face.

Snape replied, "Remus is a danger to this school. A werewolf teaching children—absurd. I'm merely looking out for the safety of the students."

You scoffed, "Safety? More like you're relishing the chance to ruin his life. Why can't you leave him alone?"

Snape retorted, "Leave him alone? A werewolf hides behind the facade of a teacher. I won't stand by and let him endanger innocent lives."

Your anger flared, "You don't care about the students. You just want to satisfy your vendetta against Remus."

Snape, unfazed, remarked, "Vendetta or not, it's the truth. Werewolves are a threat, and Dumbledore should see that."

You shook your head, "This is about your personal bias, Snape. You can't see past your hatred."

Snape's eyes narrowed, "Hatred or not, I won't allow a monster to roam freely in this school."

The heated exchange reached a peak, and it was only Professor McGonagall's entrance that halted the brewing confrontation.

Minerva interjected, looking shaken, "Something terrible has happened. Follow me, both of you."

As you, Snape, and McGonagall left the office, the lingering animosity between you and Snape hinted at the continued tensions yet to be resolved.

You stand in the midst of the chaos. Students were gathered around the slashed portrait of the Fat Lady. You found yourself standing between Minerva and Snape, trying to make sense of the commotion. Dumbledore arrived, his voice cutting through the panic.

"Silence, everyone! Quiet down!" he commanded, his eyes scanning the crowd. "What happened here?"

Amid the murmurs, the Fat Lady, now in a different painting, spoke up with a tremor in her voice. "It was him, Professor Dumbledore! Sirius Black! He attacked me!"

Gasps echoed through the room. Dumbledore's expression darkened as he surveyed the damage. "Are you certain, my dear? Can you tell us anything about his whereabouts now?"

The Fat Lady hesitated before responding, "He's gone, Professor. Fled into the night. I didn't see which direction."

Dumbledore's gaze swept across the room. "Minerva, Severus, (Y/N) gather the students to the Great Hall. I will alert the rest of the staff and the Ministry. We must ensure the safety of everyone at Hogwarts."

As the professors ushered the students away, the realization hit – Sirius Black, the supposed traitor and danger to Hogwarts, was now on the loose within the castle's grounds. Merlin, I wish Remus was here right now.

[eisforeidolon]

Hey there, I hope you don't mind me dropping in here on a topic from a few days ago and harping on about it (I'm not very well-versed on ask boxes so I'm a bit unsure of the etiquette. If I commit a major faux-pas, forgive me). Apologies if this ends up a little long and a lot sarcastic - I have opinions about this. It's given me a fair bit of grief over the years.

Y'know, I see these 'abusive Dean' takes float across my dash a fair bit (apparently not being into Destiel or Wincest means I must be a Bitter Sam-girl instead and hate Dean, according to Tumblr). The oh-so-delightful 'abusive husband Dean and beaten wife Sam' takes. People calling Sam 'beaten wife coded' in general. One based on a grand total of two instances where he flinched cause Dean made a loud violent noise near him (who the hell wouldn't, you don't need to be 'beaten wife coded' to flinch when someone chucks a chair at a wall, it's almost like Sam has some kind of trauma about various other things and might be generally jumpy...). Or taking the end of S10 out of context and choosing to forget that Dean was nearly fully taken over by a mark of fratricide (which he still managed to overcome, they conveniently fail to mention that). And I just... ugh.

What I never understood about these takes is like... why? There's trying to paint your fave in a good light and a character you hate in a bad one, but then there's making the heart and soul of the show itself into something so ugly it ruins it for other people, like your Anon, and honestly this happened to me too a while ago before I forced myself to stop listening to the greater fandom and find a few I trusted (like you). Even still, it gets all up in my head sometimes. Why are these people finding such glee in making the central relationship so awful? What are you getting out of this show if you think that about it?

Like, imagine looking at the finale through this lens. Congratulations, you turned something sad but ultimately bittersweet into something horrible, the 'beaten wife' dedicating the rest of their life to their 'abuser' then being forced to be with them for eternity, and this is portrayed as a good thing. Why would you ever want to view it that way? Plus, it's rather forced if you take it as a whole - the few times Sam stood there looking contrite while Dean did something stupid pale in comparison to the number of times he calls him out on it, even in the later seasons (14x12 Prophet and Loss, anyone? 15x17 Unity?).

I guess people can take from media what they want, it's obviously not my place to police people's enjoyment, but I just never got the appeal. It seems so counter to what the show was clearly actually trying to do, yet they tout it as fact (now where have I seen that before). Like it's somehow a bad thing to enjoy the show on its own terms. Coming across these takes still kinda bums me out. This goes for people insisting it's the other way around too - I can't stand any brother vs. brother stuff either, it's never anything but bad faith, and honestly kinda misses the point. Some of these people boggle my mind with their lack of empathy.

If there's one thing this fandom is good for, it's honing your ability to roll your eyes and move along. It's full of so much absolute batshit insanity that you'll never survive if you listen to every take. Trust me, I've tried. Do you know which tags to block to avoid this kinda stuff? Cause I never seem to be able to.

Sorry if this was a bit of a rant dump, heh. I'm usually a chronic lurker, but this discourse in particular bothers me immensely.

You're absolutely fine, I mind neither bringing up previous topics nor excessive length (be a bit of a hypocrite if I did, tbh). And yeah, it's one of my least favorite SPN fandom discourses, too.

It does feel like it's pretty hard to find any corner of the fandom where you won't at least occasionally see one side or the other's worst faith not!fave-brother-is-terrible takes. And oh, do I hate the 'beaten wife Sam' half of the 'Dean is an abuser' discourse equation just as much. Like, supposedly they like Sam, so why on earth would they want to pretend this stubborn competent badass of a character is actually a helpless pathetic marshmallow?! Same with Dean on the opposite side of the fandom - it's not just the character they're constantly maligning I can't recognize, the character they "like" similarly bears very little resemblance to the one I'm a fan of!

So far as I can tell, some people just desperately need their favorite character to be the best one who is always in the right. Whether it's over-identification or what, I don't know. They seem to think they achieve it by reframing large portions of the canon as justifying, unfairly attacking, or insulting that character as necessary. Except they don't see how from the outside it very often looks entirely absurd, regardless of if they're doing it in favor of Sam, Dean, or Castiel. Which is not to say there aren't parts of canon which treat all of those characters ridiculously in one way or another? But it's the total fixation on it only being the case with their favorite character in every possible situation where it gets weird.

Every great once in a while, I do manage to come across a take that really annoys me. But for the most part? The extreme ones are just so absurd, so divorced from what anyone even vaguely trying to understand the other characters' motivations and what the show quite obviously intended? I just can't take it at all seriously. Especially when they (as they so often do) get canon details wrong or pointedly "forget" all the canon points that blatantly don't fit their narrative.

Unfortunately, like with a certain ship, when it comes to tagging? You're kind of at the mercy of the self-awareness of the poster about how much other people may not want to see their hot takes.

[rotten-pest]

It took a moment to apprise this strange woman’s words past everything else—it was still quite an adjustment, where humans did not immediately perceive her was the threatening thing she was, and not only was she not seen as a threat (perhaps something bitter in her snapped how would she? Without claws nor fangs, just blunt little fingers and blunt teeth, all on her lonesome?) but that she was being asked for help. This woman looked lost. Lost in the eyes, especially; bright brown things wandering across every surface with a sense of shock-disbelief. And as she spoke, Cotesia realized with a sudden finality this woman was not just lost in place, but lost in time, for she recalled whence Caelid was not a hungry, decaying place…

Cotesia knew no other Caelid save this one, in all its wretched wonder. Its splendid decaying corpse. And, while the woman retained at least some semblance of mindfulness about her, there was no doubt—the Rot had worked its roots deep. A network of mycelia webbing its way through flesh and spirit alike. Call it a divine sense or just seeing it plainly, even were she down to one eye at the moment, but Cotesia knew it. It was only a matter of time before This One died, turned into not much more than a rotting heap... unless…

It was tempting, to say nothing and just reach out to rip the Dread out of This One, but that seemed a good way to start a fight. Cotesia would at least answer her, first.

“No, I would not ask that of you, you are unwell” Cotesia said, shaking her head (she’d tried, after killing the prophet, to down the strange drink, finding it lacking where it’d brought him back from the brink of death), “You must have gone for quite some time were it that you recollecting these lands not so…” she continued, then glanced aside to the gurgling swamp, “...rotten. But yes, this is Caelid, or what comes after, perhaps.”

If This One did not know, or had not, rather, that this was Caelid, then she most certainly would desire an explanation as to why. But how would one explain without too much detail? The pests had their story, the humans had another.

(It was whispered among her kin and the servants what a resplendent bloom it was. Terrible and sublime, such was its awe inspiring power. There was a certain question within Cotesia—did Malenia know how far the Scarlet Rot would spread whence she bloomed?

But, such as it was, irrelevant. Knowing or not knowing, here they stood, however long after, in the shade of the mutated forms of giant blossoms and twisted towering fungal masses, amidst the ghost of a forest, at the foot of a dead town.)

Far off in the distance, she heard the howl of one of the giant hounds.

She could feel her heart trembling in her chest. Interesting as much as it was annoying, where her pulse bound in her head. But to slow her churning thoughts back upon the present, at least, to better appraise This One. She was unremarkable, Cotesia supposed. (Humans tended not to be). A middling kind of musculature, good for many things but not any one in particular. Dark short hair framing an oval face, scarred across her body, and yet there was perhaps something of a vibrancy to her, were it not for the near-dying part. Smoldering life-flame, not quite ready to give up. Admirable, perhaps.

"I would apologize, little bird" Cotesia said, slowly, lacing her fingers together and finding them cold, "That which afflicts you afflicts the world—or this land, in particular, rather. The Scarlet Rot. A divine affliction, it could be called."

Sellia, adjacent to her heart; Sellia, cradle of her youth.

Perception kept falling seafog hazy and liquid between her fingers as sand through the narrow mouth of an hourglass. She moved, but it did not feel like advancing. She bled, but it did not feel like setback. This had to be how animals lived life. An irrelevant alternating of light and dark, smeared across a single endless point of present. 

Heysel had only wanted to go home. 

The void of final death had spat her out- when? How long had it been?- She couldn’t grip the exact time, it sloshed at the base of her skull as she walked- Days ago, surely, yes. Many days and many nights, though none of them so far in the past. Her first thought once she’d coughed the grave-dirt from her throat and collected herself enough to crawl out of the catacomb that had swaddled her in stone and into the light had been Sellia, Sellia, where my mother and father are, were I left the soft shell of my childhood for them to keep, please, I am afraid, I want to go home. And so she’d started her walk, and it had been a strange curling path across grass and empty ruins but her feet which recalled more than she had taken her where they were certain the green territory of Caelid should have begun. And it did. And it was not green. Not one thing, truthfully, was.

Red as far as the eye could see, above, beneath, meat-red, end-red, an open-body sight. Brokenness and fungal growths, jutting out of wet earth like rotten teeth. She’d thought: I must be wrong. My feet have brought me somewhere else. And then: but I recognize the geography, the placement of things. This is my land. That pile of nothing-stones, courted by the shores of a lake like disease courts the wound, is my city. 

This is my land, and it hates me, and hurts me. It rots my body in sweet-scented decay. It does not want me back.

Death came to her, of course. Again and again. By arrow, by cut, by poison, by spell. By rot, most of all. In this wasteland Heysel kept falling and Heysel kept returning. Still nothing mattered as much as trying to navigate quiet Sellia, and see if maybe, just maybe, something familiar had remained at all. Perhaps the shape of her house. Perhaps her parents. Anything. Please. 

Then, suddenly, leaning against a wall, a body, alive. 

Slowly she approached. Part of it was caution. Part of it was that the flesh of her drowned in pain, lodged deep here, stabbing there, and had secluded the mind to a different seat, a little more distant, in order to keep moving. Quickness she could not do. It would have reminded her too harshly, everywhere, that she was so brittle now, sheared to suffering essentials.

“Hello,” Heysel answered, and took a step back as the living body started rising. She was tall. She had eyes like nothing she’d ever seen. Hair pink as bone. And like herself, she was cloaked in hurt. “I mean no harm. You- are you from these parts? Is this really Caelid?” Some necrotizing part of her had started wondering about the reality of it all. Maybe she was still dead. Maybe this was the afterlife, and this was her punishment. “I- simply don’t- I don’t understand. It wasn’t like this when I left. All these mushrooms. And the very swamp devours you...”

Beneath the hood she had no scars around her sockets yet. One day she will make mad choices about learning fire forbidden; not today. But instead to her skin clung the mark of the lake’s disease, flowering around her cheek in darkening blotches. 

A blink.

“You're bleeding," she continued, tentatively. The stranger was so hard to read. "I have- something remains in my flask of tears. I can give you a sip."

[bellshells]

A Moment of Bliss

REQUEST: I would love a Sirius x Reader x Lupin smut, where they treat her like a whore but are really cute afterwards. 

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem!Reader x Remus Lupin Warnings: Mentions of war, Alcohol, Langauge, Smut (oh good dear lord the smut) Summary: Reader decides that everyone needs a break, and after a nice meal some naughty shit goes down.  Word Count: 6.7k+

  You sighed and rubbed your eyes. It was all too much, there was news daily now and none of it was good. Seeing the smiling faces of Marlene McKinnon and her parents on the cover of The Daily Prophet had caused you to fear the worst. You watched as Marlene’s father kissed her cheek as her mother waved, they were celebrating Marlene’s birthday when that picture was taken, she looked truly beautiful. You remember it well, how you had laughed and danced, a welcome break from the horrors of the war. You remembered with a smile how lucky Marlene’s parents had felt that they were able to bring Marlene’s friends together to celebrate their special girls’ birthday. You couldn’t believe their luck either now, how terrible it was. It had been months since they had been murdered, yet seeing her face plastered across the front page of The Daily Prophet caused your heart to ache with grief.

You felt a tentative touch on your shoulder and reached with trembling fingers to clasp the hand there, and leant your cheek against it.   “You shouldn’t read it if it makes you upset.” A soft voice said behind you, you chuckled darkly and turned to face him.   “Then I wouldn’t read anything at all, Remus.” You paused; your lip quivered as you gazed at the face of your lost friend. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.” You replied, you tried to smile at Remus but stopped short as his brow furrowed in concern.   “Have you seen the awful guff that Skeeter woman has written about her?” Sirius called from the doorway, he wore a grim expression and held his own copy of the Prophet in his hand. “We can’t let this go unpunished, Moony.” Remus nodded and gave your shoulder a subtle squeeze.   “I know, but we must act cautiously, Sirius. We can’t let her death be in vain. You’re no use to anybody if you get yourself killed.”   “Dreadful.” You added quietly, more to yourself than to anybody else. Sirius stalked into the room, his eyes never on one spot for more than a few seconds.   “How is it that we are expected to do nothing? After everything that’s happened, after everything we’ve…sacrificed. It isn’t enough!” Sirius stalked to the tapestried wall and punched it hard, he groaned as he pulled his hand away and shook it fiercely. The rooms of Grimmauld Place were quiet now, what once had been busy as the headquarters for The Order of the Phoenix, were now still as more and more allies lost their lives. Remus was upon his friend in an instant, he grasped Sirius by the shoulders and tried to calm him.   “We mustn’t fall apart, brother. Not now.” Remus breathed, he took Sirius’ face in his hands and forced the bearded man to look in his eyes. “We haven’t come this far for nothing. She was special, one in a million, and I promise she will be avenged.” Sirius was defiant for a moment, he tried to free himself from Remus’ grip; but after a second more, he relented and sighed.   “Yes.”

  You stood quietly and made your way over to the two men; you hadn’t been close friends at school. You hadn’t been particularly close during the beginning of the war; but as the numbers thinned out as more and more people were killed, you clung to those who you knew you could trust. You slipped in between the two men and grasped both of their hands.   “Let’s go and get some food. It’s been a long day, let’s have a drink for Marlene. She wouldn’t want us to mope about.” You looked between them, a sad smile settled onto Remus’ scarred mouth and Sirius squeezed your hand in agreement. You nodded at them both and lead them from the house, it was dark outside, and you kept to the shadows as you crept through the quiet streets toward Muggle London.

*******

  “Leicester Square? Really?” Sirius asked with a quirked eyebrow, you pushed him toward the door to an Italian restaurant.   “Yes, it’s busy and full of people. We’re not likely to come across anyone other than muggles having a Friday night out. Okay?” You chided as you waited for a muggle waiter to seat you at a table. Sirius squirmed uncomfortably at your side, Remus on the other smiled warmly down at you and placed a gentle hand on your back as you followed the waiter further into the restaurant. The restaurant was heaving with people, groups of friends laughed rowdily at circular tables whilst couples held hands and whispered to one another on smaller ones. You grinned at the normality of it all, you wondered what it must be like to have no knowledge of what was happening out there, of what you had lost.   “What would you like to drink, (Y/N)?” Remus asked as he passed a menu in your direction, you accepted it gladly and turned to the waiter who stood with a notepad and pen in his hand.   “Pinot Noir please lovely, bottle-one glass, thank you.” You said and with a fleeting look of judgement which you brushed off; the waiter wrote it down.   “Yourself, sir?” He asked as he leaned down to hear Sirius as he scoured the menu.   “Chablis.” Sirius answered curtly, you kicked him under the table and Sirius scowled. “Thank you.”   “Is that a bottle, sir?” The waiter asked, his look now nonplussed as he shifted his weight.   “Yes, thank you. Been a bitch of a day.” Sirius cleared his throat and offered you a pithy look. You shook your head and turned your attention back to the food on offer.   “Long Island Iced Tea for me please, sir.” Remus said cheerfully, the waiter looked surprised at Remus’ order and a flash of humour crossed his face. Remus blushed and averted his eyes as the waiter confirmed the order and with a wink in Remus’ direction left the table.   “You’ve made a friend, Moony.” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows as Remus blushed and sank into his chair.   “I didn’t know you were gay, Remus! That’s fantastic!” You said and Sirius erupted into laughter. You watched as the two men exchanged looks over the table. “Have I missed something?”   “No, (Y/N). Remus isn’t…gay. But you do like to dabble, don’t you Moony?” Sirius clasped his hands on the table and cocked his head to the side. Remus slammed his menu down and pointed his finger at Sirius.   “You’re one to talk. I’m sure I could tell (Y/N) some excellent stories about you and your exploits, Padfoot.” Remus snapped, Sirius threw his head back and let out one short laugh.   “I’ve done things that would make a whore blush, and unlike you, I have noting to hide.” Sirius said, his eyes sparkled in the dim light of the restaurant. You looked bewilderedly between the two men, this power play between the pair of them was delicious and strangely erotic. You could feel your own blush tickle your cheeks as Remus cast his eyes over you, his mouth a thin line on his usually soft face.   “I think you’re making (Y/N) uncomfortable, Sirius. This isn’t really appropriate dinner conversation, is it?” Remus retorted, Sirius cast a glance in your direction and seeing your red cheeks, smiled. He inched his hand closer to yours on the table, his fingertips barely touched yours and yet you felt like you had been struck by lightning. The corner of Sirius’ mouth twitched into a smirk; his moustache twirled perfectly at the sides accentuated it as his face was illuminated by the candlelight. Seconds later, Remus’ knee brushed against yours under the table and you felt the warmth of the contact inch up your thigh as the blush on your cheeks spread over your body.     “I can hold my own Remus, thank you.” You replied quietly, aware of how both men watched you as you fiddled with the menu. “I can hold my own.”   “I’m sure you can.” Sirius said under his breath. The tension continued to grow between the three of you, even when the waiter appeared with your drinks and took your food order, his keen attention fixed on Remus; Remus stared at you. His breathing was shallow, and you could see his knuckles were white as he balled his hand into a tight fist on the table. You couldn’t help but notice how dark his eyes looked as you passed his gaze over his face, the soft contours of his cheeks and the scars that had lived there for as long as you could remember. He had a sort of ethereal beauty about him that was impossible to deny, the gentle exterior and the darkness that was promised underneath by the swathes of battle marks across his flesh.

  You allowed Sirius to pour your wine and blushed again as he watched as you took a sip of the ruby liquid. You dabbed at the corner of your mouth with a finger and pressed it to you lips; the forgotten drop of claret soon mopped up with your tongue. You heard a sigh from Remus’ direction, your attention brought back to him. Sirius laughed again; his shoulder length hair tickled his face as he said:   “I think we shall have some sport tonight, brother.”

