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[augustcallow-blog]

THE RESORT CHALLENGE

Pureblood tradition, an upturned nose, cold fingertips pressed to warm skin, a shaking hand that holds a bottle.

If we assume that August’s life up to his sorting into Hufflepuff was the same, Slytherin would have radically altered the way that August dealt with his visions. No longer able to hide behind easy smiles and a bit of social interaction to - at first - hide his drug addiction and to later continue getting away with it, Slytherin would have turned August into someone tougher and more likely to accept pain rather than run from it. Fuelled by the pride of the Callow name, August would have strove toward working harder at DADA and becoming an auror, like his father, meaning that his magic would be stronger and he’d become a competitive force in the Duelling Club. The visions themselves would still be happening, and though August would resist them strongly, a few would break through and threaten his reputation. Clinging to his secret, August would try to find ways of dealing with the pain; instead of turning to drugs and becoming addicted as in current canon, I could see August using more and more extreme options, becoming potentially dangerous and lethal to his own life in the quest to be rid of his ‘gift.’ But the key difference would be August’s sobriety. Though he would occasionally turn to drugs when the pain was unbearable, it would be rare, and for the most part, he would be sober every day. Haughty, pretentious, entitled, and cutting, August when in full possession of his wits would be the model pureblood Slytherin looking to make his family proud and uphold tradition. Guarding his secret closely to his chest, Slytherin would make August into a person of extremes, albeit a more capable and in control one.

[augustcallow-blog]

elliot-fincher:

There were things that every person knew about themselves: things that were apparent to everyone else, but which went unmentioned just because they were so painfully obvious that they became unmentionable. Elliot bit his nails. Sometimes, when his nails were gone and there was nothing to bite, he began to pull out the hair at the nape of his neck. No one mentioned Elliot’s bitten nails or conspicuously high, patchy, uneven hairline, though consciously Elliot knew these things could not go unnoticed by the people around him. It was impossible for the person sitting behind him in class or his Slytherin dormmates not to notice the bald patches on the back of his neck. But the lack of verbal acknowledgement made it possible for Elliot to comfort himself. It made self-delusion possible: the idea that maybe no one really saw it after all.

Elliot’s complete insignificance was one of these unmentioned things.

August couldn’t know the extent of Elliot’s hollow relationships with his parents. He couldn’t know the loneliness Elliot felt even when he was with friends. Yet August had just named the very true thing that Elliot had pathetically and desperately allowed himself to believe other people didn’t see on himself. 

It was true: August could bury him, and no one would know. And if August could see this on him, others could too.

The shock of this realization was so great that Elliot froze when August put his wand to Elliot’s throat. He made no move to pull away or reach for his own stolen wand. Humiliated and wretched, Elliot just let August pin him against the shop front. Flecks of spittle flew from August’s mouth and landed on Elliot’s chin as he ranted. Elliot didn’t even realize he was speaking back until the pressure on his throat increased, an he felt the sharp end of August’s wand digging in and around his Adam’s apple every time he gasped, “I won’t, I won’t, August, please, I won’t.” He looked into August’s crazed eyes and wondered if maybe, maybe August actually might–

The pressure on his throat let up. Elliot sagged against the wall, afraid to move. 

By the time August actually said the words it’s not like anyone would remember you anyway, he had already proven it to Elliot a thousand times over with the wand digging into Elliot’s throat, with his words, with his proprietary actions, and with Elliot’s complete lack of ability to stop him from doing any of it. August had proven to Elliot something that no one had ever bothered to mention to Elliot that they could see. It turned out Elliot had never fooled anyone at all.

Elliot’s hood had fallen off during August’s assault. Elliot pulled it back up around his ears, careful not to touch the sides of his own neck. “It’s–this way,” he heard himself say, but it was strange, like even though he tried he couldn’t get his voice to come out above a cracked whisper. Had August used some kind of spell on him? “His name is Mathis. He only deals with people from–good families.”

Truth be told, the increased pressure the Ministry had been putting on Magical Law Enforcement to clean up Knockturn was only partly part of the problem in August’s supply chain. Mathis was the real game changer. Mathis had come to Diagon at the start of the summer, around the same time Renfield had. He was the reason Aldon had been so fiercely territorial lately. Mathis had scored an early victory by securing Nezza’s business. Mathis was older than Aldon, sporting gnarled teeth, perpetually dry lips, and a missing ear he wore hats to cover. His arrival and the ensuing territorial dispute had transformed Knockturn into a more dangerous place as of late. Mathis had Aldon spread thin and losing customers, runners, and suppliers for months. Since at least November, Elliot had known that it was only a matter of time until he himself was forced to turn to Mathis instead of Aldon to fulfill August’s needs.

Mathis could be found in a flat not far from Renfield’s. Elliot led August to it using the darkened back alleys that ran parallel to Knockturn, supposing that August would prefer the rats and overflowing rubbish bins to the risk of being recognized. Elliot didn’t talk. Along the way, he opened and felt inside August’s coin purse in the front pocket of his hoodie. The amount inside didn’t shock him, but it made his head swim. It was more than enough.

A man wearing spectacles let the boys into a perfectly ordinary, run-down Knockturn flat when Elliot knocked at the door. The sound of sizzling and the smell of meat hit them immediately upon entering; in the kitchen they found rashers of bacon flipping themselves on the grease-spattered stove and Mathis, talking to a witch and a wizard seated at a low table. One of them Elliot recognized from the pub by his amputated fingers and leathery face; the other was Nezza, whom Elliot hadn’t sold to since right before the school year started. They stopped talking when August came in the door behind Elliot, closely shadowed by the man wearing spectacles. “Elliot,” Nezza greeted him, but she was looking at August. Elliot only nodded. He knew it wasn’t an invitation to begin speaking.

“I remember you,” Mathis said, abruptly. “Nezza, this the one you introduced at the pub ages ago? The Hostoge boy?” Mathis was not wearing his customary hat. There was a hole where his ear should have been that would have normally given Elliot chills. Today it barely registered. 

“It’s him,” Nezza said. “Elliot Fincher. His mother married some halfblood friend of the family.”

Mathis’ eyes slid to August. “And who are you?”

“My schoolmate,” Elliot lied, pulling out the coin purse he’d emptied half of into the bottom of his hoodie pocket. He tossed the artificially lightened purse in his palm, trying to distract Mathis from looking too closely at August’s face. Elliot watched as Mathis’ head turned slightly to the sound to compensate for his missing ear, his gaze straying from August to the coin purse. “He’s looking for things I can’t get from–from Aldon–”

Mathis waved him silent. Elliot hadn’t quite managed to divert his attention, even with the mention of Aldon. Perhaps Elliot hadn’t tried nearly as hard as he could have; or perhaps he just wasn’t as present as he needed to be to make this work. His brain felt like it was levitating a few meters above his body. “I’m talking to you, boy,” Mathis said, fixing August once again with his heavy, half-lidded stare. “I like to know who I’m speaking to.” His teeth worried at a dry, peeling patch of his lip. “What’s your surname? Where’re you from?”

August’s heart was racing. He’d never pulled his wand on someone before - never really even successfully got a hit on someone, except in the safe confines of the DADA classroom, or when Solo let August get a hit during Duelling Club. He’d never felt that kind of power before - of actually being in control, of more than one possibility stretching out before him. August’s life was carefully controlled and dictated; had been from the moment he’d been born and they declared him son and heir rather than take into consideration who he was and wanted to be. Every moment since had been carefully laid down: August’s life had been decided for him, and anything that didn’t fall in line, he had to conceal. But this -- his wand tip in Elliot’s throat, Elliot begging August with promises -- this felt different. It wasn’t good, because August had a heart and a conscience, somewhere deep down, but he felt strong. People around him did what he asked because he paid them to, because he had status, but this -- this was August forcing Elliot, and it made him shiver. He could get what he wanted by force, he realised - and the rush was only dulled by the fact that August’s head was splitting open, it seemed. Heady, in control, August followed Elliot, keeping his wand tucked just inside the sleeve of his coat, but still in the palm of his hand - he wouldn’t put it past Elliot to make a run for it, now that he had the money. And August might’ve been shit at duelling, but he could perform a leg-locking hex if need be. 

