#A wee witches friend

[disaster0w0]

[buruhas]

Laetitia really hopes that you will be happy with her heartfelt gift.

[pascal-oswell]

also you know i was playing this morning and fucked up with laetitia so the minion broke out and it never occurred to me how. oddly drawn they are (putting under cut just bc theyre kinda fucked up looking)

like theyre oddly. sketchy you know? like in a literal sense. did she draw them

[sunnami]

❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.” 

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all. 

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips. 

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly. 

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest.  “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting. 

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number. 

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.” 

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.” 

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.” 

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock.  “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life.  “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.” 

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”  

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.” 

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup. 

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.” 

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.” 

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy. 

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.” 

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few. 

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.) 

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire. 

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster. 

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.” 

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother. 

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.” 

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?” 

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.” 

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?” 

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.” 

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?” 

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks. 

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.” 

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think. 

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance. 

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends. 

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?” 

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.” 

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.” 

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work. 

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf. 

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes. 

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance.  “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.” 

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.) 

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless. 

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand. 

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight. 

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins. 

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position. 

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children. 

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?” 

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls. 

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally. 

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the  emptiness of your unbroken charade. 

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.) 

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots.  The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you. 

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.” 

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?” 

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks. 

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the  hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter. 

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably. 

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.” 

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?” 

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!” 

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?” 

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.” 

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?” 

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it. 

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow. 

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear. 

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.” 

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought. 

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion. 

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails. 

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must. 

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor. 

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes. 

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.” 

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!” 

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.” 

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side. 

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second. 

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?” 

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?” 

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.” 

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you. 

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt. 

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.” 

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?” 

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.” 

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders. 

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms. 

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly. 

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.” 

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.” 

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background. 

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!” 

Turns out, you are not fine. 

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen. 

 —

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly. 

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.” 

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly. 

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin. 

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you. 

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.” 

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius. 

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half. 

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.” 

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds. 

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!” 

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights. 

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!” 

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick. 

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.” 

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.” 

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close. 

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair. 

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.  

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.” 

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors. 

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.” 

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.) 

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.” 

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase. 

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.” 

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway. 

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling. 

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you. 

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior. 

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?” 

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly. 

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others. 

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern,  as well.” 

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades. 

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.” 

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself. 

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you. 

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?) 

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House. 

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?” 

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.” 

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.” 

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more: 

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!” 

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets. 

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary. 

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?” 

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?” 

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?” 

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.” 

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.” 

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.” 

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses. 

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders. 

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes. 

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words. 

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them. 

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell? 

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive. 

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.” 

You want to go to sleep already. 

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport. 

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.” 

You miss your cat. 

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.) 

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself. 

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus. 

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument. 

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under. 

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!” 

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms. 

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger. 

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask. 

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters. 

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included. 

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy. 

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva. 

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose. 

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone. 

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.) 

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands  rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena. 

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire. 

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!” 

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands. 

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes. 

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain. 

But there is nothing. 

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom. 

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes. 

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.” 

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.” 

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat. 

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me. 

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.” 

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile. 

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side. 

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you. 

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms. 

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor. 

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever. 

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books. 

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to. 

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic? 

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons. 

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else. 

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!” 

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.” 

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw. 

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated. 

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.” 

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold. 

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time. 

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another. 

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies. 

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you. 

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.” 

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?” 

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare. 

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.” 

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.” 

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye. 

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”  

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones. 

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival. 

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy. 

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in. 

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”) 

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane. 

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor. 

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S. 

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?” 

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his. 

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing. 

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl. 

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.” 

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie. 

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.) 

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her. 

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?” 

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.” 

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching. 

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.” 

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . .  I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground. 

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home. 

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak. 

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.” 

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!” 

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.” 

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room. 

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle. 

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents. 

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.) 

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?” 

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.” 

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same. 

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans. 

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain. 

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”) 

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time. 

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely? 

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all. 

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders. 

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to. 

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!” 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.” 

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!” 

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!” 

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!” 

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!” 

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?” 

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.” 

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life. 

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor. 

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne. 

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.) 

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks. 

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard. 

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.” 

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death. 

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.” 

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!” 

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation. 

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.” 

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?” 

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word. 

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name. 

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.” 

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills. 

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix. 

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.) 

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours. 

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one. 

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed. 

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams. 

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even. 

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm. 

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him. 

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.) 

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter. 

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.” 

“I promise. . .  you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.” 

You pass out in her arms. 

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes. 

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream. 

You are tired. 

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give? 

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this? 

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now. 

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you? 

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself. 

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back. 

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit. 

