lennoxfraser-blog - Tumblr blog

[lennoxfraser-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Solo smiled to himself; a cryptic little thing.

There were both pleasure and heartache in getting Lennox by surprise. Solo could see in his eyes he knew none of these things, caught unaware by the years he spent with his face down in a book, and his dreams up in some distant future, made up of bagpipes and mountains. He liked the look of surprise, but he longed for something else - a hint of recognition, like old friends that hadn’t seen each other in a while. He went cold for a moment, like he half expected Lennox to say so there you are - just two men that had lost each other in a crowd. But that was wishful thinking. Lennox was a constant presence in the back of his mind and in the back of his room, a weighty ghost of past mistakes, of never-have-beens and never-would-bes. He was a broken arrow pointing to Solomon’s heart, but Solomon himself was just another stranger; the reticences at the end of a book never opened. 

He was a cock, and a mouth; a pair of hands and a some quivering thighs. Solomon was everything but a person, and he buried that thought into another glass, afraid of an anger that felt more like home than the Flint Manor. Instead, he hung unto the casual talk, hoping against hope for a proof that this could still work. “I’d go anywhere with nice beaches, where the sun shines all year long. None of this bullshit weather we have here, where it’s always raining, always grey. Makes people go frigid, yeah? Makes people want to keep their socks during a shag. Fucking blasphemy, it’s what it is.” He smiled again; this time, genuinely. 

It felt easier when Lennox looked at him like that, like he should have been looking for the past seven years. Not the brooding frown that came before the punches, not the hard line of disapproval on his lips after running into each other on the corridors. “I’ll go, but only if you promise I’ll get a nice trophy to look at after,” he stated, and watched Lennox drink glass after glass, strong scottish accent slipping as if they could turn back time, and be the boys they once were again. “And you don’t have to say anything during the debates, just watch me in awe and–” But Lennox didn’t stop talking - as if someone had removed a lid from his mind, his thoughts came tumbling out.

It was Solo’s turn to go silent, surprised.

“Lennox…” he started, carefully - he’d been punched in the mouth for less before. “It’s not– it’s not important anymore, what happened… I mean, it’s not like I don’t think about it, about Lana and how it ended, but we, we can do better, yeah? We can be better, mate.” And it sounded deadly hopeful to his own ears. “Make some new fucking memories, build over all that shit we’ve done. About time, innit?” It was true that there were lands so ravaged by war that nothing would grow, but they were still young, still lost enough to find their way back to each other. Or so Solo had hoped.

And Solo was good at hoping. 

“Shit, mate, I don’t know what I’m saying and you’re drunk as hell, but we are–”

Under fire.

That was all he could think of when the Hog’s Head windows exploded at once, raining glass over their heads like a crystal storm. “Down!” Solo screamed, the sound lost in the chaos that followed, and reached for Lennox first, his wand second. All around them, people scrambled to their knees, or to the door, eyes wide and scared. 

“Protego!” he whispered, voice shaking. Best in the dueling club, he had claimed earlier, proud and certain. 

Well, it was time to prove it.

Lennox was drunk, that much was true. It was something he had only experienced a handful of times in his life, none of them pleasant memories that he basked in. During the drunkness, when his head felt both lighter and heavier, world tipping just slightly to the left, it wasn’t so bad; Lennox could see why everyone was doing this, because it dulled many things that he didn’t want to think about (while also tragically amplifying others, but that was a different beast altogether). But when sobriety returned - cold, spreading numbness that brought with it the reality of his actions - Lennox was horrified at himself, at the way he’d so willingly leaped into the nothingness that could become his future. Being drunk - or high - was akin to being his mother, doped out of her mind on potions to keep from hurting herself, and it wasn’t a state to which Lennox aspired. He wouldn’t resign himself to that until it was time, if it were time. He waited for Solo to tell him that it was alright; that everything they’d done - to each other, to themselves - was forgiven, that a clean slate could be cleared between them, and when it came, relief washed through Lennox, and he nodded.

Even the word Lana on Solo’s lips felt like a ripple of something coming undone inside Lennox; it had been years since he’d heard her - his - name, felt the flutter of the way she unfurled inside him. “I’d like that,” Lennox said, nodding into his drink and looking up. “New memories.” And as Lennox settled into what those might be, where they might go from here, content in their newfound agreement, there was an explosion of sound and debris, and a cacophony of screams and voices that seemed to Lennox to come all at once. 

He saw only Solo - heard only Solo, slipping down under the table at his command, the space tight and his breathing loud in his ear, but not quite so loud as his own heart. Glancing at Solo, who had his wand out, Lennox awkwardly fumbled for his own. There was nothing he could do with it, but it felt better to hold it.

Beyond their table, there was more smashing of windows, the screams down the street, away from the Hog’s Head, coming closer. There was the snapping of jaws, a barking like a pack of wild dogs, the last spell of a dying man radiating across the sky and catching the shattered glass on the Hog’s Head floor. Everyone inside the pub was hiding, crouched on the floor, their wands drawn; some had taken refuge behind the bar, and others were flattened against the wall. No one moved, no one spoke. Lennox’s mind was racing, trying to listen for any noise to tell him what was happening. Someone was crying. After a moment, a man cursed - and Lennox saw a wizard walk across the pub, shoes crunching the glass. There was only the tail of his cloak visible, a dark flap of cheap robes, before he disappeared through the doorway. Then, suddenly, he came flying back through. Instinctively, Lennox’s arm shot out and held Solo back, pushing him further to the wall, sticking to the shadows of their booth.

They watched the man collapse to the ground, and not a moment later, there was something on him. Teeth, claws, fur matted dark with blood - the werewolf tore out the wizard’s throat, yellow eyes gleaming. And that’s when panic swallowed the Hog’s Head whole.

intermission | solo & lennox

[lennoxfraser-blog]

am-flying-solo:

“That’s too bad, because we’re made for each other,” Solo said of Kim, grinning, but the joke died on his lips as Lennox started to talk. For a moment, he felt like they could be other people, less choleric, more forgiving, as if the Hog’s Head had suddenly changed. He felt like looking at the place through a kinder lens, and felt a strange surge of affection for the sticky booths, the bitter drinks. 

For the Lennox he had lost somewhere along their teenage years. 

 “A writer,” Solo murmured quietly, “so you’re one of those artistic, mysterious types.” There was a time Lennox would read for him, words soft and full of wonder, whispered in the small space between their bodies, cuddled in bed. Read me one of your poems, Solo would say then, and close his eyes as Lennox’s verses built castles in his mind. Through the heartbreak of his childhood, Solo had found happiness in those simple moments. How long had it been since he’d read anything Lennox wrote? How long had it been since they burned that bridge? How many bridges came tumbling down after that, leaving behind only the charred remains of their best years? And how could two people miss each other so obstinately as they did in the last seven years, absence made deeper by the proximity of their bodies? They woke up together and went to bed together, avoiding each other’s eyes even when their hips met, tracing steps from each other’s bed like the worn out trail from a battlefield. 

If there was any tragedy in growing up, that was it.

“Oh, yes, I do love quidditch,” he said lightly, humoring Lennox, as if it was easier to talk when they were in character. Made up, better versions of themselves - the people they hoped to be when they grew up. “What’s not to love about balls and holes– i mean, hoops, Absolutely fascinating.” Then, more earnest: “I’ve heard you’re the best in the team. People are always talking about your goals.” Solo knew by heart the years in which the Ravenclaw team had won the trophy - had always planned to watch the finals, to be there after the big win. But somehow, it never happened. He remembered the losses better, Lennox’s frustration, his stormy rage. Solo drinks as Lennox talks, swallowing regret and alcohol in one gulp. He should have been there.

But the older boy didn’t stop talking - about his family, about Loren, about the the things he cared for most in the world. Solomon smiled - but it died in his lips with Lennox’s next words.

I’ve seen you at school, you’re, uh–

A whore, his brain promply supplied, knowing exactly that’s what came to Lennox’s mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he heard it from the ravenclaw himself. Solomon finished his pint too fast, more to hold the insult in than to get wasted faster, and set it back down the table a bit too harshly. 

“Well, thanks,” he forced out, tasting bitterness. But he had to try, right?

“I’ll have you know you’re talking to the one and only unbeaten king of the Ravenclaw weekly debate, three times winner of our yearly ranking,” Solo informed him, and ordered a new round of pints. “The ones that happen every Wednesday at the common room, you know? Last one was about the lack of popular representation in wizarding politics, and how the Wizengamot’s choice for the ministry reflects an out-dated political system.” He smiled again. “I like politics. I’m at the top of the dueling club, too. I love creating new spells, even if they backfire sometimes.” He thought carefully about what to say next: “I can speak a rusty german, even if my grammar is not stellar. I’m Billy the Squid’s favorite person, or so he tells me, when we share sandwiches. I named him that.” Solomon could conjure an infinite number of random facts about himself that didn’t involve sex, even though sex was a big part of his life. He just wanted Lennox to see that was not all he was, and maybe then, he could convince himself, too.

“I love dancing at the clubs down the east side, and I love to watch the boats in the Thames first thing int he morning. Summer is my favorite time of the year, and I’d love to live in a tropical country. I can tan up nice.” Solomon grinned. “Are you bored with my mundane side yet?” He joked, and drank some more, afraid of Lennox’s answer. “Come watch a debate one day, and I’ll watch one of your games. Sound good? Gotta promise to win though.”

For all his talk of romance, Lennox has never been particularly skilled at putting it into practice. The stuff of his stories - grand gestures and sweeping lines that were crafted over days and weeks in his own mind - is not the stuff of reality, especially not with Solo sitting across from him in a loud and dingy pub. Lennox had wanted to do this properly; a dinner and wine and candles and good food that’d live on in their sensory memories for years to come. The start of something good, something real - but it wouldn’t undo the things that had come before. There was no wine so good as to make them forget every push and shove and punch, the pain of each blow to Solo’s flesh or Lennox’s ego, nor any candle so bright as to dim the stain of blood that must now permanently mar Solo’s lips or fleck Lennox’s knuckles. He knew all that, but he wanted to try. A stab at happiness, a chance at forgiveness, a roll of the dice on redemption.

But the moment Solo started speaking, keeping up their ruse easily, rolling off of Lennox’s fumble like it meant nothing, Lennox understood that it wouldn’t be so easy. When had Solo ever been involved in the debate nights? Or, better yet, when had Lennox ever heard of these debate nights? He knew the Ravenclaws were into that, and he might’ve heard mentions, but he didn’t know they were a thing. Despite the fact that the common room was a dozen steps from his dorm, Lennox hadn’t known debates happened, nor that Solo was apparently so good at them. He’d just... never paid attention; never cared to look away from the book he was reading or the thoughts that circled his mind, focused on his home. When did Solo develop so many thoughts on things beyond what pleasure he’d inflict upon his body that day? Lennox couldn’t remember ever speaking to Solo about things like wizarding society, politics, the Ministry. He hadn’t even known that Solo cared. Lennox shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling particularly like he’s being choked or suffocated, very slowly, finger by finger tightening around his wind pipe. He lifts a hand to pull at his collar, trying to listen, but it didn’t let up. The duelling club? Politics? Languages? Lennox’s heart was racing in his ears, and he didn’t know if he should cut Solo off or let him keep going, because he feared either prospect.

Lennox grabbed his pint and downed the rest, palm slippery with a mix of panic sweat and condensation, before grabbing the fresh glass that had been levitated to them. 

“Yer a busy man,” Lennox said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Solo took a break from rewriting himself in Lennox’s mind. How was he ever going to go back from this? When he looked at Solo now, he saw all these tiny little secrets - nights arguing bullshit with other Ravenclaws, or muttering German to himself. He imagined Solo proud in the duelling club, breathless but excited, or lazy summer days down by the lake, tossing rocks at the squid til it surfaced. Lennox felt like his mind was splintering, and drank more. “But I’m not bored, just... overwhelmed,” he said when he surfaced again. “Yer’ve got a lot going on that I, uh, hadn’t realised.” 

Despite his size and his pride, not to mention his more than thoroughbred Scottish ancestry, Lennox was, for better or worse, a lightweight. He’d made a conscious choice as a teenager growing up around rowdy boys to not drink or do drugs; it just wasn’t who he was or how he wanted to be. So whenever he decided to let down those walls for a night, it took a toll on him quicker than most, and already Lennox can feel the edges of his vision go slightly fuzzy, like Solo has a halo. He tries not to let it show, clearing his throat.

“Aye, I bet you do tan up nice though,” Lennox continued, eyes shifting to the peaks of skin that show around Solo’s neck and hands. “Which country would you want to go to? Australia? South America? I dinnae know where the tropics begin and end,” Lennox admitted brashly, cheeks pink, either from the alcohol or a burst of shyness that made him feel eleven all over again. At Solo’s proposal of coming to see the other, Lennox couldn’t help the smile that wound its way onto his face, cheeks reddening further. “You don’t have to come, I know you don’t like it,” he said, but he did - he did want Solo to come, and he would win the game. Lennox imagined the scene he’d write of it: scoring a goal, zooming over the stands, pointing at Solo, who’d grin back at Lennox. That would be romantic. “But, uhm, with the debate, I don’t... I don’t think I’d get it. I don’t even know what the Wizengamot really... does,” Lennox said, stiltingly, not looking at Solo as he picked up his glass. “I dinnae want to embarrass you.”

Which wasn’t easy to admit, and Lennox drained his pint again, reaching for the fresh one that seemed to periodically appear on the table, courtesy of the bartender. Lennox’s thirst was never-ending, but his tolerance had a clear limit that he was fast approaching. 

“What I mean is,” Lennox continued quickly, “I dinnae want to embarrass you now, or even then, ye ken? There’s been-- times, hasn’t there? Before-- before this, I mean. What happened in the bathroom, with Lana, I dinnae... I feel awkward sometimes, aye?” Lennox looked up at Solo earnestly. “Out of place around ye, like-- like I’m not right. You’ve got all these things, a whole life, and now I’m this, and you-- why would you keep sitting here, after everything? After everything I am?” 

It wasn’t what Lennox had meant to say, or even planned to say for another decade; there was not a bone in his body that wanted to talk about Lana or feelings or their dirty past, but there it was, Lennox’s mouth running away with him at the mere sight of alcohol. But it felt like the corner of a weight had been lifted, a peek at what life without it might be like, and he waited to see if Solo would drop it back down on his shoulders or maybe, just maybe, help him lift it up.

intermission | solo & lennox

[lennoxfraser-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Solo had loved and hated Lennox’s hands.

As their fingers entwined, he felt a jolt of emotion rake through his body - indistinctive, but powerful. Lennox had big hands, built for hurting. Knuckles sharp and bones hard as steel. Those hands were never still, never resting; bloodthirsty. They were the perfect size to wrap around his throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He didn’t mind that - didn’t mind those big hands when they were running through his body, leaving marks on his skin - bruises shaped like fingerprints, scars that spelled Lennox’s name in the dark. They were built for hurting, but Solo liked the pain.

Right? He could still feel those same hands pinning him down, twisting his arm further and further, until it snapped - a loud crack echoing through his brain. Solo breathed in and out, trying to push those memories away. There was a lot to forget and forgive between them, too much baggage. They carried it around for seven years, and this new attempt to let it go felt strange, sudden. Part of him was still thirteen years old and shaking, body slamming against a wall - shunned by his best friend, for simply being too much, too loudly, too shamelessly. He was still fourteen, nursing a split lip and bloody nose, spitting offenses that slid down his tongue venomous and easy. He was fifteen, head shoved down the sink, eyeliner running down his face like tears. He was fifteen, pushing back, wand pointed at Lennox’s balls with a quiet threat. He was fifteen, spitting out blood on the floor of the Ravenclaw male dorm. He was sixteen, a red smile on his lips, pressing on bruises late at night.

He was still seventeen and Lennox was breaking his arm.

But when he looked up at this guy - he was different. It wasn’t the same Lennox he had brought down to his knees in a dirty bathroom a few months before. And maybe that was alright - he was not the same Solomon either, or at least he’d like to believe. Growing pains, he told himself - and steeled his heart for the worst, while also hoping for the better. A trait he got from his mother, hopeless lover that she was.

“Oh, a kiss on the cheek, how rowdy,” Solo grinned; as if they hadn’t done much, much worse before. Surprisingly, he found himself alright with the idea. Maybe this is what they needed - to start over, slower this time; gentler. A kiss on the cheek instead of bare knees on dirty bathroom tiles. They needed to relearn how to be around each other without sex, the crutch that brought them back together again and again, over the years, through pain and mutual abuse. It was easy to like Lennox in the dark, when their hands travelled each other’s bodies, teeth grazing against his neck, hips colliding in pleasure. It was harder to hold hands, look into each other’s eyes, and be honest. Solo squeezed Lennox’s hand subtly, in encouragement, and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll play nice, alright.” And so he did, though it wasn’t easy. When Lennox stumbled on a rock, and almost took them both down, Solomon swallowed the quick sneer already on the tip of his tongue. He grinned instead, amused, and pretended to dust off his date’s clothes off.

“Now, now, I know I’m fantastic to look at in these jeans, but we don’t want you on your face this soon into the evening.” Solo tried to lighten up the tension with a joke. “No pressure’s so great some alcohol can’t lighten it, yeah? And not seeing Han in rollers? I’ll fucking drink to that, mate.” They walked together down to Hogsmeade, a path Solo had made a thousand times, though never like this. He looked up for a moment, watching the taller boy, asking himself how long this would last. It scared the hell out of him, but he supposed he owed it to himself after seven years of pining. He could strip off the armour for a night.

“I’ll forgive you ‘cause One Eyed Kim is my true soulmate,” he informed Lennox, walking a few feet ahead of him, in the Hog’s general direction, before turning around. “And mate, I don’t mind being the talk of the breakfast. Hell, how many times did you cuss my name over toast?” There were no heat behind the words, though - Solo just stood there for a moment, the faint light of the Hog’s Head shining around him like a halo. “Let’s go in.”

Their booth was sticky as promised, but Solomon didn’t mind. He ordered their first pints and took a large gulp before running his hands through his face. “So, we’re doing this. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Fraser.”

The promise of alcohol was what kept Lennox’s feet walking forward. He had to believe that they could do this, even if Solo’s hand in his own felt foreign; as though his own hand were a time-bomb, waiting for the moment he was going to be told to crush it. Solo wasn’t delicate, he’d proven that point well enough over the last seven years, but he was somehow smaller tonight than Lennox could remember him being. He didn’t know how to stop sizing Solo up, however; he could feel it in himself, some innate reaction to be this vulnerable, like he was constantly circling Solo. Lennox hated to be on the back foot, and as much as he wanted to try, he also felt a tiny part of him break away and start preparing for the worst - for Solo to sneer some comment at him, a pass at something sexual that underlaid Solo’s true intentions. In short, Lennox was expecting the worst but hoped for the best. Or, at least, something different - a chink in their narrative that could change the tide. And he noticed that he the more he let himself take down his walls, brick by brick, the more he fell into things - he noticed that the light of the Hog’s Head caught the line of Solo’s cheekbones, the curve of his lips. Lennox let himself notice those things and smile. 

“I don’t want to know about the steamy affair of you and Kim,” Lennox says as they walk in and slide onto the leather seats of their booth. Their drinks, delivered swiftly, are cold to the touch, and Lennox nervously nurses his for a moment, watching Solo drink. They’re both unsure, then - that makes Lennox feel a little better as he takes a mouthful, feeling his eyes water as he swallows. The question catches him off guard and he laughs, bowing his head. “Lennox is fine,” he says, humouring Solo. He thinks for a moment, shifting uncertainly. “I’m a writer,” he says, deciding that if he can be any version of himself, he wants to be the one that’s furthest away from where he is now. An idealised version, a fantasy-esque Lennox Fraser who doesn’t have a sick mother and obligations to attend to. “I want to write books, and I want to write stories that mean something. Change people. I don’t... I don’t get as much time to write as I’d like, I’m usually busy on the pitch. I’m a chaser for the quidditch team,” and here he smiles, watching Solo’s face. “I’m sure you know all about quidditch though, being such a huge fan and supporter of the game, right?” 

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen Solo at a match, even when it was a final. Lennox had scored so many goals, held the trophy in his own hands, and it had never been with Solo in the room or by his side. Quidditch was not something they had in common. 