 ************

  You ate mostly in silence, only commenting on how delicious the food was- or, in Sirius’ case lamenting on the best way to eat a pizza as he attacked it with a knife and fork. When the plates were cleared, the wine flowed freely around the table. You had insisted Remus catch up and order a bottle for himself, and he in turn demanded that both you and Sirius have a cocktail to even up the score. Sirius ordered himself a Negroni whilst you opted for a Black Russian, you smiled at the two men began to relax into the evening. The sensual tension from earlier in the evening forgotten as through a fit of giggles you told Remus of the schoolgirl crush you harboured for him in your fifth year, he in his sixth.     “Honestly, it was pathetic. Poor Lily tried everything she could think of to get us alone together so I could tell you how I felt.” Your stomach hurt from laughing so much, the sides of your cheeks ached, and you were delighted by the delightful shade of pink Remus had turned.   “I’m telling you now, (Y/N). Moony only ever had eyes for one girl at school and she never looked twice at him!” Sirius laughed; he swirled the contents in his glass before he knocked back a big gulp.   “Oh, please tell me who it is, Remus. I need to know who I was losing out to.” You said through your laughter. Remus mumbled under his breath, so quiet it was impossible to hear him. “What? Sorry I missed that.” You grappled at Remus’ hands as he tried to cover his face. “Who was it, Remus? I promise I won’t laugh.” Remus looked from you to Sirius, if looks could kill, his friend would be dead in his Negroni before he knew it. He took a deep breath and covered his eyes.   “McGonagall” Remus whispered, Sirius slapped his knee in delight, and you couldn’t help the snort that escaped you as you thought of a poor, seventeen-year-old Remus hopelessly in love with the stern professor.   “Have a thing for authority, do you?” You asked playfully, Remus’ look darkened once more as he lowered his hands.   “Quite the opposite actually, (Y/N). I like the idea of those in power relinquishing it.” He said quietly, you felt as though everybody in the restaurant had disappeared as the only sound you could hear was the beating of your heart in your ears. You bit your lip and blinked, desperate to rid yourself of the warmth you suddenly felt between your legs.   “I just like fucking.” Sirius added after a moment, he considered what he said and then lolled his head to the side once again swept his gaze across your face. “A lot.”

  You didn’t know what to do with your hands as you regarded each of the men now staring intently at you.   “Shall we get the bill?” Sirius asked.   “Yep.” Remus answered instantly, his hand in the air as he tried to get the waiter’s attention. You grabbed for your purse and you each threw money onto the table; the muggle money was so fragile you thought. Especially the paper money, luckily Remus knew what-was-what and squared up with the waiter who looked disappointed to see Remus leaving. It was Sirius this time who placed his hand on the small of your back as you made your way out into the night, it was chilly now and you pulled your thin jacket around your chest.   “Where to now?” Remus asked, “Home? Or another drink?”   “I could have another drink…at home.” You said, you felt the warmth return between your legs and both men grinned at you. You slipped your hands into each of theirs, Sirius brought your hand up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your fingers. Remus brushed the back of your knuckles with his thumb, each action from the two men sent electric pulses through your veins.

*********

     “I’m telling you, (Y/N). If you had told Remus all the naughty things you wanted to do to him at school, he would have come immediately into his pants.” Sirius said as he poured port into three glasses and passed them around. You took a thoughtful sip, the richness of the port warmed you as you considered what to say next.   “Who says I wanted to do naughty things? The things I had in mind were wholly innocent, I’ll have you know.” You replied, you snuck a look at Remus from the corner of your eye; he seemed completely interested in his drink.   “Oh, I imagine they were, (Y/N). You were sweetness and light in school, weren’t you? Butter wouldn’t melt.” Sirius discarded his drink onto a nearby table and stood. He walked around his chair and placed his hands on the backrest, he leaned forward and squared his jaw. “I would have given anything to ruin you.” His gaze didn’t waver as a gentle moan left your lips; it was almost inaudible, but Remus’ head snapped up in your direction. You parted your lips and ran your tongue along them, they felt painfully dry.   “Sirius, you’ve had too much to drink mate.” He said, Sirius merely shrugged.   “In Vino Veritas, brother. You telling me that you wouldn’t have absolutely fucked her senseless if she told you she wanted you?” Sirius countered. Remus ran a hand through his hair as he took a swig of his port.   “I am still here.” You offered weakly. Sirius sneered at you as he picked his tumbler up and swirled it around again.   “I know, witch. I want you to hear.” Sirius said darkly Remus groaned in his chair, he shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Moony. Me and you, her hot little body to keep us warm.” You moaned again; it was involuntary this time. Both men looked in your direction as you rubbed your thighs together, desperate to relieve the throb between your legs. Sirius chuckled ominously as he offered his hand to Remus. Begrudgingly, Remus took it. Your heart thundered in your chest; you bit the inside of your cheek; surely you were dreaming? You would wake up any second now, a damp patch in your knickers and a desperate aching in your quim. Sirius rolled the sleeves of his smart white shirt up to his elbows; he crossed the room in an instant. He knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees. You could do nothing but stare into the face of this man you had known in some capacity since you were eleven, as he moved up your body, his mouth close to your ear; his hair tickled your cheek.   “Would you like that, (Y/N)? Would you like to lie between Remus and me? To be utterly filled to the brim?” You could feel his hot breath on your ear, you rolled your head back and sighed. Your eyes fluttered closed and Sirius’ lips grazed your earlobe, you clutched the arms of the chair tightly. “Just say the word, (Y/N). Just tell us you want us-”   “You don’t have to, (Y/N). Don’t feel pressured-” Remus interjected, you stopped him short with an extended hand. You reached for him; his eyes darkened as he took your hand. You looked up earnestly into his face, the face that had littered your dreams for a solid nine months as a teenager. You smiled wryly at Remus whilst Sirius held his breath, still by your ear.   “I want you.” You whispered, “Both of you.”

  Sirius pulled you out of the chair and pushed you toward Remus, his arms extended to catch you. You placed your hands either side of Remus’ face and inched your lips closer to his, Remus closed the gap with a growl. He kissed you hungrily, it was furious, and you slid your hands into his hair and tugged. Remus groaned against your lips as your hands moved readily in his hair. You felt a tug behind you as Sirius turned you in Remus’ arms brought your mouth to his. You couldn’t decipher whose hands were where; as you felt your shirt being tugged over your head, and hands working at the belt of your jeans. You felt them being pushed down your thighs as you were turned once again to face Remus. There was a pair of hands on your breasts, roughly needing them through the thin lace of your bra whilst a hand graced over your stomach and one plunged into your knickers.   “So wet already. Can you smell her, Moony?” Sirius grunted against your neck, his teeth grazed along the sensitive skin and he sucked hard. Remus only moaned in response, he bit down on your lower lip and you shuddered under him. Sirius moved his fingers deftly over your clit, he rubbed it gently and your head rolled back onto Sirius’ shoulder. “Make yourself useful, (Y/N). Why don’t you play with Remus’ big cock?” You didn’t need to be told twice, Remus’ lips pulled back into a snarl as you made fast work of his belt and pushed his trousers down to his knees. He was hard as you pulled him out of his boxers, he hissed as the air touched his member. You worked your hand up and down Remus’ shaft to the same pace that Sirius rubbed your clit. Remus pulled your head forward by your neck and crushed his lips to yours. Another moan slipped from your lips as Sirius parted your slick folds and pushed two fingers inside you, your grip around Remus tightened as he bucked his hips against your hand. Sirius quickened his pace, and your legs began to tremble as you began to move your hips against Sirius’ hand, fucking yourself on his fingers. You pumped Remus faster as a slew of curses fell from his lips. Sirius grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled your head back roughly. You yelped in surprise but found your scalp burned pleasantly with the pain.

  “I want you to come on my fingers, witch. Do you think you can do that?” You nodded helplessly as his thumb began to rub you as his fingers plunged in and out of your sex. Remus pulled away from you, your hand now empty of him, you brought it up to tangle in Sirius’ hair.   “Fuck (Y/N), you have no idea how delicious you look now.” Remus whispered; he attacked your neck with wet kisses as Sirius brought you to orgasm. It flooded through you in powerful waves, your moans silenced by Sirius’ hand around your mouth.   “Quiet. I want to hear your pretty noises, but not here.” Sirius instructed. As you came down from your high, you saw Remus nod to Sirius as they both grasped one of your hands. With a distinct pop you arrived in your Grimmauld Place bedroom, before you had the chance to adjust after the apparation, you were flung backwards onto your bed. You watched with half lidded eyes as Sirius and Remus both undressed fully, you could see clearly now just how well-endowed the pair of them were. Remus was bigger than Sirius, but Sirius was girthier. You licked your lips in delight, you couldn’t believe this was happening. Both of these attractive men lavishing attention on you, it was almost too much to bear. Remus climbed onto the bed; his arms open to you.   “Sit on my face.” He commanded, you did so without hesitating. You hoisted a leg over either side of his head and lowered yourself gently down, his lips were gentle against your throbbing pussy, still recovering from your previous orgasm. Sirius appeared next to you, his hand slid down your back and gave your arse a smack, causing you to jolt forward. Remus grasped hold of your hips and held you in place, his tongue probing at your slippery entrance. It felt divine, Remus knew exactly what he was doing and as he kissed and nibbled at you, he began to shake his head from side to side. The feeling of his tongue rounding delicious laps around your clit was earthshattering, you had never felt anything as intense as this before. You were coming again in seconds; and you threw your head back and ground yourself against Remus’ face. You could hear Sirius laugh as Remus lapped at your core, you shuddered against him and whimpered at the overstimulation. Sirius grasped your hand roughly and placed it on his cock which throbbed impatiently. You moved your hand to the top around his foreskin and pulled back, Sirius smile illuminated the room as he moved your hair to the side.   “No love, use your mouth.” He whispered, you slid awkwardly from Remus’ face and crawled before Sirius. You looked up into his dark face as he regarded you, he watched as you ran your tongue from the bottom of his shaft to the top. He sighed and placed a delicate hand to the top of your head, pushing it downwards. You didn’t mind, in fact, you thoroughly enjoyed it. The feeling of the decision being removed from your hands was delectable in a life such as yours, where at any second you could die from making the wrong choice.

  It took you a second to adjust to Sirius’ girth as he began to fuck your throat, slowly at first and after you gave him a swift nod; he picked up his pace. You gagged around his cock as Sirius pushed it further into your throat, you had to swallow; or you thought you might choke. Saliva dripped from your chin as with great effort, you swallowed around his cock. Sirius let out a groan and grabbed a fistful of your hair.   “Do that again.” He commanded, you instantly swallowed around him. He quivered and thrusted into your mouth with more force, you whined around him as with each time he hit the base of your throat, he pulled out almost as far. You mourned the loss of him in your mouth each time. He tasted salty with sweat, and you found that the most delicious thing you had tasted all evening.

  Your jaw began to ache and though you did your best to ignore it, Sirius seemed to sense your discomfort. He pulled out of your mouth with a satisfying pop.   “I want to come inside you, (Y/N). I want to make you come all over my cock.” Sirius breathed into your ear, he still held fast onto the fistful of your hair. You moaned against his lips as he brought you roughly in for a kiss. “Feeling neglected, Remus?” Sirius laughed as he surfaced for air. You looked over your shoulder to see Remus on his back, he stroked his cock lazily as he watched you.   “On the contrary, just enjoying the show.”  

You were breathless, positively alight with desire. Every inch of your flesh screamed with want and for a second you felt guilty, wanton almost. Every scrap of decorum you previously possessed ebbed from your body with each illicit moan, and every time you passed yourself between these two men you couldn’t help the grin that formed on your face. The lascivious acts you had both endured and performed were more than you could ever ask for from one partner let alone two. The bottom line though, you felt, was if it was wrong or if it you weren’t meant to enjoy it…why were you enjoying it so?   “Come here, darling.” Remus said softly, as if able to hear your thoughts. He held his arms out to you and you crawled into his embrace gladly. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head and his hands travelled down your back to your rump, he squeezed it and gave it a playful tap. You smiled widely at him and kissed him deeply, your hands found themselves again in his hair and his mouth trailed hot kisses from your mouth along your jaw. Sighs of contentedness fell readily from your lips as Sirius approached from behind you. He brushed his hand softly up your arm causing your flesh to tingle under his touch. You heard Sirius whisper a spell and with a start you were thrown onto your back, propped up on the pillows; your legs brought up spread wide and bent at the knee. You felt soft fabric wrap around your wrists and the backs of your thighs as your arms and legs were bound together, leaving you bare, open and vulnerable to both men. Another soft piece of fabric settled over your eyes, completely covering your vision, and leaving you without sight. A fleeting moment of zealous insecurity bounded through your mind; you had never tried anything as adventurous as this with any of your previous partners. There hadn’t been many, mind you- but still you felt a little out of your depth. What flashed through your mind next was Remus’ kind face, you knew he would never let anything happen to you. You knew you need only say the word if you were uncomfortable and there would be no hard feelings. He would probably make you a cup of tea and talk about something innocuous until you felt better. And there was Sirius, who earlier on had felt so incensed over what had happened to Marlene that he was willing to put himself in danger- yes, you knew you were in safe hands.

  “How does that feel, (Y/N)?” Sirius asked from a way away. You pulled against your bonds slightly, you couldn’t escape them, but they weren’t painful.   “Indescribable.” You breathed. You smiled, unaware if either of them could see your face. You felt a soft caress of your inner thigh, your breath hitched in response. Your cunt ached with need, regardless of the two orgasms you’d already had by Sirius’ quick fingers and Remus’ clever tongue.   “We’re going to play a game, aren’t we Remus?” Sirius said jovially, as if he were speaking of Quidditch in the sun.   “Oh, yes. I love this game.” Remus replied from elsewhere in the room. You would have liked to think that your hearing would have been heightened by having your sight stripped from you; but you wondered whether the disorientation you felt as the two men moved around you was part of the game.   “We’re going to fuck you now, (Y/N). One after the other. You are to guess who is fucking you.” Sirius said. You felt a hand tug on the restraints around your knees and a hum of satisfaction.   “You are not allowed to come unless you guess correctly.” Remus added somewhat cruelly. You frowned and felt another hand caress your breast, they took your nipple in between their fingers and gave it a tug. You yelped with surprise and tried to lurch upwards, but a hand against your chest pushed you down again. Where the fingers were on your nipple a second ago, you felt a tongue trace around the stiffened teat. They sucked hard and you bucked your hips upward, desperate for something, anything to ease the throbbing you felt in your quim. You were wracked with worry though, what would happen if you couldn’t tell them apart?   “Our girl’s needy, wouldn’t you say Sirius?” Remus said, oh, it was Remus who suckled on your breast. You felt his hot breath on you as he pressed wet kisses across the valley of your breasts and then lavished the other nipple with the same delicious torture.

  You needed to come. You needed release desperately. You bucked your hips upwards again and a whimper escaped you. Fruitless.   “Please.” You whispered blindly; you didn’t know if they were even listening to you. “Please fuck me.”   “Who?” A voice answered quietly, you weren’t sure who answered you, you bit your lip.   “Anyone, both of you. Please, I need, I need-”   “Look at us Moony, two dogs with a little bitch all tied up and begging.” Sirius said, you had no idea where he was. He seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Like his voice filled all of your senses and yet left you achingly touch starved. “Isn’t that something?”   “Yes, the irony isn’t lost on me.” Remus replied, he too seemed to float in the ether around you. Like a voice from a dream, almost tangible. You began to struggle against your restraints, it was torture. You wanted nothing more than to be fucked by these two men and the longer they made you wait, the more restless you became.   “(Y/N), are you ready?” You nodded as definitely as you could, you braced yourself for what, you couldn’t say. Another agonizing minute passed before you heard any movement. You could feel the heat from a body between your legs, it was impossible to say who it was as they leaned forward to press their member between your slick folds. Whomever it was pushed into gently, you squealed as they filled you torturously slowly. You moved your hips against him, desperate for the friction. When they didn’t move you let out a grunt of frustration. You heard him chuckle, whoever he was, and he gave the smallest thrust into you.   “Please-” You mustered, your voice was small and full of want. You wished you could take this person in your arms and fuck him, but with your arms and legs bound together, all you could do was lift your hips. He was big, bigger than anything you’d had before. You felt the sting as he stretched you out with each miniscule thrust. You felt fit to burst, like you could explode at any second if you weren’t fucked and fucked well. You writhed beneath him, impatient and desperate.

  You weren’t prepared for what happened next. Your mouth was forcefully opened, and a cock slid inside. Whoever wasn’t buried in your cunt took your mouth. Incredible. You spluttered against it, as the cock inside your quim began to move. You moaned throatily as you were utterly filled. The cock inside you began to push furiously into you, bruising your cervix with every delectable thrust. It was almost manic now; you were being tossed around something chronic and with every thrust from inside you caused the cock in your mouth to be pushed further into your throat. You wanted to badly to feel them around you, you wished to lavish your lovers with touches of encouragement.   “Fuck.” That was definitely Sirius. But you couldn’t work out where. Dear Merlin, you needed to come. Please, you begged to anybody that might listen, please. You hollowed your cheeks against the member in your throat and tried to suck, but the force in which they fucked your mouth let you do nothing but try and keep your teeth out of the way.   “Fuck, fuck.” That was Remus. His voice seemed to be closer than Sirius. You moaned again, as the man between your legs lifted a hand and began to rub your clit. That was it, you were going to come. The man between your legs fucked you harder as if he could sense this, the room was a cacophony of moans, of delicious skin on skin and you could almost float away in the bliss. You felt your orgasm begin to reach its peak, but that wasn’t allowed was it? Nobody had asked you to guess? You decided not to bring it up, but to reach the climax you so desperately craved.

  The thrusting into your core was desperate now, incensed. You could hear the cries of a man about to spill his seed. The man in your mouth pulled out and you clamped your aching jaw closed immediately. You felt hands around your throat and pressure as your moans became heightened, matching the orgasm that now sizzled through you.   “Oh...Lord!” The man between your legs came, you could feel it. “Fuck, I’m coming.” That was Sirius, you were sure of it. A slew of curses whispered in the distance and you could feel his thrusts become weaker as he filled you full of him.   “Sirius.” You whispered with a smile.   “It’s a bit late for that you naughty slut.” Sirius snapped, in an instant the ties around your arms and legs vanished and they fell to the bed with a thud. They ached, you ached. You had never been fucked that hard and you groaned as you rolled onto your stomach. You were pulled up sharply by your hips and onto all fours. You craned your neck round to see Remus behind you, red faced and sweaty as he lined himself up with your entrance. You noticed his chest was littered with scars and you wanted to run your tongue along each one.   “Need to come.” Remus muttered as he pushed into you roughly. It was like night and day to the way Sirius had fucked you, Remus pulled a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back sharply. He wasted no time in building a rhythm, he rutted into you mercilessly. You cried out, the pain in your scalp along with the pleasure in your loins was almost too much for you to bear.   “God Moony, I’m hard again just watching you fuck her.” Sirius said, his voice was strained as your eyes met. He was perched against the pillows, his back to the headboard as he stroked his now hard cock. His eyes were dark, and he licked his lips as he watched his best friend pound into you from behind. Remus let go of your hair and brought his hands to your hips in a vice like grip. He pushed and pulled you onto his cock, you could feel the wetness you had created trickle down your thighs.

  Your voice was hoarse as you came for the fourth time, you had cried and moaned and whimpered for what felt like hours. You felt tears sting your eyes as the pleasure trundled through your veins, your walls tightened, and Remus gave a great cry before he thrust into twice more and you milked him of his orgasm. He fell forward onto you and you went with him, falling onto Sirius’ chest with a grunt. Sirius wrapped his arms steadily around you and bundled you close to his chest. Remus pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder as he slid from on top of you and pulled you in between them, Sirius on the right, Remus on the left. You breathed. From the bottom of your lungs you gasped in great breaths. Sirius’ fingers travelled from your neck to the base of your spine and back again, and Remus stroked lazy circles on your stomach. You hummed contentedly as your heartrate returned to normal, you nestled your head into Sirius’ chest and wiggled your hips against Remus earning a laugh from the latter.   “Comfortable (Y/N)?” Remus asked into your hair. You hummed in agreement and let your eyes close.   “Well our game didn’t go much to plan, did it Moony?” Sirius asked, you could hear the smile in his voice. Remus’ chuckle vibrated against your back.   “No, not quite. Someone obviously didn’t understand the rules.” Remus said, he tapped your stomach playfully and you groaned.   “I understood perfectly, thank you very much. I just couldn’t hold on much longer. I was desperate.” You sighed and Sirius placed a kiss to the top of your head.   “You’ll have to do better. We won’t be as lenient next time.” Sirius stated. Your eyes fluttered open and gazed up at Sirius face, he was joking, surely?   “We certainly will not.” Remus confirmed from behind you, you felt your stomach leap in excitement.   “Next time?” You murmured; this couldn’t be happening. No, not to you. Remus rolled you in his arms, so you faced him, Sirius shuffled down the bed slightly and wrapped his arm around your middle.   “You think I’m going to go the rest of my life without ever fucking you again?” Remus questioned; his brow furrowed but you could tell he was being sincere. You pressed your finger to the scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and traced it lightly, he closed his eyes against your touch and pressed a kiss to the palm of your hand.

  You were still. The three of you. You must have fallen asleep; you have no idea when or how long for; but Sirius stirred behind you and your eyes opened wearily.   “(Y/N),” he whispered, “Rem. Come on, we need to bathe.” You lifted your head from Remus’ arm and yawned, your bodies were stuck together with sweat and who knows what else. Remus groaned and pulled you closer to him. Sirius bent to kiss your cheek and shifted to the side of the bed. “Shall I run you a bath, (Y/N)? I imagine you’re very sore.”   “Yes please, I’m broken.” You joked and shot a wink in his direction. You yawned again. “Do you fancy a coffee?”   “I’ll put the kettle on.” Sirius said as he pulled his discarded boxers on over his manhood, he flicked the light on as he exited the room. You turned your attention back to Remus who looked so peaceful, you felt guilty disturbing him. You placed a tender kiss to his lips, and he smiled.   “Come on, we need to get up. We absolutely stink.” You said softly, Remus only pouted and pulled you even closer.   “Don’t want to.” He replied stubbornly. You laughed and pushed his arms from around you. You rubbed your eyes and trailed your hands over your neck and chest, the skin there tender. “(Y/N), can I ask you something?” Remus said, he had propped himself up onto his elbow as he watched you.   “Of course.”   “Why didn’t you ask me out when we were in school?” He asked you quizzically, you groaned and flopped backwards onto the bed. He inched closer to you and placed a hand on the side of your face, turning it to him. His green eyes intently fixed on yours.   “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I was scared you would say no. My little fifteen-year-old heart couldn’t have taken it.” You replied with a chuckle.   “I wish you had.” He paused thoughtfully; he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I would’ve said yes.”   “Really?” You pondered, he hummed and pressed a lingering kiss to your lips and suddenly, he was gone. You opened your eyes to find him at the other end of the room pulling his boxers on.   “I still might.” Remus winked, he left your bedroom with a yawn and closed the door.

