birdiefromafar

[birdiefromafar]

i’m begging, leave brown men alone, please! there isn’t anything wrong with letting james be white instead of promoting age-old, racist, stereotypical fetishisation. that, or at least, being more thoughtful about characterisation. it’s easy, actually.

You know what I hate about the Jegulus fandom? (You can ship what you want BUT this is my gripe with the FAN.DOM.)

How people make James POC, then proceed to make him dumb, two-dimensional, and constantly being verbally and abused and pushed to the side, worshipping his white savior boyfriend who eventually participates in a genocide. (Willingly or not.)

Like.

Is that not kinda insane?

But it’s okay because Regulus is a pretty little twink and James is a meathead jock with money and arms the size of his brain!

Guys… We’ve officially lost the plot

[birdiefromafar]

is it just me or would juniflower be such a cute ship name for bartylily? juni for junior, flower for lily (or maybe junilily?)

[birdiefromafar]

this is why slytherin x slytherin evance have my soul. i don't need another gryffindor x slytherin rivals / enemies to lovers. there are other options, people!

im so sick of the gryffindor x slytherin agenda

[birdiefromafar]

^^such an important discussion - i could go on and on about the dangerous, beastly, primal brown man stereotype and the harm it causes - which applies not only to published books but also somewhat to fandoms too, imo ( cough brown james potter cough )

i think the only solution is for more own voice content really because white folk cannot be trusted to get us right

RY calling Xaden “not white” is really just reinforcing the idea that a lot of authors in the romantasy space view POC as something to fetishize.

White is the “default” and anything else is exotic. They love to use the “primal” brown man caricature and getting the brownie points for “diversity” while putting no real effort in. The ambiguous tan man is almost always the love interest to a white women.

They don’t actually value their fictional poc on the same value as their white ones, and it’s very apparent when you read about non LI poc.

We see this happen time and time again, and no one cares because the majority of the fanbase fetishize POC they’re attracted to in the same way 🤷‍♀️

[birdiefromafar]

there are some couples you read fic for and you’re like oh so you guys like didn’t get it

[birdiefromafar]

it’s so nice to go no i don’t like [insert ship] just because. that’s all the reason you’re ever going to get out of me.

i feel like nobody has NOTPs anymore. like if you hate a ship now it has to be for some deep moral reason and you have to justify it to everyone what happened to just not liking stuff that isnt inherently bad but just because you personally think it sucks

[birdiefromafar]

you can say "women, especially women of color, are often written poorly in comics, so you can't just take everything canon says at face value" and everyone will cheer, but the second you say "which is why purely watsonian analysis of Talia al Ghul, Jade Nguyen, Tana Moon, Catalina Flores, and countless others will never work because you have to acknowledge the biases they were written with" you get called an abuse defender :/

[birdiefromafar]

death of the author yeah whatever but death of the fandom is so integral to enjoying legitimately anything like that is just a necessary step to take in ur head always. do not let them affect the text in any way exterminate them all with ur death ray. they r not real and cannot hurt u

[birdiefromafar]

lover┊may 2┊@taylorswiftmicrofic ┊evance┊wc: circa 1000┊tw: bad(?) decisions┊ ao3

Tattooist Evan receives a familiar client, asking for a tattoo that goes against his (who’s he kidding. the owner’s) moral principles. He ought to say no but… he can be flexible when he wants to be.

22:10, Evan read off his phone screen when the bell on the door to his parlour chimed. Thankfully, the grating squeal of the rusty hinges was like the mewl of a kitten compared to the roaring lion that was the furious rain.

Outside, storm clouds had gathered over London, dark and menacing, and the uproar of drunks convinced the skies had conspired maliciously to ruin their days personally made the roads feel far too vast. Mimicking a raided house party with the cacophony - people yelling and rain battering like battering rams on a door and the sour scent of alcohol chasing the pub-goers on their scrabble home - English weather was having a mighty time being English weather. 

Evan had expected some poor souls unwise enough to be caught up in the crush of man and nature to need solace. Strays always end up beneath his archway, waiting it out for their taxis. What he didn’t expect was for a stray to walk in.

Glancing up from the portfolio he had been flicking his way through, he assessed the wiry woman hovering at the doorway. Definitely a stray.

Though her hair was piled upon her head like a crown, she couldn’t have been more than five foot two, if Evan was in the mood to be generous. Dim as the lighting was, he could still make out her pale arms, unblemished, her eyes being large and black as though they had been personally responsible for sucking in all the light and leaving him in shadows. Indistinguishable, the rest of her features were a guessing game to make out, though her strapless floral dress reinforced to him she was cute.

The type of cute to not belong in his dark, polished  parlour with posters of meaty biceps covered in tattoos and woman with… daring piercings stuck to the wall.