“I’m the eldest child in my family, which recently grew in size. I have a brother,” and Lennox smiles, thinking of Loren probably asleep in his crib, the mobile above his bed twirling softly. “And I love my family, I’d do anything for them.” And somehow, that feels like the extent of Lennox - he can’t think of anything more to add. There’s a brush of panic in his chest at that; what does he like? What does he hate? What’s he passionate about? There’s a void where the answers should be, a gaping hole where his time has been sucked away by tasks and people who needed those tasks performed. Lennox clears his throat, taking a quick drink, finding half of it gone when he lowers it back to the table. He runs a finger through the condensation on the side of the pint glass as he says, “what about you? I’d love to know more about you,” and looks up, hoping Solo will fill in the silences that Lennox’s life seems to grow like spores. “I’ve seen you around school. You’re... uh,” and he fumbles, trying to think of something smooth to say, but there’s nothing. What does Solo like? What’s he good at? Lennox has nothing, except sex. That’s what Solo’s good at; that’s what Solo likes, isn’t it? He doesn’t say it, feeling his cheeks flush, because he know he’s fucking up. “You’re cute,” he finishes, looking back down, and at least it’s not a lie. “That’s what first caught my attention. The way you strut about,” he says, smiling and glancing back up, hoping Solo hadn’t noticed the fumble.

intermission | solo & lennox

[lennoxfraser-blog]

INTO THE DEEP END | self para

When the Minister comes for Lennox, he’s walking from Charms to Herbology, books under his arm and tie loose around his neck.

It’s a warm day, despite the season; the castle feels stuffy and close, especially up in the hallways of the Charms corridor. Everybody’s ditched their blazers and robes in favour of popping an extra button on their shirts, the sleeves rolled to their elbows as Professor Elloway takes them though a quick revision of the spells they were supposed to have learned in fifth and sixth year.

He goes too fast for Lennox to take notes, and faster still when Lennox tries to grapple with the spell itself. The hard knot of fear and panic in his gut that seems to tighten every time someone mentions the NEWTs clenches as Lennox looks around him to see that mostly everyone else is fine. They nod, performing the spells without prompting, and Lennox nurses his traitor of a wand, feeling like a muggle that’s been dumped in the middle of a classroom.

Which is what he is, mostly. A half-muggle, half-wizard thing that has magic in fits and starts, and is no use to anyone. He wonders, not for the first time, how he’s going to pass his NEWTs. If his grandparents will bribe someone to let him pass, or if they’ll disown him altogether.

“Mr. Fraser,” comes an authoritative voice, pulling Lennox out of his spiral as he walks from one class to the next.

He turns back, seeing Professor Markle accompanied by a tall man in a crisp suit and robes, a badge pinned to his chest. Lennox recognises him as Taejin Callow, August’s father and right hand man to the Minister himself. He looks displeased with being there, or perhaps it’s his proximity to Lennox, the son of a blood traitor. Callow had never hidden his dislike of Lennox, though he had masked it well when the Thornbrooks – Lennox’s pureblood grandparents – had introduced them. Lennox had walked away with the distinct impression that he’d put Taejin Callow out a great deal by being in his presence.

Lennox walks toward them, wondering what this is about. He hasn’t broken any major rules at school, minus sneaking out of grounds to visit his mother every other weekend, so that can’t be it. If they write him up, they might as well write up half of the school – it’s pretty much an open secret how to get out nowadays, the paths to Hogsmeade traded behind hands and in hushed voices. Nothing at Hogwarts stays a secret for long.

Which leaves Lennox with nothing but questions for Callow’s presence. Unless – unless he found out about Lennox taking August home to the Fraser property a few weeks back. That gives Lennox pause. There’s no way Callow could know, unless August told him, which Lennox doesn’t think likely – from what he’s seen, they’re not exactly close. But just in case, Lennox braces for the worst: a lecture, a beating. It’s nothing he hasn’t had from a pureblood before.

“Mr. Fraser, this is Mr. Callow,” says Professor Markle, her lips pursed and back ram-rod straight.

She’s never been Lennox’s favourite professor; there was always something cold and distant about her that he didn’t quite gel well with. She’d pushed him hard in DADA one too many times, making him feel useless and guilty, as though Lennox were being taught by his grandmother. The failures in DADA had built up so much that Lennox had all but given up, writing himself off as useless in using a wand to protect himself. He preferred other methods, anyway.

Professor Markle clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable with her next statement. “Here’s here to escort you from Hogwarts.”

Lennox’s blood runs cold. He tries not to show it, but his heart races, pulsing fear straight into his blood stream. Did they find out about the Royal Wolf? He can’t be expelled – there’s no way that can happen. He has to graduate; he has to complete his education. He looks desperately from Professor Markle to Callow.

“I’m sorry?” he says, throat tight.

“Forgive me, I was told that you knew,” says Professor Markle, frowning in a pinched way at Callow, unimpressed and accusatory.

It gives Lennox a great deal of satisfaction to see it, even if his pulse is so loud in his ears that he’s sure he’s going to miss something.

Taejin Callow clears his throat. “The boy knows, as it was pre-arranged by the Minister himself some time ago,” he says, staring at Lennox intently. “But if Mr. Fraser would prefer that I inform the Minister he forgot or was too busy to attend…”

It’s a threat, thinly-veiled, and Lennox can see right through it. So can Professor Markle, judging by the way she’s scowling at Callow. They’re all standing at an impasse – if Lennox says he doesn’t know, Callow will leave and the Minister might withdraw his offer of employment. If he says he remembers, he’ll have to leave with Callow and go somewhere that Professor Markle will not know or be able to help him from. No one will, but he’ll keep his job.

Lennox doesn’t really have a choice.

“My apologies,” Lennox says, slipping easily into his polite cadence that he’d had drilled into him from one too many pureblood dinners with his grandparents. “It slipped my mind, but I remember my engagement with the Minister. I’m ready to leave, if Professor Markle agrees I may do so,” Lennox says, feeling his shoulders straighten imperceptibly.

Callow doesn’t seem impressed, but the knowing look disappears, replaced with a satisfactory blandness. Lennox the blood traitor’s son has performed well enough.

Professor Markle makes a noise, halfway between displeased and resigned. “If the Minister has put forth an invitation, I’m sure the Headmaster would be pleased that you accepted, Mr. Fraser,” she says, her formal tone cutting. “You have twenty minutes to drop off your things and get changed, and we’ll meet you in the foyer.”

“Ten minutes,” corrects Callow, and Lennox can only nod and walk away, all thoughts of his NEWTs and impending failure left where he’d stood.

He knows he’s going to have to start picking his battles better if he’s going to work at the Ministry. If the Minister is true to his word and does wish to employ Lennox’s services – whatever that entails – it’ll bring him into contact with Callow and people like Callow frequently.

Lennox has never been particularly social, is the problem.

He keeps sarcasm and impatience on hand to ward people off, and for the most part, it’s worked: he’s not particularly well-liked around the castle, even if most people know who is for some reason or another. They think he’s broody and sour and a bit of a prick, which is fine by Lennox; he’s never needed them, and he’s not about to start. The problem is, really, that they rely on friendships for their happiness, while Lennox relies on family. That’s where he puts stock; that’s where he puts his efforts.

Everything else – everyone else – is just a waste of time.

Except, of course, that’s not quite the truth.

Lennox has told himself that lie so many times that it’s become routine - to default to a way of caring about no one when he feels the prickle of friendship with the boys he’s grown up with. Walking into the top floor of the Ravenclaw Tower dorms, Lennox feels the anchor that sinks through his gut, tethering him forever to this very spot – to these boys.

He counts the four beds, including his own, and thinks of the other three people that fill them. Noah and Smith have always been weak spots, friends when he had given them every reason not to be. They were his brothers, his best friends, the only people who had stood by him unwaveringly, not flinching when he disappointed them. Lennox couldn’t ever leave Smith or Noah.

And Solo—well, Lennox doesn’t know where to begin when it comes to Solo. They’d swung like a pendulum from friends to enemies, holding for the longest time on the furthest extreme. Lennox’s memories had blurred from the smiles and touches and paused on the rest – the blood, the sarcasm, the fights. But maybe, he thought, the pendulum was moving again, slowly swinging back the way it’d come. They might never heal completely, but it was a start.

But the fact remains the three people he’d grown up with are lodged inside of him someplace that he can’t easily access; there will be no convenient way to reach inside and cut out the bits of them that had grown around his heart. He’d do it, of course, but it will hurt – and he’ll be less because of it.

Dumping his books on his bed and changing quickly, Lennox yanks off his uniform and pulls on a pair of jeans, his cleanest shirt, and a black and red flannel that doubles as a jacket. Pocketing his wand, Lennox considers leaving a note for someone to find. But what would he say? Gone to see the Minister. Don’t know when I’ll be back. He doesn’t know if they’d care, but more than that, he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to tell anyone else – so he stays silent, leaving the dorm without a trace.

Professor Markle stands a few metres apart from Callow in the foyer when Lennox arrives. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest and pointed hat atop her head is slightly askew, as though she’d tilted it to avoid looking at Callow altogether.

“Right, there you are, Mr. Fraser,” she says, coming forward and taking him by the shoulders. She lowers her voice. “I understand that you and the Minister may have an—understanding, Lennox, but you should be cautious. Do not sign your life away before you understand the price.”

Lennox doesn’t think Professor Markle will ever understand his situation; she doesn’t know that he’d always pay the price for his family, no matter what it is asked.

But he nods, avoiding looking at her properly even though he can feel her searching for him, begging him to meet her eye. Lennox can’t do that; can’t afford to feel any doubt now, so he steps out of her grip.

“We will disapparate from the boundary of the school,” says Callow, and without preamble, turns and walks out the doors.

Resisting the urge to look back, Lennox follows.

*

Taejin Callow disapparates them with one hand on Lennox’s shoulder, and he releases Lennox as soon as their feet hit the ground, as though unable to bear touching him for longer than necessary.

They’re standing in the foyer of the Ministry of Magic, which immediately takes Lennox’s breath away. The black marble and gilded gold accents are not only stately, but cold in a way he’d never interpreted before. It looks old, but more than that, it’s removed – drained of life and personality, the Ministry is a sleek, polished mask used only to be efficient and proper. He isn’t sure what he expected from the Ministry; it’s not as though he’s never been there before, either.

His grandfather, who worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, had brought him a few times when he was younger. Lennox can still remember the firm grip his grandfather had used on his shoulder, steering him from the elevator to his office and back again. He can remember the witches and wizards who’d peered down at him, some friendly, others not, looking at the grandchild of the affable, honourable Ulysses Thornbrook.

Lennox had always felt underwhelming, and started making excuses why he couldn’t return with his grandfather the older he got; too busy at home, too busy with homework during the summer. At some point, his grandfather had stopped asking.

It feels different walking into the Ministry now. He is no longer the chubby, round-faced child he had been, but a man – square shouldered and tall, Lennox stands even with Taejin Callow, one of the best aurors in this place. It’s not pride that Lennox wears, not exactly, but he no longer cowers.

“The Minister will meet us on the third floor,” Callow says, turning and walking to the elevators, Lennox in tow, looking around at the fountain which flows quietly and the masses of witches and wizards streaming around them.

There’s no conversation between them on the ride up in the elevator, though many people acknowledge Callow with a nod or a quiet word. He seems well-known, if not well-liked, though Lennox can’t be sure if it’s for himself as person or his connection to the Minister.

A nagging part of Lennox’s brain keeps straying to the possibility of this being his life every day next year, and every year after that. Waking up, eating breakfast, kissing Loren on the head before leaving to come here – working a regular job with regular hours. He’d be an adult, then; his grandparents would be so proud. But Lennox, no matter how he looks around him, can’t picture it – can’t quite place himself among them as an equal.

The elevator rocks as they come to a stop, and Callow leads them out onto the floor for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. It’s a bustling, busy place – a lot of cubicles full of harried looking workers, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and papers spilling from their desks.

Callow pays them no mind and strides through the mundane chaos of the Department, Lennox trying not to look so out of place as he follows.

Down a corridor lined with curtained beds, filled with moaning bodies that make the hair on Lennox’s arms stand straight, they come to a wall of roaring green flames. Standing beside it, dressed immaculately in a crisp suit, is the Minister himself.

Lennox’s first impression of the Minister is always that there’s something handsome about him. It could be the keen intelligence in his eyes or the confidence with which he holds himself upright. His hair, always brushed back away from his sharp face, is dark, no hint of grey yet unfurling at his temples. But it’s that sharpness to Lowell Tegus that Lennox focuses on: the arch of his eyebrows, the curve to his nose. There’s cruelty there, and something else that Lennox can’t quite put his finger on.

The Minister looks up as they approach, nodding to Callow, who seamlessly melts away once more.

“Mr. Fraser,” says Minister Tegus, and actually extends his hand to Lennox, who shakes it firmly.

“Just Lennox is fine, sir,” replies Lennox.

Up close, the Minister’s features are no less severe or intense, but Lennox can’t bring himself to look away.

“Thank you for meeting me, Lennox,” says Minister Tegus, releasing Lennox’s hand and gesturing to the wall of green flame. “Shall we?”

The Minister steps through, and between the twisting tendrils of fire, Lennox can still see him – so Lennox steps through too. He realises after a beat that it’s a pre-set Floo Network, connecting the Ministry and St. Mungo’s Hospital, judging by the smell of lemon and disinfectant, as well as the posters lining the walls that urge you to recognise the signs of Scrofungulus. Given how many of the people brought into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes would need medical attention, it seems only logical to link the two places together somehow.

“You may be wondering why I’ve asked you here today, Lennox,” begins the Minister, strolling down the corridor of the hospital, his hands in his pockets.

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope I didn’t cause too much of a disruption to your day,” he says, a smile on his face as he looks at Lennox. “Though I imagine it’s an opportunity that most students would not deny – a chance to leave school for the day.”

Lennox doesn’t know if this is a trick question – or a hint at something else, like the fact that Lennox regularly leaves the school grounds. He wouldn’t put it past the Minister to know everything, so he says nothing.

“But there’s something here that I think you should see,” he continues, gesturing to the elevator, which Lennox steps into. The Minister presses the button for the second floor, Magical Bugs and Diseases. “I’m sure you remember our conversation from some weeks ago, Lennox. About your mother.”

Lennox’s heart is suddenly in his throat, and his eyes dart quickly to the Minister, who’s watching him carefully in return. He feels caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t’ve, and looks away. His head swarms with the rush of fierce protectiveness that comes every time someone mentions his mother, as though the sound of the word in their mouth is wrong. He’s never been one to sit idly by and let anyone speaking about his family, especially his mother; he cradles her illness and shields it from the rest of the world. No one can know what’s wrong with her; no one can know how bad it really gets.

“Yes, sir,” Lennox intones, even though he feels as though he’s choking on the words now. “I remember.”

“I want to ensure you understand that I fully intend to help her, should our arrangement come to fruition,” continues the Minister.

The doors to the elevator slide open and they exit, past Healer’s stations, rooms, and the Healers themselves, bustling back and forth in their lime green robes. There’s reminders of illness everywhere that Lennox looks: the shrunken, misshapen bodies of the sick, the bottles of potion and disinfectant that line the walls and counters for quick use, and the odd shout of pain from down the corridor, quickly silenced. The smell – sterile, clean – reminds Lennox of Rhys, the live-in Healer hired to help his mother round the clock; the way he’d clean up her messes, make things orderly.

Lennox hates it here with a passion, though the spike of fear that his mother will end up here doesn’t go unnoticed. He swallows that bitter pill and hopes it doesn’t show.

“Have you heard of the Manuel family, Lennox?”

Turning away from where he’d been looking in through an open doorway where a woman was covered in thick, red boils, he meets the Minister’s eyes. Lennox shakes his head.

“They were, up until the Second Wizarding War, quite an esteemed pureblood family,” says the Minister, forging on down the hall. “Due to one of their children falling in love with a muggle, their purity waned and their position in society fell.”

The shame that Lennox has been taught to feel for his own mother’s decision in marrying his muggle father falls back onto Lennox’s shoulders. He’s so tired of it, but it feels especially dense coming from the Minister. He keeps his head down as they walk.

“Lendrick Manuel fell in love with Elana, a muggle woman from Ireland, and they were wed.”

The Minister pauses outside a closed door, and Lennox halts his own pace. He still feels as though he can’t meet the Minister’s eye, even though he’s not ashamed – he refuses to be ashamed of his mother and his father. It’s been too many years for him to go back now, and so Lennox forces his gaze up. Minister Tegus is looking at Lennox with an unreadable gaze.

“Elana, at the time of their marriage, was as normal as another other muggle. She had her eccentricities, but nothing that could’ve hinted at what was to come.”

The Minister opens the door and steps inside, and Lennox has to will his feet to follow, because something’s holding him back.

Fear wraps itself around his ankles and begs him to stay put.

“Mr. Minister sir!” comes a female voice, sounding bright and alive, and it eases a little of Lennox’s fear. He walks in.

Sitting up in bed is a woman, her long blonde hair hanging down over her shoulders, unstyled but clean. She’s not quite beautiful – more plain, though there’s something charming about the way she smiles at the Minister, and Lennox can see why someone would take an interest in her. Elana Manuel has a busy brain, and smarter than most people in a room.

“Good morning, Elana. How are you?”

Lennox stands in the doorway and watches as the Minister takes Elana’s hand, and the two exchange pleasantries. Elana is talkative, sincere, and above all, grateful.

“Since you were last here, sir, I’ve only had one relapse. One!”

“That’s amazing progress,” says Minister Tegus softly, a genuine smile on his face. “Before too long, you’ll be at zero.”

Elana’s smile radiates. “I hope so, sir. I really hope so. I miss home beyond comprehension.”

“Of course you do,” he replies. “But you can’t rush your health.”

“No, sir.”

Finally, Elana’s attention lands on Lennox, and the Minister looks over, too.

“Elana, I’d like you to meet Lennox Fraser. Lennox, come here.”

Walking on wooden legs, Lennox crosses the room, standing beside the bed until his knees brush the cotton and he can smell the dry, pungent flowers sitting on her nightstand. Little cards dot the vacant space around the vase, images of moving cats and big-eyed puppies. ‘Get well soon!’ is emblazoned on most.

Up close, the dark circles beneath Elana’s eyes are more apparent, and her skin is sallow, as though she hasn’t seen much of the sun. She reminds him too closely of his own mother.

“Lennox’s mother is sick, too,” begins the Minister, and Lennox’s eyes snap to him, feeling betrayed. It’s not common knowledge to be spread around so carelessly. “She has a mental disease, of the brain, like you do.”

“My apologies, Mr. Fraser,” says Elana, solemn. “It’s a hard life. I know my Lendrick has suffered for it, as you must.”

“I thought it important that he come see someone who has successfully recovered, or is at least doing better,” smiles the Minister, a hand on Elana’s shoulders. “Why don’t you tell him how you used to be, and how that’s changed.”

Lennox feels like he’s standing outside his own body, watching the entire conversation. He listens as Elana tells an all too familiar story: of the hallucinations, the violence, the drugs used to calm her down. She talks about blacking out, the times she can’t remember one day from the next. She gets teary-eyed when she explains she couldn’t care for herself, and if it weren’t for her husband, she would’ve starved. Lennox feels his throat close tight, and he looks away.

He doesn’t think about his mother, wasting away in her bedroom at that very moment, limbs thin and weakened. He doesn’t think about how many times he’s had to pick her up in his arms and carry her to the bath, stripping her down and lowering her into the water. How he’d fed her with a spoon, mixed her potions, covered her like he would a baby. His mother – the woman who’d raised him – had been reduced to a pile of skin and bones in a bed for most of his life, and Lennox didn’t know how to not think about that.

And he didn’t know how to not be mad about it.

When Elana finishes with the Minster helping her and the experimental treatment she’s undergone, Lennox feels as though he’s slowly sinking back into his heavy body.

“I think your mother could get better, too,” Elana says, and smiles at him in such a way that Lennox almost wants to believe her.

He looks to the Minister, who’s watching him carefully.

“I think we’ve taken up enough of your time, Elana,” he says, looking back to the pale woman with a smile. “I’ll see you again soon.”

They take their leave and where Lennox had felt wooden, there’s now a thousand thoughts firing back and forth in his head. Could his mother get this treatment? Could she get well again? Is this going to make her better – could he have his mother back?

He could have his mother back.