  You sighed and rubbed your eyes. It was all too much, but the butterflies in your stomach reminded you that even in the midst of the horrors of this war there was still happiness to be had. Even if it came in the shape of two very unlikely men. You couldn’t believe your luck, how much it had changed.

[blackbloodunderthemoonlight]

Lovecraft Country (2020) S01E01 “Sundown”

James Baldwin debates William F. Buckley (1965)

“Good evening,

I find myself, not for the first time, in the position of a kind of Jeremiah. For example, I don’t disagree with Mr. Burford that the inequality suffered by the American Negro population of the United States has hindered the American dream. Indeed, it has. I quarrell with some other things he has to say. The other, deeper, element of a certain awkwardness I feel has to do with one’s point of view. I have to put it that way – one’s sense, one’s system of reality. It would seem to me the proposition before the House, and I would put it that way, is the American Dream at the expense of the American Negro, or the American Dream *is* at the expense of the American Negro. Is the question hideously loaded, and then one’s response to that question – one’s reaction to that question – has to depend on effect and, in effect, where you find yourself in the world, what your sense of reality is, what your system of reality is. That is, it depends on assumptions which we hold so deeply as to be scarcely aware of them.

A white South African or Mississippi sharecropper, or Mississippi sheriff, or a Frenchman driven out of Algeria, all have, at bottom, a system of reality which compels them to, for example, in the case of the French exile from Algeria, to defend French reasons from having ruled Algeria. The Mississippi or Alabama sheriff, who really does believe, when he’s facing a Negro boy or girl, that this woman, this man, this child must be insane to attack the system to which he owes his entire identity. Of course, to such a person, the proposition which we are trying to discuss here tonight does not exist. And on the other hand, I, have to speak as one of the people who’ve been most attacked by what we now must here call the Western or European system of reality. What white people in the world, what we call white supremacy – I hate to say it here – comes from Europe. It’s how it got to America. Beneath then, whatever one’s reaction to this proposition is, has to be the question of whether or not civilizations can be considered, as such, equal, or whether one’s civilization has the right to overtake and subjugate, and, in fact, to destroy another. Now, what happens when that happens. Leaving aside all the physical facts that one can quote. Leaving aside, rape or murder. Leaving aside the bloody catalog of oppression, which we are in one way too familiar with already, what this does to the subjugated, the most private, the most serious thing this does to the subjugated, is to destroy his sense of reality. It destroys, for example, his father’s authority over him. His father can no longer tell him anything, because the past has disappeared, and his father has no power in the world. This means, in the case of an American Negro, born in that glittering republic, and the moment you are born, since you don’t know any better, every stick and stone and every face is white.

And since you have not yet seen a mirror, you suppose that you are, too. It comes as a great shock around the age of 5, or 6, or 7, to discover that the flag to which you have pledged allegiance, along with everybody else, has not pledged allegiance to you. It comes as a great shock to discover that Gary Cooper killing off the Indians, when you were rooting for Gary Cooper, that the Indians were you. It comes as a great shock to discover that the country which is your birthplace and to which you owe your life and your identity, has not, in its whole system of reality, evolved any place for you. The disaffection, the demoralization, and the gap between one person and another only on the basis of the color of their skin, begins there and accelerates – accelerates throughout a whole lifetime – to the present when you realize you’re thirty and are having a terrible time managing to trust your countrymen. By the time you are thirty, you have been through a certain kind of mill. And the most serious effect of the mill you’ve been through is, again, not the catalog of disaster, the policemen, the taxi drivers, the waiters, the landlady, the landlord, the banks, the insurance companies, the millions of details, twenty four hours of every day, which spell out to you that you are a worthless human being. It is not that. It’s by that time that you’ve begun to see it happening, in your daughter or your son, or your niece or your nephew.

You are thirty by now and nothing you have done has helped to escape the trap. But what is worse than that, is that nothing you have done, and as far as you can tell, nothing you can do, will save your son or your daughter from meeting the same disaster and not impossibly coming to the same end. Now, we’re speaking about expense. I suppose there are several ways to address oneself, to some attempt to find what that word means here. Let me put it this way, that from a very literal point of view, the harbors and the ports, and the railroads of the country–the economy, especially of the Southern states–could not conceivably be what it has become, if they had not had, and do not still have, indeed for so long, for many generations, cheap labor. I am stating very seriously, and this is not an overstatement: *I* picked the cotton, *I* carried it to the market, and *I* built the railroads under someone else’s whip for nothing. For nothing.

The Southern oligarchy, which has still today so very much power in Washington, and therefore some power in the world, was created by my labor and my sweat, and the violation of my women and the murder of my children. This, in the land of the free, and the home of the brave.And no one can challenge that statement. It is a matter of historical record.

In another way, this dream, and we’ll get to the dream in a moment, is at the expense of the American Negro. You watched this in the Deep South in great relief. But not only in the Deep South. In the Deep South, you are dealing with a sheriff or a landlord, or a landlady or a girl of the Western Union desk, and she doesn’t know quite who she’s dealing with, by which I mean, that if you’re not a part of the town, and if you are a Northern Nigger, it shows in millions of ways. So she simply knows that it’s an unknown quantity, and she wants to have nothing to do with it because she won’t talk to you, you have to wait for a while to get your telegram. OK, we all know this. We’ve been through it and, by the time you get to be a man, it’s very easy to deal with. But what is happening in the poor woman, the poor man’s mind is this: they’ve been raised to believe, and by now they helplessly believe, that no matter how terrible their lives may be, and their lives have been quite terrible, and no matter how far they fall, no matter what disaster overtakes them, they have one enormous knowledge in consolation, which is like a heavenly revelation: at least, they are not Black.

Now, I suggest that of all the terrible things that can happen to a human being, that is one of the worst. I suggest that what has happened to white Southerners is in some ways, after all, much worse than what has happened to Negroes there because Sheriff Clark in Selma, Alabama, cannot be considered – you know, no one can be dismissed as a total monster. I’m sure he loves his wife, his children. I’m sure, you know, he likes to get drunk. You know, after all, one’s got to assume he is visibly a man like me. But he doesn’t know what drives him to use the club, to menace with the gun and to use the cattle prod. Something awful must have happened to a human being to be able to put a cattle prod against a woman’s breasts, for example. What happens to the woman is ghastly. What happens to the man who does it is in some ways much, much worse. This is being done, after all, not a hundred years ago, but in 1965, in a country which is blessed with what we call prosperity, a word we won’t examine too closely; with a certain kind of social coherence, which calls itself a civilized nation, and which espouses the notion of the freedom of the world. And it is perfectly true from the point of view now simply of an American Negro. Any American Negro watching this, no matter where he is, from the vantage point of Harlem, which is another terrible place, has to say to himself, in spite of what the government says – the government says we can’t do anything about it – but if those were white people being murdered in Mississippi work farms, being carried off to jail, if those were white children running up and down the streets, the government would find some way of doing something about it. We have a civil rights bill now where an amendment, the fifteenth amendment, nearly a hundred years ago – I hate to sound again like an Old Testament prophet – but if the amendment was not honored then, I would have any reason to believe in the civil rights bill will be honored now. And after all one’s been there, since before, you know, a lot of other people got there. If one has got to prove one’s title to the land, isn’t four hundred years enough? Four hundred years? At least three wars? The American soil is full of the corpses of my ancestors. Why is my freedom or my citizenship, or my right to live there, how is it conceivably a question now? And I suggest further, and in the same way, the moral life of Alabama sheriffs and poor Alabama ladies – white ladies – their moral lives have been destroyed by the plague called color, that the American sense of reality has been corrupted by it.

At the risk of sounding excessive, what I always felt, when I finally left the country, and found myself abroad, in other places, and watched the Americans abroad – and these are my countrymen – and I do care about them, and even if I didn’t, there is something between us. We have the same shorthand, I know, if I look at a boy or a girl from Tennessee, where they came from in Tennessee and what that means. No Englishman knows that. No Frenchman, no one in the world knows that, except another Black man who comes from the same place. One watches these lonely people denying the only kin they have. We talk about integration in America as though it was some great new conundrum. The problem in America is that we’ve been integrated for a very long time. Put me next to any African and you will see what I mean. My grandmother was not a rapist. What we are not facing is the result of what we’ve done. What one brings the American people to do for all our sake is simply to accept our history. I was there not only as a slave, but also as a concubine. One knows the power, after all, which can be used against another person if you’ve got absolute power over that person.

It seemed to me when I watched Americans in Europe what they didn’t know about Europeans was what they didn’t know about me. They weren’t trying, for example, to be nasty to the French girl, or rude to the French waiter. They didn’t know they hurt their feelings. They didn’t have any sense this particular woman, this particular man, though they spoke another language and had different manners and ways, was a human being. And they walked over them, the same kind of bland ignorance, condescension, charming and cheerful with which they’ve always pat me on the head and called me Shine and were upset when I was upset. What is relevant about this is that whereas forty years ago when I was born, the question of having to deal with what is unspoken by the subjugated, what is never said to the master, of ever having to deal with this reality was a very remote possibility. It was in no one’s mind. When I was growing up, I was taught in American history books, that Africa had no history, and neither did I. That I was a savage about whom the less said, the better, who had been saved by Europe and brought to America. And, of course, I believed it. I didn’t have much choice. Those were the only books there were. Everyone else seemed to agree.

If you walk out of Harlem, ride out of Harlem, downtown, the world agrees what you see is much bigger, cleaner, whiter, richer, safer than where you are. They collect the garbage. People obviously can pay their life insurance. Their children look happy, safe. You’re not. And you go back home, and it would seem that, of course, that it’s an act of God that this is true! That you belong where white people have put you.

It is only since the Second World War that there’s been a counter-image in the world. And that image did not come about through any legislation or part of any American government, but through the fact that Africa was suddenly on the stage of the world, and Africans had to be dealt with in a way they’d never been dealt with before. This gave an American Negro for the first time a sense of himself beyond the savage or a clown. It has created and will create a great many conundrums. One of the great things that the white world does not know, but I think I do know, is that Black people are just like everybody else. One has used the myth of Negro and the myth of color to pretend and to assume that you were dealing with, essentially, with something exotic, bizarre, and practically, according to human laws, unknown. Alas, it is not true. We’re also mercenaries, dictators, murderers, liars. We are human too.

What is crucial here is that unless we can manage to accept, establish some kind of dialog between those people whom I pretend have paid for the American dream and those other people who have not achieved it, we will be in terrible trouble. I want to say, at the end, the last, is that what concerns me most. We are sitting in this room, and we are all, at least I’d like to think we are, relatively civilized, and we can talk to each other at least on certain levels so that we could walk out of here assuming that the measure of our enlightenment, or at least, our politeness, has some effect on the world. It may not.

I remember, for example, when the ex Attorney General, Mr. Robert Kennedy, said that it was conceivable that in forty years, in America, we might have a Negro president. That sounded like a very emancipated statement, I suppose, to white people. They were not in Harlem when this statement was first heard. And they’re not here, and possibly will never hear the laughter and the bitterness, and the scorn with which this statement was greeted. From the point of view of the man in the Harlem barber shop, Bobby Kennedy only got here yesterday, and he’s already on his way to the presidency. We’ve been here for four hundred years and now he tells us that maybe in forty years, if you’re good, we may let you become president.

What is dangerous here is the turning away from – the turning away  from – anything any white American says. The reason for the political hesitation, in spite of the Johnson landslide is that one has been betrayed by American politicians for so long. And I am a grown man and perhaps I can be reasoned with. I certainly hope I can be. But I don’t know, and neither does Martin Luther King, none of us know how to deal with those other people whom the white world has so long ignored, who don’t believe anything the white world says and don’t entirely believe anything I or Martin is saying. And one can’t blame them. You watch what has happened to them in less than twenty years.

It seems to me that the City of New York, for example – this is my last point – Its had Negroes in it for a very long time. If the city of New York were able, as it has indeed been able, in the last fifteen years to reconstruct itself, tear down buildings and raise great new ones, downtown and for money, and has done nothing whatever except build housing projects in the ghetto for the Negroes. And of course, Negroes hate it. Presently the property does indeed deteriorate because the children cannot bear it. They want to get out of the ghetto. If the American pretensions were based on more solid, a more honest assessment of life and of themselves, it would not mean for Negroes when someone says “Urban Renewal” that Negroes can simply are going to be thrown out into the streets. This is just what it does mean now. This is not an act of God. We’re dealing with a society made and ruled by men. Had the American Negro had not been present in America, I am convinced the history of the American labor movement would be much more edifying than it is. It is a terrible thing for an entire people to surrender to the notion that one-ninth of its population is beneath them. And until that moment, until the moment comes when we, the Americans, we, the American people, are able to accept the fact, that I have to accept, for example, that my ancestors are both white and Black. That on that continent we are trying to forge a new identity for which we need each other and that I am not a ward of America. I am not an object of missionary charity. I am one of the people who built the country–until this moment there is scarcely any hope for the American dream, because the people who are denied participation in it, by their very presence, will wreck it. And if that happens it is a very grave moment for the West.

Thank you.”

[evilminji]

I hinted at it? The dizziness and having to take breaks. Cause, good god. Yeah, it would be BEAUTIFUL. But it would also be the woooorst.

The visor probably either also has hearing aids or those would be coming next. After he adjusted to being able to Seeing properly (Frostbite's words). And just? There would STILL be assholes trying to cause problems! Wondering why he doesn't want to hang out and brawl! Demanding to know his PROBLEM.

Because to them? The world ALWAYS looks like this.

They mostly filter it out.

It's just something you learn to do, after all. Every ghost does it! It's EASY. Just ignore it! Etc.

But how CAN he? It's NOT normal for him. It's new and wonderful. Terrible and awful. Awe inspiring. Migraine inducing. So, so much and it never STOPS. Not even at NIGHT is anything ever truely dark. Ever quiet.

The ability to change back into human is a life saver. Over the counter pain medication that can WORK? Praise anything and everything. Because it's beautiful. And everyone seems to think that must mean it's GREAT that there so much of it, right?

But Danny is starting to kinda GET all those prophets and poor souls that Saw Gods and immediately wanted to claw their eyes out, fall to their knees and scream. His head HURTS. It's made of GOO, it shouldn't even HAVE bones and muscles and stuff TOO strain! But there he is! Sitting in class with a migraine.

Because his brain is struggling to adjust to what he's Seeing. Because he's so overestimated and nauseous he couldn't eat breakfast. Keep down a shake.

And the worst part, is now that his ghost half is AWARE there is something to correct? It's trying to help. So his mouth hurts. He has weird ringing in his ears that comes and goes. Colors shifting in and out of shade.

He went Ghost, for a quick "sit under the blankets and Just Breathe, Danny" bit of adjusting time with his new glasses this morning? And spat out three teeth! Because apparently his ghost half "figured out" his mouth was wrong somehow!

So now he's EXTRA nauseous.

Because he can TASTE things in the air.

Poindexter says he'll get to decide if he wants to keep everything or ignore things. Every Ghost does. Pick and choose. Bodies are fluid, etc etc. But it doesn't help. "Eventually, everything sucks less and the pain stops" is kinda a shit answer. Even when it's true.

Ancients, ESPECIALLY when it's true.

Thankfully? Sam has Rich Girl funds and is willing to lie to her parents. Even willing to take one for the team and go on that "Princess In Pink~♡" all day spa trip her mom wants to go to. Even though she looked it up and it's misogynistic as hell. She's certain she can swing an isolation tank out of the trip. The kind you float in, in the dark.

Tucker is already looking them up and is certain he can improve it.

His friends are the best.

He wishes he could show them, how... how BEAUTIFUL everything really looks. But he hurts. And it sucks. And he would never let them suffer like that. When this is over, he's gonna pay more attention in art class. Maybe watch some of those videos online or something.

Hard to read the black board though.

You know, with all the trees.

Can Danny see the Forbidden Shrimp Colors?

Like, as Phantom.

Because his eyes are goo.

They are not ACTUALLY human eyes with human limitations, nor possess human eye rods and cones etc. They are human SHAPED Ectoplasmic goo. That is working as the "Eye sight" area of his goo body. Honestly, it's the same question with his hearing etc. But SPECIFICALLY?

Does he get? Some sort of FULL spectrum sight?

Do ghosts and ghosts ALONE... see the world as it ACTUALLY is? Actually, genuinely, looks like? I know humans can tell apart more shade of green then most if not all other species. And a host of other things. But other animals have specialized sight too.

Do ghosts just get? All of it? Because that's just... Sight.

They no longer NEED specialized this or that, to hunt for food or escape predators. Their bodies are no longer bound by species specific limitations. Unless they, you know, felt like it.

Just?

Imagine what that must be LIKE? You transform and the world transforms with you. Everything becoming technicolor. BEYOND color. Depth and complexity, shades you don't have names for. The sky, the grass, trees and the BIRDS in them. All completely different.

An ocean of Shades, peacefully wandering along. Never destined to become Ghosts. Heading towards this afterlife or that. Some just sitting and watching the birds. Not even from just humans. The ground is covered by the Shades of plants long past. There are birds long gone floating along, off to some bird afterlife.

You can't even touch them.

They're like mist. Visible, but as solid as water vapor and reflecting light. They disappear when you transform back.

You can SEE more of space, of the atmosphere and the magnetic fields, of the folds of reality itself, then you ever thought were possible. You'll NEVER be able to put a name to even a fraction of the colors or shades. It's beautiful. Dances.

It's also gone when you transform back.

You won't be able to hear it anymore either. Or any other song and sound that rings out. That hums and buzzes, rumbles and croons. It will feel like climbing back inside a box too small for you and shutting the lid. Right up until it doesn't. Because the brain is a powerful thing, and you always seem to forget, how MUCH everything is.

Because you'd be unable to take it, if you couldn't let it go. If you couldn't keep forgetting. If being human didn't fit.

But it's cool.

You can see shrimp colors.

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

[lichlover]

Okay so this a balance headcanon, and it is technically one I saw in a text post somewhere on tumblr that has been lost to the scroll of my dashboard months and months ago, but. The concept that the reason Barry was on the starblaster in the first place... was because he was some kinda undercover death cultist trying to kickstart the apocalypse... but then it happened and he was like "wait shit this actually sucks" and then has to figure out what to do

please consider donating to my ko-fi!

This was how it was written: Sildar Hallwinter would end the world.

Before his departure, they’d etched his name into the first of the sacred texts; his true name, five syllables destined to strike terror into the hearts of all living beings and their menial existences. It would all perish in the Apocalypse, of course. Everything would. But he and his fellows would ascend in death, as would every record that burned in the Great Blaze of the end times, and the universe would know their history. The true history. The history he would go down in as the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind.

The gnome in front of him peered over the angular frames of his spectacles and said, “Barry Bluejeans?”

Sildar Hallwinter had also lost a bet.

But it was no matter, for there was no meager chronicle that would remember him as Barold J. Bluejeans, chief science officer of the IPRE Starblaster. He would be survived only by the destruction set to ravage their world in a matter of months, a Dawning so terrible that it would leave nothing of civilization in its wake. No one would know the name Barry Bluejeans. Everyone would know the name Sildar Hallwinter, and the thought made his stomach knot with such anticipation that he had to collect himself before he could respond.

“That’s me,” he said, and grinned a different man’s grin at the gnome—Captain Davenport of the IPRE, unknowing Chariot to the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. “Reporting for duty.”

Sildar was well accustomed to the dank, ash-streaked tunnels of the Fellowship’s headquarters beneath Ascendant’s Peak, but the IPRE headquarters were sleek and warm, drawing him in with rounded walls and high, arching ceilings. Everywhere he looked, another enormous set of windows opened to the landscape below, as of yet untouched by the Cataclysm Foretold. He wasn’t used to this much natural light, and he certainly wasn’t used to people smiling and waving as they passed. “Another poor soul for the Big One, Dav?” someone called, and the captain waved them off affably.

For an organization completely aware of the end times, and completely unaware of the fact that he, Sildar, would be responsible for their failure, they were all terribly… cheery.

“We’ve already gathered the other crew members,” said the captain, when they came to a halt in front of a nondescript door. “They’re just, uh, through here. We’ll start our first briefing in the next—next half hour, but for now, feel free to socialize. G-Get to know them. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Thanks,” said Sildar, and the captain mumbled something under his breath. “Uh, what was that?”

“Oh,” said the captain. “Nothing.” He turned, and it was only then that Sildar’s brain registered the words; it had sounded almost like good luck.

No matter. Sildar opened the door.

“Incoming!”