Evan liked challenges. With his steady and precise hand, he knows he could take them and exceed in his work. He wasn’t looking forward to more butterflies and hearts. Merlin Forbid a name. At times like those, he could see why his parents urged him to prioritise his talents in traditional arts - sculpting, painting and architecture - more.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, swivelling to face the woman better, “Come in, sweetheart,” charm dripped lazily from his lips, a half-hearted smirk, “I’m not looking to bite.”

”What are we looking for today, luv?” He rolled his chair to his desk, flipping in the portfolio to a delicate butterfly that had been the craze lately. Across from it, where less precise but no less dainty images laid, was thin wands letting off sparkles of light, a series of branches with subtle differences in the spreading of the leaves - five pointed or three, gathered in clumps or spread like lashes - and a looping script regurgitating lorem ipsum.

The woman shrugged her thin shoulders, casting one glance over the pictures before her eyes trailed from him and to the posters. She smiled faintly like she had heard the tail-end of a joke, or was attempting to be lady-like and not snort to his assumptions.

When she spoke, though polite, her voice pricked his ears - underneath the suspicious hoarseness she applied to it, it sounded frustratingly familiar. “These are pretty,” she tittered appreciatively first, tracing a wing in genuine awe, before she corrected course, asserting, “I’d like a name, though. I have it written out already.”

“A name?” Evan rested on his elbows, ready to give the customary warning - otherwise, the boss would have his hide for apathetically letting fools make big mistakes, because those were the people who often left bad reviews, “Miss, who’s name are you going for? You’re young and pretty, luv,” he emphasised like she was slow, catching only her jaw with how her head was pivoted, “Regret, though, wouldn’t be a good look-“

Wait.

He knew that jaw. That elaborate hair, smooth like silk and pliable to his ministrations. He’d done that hair up before. He’d kissed that jaw that morning. And those eyes have been his kryptonite since he was six and they’d been batted his way, imploring him to help steal dessert from the kitchens.

Emmeline.

Instinctively, his hands reached for her, like they do whenever she’s in his proximity, wanting to feel her.

Emmeline saw his realisation in the darkening of his eyes. She giggled, much more melodiously than the screeching bell and door. Twisting away, her dress fluttered like a tease - and he knew she was tough, there was no denying it with the scrapes and bruises she’d sported defending him and his honour as he did her, but he couldn’t help thinking again: stray. His stray. She’d always been too good for his world.  

“Excuse me,” Emmeline taunted with a sharp, joyous grin, enjoying how long her gig had lasted - far longer spent in obliviousness than one would expect from her oldest friend, “Sir, I ask that you remain professional.”

”I-“ Evan shook his head, speechlessly fond. His lips upticked, “C’mere, Em. It’s dark. You’ll trip. I’m being concerned staff.”

”Mo leannan, mas e do thoil e,” he cooed, like coaxing forward a skittish kitten.

(My lover, please.)

Then agan, in her tongue, when she remained resolutely far with her head held up like a damsel he’d disgraced and who was now intent to loudly take offence, “Lại đây coi, cho anh nhìn cái mặt xinh đẹp của em nào.”

(Come here and let me look at that beautiful face.)

Emmeline came but only to flick his forehead, flustered and laughing. She should be used to his need for her, but her heart was as soft as the day she was born, and so her cheekbones glowed pink.

Opportunistic, Evan grasped her. His hand enclosed around her wrist, keeping her from retracting her touch post-attack. Slyly, his ankle displaced hers, knocking her stance off, and he pulled her down, settling her triumphantly onto his lap.

He kissed her ear, asking huskily, “Now that you’re where you should be,” teeth dragging over her earlobe and pinching sharply, “what was that about a name?”

”What was that about regret?” Emmeline echoed, hands fisting in his hair and pulling in return. She laughed and her smile bared her teeth. Not a chipped tooth in sight unlike his but equally sharp.

”If it’s mine, I-“ Evan watched her lips. His voice was a low register, breathy. 

”-Could be convinced,” she cut him off finished knowingly. Then, leaning closer, she teased, “Because we’ll be together forever and ever?”

”It’s always been that way,” he agreed with the complete absence of shame that came from knowing someone for so long and so intimately, and kissed her hard when she overlapped her hands around his nape and mock-swooned. (Half-mocked. Agrippa, she’s a romantic.)

The cheek earned her enough kisses that any actual tattooing is only completed the next day. He insisted on doing hers and she held his hand through it when his was done by his fellow tattooist.

It wasn’t necessary, he had full sleeves of ink and feathered wings stretching across his shoulders and back, but it made his heart flutter peculiarly and curl into a cocoon of warmth like she’s ignited ever since they were children.

No remorse. No looking back. Not with her. Not with him.

Never.

[birdiefromafar]

lightning┊evance┊wc: circa 1000┊tw: implied neglect

Bang!