It’s too far-flung of an idea for Lennox that he’s never allowed himself to hope. He crushed it in Flora, too; they accepted from the start that their mother was going to be like this, and dealt with it. Anything else was only going to hurt them in the long run. But this – this is real proof that she could get better. She could live again.

There’s a warm hand on his shoulder that grounds him, and Lennox can feel each of the Minister’s fingertips as they press into him.

“I understand that this was a lot,” says Minister Tegus, “and that you may need time to decide what you want.”

Lennox’s eyes tear up from the linoleum. “I would do anything to have her like that,” he says, brows furrowed, searching the Minister’s face desperately. “I’d do anything to have her back, sir.”

It’s what the Minister wants to hear, because a small light appears in his eyes and a smile on his face.

“Anything? You’d pay the price?”

“Tenfold,” Lennox says immediately. “I don’t have much money—I could ask my grandparents—“

“There are more valuable ways to repay a debt than by coin, Lennox.”

There’s nothing that Lennox wouldn’t do. His heart is pounding in his ears, and all he can think is that he can’t let this chance pass him by. He can’t let her down.

“Anything,” he promises again. “Anything, sir.”

Lowell assess him for a moment, before nodding just once.

“Very well. I have just the thing.”

 *

They return to the Ministry and Lennox finds himself in the Minister’s office for the first time. He’s offered a seat and a cup of tea, and he accepts both with numb hands, unsure if he’s even allowed to refuse.

The Minister, working around Lennox as though he were another piece of furniture, writes and sends a letter via a tawny owl that waits, sharp-eyed and sleek. Once that’s done, he somehow wordlessly summons Taejin Callow – because one minute they’re alone, and the next there’s a stern “sir?” from the doorway.

Lennox hasn’t drunk his tea.

“Callow, good. You’re to take Lennox to assist Blackwood, and I will follow on shortly.”

The tea is lukewarm and bitter, and Lennox replaces the cup to the saucer.

“Sir?” says Callow, and Lennox can see the confusion on his face – the struggle of not comprehending the Minister versus not wanting to vocally doubt him.

“It’s fine, Callow,” says the Minister, leaning back in his chair. “Lennox has my trust and my faith to get the job done.” Their eyes meet, and Lennox knows he’s going to trade himself – whatever that’s worth – for his mother. “Tell the others.”

It’s a dismissal, and Lennox stands to follow Callow, but not before he pauses.

“Thank you again, sir,” he says. “I won’t disappoint you.”

The Minister looks at him carefully, face plain and as smooth as marble. “I hope not.”

 *

There’s no time for Lennox to think twice about what he’s sworn himself to, not when Taejin Callow is apparating them from the Ministry to a doorstep – and before Lennox can look around to see where they are, he’s shoved through the door and into a foyer.

It’s grand – bigger than his grandparent’s house, bigger than most pureblood’s houses he’s been in. It feels old, too; one of those old manor houses, passed down through the generations, expanded upon for pride and honour more than functionality’s sake. It’s made of dark mahogany pillars and staircases, with flashes of marble and cool tile. There’s also a stillness attached to the house that unnerves Lennox – as though he shouldn’t be disturbing this place.

But there’s activity, in flashes – people walking down the corridors and from room to room with parchment in their hands. They pay no attention to Lennox, but the sense he gets is that these upper floors – however many there are, however many rooms they contain – are some kind of Ministry 2.0, with all the silence of a library.

“This way,” Callow says, leading Lennox across the foyer and to a staircase that descends.

He feels underdressed and underprepared for this, but he doesn’t want to show it. What keeps passing through Lennox’s head is a twisted version of reality – of seeing his mother in the bed Elana had been in; seeing her tired but happy. Of being able to talk to her again.

The staircase descends in spirals, a drop down several floors until Lennox is sure they’re underground. It feels cool here, like it does in the dungeons below Hogwarts. His skin prickles over with goosebumps as his body adjusts to the temperature, and slowly his eyes get used to the dim light.

They come to a heavy door, which Callow uses some kind of method to enter – barring Lennox from seeing – and they’re through.

There’s a hallway with what looks like cells and doors lining the sides. Lennox feels like he’s entered another world.

“This is where the Minister’s most important work takes place,” Callow says, leading Lennox down the corridor. “You should consider it an honour to be shown.”

A small rectangular window is set in the door to Lennox’s right, and he slows down just enough to see darkness and a figure lurking inside. Adrenaline zips down Lennox’s spine, and he looks in the window of the next room – this one is filled with almost sunlight-intensity flourescents, and he can see someone—no, something – cowering in the corner, its arms covering its head. But its skin is pock-marked with boils and blisters, and Lennox can imagine the sound that would come from the thing if the room wasn’t sound proofed.

“What…” Lennox’s voice trails off as he passes to the next room, where something mutilated and bleeding lies in a heap on the floor. “What are these things?”

“Criminals. Experiments. Murderers.” Callow leads them on, and they pass a few empty cells. “You don’t need to concern yourself. If you do succeed in gaining the Minister’s favour, your work will be elsewhere.”

Where there should be empathy and guilt, Lennox feels nothing but self-preservation for himself and his family. So long as no one he loves is in one of these cells, he can put it out of his mind.

He walks with his head held high and facing forward.

Passing through doors and seemingly taking turns at random, Lennox loses track of where they are in the manor houses’ underground labyrinth. Callow seems to know, taking each corner with blind confidence, but Lennox knows that if it were just him, he’d die down here before he was able to get out again.

When they stop, it’s outside a cell. Callow knocks twice on the door, and after a beat, it opens to reveal a man with dark hair and electric eyes. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed, and he has all the arrogance of a pureblood set along his spine like steel. Lennox knows he’s handsome, but stores that in the back of his mind, along with everything else. He’s here to work.

“Blackwood, this is Fraser,” says Callow. “He’s here to assist.”

The man – Blackwood – looks at Lennox and nods. “Briefed?”

Callow shakes his head. “Minister’s orders.”

“Alright,” Blackwood says, and he widens the door for Lennox to step inside.

Within, it’s dark, and for a second, Lennox panics, wondering what the Minister could possibly want Lennox’s assistance with here. But then he notices that it’s more on an antechamber than an actual room: there’s a door set into the wall.

Blackwood closes them in, with Callow now gone.

“Your job is to help me get the information out of this man using whatever means you have available,” says Blackwood, and Lennox can only see the outline of his head. “Do you understand?”

“What’s he done wrong? What information are we trying to get?” Lennox asks.

He feels like he’s being told he’s got a Charms exam that he never studied for, scrambling for any scraps of information he can.

“All you need to know right now is that he’s helped house and support werewolves and other supernatural creatures that have then gone on to murder innocent people. We need names, locations, anything.”

Blackwood shoulders past Lennox and to the other door, where he looks at Lennox once before pushing inside.

Lennox finds himself faced with the image of a man bound to a chair, sweat lining his brow and his nose bleeding. He looks to be in his forties, at most – the kind of man who’d serve you in a bar with a smile and a nod. Whatever’s happened to him here hasn’t been good – he looks thin and tired, but Lennox doesn’t focus on that.

Walking into the room, Lennox circles around the back of the man. He thinks about what he’s done, this man – how he’s aided and abetted criminals, murderers, creatures. A traitor to his own kind, he’s probably walked the vampires right into the houses of their victims. Has probably let the werewolves turn in their backyards, sitting ducks for the snapping, tearing claws. The families never stood a chance, all because of his man.

The anger rises in Lennox.

Just like he does when he walks into the ring at the Royal Wolf, Lennox closes the doors in his mind to everything else that matters – everything that might be a distraction him. His family, his friends, his grandparents. The doors slam shut in his mind, tunnelling him further and further toward what’s left when he has no tethers – the violence, the anger in him that seems like a bottomless pit, forever yawning open and swallowing him whole.

It’s been in him since he was small. A boy pushed into scalding water. A boy torn from his mother’s arms. A boy twisted and bent by hands until he was what they needed him to be, never what he actually was.

The rage is white and hot, colouring his mind like a blank slate until he is simply hands and muscle and raw, untapped capability.

His ears ring, not taking in what Blackwood is saying, just waiting til the other man’s eyes meet Lennox’s, and he does what he’s always been good at.

He hurts the man.

Fingers find strands of hair, yanking the man’s head back til his throat is exposed, and Blackwood’s voice rises, but Lennox doesn’t pay attention to him. His vision hones in on the terrified face of the man that’s now turned up at him, eyes wide. Lennox’s grip tightens, and he hears a groan of pain fall from the man’s lips, the loosening of a few strands between Lennox’s fingers.

He lets go.

Gasping for breath, the man says something. Lennox doesn’t listen. He waits like an obedient dog as the others talk, voices altering tones of desperate and demanding. Watching Blackwood, he knows the moment he’s supposed to act – Blackwood’s eyes flash to him, bright and cruel.

Lennox answers in kind.

His hand closes around the man’s windpipe from behind, fingers clamping the flesh of his throat with practiced ease. Not thinking about who liked it like that – who begged for it, eyes and mouth, for Lennox’s firm hold, air cut off and face blooming like a bruise – his fingers dig in a little deeper.

The man’s hands jerk and strain against their straps, body flailing as Lennox ensures the breath he’d just taken was his last, unless his mind changes. Lennox stands still, thumb pressing deeper and deeper until he can feel the man starting to pass out.

It’s hard to let go, but he does.

The man coughs, wheezing for air that his throat can’t get in quick enough, and Lennox waits for the next direction.

There’s not a thought in his head – a carefully constructed white, sterile room that allows Lennox to do what he has to. There’s no door to signify the place where he’s come from, nor is there a door from which to exit. There is only this: the room and Lennox.

Blackwood is shaking his head at the man, voice rising. Lennox waits.

He knows the moment he’s needed again, because Blackwood steps back from the man and nods Lennox closer. Stepping around the man’s side, Lennox pushes the man’s head back before he swings. Knuckles connect, there’s blood already dribbling from the man’s mouth.

Lennox hits him again.

Blackwood’s voice rises.

Lennox hits him again.

Blackwood yells.

Lennox hits him again.

The man says something, nose clearly broken and mouth filling with blood. Lennox looks at Blackwood, who shakes his head at Lennox. He turns back and continues his job.

When his knuckles are raw and the man’s eye is swollen shut, Lennox pauses, stepping back. Blackwood steps forward. The man’s head drops back to his chest. It’s like a dance, every player in harmony. Something in Lennox itches for more – like the fire has only just started, the familiar burn of violence that satiates the parts of him that hurt the most.

His room gets a little whiter, a little harder to see.

There’s yelling, voices raised and harsh, and Lennox stares at the man he’s just beaten. He’s a smattering of colours – blues and purples of the bruises, the red and maroon of bleeding wounds; a veritable moving palette of parts that Lennox doesn’t piece together.

Blackwood steps back, leaning down and loosening the straps on the man’s left hand. Lennox knows what this means, and takes the man’s wrist firmly before he can pull it back. He tries, though – he’s weak, but he fights. Lennox is stronger.

There’s talking, but Lennox focuses on the fingers in his grip. The man’s shaking and yelling at Blackwood – or maybe at Lennox – when he breaks the first finger. It’s easy, a crunch and pop of bone and cartilage and it’s done. There’s yelling and the man becomes almost uncontrollable, but Lennox breaks another and he quits struggling so much.

It’s like pushing dominos over, one after the other, as he breaks the man’s fingers. He’s about to cap it off with the thumb when Blackwood steps forward, and Lennox struggles to drop the hand. There’s no life in it, and it falls to the man’s lap.

Lennox watches the curve of Blackwood’s back, the movement of his lips.

He watches the man shaking his head, tears streaking his face, washing the blood in watery pink rivulets down over his cheeks. He sees the man mouth, ‘please.’

Blackwood waits. The man shakes his head. Blackwood steps back, and gestures for Lennox, as though it’s open season.

His heart races, and his vision whites out as he finally lets himself go. It’s like stretching your legs after being sat at a desk too long; like the first time you hop on a broom and take flight. It’s freedom and fire and the ultimate form of release, a savage kind of high, and Lennox is nowhere and nothing—

Lennox is out in the hallway, and his ears are ringing with the sound of a voice. He looks up, noticing first that the hallway is dark and that he’s not alone. It’s not Blackwood, who his entire world had come to focus on, but the Minister himself.

“Sir,” Lennox says, voice rough and broken.

His muscles are tired – there’s a stiffness in his shoulders when he moves, like he’s played quidditch for hours, and when he lifts a hand to touch his face, it feels wet.

“You’ve done such a good job, Lennox,” says the Minister, a note of sincerity in his voice. “Blackwood said you were crucial in the interrogation.”

Lennox can’t remember, but he nods. “Thank you, sir.”

“How do you feel?”

He doesn’t know that either, and his eyes drift away from the Minister’s face, remembering where he is. “I’m not sure, sir. Tired, I suppose.” He scrubs at his face again, spreading the wet. “Happy.”

A smile pulls itself across the Minister’s face for a moment, a brief, cruel thing, before it smooths back over. “Happiness comes after completing a difficult task and doing it well,” he says, a hand on Lennox’s shoulder. He aches at the touch. “You should be proud of yourself, Lennox. I know I am.”

That makes a flicker of warmth reignite in Lennox, and he nods his head in gratitude.

“Sir, I don’t mean to ask too much too soon—”

The Minister cuts him off. “If you’re asking if you’ve earned your mother’s treatment, fear not. You’ve proved yourself beyond my expectations,” he says. “Your mother is as good as cured.”

Lennox sags, relieved, and the tiredness hits. “Thank you, sir. That—that means a lot. For me and my family. Thank you, I don’t—I won’t let you down again, sir. I’ll earn it.”

“I’m sure you will,” says the Minister. “For now, it’s time for you to head back to school and work hard. We’ll be seeing more of each other sooner than you think.”

He nods, and realises that they hadn’t been alone this whole time – Callow stands there, solemn and watchful.

“You’ll escort Lennox back to Hogwarts, Callow. Then report back to my office, we’re to have a team meeting about what Mr. Fraser has helped us to learn.”

Callow inclines his head and starts walking, and Lennox has only a brief moment left with the Minister, who he offers his hand. The Minister takes it, squeezing firmly and releasing him.

“Sir— you’re bleeding,” Lennox says, noticing the smears of red on the Minister’s palm and shirt cuff.

“No matter,” he replies, dropping his hand. “Until next time, Lennox.”

Lennox inclines his head, just as Callow had, and follows after the man, dreading the walk back up the stairs but eager for the fresh air of the outside world once more.

 *

At Hogwarts, things are frighteningly normal. It’s like Lennox hasn’t left – everyone’s sitting down to dinner, but Lennox skips, surprisingly, for the first time in his life, not hungry. Callow’s already apparated back to the Minister, leaving Lennox to walk back to the Ravenclaw Tower to shower and head to bed.

It’s blissfully empty, free of students, ghosts, and elves – everyone’s already gone to dinner.

Lennox heads straight for the bathroom below the dorm levels, ducking his head on the overhang that’s almost knocked him out more times than he can count. It’s cool inside the bathroom, and Lennox wastes no time in stripping his clothes off. He finds it difficult, what with his muscles aching with every bend and turn he makes, and his clothes seem wet, sticking to his body and dropping heavily to the floor.

When he’s down to his underwear, Lennox kicks the clothes against the wall for the elves to find and walks to the mirror. For a moment, looking at himself, he thinks he’s been sunburned on his chest and arms – they’re pink, like he’s stood in the sun too long. Except - he hasn’t burned in years, and the pink smears when he touches it. It’s then that he notices the weight of it on his skin, like a film; it covers him, head to toe, thicker in places than others.

Lennox has to stoop to see his face in the mirror, but it’s another revelation. Blood spatters fleck his cheeks and forehead, dark red crusted to his skin, flaking when he scratches at them. And the flecks are on his hands – but so are his busted knuckles, which he pokes at, fascinated.

The water runs hot when Lennox steps under it, letting it sear his skin.

He starts scrubbing, and by the time he stops, his skin is clean and raw. Lennox stays under the spray, head bowed, eyes closed, thinking. Retracing his steps.

In his own mind’s eye, he can remember walking down into the basement complex, the confusing hallways, the cells. And he rsucemembers the face of Blackwood, his sharp and handsome features, but the rest—

It’s there, but Lennox retreats. He keeps that door closed.

Turning the water off and drying himself quickly, Lennox holds the closed door in his mind’s eye. He won’t open it, not for anyone; he doesn’t need to know what happened, because the outcome is more important.

Lennox remembers his mother, placing her in Elana’s spot, and smiles.

He’ll do whatever it takes for his family, and for Lennox, that’s reason enough to keep the door closed and locked forever.  

[lennoxfraser-blog]

am-flying-solo:

Solo laughed - and habit pushed words out of his mouth that he’d rather keep in, not missing a beat: “Oh yeah, I’d love a mould of your dick, not much difference to the real thing, yeah? You both just keep standing there, waiting for sex to happen around you.” He regretted the abrasiveness of his snide remark immediately. This was supposed to be the tentative beginning to something - to salvaging what they’d lost over the years, in between broken hearts and broken bones. Lennox had made him wait for weeks, as if deciding he was worthy of a simple date was that fucking hard, and it was a bitter truth to swallow. But they were here now, they were trying, ridiculous as he thought it all was - notes, and flowers, and, god forbid, romance. And to think that all that Lennox had to do was smile that one smile - the one he never gave Solo willingly, that was always aimed at Flora or Smith or Fitz or someone else, and Solo would say yes to anything. It was a dangerous little thing, to love. To offer your hands up for shackling, and give away the key, like a martyr ready for punishment. Loving Lennox, Solo found out, was even harder. He was all rough edges and rough hands, anger and passion burning in the same measure inside him. 

And from the cigarette tips he pressed against his thighs, creating a constellation of scars against pale skin, to the crackling pits of Lennox’s feelings, Solomon wanted to burn.

“No, fuck. Let’s start over,” he offered, quietly. “You look nice too. All, y’know. Dressed up, and–” he looked down, not sure how to play into this new game they were trying. The word love out of Lennox lips made him shudder, feeling suddenly vulnerable, raw and exposed again, like in that closet. He wished they were still in the dark, but even under the stairs, he could see Lennox’s expectant eyes, the sharp jawline he used to kiss, when they were fourteen and stupid. As much as he hated the seasonal couples, with their easily digested feelings out of a cheap romance, and their convoluted love stories that fit a golden band around their fingers, they had a bravery Solo didn’t possess. Seeing outstretched Lennox’s hand made him tremble, fear clogging his throat. Taking a punch was easier, and Solo had grown used to Lennox knuckles against his face. When he slowly, hesitantly, reached out for his hand, he half expected it to hurt too, but it didn’t - and that was even scarier. “It is impossibly cheesy, yeah, but– just for tonight, I’ll play nice, yeah? So… where are we going, then? Better be some place we can have a pint,” he joked lightly. Merlin, he needed alcohol. 

How did those couples even do it? 

Solomon didn’t hold hands. He’d easily hold a pair of wrists down as his hips moved; he’d hold thighs, or calves, pulling them closer, spreading them out; He’d hold a dick, fingers brushing soft skin slowly; he’d had hands around his throat, squeezing until dark spots danced in his vision and the world blurred around him, like taking a dive underwater. But holding hands? This was uncharted territory, and he was scared of letting go.

The last time Lennox had touched Solo with any degree of gentleness or kindness was a foreign memory to him. He’s sure it must’ve happened, somewhere between their few brief years of being friends, Lennox glued to Solo and vice versa, but he can’t quite remember what it felt like. Soft, maybe; they’d been young then. Every touch since had been tinged with something else - a need, a hatred, a spark of something that felt too close to being an emotion that they’d collectively decided to stay away from. Lennox couldn’t remember if that decision had been mutual or just his, either. What he instead remembered about touching Solo was bending his arm back and feeling it break; he remembered the weight and taste of Solo in his mouth as he’d knelt on that bathroom floor; he remembered dozens of stolen moments - bed, hallway, closet - where they’d touched each other with an array of intent, but never quite the right one. And Lennox remembered touching Solo when Solo didn’t want him to; he punches, the shoves, the way he could draw blood faster from Solo than he could get him to smile. He thought of all those moments when he felt Solo take his hand - the first real touch in years. 

Lennox wrapped his fingers tight around Solo’s hand and told himself to take it gentle.