Knockturn was dark and dirty, and the smells stung August’s nose. He liked to think of himself as possessing a finely tuned palette; only the softest materials adorned his body, only the best smells were spritzed at his neck and wrists. He liked expensive things, because they inherently held more value; Knockturn was cheap, filthy, and had none - and everything from its rats in the gutter to waste littering the streets offended him on some level. August wondered if he’d ever truly be clean again. He was grateful when Elliot made a turn and took them off the street - in through a door and out of the darkness, and into one of a different kind. There were people here, And August’s head throbbed, making him blink rapidly to clear his vision as he tried to look at the people in the room - and almost wished he hadn’t. One man was missing some fingers; another lacked an ear. Looking at them repulsed August, and he almost took a step back, wanting to retreat to the door. His grip on his wand in his sleeve tightened, thinking about the man’s stump of a hand touching him. His skin crawled all over, and his eyes darted to the witch who addressed Elliot -- but it was this one-eared man, Mathis, that instead addressed August. He wanted to spit that this man - a halfbreed or blood traitor, no doubt - had no right to demand answers of August, but Elliot got there first. 

But it didn’t work - even the promise of money wouldn’t deter the man, and August wanted to both shrink behind Elliot and force him to deal with the situation, while simultaneously threaten the lot of them with his father’s retribution. August was frozen under Mathis’ gaze, the question of his identity lingering - and August couldn’t think. His brain ached, an anvil-like pressure forming in his temples, and he just wanted the drugs and to leave. “Park,” he said, unable to think further than his cousin’s name on such short notice. “And I’m from England, thank you very much.” It wasn’t uncommon, given his Korean heritage - one look at his eyes, and people started speaking slowly, as though he didn’t understand English. As though he hadn’t been raised here like the rest of them. “My mother is French, my father is English,” August said, co-opting Yejun’s life for his own. There were plenty of Park’s - it would check out, at least; but it was neither a pureblood name nor a traitor’s name - it was foreign, and therefore mostly unreadable, unless their knowledge of French politics was greater than August was banking on. “And like Elliot said, I’m looking for things. We came here to buy, or are you not interested in money?” The impatience in his tone was obvious, a snap to his words that belied how much he needed these people to stop bullshitting. “So if you’re done with the twenty questions, can we talk business? I’m looking for-- pain killers. Whatever you’ve got, as strong as you’ve got.” 

It exposed his weakness to say it, to give away what he needed like that, for free - but there was no time; August would be writhing on the floor if they waited much longer, and his palms were slick with fear at what they’d do to him then. Elliot would probably leave him to the dogs, and they’d extort the Callow’s for money. August swallowed thickly, and grabbed the purse from Elliot, holding it out to Mathis. “Whatever you’ve got,” he repeated, looking at the bigger man with a gaze that more than once wavered.

supply & demand | elliot & august

[augustcallow-blog]

Happy Birthday, August: b. August 12th

August’s life can be neatly divided into before and after.

Before, he was spoiled - the heir to the Callow name, he was given whatever he desired. A prince sitting on a throne of spoils, August indulged in all manner of toys and trinkets and books he never read. But he had to be careful about what he asked for - ask for the wrong thing, and his mother’s brow would furrow and his father’s frown to deepen. August liked clothes: textures and patterns and details that were not quite fashionable, especially for a boy. He was therefore given the best robes that were available in stores, tailor made in scarlet and aquamarine, and for a time, these sufficed. But what August loved was art: sketching with charcoal and making a mess with paint, he was given whatever he desired. Afterall, even pureblood men needed to have hobbies, and there was nothing shameful about art necessarily. August wasn’t very good, but that wasn’t the point - it occupied his time, and for a boy awaiting Hogwarts, that was the most he could hope for. And then everything fell apart: August began getting headaches. Bad ones, ones that felt like a hammer was splitting his head in two, ones that made him black out from the pain and wake up in a hospital room at St. Mungo’s. Nothing explained it, and the only thing potions could do was take the pain away.

Then the first vision happened, and everything changed.

After, August was not the same boy that he had been. Fear and panic were common emotions that coursed through him at the thought of anyone finding out about what was happening to him. For some time, he didn’t know that they were visions exactly - he knew he saw things, and it wasn’t until he saw some of them fulfilled that he pieced it together. Afraid of being a freak and shaming his family, August lied and told them the potions for his migraines were working and left the hospital, never wanting to go back, lest they find out. It became harder over the years to hide his condition, and August went to ever greater lengths to do so - an addiction to pain potions and pills developed, and soon August couldn’t get through the day without them. And when even they lost their effect, August turned to drugs - whatever he could get his hands on that would do the job, and the muggle world never ceased to provide what the Callow money could buy. It’s been six years that August has lived with suppressing his visions and, as a result, letting his head erupt into pain for the majority of the day, and the amount of times he’s been sober are few and far between. The reliance of drugs in order to hide himself and his condition have ravaged August’s body until he’s a shell of who he should be. He doesn’t look to the future with hope, because there is no light at the end of the tunnel for August - he knows that sooner or later, someone will find out or he’ll make it stop for good, and he’d rather the latter than letting his family down like that.

Some ~fun facts~ about August:

he is technically a virgin

he experiences gender dysphoria

his wand belonged to his grandfather and doesn’t respond well to him.

owns a personal servant named Will.

tends to apologise profusely and manipulate by saying “I love you” to people he’s close with

loves having his hair stroked and is in general extremely physically affectionate

has a cat named September due to the fact that, as a kitten, she’d always follow August around (and September, the month, follows August).

he’s actually rather good at art, but the skill has been used more for him to draw the visions he gets, and thus its become somewhat tainted.

[augustcallow-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Solo had never known love without cruelty, and this was no different.

He saw the sudden sting of pain cross August’s face like a shadow, and in his anger, he felt satisfied. There was some old trust contract broken between them, as his things lay scattered around the floor - some line they had never dared to cross before, only to breach it now, stumbling carlessly into new, uncharted territory. It happened time and time again - for someone that prided himself in reading people well, Solo was blind to the ones closest to his heart, ever surprised by the things they could do. And so August stayed, standing his ground like a sentinel, pale and sweating, falling to pieces before Solomon’s eyes like he was nothing but a cracked porcelain doll. It made him think back of their last talk - August’s head on the table, as he spoke of death so casually - the things he’d do to stop the pain, the things the pain made him want to do. “I’m gonna hex you,” he threatened, but made no motion to go for his wand - and maybe August knew he wouldn’t. August knew him, more than Solo wanted anyone to know him - August knew him under the chemicals, knew his loneliness in a way that the Frasers or Theo never would. August had seen him, stripped of his pride, standing in his doorway like a broken thing himself, hanging on that gentle offer of a good time.

August knew the Solo that stayed.

“What?” He asked sharply when August got to his knees - a begging man, like a blowjob was the only prayer his mouth was able to spill. “Mate, what the– no– fuck, August.” Solomon was no stranger to this - he’d gone on his knees for less before. The body was a poor man’s bargain chip, but this was him, not August. Solomon was born to be on his knees - or at least that’s what they told him, with a firm hand gripping his hair; he was a natural, as if the ability was passed on by blood, and the Renfields were born with poor gag reflex and quick tongues. But August was different - and this was another line they’d never dare to cross before. Solomon grabbed August’s wrists, yanking him up - god, they were so thin, so fragile, soft skin untouched– “Shut up. Okay? Fuck, I’ll give you what I have but never– listen to me. Never do this again. We clear? Fucking promise me. You’re not a cheap whore, you’re not like–”

(Me).

“–this.” Solomon let him go, and spun around to lift a loose board on the floor, where he kept a modest stash. “There’s barely anything left.” He threw the boy his almost empty bottle, pills rattling inside, and watched him for a moment, fear seizing his chest - August wouldn’t make it. Not like this. One day he would wake up to find out August had drilled a hole into his forehead to stop the pain, and then it would be too late - another body to carry around, another one gone too soon, another stain to lay over– “Fuck, I’ll help you, okay? I’ll get more. I have a–” he swallowed, bitterly “another stash. A secret one. I’ll get more. Just don’t fucking take it all at once, and– wait, yeah? Just wait a little more.“

August knew the Solo that stayed - against his better judgement.