Crack!

Boom!

Lightning shattered the air. Splintering, bolts of blue bombarded the blossoms of the Rosier’s gardens.

If he closed his eyes - which he didn’t, because he wasn’t scared, duh - then Evan could imagine the individual petals. In his mind’s eye, hungering fire ate away at them from the edges to the innards, leaving only a deceptively gentle powdering of grey on the grass. That, and hard shards liable to cut him.

There was nothing good about the thunder and lightning; storms.

Tearing himself from the window, he paused, holding himself still save for his ears which still pricked at every strike and his jaw which creaked at every rumble. Dry, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. Mama and Papa wouldn’t like him disturbing their gathering…

Evan could almost hear their footsteps, as if they were approaching, remembering him. Remembering he could be frightened.

But he couldn’t, truly. Shouldn’t.

That’d be inappropriate. Weak.

C’mon. He liked the sound of Felix’s screams when he pushed him over. This rattling in his ears was hardly different. Surely.

Breath in. Breath out. He’s fine.

He jumped.

”Oh!��� The girl behind him, whom he placed after a scouring look up and down as Emmeline Vance - daughter of one of his parents’ circle, recoiled too. Her lips tried for an unassuming smile, lightning reflected in her lustrous eyes, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Thats how he knew she was a liar. He slung her lazily and without thought to the compartment of snakes in his mind; no one here would say sorry. Ever.

Maybe when pigs fly.

”I’m not frightened,” he told her in his best attempt at flatness. The lightning cracked his voice and left it high, high enough she raised her eyebrows, “I was watching the lightning, before.”

Crackle!

She full-body flinched at the booming interruption. Like someone scolded, her head remained down.

A cocky smile pulled at his lips, “What, are you too scared to look at it?”

“Uh uh,” positively affronted, Emmeline’s arms criss-crossed over her chest. Her poofy shamrock-green gown - the colour of his eyes - was simple, and the embroidery on her gossamer gloves was peeling off.

”Mm Hm,” he countered.

She turned her head, eyes off him like she had better things to be staring at. Her hands poorly shielded the wilting flowers stitched on her gloves from his view even as she clambered up to the window - an awkward dance, that was.

The next time light struck through the air she resolutely kept her eyes fixed on the bolt, peering down to glance at the grass it hit.

Triumphantly, she asked him - his muscles tightly controlled, watching her from the side - “Were you really watching? Prove it.”

”What?”

”You weren’t at the window. You were in the corridor when I walked in,” she proclaimed.

No was on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t have to prove anything to her. She was nobody. Nobody compared to the Rosier name, that is. Her family’s in genteel poverty, so laughed his mother’s friends. He shouldn’t bother. Doesn’t want to. His hands stiffened at his sides.

Emmeline saw this, and her shoulders drooped, like she was resigned. Her foot grazed the edge of cupboard she used to climb up to the window ledge.

“It’s fine-“ she said, almost kindly, at the same time as he told her to budge. Her eyes narrowed at him peculiarly, like she’s about to deny him.

The stubborn twist to her lips was nothing he’d seen before. Matching it to faces, he’d guess uncertainly it was an approximation of pity. But… not quite.

Care?

Evan didn’t understand why she would. It made his head ache harder than the drumming of the skies.

She stepped to the side after a moment, compressing herself to one side of the wide sill. Her hand grasped at the lock to keep on her knees rather than tumble backwards.

Miffed - she really was quite good at balancing, Evan attempted to ascend, making a show of leaping up in only two movements. But, he landed awkwardly, almost falling short. His foot wavered on the precise of the ledge. Dammit-

A hand grabbed at his waistcoat. Emmeline hauled him carefully to safety. Flushed, her rosy complexion deepened as she strained - him being inches taller than her, considering how she was well below average. 

“Are you alright?” she said, as if she looked anything resembling alright. Her hand wiped over her forehead, and without thinking, he reached his forward to stop her from having it catch on her up-do.

”Says you,” Evan told her it straight. He glanced her over and finally had to face it. “You’re nice,” he said. His face, which he had been told was as though carved to resemble the marble statues of his forefathers, was suitably suspicious.

She smiled winningly anyways, “Thanks,” and then, finding she could not say the same back to him, “You’re daring.”

”It’s brave to watch,” she continued, and when he opened his mouth, spoke quicker over him, “both me and you, mind. I’m being daring, too.”

Together, they spend the rest of the evening watching the skies. Light streaked by, and they played pretend that it was only spells. Rain beat on the window, like it was trying to get to them, and she told him the tale of Thuy Tinh. He told her the Sea God would’ve gotten there earlier if he really wanted to. She laughed, and he opened his ears, letting himself hear the storm only to delve beneath and hear her chiming giggles beneath. Company was like a blanket thick as molasses for the two of them.