Sildar yelped—actually yelped—and ducked aside just as a chair flew over his head and exploded against the wall. A shower of wooden fragments and very magical sparks hit the ground in front of him, and he sputtered, wordless, on the precipice of reaching for his own wand—was this an ambush? Had they discovered the truth of his presence already?

“Oh, shit,” somebody said, and a silhouette appeared through the smoke and magical residue. Sildar caught his breath. Perhaps he was dead, then; perhaps one of the wooden shards had caught him through the heart, and the Avatar of Renewal through Annihilation had come to meet him on the threshold of the afterlife. She looked like divinity, at any rate: tall and elegant, with waves of hair that glittered like finely spun gold and eyes that blazed with the last vestiges of power. Eyes that settled on him, and softened instantly. No, Sildar thought. She couldn’t possibly be the Avatar of Renewal, because she looked kind.

“Shit,” said the divine being again. Her ears twitched downward with concern—an elf, then. “Lucky break, babe. You okay?”

Sildar blinked, and found himself at a loss for words.

“Leave it to you to fuckin’ scare the shit outta the newcomer!” A voice like hers rose through the smoke, and as it cleared, Sildar made out four other bodies, all draped in the ostentatious red of the IPRE and squinting into the gloom. The one who had spoken, another willowy elf with even longer golden locks, lifted a hand in the air and snapped his fingers, and all the smoke dissipated at once. “You had to launch it at the fuckin’ wall, Mags!”

His companion, a human who stood taller than everyone else in the room and looked battle-scarred to the bone despite his youth, gestured indignantly at the aftermath. “But did you see how fucking awesome that was? And that was a whole science experiment! Setup—uh, hypothesis, trials, conclusion?”

“Which is?” The elf unspooled two letters into a long, drawn-out drawl.

“That this room was totally used for magic shit! And now we can do whatever we want in here!”

“Um,” came another voice from the window, and Sildar looked over to see a dark young woman with a head of platinum-bright hair, gazing nervously at the set of admittedly impressive scorch marks over his head. “I think if anything, that proves we shouldn’t do what we want in here.”

“Agree to disagree,” said “Mags,” with undue confidence.

“That’s—but that’s not what science is—”

The final figure in the room, a portly dwarf with flowers woven into his beard, shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Look at the impression you just made,” he said. “Going around, trying to kill people you just met—what kind of monsters do something like that?”

The divine being made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and pushed a few loose strands of hair off her face. “You must be the chief science officer,” she said, and stuck out a hand. “Sorry for the accidental attempted murder. I’m Lup.”

Lup.

“I’m,” said Sildar. “Uh.”

This time she really did laugh—a lyrical, full-bodied sound that he felt deep in his chest. “Tell me we didn’t just knock your name outta your head.”

“Oh, no, it’s, uh—” Lup. She looked at him with a smile so resplendent he had to catch his breath all over again. What did she know of Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind? What did she know of anything beyond all the light she cast in every direction?

“I’m, uh, Barry,” he said. “Barry J. Bluejeans.”

.

Here are some things Sildar Hallwinter learns about Barry J. Bluejeans:

He has a penchant for getting into character. Maybe that’s more Sildar than Barry, but there’s something so intoxicating about the drama of it all, especially when no one else knows he’s playing a role. Barry is a bit of a thespian, if he does say so himself.

That said, he’s sort of awkward. More of Sildar’s influence. When you’ve spent your whole life preparing to fulfill your divine purpose in the End of All Things, it’s a little hard to adjust to things like game night and brunch.

He’s smart. Really smart. The Fellowship hadn’t really encouraged science—everything else came second to the teachings of the Apocalypse—but not only is Barry-slash-Sildar naturally inclined for it, he actually enjoys it.

He can’t swim. Sildar can, and rather enjoys it, but it’s a little bit of flavor text he can’t resist.

He’s not half bad at making friends.

The crew of the Starblaster were, of course, a means to an end, and he would develop no meaningful relationship with any of them beyond what was necessary to keep up appearances. That was his mandate, at least. But it was hard. Much harder than he’d expected, really. And despite himself, he—Barry—found it all to easy to laugh at the dwarf Merle’s gods-awful jokes and stay up late to hear Captain Davenport recount tales of grandeur. He let himself be roped into more magic-powered “experiments” (in the loosest sense of the word) with the human fighter, Magnus, who actually seemed to enjoy death-defying stunts with the zeal of someone from the Fellowship. He got to know the soft-spoken but brilliant archivist, Lucretia, and her remarkably meticulous transcriptions. On one particularly reckless night, he joined the long-haired elf Taako on a quest to fill a particularly uppity supervisor’s pockets full of pudding.

And as the Appointed Hour approached, Barry found himself spending late nights in the IPRE labs with Lup, testing and recording speculations on arcane theory and downing enough coffee to drive them to hysterics by dawn. They were all a little nervous, a little sad, a little desperate to sort their affairs before takeoff, but Lup tackled new problems with the kind of determination that demanded solutions. She was the most ingenious person Barry had ever met. And when she sat back from an arcane reaction gone wrong, her hairline blackened with soot and grinning like a caffeine-tripped maniac, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

This was how it was until the Apocalypse arrived.

Barry woke the morning of with a planet-shattering hangover.

He crawled to the mirror and squinted blearily into the glass; thanks to the IPRE’s constant offerings of complimentary coffee and cake and Taako’s singlehanded banquets, he’d put on weight over the last several months, and he’d started to love the gentle resilience his body had gained. Sildar was clean-shaven and angular, but Barry was soft and stubbly. A few nights before, Lup’s gaze had caught on his chin, and she’d told him how nice he looked with a five o’clock shadow.

He’d thought she was joking, but that was just how she was—kind.

He went to his closet and started to mull over which shirt to wear.

The day was dark and still, the sky an unbroken slate grey, and it was just what the sacred texts had imagined: not a living thing stirred for miles beyond the horizon. Even the grass beneath Barry’s feet, as he followed Davenport to the Starblaster’s gangway, had turned an off-color, metallic shade. They said their goodbyes to the Institute, and to the enormous crowd at starboard, and in the eerie light they all looked like corpses risen from the grave. There was something hanging over their heads that felt nothing like the terrible glory the Fellowship had promised; instead it was unsettled, and sickly, and wrong.

Barry swallowed the knot gathering rapidly in his throat and followed his crew up the gangway. There was but one thing left for him to do now—him, Sildar Hallwinter, the Catalyst for the End of All Things, the Second Revelation, the Midnight Prophet for the Last Downfall of Mankind. And then the Hour would be upon them at last.

He left the others on the bridge and walked to the Bond Engine.

The explosives tucked inside his robe were light, and branded with the sigil of the Fellowship, although no one would be able to tell in the ensuing destruction. It was certain to be localized, of course; they were meant to damage the engine and nothing more. He could never deprive himself—or anyone else, for that matter—the opportunity to witness the Terror as it began its First Assault on the world of the living. No one knew quite what it would look like, or how it would feel, but the Fellowship had promised a beautiful ascendancy for all its members. And now Sildar would seal his fate. He would seal everyone’s fate.

“Barold!”

Sildar fumbled an explosive, and it was almost the last thing he ever did. He whirled around, and there was Taako, waving him over from the bottom of the staircase. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Barry, faintly. “Why?”

“Cap’n’port wants everybody on the bridge for the launch.” He flapped his arm at the bridge, looming above them against a wall of indiscernible storm clouds. “C’mon!”

“Uh,” Barry said. Suddenly the explosives weighed too heavily in his robe. “In a sec!”

“He means now, Barry! This storm ain’t lookin’ too good!”

No, no, no. Not yet.

But I don’t want—

What does it matter what you want?

Sildar Hallwinter gripped the hem of his pocket.

And Barry Bluejeans whispered a disarming spell, followed by a shrinking charm. Three marbles branded with the sigil of the High Fellowship of the Great Prophecy for the First Revelation rattled in his pocket as he jogged toward Taako and the bridge.

They escaped by the skin of their teeth. Sildar Hallwinter watched his world consumed by a force so uncaring, so unfeeling, that it couldn’t possibly be the Herald of Rebirth for All Things. He watched it rip everything apart—the IPRE headquarters where he’d met his crew, the ice cream parlor he’d braved with Magnus and Lucretia, the farmer’s market where Taako had taught him the difference between parsley and basil, the enormous lake Davenport had taken them sailing on for a weekend, the small garden Merle had kept just outside their dorms. 

The horizon, where he’d watched the sun set with Lup.

In the space between planes, Sildar Hallwinter was unmade. And when the threads of his body settled back into place, he caught his breath and thought, Never again.

This was how it was written: Barry J. Bluejeans would save the world.

[puttingfingerstokeys]

a friend in need

this one like, makes no sense within the new kontinuity but like, here ya go--fuck it! Pretty much Shao Kahn is invading (as one does), Kronika is absolutely messing with the timelines, and this is definitely like 25 years in the future so you have Dad!Johnny and a Liu Kang who has just flirted with death by Raiden, who is now wielding Shinnok’s shitty amulet, which means Shinnok is also headless, but like fuck that guy amirite? This time, he doesn’t deliver the head to Revenant Kitana and Liu Kang because they aren’t revenants, there was no assault on the netherrealm. OH and as always, uh, tumblr doesn’t preserve italics so if it’s incoherent ... it’s ‘cause I’m a lazy piece of shit and I didn’t wanna go back through and dig ‘em up. 

I have no idea what I’m doing.

Faraday Cage (implied??)

Prevented Timeline

Energy crackled and radiated outward, sparking off pavement, trees, vehicles, people—anything with which it came in contact. Fires had erupted all over and people were fighting them as best they could, but with little hope of relief. At the center was an angry god, grieved at great loss, enraged beyond his own ability to control.

Earthrealm could not be protected by a weak, fatherly deity; Raiden understood that now, and it scared him. His own weakness scared him. His foolishness scared him. The “justice” of the Elder Gods scared him. He would end this fight and all fights, because they, for some reason, were not. He had to do this; there was no other way. Why did no one understand? He was singular in his purpose and not even the chosen of Earthrealm, Liu Kang, could stand in his way.

Raiden had taken his own advice, a frightful echo from a future as yet unknown, an Armageddon which killed them all, himself included. It had taken many trials and many more errors to realize his own, true meaning. 

“He must win.” 

Raiden had finally reached the conclusion that the “he” in question was not Liu Kang, earthrealm’s chosen, but Shao Kahn, the bloodthirsty outworld dictator. Reality shivered under the threat of the merging, however, and still the Elder Gods did not step in. How far would this have to go? Did they know that Shao Kahn’s army was, even now, trampling the tenuous pact between the realms? Did they care?

“Liu, over here!” It was Johnny Cage, older now, a father, and proud of his little girl, but right now, damn near shitting in his britches to see Raiden this way. He offered an arm and pulled Liu Kang to his feet. He and a few others were taking shelter behind a small building which shook with the march of outworld foot soldiers and presently began to flicker with a terrible energy.

Raiden had warned himself, somehow, that the merging of realms must begin, that this was the meaning of victory in his own prophetic words, for the Elder Gods to step in. Shao Kahn had begun his dark work, however, and still nothing moved, nothing in favor of the forces of light and justice, anyway. It seemed the Elder Gods had a different idea of what it meant to maintain balance.

“Your tournament is canceled, puny god! I have rescinded my generous invitation!” Shao Kahn called, raising his great hammer to the sky as Outworld merged with Earthrealm, tearing down buildings and reconstructing them in hideous amalgams. People fled and were trampled; people stood and were gored. He would line the streets with bodies before the day was out and only Raiden stood before him. Raiden, who had fought his own, dear Liu Kang, who had defied him nearly to death.

Had he died? Was Liu Kang dead? Raiden could not see him. He could not see anything past the haze of fury clouding his vision and judgment. I have killed him, again, as it was said I always will, as I always must. The thought was errant, not his own, and be brushed it aside, focusing on Shao Kahn and the present. It was his only choice.

“He… Johnny—you should have seen his eyes,” Liu Kang gasped, slumping to his rear-end near the wall. Jacqui Briggs stooped to examine him, checking for external injuries, and wishing for a better facility in which to check for internal. She was no expert, but godly lightning probably left a different mark.

“I see ‘em from here, Liu, and it’s… this is fucked,” grunted the Hollywood star, handing the binoculars over to his daughter, Cassie. She shook her head.

“He said we had to let Shao Kahn win, or else the Elder Gods would never step in,” gasped Liu Kang between labored breaths. Something was definitely wrong and if it was not treated soon, it could become permanent. “They… aren’t stepping in—I knew they didn’t care about us. I…” He groaned in agony and Jacqui pushed him back down.

“Hold still, Chosen One, your guts’ve been rearranged by a pissed off god—maybe take it easy.”

“If I ‘take it easy’, we all die,” Liu Kang snapped, jaw tight. Jacqui gave him a look that suggested she would take no lip, no matter how damn chosen he was. She could see from the way he held himself, the way his muscles tensed and tightened, that he was going to get much worse before he got better, especially if he pushed. They might not have a choice, soon enough, but while they did, there was no point risking it.

He met her gaze, burning with rage and sadness, with his own. They were matched in this way, both earthrealm natives with everything and more to lose, both people who had fought, tooth and nail, against this very thing. Sitting by idly and wishing things were otherwise was not something to which either Liu Kang or Jacqui Briggs were accustomed. 

“Dad!” They looked up suddenly at Cassie’s shout, pulled from their moment of mutual grief. She was reaching out to an empty space where Johnny had just been standing. Before she could go after him, Jacqui was at her back, grasping her elbow, hard.

“No,” she hissed, “you’ll be fried—we don’t know if Raiden’s friendly anymore… if he ever was.” Cassie jerked her elbow away, but Jacqui held tight and shook her head. “I mean it, Cass. Your dad’s… gunna do what he’s gunna do, just like mine.”

With effort, she pulled Cassie back and away from the violent arcs of red lightning that were even now consuming trees and landscaping, cars, enemy soldiers, anything within the dome of the thunder god’s power—an area that was growing.

Raiden and Shao Kahn met somewhere in the middle, just beyond the portal the Outworld emperor had opened to begin the invasion and merging of Earthrealm to his blasted home. Still, the Elder gods did not stir.

Shao Kahn’s hammer swung mightily and met a fist that moved with swift violence. A thunderclap resounded, flattening the area and then cratering it. Neither hand nor head of hammer shattered, but that was of no consequence to Shao Kahn, who reached out and hauled Raiden forward by his collar.

The thunder god looked into the emperor’s animal eyes and neither hated nor pitied him. Raiden’s rage was beyond petty hatred for the man which had caused his beloved Earthrealm so much grief over the centuries. He would simply destroy Shao Kahn. It had become singularly simple in his eyes. He had been a fool. He would end this once and for all, for everyone, forever.

Perhaps it was the look, the nearly directionless fury which met his eyes that made Shao Kahn drop Raiden. Johnny Cage, who had worked himself much closer than was probably safe, watched from a ways off and still could not pinpoint what it was that had Shao Kahn backing away from the thunder god.

“It is forbidden for you to fight,” Shao Kahn warned, with more authority and sureness in his voice than it seemed he felt. Even his minions began to back away as Raiden’s arced, red lightning crashed violently into them, disintegrating here, vaporizing there, starting fires all over. Raiden’s chest heaved with the effort of either sustaining the onslaught, or holding it back, Johnny wasn’t sure.

On that heaving chest, Shinnok’s awful amulet pulsed with life and light, beckoning and promising strength. Raiden reached for it, but hesitated, seemingly doubting himself for the merest fraction of a second. It was in that span of time that Shao Kahn regained his courage and swung again. This time, he would have caught the god of thunder on the chin, had it not been for the quick footwork of Johnny Cage.

This time, boots met hammer and the clash was not so even. Shao Kahn drove Johnny back into a building. His back hit concrete and he was certain he felt something snap, but if he gave up now, Raiden was absolutely going to do something stupid. He didn’t understand Shinnok’s power, or even who and what Shinnok really was, or had been, as the case was, but he knew an evil piece of jewelry when he saw it.

“Time for a scene change,” he grunted, pushing himself to his feet and spitting blood. The tang of adrenaline was on his tongue and coursed through his veins, making him hyper focus upon this detail or that. Johnny fancied he could hear Cassie screaming somewhere in the distance, but right now, his focus was on the battle before him.

“You are too weak to use that amulet on me, or anyone, thunder god,” Shao Kahn mocked, manufacturing enough bravado to satisfy his immense ego. Raiden grimaced, as if considering whether or not the man was right. He ground his teeth and once more moved to grasp Shinnok’s amulet. Shao Kahn struck again, this time with a boot.

Raiden was forced to block this with a cross before his chest and to step back. He balled one fist and surrounded it with lightning, shaking his head. “You do not know my power,” he growled, “but rest assured, Shao Kahn, you will.” Raiden discharged the lightning at Shao Kahn, who used his hammer as a ground and laughed.

“Pathetic, and weak.” Each descriptor was punctuated with a sharp wag of his finger toward Raiden’s chest and the deadly amulet which sat thereupon.

“I am not weak—I am doing as I have always done. I am protecting Earthrealm.” His hand once more rose to the amulet. “Whatever that takes, I will do it.”

With that, he wound up a massive store of radiant, red energy and hurled it at Shao Kahn. The tyrant was hurled back mightily, taking out a score of his foot soldiers as he flew. Raiden continued forward, his pace slow, but deliberate. The troops of outworld were suddenly cowed by this display, as if their fellows being randomly vaporized had not been enough. Something had shifted, they sensed, and they began to back away. 

“You are forbidden, Raiden!” This time, Shao Kahn’s voice was laced with fear; the confidence he had earlier displayed with his first remark of this kind had evidently deserted him in the face of what Raiden had become. Once more, the deity slowly reached for Shinnok’s amulet. It was as if a very small part of him still fought for his own innocence, whatever might have been left of it.

Meanwhile, Johnny had begun to close the distance between himself and the wrathful god. He could feel his hair standing on end with the force of the red lightning radiating outward from Raiden’s body. He was tense, the actor could see that from where he was, and… Are those tears? He shook off the thought as a stray bolt vaporized a fire hydrant less than a yard from him; it burst into a geyser of city water which soon began raining down upon everyone in the vicinity.

Johnny ducked behind a bike rack, realized that was probably a poor choice of cover, and scuttled along on the ground until he found a trash bin that looked as if it was made of plastic composite, rather than anything that might conduct those wicked red arcs of enraged power. His heart was hammering a thousand miles per hour and for a moment, he wondered if that was the first sign of an electricity-induced heart attack. Maybe he had been struck and did not realize it.Thinking about the ramifications of that hurt his head, so he stopped and decided to do what he did best. 

“Now or never,” he told himself, taking a deep breath and fully expecting to be vaporized like the fire hydrant. It would be guts, however, not water spraying about, if he was lucky. Speaking of the water, too much of it, and Johnny would be zapped for sure; he was already soaked to the bone. Oh like it’s any different than what I’m about to do, he hissed internally, covering his face to keep his sunglasses dry. He needed to be able to see for this one. Johnny simply told himself that god lightning was different than the regular stuff and, in a burst of foolish energy, tossed himself around the trash bin and ran, full tilt, toward Raiden’s position. 

A wayward bolt struck his glasses, tossing them from his face and exploding stars before his eyes. Johnny stumbled and, somewhere in the distance—she sounded thousands of miles away—he thought he could hear Cassie’s voice calling his name. He prayed someone was holding her back, because if this went south, as he was almost sure it would, she would be about to fight a hurricane with a pair of pistols. Raiden was not going to be stopped, but Johnny felt that it was his duty to try. Liu’s shouldered too fuckin’ much already—my turn, he reasoned, forcing himself to keep going, running harder and faster than he had ever done in his life. 

Raiden had stopped his inexorable stride and Shao Kahn looked on in bewilderment as the earthrealm action star closed the gap, running directly into that deadly lightning. He had been so sure Johnny’s miserable back had broken against that building. There was something to be said for the tenacity of a cornered, wounded animal. 

The god turned his head, acknowledging Johnny with eyes as red as his lightning. Sure as shit, Johnny thought, noting that Raiden was, indeed, in tears, though they did not seem to be saline, as a human’s might be—they stood out, even upon his pale flesh, catching light and reflecting it like diamonds—or perhaps rubies, stained by the power of his rage. 

“Stop it, man!” Johnny called, reaching a hand out. Raiden still did not move, but neither did he cease his bombardment. Shao Kahn’s forces were at a standstill, watching, for once uncertain of the correct path. Some were even edging toward the portal, back to outworld and relative safety. “Raiden—you listening to me? You don’t hafta—” 

A bolt struck him square in the chest and he dropped to his knees, eyes wide, staring with pain and fear at the man—the god—who had struck him down. Raiden seemed to shift a little at that and then to turn. Johnny had caught his attention and would have held it but for Shao Kahn’s voice. “An earthrealm fraud has halted your march, Lord Raiden—what sort of god are you?!” He urged his forces forward, but no one stirred. Shao Kahn looked around and once more met Raiden’s eyes, which were again trained upon him. Raiden covered Shinnok’s dark amulet with his hand.

“No more.” 

Cassie continued to scream. Johnny could hear her now. He was coming to, realizing that he was not, in fact, dead, nor even too terribly scorched. At the last moment, evidently, the magic of his strange heritage had leapt up to protect him, but he could feel in his bones that this would not happen again. He had one chance. For Cassie, he thought, all those kids—for Liu and Sonya, for Jax, and Earthrealm. His heart thudded and he started forward, first at a trot, the once more at a leaping gallop. For Raiden. 