It took what little of August’s pride there was to remain on his knees in front of Solo. It wasn’t just because Solo was socially less than August, though that cut deep - it was that Solo was his friend, perhaps the only real one that August had, and for Solo to see him like this... The truth of August’s problem had always been on his lips when Solo was around, and he knew that if he kept pushing like this, Solo would know. Solo was smart, quick - he pieced things together, and August had never doubted that Solo was smarter than people gave him credit for. A blind man could see that something was wrong with August, and yet no one really looked - no one saw how desperately he was drowning and wondered why. Perhaps, like Solo had said, they thought of him as nothing but a junkie - another lost cause. And August knew he was lost, as he looked up at Solo’s dawning realisation of what August was willing to give up for this. If he was going to drown, he’d make sure he’d sleep the entire way down. 

Solo grabbed his wrists, and his mind flashed to the things he’d heard Solo speak of - bending boys and girls over, taking them roughly, hands held behind their back - and a part of August almost broke as he thought about that happening to him. He’d do anything not to be in pain, but that-- He didn’t think he could come back from doing that. But Solo merely yanked August up, light, bird-boned body going easy, and he scrabbled to get his feet underneath him, and he saw the anger on Solo’s face. It surprised him, all things considered; there August had been, offering himself to Solo so easily, and it turned him inside out with rage, demanding promises. August couldn’t promise that, not even to Solo - Solo, who meant more to August than he could admit. “I won’t,” he said weakly, but already knowing he would, if he had to. He’d steal and beg and if they didn’t work, he’d sell. The pill bottle that was thrown at him felt light - too light - but August couldn’t complain, not when he’d gotten it for free, and not when an overwhelming sense of gratitude made his throat close up. “Thank you,” he whispered, and he was sinking to his knees again, this time to worship at the altar of the god who took away pain. His hands shook as he popped the bottle open, scattering the pills onto his palm - there were five. His heart clenched, and he looked up at Solo through tearful eyes, fighting the urge to swallow the lot. “Thank you,” he said again, and he looked back down at his palm.

Carefully, with the love a mother might show to her child, August separated two pills from the group and placed the leftover three back in the bottle, capping it with care. He opened his palm again: two pills. Wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, August placed the pills on his tongue and swallowed them dry, sniffing as he looked back up at Solo. “Thank you so much,” he whispered again, climbing back onto his feet, hands immediately reaching for Solo before curling himself small against Solo’s chest. “I love you,” he said, eyes closed, tears falling off the end of his nose and into Solo’s shirt. “You always take care of me, you always help me.” Hands balled into fists, clutching Solo’s shirt, August could feel how tenuous his grip on his own life was - how he meant what he said, about doing whatever it took. He held onto Solo, not only because he loved him, but because it was all he had - if he let go, it would be for good. “Can we lay down?” August mumbled, sniffing, pressing his head under Solo’s chin. “I’ll clean after,” he added, remembering the mess. “I’ll do whatever, I’m sorry. Can we lie down first though? Just-- just us?”

liability | solomon & august

[augustcallow-blog]

summerharlowe:

jacklongdale:

“Stop calling me that,” Jack bit out, feeling his chest expand with loathing. He didn’t elaborate. He hated August’s black, dead eyes. In them he saw his bared teeth.

In his head, it went like this: he dragged August up from the table and out to the Forbidden Forest, then left him tied to a tree somewhere until he was sober again. When he was no longer a pathetic mess – when Jack could finally see the color of his irises – they had a real talk. A proper talk. There he’d find out the real August, and he’d be everything Jack wanted to burn. 

In reality, it happened like this: Jack drew his wand out of his pocket. “Stop talking,” Jack said. “I’m so tired of listening to purebloods like you talk like family status is the only thing worth working for. You can’t even fathom that I don’t give a shit about who you are, you lazy, ignorant, spoiled baby.” Jack swept his eyes over the length of the table before pointing his wand underneath it at August’s legs. “Petrificus Totalus.” 

He reached out and pressed down on the back of August’s neck. “Breathe,” he cautioned, and then Jack curled his fingers into August’s hair and ground his face down into the table as hard as he could. Satisfaction bloomed in him, hot and rolling down his spine. “You are never going to come up to me again. You are never going to talk to me again. You’re pathetic, Callow. I expected–” He pulled August’s head back a little just to watch it flop to the table again, and it helped a little with the ache in his chest so furious it could be pain. “You can’t understand the first thing about what I want. Stop talking about things you don’t understand.”

Every single day, Summer had to discipline children who were acting out, but some days, she had to do the same to those who were the same age as her. And to no surprise, to anyone, this time it was Jack and August who were at it. Or rather, from where Summer was sitting, Jack was the one being aggressive, August wasn’t resisting at all while his face was being pushed into the table. Sighing out loud, she pushed herself up from her seat and stamped over to the two of them, and she grabbed Jack by the shoulder. “Ease up, Longdale,” she hissed, pulling his shoulder hard so that he lost his grip on Augusts’ hair. Callow was completely still though. “What the fuck did you do, Longdale? Did you petrify him?”

Making sure that children were behaving was one thing, but having to break up a fight between two guys was never easy. Luckily, she felt firm enough in her position as prefect to be able to do something. Hissing under her breath, she pulled out her wand and pointed it to Callow. “Finite Incantatem”. His muscles relaxed, and he was able to move again.

“Now, children, am I going to have to get a professor here to sort this shit out, or are you two going to make this easy on me?” Summer put her fists to her hips as she looked between the two of them. “What seems to be the problem here, boys?”

One moment, August had been thinking fondly of his mother - the way her hands ran through his hair, as though it were finely threaded silk, the sound of her voice calling him Auggie, as though from the next room - and the next he tuned back in to the person across the table. Jack, his mind supplied. Jack was talking. Jack didn’t look happy. Jack was beautiful, even in anger, even when he called August a baby, as though he weren’t a boy but something helpless. Jack, August was realising, could be mean. He didn’t want to believe that about Jack, because August liked him - he understood, in a rough sense, the predicament the Longdale’s were in, and August wasn’t heartless. It must hurt. August knew pain. August liked Jack, in that sense. And he wanted to say so - say something that would make Jack’s angry brow soften, a smile curl at the corners of his lips - when he realised he couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t move, either. Immediately, his brain panicked against its confines, bucking inside his skull in fear - had he taken too much? Was it some new side effect of the pills? True, he had mixed a few, but complete loss of limbs... He’d felt heavy, yes, but it was like his brain had been severed from his body. There was nothing, and his brain flailed again.

Jack’s voice was in August’s ear, telling him to breathe, and for just a moment, he relaxed. He was going to be okay if Jack was there, right? And Jack touched him - hand on his neck, hand in his hair - and August could breathe, yes. His lungs couldn’t expand or contract very far, but he could. He stared straight ahead, down the length of the table, paralysed, breathing in and out in a rapid-fire way, like a small trapped animal. And then the pain started, and August’s instinct was that it was his brain - it was going to make him have a vision, right here in front of everyone. But the hand in his hair was rough, and August rolled his eyes to see it was Jack, and his world flickered a bit under the pain. He was used to hurting, that was true - but he wasn’t used to being touched like this, as though he didn’t matter, as though the person wanted him to hurt more. It sent tears to his eyes, cheek and temple digging into the wood, and he could feel the pressure building - he worried his face would break if Jack didn’t stop. And the words --

His head hit the table, the exact same spots that seemed to bend the wood to his skull, and August felt his face smack against the surface, unable to stop himself. The pain was beyond the reach of the meds - nothing could’ve dulled that, and tears spilled from his eyes. He was scared, heart racing, and even when he heard the voice of someone - a girl - and he could move again, August wasn’t sure if he was allowed. He stayed lying against the table, head pounding, staring straight ahead. August could understand what Jack had said, but they hadn’t hit the mark like the violence had - he’d never been hit before. He’d never had someone strip him of control; he’d always done it so well on his own. Pressing his palms flat to the table, August shakily pushed himself up, dazed eyes sweeping past Jack - not wanting to look at him in the eye - to Summer; she was very pretty, too. “We’re fine,” he mumbled, but it felt like his whole face was pulsing where it had connected with the table. “I should go,” and though it felt like his limbs were moving through mud, August slipped out from behind the table. “I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Jack, but just somewhere over Jack’s shoulder, avoiding his eye, before looking away. He looked at Summer. “Sorry.” Head bowed, blonde fringe falling into his eyes, August left, feet tripping over themselves in their hurry to leave - to get away from Jack, and Summer, and hands that hurt worse than words.