His heart was hammering at his best laid plans - romance, a nice dinner - suddenly shot to hell with Solo’s sarcasm and derision. Lennox knew that Solo was, at heart, not one for romance - there’d be no Valentine’s from him - but he had hoped that if he could just do it properly; if he could do it and show Solo, then maybe he’d change his mind. But that wasn’t going to work, and they walked through the darkness of the grounds towards the gates, Lennox wracking his brain for a plan. “Yeah,” he said, thankful for the dim light to hide his guilty face. “Thought we might get a pint first. Ease into it.” He was coming up empty - why did he think he could do this? Be a boyfriend to anyone, let alone Solomon Renfield? “And as for playing nice, it’ll be a two-way street,” he said, glancing at Solo and feeling his heart calm a little. “Play your cards right, you might even get a kiss on the cheek before the night’s through.” 

Which said nothing about the fact that Lennox was dying for Solo to actually kiss him; had been in the process of dying since Solo stopped. The one person he couldn’t kiss in this castle was the one person he wanted it from most, and Lennox’s eyes darted to Solo’s lips in the dark, knowing their shape. He stumbled over a rock in the dark, catching himself before he could tumble over, and gave an awkward laugh, face burning. “This is weird, isn’t it?” he said. “Like... the artificiality of this. I’m not saying we should’ve had a date in the kitchens because Merlin knows there’s nothing less romantic that Han coming in with his hair in rollers, but-- I don’t know,” and Lennox let his thumb brush over Solo’s hand. “I don’t want to build up the pressure too great, y’know?” But it was there, nevertheless - this once in a lifetime moment, make or break, and Lennox was scared of the ‘break’ alternative. 

Hogsmeade became visible ahead, down the path, and Lennox had to make a split-second decision between the Three Broomsticks and the Hog’s Head. He was eighteen, but Solo wasn’t; the decision was made for him. “Why don’t you head to the Hog’s?” Lennox suggested, already steering them past the door of the Three Broomsticks, which burst open and three giggling witches stumbled out. “Ain’t nothing more romantic than a sticky booth and One Eyed Kim. And before you even think it, I ain’t trying to hide you by taking you there - just figure neither of us want to be the talking point over breakfast tomorrow,” he added, looking at Solo for his reaction in the lamplight of the shop fronts they passed, hoping that it hadn’t been a conclusion Solo had drawn, assuming the worst of Lennox, as always. 

intermission | solo & lennox

[lennoxfraser-blog]

wren-turnbrook:

“You’re right; I don’t,” she replied. Wren made a habit of letting people understand she could take of herself. Having an escort was never necessary, nor was it wanted, and she wanted to keep it that way. Even at unfavourable charity gatherings she was forced to go to with her parents, she was rarely seen with an acquaintance. Wren thudded a foot against the booth seat opposite to stop Lennox in his tracks, letting it brush the side of his leg playfully. She pulled back dominance in their situation, always trying swing control between the two of them. It was a silent mutual agreement they had. “Isn’t that what we do every time we meet? No strings, no worries - just rough fun? And sometimes kinky?” she asked, raising her brows and tongue flicking quickly over dry lips.

Wren placed her book into her bag and stood suddenly, but not without dragging her foot down the inside of the Ravenclaw’s leg before she finished. She grabbed her robed coat, pulling it on, hooking her bag into her elbow and stepping out from the table. She wandered over to Lennox’s side, raising a hand to the side of his head and dragging a nail over his ear before tugging at his lobe. Wren stood ahead of him square on, moving both arms to flatten the collar of his coat, observing the look before popping it back and smiling, “That’s better; gives me something to hold on to. Shall we?”

There was something about Wren that drew Lennox back in, time and time again. Maybe it was how she controlled every situation without asking or needing anything from others; she was in complete dominance, and Lennox knew better than to do anything other than respect a woman like that. But it was something more; a mutually shared understanding, perhaps, of the way the world worked - and the people in it. Wren played Lennox exactly the way she wanted when she stood, touching him with hands were direct, never shying from their true meaning. Lennox could feel arousal spike through him at her touch, lips curling at her comment. “Let’s,” he said, heat pooling in his stomach at the thought of where he’d be five minutes from now. Following Wren out of the Hog’s Head and back out into the howling wind, Lennox didn’t hesitate before he wrapped an arm around Wren’s shoulders, grinning as he pulled her in close to the warmth of his body. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold,” he said into her ear over the roar of the wind that whipped around them, chilling Lennox straight through his clothes. In truth, Lennox just wanted to be close to Wren, and to anyone else, they made the picture of the perfect couple, walking back to Hogwarts, wrapped up in each other. Lennox, his arm settled around her shoulders, let it fall to her waist, holding her closer as they walked, fingers curled around her hip. It was impossible to speak over the wind, head ducked down to avoid the worst of it, and they were back inside the relative safety of the castle before he spoke again. Shifting around to stand in front of her, walking backward just a few steps, they were at a fork in the road: left was Hufflepuff, right was Ravenclaw. “Mine or yours, Turnbrook?” he asked, heels already brushing the steps that would take them to Ravenclaw, a grin on his face.

fine print | lennox & wren

[lennoxfraser-blog]

astoriadahl:

One second, Astoria was screaming, the next, the werewolf was gone, and so was Lennox. Well, they weren’t gone, they were on the muddy ground, and Lennox was punching the man - the werewolf. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched through a haze what was happening in front of her. Attempting to speak, but no words came out. Lennox, Lennox. Her vision blurred, the edges were turning black, but she didn’t quite know what had caused it. The fear, perhaps, or the adrenaline, the shock and panic? Tori didn’t quite know what it was, at least not until she felt a dull burning on her arm. the werewolf had reached for her, and she had presumed it was to knock the wand out of her hand. But seeing it, now, the fingernails turned into claws, had caught her arm. There were three scratched down her forearm, blood coming up through the cracked skin. Dizziness washed over her as she reached out to touch the broken skin, hissing as the burning shot through her arm.

Lennox.

Snapping her head back up to see where her friend was, she saw him continously punching the now lifeless form of half a man, half a werewolf. His face was a mess, bloody, and so was Lennox’s knuckles. “Lennox,” Astoria manage to force out, taking a step towards the two men. No response. “Lennox! He’s unconscious, you can stop now.” Astoria was feeling faint, she couldn’t focus her sight or her thoughts. But the Ravenclaw was still going at it, punching hard, but the man who attacked them had passed out long ago, but Lennox wasn’t letting up. “Stop it, Lennox, he’s passed out, you’re going to kill him.” She reached out to him, but she was almost afraid to touch him. Afraid of him not being in control, the need to fight and protect himself and her had taken over, and he had no control. But the man was going to die, for sure, if he didn’t stop right this second. So she jumped forth and grabbed his arm just as he was about to punch again. “Stop it, you’ll kill him!” Astoria screamed at the top of her lungs, and she used all the strength left in her body to pull him off of the man, having the both of them falling to the ground. “He’s out cold, Lennox, we need to go. We need to go find someone, tell someone that there’s a werewolf on the grounds. Please stop.” The blood was still was coming out of the gashes on her arm as she breathed hard. “We have to go.”

There and not - that was how it felt. Lennox suddenly feeling himself in a hurricane of emotion and sensory input, and the next, time had passed. It was a strange sensation to know that you’d missed a chunk of time - that you’d skipped a part of the world that everyone else had seen and witnessed. That was how Lennox felt when a hand closed around his arm, just as he was about to swing it; he hadn’t even noticed how tired his muscles were. For a second, he turned, looking at the person who’d stopped him, his anger and violence redirecting from the thing below him - and he came up short. It sapped away at the sight of a girl, wide-eyed, staring in fear at him. Lennox couldn’t quite place her face; she was familiar - the eyes, the hair... One heartbeat, and then another, and he remembered her name. Astoria. His head was ringing, blocking whatever she was saying, and Lennox’s eyes dropped to her mouth, trying to understand her words - stop. kill. He went tumbling to the ground a moment later, and the shock of it brought Lennox back, blinking a few times, the clanging in his head clearing -- and now he could hear Astoria properly. “What...” His arms were like heavy beams of lead, and he looked from his bloody, swollen knuckles to the man -- no, werewolf -- who was unconscious. Righteous anger surged through him at the sight, and for a second, Lennox’s fingers twitched at the thought of finishing the job: of climbing back to his feet and beating him - it - so hard that it never took another ragged breath. 

Astoria was still speaking, pulling Lennox further and further from his own thoughts, and when he looked at her, he saw for the first time that she was bleeding. That gave him pause, and he could feel his soul settle back into his limbs - and he climbed to his feet, but didn’t give rise to the idea of killing the man. “Alright,” Lennox said, nodding numbly, looking away from Astoria to the man. His face was a mess of blood and raw flesh, and Lennox felt nothing. “Let’s go,” he said, voice hollow stumbling back the way they’d come, Astoria beside him. He had no words in him; no feeling, no emotion, no flicker of panic or fear or worry at what he’d done. It was like Lennox had been scooped out of his body, and only the dregs remained. He walked, head in a fog, vision and hearing drifting in and out, and it was a miracle when the forest’s treeline came into view, sunlight breaking through, shattering the dark canopy overhead. He marched forward, and suddenly the forest was gone, and they were in the peaceful grounds - students meandered around, unaware of what lay only a few hundred metres inside the forest. Lennox had to keep reminding himself of what the objective was: find help. Find a professor. They didn’t have to go far - halfway up the sloping hills, and Lennox spotted Professor Elloway, making his rounds. “Sir-- sir,” Lennox called, and when Elloway’s gaze slid toward him, his whole body froze. Lennox looked down at where Elloway was looking to find that he was covered in the werewolf’s blood, the gore splattered on his uniform. He felt nothing. “There’s something out in the forest,” he found himself saying as Elloway came closer, his brow furrowed, wand out. “A werewolf, sir,” and Lennox’s words stopped there. Professor Elloway’s face was creased in confusion, and he turned to Astoria. “Miss Dahl? Is this true?” he asked, already scanning behind them, as though the werewolf were hot on their heels.

relentless | lennox & astoria

[lennoxfraser-blog]

matthew daddario at nycc ( x )

[lennoxfraser-blog]

astoriadahl:

Astoria should have listened to her instincts, when she heard the branches snapping, she should have looked up, taken a look around to see if someone was there. They could, after all, get caught being in the woods by a professor. The sounds were getting louder though, and as much as she wanted to focus entirely on Lennox, his lips and his hands, she couldn’t stop from looking up only to see a complete stranger walking into the clearing. “Oh, shit,” Tori muttered under her breath. The man looked like he could use a bit of sleep, and a bath, he was positively filthy. But the most terrifying part of him were his eyes. They didn’t look human, specks of yellow that weren’t normal at all. Lennox turned around to face the new arrival, blocking her behind his back against the tree. It didn’t occur to her until a minute later that it was a protective stance. Gryffindors were meant to be brave, when feeling threatened, Astoria was meant to bound into action, wand at the ready, prepared to do whatever it takes to protect herself and those she was with. But she was completely frozen, the fear creeping up her spine. The man started circling them, speaking, voice so full of hate, but Lennox kept moving, making sure he was in the direct line of fire, protecting her. Without thinking too much about it, she put her hand to his arm, cowering behind him like the biggest coward in the world.

“Sir, umm… Are you okay? You look kind of…” Astoria couldn’t finish her sentence, the man looked more animal than human at the moment, and that’s what she understood. This man was a werewolf, and he was on the verge of turning. Her hand moved instinctively to the pocket of her coat, pulling out her wand. As much as she wanted to believe that werewolves deserved equal rights, there were werewolves in the world who believed themselves to be more worthy of others. And this man seemed to be one of the people who shared that belief. “You can leave right now, and we won’t tell anyone you’re here. You leave us alone, you can run off and not get caught and sent to Azkaban.” It was partly a threat, because they could send up a distress signal, easy, and professors would come running. Werewolves were not trusted, at all, the man would be sent off to Azkaban within an hour. Her grip on her wand tightened as the man revealed his pointed teeth. The man’s body was changing, spine lengthening. Astoria had read about this, but she hadn’t seen it happen in real life. While it looked painful, she couldn’t get over the intense fear she felt shudder through her spine. “Lennox, we need to run. Right now, we need to run,” she hissed under her breath. The next second though, the man pounced, running right at them, teeth bared, vicious eyes, arms outstretched towards them. It happened so fast, and without her consciously deciding to do so, she pointed her wand at the man, the werewolf, casting a hex that temporarily slowed down his movements. As she watched the man’s face slowly transform, she realised she was screaming in fear.

It felt bizarrely like a nightmare that Lennox had had, except it was Astoria he was protecting, not his family - not Loren or Flora cowering behind him, Lennox risking everything to keep them safe. He’d thought of being here before, even in his waking hours, too; of what he’d do if ever he were confronted by a werewolf, how he’d make it out alive. The truth was that Lennox’s magic wasn’t strong, and he weren’t skilled enough to even conjure something powerful enough to scratch a werewolf, let alone kill it. But he could run, and the logic part of Lennox’s brain told him that that’s what they should do: run for Hogwarts as though the devil himself were on their heels, and hope to Merlin and whatever God was out there that a professor was on guard and spotted them. But what if there was no one? What if it was just Lennox, Astoria, and a werewolf hell bent on killing them? The odds were stacked, and it was like Lennox’s thoughts were moving through dry sand, slipping away and getting trapped where he couldn’t reach them. His palms were slick with sweat, fight or flight pulsing beneath his skin, and he knew flight was their best option, but something beat in Lennox - the need to fight that seemed to always be there, an untapped resource that never knew when to stay down. He heard Astoria in his ear, echoing the sentiment to run, but by then, it was too late - the choice made for them as the werewolf leaped. He was still human, mostly, but there was something in the way he moved that was decidedly verging head-long into creature. Astoria’s hexed slowed him, his steps faltering, claws already tearing away his shoes, and Lennox took one final step back - fight or flight? Fight, flight, fight, flight, fight-fight-fight-

The werewolf slashed for Astoria, maybe going for her wand, Lennox didn’t see - couldn’t see much of anything. It was like everything in him honed, tunneling not only his focus, but his vision. It was like stepping out onto a rock, and finding that there was no rock at all; the ground seemed to give way, and Lennox was standing there a moment, only to suddenly be on top of the man-wolf, shoving him hard into the dirt as he tackled him. Lennox suddenly only existed in fragments of himself: a set of knuckles hard enough, aimed with enough power to hit a man across the face that was shifting into that of an animal. A pair of lungs that were ragged, drawing in oxygen at a rate too slow to satisfy him. A nervous system of blood that sung a song of liberation, a chorus that urged Lennox on and on. He was reduced to knuckles and bone and blood, swinging for the man repeatedly, watching the skin burst and give way. He was turned on his back, and he fought, taking a hit that felt more like an encouragement than a blow. Lennox’s body ran on autopilot, instinct and experience mixing until he hardly saw - and if he did see, he couldn’t process what he was doing. It felt like every night at the Royal Wolf, every shove and punch aimed at Solo, every snap of bone and drag of a knife against his skin rolled into one. Lennox was not there, not as a boy or a man or a conscious person, but an energy that could fight, and fight well, as though that were all it knew. Lennox released himself to the energy and kept swinging.

relentless | lennox & astoria

[lennoxfraser-blog]

the-yunhaneul:

Liking someone didn’t have anything to do with helping them or being polite to them, as far as Han was concerned. Treating people with basic human decency shouldn’t be a question but more an instinct, he didn’t really understand a mindset in which not being at least civil with other people wasn’t considered the norm. But of course it didn’t surprise him that Lennox was so quick to judge his offer of help, how eagerly the boy tried to make him retract his offer by denying him things he never had any intention of asking for in the first place. "I don’t have strong feelings for you, positive or negative,” He corrected with a shrug of his shoulders. Haneul really didn’t have enough time in his day to waste any of it disliking people, though he also didn’t have time in his day to care about people who didn’t necessarily deserve it, if he wasn’t already planning to swim regularly he would have undoubtedly left Lennox to his own devices. “You don’t need to pay me, lucky for you being a professional swimming coach is not one of my life’s ambitions, but I was planning to swim anyway so it isn’t any trouble for me to keep an eye on you too.” 

He was rather sure this was all a defense mechanism, he’d looked weak and so he was doing his best to make Haneul feel equally vulnerable, unlucky for the older boy Haneul wasn’t lacking confidence in his appearance and comment on his strength only made him laugh, turning his face away for a moment to narrowly avoid the splash hitting his face. He was actually highly amused by the attempt at an insult. No, he wasn’t as broad or as tall as Lennox, that was clear to see but Haneul was hardly weak either. Thirteen years of solid training had made him slender but sturdy, he’d done dances where half of the routine was lifting a partner above his head in intricate lifts, not to mention the simple fact that he did actually point out, “I already did stop you from sinking.” Lennox was always so serious, that’s how he always appeared to Haneul at least, which was ironic because Han was sure if the boy learnt to laugh at himself situations like these would actually become a lot less embarrassing. “Threatening someone who may, at some point soon, have your life in their hands isn’t a very wise decision for a Ravenclaw,” He shook his head, holding back a laugh this time but his hair churned a sandy gold as amusement pooled in his system. Serious but funny, he concluded, as he waded deeper to about Lennox’s level and with an intake of breath forced himself to take this seriously. “I think we should start on your back, with most people it’s typical your feet will be the first thing to go under the surface and that drags the rest of your body down eventually, I personally think it’s easier to keep your legs up and kick when you’re on your back. You should keep your chin up, look upwards so your spine is arched better, and you have to stay relaxed. If you tense your muscle mass will increase and you’ll sink easier.” Or at least that’s what he was told, he was hardly an expert, he didn’t even know if the back was the best place to start but considering Lennox couldn’t swim he thought it’d be more comfortable to start with a stroke where his face would be completely out of the water. If it didn’t work they could always try differently. Still, for now this seemed like a solid plan and Han stepped forward to stand side-on from the older boy and waved a hand above the water when he added, “I’ll keep a hand under your back, you won’t sink, alright?”

For some reason, the fact that Haneul had no strong feelings about Lennox either way - positive or negative - annoyed him more. Who was that mild about everything in life? Lennox couldn’t think of one thing that he was just whatever about; he had decided opinions about everything from potatoes (a big yes) to the useless small talk that people traded in the halls (a very definitive no). It just wasn’t in Lennox to be mild-mannered and tame on a subject, least of all if a person was at the heart of it. Truthfully, it annoyed him, because all he could think was that he wasn’t interesting enough for Haneul to like or dislike him in any significant measure. At least if he were hated by Haneul, it would be something, rather than this very uncertain middle ground of nothingness. “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have anything strong toward you, either,” Lennox mumbled, mostly to himself, wading out into the water and feeling grumpy about the fact that Haneul had something over him: indifference. Because Lennox couldn’t be indifferent to Han - he was everywhere, and annoyingly so. It felt an awful lot like losing. “And don’t tell me how to be a Ravenclaw - aren’t you supposed to be the house of kind assholes? Offer critiques where they’re wanted,” he said, but it lacked any heat to be a serious threat against Han, Lennox mostly grasping at straws as the water grew deeper and Lennox’s fear rose.