When it came time for her to leave, Evan called after Emmeline, “You care. Clearly, about me.” He slanted his head challengingly, “Come again.”

Elusively, Emmeline only shook her head fondly and pressed her lips together. A whisper carried up to him where he stood on the balcony as he watched her family floo away, “Tôi hứa.”

[birdiefromafar]

hey guys, barty crouch jr. was in ravenclaw and also blond. nerd. timid prolly. got 12 owls. bye

[birdiefromafar]

follow┊may 17┊@bartylily-microfics┊wc: circa 1500┊tw: none

The forest, in a dim lighting that forewarned lazily of the impending dusk, appeared to have slipped into a deep slumber. Trees shaded the rugged mud paths, protruding roots lumping into indistinguishable masses beneath a shadow blanket. Where once slivers of sunlight had squeezed from between wide leaves to grant sweet mercy to the flow of insects below, no brightness was left but the faintest lilac shimmer of a waning day. Carved as they were, the eyes engraved into every great oak squinted. Grooves deepened into yawns; crickets chirped like a horde of mothers; flowers hid their blossoms, removing their make-up to sink finally into rest.

Lily Evans had not once - well, just about twice, or a few times, maybe, truthfully - thought she was a follower but, as matters stood, like the slowing critters and the gentling breeze, her limbs too began to leaden.

She couldn't afford to halt herself here: camp, sweet sanctuary, was but a few yards away. She could feel it. Really. In her bones! It didn't matter that their map had winded it's way away from any sensible hands. She just knew.

But the drowsy atmosphere, weighted as it was, inched its tendrils beneath the layers she'd adorned (bandana, hijab, under-cap) to her ears and whispered lullabies. In the evening haze, it was beautiful. Lily had always been weak for the beautiful things of life. The overgrown park down the road, the scarlet she'd magicked her hair and the maroon she'd dyed her hijab the muggle way, the black and white of old movies, how the air of Hogwarts effused the extraordinary property of the castle, the sprinkling of dust when she cracked open a tome that had not received its due remembrance, the even-toothed smile of-.

The even-toothed smile, she thought mulishly, of the boy behind her.

He hadn't paused as she had, his footsteps crunching the carpet of orange leaves until he came to a stop beside her. Their shoulders did not brush, but it was a close thing. Almost, Lily wished that they would have, so she could've claimed - with only the implementation of the slightest of dramatics - to herself that he'd shoulder-barged her. Then, she'd be given a reason for avoiding him as she had done. No. He was awfully, terribly, cruelly clever, and his disrespect was reflected that effect: it was telegraphed in the subtlest of smirks he directed her way.

Ya Rabb, Lily had never met anyone so infuriating as Barty Crouch Jr.

"Tired, Evans?" he cocked his head a smidge, like he wasn't very surprised, despite that she had been leading the trek. The award at the end gleaming in the eye of her mind like it would be a medal and not parchment, it's shine cut a clear path from the darkness, one which had gotten her - and subsequently her idling party - this far, and further soon.

"Not before you," she told him, and Barty chuckled lowly, a sound that was irresistibly enchanting in its ambiguity. Like the Mona Lisa's smile, like the first breath of spring in their temperamental climate, it was barely there, and Lily found her own lips chasing to mimic what her ears had glimpsed.

Lily did not hate him, for hate was an exceptionally strong word, not suited for even exceptionally empathic sixteen-year-olds, but she severely disliked this aspect of him that left her seeking for more. He was the picture of effortless, admiring fingers stroking away the colour of his polaroid and leaving him pale to her bronze, muted to her bright, dark to her deep, but no less... bold. Starker, though. Much starker. He glowed dimly, did not care for much. He returned barbs equally, occasionally worse, but always with the flavour of amusement.

She must have frowned, because his eyes lightened again, shade lifting to an attractive amber. This time, he inclined his head further, a concession, but not, "And what then? When I stop?"

Her eyes shot to his, surprised he'd consider it. Barty Crouch Jr., in her oftentimes unfortunate (she failed to even kid herself, truly, of this notion) experience, never fell short, holding himself separate to everyone else in his easy excellency. It pleased him, she theorised, to be ahead, to keep ahead, if only to annoy her, and prove himself above his peers and his like. Something in the distance, foggy, untouchable.

"I'd go ahead," Lily decided before her logic had the chance to dismiss the notion.

"Alone," he drawled, "In the woods," in a manner suggesting he knew she wouldn't, but would allow her the fantasy.

"Yes," she folded her arms across her chest, "Why would I wait for you? If you were really tired," she called him out, "you wouldn't have the energy to be a nuisance."

"Feisty," and like always, her temper suited him marvellously. He pivoted so that they stood face to face and leaned down, "And if you wanted to go on, you wouldn't have stopped to smell the roses, sweetheart."

