sweetcrecture

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have fun with your shifting journey, make moodboards, write scenarios down, save pins to your pinterest board, day dream about your dr, plan your dates with your s/o, plan out your wardrobe. Shifting is supposed to be light and relaxing, you dont force it, it comes to you.

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Marauders DR — Gilbert Blythe’s POV

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❝ She was not a daughter of winter. She was what winter became when no one came home. ❞

There are no songs about Valda Thenn — no bard ever wandered far enough north to find her, and if they had, she would’ve slit their throat before they could rhyme “storm” with “form.”

She wasn’t made for legend.

She was made for survival.

She was born in silence.

Raised in ice.

Her cradle was a cave floor, her lullaby the howls of wolves too close to the fire.

No milkmaids. No halls of carved stone. Just the steady beat of blood and bone.

Her people, the Thenns, were remnants of the old world — older than kings, older than Andals, older than the idea of kneeling.

They believed in the cold not as a season, but as a god.

And Valda?

She was the cold’s favorite.

By the time she could walk, she could track.

By the time she could bleed, she could kill.

By the time she turned fifteen, the other Thenn warriors stopped calling her child.

They called her Storm's Eye

because she never flinched in a blizzard.

Because she stared down a wight once and didn’t blink.

Because her eyes saw too much and gave away nothing.

❝ She didn’t fear death. She feared becoming soft. Becoming small. Becoming someone who waited to be saved. ❞

When the Long Night came, she didn’t cry.

She didn’t pray.

She painted her skin in ash and bone, kissed her elk between the eyes, and went south with twenty warriors who still believed in the old gods and her name.

Only three returned.

She was one of them.

And they said she came back wrong.

Quieter. Sharper. Like a knife left too long in snow.

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❝ She wasn’t made of porcelain. She was made of fire, trapped in crystal. ❞

Born in Paris, between enchanted tapestries and dinners far too quiet, Cecily Aurélie Duvalier was raised like fine porcelain — beautiful in the eyes of the world, delicate to those who didn’t look too closely.

But inside? She was forged under pressure.

Half Veela, pureblood by her father’s design, Cecily was raised to be the perfect heiress of the Duvalier name — a noble family cloaked in tradition and danger, whispering allegiance to the Dark while maintaining a flawless public mask.

Rules. Alliances. Silence. That was her childhood.

Her mother, Élodie Lavellan, hasn’t spoken since the night her eldest son was lost — banished or perhaps killed for defying the family’s ideals.

Her father, Alaric, ties silk cravats while signing betrothal contracts with the same ease he uses to erase truths.

Cecily was promised to Evan Rosier before she could even walk, sent to Hogwarts under the guise of “diplomatic interest.”

But truth be told, Hogwarts wasn’t a school — it was a beautifully disguised cage.

And then, something unexpected happened.

She was sorted into Gryffindor.

There, between chaotic laughter and the warmth of true loyalty, she found something her house had never given her: friendship.

She became inseparable from the Marauders — especially Sirius Black, who shared her quiet rage at having grown up in homes poisoned by power.

But even among them, there were things she could never say aloud.

And then came Gilbert Blythe.

❝ He wasn’t supposed to care. And yet, he couldn’t look away. ❞

Ravenclaw’s golden boy. Brilliant. Sharp. Just the right amount of sarcastic.

The kind of student teachers remember with pride — and enemies remember with resentment.

But behind the wit and the perfect marks, there was a boy who had learned that blood and magic never guaranteed protection.

The son of a Muggle mother, Gilbert grew up watching the wizarding world turn its back on anyone who was different.

His mother — kind, cultured, book-loving — was humiliated and threatened simply for loving a wizard.

When Gilbert was seven, his father died. And as he watched his mother be left alone, ignored by the very world her husband had vowed to serve, he made a silent promise:

He would never let anyone be treated like that again.

That’s why he despises blood supremacy.

That’s why he despises the Duvaliers.

He’d heard the stories — about Alaric Duvalier’s untouchable reputation, the darkness that clung to the family name, the perfect daughter raised to marry a Rosier.

To him, Cecily was the living embodiment of everything he hated.

Or so he believed.

Until third year.

He’d noticed her before, of course — those stormy eyes, the immaculate posture, the hair that never seemed out of place.

But when they were paired for a Potions project, everything began to crack.

She wasn’t cold.

She was freezing from the inside out.

Gilbert started noticing things others missed: the shaky wandwork covering up small cuts on her hands, the way she flinched at loud noises, the tight-lipped fury whenever someone mentioned her father’s name.

And, most of all, the look in her eyes — like someone screaming for help without making a sound.

He was supposed to hate her.

But everything about her made his blood burn in ways he couldn’t understand.

He spent years fighting the way he felt.

He knew who she was. He knew what her name meant. He knew she’d never be free.

But still…

He saw her.

And somehow, she let him.

Without meaning to, Cecily revealed his greatest weakness: his heart.

And as he tried to understand her, he exposed his own wounds.

His hatred of the Duvaliers turned into something more human. More dangerous.

Because Cecily wasn’t like her parents.

And loving her was both the rightest and the wrongest thing he had ever done.

But Alaric Duvalier knows.

And he made it clear: if Gilbert doesn’t stay away, his mother — the only family he has — will be left without protection.

It’s a risk he can’t take.

But neither can he stay away.

Especially not after their patronuses took the same form.

Something rare. Something ancient.

Something that should not happen twice in one generation.

What exists between them is forbidden.

But pretending it never existed?

That would be the real impossibility.

#shifting #desired reality #gilbert blythe #marauders dr #harry potter dr

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Shiftblr pisses me off to the nines because you believe you can go to a reality where zombies exist, where witches and wizards and aliens and vampires exist, flying cars and gods of thunder...but you don't think I can script out trauma??? Sybau.

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😔