Before the god could respond, Johnny Cage had tossed his arms around that broad, pillar-like torso. He had never realized just how big Raiden actually was, and thought perhaps he had allowed himself to retain a human size when dealing directly with them. He had to have been at least seven feet tall and change, but Johnny held tight all the same. He could feel the surge of anger within his own body, as if it belonged to him, originated IN him—and it scared him. 

“Christ,” he grunted, “is this what you’re feeling?” 

It was then that the outworld dictator chose to rush them. With him leading the charge, his hordes felt renewed confidence and vigor and lunged forth as one, howling their triumph over earthrealm. Raiden seemed frozen in place, but only for a moment. He seemed suddenly to come back to himself, as if he had been far away, no longer in control of his limbs or actions—certainly of his lightning. 

He wrapped one powerful arm around Johnny, who still held him, and with the other, lashed a wide, sweeping arc of blue-white lightning across the crowd, thus releasing his hold on the wicked amulet. Shao Kahn’s hammer protected him, but his troops were not so lucky. There was a smell of ozone and charred flesh left hanging in the air when Shao Kahn opened his eyes and straightened. 

“Send your champion to face me, then!” Shao Kahn shouted, beating his chest, his hubris undiminished. His tone was desperate, and he seemed far too eager, too frantic, to regain and retain control over this place. Johnny looked to Raiden, then back to Shao Kahn. He knew what this meant. He’d been at this long enough.

“So you’re declaring Mortal Kombat?” Johnny was going to be absolutely clear on this one, since… god contracts and all that—or something. He wasn’t wholly certain on this point, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. Shao Kahn seemed actually to consider this. His troops were slaughtered or retreating, Raiden was placated for the time being, but who knew how long that could last? His konquest had begun unlawfully, but for the loophole of his not quite initiating a merging of realms. That would be his next step—because if there existed no earthrealm champions to defend her, then who would stop him?

“Yes, earthrealm clown,” Shao Kahn rumbled, slapping the handle of his great hammer on one rough palm.

“Mime, actually,” came another voice from across a few lanes of what would have been traffic. Emerging from the alley where they were taking shelter, Liu Kang led their friends, injured and whole, into the open. He was supported by a grimacing Jacqui Briggs, but it was clear from his expression that no was not an answer he would be hearing today. Raiden’s shoulders sagged a little in relief; he had not killed Liu Kang after all. 

“Thank you, Liu—wait hang on…” Johnny narrowed his eyes at his friend, a younger version of Liu Kang, one he had not seen in years, that was, before all this fuckery came about. The Shaolin fighter did not respond and seemed, for a moment, not to be able to meet Johnny’s eyes. In fact, if Johnny wasn’t tripping completely, he could have sworn that the guy was blushing. Still got it, he thought, grinning. 

Before he could continue, however, Cassie broke into a gait he very much recognized as one that signaled extreme displeasure. Her face held a look of grim determination as she stomped toward her father. Johnny knew he was in for it and backed away, hands up.

“Whoa, whoa, pumpkin, easy, huh?” He looked between Shao Kahn and his daughter and realized he would rather face the outworld tyrant. “C’mon—easy, what was your old man s’posed to do?”

“Not get fried by a pissed off god and leave me a fucking ORPHAN? MAYBE?” Her voice held an edge of hysterical panic he did not like. “Oh. Shit…” she stammered, stopping just as her path crossed Raiden’s. “I’m—sorry… I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” said the god, inclining his head toward her, “but you are not incorrect.”

Cassie was sheepish and mumbled another apology. Raiden seemed to understand her position, however, and addressed it no more. Instead, he turned his attention upon the waiting tyrant.

“When will this foolishness subside so that I can begin the konquest of your filthy realm, Raiden?!” Shao Kahn was growing impatient. “The earthrealmer has declared Mortal Kombat and I accept, on the terms that, when I win, the merge will begin and you, pitiful servant of the Elder Gods, will stand aside and bow to their will as you have always done!”

Johnny’s jaw tightened at this hateful commentary upon Raiden’s character, but for once in his life, he held his tongue. Now was not the time to bandy words with dictators and monsters; now was the time to make them eat those words with a garnish of ball-crushing whoop-ass.

“It is my destiny to fight Shao Kahn,” Liu Kang hissed, eyeing Johnny, his gaze flinty. The hardness in his voice and tone belied the real fear that they were thwarting destiny and tempting a fate no one was equipped to handle. His eyes snapped to Raiden, then, pleading. Raiden shook his head. Jacqui echoed the movement. Even now, protesting this, Liu leaned heavily upon her, in no condition to fight. 

“Guess it’s not, Liu—stand back and watch.” Johnny would hear no more, turning toward his opponent and shouting. “I accept your terms, Shao Kahn—winner take all.” I mean, I’m not gunna take over outworld, but like… it sounds pretty good when I say it out loud, his fevered brain nattered.

He must win. Raiden’s own, incomprehensible words came back to him in a sickening echo he still wondered, even now, to whom his future self had been referring. He had been so sure it was Shao Kahn, but that sureness had nearly killed his chosen champion. He met Liu Kang’s furious gaze.

“By the rules of Mortal Kombat, the challenge must be taken up by the one who declared it. I am sorry, Liu Kang, but this fight indeed belongs to Johnny Cage.”

Johnny heard his name, but no more. He was focused, utterly and completely, upon Shao Kahn, who stood a few yards hence, leaning upon the head of his hammer and observing the company with such arrogance, it turned Johnny’s guts. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his head upon broad shoulders. 

“Okay big guy, you heard the god. Let’s fuckin’ go.” He dropped into a deep stance and beckoned Shao Kahn. The tyrant chuckled, the sound a raspy, hollow thing, mirthless and full of contempt and triumph for a victory he had not yet won.

Johnny made the first move, using his distance to gain speed and launch into a combination of forceful, heavy kicks which utilized his size and the length of his legs. Shao Kahn blocked these with little effort and jabbed in return, hoping to push Johnny off balance. 

The years had made him wily and this was not the Johnny Cage that Shao Kahn remembered, so cocksure and arrogant, his insecurities showing upon his countenance like a glowing sign, pushed by his own self doubt to showboat and make light of his own skill. This Johnny was an old veteran of many ugly fights; he was vicious, clever, and quick. 

Using the tyrant’s momentum against him, Johnny ducked around him and launched into a hard kick to the back of Shao Kahn’s head. This, the tyrant bore with an enraged snarl, a stumble, and a wide, arcing swing of the hammer. That swing, too, Johnny dodged, spitting in his opponent’s direction. “Gunna hafta do better’n that, slugger!”

“So your arrogance has not been tempered,” Shao Kahn commented. “Good, good. That will make your defeat all the more satisfying.” He laughed viciously and swung the hammer down, shaking the ground around them. Johnny found himself out of sorts for a moment, but it was long enough for Shao Kahn to catch him up in one hand, tossing the hammer aside and plying both powerful limbs to their grim task. He lifted Johnny over his head and began to bend. “Do you see your champion, Thunder God?”

Raiden, formerly watching with a mask of impassive disinterest, was suddenly assaulted by visions of Johnny Cage, broken nearly in two, over the shoulders of this selfsame tyrant. He could hear Shao Kahn’s triumphant laugh, the horrified scream of Sonya Blade, the heartbroken, barely-audible moan of Liu Kang. As he blinked, the entire scene flashed behind his eyes and, without thinking, he stretched forth one hand and fired a bolt of pure, blue-white lightning.

With a single shot, Raiden, god of thunder and protector of earthrealm, ended it all. 

Shao Kahn was vapor, dust in the light breeze that had begun to pick up. Johnny picked himself up, heart hammering once more, and looked between the two. Shao Kahn had been mere moments from snapping him in half, powerful hands crushing him wherever they reached, his back beginning to feel the strain of the man’s prodigious strength when, all at once, it was over and he was on the ground. 

Coughing and righting himself, Johnny’s only thought was for the thunder god and he rushed back to where Raiden stood, staring, shocked (there was a pun here someplace), at his own hand, as if he had never before seen it. The amulet, curiously, remained upon his chest, unused, bearing no mark of having been harnessed.

“I…” Raiden stammered as Johnny reached him. The others now turned their attention upon Johnny Cage and Raiden, who had sunk to the ground together, Johnny’s rough hands finding either side of Raiden’s face. They were murmuring—mostly Johnny, in point of fact—and no one was sure if they should get close. Liu Kang directed them away and gestured that they ought to start dealing with the portal, which was still open and the merging, which was, indeed, continuing its inexorable work. He hoped, silently, that the Elder Gods actually did decide to step in, because he was no sorcerer, nor was he a god and could not see himself becoming either in the near future.

“Hey,” Johnny hissed, “it’s okay—it’s gunna be fine… You finished it, y’know? It’s—”

“It is not over, Johnny Cage,” responded the god, eyes downcast. “I have upset the balance; the Elder Gods will be furious. The consequences—”

“Seriously,” Johnny interrupted, “fuck the Elder Gods—what’ve they done for us, huh?” Raiden’s eyes opened wide at these words of blasphemy and he reached out to grasp the lapels of Johnny’s vest.

“You know not of what you speak, Johnny Cage,” warned Raiden. Johnny hated that fearful look on Raiden’s face. It was foreign and wrong and did not belong there. Johnny scowled deeply.

“I know a thing or three about shit parents… Listen, this whole… fatherhood thing, y’know, it blows sometimes—no offense Cass; I love ya pumpkin—and it’s… like a never-ending cavalcade of horseshit, nonsense, and doubt.” He shook his head. “I had ONE. I can’t imagine being the… like, dad of a whole-ass world…realm… thingy.” Pursing his lips, Johnny searched for his next words, choosing them carefully. “We spend our whole damn lives worrying and wondering if we did all we could—if we fucked up somewhere along the way and if that… y’know, if it caused more pain than it should’ve, or… more than we knew at the time, or could ever know.” He sighed. “And yeah, it’s gunna do that—it will do that. You’re going to hurt your kids and sometimes meaning well isn’t the be-all, end-all… the ends don’t always justify the means and all that shit… But the bottom line here is that a good parent does THAT, y’know, looks back and… worries… about the process. Getting there ain’t always half the fun, big guy—and frankly, whoever-the-fuck got you here, where you are right now? They’re not the good kind. Just sayin’.”

Raiden looked as if he had never been told that the Elder Gods were poor parents. He looked as if he had never considered them parents at all, which Johnny supposed made sense, since they weren’t exactly physical beings or whatever, but sometimes, one had to wonder at the “my ways are higher than your ways” explanation. He, still holding either side of Raiden’s face, pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “We’re gunna be all right, man—I promise. I… we… no one’s gunna let anything happen to you—y’know or earthrealm, or whatever.” He had clearly run out of words, for the time being.

“Thank you, Johnny Cage,” whispered Raiden solemnly. “Your faith and fair words mean more to me than you can know.”

“Ah, one more thing, though.” Evidently, Johnny was not completely out of words. “Just… Just Johnny, please? Whenever I hear the whole thing, I kinda assume I’m in deep shit—y’know and y’really don’t wanna go there with a god—‘specially not the kind who can do… y’know, what you just did.”

Raiden regarded what he had just done very carefully, then regarded Johnny. This, he supposed, was a request he could grant, but it felt strange, not addressing him that way.

“If I am correct, then we are, all of us, in ‘deep shit’.”

“Lord Raiden,” Liu Kang called, hobbling toward them. “Forgive me, but that portal isn’t closing itself and I…”

Raiden shook his head and stood, grasping Johnny’s hands and pulling the man with him. “I will make this right,” he promised, stepping away from the mortals and lifting into the air. Once more, energy crackled all around, but it bore the tranquil, blue-white glow that they were accustomed to seeing. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief at that.

Cassie approached her father slowly. He seemed dazed. She could have slapped him, but she wasn’t sure that wouldn't trigger some kind of heart attack. Johnny’s eyes were wide, fixed on the hovering thunder deity. 

“You ah… okay, dad?”

“I don’t… I dunno, kid. I’m not sure. But he is… and right now, that’s kinda what we need.”

[eltanin-malfoy]

Get A Grip III - Epilogue

pairing : draco/fem-y/n 

word count : 3.3k

warning(s) : mentions of healing/PTSD/war/sex, lots of fluff.

requested : sort of??

a/n : i just wrote this in one sitting! lol. i hope this is satisfying?? i know a lot of my stuff ends on cliffhangers so I decided not to do that for this one. give me some feedback pls! love u! hopefully this doesn’t come off as rushed??

tag list : @kaibie​  @acciodracoo​  @drawlfoy​  @war-sword​  @socontagiousimagines​

Part I II

Y/N’s life as a healer was nothing short of tedious on paper. But she still loved it.

After having received specialised training for treating those impacted by war, trauma and violence post her basic healing certification, her schedule remained full, full, full, thanks to the Second Wizarding War, of course. Everyone and their mother was impacted and gravely so. Thanks to the Ministry’s work towards spreading awareness about the mental implications of war and trauma, everyone had been encouraged to seek support. 

Her ward at St. Mungo’s remained constantly occupied, with the people who were permanently disabled as a result of the violence of the war taking up beds and pretty much being forced to spend the rest of their lives there. It was heartbreaking, but she had to keep her head up high and help them move on. She’d been lucky enough to be able to cool down the impacts the war had had on her in time enough to complete her schooling and be able to work towards achieving the goal she had desired ever since her seventh year at Hogwarts.

Her clinic times were full as well, with her having to both counsel and treat afflicted patients. There were some familiar faces here and there, old friends and teachers and classmates from Hogwarts. And also, the others who’d been in the cellar along with her. Sure, a hospital wasn’t an ideal destination for her to meet others, but it was the only place she seemed to have time for. The little time she got off, she’d stay home, reading up and attempting to expand her knowledge of post traumatic stress disorder based on Muggle research. (Someone had to put in the effort for the rest of the Wizarding World, right?) Romance wasn’t something she put effort into anymore. Sure, she’d had a few affairs, but.. she wasn’t actively looking for something, not when she was so busy. 

But sometimes, the best things come when you least expect them to. 

Y/N was sitting at her desk, writing off yet another prescription of Potion for Dreamless Sleep (something that was so greatly helpful to those suffering with mental illness, you’d never have thought!) for a previous patient. She soon finished writing notes about the frequence of the dosage they were permitted and charmed the parchment to go to the patient’s hand. 

She checked her list and almost froze as she read the name of her next patient. 

Malfoy, Draco. 

Age : 27. (D.O.B. : 5th June, 1980.)

Blood Status : Pureblood. 

Nationality : British.

Ailments : 

Diagnosed with PTSD at 18. Now mostly recovered. 

Suffered severe physical damage and faced Cruciatus curse at a young age, has some sensitivity to loud noises, flashing lights, etc.

Suffered dark magic curse at 16, left with minor scarring on abdomen. No other permanent effects.

Hereditary concerns : skin hypersensitivity, family history of osteoporosis.

Prescriptions : 

Potion for Dreamless Sleep. (Taking regularly for 10 years.)

There was a name she hadn’t seen in years. She’d thought about him, sure. But they hadn’t stayed in contact at all. She usually learned the most about him through the Daily Prophet, where she’d recently learnt he’d been seen talking to a woman at a party. Huh. There really wasn’t much to report about anymore, it seemed. Maybe that was something to be grateful about?

Most of what was on his sheet was expected, when she’d last seen him, at Hogwarts, during their 8th year, which most of the others in their year had chosen to forego, she remembered he was still taking the potion. The only oddity was his continued prescription.. most patients would basically be ‘weaned’ off of it by their fourth or fifth year of treatment.. why had Draco been taking it for twice that long?

Either way, she kept staring at her door a bit nervously, awaiting his entry. There was a soft knock at the door and she bit down on her lip. “Come in.” And then.. He.. walked in. 

She offered him a smile and ushered him over to the chair in front of her desk.

 “Hello, Draco.” 

He was wearing dark robes, his height still prominent as he stepped into the room. His hair seemed to be a bit longer than she remembered it, a few pale strands covering his forehead but still styled meticulously. He seemed obviously more mature, and a bit less skinny than the boy she remembered. There were slight wrinkles on his face, under his eyes, which could again be traced back to the stresses of war, most likely.  

“Good afternoon, Y/N.” He looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “I.. I recognised your name but I didn’t know whether it was really you. I should’ve brou-” For some reason, she forced out a slight giggle. “That’s no-no problem at all, really. I was a bit surprised when I saw your name too.”

“I usually have my check ups with uh.. Healer Bole? I thought it was him again, but the name on the door confused me.” “He’s taken some time off these past few days. That’s why they must have assigned you to me instead.” “I suppose…”

Y/N looked straight into his eyes as an awkward silence rose into the room. His grey pupils stared right back at hers, blinking very slowly. What were you supposed to talk about with someone you’d been close to ten years prior? 

Oh, right, she was supposed to be healing him. Thank god there was no need for any actual small talk between them. 

“So, what brings you here today? If you need counselling or anything, I probably shouldn’t do it since we know each other personally an-” “Oh, oh, no. I just needed to refill my prescription.” “For Potion of Dreamless Sleep?” “Yes.” “Right.. Before I do that, could I ask you about it..?” “Um, sure?”

“Well.. I wanted to know.. how come you’ve been taking it for so long? I don’t know if you know, but patients are only recommended to take it regularly for a maximum of five years.”

“I.. I need it. I can’t sleep without it. The nightmares are still awful.” “But you’ve been.. taking it regularly ever since th-”

“I have.” “So.. how do you know the nightmares are just as bad?” “Well.. um.. I’ve tried sleeping without it, it didn’t work out well for me.” “For a night?” “Yes.” “Well, I’d like for you to try it again, for a few nights. We can send in a nurse for you, if you want.”

He looked at her with a slightly pained, irritated expression.

“Must I..? Bole would give me the prescriptions just fine.” She hesitated for a second, then thought through what he’d just said. “Bole was.. making a mistake, I think. Did he know you’d been taking it for that long?” “I’ve been seeing him all along.” “You’re kidding!” “I’m not..”

Wow, had she just discovered her colleague had been engaging in medical malpractice? Taking the easy way out of a complicated situation? Surely, there had to be more to this, right?

“Did he never ask you to try..?” “He did, but after I told him it didn’t go well the first time he seemed fine with just continuing to prescribe it to me.” “I see..” Hmm. Bole had definitely not done the right thing. It sounded terribly lazy. He was risking Draco developing an addiction just so that he wouldn’t have to put in actual effort to heal him. When dealing with a case as such, patients were often kept in the ward for observation, but obviously Bole hadn’t even brought up the possibility of the same to Draco. A complaint was going to have to be filed, it seemed.

“I hate to inform you of this, but I feel Bole might have done the wrong thing in this case.”

“Oh..?” “Yes, I will again insist you try to forego potion for a few nights. There are major potential implications of using it for as long as you have, and we can avoid any actual damage if we can have you give it up soon.”

“But.. Y/N.. I..” “Come on.. “ She bit at the inside of her cheek. “Like I said before, we can have a nurse come in for you and observe. And also.. It’s Healer Y/L/N to you, Mr. Malfoy.” He smirked at this and set his hands on his lap, taking a deep breath. 

“You know what, Healer Y/L/N? I might be willing to try.. but.. I don’t want a nurse to come in. I want you to.”

Her eyes widened and she reached for the quill on her desk, fiddling with its fibres. When an ex challenged you as such, were you supposed to take it? The feelings he used to stir inside of her had long faded and she was sure the both of them had moved on as much as the other had, it was a mutual break up, in the end. Was this supposed to be related to that..? Was he.. Actually interested? Or was he just playing games? 

Did it even matter? Life was getting a little boring. Something a little out of the ordinary for her would be fun, for sure.

“You know what? Sure.”

***

It was seven o’clock on Friday evening when she finally finished up with all her work at St. Mungo’s and headed home, ready for the night that lay ahead of her. 

She slipped out of the lime green uniform robes she wore to work and went through her wardrobe, confused. What the hell was she supposed to wear? Definitely not something inappropriate, not something overly casual, and not something too fancy either. In the end, she was going over to his place to watch him sleep, and hopefully manage to sleep herself, not to sleep with him. (She was quite tired, admittedly.)

In the end, she decided to wear a pair of pyjamas (white with purple stripes!) just out of spite. Would it be a turn off? Huh, possibly. Would it be funny? For sure. Would it be embarrassing? ..maybe, but hopefully not.

And so she did exactly that and apparated to his home. One she’d only visited years and years ago. 

It was just as grand as it was then. Probably a bit more wellkept now. Obviously so, since it had been 10 years since the war had struck.. since she’d been trapped inside that very cellar. And for a second, she just stood there, processing her memories. She was not going to let the sight of this house cause her to relapse, absolutely not. It had been years. Many years since then. She’d gotten over it. She didn’t need to think about it. 

Slowly but steadily, she made her way through the gate and into the estate. The hedges were gorgeous, trimmed to perfection and even with the sun down, the lamps set every few steps along made everything look even more.. perfect. Draco really did live in the lap of luxury. He always had.

She walked to the door and used the snake-shaped door knocker (Christ!) a couple times, staring up at the tall hardwood door as it suddenly opened. 

And of course, it was him. Him. In a blue cotton button up shirt and silky pyjamas. Cute.