[augustcallow-blog]

florafraser:

Sometimes, Flora’s magical abilities took her by surprise, even to this day. It wasn’t that she forgot she was a witch. It was more that she could exist comfortably and easily without magic, meaning that when there was a spell or a potion that could solve her problem faster than doing it the muggle way, she often forgot about it. However, she was certain there was no fixing Alickina just as there was no fixing her. If there was a way, magical or muggle, Lennox would have found it already, and Flora didn’t need to go on a wild goose chase that would, ultimately, just end up with her being as fucked as she was when she began the illusive chase for a cure. “Healers are just as human as you or me,” she said darkly, the end of her cigarette glowing orange as she took a sharp drag. “They don’t have all the answers. They’re not going to be able to fix every problem. But,” she continued, a weighted sigh leaving her lips, “it’s been years since I thought they could help. So, at least I’m over it.” Moving on came out of necessity, however, not out of a desire from within her to do so. She was a collage of all the heartache she’d forced herself to forget, stitched together with booze and pills, and yet, all August saw was a beautiful woman. She didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “I’ve always wanted to have a dick for a day or two,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice and a smile onto her face. “Mostly just to be able to pee standing up, but also I kind of want to give myself head because I’m damn good at it, so might as well experience that for the first time at the hand of a master, right? Or. Maybe mouth of a master is a better way to phrase it.” She grinned, and there was something sharp about it, something that belied the careless joy she was trying to project. But she knew August wouldn’t say anything. They both had their secrets and their facades to maintain, and neither of them would benefit from cracking the other’s manufactured veneer.

The urgency in August’s voice – no one can know – caught Flora off guard. She glanced down at his hand, wrapped around her wrist, surprised that he thought so little of her. She knew the world he came from, even if she did everything she could to stay as far away from it as possible. She knew what he was risking and what would happen if people found out. But that didn’t stop you from running your mouth at Christmas, a voice nagged in the back of Flora’s head, instantly quelling whatever indignation she might have been feeling at the Hufflepuff’s words. “I won’t tell anyone,” she promised, surprisingly sincere. “No one will find out. You’re safe here. Even if we’re not like– braiding each other’s hair and making friendship bracelets, just– know that you can trust me. I trust you,” she added with a shrug. “Which probably has something to do with my shoddy instincts, poor choices in friends, and lack of parental involvement in my upbringing as a child,” she added with a wry grin, “but we’re like. Friends. Ish. Right?” She turned away from him before he could answer, approaching her vanity and picking up several eye shadow palettes, a few brushes, and some eyeliner before turning back to August and settling down on the bed in front of him. Once she’d dabbed her brush into a deep maroon color, she took his face in her left hand, tilting it to the light, and set to work with her right. “Hold still,” she added. “I don’t usually do this to other people, so apologies in advance if I accidentally stab you in the eye. Also,” she added, pausing as she grabbed her flask from where it lay on her bedside table and taking a long pull before shoving it towards August. “Drink. There’s no fuckin’ point going to the Hog’s Head unless we’re absolutely trashed.”

Not bothering to scratch too far below the surface of either Flora or Lennox meant that whatever the problem was, August knew nothing about it. There were whispers at pureblood parties about the Thornbrook girl who fell ill, but that was all - how ill she was, August didn’t know. It seemed rude to pry, and the way Flora spoke about it made it seem as though it hardly mattered. She put the whole issue inside a box and buried it. There was no hope, and so, she moved on. Though Flora said she’d given up, August wondered if anyone ever could; if when Flora saw her mother, she actually felt nothing, or told herself she did. But it was a lost cause trying to dig inside a Fraser, so August let it go, as easily as ash picked up and danced out of the tray by a light breeze. He grinned at her dreams of having a dick, shaking his head. “I think you over estimate the physicality of the male body,” he said. “It’s a rare few who can give themselves head, but I’ll bet my fortune that every one has at least tried. No,” and he sighed, mock put-upon, “it’s a burden, but head must be given by someone else. A master, well trained in the art.” 

And though they bantered, there was that undercurrent of trust or hard-bought loyalty between them when August asked something of her that she gave freely. It was difficult to let anyone see him that vulnerable, to willingly give so much away, at least while mostly sober - but Flora handled with care, something that he never thought he’d say about her. “We’re friends,” he echoed, watching her turn away to begin grabbing her make up and return, folding herself up in front of him. The array of colours was intimidating, and August was glad for the flask that Flora pressed into his hand; he took a sip when she paused her work, occasionally passing it back to her. The process of applying make up felt strange, and unlike anything August was aware of. He could sense that there was something on his face, an instinct told him to touch - but he refrained, sitting still, head poised in whatever way Flora positioned him, letting his eyes be transformed. And when she was done, pulling back with a look on her face that seemed less concentrating and more evaluating, August couldn’t help but slip off the bed to look in the mirror. He was a little light headed from the alcohol and pills, but his eyes caught his reflection and steadied. Whatever she’d done, however she’d done it, Flora had made August look-- good. Exotic, maybe; mysterious. His eyes were dark, the shadow perfectly blended, and lined with something dark that made them wider and sultry. “Merlin,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “That’s-- I look pretty.” He felt pretty, and leaned back, turning his head this way and that, taking it in. “If I had longer hair, I could...” He wanted to say pass. He didn’t.

Turning to Flora, he smiled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Thank you,” and he hoped, even though everything he usually said to her was spoken with enough drugs in his veins to make it insincere, he sounded earnest just this once. “Right,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Shall we go while the night is young and this makeup is still perfect? Believe it or not, but there’s a prime time to hit the Hog’s Head, and early morning is not it.” August shoved his arms into his coat, feeling his head tip dangerously within itself, as though he had no neck, and his head might float away at any moment. “How-- how are we getting there?” he asked after a moment, patting his pocket to make sure his wand was still there, as useless as it was. “Do you know a way?”

get you wild ✲ flora & august

[augustcallow-blog]

[augustcallow-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Solo looked down at his things scattered all over the floor - a strange assortment of little treasures he’d gathered over the years, like a raven hoarding shiny objects: a too large Ravenclaw quidditch jersey that had certainly not belonged to Solo originally, as he couldn’t care less about the sport; an old, stale pack of cheap cigarettes with his quick, careless handwriting all over the crumpled carton paper, barely legible after all those years; a bag of muggle candy bars and a worn out copy of The Remains of the Day, read so many times its loose yellowed out pages spilled all over the floor like a shameful fountain of words, even though no one in his dorm had ever seen Solomon as much as hold the book; a pile of second hand clothes he’d stolen from his dorm mates or acquired in East End thrift shops, mostly too big to fit his skinny frame; a timid bag of hard earned money from his business with Jack, too light to even begin to cover for August’s expensive prescriptions. 

“Oh, I’m the fucking asshole? You’re digging through my shit without permission, and I’m the asshole, you fucking junkie?” It wasn’t that his weird assortment of personal belongings was worth much - altogether, they might not be worth one galleon between his holey shirts and expired cigarettes - but it was all about trust. “Fuck you, I don’t have to give you shit just ‘cause you’re using your Master Callow voice.” Solo spat back promptly. “I don’t have any, and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to you, mate. Get the fuck outta my room before I hex you, August.” There was something about August when sober - something that picked on Solo’s well buried fears, something that awoke an almost primal response from him; he knew that commanding voice well, he’d heard it his entire life - it was always fetch me this, or polish that– don’t just stand there just watching, make yourself useful, you animal. ”I’m serious– out. Now. I don’t care how bad you’re tweaking, this– this is my shit you’re stepping on mate. What the fuck.” Solo frowned, almost pleading him to see reason and drop it - despite his threats, he made no motion to go for his wand. He couldn’t - as angry as he was, this was August.

Sweet, drugged up August who had never won a duel between them. Needy, soft spoken August, who threw around the word love like it was easy, like it couldn’t hurt him. “I’m not gonna ask again.” August, that felt like A Tale of Two Cities sometimes.

Right now, it felt like the worst of times indeed. 