He continued, dripping with honey, "So, I have energy. You do not. What's the solution, Evans?"

The new angle allowed her to see he'd been gesturing by the turn of his head to a small pathway branching off from their main route. It was undefined, trees impeding upon her line of sight, large and towering, their shade offering the allure of privacy past what the lowering sun ensured.

It appeared exactly as how the trail their project partners - Evan and Emmeline - had branched off on, took with the easy confidence of their ages-old relationship. Being away from their sizzling flames was probably for the best, Lily had thought and so didn't question their leaving, recalling on many an occasion walking in on the pair having at each other viciously passionately. Hypocritically, for their high statuses too, which had made her sorrily smug.

Barty had asked her, eyebrows raising, so really, taunted her, she'd say, then, if she knew what they were doing. Her ears had pinkened beneath her scarf, and she was grateful for the concealment, but the quick burning of her cheeks told her she had said her prayers too soon. Lily, unwisely - but she was supposed to be clever, no one told her strictly to act on common sense - responded to his shots.

He had mentioned, head tilted to the sky and hands stuffed in his pockets, long stride slow or otherwise he would have overtaken her, that he'd been an unfortunate witness of their collisions since the two were but childhood friends, whispering in tubes at parks and hiding in the foyers at hoity-toity balls. He told her, pointedly, that they'd collected themselves a few months prior, and she argued that she'd been seeing them in each other's arms since forever, and feeling each other up for a year at the minimum. That had been, unsurprisingly, the answer he had wanted. Innocent, he'd called her, teasing.

Innocent, he'd said, and now he was asking her to follow him down the other path.

Tire him out. Lily found the answer as quickly as it was designed for her to do so.

Inside her, Layali cringed. The young girl she was, is, tightened her lips.

Because, if one were to piece together the puzzle, if they'd known the girl who first stepped foot on platform 9 and 3/4 and the girl who disembarked from the train and met her first sight of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, then they'd know Lily Evans was a follower. That day, she had crumpled Layali Haifa Evans upon every sensible advice and ignored the sensation of her petals being crushed to powder, leaving only the flexible stalk - Lily. Lily who didn't wear a hijab, no, of course not, it's just wizarding fashion with a muggle spin, duh, and who wasn't different, so please don't go.

She kept Layali, like one would keep an oath. She kept Layali in the trenches of her too-sensitive heart, and let the girl wither with every pretence, until the glass cage that was Lily, casting a distorted image, became her only option, lest she wanted to appear hurt and shy and be lonely among the swathes of students at Hogwarts. She kept Layali like a precious truth. The truth always, always reared its head.

Barty taught her that, in his knowing smirks and his soft accusations and his solicitous silence and his raised head and his waggling brows and how he said Lily like he knew better than to think it was anything but hollow, because the twat always knew better.

Barty taught her that, and what he taught her was more often that not irritatingly right.

So, it was Lily who shook her head, and who became a piece fuller, as she set her first boundary, unwilling to follow past a line she'd chartered. And, so it was Lily who watched as Barty quietened and moved them both forwards on their path without acknowledging the situation, and it was Layali who observed sadly and pridefully as well. It was Layali, battered as she was, who could only rise one brave inch higher, to drag her line above the mud, but not so high as to be heard by him over the wind.

'Will you wait for me?', when they were older, when they could loop their signatures on paper and share the sweet taste of a forever-romance, never reached Barty's ears.

[birdiefromafar]

same!! like, i vaguely have a half-thought on who bowie, queen and that are. but the emphasis is on vaguely. and half-thought. when half the fandom in-jokes and everything are based off western music, its a struggle. like a whole other language, with how much flies over my head.

being hyperfixated on the marauders but not even remotely invested in taylor swift is a battle only given to god's strongest soldiers

[birdiefromafar]

there's actually quite a large selection when it comes to bartlily fics, for a rare pair. here's three (more ones with potential on my to-read list if you'd want those), with my own personal thoughts attached:

Lily Evans’ Guide to Dissent, Delusion, and Disastrous Men - darkdawn01

Or, Lily Evans judges James for his poor taste in men, then goes on to make significantly worse decisions.

Featuring: academic burnout, moral spirals, inconvenient attraction, and the deeply ironic process of falling in love with someone you’d confidently list as a reason the world’s going to hell.

She’s not proud of it. But he is very pretty.

this has to be the funniest fic i have ever read, the narrative voice is on point! genuinely. i don't 100% mesh with the characterisation of Lily but it's certainly not flawed by any means.

The Quiet Study of Her - stravage_wanderer

Lily Evans did not hate Barty Crouch Jr.

She wanted that on record- firmly, permanently, possibly engraved into her gravestone. Because the thing about Barty Crouch Jr. was that he was not her enemy.