“Good evening, Healer Y/L/N. Do come in. Nice outfit.” He took a step back and held the door open. “Good evening, Mr. Malfoy.” She stepped in, looking around curiously. 

It was all different. Draco had switched up the layout considerably. Gone was the dark and gloomy aesthetic that had presided over the interior of the house before. Everything was white now. Off-white, perhaps, like the color you’d call marble. The palatial chandeliers still hung from the ceilings, but that was all that remained the same. Everything else was brighter. She was glad to see it was so.

“Having a look around, are we?”

“Well, what do you expect, Draco? It’s been.. so many years.. It looks beautiful, by the way.” “Thank you, interior design by yours truly.” “I thought as much.. your taste has improved a bit, I’d say.” She smiled up at him.

The change was definitely helpful towards her not feeling panicked at the sight of the place. It actually looked.. inviting, to some extent. 

“Glad to hear you think so, Healer.” “Right, so, were you going to get to bed?” “This early? I thought we were going to have dinner first.” “I.. had some dinner at work. Quite a bit, actually.” “That’s too bad.. I just had Golby set out the table for us. Nice food too.”

“You can have it, if you like. I’m just here for work, am I not?” “.. Y/N..” He rolled his eyes. “No formalities between us, please.” “It’s not a formality. It’s protocol.”

He set his hand on her shoulder and she almost winced. “Please? For me?” “Ugh.. fine.”

***

Sitting beside him on the table brought back memories. Pleasant ones. Of all the times they had together. The first true ‘moment’ they had between them wasn’t one she liked looking back at all that much. It was unpleasant and could still trigger an anxiety attack. 

But everything after..

She could remember the joy that had filled her upon seeing Draco stumble into Shell Cottage that same day. He was wounded, badly, but he was alive. He could be healed. She’d helped Fleur as much as she could with all the healing after that point, and she took up a mattress right next to where Draco had been put to sleep, and she took care of him, personally. He was beyond grateful, as he’d told her a few days later.

And she was beyond grateful to Harry and Ron. They’d actually listened to her when it would have been so easy to just ignore her. She knew they’d hated him like anything at school, and it had truly elated her to see Draco again, actually alive. 

They’d spoken to Draco and he was actually willing to help them. He told them of the plans he knew the Death Eaters were working on. It wasn’t quite a lot to go off of, since apparently, You-Know-Who had begun to distrust the Malfoy family, but it was still helpful. Draco even told her he basically saved their lives by lying for them, and they’d basically returned the favour. She wasn’t sure about the specifics, really. All she knew was that they’d somehow balanced out what they owed each other. 

They’d spent a while at Shell Cottage before being moved over to a different safe house. Draco was the Death Eater’s biggest target at that point, and he had grown very, very scared. For some reason, it was decided that the two of them would go to the Tonks’ house. To Andromeda’s house. To Draco’s estranged aunt’s house. He felt even more afraid.

She’d been shunned out of their family! All because she’d eloped with a muggle born. He was afraid she wouldn’t take much of a liking to him, but.. it was completely different to what he’d anticipated. She welcomed with open arms, treated him like her own son. Everything was just fine. Or at least that’s what it seemed like.

The ‘Battle of Hogwarts’ came to fruition before them and the two of them stayed far from it, the lack of wands rendering them useless in such chaos. Obviously, after the conflict, they were off in search of their families. Draco’s was glad to have him back alive, as was hers. They’d apparently fled from the country the instant they realised she’d been kidnapped by the Death Eaters. 

But.. of course.. she was then forced to spend quite a lot of time at St. Mungo’s. PTSD. Thankfully, she was far from alone. Practically every other person even partly involved with the conflict was also undergoing some sort of treatment post war. And right after a particular therapy session, when Draco’d asked her to join him for a pint at the Leaky Cauldron, was when repressed feelings came out into the open and she kissed him. 

And that was that, really. 

They were inseparable for the next year. The ‘eighth years’ at Hogwarts, which consisted of several students looking to get the NEWT’s they’d missed out in the year prior, were banded together most of the time, and Draco and Y/N seemed to be joined at the hip. Well, until they weren’t anymore.

It was a mutual agreement. Neither of them were treating it very seriously and they had things to focus on. It ended on a positive note, with a little giggle between them and a hug. They were teenagers, after all.

But now, ten years later, she wasn’t sure why all those feelings were coming right back. Making her blush when he spoke to her. Goddammit. Why did Draco have to get cuter as he got older?

Soon enough, it was time for bed. They’d chatted for nearly an hour just at the dinner table and Y/N suggested he try sleeping earlier than usual, just for observation’s sake. And so he led her into his bedroom, shutting his door behind the two of them.

“Should I.. get you a mattress?”

“That would be nice.” “Actually.. wait... I..” She stared up at him curiously, smoothing back her hair. All of a sudden he grabbed ahold of both of her hands and pulled her forward, closer to him. 

“Draco, I-”

“No, I have a confession to make…” He took a deep breath. “I might have had.. intentions.. calling you over here. Doing all of this, really.” “You.. what?” “I asked them to schedule my appointment with you instead. I kind of.. missed you.” “..Oh?” “I totally get it if you don’t want anything.. romantic with me. I’m fine just being friends. I.. I don’t think you’re in a relationship, but of course, I could be wrong.. I just.. I.. we were so good together, you know?” “We were.” “We just.. got each other. You were so kind to me. Why did we even.. end us..?”

“It was a mutual thing, remember?” “I know but.. I like you, you know?” That made her cheeks flush more than she’d care to admit.

“You do?” “I do. I.. didn’t really need the potion when we’d.. sleep together. You’d just.. I don’t know how you did it.. But I’d feel calm with you. Around you. There’s no better candidate for a healer, really. I was thinking that you’d be very, very good.. and I was right, you were. You.. did the right thing, didn’t you?” 

This was so out of nowhere. She should be more shocked, shouldn’t she? But why was she feeling like she was on cloud nine?

“I like you too.” was all she could manage out. He looked at her for a second before giving her a wide, wide grin. 

“I can’t believe you pretended you didn’t know it was me! Was that just because you couldn’t be arsed to get me chocolates or something?”

“Uh.. well.. Maybe.” He laughed and she did too, playfully hitting the side of his arm. “I’ll get you some if you want them so badly. I have.. better gifts to offer you.” He winked.

“Draco!” She shook her head. 

“Fine. As you wish, Healer.” She just rolled her eyes at him and stared at him with the most sincere smile she could manage. He pulled her even closer towards him, bringing a hand up and setting it on her cheek. His eyes were suddenly on hers and she leaned up towards him, puckering her lips. 

And then their lips met. It was the most familiar feeling in the world and yet the most electrifying. Everything was soft and sweet and perfect. All their wounds were healed and they knew anything that still hurt would only get better. 

All was well.

[quentinblack]

Smoke and Mirrors 

Chapter 6: Dean I - I Should Have Just Gone To Eton (link to full story on FF.net)

Featuring: Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley 

Word Count: 4K words

Dean looked around desperately at the various signs signalling all of the different departure gates as he walked through the main entrance.

Gatwick Airport was an absolutely massive place and he’d never been to an airport by himself before, so he was finding it very difficult to navigate.

It was all a lot easier travelling internationally by portkey, but that was too risky – at least this way there would be no trace of him.

Professor McGonagall had sat down with each and every muggle-born student before the end of the last year and explained the likelihood of what was to happen.

Dumbledore was dead, which meant it would not be long before You Know Who moved against The Ministry – and who knew what might happen to the muggle-born population of Wizarding Britain. She had taken the bold decision to wipe the records of every single muggle-born student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so that they would be protected as best they could be if You Know Who and his followers were to purge or take control of the school over the summer. It was almost as if she knew something they didn’t.  

Dean had been one of the most outspoken students in the initial meeting with his Head of House. He had been adamant that he wasn’t going anywhere and would return to school. He wasn’t a coward. He was a Gryffindor!

But he had read and heard of terrible things happening over the summer. The Daily Prophet was ramping up disdain for muggle-borns – and whilst watching and reading the muggle-news there were many events that were very evidently influenced by dark wizards and Death Eaters, even if the muggles themselves were blissfully unaware of that fact.

It was his Mum who had made the decision for him in the end. At first she had been very strong-willed and stubborn that he was to go. This tactic didn’t work on him, but when she started crying and guilt-tripping him instead he quickly relented.

He couldn’t let her down so he agreed to go and live with his step-sister in America until it had all blown-over, although deep down he knew it would only get worse – and soon Wizarding Britain would be in open war with You Know Who and his army of Death Eaters, Dementors and worse. He just wished he could have done his bit and been part of it.  

It hadn’t been too much hassle to sort out his departure. He’d had to get a passport and a VISA, but that was no bother really. Bruce had managed to do most of it for him. Bayley was based in Los Angeles for work and had a spare room in her apartment, so he would go and live with her and see what happened. She said she would be able to get him a job and he was reasonably excited about the move. At the very least it would be a nice new start.

The check-in process at the airport had been simple enough. Dean had only taken a small carry on-bag so he didn’t have anything for the hold.

He put his suitcase onto the security conveyor belt to go through the X-Ray, then as it slowly made its way in, Dean wondered what the border officer was seeing on the reading on his screen. That small suitcase he’d picked up from Wiseacre’s in Diagon Alley had about two full 15KG hold bags worth of stuff in it. It was a real test of magic vs muggle technology.

Who would win in this battle of airport security scanners and undetectable extension charms?

It seemed that the wizards had taken the victory as the stern staff of the airport barely raised an eyebrow when his bag went through. The metal detector failed to go off when he walked through it with his wand in his jacket pocket. Of course his wand was made from cedar and the heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon, so it shouldn’t have gone off anyway, but that didn’t dispel his nerves when he walked through it.

He had to remind himself that it was, after all, a metal detector, not a magic detector – and even if the airport staff had have found his wand, they would’ve just thought he was just an oddball that was carrying some weird kind of stick.  

Dean retrieved his bag from its tray and after putting it with the other collection of discarded trays he strolled through to the departure lounge.

There was still at least an hour before he would be able to board the long-haul flight, so to kill some time he thought he would wander through Duty Free. He soon regretted that choice though.

As soon as he walked in he was flanked by massive posters and cardboard cut outs of the muggle band Oasis. It all seemed to be advertising a new album being released called ‘Be Here Now’ and the poster showed what looked like a massive country house, with the members of the band dotting around outside standing in-front of a moped, whilst a white car was sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool.

Dean never had much time for Brit-pop bands like Oasis, Blur or The Stone Roses. His best friend, Seamus, was very much a fan though and often loved blasting their songs in their Gryffindor dormitory. He could just about make out the lyrics of what must’ve been a new single.

A cold and frosty morning there’s not a lot to say,

About the things caught in my mind,

As the day was dawning my plane flew away,

With all the things caught in my mind,

And I want to be there when you’re

Coming down,

And I want to be there when you hit the ground,

So don’t go away, say what you say,

But say that you’ll stay,

If the racket of the music wasn’t enough of an annoyance - the one thing that Dean hated most about muggle shops was the staff’s tendency to constantly badger you. Within a minute of browsing the aftershave section he had been harassed by four different people trying to shove samples in his face.

There was Armani, Versace, then Dior and Issey Miyake and Hugo Boss too. He was sure there was one that he would’ve really liked, but having test strips shoved in his face every time he tried to look had put him off going anywhere near them.

A pretty young red-headed girl advertising the latest Chanel release stopped him in his tracks though. She had piercing brown eyes, just like Ginny’s. The girl blushed slightly when she noticed that he was staring at her – he snapped himself out of it, feeling quite embarrassed.

He’d moved on from Ginny now.

Well, mostly.

He held no real ill-will to her or Harry, but he was quite disappointed at how it had all worked out. He thought everything had been going pretty swimmingly with her and he didn’t really know why they’d argued as much as they did by the end of it.

Dean had always tried to do right by her. He’d hold doors open for her, stand-up for her if anyone ever spoke out of line to her in-front of him and always insist on paying on every date they went on. She had called it controlling and patronising, but he was just trying to be nice and he knew that she didn’t have a lot of money so he didn’t like letting her split the bill like she would often suggest.

During one particularly-heated row she’d told him that she wasn’t a damsel in distress that needed saving, yet on numerous occasions she’d spoken in awe of how Harry had saved her in the Chamber of Secrets. Dean had pointed this out to her, which to put it lightly, had not gone down too well.

One of the last straws of their relationship had been when Cormac McLaggen inadvertently fractured Harry’s skull by hitting him with a bludger by accident. Dean hadn’t quite realised how serious the injury had been at first and he’d had to laugh at Cormac’s gross incompetence – as he’d flown past Ginny he’d made a joke about how You Know Who had spent years trying to kill Harry, yet after all that Cormac McLaggen might beat him to it if he wasn’t careful.

Ginny hadn’t seen the funny side, yet even Ron and Harry himself had cracked a laugh when he’d mentioned what he’d said later in their dormitory. It didn’t matter what Ginny thought now though. He might well never see her or any of the others again.

Perhaps it was for the best.  

It took great effort but as he made his way through the store he managed to duck and dive out of the way of a man trying to sell him a ginormous toblerone, then dodged another trying to sell him a bottle of ludicrously expensive vodka. Dean couldn’t have even bought it if he had wanted to, as whilst he was considered of age by wizarding standards at 17 – it would still be a few months before he reached the legal age to drink in the UK as a muggle.

As he escaped Duty Free he saw a big stack of newspapers on a side-wall. The headlines all read ‘BROWN BLOWS BILLIONS ON BENEFITS AS LABOUR ANNOUNCE FIRST BUDGET’ and with it there was a still picture of a white man in a suit, with dark hair, who Dean guessed was in his mid to late forties, who was addressing a collection of journalists whilst standing in-front of a red banner that read ‘NEW LABOUR - NEW LIFE FOR BRITAIN’.

Dean didn’t care much for muggle politics. He turned the newspaper over to see what was on the back-page.

‘INTER MILAN BREAK TRANSFER RECORD TO LAND SAMBA STAR RONALDO’

That was more like it. Dean pulled up a seat nearby, then eagerly read the article which described in detail how the Italian super club had spent an incredible 19.5 million pounds to buy the brilliant Brazilian from Barcelona.

He lowered the newspaper from his eye line slightly to check the departure board and see if his flight was boarding yet.  

“Oh, I sayyy…surely it can’t be…Dean Thomas?”

Dean didn’t immediately recognize the very ostentatious voice addressing him, but then he saw for his own eyes someone he’d shared the Hogwarts castle with for the best part of six years.

“Alright Justin, mate?”

“Dean! My goodness. It is you! What a surprise to see you here! I almost didn’t recognize you there for a second.”

Justin Finch-Fletchey had briefly broken away from who Dean assumed must be his parents. A very prim and proper white man, with old-fashioned spectacles and greased back hair, who Dean guessed was probably around forty-five and Justin’s father, followed his son but looked a bit hesitant.

“A friend of yours, Justin?” he asked, squinting curiously at Dean.

“Yes, Father. From school. You must excuse me for a moment. We have much to discuss,” Justin replied confidently, yet still very politely.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Don’t forget though, Justin… first class boards first so we mustn’t dither too long.”

And with that his Father headed back towards his Mother and they headed to what looked like the Ralph Lauren boutique store.  

“So… you’re upping sticks too, huh? Always knew you were a smart man,” Justin said in a slightly condescending, yet very light-hearted manner, patting Dean on the shoulder slightly as he winked.

“Yeah, well… I thought it was best to be on the safe side. Nobody knows what will happen if You Know Who does kick off a war. And with Dumbledore gone, well, not even Hogwarts is safe anymore so-

“Hogwarts was never bloody safe anyway! Especially for us. I was nearly killed by a murderous snake for Christ’s sake. If it hadn’t been for that irritating ghost I would have been,” Justin scoffed, quite understandably still annoyed at his petrification in their second year.

Dean had dodged a bullet that year to be fair. The basilisk had made short work of many muggle-borns in the school, even several in his own year, but he’d somehow managed to avoid the potentially lethal glare of the giant serpent, more through luck than any kind of skill or planning.

“I wouldn’t have minded it that much,” Justin began. Dean knew that some kind of rant was coming.

“But that old fool Dumbledore didn’t even have the humility or self-respect to go to the Ministry of Magic for help. He was too concerned about the school’s reputation that he left several students petrified indefinitely. You can’t tell me that St Mungo’s couldn’t have cooked up a remedy within a few days? It was farcical! Never would have happened if it had been going after the purebloods. It beggars belief that a society can have such a ridiculous order based entirely on social class.”

“Yeah, terrible…” Dean managed to mutter out.

He’d never spoken to Justin that much particularly, perhaps that had been a good decision as he seemed to have all the self-awareness of a goldfish.

Dean thought it best to try and change the subject. He had never been particularly close to Albus Dumbledore, but he wasn’t exactly going to stand here and let Justin shit-talk a dead man he had at least held a lot of respect for. It did also seem a bit rich for him to be criticising their former Headmaster, when Justin himself had been a member of a group named Dumbledore’s Army for several years.

“So where are you heading then?” he asked neutrally.

“We’re flying out to Los Angeles. Father has got a transfer at work to the San Francisco office, so we’ll be based there for now. I might also shadow my Uncle if I get the chance. He works with the Foreign Office in Washington. He’s quite high up, you know,” Justin said very proudly, perhaps not all that aware of how he could be misconstrued as boasting.

“Oh that’s cool,” Dean said, doing his best to sound as interested as he could.

“How about you, lad? You heading to The States as well?” Justin enquired.

“Yeah, Los Angeles too,” he replied, trying to play down the fact that they were probably going to be leaving on the same plane. It really was a small world after all.  

“Ohhh snap,” Justin said, presumably thinking he sounded quite cool, but in his posh-voice he actually sounded as far from cool as it was humanly possible to be.  

“Yeah ha-ha… my sister lives out near Santa Monica so I’m going to go and live with her,” he added half-heartedly.

“Santa Monica, ehh? Right near Bel-Air? Why, you’ll be just like that coloured chap in The Fresh Prince!” Justin chided, positively under the impression that he’d just cracked the funniest joke anyone had ever heard. Dean didn’t really see the funny side, but chose to ignore the slightly offensive gag.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, doing his best to muster an awkward laugh and hide his annoyed demeanour.

“I’ll be a little sad to leave, you know. I won’t miss Hogwarts that much, nor the magic. No…I fear that was all a big waste of time now. I should have just gone to Eton like Father had planned. But it will be a shame to leave Oxford. We’ve got a really lovely house there. Of course, we won’t be downsizing in San Francisco, no if anything quite the opposite with house prices over there, but well, you can’t beat home. Where was your parent’s house?”

“Surrey,” Dean said quickly, which wasn’t technically a lie. Surrey was where people from Croydon told people they lived when they wanted it to sound fancier. If they wanted it to sound a bit cooler than they’d say they were from London, although anyone who lived in ‘proper’ London would fiercely argue that Croydon wasn’t really London at all.

“Lived there with my Mum and step-dad as long as I can remember. It’s a shame to have to leave them, but I guess it’s for the best.”

Dean didn’t fail to notice Justin’s slightly raised eyebrow when he’d said that he had a step-dad. He didn’t care what Justin thought of him though.

“Hmm, yes. Not to worry though, Deano. It’s a good time to be leaving Britain anyway really… with Labour back in power the country will soon be bankrupt anyway. It’s a disgrace how much they’re going to spend on welfare. Bloody lefties. You know, it’s actually the wizard’s fault that they got in anyway.”

“You think?” Dean asked in bewilderment.

He knew enough about Wizards to know that they didn’t care in the slightest about muggle politics, let alone know or care enough to actively influence who the Prime Minister was.

“Well yes, it’s obvious really, isn’t it? The Conservatives had no chance of winning the election given everything that’s happened in the last few years. They had enough on their hands with the bloody Irish, but look at all the extra problems they had from the wizards. Mass murderers on the loose. A government funded bridge collapsing unexpectedly. Those bloody Dementors roaming the country making everybody miserable. Poor old John Major never stood a chance! Of course there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t exactly come out and tell everyone that it was actually the incompetence of the wizarding government causing all of it.”

Dean wondered what would have happened if a British Prime Minister had gone on TV and announced to the public that wizards were behind all of the country’s problems. He guessed it would make a change from them blaming all of the foreigners and unemployed people.  

“With any luck they’ll all wipe each other out if there is a war,” Justin scorned.

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You don’t mean-

Justin reacted quickly to Dean’s incredulous response.

“Of course I don’t mean everyone at school. I mean you know, The Death Eaters and the Ministry forces. Almost as bad as each other if you ask me. Everyone else is far too young to be getting involved in a bloody war. Michael and Terry are both adamant they’re going to fight in any battle that they can,” Justin said as if it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

Dean had never been that fond of Michael Corner. It was nothing he had done personally, but he’d been Ginny’s ex-boyfriend, so Dean had to hate him on principle. He was emboldened by Michael and Terry Boot’s courage to fight though.

“I had a lot of fun at all of those DA meetings of course,” Justin mumbled.

“It was good to learn more spells from Potter and his friends for self-defence. But that night the Death Eaters raided the school and Professor Snape killed Dumbledore, well. That was it for me. It’s one thing training up for it and all, but I’m not willing to put my neck on the line to stay a part of the magical word. If everyone else wants to throw their life away, well more fool them. Some would call it bravery, but I say it’s just naivety. We’re not even 18, Dean. The days of teenagers being needlessly slain in pointless wars should be left behind in the 1940’s. We’ve made the right choice, pal,” he said solemnly, once again patting Dean on the shoulder.