He didn’t trust Han, but his choices were also very limited, and his distrust - and uncertainty - heightened when Han gave the first ‘lesson.’ “Fuck,” Lennox murmured, feeling his spine prickle as Han spoke. The idea of lying on his back and floating was terrifying. He could sink faster like that; something could grab him and pull him down. At least when he was vertical, he had more of a chance of fighting his way back to the surface, but horizontal... he would be exposed. Looking to Haneul, Lennox knew he couldn’t say no; hell, he knew that even babies learned to float, so it couldn’t be that hard. “You better not fucking take your hand away, or I swear on Merlin and God and whatever deities exist, you won’t have a hand to use.” It was shaky and hollow and Lennox swallowed thickly, nervously leaning back in the water, but panicking at the last second when his feet almost went out from under him. The result was Lennox flailing, splashing water everywhere as he stood upright again. Heart hammering, Lennox took a few deep breaths, looking back at Haneul before lowering himself into the water again. He tried again - letting the water buoy his chest and, very slowly, let one foot then the other leave the lake’s bottom. For almost ten seconds, Lennox was floating, but when the water closed around his head, filling his ears until he could hear his own heartbeat pounding and the muted sound of his breathing, Lennox panicked. His chest sunk, and water caved inside his mouth, and he felt himself going under before spluttering back to the surface, looking at Han accusingly. “How the fuck am I supposed to relax? I can’t-- I can’t relax and fucking float like a goddamn boat when--” Lennox angrily shoved water at Han, frustrated, but mostly with himself. “You’re a bullshit teacher,” and he lowered himself into the water again, determined. “Don’t let go of me, alright?” he said, letting his chest buoy in the water as he looked up at the sky, then at Haneul, reluctantly trusting him to do it; and as his feet left the floor of the lake, he had to believe that Han wouldn’t let him drown.

looking up from underneath | lennox & haneul

[lennoxfraser-blog]

elliot-fincher:

Keep reading

The way that a person could be undone by sex fascinated Lennox. The way you could take a shy virgin and have them moaning for Merlin and God in the same breath, or reduce the loudest person in class to someone who whimpered and begged with just a hand on them. Lennox didn’t know where he fit on the spectrum; how he changed when he had someone touching him. He liked to think he didn’t; stoic to the end, emotions and reactions kept tightly in check until he chose to release them, but that wasn’t quite the truth. Lennox could remember the way he’d break so easily under someone else’s capable hands; reduced to a mess of a man who would do anything - say anything - that they wanted; would beg to be touched or wanted in that way that felt like a puzzle piece sliding home. Maybe it was part of the reason why Lennox slept with so many girls: they didn’t need or want the vulnerable side of Lennox that could submit, hands and knees. They wanted the Lennox in control, the one with a deep voice and enough strength to hold them up when they were the ones that folded. Maybe it was also why Lennox preferred men. 

It was interesting, then, to watch the way Elliot shifted and changed; the way he moved to ever so slightly move into Lennox’s hand, going with the rhythm, as though he could only give so much control away - for now. The sound of his voice breaking with a curse on his tongue, a sure sign that Lennox was doing a good job, was all the praise he needed to keep going, hand slow and steady, loose and then tight, stroking Elliot the way he liked. He wondered at how Elliot would come; if it would be quite, restrained, or whether he’d truly let go, collapse back against Lennox’s chest and be the open pool of water that Lennox wanted him to be, gazing through the blue of his eyes to find some part of him-- the part that was always so goddamn secret, so fucking quiet that it unnerved Lennox. Maybe, for once, Elliot wouldn’t be quiet or secretive, and Lennox would know. He didn’t know what he wanted to understand about Elliot, not yet, but he knew there was something; he believed that most people had an interesting layer they kept to themselves. A good orgasm did wonders in bringing that out.

But as Lennox had been deciding which way Elliot would go, he was the one who switched things up, effectively surprising Lennox. His hand stilled at Elliot’s request, only to withdraw entirely when Elliot turned around, and Lennox got to see his face again - the colours of his eyes in the low light, the sharp planes of his cheeks, his chin. Lennox had always sort of known that Elliot was beautiful, but it was a muted kind of beauty, smothered under the layers that Elliot hid himself beneath, almost as though he didn’t allow himself to be beautiful. As though there would be consequences if he were. It only served to make Lennox all the more eager to make sure Elliot knew now - felt good now - so he allowed Elliot a moment to change the position, pressing his own back against the door, their chests touching now as Lennox looked down at him. His hands settled on Elliot’s hips as he was brought in for a kiss, something heated, and he wondered if Elliot knew - knew what Lennox was searching for in him, if he could sense what was coming. If the kiss was a distraction, it was a good one, and Lennox dropped his hand back to Elliot’s cock, palming him slowly, not wanting to allow him to forget where they were heading. “It’s alright,” Lennox murmured softly at Elliot’s words, soothing him back down into submission, “we can do it like this.” Most guys didn’t, that much Lennox was familiar with, but he preferred seeing the other person’s face - what they liked, the way their expression shifted at a new sensation. 

He almost missed the way Elliot looked down between them, and for a second, Lennox thought Elliot was watching Lennox’s hands - but he seemed focused on something else, the echo of I want to hanging in the air. Their gaze simultaneously rested on Lennox’s own hard cock, an obvious, almost obscene length in his school pants. It made Lennox laugh quietly, surprised and grateful. “Yeah,” he said, letting go of Elliot’s body to fumble with his own pants. “Yeah, I can show you. You like to look, do you?” he teased, eyes flicking up to Elliot’s face as he unbuttoned - then unzipped - his pants, slowly like he had taken off his shirt a few minutes prior. Lennox reveled in the way Elliot looked at him - as though he couldn’t believe it, or like he didn’t want to forget - and it made a rush of excitement course through him as he pushed down his pants and underwear, shameless and confident. The thing was, Lennox knew he could be confident in this one thing - he’d seen enough, heard enough, to know he was above average. Even Solo, curator of dicks this side of England, had given it his seal of approval, coming back for more whenever he was less than impressed with someone else. Lennox didn’t have much to boast about, but he had this, at least. 

Lennox’s gaze moved from looking at himself to Elliot, tracking his reaction carefully, especially when Lennox stroked himself slowly, experimentally, just a little bit of friction to take the edge off. They were standing so close that his knuckles brushed Elliot’s cock, just barely there, but enough to make Lennox’s stomach clench in want. “This what you wanted, Elliot?” he said, looking down into the space between their bodies. “Did you just want to look?” he asked, the question open ended, suggestive. And because he wanted to know, brain and pulse definitively operating south of his head, he added, “you can touch me if you want.”

paperback head | lennox & elliot

[lennoxfraser-blog]

emissary | darcy & lennox

lennoxfraser:

Being honest with Darcy - actually telling him a secret, something that was personal and potential blackmail material - itched at Lennox’s insides. He’d spent so long closing off every door that led to Darcy and sealing it tight that blowing them all open at once felt as though his world had tilted a little. It had been so long since they’d both been those kids who’d hurt each other - kids who had been scared and in love and wanting something, just one thing, that was good. And Lennox knew it was his fault, even if he couldn’t imagine that they would’ve worked out, in the end. The person that Darcy was now wasn’t someone that Lennox could be with - they’d grown up and grown apart, to be sure, but they’d become different people. Lennox hardly recognised the boy sitting before him, and he wondered if Darcy felt the same. But when Darcy apologised - more as a formality than any actual need to shell some of the blame - Lennox had to wonder if they were so far from who they’d once been. 

“It’s fine,” Lennox said, even if it wasn’t. If anyone could understand what it meant to be outed as anything other than straight and “normal” to a pureblood family, it would be Darcy - the pressures of the Oldridge family already making themselves known. He looked over at Darcy when he cut himself off, the phrase toying with feelings ringing loud in the quiet library, a bit of guilt getting lodged in Lennox’s throat as he tried to speak. “My family owns me because I let them - you don’t have to,” Lennox tried to say, skirting around Darcy’s near-confession. They’d have to speak of it sometime, to lay everything out on the table, trawl through the memories of the past, but it would not be that night, and Lennox could feel he’d lost Darcy as he spoke, words quicker, body beginning to shift, packing his things. Lennox watched, brow furrowed, wondering what he’d said. “Darce,” Lennox protested when Darcy stood, his belongings already filling his hands, and Lennox couldn’t help but reach out, fingers looping around Darcy’s wrist, trying to stop him from leaving. “Stop running. Can we talk?” and suddenly it seemed like now or never, and the words tumbled out of Lennox. “Survival is key, but you should have the option to enjoy your survival. Just– can we talk? About what happened? About us, or Harlowe, or… anything?” 

He didn’t know why he cared so much; maybe it was because so much was ending, and even though he acted like it was what he wanted, the truth was that it scared him, too. And maybe it was because Darcy would know about the life Lennox would lead, knew Lennox better than most, and could help him. Lennox was a drowning man reaching out, banking on nothing but a few faded memories with Darcy, wanting them to work miracles and mend the bridge that he’d burned. He hadn’t earned it, but that didn’t matter - he still wanted Darcy to sit down and speak to him like five minutes ago, when reconciliation had seemed possible.

Everything had warped and contorted in a manner that left him momentarily speechless, Darcy wanted to scream in the silent library, now that they’d traded secrets he wanted to lay down the dynamite and destroy the evidence. But Lennox’s fingers burned like a brand where they grasped at his wrist and Darcy was helpless to go anywhere. Us — at that he had to laugh, forced, compulsive. His lips reeled back as he steadied himself to speak, words sharp and laced with every ounce of poison he could summon. ❝There has never been an us to discuss Fraser and do not think for a second, that because I told you about Harlowe you have a right to tell me what to do.❞ The words tasted bitter against his tongue, brought out a heavy guilt that Darcy didn’t know what to do with, but still, he carried on. Set on his path with that fiery Oldridge anger, there was no turning back. He sunk back, letting whatever it was that had fuelled him to snap so abruptly take over completely. ❝We talked that should be enough for you, I’m not one of your sluts Fraser…❞ Darcy snatched his wrist back, careful to catch the books that had lost their charm and were plummeting to the floor in the heat of his anger. Advanced Potion-Making clattered to the floor spine up.

❝Don’t touch me again, or speak to me and lest you wish to lose your tongue don’t ever repeat what I’ve told you.❞ He snarled, as he motioned with his wand and a wordless charm to bring his textbook back to hip height. Darcy wanted out, he wanted away, as far from Fraser and his scalding touch, the words that twisted and snaked their way around his head like a tool of destruction. ❝Your family owns your because you’re weak Fraser.❞ He reached to grasp the potions textbook, grateful for something to dig his nails into, desperate to relieve the pressure building up inside. ❝Whereas, being an Oldridge is an honour.❞ This time, Darcy didn’t wait or give Lennox a second chance to stop him. He turned with two hands on his belongings and stormed for the library’s exit. He didn’t stop, it was a wonder Darcy hadn’t burned a hole through the castle, Oxford’s grating against the stone as he thundered to the dungeons.

END.

[lennoxfraser-blog]

delaneyallaway:

“Gee, you’re hard to please, aren’t you? Being enthusiastic is annoying, but practicing self-restraint is prissy… Well, better overzealous than a lack thereof. It’s refreshing to see someone around who’s friendly instead of people whose first instinct is to snap at you,” Delaney ended with a shrug. Granted, she hadn’t interacted enough with Han to know him well, but from the few times they have spoken, he’d been nice enough. “Yeah, let’s.” A smile tugged at her lips. It really should’ve been ‘how could I refuse?’ She had rolled her eyes at ‘delicate sensibilities’ but the idea of going to the dragon hut had taken her mind off it immediately. She hadn’t been expecting a suggestion that she’d actually like, so this was a pleasant surprise. “What’s the breed of the little one you’re caring for?” Delaney had no idea, because she barely noticed her surroundings during club meetings; she hardly ever focused on something else when there was a dragon in front of her. 

Delaney was a little too eager to head to the dragons, but Lennox couldn’t hold it against her - or even be surprised, really. Everyone sort of knew dragons were her thing, especially those during Dragon Rearing that had seen the way she was around them. Lennox didn’t think it was weird, necessarily; everyone had to have their own hobbies, and if people weren’t passionate about dragons, he supposed that the world would be under the reign of terror of dragon hoardes. “Welsh Green,” Lennox said, falling into step beside her, hands in his pockets. “He’s pretty well behaved, all things considered. He’s not quite at full-roar yet, but he’s trying; sounds pretty good so far.” He nodded to himself, wondering at the fact that students were allowed to take care of dragons; he wondered too if Zoe would be there to oversee them. “What about you? Which one are you attached to there? Gonna be a bitch when we need to give them up - probably sooner than later, at the rate they’re growing.”

[lennoxfraser-blog]

astoriadahl:

Of all things for Astoria’s friendship with Lennox to become, she would have expected friends with benefits to be the very last thing that would come of it. He got to have sex, she got to have sex, it was a pretty neat arrangement. And she got to learn, he was making sure she got to test out all her fantasies, all the wildest imaginations she could think of. Today, they had decided on fulfilling her fantasy of having sex outdoors. Tori wasn’t a rule breaker, she didn’t do things she wasn’t meant to do, but lately, she had done more and more of just that. This would be the second time in a short amount of time that she was sneaking out with Lennox. Thinking about it, she couldn’t help the short burst of laughter that escaped her lips as she followed him through the thick of the forest. “I know you call me Princess and all, but I sure don’t feel like a Princess, sneaking off with you again, breaking the rules. You’re a very bad influence on me, Fraser.” She smirked at him as he came to a stop in a clearing, turning around to face her. “Such a bad influence on me.  Yes, this is more than alright.”

Her arms immediately wound around his neck as he walked her back against a tree, his hands already roaming her body. All sense of control and what was proper escaped her whenever she was with Lennox, the carnal desires and needs took over entirely. Her fingers dug into his hair, tugging lightly, her breathing already becoming ragged as his lips traveled down her neck. “This is a fantasy of mine. Outdoors, the risk of being caught, not hiding behind a locked door.” Astoria looked at him, desire clouding her eyes as she watched him. “I want this, alright.” The blood had already moved between her legs, she was ready, willing and in need him now. Her curious, travelling hands proved as much, tracing down the length of his chest, fingers slipping past the buttons of his shirt. In the far distance, Astoria thought she heard branches and leaves rustling, but she paid no mind to it. Where Lennox’s hands were touching her was all she could think of in that moment.

Physicality was intoxicating and heady, and when Lennox was in the zone, almost nothing could distract him. Almost. Maybe Lennox had to own that he was already distracted in the back of his mind, and that he’d suggested acting on one of Astoria’s fantasies in order to run away from it - throw himself into sex and hope for the best. The truth was, he kissed Astoria but was distracted by the thought of Solo; a kind of pull, like a hook stuck in the back of his mind for days now, yanking him back to the same problem. Did he feel something for him? Was that even possible after everything they’d been through? Lennox tried to enjoy the way Astoria touched him, nails on his skin beneath his shirt, but his thoughts strayed annoyingly, tugging him back and back - and the more insistent they became, the harder Lennox fought against them. Hands were rough, bruising on Astoria’s thighs, wondering if she’d let him lift her up, thighs and legs around his waist, when he heard it. His mind was already drifting from what he was doing, brain not quite reaching his lips, but was tuned into his ears - the branches and leaves snapping, crunching, too heavy for a deer. For a minute, Lennox wondered if he’d chosen a bad spot and they’d been caught by a professor - an excuse was on his lips when he turned, lips breaking from Astoria’s skin to see someone he definitely didn’t recognise.

The man looked rough, hair curling down to his shoulders, face covered in dirt and stubble. He was weathered, beaten; hair the colour of dog’s fur, splotched with grey and brown, but it was his eyes that Lennox couldn’t stop staring at. They were wild, feral, darting all over the place, and they unsettled Lennox - he couldn’t pin them down, and he’d once fought a halfbreed at the Royal Wolf that had the same kind of edge to him. Lennox’s hands left Astoria, and he turned, his body blocking hers behind him so that the man - thing, said Lennox’s brain - couldn’t touch her. Everything in him which had been flooded with desire evaporated, a chill sweeping across his skin as his heart beat with adrenaline, hands fisting at his sides. The man staggered into their clearing, circling, and Lennox didn’t miss the way he raised his head and sniffed the air. “Filthy children,” he spat, and Lennox moved so that the man was never out of his eyeline, Astoria always at his back. “So fuckin’ pure, aren’t you? Nothing but human and wizard and muggle running through your veins,” he said, voice feverish. “You will know-- you’ll all know, soon enough. When we show you-- you’ll see, you’ll see what we’re capable of. The true order of things,” and he took a step forward, making Lennox take one back, shielding Astoria, “will be restored. Prey and predator.” He was making no sense, and Lennox tried not to let the pulse of fear override his bravery. “You can’t be here,” he said, voice strong. “Leave or you’ll find aurors on your ass, werewolf.” The man across from them sneered, revealing pointed canine teeth, eyes bright. “I delight in the destruction of your kind,” he said, and that’s when Lennox saw it - the shudder of the man’s body, the subtle lengthening that signalled he was turning. Fuck the moon, fuck the night: he was shifting now, right in front of them, and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it.

relentless | lennox & astoria

[lennoxfraser-blog]

halfbreed-hawkins:

Penny huffed, almost childishly, she didn’t like fighting. But she loved debating, the fight of words, the turns of language. As much as she didn’t like Lennox, she enjoyed their debates, their fighting, even when the subject made her uneasy. Hawkins didn’t back down, and Lennox was goading her, and it was working damn him. “Honestly, I think I like arguing with you more than anything, it’s a nice break in my day.” she stretched out her arms, crossing them behind her head with a smile, Lennox always pulled a rise out of her, without fail. He seemed to be able to zero in on her pulse points and launch whatever attack her could, but at least Lennox was honest. “Oh Greyfield, you know I really thought for a moment there they’d haul me off. Not as feral as you thought since I’m still here, dealing with these Slytherins invading, almost makes me wish I was in Greyfield to avoid this mess though.” she smiled up at him, almost serene. His insults were not the worst she’d ever had, nothing she hadn’t heard since she was a kid. In front of him, she was small, he towered over her, his body making a shadow, she didn’t flinch but she did tilt a little back on her feet, the hair on the back of her neck rising at the … threat? It made her chest swell and a flush rise on her neck. She could feel the wetness dripping into her panties and her way she wanted to bare her neck to someone, anyone, capable. She closed her eyes for a moment, was it a threat if he was right? “There is not a person in this castle who could give me what I want best. No-one could ever control me, be able to act on it, not that they ever could.” she managed to get out, her voice laced with want, though her mind whispered that such thoughts did not belong to her. Penny Hawkins did not think beyond what her people needed, beyond what she could do to help the cause. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It doesn’t matter that I want someone to claim me, to fuck me. Get me on my knees, to beg. If someone could that’d be a fucking treat. So why even entertain the thought of it?” she stepped back, the heat under her skin clamoring to escape, her body pulsing, she tugged at the collar of her shirt.

“Don’t go wishin’ your life away so quickly, Hawkins - no one said you were safe here. I’m willing to bet the aurors do a sweep of the castle before long and clear your kind out,” he said, raising his eyebrows once. “They’ll have a bed all warm for you at Greyfield by semester’s end.” And he wouldn’t bat an eye with her gone - or any like her. “But you’re not exactly having much of an effect on the Slytherin’s, either. Far as I can tell, they’re still doin’ what they want round here. Aren’t you supposed to be a prefect?” he teased, eyes narrowing at her, testing the limits of her authority. But her push back, a bold statement that she couldn’t be controlled, had Lennox huffing a laugh and looking away from her, his arms folded across his chest. “You just said you weren’t feral, and now you’re sayin’ you can’t be tamed? Better pick one, Hawkins - ain’t no inbetween when it comes to animals.” But Lennox needn’t have bothered saying anything more; she freely admitted to what they’d been hinting at, and though she thought that no one could give it to her, it didn’t change how badly she needed it. When she took a step back, Lennox took one forward, and then another and another, until he’d backed her against the wall. With one hand pressed to the cold stone beside her head, she was boxed in one side, and free to leave on the other; but Lennox had a sneaking suspicion she’d stay. “All you have to do is ask, Hawkins,” Lennox said, standing over the top of her, watching her reaction. “So why don’t you start saying the one word that’ll get you what you want,” Lennox continued, lowering his voice, dipping his head until it was aligned with hers, lips by her ears. “Just say please.”

[lennoxfraser-blog]

When I Run Out of Road (You’ll Bring Me Home) | Lennox & August | 12k (rip)

Everything was awash in hues of gold and pink when Lennox stepped outside of Hogwarts castle.

He’d thrown off his robes the moment class had ended, dumping his dirty shirt and trousers in the washing basket, knowing the elves would take care of it over the weekend. Glad to be rid of them, he’d walked around the dorm in just his underwear for a bit, revelling in the feeling of his skin breathing. Though slightly cold, as it always was in the Ravenclaw Tower, Lennox threw everything out of his backpack – books, quills, parchment – and replaced it with what he’d need. Pulling on clothes only when he heard feet on the stairs, Lennox was dressed and ready to leave before dinner was even beginning to be prepared.

The grounds were crisp with twilight, the promise of rain in Scotland far from a miracle and more a warm guarantee after a long day. Lennox took in a deep breath and set off, keeping to the tree line of the grounds to avoid being seen any more than he already was. Highly visible – tall, broad shouldered - it was difficult for Lennox to sneak anywhere. But he walked with confidence, a kind of swagger as though where he was were exactly the place he wanted – and was supposed – to be. And anyone that called him on it knew what they’d get: a mouth full of biting sarcasm and the scowl of a lifetime. Lennox was grateful for the reputation he’d built sometimes; glad that people left him alone on the whole, even if sometimes he thought it worked a little too well.