He just… existed in her vicinity far too smugly and far too often.

peak bartylily characterisation, individually and together. so, so satisfying too regarding character growth. it may feel slightly repetitive with the on-off dynamic towards the end and at points toxic but trust the process, you'll be in love

Being This Young Is Art - Blossomsundercover

He was a boy, she was a girl-- can I make it anymore obvious?

Classical pianist Lily Evans' wild love affair with jazz pianist Barty Crouch Jr.

Set in New York city.

all the best fics start with 'he was a boy, she was a girl...', (tlat anyone?), that's just the law, the atmosphere of this fic is incredible - coming from someone who hates when marauders fics are set in america, the relationship growth and dates are heart-warming, warning: it's a work in progress that will have you hooked

I'm starting to like bartylily, and I'm scared.

Anyways pls give me some fic recs 🙏

[birdiefromafar]

this is so james potter.ᐟ the sadism.ᐟ the vigilanteism.ᐟ how unapologetic he is about it all.ᐟ and the war isn’t brushed aside.ᐟ.ᐟ plus reg being evil like he should be. absolute gold.

An Honorable Man

(a @jilymicrofics for James Potter's Birthday)

Fleamont Potter was a world-class duelist, known across Britain for his trophies, accolades, and the unfortunate habit of making his opponents look like absolute amateurs.

And he had taught his son well.

Which was why James Potter had no reservations, no hesitations, no concerns whatsoever about taking on three Slytherins in a duel all on his own.

Of course, it also helped that he initiated the duel by sneaking up behind them.

The element of surprise was an excellent thing to have in one’s back pocket.

Now, James was aware that ambushing three unsuspecting classmates without immediate cause or provocation could, in certain circles, be considered bullying. But James did not see it that way.

James was a reasonable man. And an honorable one. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Regulus, Snape, and Mulciber deserved to have their faces swollen and their buttocks hexed. Because James knew they had been rubbing elbows with Lucius Malfoy, the prood pureblood bigot who was clearly funding Death Eater causes and was likely a Death Eater himself, at Slughorn’s insufferable parties. And because, just last night, while hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, he had overheard Snape explaining a new hex he’d invented—one he was eager to test out on someone defenseless.

There was no honor in using dark magic on first-years who could barely hold a wand straight.

So, the correct course of action was clear: apply the skills Fleamont Potter had so wisely taught him and make damn sure Snape, Mulciber, and Regulus spent the night in the hospital wing before they could make good on their plans.

Because this was war.

And though the war was meant to be fought beyond the school’s walls, it had crept into the corridors, into the classrooms, into every whispered conversation between pure-blood sons of Death Eaters. James had chosen his side. He was loyal and true to the cause.

And he would not walk away.

Because walking away—hearing a plan to harm Muggle-borns and doing nothing—would be dishonorable. And James Potter was not a dishonorable man.

So he hexed them, good and proper.

Laughed at their discomfort, thoroughly enjoying the way Mulciber clutched his oversized face in horror. Tossed in an extra hex for Snape because it was James’s birthday, and he figured he deserved a little treat for being such an upstanding gentleman. And when he strolled past Snape’s fallen form on his way out, he gave his hand a sharp, satisfying kick for good measure.

He strode onto the Hogwarts grounds, breathing in the crisp evening air and the sharp, satisfying scent of justified victory.

"James!"

Lily's voice rang out across the quidditch pitch as he approached, warm and cheerful. She stood there, hair catching the light, eyes bright with something that always made his chest feel too full.

"Happy birthday!"

James grinned, all boyish charm and unrepentant for his previous actions, and swept her into a kiss. 

Then, with their fingers intertwined, they made their way toward their brooms, ready to take to the sky. Just the two of them, soaring above the castle, the world below nothing but a distant blur.

A truly magnificent birthday, indeed.

[birdiefromafar]

honey┊april 30┊@hoziermicrofics┊evance┊wc: circa 800┊tw: none

Evan’s hands chased her, his veins prominent and bursting blue-green against his pale skin - evidence of his exertion. How he still had energy, Emmeline didn’t know, until she found herself managing to escape him niftily, dragging her sore legs along to dance away. There was something about their pairing that had sparks flying, rejuvenating in the way a fire on one’s coat-tails might be - and exhilarating.

She tutted, seeing his lips soundlessly form the endearment, his lungs straining - pushed too fast too soon since their spar. Nevertheless, his intent was conveyed well through his appreciative eyes.

”Don’t honey me,” came her chastisement. Traces of humour up-ticked her lips treacherously.

”Em! Don’t?“ Evan reluctantly stilled, looking like a kicked puppy - or perhaps a hound. Guilt shadowed his cerulean eyes, an endless ocean she gazed into.