It was at that moment that Dean suddenly began to question whether he had in-fact made the correct choice.

“You know, Zacharias Smith was even trying to recruit me for some kind of secret resistance movement his uncle is involved in,” he scoffed. “Told me to keep it all very quiet of course, but well, I suppose given the circumstances telling you won’t do any harm, will it?”

“Resistance movement?” Dean asked curiously. He hadn’t been asked to join any resistance movement.

“Yes. His Uncle is an Auror, isn’t he? On quite good terms with that Mad-Eye Moody fellow. He said they’re setting up a top secret resistance movement, recruiting some muggle-borns for some highly classified unofficial operation if You Know Who gets in power. Sounded like a bloody suicide mission to me. Well, as you can imagine, I practically laughed in his face at the idea. What sort of braindead moron would sign up for that?” he scorned.

“Yeah. Right…” Dean replied, but his head with racing with ideas. This was it. He’d wanted to stay and fight, but it wasn’t as if the Wizarding world had an army you could just sign up to when you were 17 like the muggles did. But if this resistance movement had been interested in recruiting Justin, then they’d surely take Dean too.

Dean looked past his old class-mate and saw that Justin’s parents were heading out of the boutique shop with several bags of clothes that they must’ve bought in there for some serious money.

“Ah, well, I suppose I best be off,” Justin murmured, having noticed this development himself.

“I’ll be sure to pop down from first class and come and see you during the flight,” the youngest member of the Finch-Fletchley clan said elegantly, as he reached out to shake Dean’s hand.

“Can’t wait, mate,” Dean replied, trying his best to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Justin’s handshake was almost like a metaphor for his whole character, half-hearted and weak.

“See you in a bit,” Justin said as a parting comment, which Dean mumbled a polite agreement too, although if Dean was honest he would’ve been pretty happy if he’d have never seen him again for the rest of his life.

As it would happen, Dean never boarded that flight bound for Los Angeles – and it would be four years before Dean, or anyone else in the Wizarding world would see or hear from Justin Finch-Fletchley again.

[the-professor-persists]

In Six Parts

It is absolutely unconscionable to post something this long on Tumblr. I'm really hoping you'll just forgive me... (warning for acknowledgement of the existence of sex)

Part one.

In which several things are revealed, not the least of which is that Harry Potter is apparently gay now. 

Well, no. Not gay. Pansy would kill him for saying gay. 

Do I constantly insist that you are straight Prince Malfoy of the ridiculous? Then stop saying I'm gay. I'm queer. Bi if you must, but enough with the gay.��

So. No. Not gay. 

But Draco knows the important part is the disastrous reality that if Harry Potter is capable of being attracted to men, as this first authorised biography would suggest, then Draco is even more pathetic than he was before. Because if there is a possibility of Draco's exhausting little crush being reciprocated, then the fact that they have been fighting even more than normal, and not just on the pitch, just becomes hopelessly depressing. 

The hate and anger have always made Harry sexy and alluring in very indecent ways, since Draco despised simpering affection or softness, preferred to have a bit of fight with his fuck. The only time Draco ever felt he was close to understanding Harry was when they had spent time together on the Quidditch pitch in years before. And that time is past. 

There is a war and a half between them now, and Draco understands less than ever about the world. 

Part two. 

In which Draco learns that Harry died. Not, 'was gravely injured or lost consciousness' or 'medically had no heart beat'. But actually fucking died. 

That awful, insedious man had had the audacity to fucking cease to exist for a moment. As though the world would have just carried on, unchanged. 

He is livid for the entire next day. He beats Harry in a head-to-head training ritual by using sheer brute strength, knocking one side of the podium off kilter so that it goes into Harry's path and he misses the snitch by a fraction of a second. The move is illegal, and Mora threatens him with a three game suspension, but Draco hits the showers feeling better. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Harry snipes at him a moment later, throwing his leather shin strap at Draco's head. He ducks neatly out of the way. 

"Pulling a dangerous fucking maneuver like that on a team mate in a practice." 

"Just get out of my way, Potter. Don't be a sore loser."

The sneer is fake and Harry seems to feel it. He scrunches up his nose, wrinkles his forehead, pauses for a second before huffing and walking away. Draco knows he'd have thrown a punch—or worse—had Potter asked him what was wrong. 

Part three. 

In which the details of the the few years after the war appear. It is more than Potter has ever been willing to divulge. Draco knows because he's read all the articles. 

The details are specific. The start of a very promising Ministry career, the painful burn out. The decision to try out for the Beacons, the minor league team that doesn't quite understand who they have on their pitch until they are faced with the best Seeker anyone has seen in over thirty years. The quick rise from the lower levels, fame upon fame dragging him out of the gutter against his will. 

Potter has been reclusive since the moment he joined the team. He doesn't travel to away games with them, doesn't stay in the same hotels, doesn't come to team meals. Draco thought he understood why; after all, it took him a year to be dragged away from his own ghosts and made to be human again. A year of badgering and pestering from the captains that if he wanted to be on the team, he had to learn to trust them. 

But no one seemed to badger Potter. It infuriated Draco. 

Until he reads part four. 

In which the government is using Potter as a political scapegoat. In which photos of his every romance, affair, and—most terribly, of family vacations with his very young God children—surface every time he tries to rejoin the public eye.

In which there is a price Potter has to pay for any haphazard, youthful mistake. A price that takes the form of his worst memories, all of which are lauded as heroism. A price of headlines that exclaim his return to normalcy, even a decade late. Harry Potter is not allowed to be 'Harry Potter, incredible, talented Quidditch star' without also being 'Harry Potter, saviour of the world'.

And Draco stops in his tracks. 

It's dumb, of course it is. He should have understood this about Potter's life. Fame is one step to the left of notoriety. Draco understands the latter more than anything else in the world. 

They have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off after travel games and Draco has gone home instead of to the pub. He's too tired, run ragged by being put on first string for the first time since Potter's arrival. The man himself took mysteriously 'ill', though Mora would give no details. 

Draco finishes the book on a Tuesday night, a glass of scotch in his hand. It's the third, or possibly fourth. He doesn't care that he is drunk, even though that is why the quote breaks him in half. 

"You took it all from me," Potter said patiently, holding out a book filled with cut out articles from the Prophet. "I was just a kid. No one seemed to care, ever, about that. All I want now is a minute to breathe. Maybe fall in love. Maybe even make some mistakes I'll regret in fifty years. Can anyone tell me that their hopes are different than that?" 

And no, Draco thinks. No one can say that their hopes are any different than that. 

He curses and cleans and eats too much cheese on Wednesday. It's a strange response, he agrees. But the book is clutched in his hand all morning Thursday as he gets ready to go back to the field. He doesn't have a plan. Shoves it in his bag as he takes up his broomstick, and quite honestly forgets all about it as they fly. The only thing stopping him from ramming Potter off his broom when he appears, twenty minutes late and pinch-faced, is that he is on thin ice with the league as it is. 

They play a friendly game, Mora calling for a quick, mid-air colour change. But Potter gets his transformation done first, donning the green jersey they use when they practice. The colour sets Draco off even more as they shake hands at centre pitch and wait for the release of the quaffle. 

Draco is distracted, so Harry finds the snitch quickly and easily. Thursday practices are short. Mora calls it moments later. He suspects she's a bit hungover. 

They all stomp back to the change rooms in a neat line, always on display in the practice pitch. The reporters' clicks are audible even from a distance, and Draco has to fight the urge to run up and sheild Harry with his cloak; the sensation reminds him that the biography is sitting, blazing Harry's photo in full view, on top of his bag. His face heats with embarrassment. 

In the change rooms, the normal cajoling begins. The team's won the past three games, so everyone is jovial and loving. The ribbing is gentle, only picking on things that are known to be safe. No mean laughter, even with Draco. For a minute, he wonders how it is possible he is included, at all, let alone treated the same. 

And it hits him. 

They have all moved on. The world has kept on spinning. He suddenly knows exactly what he will do. He grimaces because it isn't what he wants to do. 

What he wants is to wait for the room to clear, to corner Potter, who is always the last to leave—part of his secrecy, Draco suspects. He wants to wait and confront Potter, wave the book in front of his face and demand answers. 

He can see the scene clearly in his mind. Harry, damp and flustered, possibly still not wearing a shirt. Draco, tall and proud, telling him to get over himself and let the past be the past. He'd have Harry speechless in seconds, have him in his mouth a moment later. Draco on his knees on the hard ground, taking what he wanted and leaving no doubt behind. 

Or else in the doorway, up against a wall, dragging moans from the rubble of their past and waiting until Harry begged, jutting his groin against Draco's thigh with abandon until Draco finally conceded and took him in hand. 

Or maybe in the showers, waiting for permission from the next shower stream, muttering filthy things while he palmed himself, daring Potter to flee. Harry would not back down, because he was Harry Potter, and Draco was sure he wouldn't deny their obvious chemical attraction. And if he stayed, Harry could have him, right there, buried deep in the base of his spine until Draco forgot his own name. 

These were the things Draco wanted. But they were not the things Harry needed. For some reason, he cared about the difference. Draco cared. 

So instead, he waited as the room slowly emptied. As people went off, in twos and threes. Off to their days, their lives, their families. 

He waited on the bench, calmly holding the book, as Potter showered and emptied his locker. As he sat on his own bench, facing away from Draco.

"Heard you played well, Malfoy. On Saturday. Sorry I missed it." 

Draco resisted his quip, about how if he hadn't missed it, Draco wouldn't have played. He murmured what he hoped sounded like a grateful mumble. He stood. Slowly, he put his bag on his shoulder, turned and put the book on the bench beside Harry's toweled form. He let his eyes linger on his chest, let himself imagine a thousand more locker room fantasies that would never be enough. 

"Part five," he whispers, his voice soft and gruff despite his efforts to remain calm. He's hopeless. So attracted to this man his voice can't even remain neutral. He clears his throat and tries again. 

"Part five, in which two sworn enemies bury the hatchet over lunch," he asks, hesitant and nervous. "In which the asshole apologises, buys the pints, and tries desperately not to spend the whole hour staring at the hero's mouth." 

Harry stares at him. He picks up the book, opens the cover. It's a signed copy. Draco had been hoping he would never find that out, but somehow, he had always know they would end up here, with his infatuation spread out between them like a thick blanket.

Draco waits, breath caught.

Finally, Harry laughs a small laugh; it's a new sound to Draco, light and carefree. He's instantly addicted. He needs more of that sound. 

"I've been waiting for you to just pin me to a wall," Harry says simply, as though he's slightly disappointed. "But lunch sounds good. On two conditions." 

Draco tilts his head, captivated. Harry stands and steps toward him. Draco instinctively backs up, never having had a good experience Harry Potter advancing on him. 

"One," Harry says, holding up a finger, "that is the last time you ever use the word 'hero' around me." 

Draco nods. He can understand that. 

"And two," he continues, "we get the fact that I want to pin you down and snog you out of the way right now. Or else I won't be able to focus on the apology you plan on crafting."

Draco is approaching comprehension when his back hits the lockers and his knees buckle and Harry's soap is in his mouth as he presses his face to Draco's neck. 

"You took a long fucking time to figure this one out, Malfoy."

Draco technically hears the words, although he's preoccupied by the fact that they are murmured in between wide mouthed kisses along his windpipe. Harry pulls his face back, pins Draco's arms to his sides, leans in until their foreheads are touching. 

"Part six" he mumbles into Draco's lips as he presses down. "In which Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy probably should have just fucked in eighth year."

The kiss is not nearly enough. It is perfect, and uncomplicated, and it doesn't sear him the way he is anticipating. But it is not nearly enough. Draco smiles as Harry pulls away, turns away without even a pause, puts on a shirt and drags on some shorts. 

Lunch is as good a place as any to start correcting his mistakes. 

[halfgclden]

SWORDS | CHASE

trigger warnings: violence, blood, torture, teeth?

Chase woke up with a swift kick to the ribs. The soft groan he exhaled sent a wave of pain through his body, like he’d pressed on a wound that went far deeper than he could have imagined. The only thing that wasn’t on fire was the forearm folded under him, numb.

“Ah, good, you’re awake.” The voice was gruff, somewhat familiar, but not recognizable. A hand grabbed Chase by his hair and pulled him up so that he would look at them. It was one of the men from the fight. Chase clenched his teeth as he braced himself, and tasted blood again. There was definitely something wrong with his teeth, but he had other things to worry about.

He struggled and brought his knee up, but the man just slammed Chase’s face into the wall again. “No, no. You’re not going to do that. You’re going to tell us why you’re here. What you want with Mr. Fox.” Chase spit out a tooth and closed his eyes. He shook his head as best he could while it was being held against the wall. He was dropped to the floor again, and curled into a ball. “Okay, well if you’re not going to tell us, I guess we’ll have to ask your friend.”

Chase heard the sound of a door unlocking, a few footsteps, a whimper. He raised his head to see Ben, beaten within an inch of his life, a knife held to his throat. “Chase,” he croaked. “Don’t tell them any-“ He earned himself a jab to the ribs, which made Chase wince sympathetically.  

“Well?” The first man looked at Chase with a grin as the second moved the blade closer to Ben’s throat. Chase spit out another tooth.

“I’m… we’re looking for a hag,” Chase sobbed. “We’re trying to stop the nightmares, please. We’re just trying to help the town.” Another tooth fell from Chase’s mouth, and then another, and then, with a horrifying realization, Chase checked his eyes. He saw blue.

Chase melted into the wall, turned invisible, pushed himself away, away, and out.

•

Chase woke up, head hanging, and he opened his eyes but didn’t move, in case someone was in the room with him. He was in a chair, he was pretty sure, with his arms tied down to the arms of it, and, from what it felt like, his legs were tied as well. From the angle at which his head was dipped, he could see that he was wearing a pendant, but he remembered that the old one had been destroyed, so he figured that he must be dreaming. Chase pushed himself away, and out, and checked his eyes. He remained, and he saw nothing. This was real.

He stared at the pendant, trying to figure out what was off about it, but could barely manage to keep his eyes open. He clenched his teeth, mouth ringing in pain as he did, but even that didn’t help as he was ripped from consciousness, pushed into the astral sea, into the black and inky void.

•

There was something menacing in the way that the dogs’ jaws snapped when they ate, despite the fact that Chase could not see what they were eating. He didn’t know if he could smell the food, but he was salivating. It had been a long time since he’d eaten, they hadn’t fed him since they tied him up and left him here, presumably to die in some awful manner. Chase leaned his head back against the wall. They'd let the dogs in… he couldn’t tell if it had been days or hours ago, but it wasn’t as though he’d been counting the seconds. His mind swirled as he’d thought about how much time had passed.

One of the beasts approached him and licked his face, hot breath against cold skin. He wondered what they needed him for, how they’d gotten him there, if he was already dead or just going to die soon. He reached up and pet the tiger, who nodded, resting its head in Chase’s lap. There was something wrong, something told him. Maybe it was himself. He thought about not being tied up, and wasn’t anymore. He could have cried.

He stood, his tiger at his side, and called out to the hag. “If you want me, come face me! I want you here! Now!”

He was the child of Morpheus. He was dreaming. He could do this.

Chase saw her eyes before he saw the rest of her, sharp teeth and crooked angles. He was in a wasteland. There were crows, he was watching Milo die. Chase materialized a sword into his hand and held it out towards the hag. “You can’t fool me. I know I’m dreaming, I know Milo’s dead. I know this isn’t real.” He charged.

The sword met her arm, but she shifted, now taking the face of Milo, who was still on the ground near Chase. He gasped and sputtered as Chase hacked into him. “Why do you hate me? What made you leave and do this, Chase?” Milo sobbed, and Chase grit his teeth. He brought his foot up to kick Milo in the chest, and as the hag hit the ground, her appearance shifted, turning back into her. She looked up at Chase with fear in her eyes, and as he brought the sword down, it disappeared, turning to smoke in his hands. 

He called out angrily and dropped to his knees on top of the hag, bringing his elbow down on her chest, followed by two punches. “I’m going to kill you,” he growled, grabbing her by the collar of her ratty shirt. “I’m going to kill you for daring to look like my brother.” Chase punched the hag, and punched, and punched, and felt a hand on his side, a warmth as he was ripped from the dream.

•

Chase struggled when Caspar first touched him, but he went limp in Ellie’s arms. His eyes fluttered open. He breathed heavily, still waking up. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around at their panicked faces. “Was I yelling?”

Caspar looked horrified, at a loss for words. Ellie was on the phone, speaking rapidly through tears for someone to come. Chase realized that he was sitting on a body. “Guys, please…” He looked at his hands. There was blood. He felt sick. “What.. what happened?”

The body below him didn’t move, but Chase knew that he was in Jesse’s room. He felt sick. “Guys…”

Chase looked down, finally facing the bloody mess that he knew was Jesse. He didn’t move. Jesse’s name caught in Chase’s throat, and he pressed a hand to his chest. There was a faint heartbeat. “Guys, guys, we have to… we have to get him to the hospital!” There was so much blood it covered Chase up to his elbows. “Guys,” his voice cracked.

Ellie and Caspar were gone. He couldn’t tell if they’d left or if they were never there. All there was was Chase and the mangled corpse that was once his brother. Blood seeped through the sheets, soaking Chase’s legs.

•

Suddenly, Chase was awake. His head was hanging, his arms were wrapped to those of a chair. He slowly lifted his head, and was met with a bright smile. “Hello, Chase Peterson.”

Chase stared at Vernon Fox, haggard, still shaking from the dream he’d been ripped out of. He spat at his feet, earning himself a slap across the face. “I’ve heard you made a habit of that.” His teeth felt like they were vibrating in his mouth.

“Chase, I am going to speak, and you are going to listen, okay?” Vernon didn’t wait for a response before he continued on. “You and your friend have done a terrible job at covering your tracks, so I know that you are after me, gathering information, trying to find some way to stop me, yes?”

Chase just blinked at him and didn’t speak.

“Yes,” Vernon responded to himself, smile gleaming. “I know that you are a son of the god of dreams, and that the hag can steal your power to grow more powerful. Did you know this, Chase? Did you know that with each dream you have, you are only making the hag, and me, stronger?”

Chase didn’t know where he was going with this. He thought about his eyes and saw only the man in front of him.

“You see, Chase,” each time Vernon said his name, a shot of adrenaline ran through Chase. He needed to hit him. He needed to break free. “I don’t know much about how this dream world mumbo jumbo works, but I’ve found out that I can control it with this.” He produced a chain with a pendant, almost identical to the one that Morpheus had given to him, but inverted. He’d seen it around his neck the last time that he woke up. The inside of the pendant swirled, and Chase licked his lips, still silent.

“And while I’m not exactly… acquainted with magic and all that, I do know this; that if someone is taking something from you to make themselves stronger, you’re only getting weaker as a result, yes?” He paused to let Chase answer, and sighed when he didn’t get one. “Yes. The answer is yes. Do you feel weak, Chase? Do you feel as though we are sucking the life out of you?”

Chase thought about the town, about how its resources were being pulled away from it to feed this man, to line his pockets, to add fuel to his fire. He was a parasite, glutting himself on the things that the town produced. 

“You have the ability to trick people, right? To make them see things and think things that aren’t real? Imagine that power combined with how strong the hag is now.” His smile was sharp.

Chase shook his head and didn’t answer. He thought about how the people they’d met praised Vernon, how long they’d been sapping his power for, how much he could have contributed to it already. He struggled against the ropes to see if they would give, and Vernon let out a friendly laugh as he brought the back of his hand across Chase’s face again. 

“Chase, you will not escape unless I let you out, do you understand?” Chase could taste blood. He tipped his head back as he looked at Vernon, a fire growing in his chest. He would escape. He willed it, he knew it, he could escape. It would be the cards that Jacob had pulled, teamwork, balance restored, homecoming and celebration. Prophets could not be wrong.

Vernon leaned down a bit so that he was eye level with Chase. “Nobody is coming to get you. Your friend is dead. And you will end up the same way unless you agree to work with me.”

Chase drew his eyebrows together, and Vernon sighed. “Look, I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want to have to kill anyone. I’m fine with letting you help me out, I’ll even give you a cut. You can learn a thing or two about business, since you were so interested in it the other day, right?”

“He’s… dead?” Chase spoke for the first time since waking up. His own voice was almost jarring to hear.

“Ah, well, if you boys hadn’t fought so hard, maybe that wouldn’t’ve been necessary, right?”

Chase remembered Ben on the ground, remembered hiding him, remembered waking up. He closed his eyes. He remembered the last card that Jacob had pulled. Desolation, ruin, rock bottom. He swallowed and opened his eyes again, frowning.

“Look, Chase, I’ve given you the choice, now you must take it. Are you going to sit here while I take your power, or are you going to let me untie you, become a business partner, and not have nightmares until you eventually die?”

“Eat shit.”

Vernon sighed again and placed the necklace around Chase’s neck. “Goodnight, Chase.”

As soon as the pendant was around his neck, Chase felt as though there was a weight on his chest. His eyes drooped, but he forced them open. His head nodded, and he tried to shake it, to keep the sleep from overtaking him. He didn’t want to sleep, he didn’t want to sleep, he would give anything to not fall asleep.

Chase fell asleep.