You fucking junkie. The words hit, and August felt them for once - like a slap across the face, Solo stripped August of everything he was, everything they had together, and made him Other. He hated the way Solo spoke to him - like he was no one, like Solo was better than he was. August knew the truth; knew that Solo was someone’s bastard, and worse, someone’s servant. In a different life, Solo might’ve been his servant, taking the place of Will, and it rankled to have someone of that position speaking to him like this. He didn’t believe that Solo was out, there was just no way. He knew Solo - had seen the way he used, the way there always seemed to be just a little something slipped away for a rainy day. August needed all the rainy day supplies. Now. His hands shook as he pushed his hair off his forehead, feeling a cold sweat breaking out across his clammy skin. “I’m not leaving,” he managed to get out, ignoring the hurt that seemed to be blooming on Solo’s face; he didn’t want to see that. “I can’t-- I can’t leave. My head--” and he could feel it then, the almost burning pressure behind his eyeballs, somewhere deep in his brain that he couldn’t reach. But if he could - if he could get a hand inside his own mind - he would yank it out and dash it against a wall. 

But more than the pain that felt like a belt tightening around his skull, there was fear - fear of pain, fear of what was to come. That scared him the most, and fear was a powerful motivator. “No,” August said, taking a step toward Solo over the objects lying on the ground. He tried to let his voice go softer, more pleading. “No, you don’t have to ask, I know what you want.” And he did; he knew the language that people like Solo spoke well enough - what was payment for a favour. He swallowed his pride as he glanced at Solo before getting to his knees in front of him, hands shakily rising to Solo’s pants. “I’ll do it,” he promised, feverish. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll-- I’ll blow you,” he said, looking up at Solo. It was no more than he’d do if he were in Hogsmeade and desperate. But what he said next -- it showed his hand, how much he needed it. “I’ll let you fuck me. That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? I’ll let you do it,” and he crawled closer on his knees, a begging man in his element. “You can have me, however you want. But please-- please, Solo, I can’t take it,” and he whispered the last, urgent. “Please give me something, or-- or I don’t know. I’m scared of what I’ll do to make it stop.”

liability | solomon & august

[augustcallow-blog]

am-flying-solo:

At age fifteen, Solomon had been spiralling down.

There wasn’t a particular moment that triggered it: it was a slow build of facts, piling over the years, bleeding into one another until he couldn’t sleep unless he had bruises to press on, or cigarette burns to count on his thighs; it was an invisible pressure expanding inside his lungs like a trapped scream, a constant nausea tightening his guts. 

Mostly though, it was a dangerous mix of apathy and loneliness.

“Teenage angst, mate,” he’d say nowadays, with a wave of hand. “We all had our days.” But back when he was fifteen, those days seemed long enough to last a year, dragging themselves in a never ending parade of grievances. It was then he’d met August - really met him, in a hot evening in june. Solomon still recalled the way moonlight peered through Hufflepuff’s dorm’s window, open like a wide mouth in a silent scream. August couldn’t stand the light, and Theo was nowhere to be seen. The boy offered him a pill - anything not to be alone, maybe, and even though Solo would never admit to it, that night he felt the same. The rest, as they say, is history. Solo stayed for the drugs - easy pills slipped from a wet tongue, a free high whenever he wanted. And at fifteen, he wanted it like a child: more and more, until everything dissolved in a mundane soup of nothingness, a warm fall of pleasure that didn’t have to end with the sunrise; that didn’t have to end at all.

It was easy, addictive, and for free. And when August told him things, stupid things about love and confessions in the dark, Solomon didn’t leave. “Don’t ruin it, mate, shut up,” he’d say, but he’d stay anyway, and that meant something. 

It was for this reason alone he didn’t immediately hex August upon finding him looking through his things, throwing shirts and socks and books all over the floor as he dug inside Solo’s trunk. “What the actual fuck?” Solo roared, starting forward to grab August’s wrists uncerimoniously, roughly dragging him away from his few belongings. “You– You tripping now, mate? What the fuck? What the hell you think you’re doing? Get the fuck outta my room!” 

Perhaps if August had’ve been in any other frame of mind, he might’ve found the contents of Solo’s trunk fascinating - little secrets of Solo’s that he pondered over, tucked away for later. He might’ve found it charming at how many sweets Solo had, or slipped on one of Solo’s shirts, just to feel the way it hung off him. But his hands and eyes were searching for something in particular - something that could take the pain away, because he wasn’t in that frame of mind to appreciate. He was selfish, stubborn, callous to a fault in his desperation, which is why he didn’t hear Solo arrive until his voice broke August out of his dogged determination. Wrists caught and body tugged back, August twisted in Solo’s grip, trying to get free. “Let go of me, you fucking asshole,” he spat, ripping his arms free, at much cost to the tender skin of his wrists. His head pounded as he stood up, hands shaking. “Don’t you dare touch me,” he said as he managed to get on his feet. His breathing, laboured and shallow, echoed in his ears as he looked at Solo, who ordered him out of the room.

“I’m not leaving until I get what I need,” August said defiantly, eyes darting at Solo’s then away, jumping across the mess he’d made then at all the other possible hiding spots in the dorm room. “I have nothing left, and my head--” He looked back to Solo. “Just give me what you’ve got, and I’ll go. And don’t bother saying you have nothing, because we both know that’s bullshit. People like you always have a supply hidden somewhere." Being around Solo while sober was a war inside August that he fought on both fronts, a constant struggle between disgust and love. No one side could ever win it; what he wanted would never happen, and Solo didn’t respect him enough to try. “Well?” he snapped, impatient, the pain making him short-tempered. “Make yourself useful and give it to me. Or point me in the direction of someone else’s stash.”

liability | solomon & august

[augustcallow-blog]

florafraser:

“Everyone wants respect and acceptance, sure,” Flora shrugged, “but do you really think you’re going to get that now? At our age? When people have the maturity of a raw egg?” She knew it was cynical, but years of failed relationships, of all types and sizes, had taught her one thing – getting off was tantamount. In the long run, sure, a partner that valued you was important, but right now, right this minute, all Flora wanted was a quick fuck and a nice orgasm. She caught August’s gaze, shrewd and pointed, as she added, “If you think Solo is going to give you any of that, you’re pretty far gone as well.” She was being honest, but there was also an edge of cruelty to her words. She knew, logically, that she and August meant something to Solo, that things wouldn’t be where they were right now if he didn’t, but they weren’t his first pick. They never would be. And sometimes, Flora got a savage pleasure out of reminding August of that. It was fucked up, but then again, she’d never claimed to be a decent person. “Honestly,” she said, turning back to face the Hufflepuff, watching as he swallowed down two pills dry, “my taste isn’t much better than yours. But if you want a guy who won’t call you in the morning and will make you feel like more of a whore than a person, then I can set that up. If you’re looking for someone to hold your hand and call you gorgeous, then you’re on your own, mate.” Flora wasn’t in the mood to be treated well. It was destructive and fucked up, and she knew she shouldn’t enjoy it, but if men were so hellbent on treating women like shit, then at the very least, she could enjoy the power she had over them when they relinquished control. “Men are garbage,” she sighed, flopping down on the bed next to him and taking a long gulp from her flask. “Why the fuck do we spend so much goddamn time on them?”

Rolling onto her side, Flora looked up when August spoke, caught off guard by his line of inquiry. She never really thought about the specifics of doing her make up, the process of constructing her face blurring into one big jumble of actions when she was this far gone. But regardless of how mundane it was to Flora, August seemed genuinely interested. She appraised him for a moment, expression thoughtful as she shrugged. “I dunno. Years of practice, I suppose? And also, I’d be a pretty shit artist if I couldn’t do my own goddamn make up, regardless of what state I’m in.” However, it was August’s sharp confession – you’re lucky – that really caught her attention. She frowned, sitting up straighter as she thought about the implication of his words. “What do you mean, I’m lucky?” she asked bluntly, eyes slanting defensively as she looked him up and down. “Luck’s got nothing to do with any of this,” she said, gesturing to her appearance. “I mean, yeah, genetically speaking, I’m blessed on that front, but I’m pretty fucked regarding everything else. There’s nothing fucking lucky about a one in nine chance of turning into a goddamn vegetable.” Her mood soured, she stretched across her bed, grabbing her cigarettes from her bedside table and lighting one with a sigh, some of her annoyance dissipating with the first drag of nicotine. She looked over at August, cocking her head to the side. “If you like my make up that much, I can do it for you too. You’ve got the face for it.”