Ducking through the trees, Lennox found the small gap – barely big enough for a dog, let alone a six-foot-something man – and pushed through. The gap was one of many that had opened up over the years by crafty students eager to slip away from Hogwarts for a night out. Or, in Lennox’s case, a trip home. It took him from the grounds and into Other – a path that would soon become a direct route to Hogsmeade, but that wasn’t the destination tonight.

The trees were thick and the sound of his feet on the leaf litter quiet, everything damp and cold from lack of sunlight and eternal rain. Sticks were rotten through and snapped easily underfoot, while moss grew in thick clumps from branches and rocks. If Lennox wasn’t careful, the path would become slippery – one wrong step, and he’d twist or break his ankle. But he’d been sneaking home for long enough to know this small patch of woods well enough; an overgrown path – mostly dirt and mud – had been tracked through the darkness, leading him to safety. Lennox knew that he wasn’t the only one who came through here – there were all kinds of footprints engraved in the ground – but it was quiet now; this was all his.

He considered what awaited him at home. Loren, first and foremost, was at the front of Lennox’s mind – his baby brother, barely three months old, eyes brown and hair dark. He looked like a Fraser ought to look, and that made Lennox’s heart settle in his chest; if Loren was a Fraser, he could handle anything that came his way. But beneath the thought of his brother was his mother and father – probably exhausted, over-tired, looking broken. He hated what parenthood had done to them, like it had drained them of whatever had remained until now, there seemed like there was nothing left to give. Lennox worried for Loren being left there: worried that his father might forget that there was a baby to care about, to hold when he cried, to feed periodically.

A spike of fear went through Lennox as he scratched at the old thought of going home to find Loren hurt or—worse. Of finding that they’d neglected their own son because they’d been too caught up in themselves to remember the baby that cried in the next room.

His face, he could feel, was twisted into a frown as he picked his way through the rapidly-darkening forest, and he carefully and deliberately kept his mind blank as he walked to his usual spot. The rock was the size of a hippogriff, chipped away by rain and wind and time. There was no particular reason for his stopping here; maybe it was because his Apparition lessons had always drilled into him that having a marker was key. Lennox didn’t like the idea of apparating back into the forest and thinking vaguely of the path that he’d just walked – that was one guaranteed way to get splinched. Instead, he always apparated from the rock, and when he returned, he’d apparate back. Routine was key.

Hitching his bag higher on his shoulders and casting one final look around the forest – making sure he wasn’t followed – Lennox gripped his wand and had just cemented in his mind the letterbox of the Fraser property. It was the boundary to which wizards and witches could apparate; any closer made you feel as though you were bouncing off a forcefield, and Lennox had his mother to thank for that. But the letterbox swam in his mind’s eye, and there was a tingle in his toes, when there came through the grey haze of twilight a figure.

Pale, with hair the colour of straw, Lennox squinted as he watched the person lurch unsteadily, gripping onto the trunk of a tree for all it was worth. Putting the hair and the unsteady way they walked together, Lennox had a fair idea of who it was.

He considered just apparating out and leaving August there to fend for himself. No one would believe the Hufflepuff boy that he’d seen Lennox out in the forest, but then again, August might collapse and not make it back to the castle. The truth was that Lennox didn’t care for August – never had. He had no love for a boy who kept himself high in order to avoid reality, nor did he care for a person who pushed himself into everyone’s personal space, privacy, and orbit simply because he was scared to be alone. Lennox had endured August’s presence around the Ravenclaw dorms since he’d shacked up with Solomon, and it had been a long and arduous trial for nearly two years.

A spiteful part of him entertained the idea of watching August pass out and leave him lying there. Let the wolves and foxes do with him as they liked.

But the closer that August stumbled, Lennox saw something red splashed across the boy’s face, and a begrudging concern took over. Sighing, he rounded the rock and strode toward August – who hadn’t even noticed that Lennox was there until Lennox’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Oh.” August looked up, eyes unfocused and nearly crossing over in the effort to focus on Lennox. “Tall.”

The blood was on August’s brow, a fine cut that arched from the tip of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone.

“Come here, for fuck’s sake,” Lennox muttered, and he hoisted August up under the armpits until he was ninety percent upright. “Can you stand?”

August’s head lolled back and rolled to the side, as though his entire spine had been liquefied.

“That’s a no,” Lennox said. “Jesus, how much did you take?”

Lennox didn’t need to exert much strength to lift August over to the rock – he weighed barely anything, just a pile of bones in a floppy skin sack – and sit him down on it. Patting the boy’s pockets, Lennox found a zip-lock sachet packet, which contained one pill. In another pocket, he found a clean syringe. In another, he found a tiny, almost-empty vial. Something sunk like a stone in Lennox’s stomach, and he didn’t need to be a genius to calculate that August had taken a lot.

“How’d you get this?” Lennox asked, kneeling in front of August and, tucking the sleeve of his jacket under his fingers, used the hem to wipe at the blood on August’s face.

The boy didn’t seem to feel pain at all – he sat there, staring at something distantly over Lennox’s shoulder.

“August.” Lennox’s sleeve was soaking, and he turned it around, continuing to mop his face. But whatever he’d taken had thinned his blood, and it flowed freely from the wound. Lennox pressed the heel of his palm against the cut, applying pressure like Rhys had taught him. “August.”

Finally, the dull, vacant eyes in August’s head slid to Lennox. It was as though they were operated by machinery, rather than a working brain and thriving soul; there was something lost within them, as though they’d flickered out somewhere along the way. It made a shiver skitter down Lennox’s spine, and he forced himself to look away – at the blood leaking around his palm.

“Can you hear me?” Lennox said, eyes darting down to August’s then back up. Using his free hand, he cupped the back of August’s neck, just as the boy started to sag.

“Warm.”

Lennox looked down again. “What?”

“Warm.” A loose smile hung off August’s lips, the blood drained from them. “The sky.”

“Right, yeah,” Lennox followed August’s eyes up, and through the canopy – as dense as it was – there was a flash of orange; the last gasp of a sunset. “Warm.”

When he looked down, August’s eyes were closed, and not in a I’m-tired-so-let’s-sleep way. It made Lennox think of death; of someone going to sleep and not waking up.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, and withdrew his hand from August’s face. The blood still flowed. “I’m not going to be responsible for your corpse, buddy.”

Working quickly, Lennox grabbed his wand and used a quick severing spell to tear a long strip from his shirt hem. Winding it around August’s head – tight enough to apply pressure, but not tight enough to kill what was left of August’s brain cells – Lennox knotted it and stood.

He had three options.

One, turn around and take August to the Hospital Wing, giving him over to the care of Madame Pomfrey. Questions would be asked, and Lennox wouldn’t be going home.

Two, apparate and take August to St. Mungo’s. Questions would be asked, August would get into trouble, and Lennox didn’t like to be a snitch.

Three, and even though it made disgust unfurl in his stomach to even think it, he could take August home and give him over to Rhys, a trained Healer. Rhys wouldn’t tell, August would live, and Lennox could take August back to Hogwarts quick smart.

His mind already made up, Lennox picked August up in his arms and disapparated, thinking of the letterbox at the edge of the Fraser property.

*

There was no going back when Lennox’s feet hit gravel, and he was staring up the driveway. It curved, hedged by tall trees so that he couldn’t see his house, but he knew there must be lights. Glancing down, Lennox saw that the makeshift bandage on August’s head was already soaked through and he started walking quickly, the stones beneath his boots crunching loudly. The noise heralded his arrival to the dogs, who came ripping out from behind the house, barking and making a fuss.

Lennox whistled and Whiting and Acton both heeled, recognising him. They jumped, pogoing around Lennox on long, bandy legs, tongues out and eyes bright.

“Missed you boys,” Lennox said, grinning down at them as he walked. “Go back, go on.”

They ignored him, and Lennox steered around the front door and headed for the back. He climbed the porch steps, noting the lights on around the house as he walked – kitchen, hall, bedroom. It was a full house, everyone still awake, and when Lennox toed open the back door, he was met by footsteps thudding down the staircase.

A moment later, Rhys’ face changed from pleased surprise to professional concern. “Get him on the couch,” he said, holding open the screen for Lennox as he shouldered through, hefting August up a little higher in his arms.

The house was warm and smelled like baby powder, and Lennox’s heart rose through the ceiling until it found Loren, probably asleep or with his mother. He wanted to go to him so badly, but he was anchored in his own body, holding August.

Rhys was asking a thousand questions, all stacking on top of each other.

“Slow the fuck down,” Lennox grunted, placing August on the couch. “He’s hurt. Cut doesn’t look big, but big enough that he’s losing a shit tonne of blood faster than I can stop it.”

“Why’s he bleeding so much?” Rhys said, beginning to unwind the bandage.

“You’re the Healer!” Lennox replied, throwing up his hands. “If it helps, he’s high.”

Rhys’ eyebrows rose, and once the bandage was off, he immediately pried August’s eyes open. Using the tip of his wand, Rhys shone a small lumos into his pupil.

“He’s really high,” Rhys corrected, shining his wand’s light into the eye other. “What did he take?”

“I don’t know,” Lennox said, worry forming a lump in his throat. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” Rhys rushed to the kitchen and came back with a towel. “Hold this to his head, I’ll be back.”

The Healer dashed upstairs where he kept his supplies, and Lennox knelt beside the boy he barely knew. He’d had maybe a handful of conversations with August, and none of them while August had been sober – he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen August sober. They’d been around one another at parties, of course – the pureblood kind where everyone nursed a glass of something and wore their best dress robes. Lennox could remember the way August’s father had looked at him when being introduced; he couldn’t blame them, not really – he was a halfblood in a pureblood world. To them, he was less, and certainly had no place among them, no matter how well the Thornbrooks dressed him.

But August hadn’t minded, though if Lennox remembered correctly, August had been high enough not to mind much at all. Lennox had stood with Fitz and August and a few others, most of it stiff and purposely polite, not wanting to be overheard by their relatives. But there was an understanding at those parties that this – the people they were in that moment – wasn’t who they were going to be forever.

August had always seemed as though he got high to run from it, and Lennox pressed the towel harder against the boy’s head. He was pale, though the skin on his face was stained pinkish from the blood that Lennox had wiped. Long lashes slept on August’s cheeks, and Lennox knew, in an offbeat sort of way, that August was attractive. But he was Solo’s, and Lennox had never wanted to get involved in whatever it was the two of them had going on.

Lennox could hear Rhys above, saying something to his mother, and he left the towel against August’s head before rifling through the pockets of August’s coat once more. He pulled out the last remaining pill, the syringe, and the vial, placing them carefully on the coffee table that was overrun with books and papers of his father’s. The drug paraphernalia clashed with the domesticity of the Fraser home, and Lennox wondered again just what exactly he was doing bringing a known drug addict into the same place as his baby brother.

“Right,” Rhys said, bustling down the stairs, looking harried. “I’ve got something that should get him sober.”

Lennox frowned at the Healer. “Is this wise?”

“It’s that or bleed to death. The sooner his system is clear, his body can begin to heal itself. Whatever he’s taken—“

“This,” said Lennox, jerking his chin to the table as he placed his hand back on the towel against August’s head. “Found it in his pockets.”

Rhys’ look of concentration was absolute as he looked at the vial and pill. “Painkillers, of a questionable nature,” he mumbled, replacing them, then kneeling beside Lennox. “Maybe it’s best if he sleeps it off.”

“And his head?”

“I’ll heal it. It could reopen, but at least it’ll slow the bleeding.” Rhys’ face was as focused as Lennox had ever seen it. “Move back while I do it.”

Lennox released his grip on the towel and shuffled down, hovering on the ground near August’s thin legs. The boy was frighteningly thin, like whatever was plaguing him had first attacked his body. He had to keep reminding himself that August wasn’t his problem, and in fact, he had more than enough of his own to worry about without adding some kid that he barely knew to the mix.

Watching as Rhys peeled off the soaked towel to get a better look at the cut, Lennox started closing off the doors to his compassion for August. He’d see what the boy was like; how much attention and care he needed. Lennox wouldn’t let himself fall into that trap, so he closed himself off and stood up.

“I’m going to go see Loren,” he mumbled to Rhys, clapping him on the shoulder and leaving him to his work.

With enough practice over the years, it barely hurt to cut August out, just like that, and walk away.

The carpeted stairs muffled his footsteps as he climbed, his boots working the worn path in the middle of the staircase. The Fraser house was a family home – not fancy or expensive or particularly even beautiful, but there was a worn kind of love to its interior. Lennox knew every inch of the ceiling and floor; knew which handles stuck or those that creaked. He knew the floorboards that groaned when you put pressure on them, the hook on the wall that hadn’t been nailed in straight the first time around and now always tilted the frame it held. He knew the smells and sounds and textures of each room; the sun that warmed his mother’s bedroom or the dust that floated in his father’s study. The Fraser home was Lennox’s beating heart, and it never pulsed as strongly as when he was back there.

He could remember being young and away at the Thornbrook’s, dreaming of being back; of his mother’s arm and his father’s worn hands. He’d come to love his home more when he’d been away from it, and Hogwarts was the epitome of leaving – for so much of the year, Lennox was cloistered away in another part of the country, close but not close enough. Being able to apparate had made things easier, but Lennox could never come home as often as he liked.

There were lamps lit in the bedrooms, and Lennox made the familiar turn at the top of the stairs to duck into his mother’s room. It was warm, even now, long after the sun had set, as though she’d had a fire burning and just extinguished it before Lennox arrived. She was sitting up and nursing Loren in her arms, swaying slightly with her dark hair askew and mouth moving silently.

Alickina Fraser had once been a good mother. Lennox could remember his childhood – the one before she’d gotten sick – had been filled with days of his mother and father both sharing their knowledge and passions with their two children. Alickina by the piano; Alickina in the garden. She’d always had this smile when Flora or Lennox did something that made his heart clench; it was pride, he supposed, mixed with love – as though she were looking at her children and taking stock of how beautiful they were.

It’d been years since Lennox had seen that smile.

She didn’t glance up when Lennox walked in, but instead let her eyes remain focused solely on Loren, who was wearing a powder blue onesie. He looked bigger, and that hurt Lennox, too – hurt that he was missing so much of his brother’s life, hurt that he couldn’t be here to not notice the changes. But he looked well and round, tiny little fists twitching against his stomach and brown eyes open, staring up at his mother.

Envy and pride and an irrational sense of possessiveness consumed Lennox as he stood there, and when he felt like it might crack his chest clean open, he walked in, making himself known.

Alickina looked up. “Will you put him to bed, Hen?” she said easily, smiling. “I think he’s just about there.”

Hen. Lennox didn’t need to know more than that to guess it was a bad day, her mind slipping out of her control so much that she thought Lennox was his father. But he knew better than to correct her and possibly upset her – he’d done that before and caused her to spiral, to question things. She didn’t seem to be hallucinating, which was good, so Lennox smiled.

“Sure,” he said, voice rough like his father’s as he walked forward. She eased Loren into his waiting arms, eyes glued to her child’s face as Lennox straightened. Loren was warm in his arms, sleep-soft and eyes fluttering shut – but he caught sight of Lennox’s face and opened them again.

Alickina’s hand lingered on Lennox’s arm, the kind of touch a wife would give to her husband, and Lennox cleared his throat.

“I’ll go put him down and be back,” he said, and Alickina nodded, letting Lennox leave.

He felt like he could breathe when he was out of the bedroom, Loren safe in his arms and kicking against Lennox’s rib cage with oddly powerful legs for a baby. When he looked down, Loren was squirming in Lennox’s arms, looking up at him excitedly, a bubble of spit blooming from his lips.

“Missed you too, buddy,” Lennox said, using his remaining clean sleeve to wipe at the spit. “You been a good boy?”

There would be a day when Loren could reply, but for now his cheeks were pink and he struggled with his own body, and it was enough. Lennox leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Loren’s forehead, walking him down the hall to the nursery.

It looked the same, albeit more messy. Clean diapers spilled from the pack, while toys had been scattered across the floor, haphazard and begging for someone to twist their ankle on them. Lennox navigated by feel, kicking toys aside to clear a path through the dark before he laid Loren down in his crib. Leaving him to kick softly and soothe himself down to sleep, Lennox moved to the night light plugged into the wall and switched it on, blinking against the ocean-blue light that filled the room. The glow in the dark stars on the ceiling flickered.

From there, he was bent double, picking up all the toys and throwing them into the hamper. He folded the blankets, he reorganised the change table. He felt how empty the powder and oils were, making a mental note of which to buy more of, and which to tell Flora they’d need soon. Lennox tried not to think about how his parents were letting the care of Loren slip, just like he’d feared they would – and he tried not to think about what would happen if he or Flora stopped coming. Their weekends were now spent at home, cleaning and giving Rhys a hand where needed, but it was a lot – too much to ask of a teenager, and yet even Flora was stepping up to the plate.

Lennox checked on Loren, standing over the crib and looking down.

“Math gille,” (Good boy) Lennox said, seeing Loren’s eyes slipping closed. He was fighting it, constantly opening them up properly to stare back at Lennox, but they were too heavy. “Sleep, Loren.”

And he did, eyes staying shut. Lennox pulled the blanket up, tucking it around his brother and making sure his arm was beneath the cover before he done one last sweep of the room, locking the window. When he left, he pulled the door slightly closed, leaving it ajar to hear Loren’s cries, should they come.

But Loren’s room was just one corner of the house, and everywhere Lennox looked, the rest was falling apart. The same old, familiar tug of guilt worried at his heart as he walked away from Loren’s room, past Flora’s, and to his own. It was dark and cool inside, and he flicked on a lamp and toed his shoes off. The feeling of knowing he should be here, permanently, weighed on his shoulders, as heavy as the world on Atlas’. It was selfish to stay away, to play at education and the idea of having a future that was rewarding and fulfilling when Lennox knew – knew, deep in his bones where his soul was threaded – that he would always end up right back here.

He’d probably die here, right in this house, too.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the lopsided and overflowing bookcase, Lennox decided that he needed to stop thinking about the future. Whether he ended up working for the Minister or not was out of his control for the moment; and in the end, it hardly mattered – his family would always come first, no matter where he was or what he was doing. That wouldn’t change. But the path to get there was an immediate reality that Lennox was grappling with, a bitter pill that he refused to swallow, no matter how constantly it was shoved down his throat. He couldn’t bear being at school and wasting his time – no matter how much studying Theo crammed into him – when he could be doing something practical. It irritated him, made something restless and manic stir beneath his skin. Being idle was the enemy when you were in charge of everything, and the list of things to do was endless.

So what kept him there? Lennox’s mind flittered to his friends - the people he liked, and the people he told himself he didn’t. But he knew that if he had to, he could let go of them. It’d been easy with Solo, with Smith – he could do it again. Sever everything he had and just start clean – he could do it, for his family. Then why did he stay, if not for the people? And Lennox also knew that it was the promise he’d made his mother on one of her more sober days, clear-eyed and unfogged mind, that he and Flora would both graduate. He’d taken it seriously, keeping Flora in by tooth and claw, it felt like, but still enrolled nonetheless. If Lennox could give his mother nothing else, he’d give her that.

But the void between the promise and the reality of fulfilling that promise was eating him alive, and Lennox felt paralysed somewhere between decisions.

He flopped backward onto his bed, arms splayed out on either side of him. He hadn’t seen his father and he’d barely spoken a dozen words to Rhys, but he was tired – glad to be home, if only for a few days - but tired.

Lennox didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he woke to the sound of piercing cries. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and wondered what was happening in the Ravenclaw Tower. Was someone hurt? Was it some kind of alarm? His heart was hammering with adrenaline, and he was up and on his feet before he’d even properly opened his eyes – but when he did, seeing the dark shadows of his bookcase, his desk, he remembered where he was.

Loren.

Walking on autopilot, Lennox headed to the nursery, finding his father already there. The sight brought him up short: there was a wrongness to what he saw, standing in the doorway of Loren’s room.

His father, bending down over the crib. His father, lifting a squealing Loren up. His father, cradling the baby.