He’d been fierce, pinning her down like that, his nose dragging across her neck. He’d inhaled deeply, despite that she must have smelt repugnantly like sweat from their bout of roughhousing. Nostalgia from childhood ridded them of their senses and had them brawl like children in his family’s gardens again - not that many would claim either had much sense to begin with.

She'd laughed, and he'd felt the fluttering of her heart in her neck. It dispelled his caution: he had relaxed atop her, grinning.

Awful, horrendous, despicable idea! His weight had been crushing.

Ensue, a classy - if she did say so herself - scream.

He’d frisked her first, looking for injuries, and then he’d stared, less like the shameless friend from childhood who’d watch her as she did just about anything, never masking his attraction, and more like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Couldn’t comprehend a world to act in where he hurt her - his… there was no word for what they were, best friends and lovers and sweethearts and flames and matches and proto-stalkers maybe.

”Don’t,” Emmeline agreed, but only half heartedly. Something in her chest niggled. He wasn’t playing their game - the one they always did - the taunting and the teasing, the driving each other crazy. He had stilled and he stayed still. Frozen, like a Grecian statue, not the chaotic renaissance painting she knew him to be.

A beat. She quit, soft-hearted, moving forwards. Emmeline reached for his hands where they’d fallen to his sides, and slowly he sprang back to life, “You’re lanky. It didn’t hurt much. You didn’t hurt me.”

”I’m sorry,” he forced out anyways, mouth dry. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close. The hands on her shoulder blades hovered, like he was readjusting and reconsidering his every movement in relation to her.

Anyone but her. He could get into a million fights, had managed seven in four days, once. But that’s because they weren’t her. He could hurt anyone but her.

”Forgiven,” she hummed.

In return, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and murmured, the briefest shuddering in his voice before he levelled out again, “Now, you don’t, Em. Listen, m’kay?” No forgiveness yet. In their world, pureblood circles, being so forgiving was nothing short of dangerous. No apologies either, but it didn’t matter so much when it was him. He only needed her to follow the rules: he only needed her to be safe, above all.

She was always too good for it, for them. The slivers of moonlight slipping through the cracks of his curtains, shining into his dark room, that was her.

Like the moon, her smile was beautiful, a waning crescent, “Telling me what to do? Seriously?”, and then, with a scarcely secretive pleasure - she could hardly hide from him that she enjoyed and encouraged the liberties he took and the lengths he went - in his own, exceedingly obsessive ways - for her who felt so much but received so little, “I suppose, you could find a way to make it up to me…?”

”Greedy,” Evan accused, finally at ease. Wisely, he added, drawing her closer, “I’m not taking you to see that moving image this weekend, if that’s what this is about.”

“Why not?” Her lower lip jutted, a practiced pureblood princess pout. Something challenging dilated her eyes.

”Because-“ he scolded like a man who’d had suffered for a long, long time and come to enjoy the fit of it, his breath ruffling her black hair, “-you know why.”

He drew back, cupping her chin, a flat stare directed her way despite the tugging in his heart - it couldn’t be healthy, how attracted the both of them were when the other made themself a nuisance, but nothing about society’s top one percent screamed healthy in the first place  “-you always laugh, you crazy woman. I want to hear the ambience of screams when I watch a horror, love. That’s what they’re for.”

“Amycus Carrow snogged me in the back of the showing room, once.” Emmeline supplied with innocent (not) eyes. “He knew what he was doing with his hands-“

”Alright! Down, minx,” he withdrew her hands from around his shoulders, holding each by the wrist, “Amycus, of all men. That prick-“ He cut himself off.

“Sunday. Remind me which seats specifically?” He pressed a slow kiss to both of her palms, “He doesn’t know nought. I’ll show you hands.”

Evan’s reward for looking so damn fine when jealous was a peck on the lips, quickly transformed to something more.

(the end bit about the movies was inspired by @multishipperofgaydeadwizards whose posts sparked my curiosity in this ship)

[birdiefromafar]

porch ┊april 27 ┊@taylorswiftmicrofic ┊evanstaffノtruetunes┊wc: circa 1000 ┊tw: none

Lily Marie Evans had been born first. In the middle of winter, she came, tufts of crimson hair striking compared to the snow that soaked through the thickest of gloves, dusted every nook and cranny and piled atop every sign in their small town. With her, colour and warmth arrived again to the lives of Lewin and Edie Evans, who always found themselves in poor spirits during the cold season, barred from their gardens, all their precious flowers having withered. Declared as such from the moment her eyes blinked open and shined the colour of their love, Lily was and would always be in their eyes just so: their miracle. The magic only confirmed it.