If you think Solo is going to give you any of that, you’re pretty far gone as well. Flora’s words hit August and he recoiled slightly, hating the way she said it without caring if they hurt - or perhaps hoping they would. “You don’t know--” he started to argue, but trailed off, shaking his head and dropping his eyes. It was useless to talk about what either of them did or didn’t know about Solo; he showed them both a different side to himself. Flora got things August didn’t, true, but he liked to think there were parts of Solo that were just his, too. He wanted a lot of things from a partner, and though Solo didn’t check every box, August still wanted him. He cared, and he held onto that knowledge. “I don’t want to be made to feel like a whore,” August said, face twisting. “Can’t I blow a guy and have him call me gorgeous? The two aren’t so unlikely... right?” But Flora was right - men were garbage, and most had only ever used or hurt August. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Because they’re nice to look at? Because some of us have unresolved issues about the men in our lives?” he suggested with a smile across at Flora, nothing too overt in his words but letting her take them as she wanted. “Kind of seems like a losing game to fight it.”

August had spoke without thinking, and the backlash made him retreat a little further inside himself - a reminder not to be an idiot and speak out of turn about things he didn’t understand. He might think Flora lucky for being born a girl, but to her, the words seemed anything but genuine - they hit at some place that made August’s brow crease in confusion, not really understanding the medical origin of her words. “I’m sure there’s a potion for that,” August said sincerely, looking at Flora earnestly. “Whatever’s wrong-- wizarding Healers can do a lot of things. I know your family is-- muggle,” and the word tripped on his tongue, foreign and unpleasant, “but you’re a witch. You can save yourself if something goes wrong. But I meant--” And August felt the courage spike in his chest, “--being you. A-- beautiful woman. Pretty. You’re lucky, unless you’d rather be in your brother’s position, and believe me, you don’t want that. Men are garbage, remember?” he said with a smile. August was always putting his foot in his mouth, but it hurt more when he was sober enough to realise and knew he needed to correct himself. If he’d been properly high, he wouldn’t have cared, and might’ve even argued with Flora about it. As it was, he let it go - and she seemed to do the same, her offer making August feel flustered. “You would?” he asked uncertainly, looking at her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but-- if people found out, his father-- “No one can know,” he said after a beat, and curling his fingers around Flora’s wrist, squeezing. “Please,” he added, but beneath the request for secrecy was a desperation, too - a kid of hunger to know what it’d feel like, to have someone help him when he didn’t know how to help himself. “What-- what will you do?” he asked, and August’s eyes skittered across her face, looking at all the elements; he couldn’t decide what he wanted most. “Can... can you make my eyes like yours?” he said, looking at how dark hers were, how they seemed wide and cruel and beautiful. “Please?”

get you wild ✲ flora & august

[augustcallow-blog]

liability | solomon & august

@am-flying-solo

Ravenclaw Tower was familiar to August from days - and nights - spent waiting for Solo, curled up on his bed. August was not Solo’s first choice of partner, this he knew - August couldn’t give Solo what he wanted, needed, even though he was sure that he gave Solo something that no one else could. It wasn’t sex, though - there had never been sex despite Solo’s reputation and August’s loose and easy one. August’s long waits in Solo’s dorm, stretched out on his bed and riding whatever high had usually been peppered with conversations from Solo’s dormmates, who August didn’t particularly care for (and nor they, he). But after so many years of chasing Solo’s company, affection, and love, August had gotten familiar with the entry points to the house - which students would let him in for nothing, and those whom he had to pitch a somewhat believable excuse to. Today, August got in by the grace of his own intellect. Given he was painfully, frustratingly, almost sober, August could rustle together enough wit for the password and slip inside. It was cooler here than Hufflepuff, and August tugged his jacket closer around his chest, hands already cold and shaking without the lofty heights of Ravenclaw adding to it.

He needed something. Bad. The problem with Hogwarts was that most people were too upstanding for their own - and his - good. They tucked a joint away in their sock drawer, feeling naughty for their small rebellions, but it did nothing for August when he was like this: out of drugs, out of money, and out of options. The pain in his head was dangerous, a living thing that thrashed inside his skull, and he knew that he’d start getting nosebleeds soon. Then the head-splitting pain. And then the visions -- and it wouldn’t stop at one. August picked up his pace, slipping into the seventh year boys’ dorm and glancing around. It was empty, save for Smith’s rabbit chewing on a sock by Lennox’s bed, so he set to work. Crossing the room to Solo’s trunk, he pushed it open unceremoniously and dropped to his knees. Trembling hands began clawing things out - shirts with holes in them, stretched too big to have ever belonged to Solo; some books, some socks. August might have been enamoured by these finds if he were high, but to him, sober, these were infuriating - where did Solo keep his stash? The trunk’s contents were empty, and he swung, shaking and frenzied, to the drawers, pulling them out and upending the contents on the floor. There had to be something - anything - to take the edge off, because if Solo didn’t have something like that, who would?

[augustcallow-blog]

If you had to sleep with one house mate who would it be?

I sleep with Theo almost every night, and I’m not really interested in trading cuddle buddies. Get your own.

[augustcallow-blog]

Top 3 most attractive people in Slytherin?

i don’t really know what house people are in. here are three pretty people that could be slytherins:

jack (;))

elliot

hux

[augustcallow-blog]

Have you ever fantasised about a professor?

My head of house is Benson Raleigh. What do you think?

[augustcallow-blog]

fitzwilliamvauxhall:

“You’re such a fucking child,” Fitz muttered, eyes rolling at August’s delight. Perhaps if he’d actually beaten Fitz in a duel, Fitz wouldn’t be so miffed about August’s gloating, but he hadn’t beaten him. Fitz knew this is what he needed to do in order to get the information that he required, but he also despised the idea of giving August credit for something he couldn’t even do if he tried. However, Fitz swallowed down his pride, giving the younger boy a tight, frigid smile. “Spin whatever stories you have to for your father. Whatever will get me those reports – within reason, of course, and within the parameters of the narrative we’ve agreed upon.” But the moment August mentioned a marriage to his sister and uniting their families, Fitz balked. It wasn’t a bad suggestion – Roslyn Callow was a smart, well-bred girl, and anyone should be so lucky as to have her, in any capacity. A union would arguably make the Vauxhall-Callow heirs some of the richest and most powerful people within the wizarding world. His grandmother would be over the moon at the mere suggestion. It was everything Fitz should want, everything he should have been working towards, but he couldn’t do it. He would give his life for his family, for the furthering of the Vauxhall name, but he would not give his heart.

“I don’t need you to tell me what it means to be in our position,” Fitz growled. “I understand the need for discretion just as much as you do, and I’d like to think that I’m even more adept at practicing it. How many times have you seen me, sloppy and fucked out of my mind, kissing every person who gives me the time of day at a Hufflepuff rager?” He gave August a pointed look, knowing full well that August lecturing him about being careful was as ironic as if he were to lecture August on proper drug use. “I’m not trying to hide who I am,” he said, trying to infuse more confidence into his voice than he felt. “As eligible of a candidate your sister is for marriage, she doesn’t interest me. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with her, so why would I marry her?” It was easy to say these sorts of things to August. It was easy to pretend he was braver than he was with four hundred miles separating him from his father and grandmother. Fitzwilliam V didn’t even know his son was gay – although, less out of Fitz’s fear of telling his father and more out of Fitz’s resignation to the fact that, even if he told him, he probably wouldn’t remember the next morning, what with his steady liquid diet of bourbon and whiskey. “It’s smart that you’re thinking this way,” Fitz sighed, lighting a fresh cigarette. “You’ve got to get your head in the game at some point if you actually want to succeed in our world. But I’m not interested.” Perhaps it was foolishly sentimental for him to hold onto the idea of finding love – love was meant for people who had warm hearts and gentle smiles and unending optimism in the world, and Fitz knew that he would probably never find it. But he’d rather be alone and know that he had tried than be shackled to someone else, always wondering what if.