He was irrationally angry, the kind that made his head throb and his hands curl into fists – the dangerous, violent kind that he knew could make him blackout for a few seconds. It’d happened before; a useful party trick, if ever there was one. Lennox stared at his father with Loren, and the pang of jealous, bitter envy overwhelmed him so much so that it took sheer force of will to not walk forward and snatch Loren out of his father’s arms. The possessive thing in his chest that saw Loren as his own child was suffocating him, inside out, and Lennox turned away, head battling with itself – logic versus belief.

Unseeing, Lennox walked down the stairs, moving through the dark house, socked feet quiet on the carpet. The dogs were asleep on their beds, and Whiting’s head perked up as Lennox passed, dull eyes following him.

The iron fist that was clenched around his chest didn’t ease as Lennox opened the fridge and grabbed the carton of juice, or as he drank straight from the top. The light from within burned his eyes, and Lennox glanced away, still drinking steadily when he saw someone standing there, pale—

Lennox choked, the shock of seeing a person standing there, still. They were almost ghost-like in the dark, their skin the colour of the moon, and they were naked except for their underwear.

Gasping for air, Lennox blinked and realised it was August standing stock still in the middle of the living room. He replaced the carton back in the fridge and let the door close, cancelling the light and throwing August’s figure back into darkness.

Lennox had forgotten that August was even in the house.

“Go back to sleep, August,” Lennox said, staring at the place where he could see the pale lengths of August’s legs that seemed to glow with the broken light coming through the windows.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“Why are you naked?”

August shuffled, the sound of hands rubbing at bare arms. “I got hot. Sweaty. I don’t know. I feel sticky.”

“Think it might have something to do with the shit you injected into yourself?” Lennox snapped, anger redirecting from his father on the floor above to August, standing in front of him. “You were absolutely wasted.”

August said nothing, and Lennox stared at the place where he knew August was standing, waiting for him to make a move. He didn’t.

Sighing heavily, Lennox walked to August and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” mumbled August as Lennox steered him, none-too-gently, through the living room and into the hall.

“Shower.”

“Oh.” August’s arm in Lennox’s hand was thin, bird-like. “Why?”

Lennox rolled his eyes in the dark. It was like taking care of a second baby, and Lennox felt frustrated that August’s care had fallen to him. He wanted none of the Hufflepuff’s life – didn’t even want him in the house, really – but felt as though he couldn’t say no. God knows what would happen to August if Lennox left him unattended for five minutes.

The bathroom on the ground floor was smaller and less used that the one upstairs – it became mostly a waystation for when Lennox was out in the yard and came in, dirty and tracking mud behind him. He’d wash up in here, arms up to his elbows under the tap and casting dirt all over the tile. Lennox had also spilled more than his fair share of blood here, too.

“Because,” Lennox said, flicking on the light and blinding himself for a moment. “You need to put clothes on, and you’re not putting clothes on if you’re—“

His words trailed off when he finally turned to look at August under the white light.

“Jesus,” and he immediately tugged August forward, shoving him onto the closed lid of the toilet. “You’re bleeding again.”

The blood wasn’t coming from the cut on his forehead this time – that Rhys had managed to heal, mostly – but instead from his nose, like he’d been punched. Lennox had had his fair share of nosebleeds, and ripped off a wad of toilet paper, shoving it under August’s nose.

“Why are you bleeding?” Lennox asked, bringing August’s own hand up to his face to hold the toilet paper there, while he reached for a cloth. “Did you hit your face or something?”

August’s eyes were glazed and far off, and Lennox snapped his fingers in front August’s face. The reaction was slow, as though August were wading through cement to get back to the present.

Lennox sighed, wetting the cloth, wringing it out, and kneeling in front of August.

The boy’s eyes dragged down, centimetre by centimetre, until they were looking at Lennox. It was unsettling the way a person could be there and also not; Lennox had seen it too much with his own mother, and he hated the shock of familiarity when he looked at August. Working quickly, Lennox pulled the toilet paper from August’s nose and started wiping with the warm cloth, trying to find some source of the blood – but it trickled from within.

“Does it hurt?” Lennox asked, looking from where he was cleaning the blood away to August’s eyes. There was no response. “Are. You. In. Pain?”

August’s smile was loose, dropping off his lips. “It always hurts,” August said, voice light. “Just sometimes less than others.”

“What does?” Lennox pressed.

“My head.” The head in question sagged to one side, as though he were falling asleep, before he caught himself. “It’s always my head.”

Lennox didn’t know what to make of that. “Maybe if you didn’t get high all the time, you might be healthier,” he said, even though he knew it was like talking to a brick wall; nothing he said to August in this state would register.

“Maybe,” was all August said, and Lennox used his free hand to prop August’s head up as he wiped the rest of the blood that was beginning to dry tacky around August’s lips.

Slowly, as Lennox kept dabbing at the flow of blood, it stopped, and he could breathe a little easier, glad that he didn’t have to wake up Rhys again.

“You’re a mess,” Lennox informed August as he stood up and soaked the towel again, watching the pink water spiral around on the white porcelain. He felt callous and cruel in that moment toward August – wanted to shake him, make him wake up, see that he was wasting his life away. It was infuriating that this was a choice that August was actively making – that he wanted to be this way, when we could be sober and normal and happy.

“I’m sorry.”

Lennox turned back to see August staring up at Lennox, eye hollows ringed with dark skin. “What’re you sorry for then?” Lennox said.

August blinked. “Everything. For being… a mess, like you said. For being here. For taking Solo from you.”

Lennox rolled his eyes and wrung out the towel. “Solo isn’t mine.”

“He was,” August said simply. “Now he’s mine.”

A laugh stumbled, surprised, from Lennox’s lips. “Don’t let him hear you say that, mate,” he said, kneeling back down on the tile, knees protesting. He wiped at August’s face. “Solo doesn’t belong to no one.”

August swayed under Lennox’s touch, eyes staring at him.

“I want him to be mine,” August amended, voice soft now.

“I thought he was,” Lennox said conversationally, standing up once August’s face was clean and tossing the bloodied cloth into the sink. “Thought you two were dating or whatever.”

Confusion crumpled August’s features. “He won’t. He loves me but he doesn’t love me as much. I know he doesn’t but I still love him and it hurts, too. Love hurts.”

“You got that right.” Lennox lifted August up by the bicep, making sure August’s legs got under him, supporting his weight. “I would say you deserved it, falling for Solo of all people.”

Clammy hands gripped Lennox’s arm, and he turned back to see August holding onto him. Lennox allowed it, afraid of what making August stand on his own would cause – he looked a breath or two away from being a corpse.

“I love him,” August said fervently.

“Sure you do. Come on,” and Lennox led August the few steps to the shower in the corner. “Go shower. I’ll get you some clothes to put on.”

Though even as he said it, Lennox knew that August couldn’t even shower on his own – his legs looked as though they were shaking from the effort of standing up, while the grip on Lennox’s arm was tight and scared.

“Jesus,” Lennox sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t being paid enough – or at all – for this bullshit. “No wonder Solo doesn’t love you back, mate,” Lennox grunted, reaching into the shower cubicle and turning on the hot water, the pipes groaning to life. “You’re high maintenance.”

“He doesn’t because he loves someone else.”

Lennox didn’t say anything to that, though his heart did skip a beat – a pulse of fear at the thought that August knew.

“People can change their minds,” Lennox said, adjusting the taps until the water ran at a reasonable temperature and didn’t burn his hand. He turned back to August. “Don’t give up on him, yeah?”

August said nothing, and Lennox didn’t press the issue – he was glad to be done with it, and steered August inside the shower, not bothering to remove his underwear. He definitely wasn’t being paid enough for that. The water hit August’s skin, wetting Lennox in the process, and he ended up soaked himself: August refused to let go of Lennox’s arm, and if Lennox was honest, he was afraid of what might happen if he did. The process was slow going, and Lennox had to wash August while the boy just stood there, managing to rotate when Lennox asked him to. It was a strange reversal of what his grandmother had done to him, in a way – where she had dug her nails into his skin and pushed him under blisteringly hot water, scrubbing his body under it was raw, Lennox felt as though he were washing crepe paper that might disintegrate beneath his hands at any moment. He washed August with careful strokes, across his back and chest, down his arms. August’s skin was smooth and free of imperfections – skin the colour of honey. He was beautiful, that much Lennox had decided. But he was too thin: skin and bone were all August’s body was made of, limbs light and free of fat or muscle or any substance at all.

Lennox could count the ribs in August’s chest, and that – that shouldn’t be right. The boy had worn himself down so much that he was barely there, a sliver of a person standing under the water and hanging onto Lennox with what remained of his strength, and it made Lennox sad.

After washing August’s blonde hair and rinsing it clean, one hand over August’s eyes to make sure the shampoo didn’t run into them, Lennox turned off the taps and helped August out. Water dripped from his long fingers, and as soon as the cool air hit him, August began shivering.

Lennox wrapped one towel around August’s torso and draped another over his shoulders.

“Come on,” he said, leading August, still dripping, from the bathroom and up the stairs. The two of them left a trail of wet footprints as they walked.

The house was still, and the stairs creaked beneath their feet as they climbed, August stumbling in the dark at the unfamiliar location. But Lennox held onto him, firm, and steered him into his room where the lamp still glowed.

“Sit down before you fall over,” Lennox mumbled, leaving August to find a place on the bed.

“You have a lot of books,” August said, eyes turned toward the towering shelves and the stacks that littered the floor where space had been taken. “You read them all?”

“Most,” Lennox replied with a shrug, heading to his closet. “We don’t have a lot of money, so the books I do have, I’ve read a lot.”

“It does seem quite wasteful to spend money on books when you can buy so many other nice things.”

Lennox looked over his shoulder. “Like what? Enlighten me as to how the rich throw away their money.”

“I like buying clothes,” August said, smiling. “You can wear them and they feel nice.”

Scoffing, Lennox pushed through the clothes in his cupboard, pulling out the smallest ones he could find, knowing that even those might be too big for August.

“Sounds like that’s the real waste to me,” Lennox stated. “People don’t need that many clothes, you know. But with books, you can travel to all sorts of places. They’re portable worlds and holidays and friends.”

He pulled out a pair of pyjama bottoms from several years ago, a t-shirt, and a long-sleeved flannel before tossing them at August, who received a face full.

“Put those on before you catch hypothermia,” said Lennox. “Apologies in advance for the lack of silk.”

August looked down at the clothes in his arms, distaste evidence in the crease of his brows. His eyes rose to Lennox.

“Can you help me?” His white-knuckled hands clutched the clothes, shaking. “Please?”

It was the first time Lennox had heard him use anything resembling manners, and sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. “You’re like a baby,” Lennox complained, pulling the towel from around August’s shoulders. “How do you manage by yourself at Hogwarts?”

He scrubbed at August’s thin, drying blonde hair, mussing it up and trying to get the water out like he did his own. But August’s hair was longer, and Lennox abandoned it to the elements and began drying the other boy’s back.

“I don’t know,” August replied airily, leaning forward to give Lennox access. “I don’t.”

“Ever considered quitting the drugs so hard so that maybe you can, you know, be a fucking functioning human being?”

There was silence from August at that, and when Lennox moved around to dry the boy’s front, he saw that his face was long and sad, eyes wet.

“Crìosd,” Lennox murmured, looking away and finishing August’s upper body. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

August sniffed and avoided his eye.

“But it’s true,” he continued, pulling the shirt from August’s hands and pushing it over his head, then feeding his arms through the holes. “Do you want to be like this all your life? ‘Cause I’ll tell you now, it ain’t much of one.”

Once August was dried and dressed, looking like a skeleton in Lennox’s much too big clothes, Lennox finally sat down, rubbing his tired eyes. August was still sniffling suspiciously from Lennox’s left, and neither of them had spoken in some minutes.

“Come on,” Lennox said, standing up. “Go back to sleep, aye? It’ll be better in the morning, and I’ll take you back to Hogwarts.”

August wiped his nose with the sleeve of Lennox’s flannel shirt. “Can I sleep here?”

There was a groan of annoyance building in Lennox’s throat, but he managed to stay it – he felt bad for making August cry.

“Be quick about it then, come on,” he said, pulling back the covers and tossing the damp towels onto the floor. “I’m bloody knackered.”

He tried not to think about how strange this was – how he wasn’t used to the way August moved or settled beside him, but the smell was familiar; his own shampoo, soap, clothes. And when Lennox closed his eyes, he didn’t think about who was sleeping next to him, only that he was home for the first time in a long time, and he was glad to be there.

*

The dream of dragons and the water of the lake and Lennox’s hand reaching out—reaching out for someone—

Abruptly ended when he felt someone kick him in the leg. His eyes opened in the grey light of dawn, bleary and annoyed, and before they could register anything, he was hit in the chest by a flailing hand, and he opened his eyes properly.

“Th’ fuck ye fuckin’ doing ye—”

The twitching, writhing mass next to him did not resemble a person, at least none that Lennox had ever seen. The light from the window wasn’t enough to properly see who – what – it was, and from the way it moved, Lennox didn’t want to know. His palms were slick with sweat, a stomach-clenching kind of fear at the wrongness—

A strangled sob came from them, and Lennox turned on the lamp to see August. But there was something wrong, something almost possessing him as he lay there, body twisted and tense, straining against some invisible kind of force that Lennox couldn’t see.

And for a moment, he wondered if August were dying – if this wasn’t what was supposed to happen – before he was off the bed, and moving August into the middle of the mattress so he couldn’t hit himself on anything as his body spasmed and locked up tight.

“Fuck—” Lennox’s hands were hovering over August before he remembered Rhys, and he ran, the door to his bedroom hitting the wall behind him, feet sliding over the carpet—

Rhys was in his mother’s room, ladling a potion into a vial.

“Now—NOW!” Lennox yelled, unable to say more, frantic, and Rhys looked from Alickina lying half-asleep in bed to Lennox, wondering where the emergency was.

It was too slow – everything was happening too goddam slow – and Lennox could only run back to his room, Rhys on his heels.

August was bleeding now. Blood covered his face, spluttering up from his throat, the veins in his neck protruding with the effort of whatever was strangling him from the inside out. He looked brittle as porcelain that was falling to floor, and Lennox could only watch as August’s fingers became crooked, gnarled tree roots clutching at the bedspread and his back arched, unnatural, curved away from the mattress.

Rhys did not stare. His reaction was immediate, rushing forward, weaving between August’s twitching arm to examine August’s face. Whatever he saw beneath the blood, he reeled back, stunned, before leaning back in.

“What do we do?” Lennox said, heart hammering in his chest, nausea churning up his insides.

“We…” Rhys shook his head. “We don’t do anything.”

“What?” said Lennox, incredulous. “He’ll die, Rhys! We have to—we have to do something. He can’t- he can’t die.”

“He’s having some kind of seizure,” explained Rhys, putting a hand on August’s forehead, taking his temperature. “We can only wait til it passes. Moving him now would only cause more damage.”

Lennox found the action of inaction hard to accept, and he paced, stealing glances at the way August’s body contorted and wrought itself into knots. But the sound the boy made – a sob, a strangled kind of plea through clenched teeth – made it worse, and Lennox could only twist his fingers into his hair, tugging on it, looking for relief as he counted the seconds.

August’s seizure calmed in pieces. His back levelled out until he was lying, and slowly his legs lowered, and then his hands released the material that he’d managed to tear, the cloth now in threads, peeling away from the spread. Rhys was there, easing August back down, and yet Lennox still paced, all traces of his previous weariness gone. The whole thing had only taken ten minutes, if that, but it felt like August had been spasming for hours.

The minute August was back to himself was obvious by the choked sob of pain that escaped his mouth, and Lennox closed his eyes to the sound.

“It’s alright,” Rhys murmured. “It’s alright, you’re fine. You’re okay, you’re back.”

“It hurts,” August pleaded, a wail filled with so much agony and heartache that Lennox could feel his eyes prick behind the lids. “It hurts so much, please—please—it’s burning, it’s burning, the tree is burning, please—”

“Nothing’s burning, you’re here. Do you know where you are?”

“Merlin, please, I just want it to stop, make it stop—”

Lennox couldn’t listen to more. Walking from his room and into his mother’s, he ignored her curious looks and grabbed the vial of potion that Rhys had been pouring. It was almost full, more than enough for a boy as thin as August.

He brought it back, finding Rhys with August’s head in his lap, trying to calm him down. There was splattered blood across August’s pale skin, borrowed clothes, and bedspread, but Lennox ignored it. He stopped in front of August, kneeling by the bed, and forcing the boy to look at him.

“This is going to make the pain go away,” Lennox said, voice loud and clear. “You want it to stop, don’t you?”

August reached out like a dying man, and Lennox gave it to him, watching as August downed it quickly; one swallow was all it took before the vial was empty. Rhys was quiet, smoothing back August’s hair from his sweaty forehead, hands steady.

Lennox watched, guilt and fear turning in his stomach as August’s eyes fluttered shut, and then his body was utterly, finally still.

He slumped back himself, shoulders falling, eyes closing. Exhaustion was all he felt, and it hadn’t even been him on the bed, writhing like he was a man possessed.

“You neglected to mention that your friend here was a seer,” Rhys said quietly, voice almost a whisper, as though to speak louder would wake August, but they both knew he’d be out for at least six hours on the potion.

“A seer?” Lennox laughed, scrubbing his face. “All he sees is the next hit, Rhys. He isn’t anything except a junkie in withdrawal.”

When Lennox opened his eyes, Rhys was shaking his head, still smoothing August’s hair gently.

“You didn’t see his eyes,” Rhys murmured, voice distant. Lennox waited, and eventually Rhys looked up. “They were completely white.”

Lennox wasn’t laughing now. “Couldn’t they have just rolled up into his head during the… seizure?”

“I’ve seen seizures, Nox – this wasn’t because of any substance abuse, alright? This was something else.”

The information was like a stone forcing its way down Lennox’s throat, uncomfortable to swallow and bear. He didn’t want to care about August; didn’t want to learn more about his family or his life and feel responsible. The things he’d seen over the last night had already made him care for the boy, and this—this was too much. If August was a seer, how had he not known? Was it something that others knew, or was it a secret? Lennox could already answer his own questions, because if it were him that was the seer, he knew he’d keep it quiet. A pureblood family with a seer in it was not a well thought of family, and the Callow’s still had their upstanding name well intact.

“When he stopped,” Lennox said quietly, mind still turning, “when the seizure stopped, he said—what did he say again? Something was burning?”

“The tree.” Rhys looked down at August. “He said a tree was burning.”

“A vision, then? That’s what a vision looks like? Fuck.”

For some reason, all Lennox could think was to tell Solo about it. What he’d seen, what August went through. Ask if Solo even knew – he had to, right? He had to know. How would August – August – have hidden it for so long if the visions were like a demon was clawing its way out of his body? Lennox had never pegged the boy as being particularly brilliant or cunning, and the amount of planning and deception to hide being a seer from the people he was closest to… it didn’t add up.

But he was too tired to think on it more. It wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself; August had gotten through sixteen years of it, he could keep going without Lennox’s help.

“I’m gonna sleep while he’s still out,” Lennox grumbled, crawling back onto his side of the bed, the sheets now cold as he settled. “I’m absolutely—”

A baby’s wail ripped through the top floor of the house, and for one second, Lennox could feel forfeit rising up. He wanted to quit everything – just give up entirely and sleep, but the baby’s cry tugged at his instincts, and he sighed, sitting back up.

“You help mum, I’ll get Loren up and changed and fed.”

Lennox’s body was heavy as he stood up beside Rhys, who fussed about August, tucking him under the blankets,

“Poor boy,” he mumbled, lifting August’s arms under. “Can’t imagine what it’s like.”

Loren’s cries echoed down the hall, and Lennox couldn’t do this – couldn’t juggle August’s problems with that of his family.

“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly poor. His family could probably buy their way out of it. There’s a cure for everything, if you have enough money,” he snapped, grabbing a hoodie on his way out the door and tugging it over his head, leaving Rhys to make his own way.

The crying grew louder until Lennox eased open the nursery door, and found Loren kicking and thrashing angrily at the blanket that covered him. He looked so small in the murky light of dawn, and Lennox pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Dè tha ceàrr?” (What’s the matter?) Lennox whispered, picking Loren up, a hand behind his head, pressing the fussing baby to his chest. “Mo bhalach, it’s alright.” (My boy).