•

Chase didn’t know much about tarot. He knew what Caspar and Graves had explained and shown him, knew that Death didn’t actually mean a bad thing apparently, there there was the Moon and the Star and the cups. He remembered a few of the cards that Jacob had pulled. He knew there was a Three for teamwork, the Wheel of Fortune for some sort of balance, Justice for Ben, and he knew the Ten of Swords.

He remembered once looking over Graves’s shoulder, sucking in a breath. “I wouldn’t want to be that guy.” He’d laughed at the time, looking down at the card that illustrated a man lying face down, swords stuck into every available spot on his back. 

Chase knew that he was dreaming. He knew that he was not actually chained to a wall, that Milo was not standing before him, holding a knife, and yet he could not change it. Each time he tried to shift the dream, the weight in his chest just got heavier. Milo looked small before Chase, and he looked sad to be holding his knife.

Milo is a constellation, Chase told himself, dad made him a constellation and none of this is real. He felt as the knife entered his stomach, a sort of indescribable pain, one that made Chase scream out without meaning to, one that made every muscle in his body tense, that triggered his flight or fight response, and yet he could not move.

“That was because you left me, Chase. That was because you left me and I died and you never even said goodbye.” 

Chase knew why Milo was stabbing him. He knew why Rocket would stand before him next, and why Blue would after that. Knowing didn’t make it any better. It shifted to Malia, who stabbed him in the leg for lying to her about the cocaine, then to Koda, for never telling her that anything was wrong.

Halfway through and Chase didn’t know if he could bear it. He longed to be able to pass out from the pain, but instead it just continued, every part of his body throbbing as he writhed. When he moved to try and escape the reach of one blade, he aggravated the others, which would just shift in his skin, causing the wounds to only grow deeper.

Ben appeared before him, knife in hand, and Chase shuddered. He thought about the last time that he and Ben had encountered each other like this. He wondered if these wounds were seeping through his pyjamas, down the chair, ruining Vernon’s perfect suit and perfect floor in his perfect house. He wanted the hag to stop taking her time with them, tried to will Ben to just cut his throat there, to cut the hag off, to end the endurance test that was this nightmare.

"Ben," Chase spoke through blood. It rushed past his lips and over his chin, warm and sweet. "I'm sorry. I thought I could hide you." He didn't know why he was speaking to what he knew was the hag, but guilt gripped his chest. This was the only chance he'd get to apologize to him, even if it wasn't him. He closed his eyes but still saw Ben. "Can you just make it quick? I think it needs to get to ten. Just... sorry. Fuck."

Chase watched as Ben dropped the knife, his heart pounded in his ears. “Chase. Fuck. Where are you?” He tried to pull the chains off of him. "I'm trying to find you, Chase."

Maybe this was a trick, but something made Chase want to trust this. "Um, I dunno. I don't know. I'm tied to a chair." He struggled to get the words out, as though they were physically sticking to his throat, but he choked them out, another wave of blood surging past his lips. "Where are you, Ben? Are you alive?"

“I am.” Ben frowned as he spoke, looking back to Chase. “Focus on another dream. I’ll find you.”

It was Ben, really Ben, Chase was almost sure. He had to be sure. There was mild panic at his words, and he struggled, pain ripping through his body as he did. "Wait, don't go. Focus on the dream with me. I don't know if I can change it without you." He was afraid of Ben leaving, of him ending up alone. At least if Ben was there he might be able to cling to some reality, work past the pendant keeping him asleep and controlled by the hag. "Please. Think of the place we'd go. The pendant." He realized that that place didn't exist anymore and shook his head. "You know the bonfire? Let's go to the bonfire." He was crying. He closed his eyes and thought about sitting at the bonfire, about being warm, about being safe.

There was a look on Ben’s face that Chase had never seen on him before. Pity? He thought it was pity. He put his hands gently on Chase’s face. “I’m not leaving without you.” It was a promise, and somehow, Ben's hands on his face steadied him. Ben was not dead, he was coming to get him, he was alive and he was going to help him and they were going to go home. He thought about home, he thought about the bonfire. 

They were sitting under stars, the fire blaring in front of them. Chase exhaled a sigh of relief, then shook his head. "I'm... that guy has me. Fox. He was talking to me. He has.... a thing. It's like our pendant, but different." His head was swimming. "I think they're going to kill me." He looked down at himself. There were no knives, but he still felt every wound. "Ben." He looked up at him, eyes flashing. "You have to get me my sword. You have to."

“You’re not at the lighthouse?” Before Chase could respond, Ben answered himself. "You're not." He looked at Chase, brow creased. "I think I know where you are but I don’t— I don’t know how to get there” Ben looked up at the sky, and Chase followed his eyes, watching as the stars turned sinister. A hand reached out and grabbed Ben, pulled him away from Chase. He’d hardly had time to react, to grasp desperately and hopelessly at Ben when he was gone. 

Chase wrapped his arms around himself, hoping for an end, wishing to live in this moment of calm forever, for even just a second more, but the darkness creeped in around him, rotting away the edges of his dream, and soon the bonfire was nothing but a wisp of smoke, false hope in an endless void of distress.

•

Chase woke up in a desert. 

Chase woke up in a chair.

He woke up to needles.

He woke up to dead people, to living people, to those he wasn’t sure of anymore.

He bled. He screamed. He slept. He dreamed.

[mymindsmadness]

Dear Drarry, the final installment

I was going to save this for Fanfic!Friday, but it’s the conclusion, so I thought it needed its own day. Yes, the Dear Drarry series is coming to an end! 

I’ve so enjoyed writing these, but I think it’s time for them to come to an end. As this is the final in the series, I played around with the idea of multiple POV’s. So in this we’ll see both sides of the conversation between Harry and Draco. 

In this one:

Draco knew that after the war, everything had to change. Starting with the life debt he owed Potter… maybe he’d just write instead. He never expected to keep writing...

Warnings: EWE

EDIT: Shout out to Anon that pointed out it was Vincent that burned in the fire, not Greg! Idk where my head was lol

Previously:

Dear Mrs. Malfoy || Dear Mum and Dad || Dear Ronald Weasley ||

November 28th 2001

Dear Potter,

I wanted to formally thank you for returning my wand now that I have paid my debt to the wizarding world. Mother would also like to extend her gratitude. 

As I’m sure you’re aware, even before you chose to testify at my trial, you were owed a life debt on behalf of my family for what you did the Room of Requirement.

Debts aside, I’ve come to realize that I’ve never really thanked you for choosing to not let me be consumed in the fire as Vincent was.

So… thank you. I’m sure you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude due in no small part to our history, but please believe me when I say I am begrudgingly truly thankful.

Now, if we could perhaps come to terms on a way to settle our life debt, I would be happy to leave you to your life as ‘the most promising auror in wizarding history’. It seems the Prophet has not bored of featuring you. I suppose congratulations are in order to both you and Weaslet Ginevra.  

I’ll be awaiting your owl,

Draco Malfoy

◢◢◢◢◢◢

 December 3rd, 2001

 Dear Malfoy,

How do you manage to sound like a ponce in a letter?

You don’t need to thank me for saving your life, Malfoy. And you don’t need to pay me back either. It’s not something I did to get one-up on you. I would have saved anyone. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Crabbe.

And don’t even mention the Prophet. They’re just as untrustworthy as ever. Ginny and I broke up over a year ago; we just kept it quiet. She’s been dating some bloke from an American quidditch team I’ve never heard of. They just got engaged. Naturally, the Prophet saw the ring and jumped to conclusions.

I saw that you and err… Astonia was it? I saw your wedding announcement in Quibbler. I didn’t know you and Luna were friends.

Seriously, don’t worry about any life debts.

Harry Potter

◢◢◢◢◢◢

 December 16th, 2001

Dear Potter,

Did you seriously write ‘err’? You know you don’t have to write everything you think, don’t you?

Astoria and I were engaged to be wed, yes. That arrangement was set up long before I was even born. Seeing as I am venturing away from the pureblood traditions and beliefs that got me imprisoned in the first place, I called off the wedding. Normally, I would entertain my mother’s wishes, but Astoria and I didn’t quite see eye to eye – or rather we saw a certain aspect very simil

As I share her interest in men, I didn’t think it fair to enter into a marriage with her. Although I do not hide who I am, I would prefer you didn’t sell that information to any papers.

Lovegood and I are on speaking terms. I find her presence to be calming, if not entertaining.

As for the life debt, it’s not as simple as dissolving it. There are magics that bind. Traditionally, I would have to offer you my first born as a potential match for one of your children. Seeing as I don’t have any children and doubt that you would care for my first born, we must come to an agreement that suits both parties.

Draco Malfoy

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 December 18th, 2001

Dear Malfoy,

Me? Me sell information? I think you have me confused with a pointy git we went to Hogwarts with. No, I would never sell information to the papers. Perhaps I’ll have badges made though. Bright green ones that read ‘Malfoy’s Bent’. It seems only fair.

I don’t want your first born. I doubt I’ll even have a first born of my own. Looks like we have something in common after all – Ron would be mortified. Ginny and I split because I was finally able to admit to myself that I fancy blokes. I suppose it should have been obvious when I followed you aro

If you have to settle this ridiculous life debt why not just give me a book or something, yeah? It just has to be something doesn’t it?

Forget that last. I just asked Hermione and she looked at me like I kicked a house elf. She said it must be something important, but I don’t really need anything. And I don’t want to take anything that’s important away from you.

Look, I know we’re not exactly friends, but a bunch of us are going to the pub before the holidays to celebrate. It’s on the 22nd. You should come. We could talk about all this life debt business over a pint and you can make Ron turn that shade of red that makes his hair look orange.

Harry

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 December 27th, 2001

 Dear Potter,

I only now just recovered from the hangover that concoction you made gave me. Did you know that it was impervious to hangover potions? I didn’t even think that was possible. I suppose it was worth it to watch Weasley sweet-talk a coat rack for the better part of an hour.

It occurred to me Christmas morning that we never did get around to talking about the life debt. Mother asked about it last night at dinner and was sorely disappointed with me for not repaying you yet. I know you’ve had very little interaction with my mother, but she is not someone that you want to be cross with you.

Draco Malfoy

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 December 28th, 2001

Malfoy,

On assignment. Not sure how your owl got through the wards. I’ll write you as soon as I’m back.

You called me Harry that night. You could, you know? Call me Harry.

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 6th 2002

Dear Granger,

I’m sorry to be writing you. I know despite the evening we spent at the Leaky Caldron we are not exactly on speaking terms. First, I want to apologize for the way I acted in school. I have a vague memory of apologizing the night of the 22nd, but as I can hardly remember it, I don’t think that should count. Perhaps you would allow me to buy you lunch one day this week to apologize properly? I prefer it be in muggle London so I will actually be served.  

However, the reason I write you is because I haven’t heard from Potter in quite some time. I do not know him well enough (nor do I feel comfortable) to seek him out at the ministry. Last I heard he was on an assignment. If he wanted to stop talking to me, he could have just stated as much.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 7th, 2002

Dear Malfoy,

I think lunch would be lovely. We’re far too old to carry on this ridiculous feud. I remember you starting to apologize, but then you started rambling about the colour green. Perhaps we had all been too liberal with Harry’s ‘special drink’. Still, it would be nice to get a proper one. Maturity or not, you said some pretty awful things. 

As for your question, no I haven’t heard from Harry. Or Ron for that matter. They’re on the same assignment and were due back yesterday. Though, it’s not unusual for their assignments to run long. If I hear anything before you do, I’ll write you myself.

Try not to worry. Harry is a very competent auror.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger-Weasley

Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 7th, 2002

Dear Granger,

I’m not worried.

Why would I worry about Pott

It’s not as if I care if someth

How is Wednesday for lunch?

Draco Malfoy

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

Dear Draco,

It’s okay that I called you Draco isn’t it? It feels silly to still be using each other’s surnames. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to write you sooner. We got caught in a magical vortex and had to walk out of the jungle with a muggle guide. But that’s confidential, so pretend I never said anything.

Hermione told me you had lunch yesterday. Well, I think that’s what she told me. I hardly stayed at the DMLE long enough to get debriefed. I’m exhausted and a mess but I wanted to write you as soon as I got home.

Hermione also said something about you asking after me? If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were worried. I like it.

I kept notes while I was out there. Little things I saw and wanted to remember to tell you. Ron thought I was losing my mind. Forest fever he called it, but I don’t think that’s right.

I think I’ve just gotten used to writing you. I look forward to it now. Don’t let it feed that abnormally large ego of yours.

Since I wrote enough down to send you another letter and you insist that we talk about this life debt, why don’t we have dinner tomorrow? I can even cook if you don’t feel like going out.

Harry

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

Dear Harry,

I’m glad to see you’re recovering from your delusions well. Terrible thing that is, losing one’s mind. And you had so little to spare from the start. I’m glad to hear you’re okay though. I know you have a history of personal injury.

Be careful, Potter. Wanting to share things with me? Wanting to cook me dinner? One would think you were a Hufflepuff in search of a date.

Draco

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

Draco,

Okay, it’s a date. Seven work for you?

And if we’re going to date, and I was kind of hoping we could, you should call me Harry.

Harry

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

Harry,

Bleeding Gryffind..

Seven is fine. I’ll bring wine.

See you then… Harry.

Draco

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 March 12th, 2004

Harry,

This really needs to stop. My mother is insistent that we settle our life debt. We’ve talked about this for years – years, Harry.

And before you ask, no. It can’t be a book or a broom or anything else you’ve found lying around and tried to pawn the life debt off on. It has to be something meaningful to me – to the Malfoy name. Something that holds the essence of life and is equal to the gift you’ve given me by saving mine.

I know you’re on assignment, but I also know that you’re able to receive and respond to owls – Hermione told me. When you get home we’re going to settle this once and for all! I’m very cross with you. I might even throw away those tattered trainers you insist on keeping.  

I want this settled Harry! Start thinking about things!

Draco

◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

 Draco,

I’ll have you know that I’ve actually given it a great deal of thought. Something that is important to you. Something that holds the ‘Malfoy essence’ which I still think sounds incredibly dirty as I’ve already held the Malfoy essence on several dozen occasions.

It seems you can repay me with your first born after all. Or rather, your life. I’ll take that last name too, while I’m at it.

Should have just waited a few more days and I could have asked you properly. There’s a ring in my bedside table, you spoiled git.

Harry

P.S. Don’t touch my trainers or I’m revoking my proposal

 ◢◢◢◢◢◢

 January 11th, 2002

Harry,

Did you just… 

You didn’t just…

You absolute Neanderthal! How on earth am I going to tell people (my mother!) that you proposed via letter!?

  ... However...I suppose it does meet the requirements… and the ring isn’t terribly gaudy. It will serve the debt.

Now hurry home so I can say yes properly.

I love you, you ridiculous Gryffindor.

Draco.

[tlbodine]

Editing in Action

Someone asked me if I could show a before and after of my editing process (as detailed in this post) and GUESS WHAT I totally still have all of my editing notes from Nezumi’s Children. EXCITING. 

Big ol’ spoiler alert if you haven’t read the book, and I’ll pop this under a cut because it’s a long post. 

First off, let’s take a peek at the rough draft! Here is part of the final scene in the rough draft: 

The morning dawned, too early.  The rats lingered, uncertain if they wanted to go through with their plan.  Top Ear touched her nose to Bitey's shoulder and they were silent for a time.  Then the four of them bravely, resolutely, crossed the open space and found their way into the trap, allowing themselves to be caught within it.  They ignored the bait.  They waited.   

The exterminators came.  They wore orange suits and carried with them strange machines, the machines of death.  They smelled like death, and the rats in the trap huddled together in fear.  The rats in hiding huddled, also, and crept behind whatever cover they could.  

T​op Ear rushed at the side of the cage, realizing it was impossible to escape.  She threw herself at it, desperately, and squeaked miserably, and realized that she was inexorably trapped.  The feeling of being out in the open -- of vulnerability -- fell over her, and she shuddered; it was the most terrible feeling, being trapped in a cage when death was approaching, and she cast a horrified look at the others.  "We made the wrong choice," her expression said.  She couldn't bring the words out.  She could only feel the terror.   

T​hey would be trapped here, with no chance to escape, as the slow creeping death came over them.   

The air was nothing but death, she thought, hearing Nezumi's voice echo in her thoughts.  The air was death.  

And here is that same section from the final version: 

The morning dawned too early. Three rats sat huddled inside a cage. Another hung back fearfully in the shadowed overhang of the shelf. Between them, straddling both worlds, Bitey pressed herself against the outer wall of the cage.  She had neither moved nor slept, and the tendrils of gray light that crept through the skylight were the only hint of the passage of time.  

Outside, footsteps crunched over gravel and debris.  Voices spoke and drew near as the echo of footsteps grew.  Great Ones, a pair of them, unlike any Bitey had seen before. They wore orange suits and carried with them the machines of death.  They smelled like death, too; they smelled of snakes and floodwater and poison.  Bitey, caught in the open, froze, every hair standing on end.  Competing messages – Run! Attack! Help the others! – flooded her mind and held her immobilized.  

“Hey, look at that,” one of the Great Ones said, in the deep lumbering voices made of sounds and earthquakes.  “Bold little thing, isn't it?”

“Not for much longer it won't be.”  

Top Ear rushed at the side of the cage.  “Bitey!”  She yelled, hopelessly.  “Bitey! Do something!” She threw herself at the mesh and squeaked miserably.  

Outside, Bitey found that she could do nothing.  It wasn't like facing the Big Water or fighting off the Ukeshu – times when the only choices were fear and courage.  There was not enough courage in all the Beyond to save her from this.  The feeling of being out in the open -- of vulnerability -- fell over her, and she shuddered; it was the most terrible feeling.  The others might be in a cage, but she was every bit as trapped as they were.

It's all just cages.  Everyone has become a snake.   “What do we do with this cage?”  The Great One's voice rumbled like the distant roll of thunder, like the approach of another flood-bearing storm. “There's a couple live ones in there.”

“I think some girl's coming for it, is what the owner said.  I don't know.  Come on – help me lay down the tubing.  If she's not here by the time it's done, we'll just keep going.”  

The air is nothing but death, Bitey thought, watching as the boot steps retreated.  None of it made any sense, but she knew in her heart that Dumbo's words – no, Nezumi's words, the usoothe's final prophecy – were coming to pass.  Another storm.  Another flood. Another cage.  

So a few things you can see here. One is that I stuck to a closer, deeper POV. The original draft had a very top-down omniscient perspective and head-hopped between all the characters all the time. There really wasn’t a protagonist in the story and it showed. So when I revised, I chose Bitey to be the main character (although others still carry a lot of POV) because she was the one who had the most dramatic character arc -- true to her name, she’s first introduced biting a a person and expressing her distrust of humans; by the end, she chooses to trust the human because that would keep her with her kin. 

You can also see that between drafts I got more confident with keeping the imagery consistent, and I went deep instead of the very exposition/telling-heavy almost list of actions in the rough draft. 

Here’s what my revision prep looked like: 

Nezumi's Children – One Pass Revision

THEMES:  

Blood is thicker than water

Misplaced faith can have deadly consequences

Nothing is as simple as it seems

25-WORD SYNOPSIS:

“Rats revere humans as gods. Abandoned, they must learn to survive alone in a world that is not as black-and-white as they thought it would be.” (27 words)

ONE-LINE STORY ARC:

“Bitey must put aside her preconceived notions about both rats and humans in order to survive one  inconceivable threat after another.”

250 WORD BLURB:

Bitey is a five-month-old fancy rat. Like her sisters and the other rats of Rocco's Pet Emporium, her world is a two-foot by three-foot plexiglass-and-wire hutch.  Twice a day, the sky opens up and the giant hands of the Great Ones invade Bitey's world to provide food and water.  Sometimes, the hands pick up rats and the Great Ones hold them for a time.  Sometimes, the rats never come back.  

All her life, Bitey has been raised to revere the Great Ones – to shower them with affection, to earn their particular attentions – so that one day she too might be taken by the hands to live in paradise amongst the Great Ones.  

But Bitey rejects the hands, nipping at their fingers and running from their touch.  Something in a deep, instinctual part of her believes that there is more to the world than her cage and some unknown paradise occupied by giants, and she yearns to see what's out there.  

When the Great Ones fail to arrive one morning – and, again, that night – Bitey and her kin realize that they have been abandoned.  What's more, Nezumi the ailing prophet is having visions of a terrible horror.  There are no words in ratspeak for “storm” or “flood” or “evacuation”, but she knows that something awful is coming, and before she dies, she imparts a final warning:  get out, before it comes.

Faced with the inconceivable task of climbing outside of the world itself without the hands of Great Ones, Bitey must find a way to lead her kin to safety – and that's just the beginning.  Turns out, the world is much bigger than Bitey had ever dreamed...and substantially more dangerous.  

(287 words)

(and then the scene list here, but I won’t bore you with that, there’s like three pages of them).

Some memorable changes I made between drafts included combining two similar side characters into one role, changing the order of when certain characters die (originally the titular Nezumi the prophet survives to the end before dying in the next-to-the-last chapter, rather than her death serving as the inciting incident), and a lot of POV tweaks to establish Bitey’s character arc and keep the head-hopping at bay. 

Anyway! I hope this progress shot is helpful :) If you want to see the finished product, Nezumi’s Children is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Nezumis-Children-T-L-Bodine-ebook/dp/B00EWTMONG