Fitz frowned, however, at August declining his help, taking a long drag off his cigarette. The younger boy wasn’t making much sense, and as much as he wanted to learn more, he balked at the suggestion of turning August into a pet project – although, that’s exactly what he was doing. He simply couldn’t understand why the son of someone so respected and revered would so carelessly throw away his potential. “Every problem has a solution,” he said with a shrug. “It might not be simple or easy or even pleasant, but there is always a solution – if you want it badly enough.” He swallowed thickly, lips pressing into a thin line as he found himself caught up in his thoughts. “My father hasn’t worked a day in his life,” he said slowly, eyeing August with a sharp, careful gaze, every word meticulously chosen. “Or at least – that’s what he’d tell you if you asked. No Vauxhall with half a brain would ever let another man be his boss. That’s what he always used to say. His success came entirely out of the relationships he forged with all of the most influential people in the Wizarding World, and he’s never been averse to dealing with the less– savory individuals of our community, so long as they were the best in their field.” Ashing his cigarette, Fitz glanced up at August, appraising the younger boy critically as he continued. “You might have tried every conventional way to fix– whatever it is that’s your problem, but if you wanted– if you were interested in a more unorthodox approach, my father probably knows someone who could help.” Very rarely did Fitz see eye to eye with his father, especially when it came to issues of moral ambiguity. The whole reason his mother was in Greywatch was because his father didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. But sometimes, in specific cases, Fitz understood the need for less conventional methods. After all, the Callows were not a poor family. If they hadn’t fixed whatever was wrong with August by now on their own, with the considerable resources at their disposal, it was probably because they had come to the conclusion that it couldn’t be fixed. However, Fitz was not someone who enjoyed entertaining the idea of the word no.

The sharp, heated way that Fitz’s words came at August threw him a little; he’d thought they were getting somewhere, making some kind of connection. But August then dimly realised that, no - Fitz didn’t make connections. He entertained a person as long as he needed them and got what he wanted, and discarded. People were business transactions to someone like Fitz - there was no genuine warmth in any encounter that August had ever had with him, nor any that he’d witnessed from Fitz in the whole time he’d known Fitz. And he’d known Fitz for years, both of them toted as prizes and trophies at parties, shoved into each other’s general vicinity. But as good at pretending as Fitz was, he was not warm or loving or even kind; August had had Fitz on his knees for him and been in the exact same position, but even then, it was not kindness. It had been convenience: a trade off. August could’ve been replaced by any other boy and Fitz wouldn’t have noticed. He thought all these things dimly, like watching thoughts through a fogged up window - seeing, but not fully comprehending or letting the sting land. Fitz made a pointed remark about August’s sloppy behaviour, and it glanced off of him, but what landed instead was Fitz’s almost romantic view on marriage. “You’re not hiding?” August asked, eyebrows raised incredulously, disbelieving. “See, I know for a fact that you’re bullshitting, because a gay Vauxhall would have circulated through the grapevine like wildfire,” he said, knowing exactly how it worked. “If you come out, you and I would not be allowed in the same room anymore, so I know you’re lying.” 

Still, Fitz’s idea of marrying someone he genuinely cared about seemed -- well, naive, even to August, who had accepted long ago that he would marry whomever his family told him. “We hope for love, but we don’t get it,” August intoned, eyes sliding away from Fitz’s face to his cigarette. “If we’re lucky, we marry someone we learn to love or befriend, but... it’s rare. The more important you are, the less you’re able to choose. Someone like you?” August looked up to Fitz, and took a drag on his cigarette. “I can’t imagine you have a lot of say. So why are you being stupid about it?” It wasn’t just that Fitz had rejected Ros, though that did get through to August under he haze; he loved his sister, and knew that she’d experienced a lifetime of people passing her over. 

August was exhaling just as Fitz launched into a tentative plan - and he choked on the smoke when he mentioned his father. August was shaking his head before Fitz had even finished. “No father’s, no mother’s. No family,” he said firmly, heart rate picking up out of fear. He nervously glanced over his shoulder toward the door, as though his father were about to stride through it any moment. “I-- I don’t care who your father knows. He could know Merlin himself and I’d still say no,” he said. “I can’t trust Mr. Vauxhall-- fuck, I can’t trust you either,” August continued, palm sweaty as he pushed himself up, hand shaking that was holding the cigarette. “Don’t-- Don’t ask your father anything. Please,” he said. “I can’t say what the problem is, let alone get half the wizarding world involved in fixing it when it can’t be fixed.” August glanced nervously over his shoulder again before darting his eyes back to Fitz. “I haven’t tried anything because no one knows, alright? I know, and if anyone else knows, I’m fucked and my family... I can’t be sick, okay? I’m not allowed to be a lot of things.” August wiped his palms on his thighs and took a shaky drag of the cigarette, hoping the nicotine would calm him down. “Why are you trying so hard to help me?” he asked, trying to deflect. “You don’t give a shit about me, or my family. You wouldn’t offer up your father’s contacts and risk exposing his own dealings if you didn’t either have some investment or stake in this. What do you want?” August asked warily. “Why are you saying this?”

pieces from the whole ➣ august & fitz

[augustcallow-blog]

florafraser:

Flora smeared dark, charcoal liner underneath her eyes, smudging it artfully, her hands shaky and unsteady. She didn’t particularly care, half because the messiness was part of the look, half because she’d been consistently high since the middle of the day, and her reflexes were shot. She moved on to lipstick, coloring her mouth a deep mauve color as August lounged on her bed. It was always fun going out with the Hufflepuff because neither of them had much room to judge, and both of them always needed some sort of distraction from their problems. Flora hadn’t quite figured out what made August tick, but she also couldn’t bring herself to give a shit. All she needed to know was that August could keep up with her – and goddamn, he could. “Hufflepuffs are too nice,” she said, her expression twisting as she applied mascara, lashes fluttering against the applicator. “No offense or anything, but you’ve got a house full of pushovers. Maybe if I got off on like…mutual respect and acceptance, but honestly, that sounds boring as fuck. Give me all the human train wrecks that populate Gryffindor and Ravenclaw any day. Besides, I don’t mind the stairs They make my arse look good.”

She glanced back at August, grinning playfully and giving him a cheeky wink, watching him take her choker, toying with it in his fingers. “Hot damn,” Flora said with a whistle as the other boy fastened the velvet around his throat. “You pull that off even better than I do.” She got to her feet, swatting at him cheekily as she stood, kneeling by her bedside table and reaching behind it to pull out her stash – a handful of pills, a joint, and a brown baggie of shrooms. Going back home to visit Loren so frequently meant a lot of things, but most immediately, it meant that she had more access to drugs than ever and even more of an impetus to buy whenever she went home. “Take your pick,” she said carelessly, laying the substances out on her bed. “But unless you want to risk shitting yourself in the Hogshead, I’d leave the shrooms for a later date,” she added with a wry grin. However, at his request for her to come home with him, Flora frowned, lips curling into a small pout. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said with a long suffering sigh, throwing her long, lanky arms around his shoulders, crooking her head over his neck. The oxycodone threading through her veins was making her even more tactile than usual. “As long as you don’t judge me for blowing someone twice my age in the bathroom, if it turns into one of those nights.” Flora made eye contact with August in her mirror, offering him a crooked grin – she was kidding, but only just.

“None taken, Hufflepuff is a user’s nightmare. Most of ‘em are too straight and narrow,” and August would know; he’d raided a few people’s trunks, looking for drugs in the last week. It had been nothing but trinkets from mummy and chocolates from grandma. “You don’t want respect and acceptance?” August asked, looking at Flora apply her makeup. “That’s pretty fucked up,” he added, grinning lazily. “Even I want that - someone to hold my hand. Someone to care about my opinion. You’re pretty far gone.” August didn’t tell Flora that the person he had in mind was Solo - she likely already knew; had seen it in his possessiveness, the small, petty fights he’d had with Flora in the past about Solo when the other boy wasn’t around. It wasn’t like August was drowning in friends. His smile slipped and he quickly changed the subject as he got to his feet. “You don’t need stairs to make your arse look good, either - it’s doing just fine on its own.” The mood shifted once again when August’s eager eyes tracked Flora’s hiding place, hungrily watched as she dumped a small hoard onto the bed. His hands twitched, eating up everything she’d offered. He had no interest in the shrooms or the joint - they barely took the edge off - but the pills... If he could take enough... August’s attention was drawn away when Flora’s arms found their way around the neck, and he could see the loose-limbed way she moved and held herself that she was already pretty far gone. His eyes met hers in the mirror, burying his need as he grinned. “So long as you don’t mind that I’ll be using the stall after you for the exact same thing,” he said, dropping his eyes to his cigarette and quickly stubbing it out.