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.” 

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest. 

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with. 

You let your weight shift over the window. 

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly. 

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?” 

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.” 

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.” 

You stay silent. 

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice. 

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.” 

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion. 

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days. 

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then. 

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve. 

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation. 

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother. 

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands. 

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her. 

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!” 

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands. 

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!” 

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.” 

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.” 

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.” 

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake. 

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!” 

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor. 

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

[breelandwalker]

Harvest Moon - September 28, 2023

The summer heat might be hanging on, but it's time to get excited for autumn shenanigans all the same. Grab your canning supplies and your favorite cider mug - it's time for the Harvest Moon!

Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs closest to the autumnal equinox. It does not matter whether the moon occurs before or after the equinox or in which month it falls. In some years, this means the Harvest Moon may occur in October, in which cause the September moon might go by the name of Corn Moon or Rice Moon, depending on where you are.

In 2023, the Harvest Moon falls once more in the month of September. The same will happen in 2024, when the Harvest Moon will also be a supermoon! However, in 2025, the September moon will come early in the month, making it a Corn Moon. The Harvest Moon that year will be in early October.

The September moon is particularly beloved by farmers in the Northern Hemisphere, as it rises earlier and shines brighter than other full moons due to the relative angle of the Earth in relation to the moon during the equinox, which is helpful for lighting up the tail end of those long work days. In addition, the Harvest Moon may also appear full for multiple nights, providing additional illumination for labor or evening strolls. As such, while the peak of the Harvest Moon will occur in the wee hours of September 29th, it will appear to be full on both the 28th and 29th.

Other North American Indigenous names for the September moon include a number of variations of the aforementioned Corn Moon (used by numerous nations), such as Corn Maker Moon (Abenaki), Corn Harvest Moon (Dakota), and Corn Is Harvested Moon (Zuni). Other names refer to seasonal changes or animal behavior, such as Autumn Moon (Cree), Falling Leaves Moon (Ojibwe), Leaves Turning Moon (Anishinaabe), and Rutting Moon (Cree). Some European and modern pagan names for the September moon include Barley Moon (Old English), Singing Moon (Celtic), and Fruit Moon (general).

It's also worth noting that our Jewish friends and neighbors will be celebrating Rosh Hashanah this month, so remember to share your apples and honey and wish them Shanah Tovah (Happy New Year)!

What Does It Mean For Witches?

As autumn begins, we continue to reap what we've sown over the course of the year. It's a time to pause and reflect on what we've accomplished, let go of any unnecessary burdens we're still carrying, and focus on taking care of hearth and home for the cold months ahead. Now is a good time to do one last clutter purge or finish those repairs you've been putting off all summer!

Change is in the air as well, and transformations begun earlier in the year will burst into vibrant life. Just as the flowers bloom in spring, the leaves turn in the fall, and those of us who come alive in the autumn will start to fell that zing coming back.

Community also comes back into focus during harvest time, both because of the sharing of resources and the accompanying start of the school year. Take a moment to reinforce positive and supportive connections with friends and neighbors, or reach out to your local or online circle to strengthen existing bonds.

This a time of great abundance, so if you've been meaning to draw any kind of increase into your life, take steps to do so now. Harness that Harvest Moon energy to help carry you through the lean times in comfort and plenty.

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

This is the time for feasting, bonfires, and outdoor gatherings. September and October will give us a few more warm weeks before the weather turns cold and rainy, so make the most of it! Have a potluck supper with a menu made of everyone's favorite seasonal recipes. Visit a local farmer's market and bring home that fresh seasonal produce. Thank the earth for the bounty it provides and renew your promise to be a good steward of the land where you live.

Technically, this is the second "harvest" moon of the year, since the harvest of most seasonal crops began back in August with wheat and corn and late summer fruits. The harvest of corn and grain continues into September and is joined by additional late-season fruits and vegetables, the most iconic of which is the annual apple crop.

Apple-picking is easily my favorite autumn activity and it's fantastic way to get outdoors, get some fresh air, and come home with tasty produce for uses both mundane and magical. From cider to applesauce to pies, apples are delightfully versatile. They also feature in a number of folk traditions and party games which double as divination rituals.

Continue your preparations for winter by canning or preserving fresh foods, hanging harvested herbs and flowers to dry, or refreshing your stocks of moon water and magical oils. Make your own magical brews using a stock pot as a cauldron and soups, stews, punch, cider, and mulled wine as your potions. Kitchen witches, your time is NOW!

Wear the colors of the season boldly and revel in all the gifts you've received and joys you've experienced so far this year. If you've been particularly blessed, pay it forward to share the bounty with others. Reflect on everything you've accomplished, celebrate your progress, and maybe set one or two small goals for the end of the year.

And since the decorations are already appearing in stores, start stocking up for Halloween!