Loren was warm to the touch, and when Lennox put a hand to his diaper, he felt it heavy. He held Loren for a little longer, gently and slowly moving them around a lap of the nursery, mostly to wake himself up as Loren cried, before placing the baby on the change table. This part had become routine to Lennox since Loren had been born, remembering everything that his father had told him about nappies and cleaning a baby. He barely flinched, changing Loren methodically until the mess was gone – thank god – and Loren had stopped crying.

“You hungry?” Lennox murmured to the baby, rubbing Loren’s back in circles. “Want breakfast?”

As he carried Loren downstairs, he heard rising voices from his mother’s room – her calling for Flora, wanting to see her baby, as though Flora hadn’t grown up to be a woman already, but laid where Loren had. The hallucinations that kept Alickina bed ridden and sated under potions had flared again today, it seemed.

Lennox kissed the top of Loren’s head and kept walking.

*

The sun was setting when Lennox walked through the door, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.

The yard had been in complete disarray, and though he hadn’t managed to do even a quarter of what needed to be done, he had cut the grass and patched the fence in a few places. His muscles ached in unfamiliar places, the kind that he only put to use when at home and doing physical labour, but it was a good ache – one that gave him purpose and pride. If he didn’t have a future with the Ministry, Lennox had always thought he could fall back on doing something with his hands – construction, maybe. They always needed a strong set of hands.

The house was not the quiet, peaceful place he’d imagined it would be when out in the yard, and he toed off his muddy boots before walking in. He registered music, then laughter, and his frown deepened, an uncertain feeling settling in his stomach.

Lennox washed his hands quick, brown water sliding down the drain and revealing his tan skin beneath, before he dried them on his shirt. He followed the sounds, each step bringing him closer, until he stood outside his mother’s bedroom.

Music filtered from the old record player, a muggle album that Lennox didn’t quite know waltzing out from the crack where the door stood ajar. It made something nostalgic shiver across his sun-heated skin – a memory that he couldn’t quite remember, but also just a feeling. Of being young and light and looking up at his parents, dancing, the music playing as they seemed to glide across the floor. And Lennox could remember that feeling of completeness; of being entirely whole, something he’d never been able to capture again.

The door opened and the music filled in the gaps, wrapping around the image before him.

His mother was out of bed, her hair dark and curling in thick tendrils, hands clasped as she watched a girl twirling in a dress before the mirror, hem dancing around her ankles.

And Lennox watched for a moment – watched his mother looking happy, the sound of her unfamiliar laughter coming again, watched her eyes bright, fever-like. And then his eyes moved to the girl, and he realised it wasn’t a girl, but August, and he looked—beautiful. Peaceful, maybe. Like that moment was the best he could ever remember. Like Lennox’s mother were his own, and they were sharing something that others did; and Lennox felt jealous and possessive and like he were an outsider, looking in through smudged glass at a family that wasn’t his own. But there was a kind of selflessness, too, because Lennox didn’t want to break up the moment between them.

“Nox.”

The voice pulled his eyes away from August to his mother, who was smiling gently at him, her hand outstretched. He walked inside, dream-like, and took it. His hand was so much bigger than hers now, her hand warm and thin, pressing with vitality against his own.

“Isn’t she pretty?” she said, looking back to August.

Lennox looked too. “August is…” A boy.

The words died, curling to ash in his mouth at the nervous look on August’s face, so apprehensive, watching Lennox through the reflection in the mirror. Their eyes met, and Lennox could remember a time when he was young, when he’d worn a stolen bra, just to see, just to know—

“Yeah,” Lennox said, voice gruff, and he cleared it, looking back to his mother. “She’s beautiful.”

He didn’t have the heart to stay, and instead kissed his mother on the temple and left, easing the door shut behind him. It was like Lennox had stepped into a different world, one where August and his mother got along, one where his father was nursing Loren in the nursery, and Lennox wondered where his place was. Where was he needed? And if no one needed him, did he belong?

Rhys met him outside his room.

“Hope you don’t mind, August stumbled in there after waking up and Ali didn’t seem to mind,” Rhys said, following Lennox into the bedroom. “They get along like a cauldron on fire.”

Lennox grunted, throwing himself on his bed, arm covering his eyes. He was so tired, running on barely any sleep from the night before. “And the dress?”

He heard Rhys moving before the bed dipped.

“Didn’t see any dress,” Rhys said.

“Well they’re in there having a fuckin’ tea party, so.” Lennox sighed, flopping his arm onto the bed and turning to look at Rhys.

“What’s the harm?” he said, grinning at Lennox, reaching out to push at his knee teasingly. “Just ‘cause you’re grumpy and no fun, doesn’t mean they have to be.”

Lennox narrowed his eyes at the Healer. “I’m not grumpy. And I’m fun.”

Rhys raised a silent eyebrow.

“I am! I’m a fuckin’ riot, shut up.” Lennox watched Rhys laugh, and despite himself, a smile passed on his own lips. “Just seems weird. I hardly know the kid, and he’s in there with me mum.”

“Cut him some slack,” Rhys admonished. “He said he’s a Hufflepuff, so I’m putting my faith in him and my old house. Let him have his fun, Merlin knows he needs it.”

It still irritated a part of Lennox to be sharing his mother, but he couldn’t find the strength to get up and do anything about it. He was so tired, the weight of everything at home pressing down on him the longer he stayed. It’d been two days, and already the to do list was piling up, so much so that the idea of going back to school seemed absurd.

“Have a nap, Nox,” Rhys said, his hand warm on Lennox’s knee, squeezing. “I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

Lennox hummed, eyes already closing, and though he wanted to argue – argue that he’d cook, or that he was fine – it was overwhelming too much, and he nodded. Something warm covered his legs and the world fell away, Lennox slipping under to finally rest.

But Rhys didn’t wake him for dinner, and the next time Lennox’s eyes opened, he was almost sweating from how hot he was, trying to push at the covers, half asleep and eyes closed.

The blankets were a solid, heavy mass, and Lennox’s eyes cracked open to see that it was a person, curled around his body as though he were a pillow.

“Faigh air falbh,” (get away) Lennox murmured, shoving at August, who was surprisingly strong when he wanted to be.

“Comfy,” the boy murmured, burrowing his head into Lennox’s shoulder.

Lennox shoved him once more – a sharp jab that did nothing to dislodge him – before giving up, sighing loudly.

“What time is it?” Lennox whispered, peering through the darkness of his room, unable to quite identify the hour.

“Late. Early.” August gave a movement that might’ve been a shrug. “You missed dinner.”

He could feel it, too – the turn of his empty stomach, but he ignored it.

“Making yourself comfortable in my home, then?” Lennox said, aiming for annoyed, but the sleepiness clung to his words, weighting them in a different direction.

“Your family’s nice,” August said. “Your mum’s nice. Your father’s funny. I like Loren.”

He’d been doing the rounds, then.

“Aye, my family’s brilliant,” Lennox grumbled. “But they’re my family, Callow. Not yours.”

August was silent for a moment. “I know that.”

“Do ye?” and Lennox’s voice a little, accent thicker, even to his own ears, “because right now yer makin’ yerself quite at home.”

The fingers that were curled around Lennox’s bicep held tight. “Don’t be mad, I just borrowed them,” said August. “They’re yours.”

His heart was racing, and Lennox forced himself to relax again, working to release the tense muscle of his jaw.

“Why are you so angry all the time?”

And Lennox had had it, shoving August off and breaking his grip. “I’m not bloody angry, alright? Fuck’s sake - and if I was, is it any wonder?”

Lennox ran a hand through his hair.

“I came home to get away from Hogwarts and everyone in it,” he continued after a beat. “I wanted this weekend – and them – to myself. Do you understand that?” He stared at August through the dark. “And instead, I’ve had to deal with you and clean up all your messes.”

In the darkness, Lennox could see the way August’s features folded, packing in on themselves, hurt. Maybe he should’ve taken Rhys’ words to heart and treated August more kindly, but that wasn’t in Lennox’s nature. He couldn’t share the one thing in his life that he guarded the most.

He wouldn’t.

August’s ghostly figure moved over the bed and slid to the floor, and Lennox noticed he had changed into a different set of Lennox’s clothes, ill-fitting and hanging off him like sheets. It made him look thinner, more haggard; child-like in a way that urged Lennox to care about him.

“Sorry,” August mumbled. “I didn’t—I didn’t ask to be here, y’know. You just did it, and maybe—maybe I shouldn’t have been out there—”

“Then why were you in the first place?”

August rubbed at his head, the place where Rhys had healed the wound. “I—I just, there were things I needed, and—”

“Like what?” pressed Lennox. “What did you need out there in the forest?”

August turned away, but Lennox walked around to face him again.

“Why were you out there, August?” he demanded.

“I was just—”

“Why?”

“I was—”

“Why?”

August pushed at Lennox, the shove no harder than what a breeze might present, and Lennox didn’t falter.

“I was in Hogsmeade, okay?” August tried to bring his hands to his face, but the sleeves got in the way, and he wiped at his eyes with the flannel. “I was in Hogsmeade getting… you know.”

“Drugs.”

The other boy looked away, wiping at his chin. “Yeah.”

“Correct me if my assumptions are wrong, but I’m pretty sure you have enough money to pay someone to do that shit for you, rather than dirtying your own hands,” Lennox said, only too well-versed in the ways the pureblood mind worked. “So that brings us back to square one. Why were you out there?”

A noise of frustration loosed itself from August, and he tried to get around Lennox, but he grabbed the boy, hauling him back.

“Fuckin’ talk,” Lennox ordered, holding him fast. “I already know one of your secrets, what’s another?”

August’s eyes darted to Lennox’s, and he saw fear – and surprise. Had he assumed Lennox wouldn’t realise? Or that perhaps Lennox wouldn’t mention it?

“I know all about your powers, August,” Lennox said, voice low, as though they were in danger of being overheard.

He quivered, a tremble of fear racing through him, and he seemed to lose the fight out of his body, slumping half on Lennox, hands wrapping in his shirt.

“Please, Lennox—please. You can’t tell anyone, please. If my father—if my father finds out what I am…” August gave a choked sob, and Lennox looked down at him, at the sheer desperation. “Please, you can’t. I’ll—I’ll do whatever. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’ll do it.”

All Lennox wanted from him was to have August gone, but he didn’t say that.

“Tell me why you were in Hogsmeade,” Lennox said, voice calm.

A noise of caught frustration escaped August, and he tugged one last time on Lennox.

“I told you, I needed to get stuff for my head.” August was crying. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“Why were you doing it yourself, August?” Lennox said, “Because I don’t believe for a second that’s how you normally do things.”

August shook his head, denying the question, but Lennox wouldn’t let him go. Struggling for a moment, August stopped, limp in Lennox’s hand.

“Because I don’t have any money,” he sobbed at last, face a watery mess, eyes downcast. “I don’t—I don’t have anything left, and my head hurts, okay? It hurts, and if I don’t get anything—”

“I saw.” Lennox adjusted his grip. “So how were you buying drugs if you don’t have money?”

The boy fought against Lennox’s grip now, trying to get out, or at least turn his head.

“I earned it, okay?” he said, shoving at Lennox, trying to loosen his grip. “I—I earned it.”

Lennox frowned. August would never work a day in his life if he didn’t want to; the Callow’s would have enough money to keep the name alive for generations to come. What job would someone like August even be qualified for? He feared to ask, watching August refuse to look at him, crying quietly. It was shame in August that was strangling him quietly like a weed up a tree; shame was pushing him deeper and deeper than he’d already been.

Shame was something that Lennox’s pride had protected him from so often, except that time he’d been on his knees for Solo in a bathroom, bargaining for his future. He’d been so low, then; knew he would’ve done anything. August too, it seemed, had something worth fighting for: his sanity.

“Alright,” Lennox said, easing his fingers one by one until August was no longer confined. “Alright, you don’t have to say.”

Because somehow Lennox already knew. He walked August back a step or two until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat. Lennox stood over him, wondering what he was going to do, now that he found himself burdened with August’s secrets. His plight was not a hopeful one, not with the shadow of his power – gift? - looming over him, and Lennox wished he could just stay out of it, but his conscience—his conscience fought.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Lennox said evenly, at last. “I don’t want anything from you.”

August wiped at his face, looking warily up at Lennox. “Solo says that nothing is free.”

Rolling his eyes, Lennox sat down beside him. “First of all, this isn’t free because it doesn’t cost me anything. And secondly, when are you gonna stop listenin’ to him? He’s got some wisdom, I’ll grant him that, but he doesn’t know everything. Learn to ask others for advice, yeah?”

“Like who?” August mumbled. “No one likes me.”

“Maybe ‘cause no one knows you,” Lennox shrugged. “Besides, no one likes me either. There are worse things, as well as more important things, than winning a popularity contest.”

Saying nothing, August sniffled, eyes downcast.

“C’mon,” said Lennox’s guilty conscience, a traitor to his brain, who wanted to kick August out and be done. “Let’s sleep, yeah? Guessing we’ve got a few hours til morning and when we need to head back.”

August crawled back into his spot and Lennox laid down, counting to five before August curled back into him, as though he were incapable of resisting.

“I stole some of your mum’s potions,” August whispered, wrapping his octopus arms around Lennox. “Sorry.”

Rolling his eyes in the dark, Lennox pulled the blankets up over them. “You’re paying me back when you do get money again, Callow.”

He’d remember that, too.

*

Saying goodbye was always hard, and Lennox had a method where he refused to turn back once he’d started walking – but August had never heard of such a thing.

They said their farewell’s to the house, Alickina nursing Loren in her bedroom, Hendry writing emails in his study, Rhys waving to them from the doorstep. And there was a hook in Lennox’s stomach, tugging him back to the house – to his baby brother, whose small fingers had curled around one of Lennox’s own, eyes dark and peering up at him. Lennox could only envision a time when he didn’t have to leave, at least not for so long; a time, a few months from now, where home would be home again, and he wasn’t constantly sling-shotted back to Hogwarts.

August, too, looked as though he were losing something as they walked away, his body turned to keep waving to Rhys.

“Come on, come on,” Lennox muttered, tugging the boy along, hitching his bag higher on his back. “Don’t get used to this.”

He didn’t want August to come back here. He didn’t want to share his home and his family with a stranger, no matter how pitiful their cause, and he wasn’t sure that would ever change. If he got married, then it would; his partner would be family, and they’d make this house their own, too. But August would never marry Lennox, and he would never be family – he was a highborn pureblood heir that would, in due course, graduation and run back to his family’s English estate where money flowed and servants bowed.

Their worlds were different, and even if Lennox’s grandparents were constantly pulling him into the orbit of August’s, he knew his feet would always firmly be planted here, at the Fraser house. Home was where his family was, and family did not include broken strays.

Lennox pulled them to the barrier of the Fraser property, boots kicking up rocks and dirt, and as he stood at the road, staring off across the paddocks of the country, wildflowers and grass swaying in the breeze, he felt the urge to turn back. It was like déjà vu or some kind of instinct, a voice that told him to look back, to take in his home – while he still could. The niggling premonition that Hux had given him resurfaced, and Lennox frowned, turning back.

August was already looking, blonde hair lifting at the ends with the breeze that rolled in from the coast, across towns and fields and homes, and Lennox followed his line of sight.

The familiar curve of the drive, the overgrown vines and hedges, the beaten-up car sitting under the tree that shed too many leaves and petals, but never seemed to go bare. The house was the same untaintable shade of white, shutters open and letting the morning light stream in. Somewhere out back, one of the dogs barked, while the breeze lifted the clothes on the line that Lennox had hung out, making them dance and sway. It felt like a photograph, like something Lennox could keep and tuck away for later, and even though he knew he would do whatever he could to make this stay, the worry was always there, a stone in the bottom of his stomach.

He reached out for August’s arm and apparated them away without a word of warning, his home disappearing before his eyes and replaced with the dense forest where he’d originated from. Lennox dropped August’s arm and started walking, hearing the boy crash through the dead leaves after him.

“Wait,” August said, exerting himself to catch up to Lennox’s long strides. He was out of breath after only a dozen paces. “Wait.”

Lennox rolled his eyes and looked down at the boy, eyebrows rising expectantly. He wanted to be rid of August and hopefully put the entire weekend behind him; wash his hands clean and hand the baton to Solo.

“You—you won’t tell anyone, will you?” August said, once he’d gotten his breath back. “About… you know.”

“Which part?” deadpanned Lennox. “The fact that you receive visions, that you’re poor, that you’re whoring yourself out in Hogsmeade, or that you like to wear dresses and be called a girl? I’m having trouble keeping track, so is that all of it?”

August had taken another of Alickina’s potions that morning, so his eyes were glassy, but Lennox could see some muted fear bloom there.

“I’m not going to tell.” But Lennox wouldn’t promise; he knew that something had to be done, even if he wasn’t the person to do it. “Let’s just go.”

They emerged out of the woods and into the grounds, perfectly timed for the crowds that were coming back from Hogsmeade for lunch. Lennox and August joined the end, blending in, as though they’d just come back from a morning in the wizarding village, bellies full of sweets.

As Lennox climbed the stairs, already weary of being back, he noticed that August was still following him.

“How high are you? Your house is that way,” Lennox said, waving his hand back down the stairs. “Go on.”

August’s hand was white-knuckled on the railing, swaying a little. “But I don’t want to be alone.”

A groan was building within Lennox. “Yeah, well, I do, so go away.”

Lennox started walking and made it to the top of the stairs before he realised that August was still following him.

“I said—”

“I’m coming to see Solo,” August said, out of breath. “You can’t stop me.”

Lennox looked him up and down, shutting the doors of concern and guilt that opened in his mind, trying to forget everything that had passed that weekend.

“No, but I don’t have to wait for you, either,” he said, raising his eyebrows once before walking away, leaving August to stagger his way to the Ravenclaw Tower, if he didn’t give up first.

Lennox walked quickly, entering the tower without any problems and dropping his bag beside his trunk, planning to unpack later. It was empty, and for the first time in days, there was silence; just the wind through the tower and low murmur of students below. And even though Lennox missed home and his family and everything that came with it, he couldn’t deny that the easing of responsibility – the infinitesimal lightening of the load on his shoulders – truly allowed him to relax, sinking onto his bed and breathing deeply without worrying.

And just as Lennox’s body eased, part by part, muscles finally releasing their tension, August came through the dorm room door, eyes wide and looking for Solo.

With a sigh, the worry came back, and Lennox knew that whether he liked it or not, August was now one of his problems. It wasn’t something he was going to be outrun, because his conscience was starting to catch up, and Lennox was just—tired. Maybe, he thought, it was time to stop running and face the things that had been dogging him for a while. First August, then Solo, Flora, Darcy, Smith—the list would never end, but Lennox had to start somewhere.

Here and now was as good of a place as any.

[lennoxfraser-blog]

relentless | lennox & astoria

The woods were dense, and Lennox was guiding Astoria by sheer sense of instinct, rather than knowledge. They’d stepped off the beaten track ten minutes ago, Lennox leading them away from where he knew the professors patrolled, trying to catch students sneaking away, exactly as they were doing. He could understand it, really - there were a lot of things in the forest, things that no one should encounter. It was ridiculous that the school didn’t take preventative measures, in that sense - clean the forest out, or at least make it so they couldn’t get in. A professor, tired and thinking of bed, wasn’t known to do the best job at catching students, given how many boasted about sneaking into the forest over the years. Lennox was not a regular mischief-maker; he didn’t sneak out for pleasure, and regardless, he wasn’t thinking of sneaking out today. They just needed to get far enough into the forest so as to not be seen: he didn’t fancy getting caught with his dick out and pants around his ankles.

“Almost there,” Lennox announced, as though he had any idea of where their destination was. His boots crushed leaves and sticks underfoot as they wove between trees, over fallen logs, skin rippling with the changes in temperature under the thick and heavy canopy. It was cool in places where it was denser, but in others, the sun broke through, scattering the shadows and showering them in midday light. At a small clearing little bigger than a classroom in size, Lennox stopped, glancing around: silence and stillness in all directions, save for the trees whispering overhead and the birds that shared in on it. He turned, bringing Astoria closer by their joined hand. “This alright?” he asked softly, leaning forward to kiss her before he guided her back toward the tree, needing something solid. His lips pressed across her jaw and down her neck, letting his hands find her waist, then her thighs, blood already singing in his veins. “Are you sure you want to do this? Out here?”