“You might have to pick the guy for me, though,” August confessed with a stilted laugh. “I have terrible taste in men. Can’t pick the ones with herpes from those with good hygiene. You’re better and more experienced.” August didn’t mind admitting it; he didn’t get around as much as people seemed to think, and definitely not in the way they thought, either. Raising his hands to squeeze hers, August ducked out from her arms to sit on the edge of her bed and rifle with the drugs. He wasn’t fussy with what he took, and scattered two from a baggie into his palm and swallowed them dry. When they’d gone down, August sat back propped on his hands, watching Flora for a moment before he gave in to the one thing he’d been thinking since he arrived. “How do you manage to do your makeup like that when you’re... like this?” he asked, standing up to get close, looking at her eyes, her lashes. “It’s pretty,” he added genuinely, “but a skill that I’m not sure I could ever have.” The problem with August and Flora was that she was most of what August wanted - not just in Solo’s eyes, though that was a large part of it. She was pretty - and he knew that he was, too - but she also had the feminine grace and freedom that he didn’t. True, there was something delicate to his features, but he could never heighten it to the depths he wanted. August had always been a little jealous of Flora, and it chafed when she rubbed it in his face and he was sober enough to realise what he felt and take it out on her. He studied her face and wondered if he kissed her, if the lipstick she’d just applied would transfer to his own lips. “You’re lucky,” he said, swallowing thickly and throat bobbing beneath the choker of hers that he still wore.

get you wild ✲ flora & august

[augustcallow-blog]

fitzwilliamvauxhall:

Fitz soured immediately at August’s suggestion, eyes going dark and lips curling into a surly glower. He didn’t need to be tutored in DADA. He got an O on his O.W.L.s, and he was on track to do the same for his N.E.W.T.s, and implying anything else was an affront to Fitz’s fastidious nature. What was more, Taejin Callow was hugely respected, both as an auror and as a pureblood. Fitz had no desire for August’s father to think he was a fool who needed August, of all people, to tutor him. “We can study together,” Fitz growled begrudgingly. “We can be study partners. Do you really think your father would believe that you’re my tutor? You don’t think he’d find it suspicious that the Vauxhalls aren’t getting their only heir getting the best education possible? Current state aside, you’re a year below me. How could you help me pass my N.E.W.T.s when you haven’t even learned half of the curriculum?” He snatched his cigarettes back, lighting one moodily and taking a long drag. Fitz would sacrifice a lot for this information – including his pride. If August pushed again, he’d be forced to concede to the other’s demands. “Tell him that I just joined Dueling Club, and we were paired together. You can even say you beat me in our first go around, and I got competitive, so we’re partners now,” Fitz said reluctantly. “Does that suit whatever narrative you need to spin? Or do you insist on making me look as idiotic as possible in order to impress your father?”

Fitz settled back into his seat, mood sour. He despised that August had something he needed so desperately, and his only consolation in all of this was that August was too high to put together why Fitz might even be interested in the Greywatch reports. At the very least, August was too meek and too useless to try anything – a more cunning person could have attempted blackmail or extortion, and a more curious person could string together Fitz’s family history and connect the dots accordingly after this. But August was neither, meaning Fitz was safe. “Thank you for doing this,” he muttered, begrudgingly appreciative of what August was going to provide. “If the roles were reversed, I can’t say I’d do the same, but– thank you.” The gratitude felt foreign on his tongue, but Fitz believed in giving credit where credit was due. August deserved at least that.

Clearing his throat, Fitz found himself almost grateful when the younger boy started explaining his condition – or whatever it was. Maybe he was just being cynical, but perhaps if August stopped using so much, everything would hurt less. Fitz could tell that the Hufflepuff was being purposefully vague about what exactly was wrong with him, and although everyone was entitled to their own secrets, Fitz found himself wondering what exactly those were for August. Perhaps, his reasons were legitimate. Fitz would never know. “Maybe I’d talk to you more if you weren’t like this all the time,” he shrugged indifferently. “Who knows? All I can say is I don’t think I’ve ever had a full conversation with you while you were sober, so I haven’t got the slightest clue what you’re actually like, underneath all of this.” Maybe we’d be friends, Fitz thought for one wild, unprecedented moment. It wasn’t so much of a leap, really. He and August came from the same place – the elite pureblooded, cold hearted elite. Maybe, in another world, they could have been friends. “There has to be a more practical way to handle– whatever it is you’re dealing with. A way that doesn’t turn you into a drugged up vegetable, that is. I’m sure you could figure that out if you actually had the drive to do so.” Fitz glanced August up and down, feeling alarmingly charitable for someone so desensitized. August was helping Fitz deal with his own secrets. There was nothing stopping Fitz from doing the same to August. In fact, he probably should – earning August’s loyalty was key in keeping all of tis quiet. “I could help you,” he offered. “If you want to change, if you want to be a better version of yourself, if you want to find a new solution to all of this, I can help. But only if you’re serious about it.”

Fitz was smart, his brain sharp and capable, while thinking, for August, felt like walking through mud. It didn’t surprise him that Fitz had an edition to the plan, his mind already thinking ahead. August knew that he should feel offended that August tutoring Fitz wasn’t a believable plan, but he wasn’t; Fitz was right, and if August wanted to impress his father, he was going to have to think more like Fitz. “I don’t know, maybe you’re a dunce at DADA,” August said, taking a drag on the cigarette and looking at Fitz through the smoke. “But study partners works. As does Duelling Club partners,” he beamed. “I can’t believe I kicked your arse. That’s humiliating. Can I tell my father that I gave you a bruise? Please?” August could almost imagine that letter home now - a glowing recount of how he was paired with the Vauxhall heir and defeated him. August could imagine his father’s praise and pride - and the money he’d send. “Our families are going to be so proud - they might ask you to marry my sister. Wouldn’t that be nice? We’d be brothers. Family.” His father had said that he was attempting to set Ros up with someone eligible - Fitz wouldn’t be the worst person in the world to be related to. August also knew that a Vauxhall-Callow alliance would be mutually beneficial for both their families; the Callow’s were close with the Minister, while the Vauxhall’s had obvious ties to Hogwarts and the Ministry. It was perfect, even to August - a friendship, however false, between him and Fitz was exactly the kind of thing that would make their families happy.

But it was Fitz’s genuine thank you that sparked August to say something further. “You do realise how important it is that we do this, right?’ he drawled, looking across at Fitz. “Not just for our deal. I mean-- for staying under the radar. If you play by the rules, no one notices what you do in the shadows. No one cares.” August’s addiction was perfect proof of that. “You’re awfully into dick and interested in things that you shouldn’t be - an alliance can help,” he said with a shrug. “It’ll also keep my family off my back. Just something to consider.”

To most in the pureblood circle, there had been no hiding that the Callow heir had been hospitalised for weeks when he was a little boy - gossip and rumour travelled fast, and for all the money that the Callows had thrown at August’s problem, there had been no solution. Except his lies that told everyone he was fine, and the Callow’s put it down to migraines. Annoying and unflattering, yes, but a migraine could be dealt with; it was better than admitting that August had something wrong with him. It was the story that August had stuck to, not wavering from even when his nose was bleeding and he would swallow whatever pill was in sight. “I don’t think you’d like me when I’m sober - we’d be too much alike,” he smiled, but it was mostly the truth. Sober August could handle anything and everything, a capable alter ego that August kept buried. But the smile slid from his face when Fitz offered to help - find another solution, to take this seriously. It was tempting - because Fitz had the drive and means to do something about it when August couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” August said, shakily taking another drag of the cigarette. “We all have secrets, and I don’t think I can share this one. And I would have to share it in order for you to help fix me,” he exhaled and immediately put it back to his lips. “And there is no fix for what I have, no solution except-- except being like this so it doesn’t hurt and I can keep living, or-- just not. Not living,” he exhaled. “Trust me, okay? Just-- don’t make me into a pet project. This is the best I can be, and-- I’m taking it seriously.” August darted his eyes to Fitz and then away, fear and nervousness bubbling inside of him. “But what-- out of curiosity, would you do? Could you do?” 

pieces from the whole ➣ august & fitz