It was uncomfortably logical then, how Petunia Celia Evans paled in comparison, born in the summer of the next year. Lily’s laugh had the blossoms richening already. That season, the heat afflicted upon England was dreadful: baby Petunia’s face was more often red-cheeked than not, and she had fought like a vixen against the stifling confinement of clothes. She was, once affectionately, bestowed the title of their prissy girl. So much more difficult than Lily, boasting bratty blonde as if a kindly warning from the fates - here was to be a pain of a princess.  

To their relief, Lily marshalled her younger sister excellently as they both grew. Precocious as the elder was, she outgrew the limits of their back-garden quickly, taking to traipsing the overgrown park down the road like it was a forest. Petunia would trail along, fingers dancing up the length of wild ferns, thinking how much prettier their parents' ordered rows of watercolour flora were, but eventually be drawn into the games nevertheless.

It was good. Lily’s smile banished all attempts at sulking over dresses torn by brambles and weird boys who leered and had cooties, didn’t you know-?

It was not a long era.

People had always said Lily to be a changeling, pretty in ways old boring poets would fashion their life’s works after, strange in ways that had boys cross-eyed from staring that wasn’t even malicious. The prettiest of the region, they would say as they pinched her cheeks and watched them bloom. Fiery colouring suited for a girl with such innate warmth, like it was something of an accomplishment of hers to look always as if haloed by the sun, green eyes flashing. How did Lewin and Edie manage it? People wondered. They would keep wondering. No one could ever know.

Magic. Magic had been what set Lily apart from the rest. Made her stalk shoot that bit higher.

Her petals unfurled where Petunia could not see. Down in London, with friends who wrote in fancy scribble on parchment like old books delivered by beaky owls who tapped on their windows in the morning, imposing even on holidays when Lily - distant Lily - was supposed to be busy being the darling of their parents' eyes. Being Petunia’s cool older sister. Not their witch!

Tempting as it was, magic led Lily astray, polluted her from who she had been, drummed a beat to knock her march off-course. She tripped and swooned into it's solicitous arms. Always so resolute and stubborn, not thinking to look back to small gardens and smaller sisters when a whole world lay waiting at her wand tip, Lily had been stolen by the breeze.

So, Petunia deliberated, she had enough of a reason to weed out the sprouting of any and all magic in her life. It had never meant anything good. Not for her. And she was unflinchingly good, if nought else. Good daughter, good student, good friend. Her Evans’ temper was woven behind her buck teeth, drowned by sweet lies and emerging only as a slow simmer because forbid a woman be as explosively angry as she. The reputation of a shrew, surprising as her fearsome scowl might have it be, did not enchant her.

Still, somehow, all of her intentions blew: her plans, her reputation, every ounce of decorum she had been beaten over the head with splattering on the walls of her childhood home. Like a dam had cracked and so her soil was water-logged, her blossoms dismembered by a torrent, leaving only sad broken things like her in their wake.

Broken, because what was this? Certainly not the whole, independent, arguably on occasion apathetic, Petunia Evans she knew herself to be. That Evans was the daughter who stayed, who endured, and who chased her principles to London and secured herself a typing course. That Evans would never be considering the young man on her porch.

Yet here she was. Leaned on her doorframe, toes kept carefully on the borderline like he was a vampire from her old storybooks and only this invisible barrier could keep her from being feasted upon by him.

Feasted. Ha.

Willy Wagstaff made for a sorry sight in the rain, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead. In the dark, his hazel eyes gleamed, and she could catch the green in them, like Lily’s. Like magic.

She should turn him away.

The problem gnawing at her was this, however: he always appeared so, so so much dastardly like himself. Like the world could batter against him as fiercely as any storm, and had done so before by the rips in his clothes and the holes in his smiles and the tell-tale tightening of his lying lips when she mentioned the word friends, but he’d withstand to scam another day.

He reminded her of herself in London, before her parent’s health waned and she returned to where the seeds of her misery were planted.

He looked at her like she was still the woman she left behind in London: stood alone like a shadow in a room of light, branching like a great tree and not some measly flower, bearing pomegranates in her lip gloss that brought out a man’s - his - dimples.

Willy mussed his hair, attempting to revive its charming poof, like she was not a muggle to his - no matter how kicked - powerful wizard. His eyes beseeched her heart, and she could see how he had gotten so far, past his questionable wits. A charmer. Sometimes clever. Sometimes not. What bad judgment he possessed, coming to her. No one had done that in a long time. Her thorns had made sure of it. 

But perhaps they were both liars, turning on everyone and their mothers and themselves, so that is why it did not matter to him who she was but another unfortunate soul, did not matter to him if she was the delicate flower she’d been named for or brambles poking into his amber skin. The blood she might draw could not scare him.

So thats why the porch moaned beneath her steps. She crossed her own boundary.

Petunia Celia Evans snagged the wizard by his sodden collar and pulled, mud tracking across her polished floor, before the nosy neighbours could blink on their lights.