Happy Harvest Moon, witches! 😊🍎

Further Reading:

Additional Lunar Calendar posts

Secular Celebrations - Autumn Equinox

Harvest Moon, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

What Is The Harvest Moon?, The Old Farmer's Almanac.

Harvest Moon 2023: The Spiritual Meaning of September's Full Moon, The Peculiar Brunette.

Full Moon 2025 Calendar, Full Moonology.

Rosh Hashanah, Wikipedia.

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison, Llewellyn Publications, 2004.

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

[hd-wireless]

📻🎶 H/D WIRELESS 2024 - ANON MASTERLIST AND GUESSING GAME!

It’s time for the list! And for some numbers! And a wee game!

This year’s Wireless has (as always) some impressive numbers for you. Everyone, the Wireless 2024 stats:

33 days of posting

45 works in total

6 artworks

2 art and fic combos

34 fics

3 podfics

And a total of 758,934 words!

We mods can’t thank each and everyone of you enough! Without every single one of our participants and readers this fest wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for being here and showing support to the amazingly talented people we had participating this year. ❤️

You have one week until we reveal the names of all our amazing creators, and what better way to spend it than catching up with the works you might have missed and playing our fun guessing game!

Guessing Game: ❓ Can you work out who created what?? Click this link to access the form and have your guess. The more correct guesses you make the more points you get, and we even award points for wrong answers so you might as well try guessing them all! Don’t forget to read the instructions!!! The winner will be announced at Reveals.🏆

And why not have another listen to our prompted songs for the works we post before the reveals next week:  

Click here for Spotify (many thanks to @evaeleanor for helping us out there) ❤️ And here for the YouTube playlist.

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻 Fly Away with Me Tonight? [Gen, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: Levitating by Dua Lipa  🎵Summary: A chance meeting, an invitation to dance

📻 ghost (might as well be gone) [Gen, Digital ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Might as Well Be Gone by Pixies  🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy retired from the Auror force and left England a decade ago, but he still receives the Daily Prophet. Today’s issue provides closure on the one case he was never able to officially solve.

📻 MY FRIENDS SAY I SHOULDN'T SEE YOU ANYMORE [T, Digital Art ]

🎵 Song Prompt: bad idea right? by Olivia Rodrigo  🎵 Summary: Both Draco's and Harry's friends don't approve of their little... dalliance. But it's so hard to stay away from each other! Could this be a bit more than just casual?

📻 He Did IT! [Not Rated, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: No Body, No Crime by Taylor Swift   🎵 Summary: Harry: I think he did it but I just can't prove it, 'Mione!!  Hermione: And, what exactly did he do, Harry?  Harry: I-, I don't know! Something! He has to! It feels weird every time I look at him!!  Hermione: .....  Ron: ......  Ron: Mate...  *****  Or, it's sixth year and Malfoy is definitely up to something! Why else would Harry's heart beat so fast every time the stupid git so much as looks at him!?!

📻 A Quiet Life [T, Digital art]

🎵 Song Prompt: A Quiet Life by Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld  🎵 Summary: After their relationship becomes public knowledge; after being hounded by the paparazzi; after Draco says enough is enough and leaves London; Harry’s more than happy to follow.  After all, a quiet life is all he’s ever wanted.

📻 The Shape I found you in [Not Rated, Digital art]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'The Shape I found you in' by 'Girlyman'  🎵 Summary: But your heart was busy within,  Building bomb shelters under your skin.  That's the shape I found you in

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic and Art 🎶

📻 Trade My Heart For Honey [M, 64.170, Digital Watercolour]

🎵 Prompt: Water Under The Bridge by Adele  🎵 Summary: A Witch who thinks she’s a Seer, a Seer who thinks she’s a Witch, a former nemesis-turned-something-turned-acquaintance who thinks they could be friends, and a Scottish village full of Muggles who think this is as much their business as the fair folk in the woods. Draco is going to prove them all wrong.

📻 Thunder [E, 11,325, digital]

🎵 Song Prompt: "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac  🎵 Summary: Harry and Ginny are on a break. Harry and Ginny don’t want anyone to know. Harry assumes Ginny is fucking their way through their Quidditch team. Harry punches Draco Malfoy in the face in his free time. Harry considers this a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism. Harry figures that as long as he keeps everything the way that it is, that everything will stay the same, and nothing bad will happen, and Ginny will stay with him, and Malfoy will keep quietly visiting his dreams.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 You're on Your Own, Kid [E, 44.274] 

🎵 Song Prompt: You're on Your Own, Kid by Taylor Swift  🎵 Summary: In August of 1998, Draco leaves behind everything he’s ever known. With the help of two middle-aged lesbians, a Muggle bookshop, and a new best friend, Draco’s future is finally looking up. That is, until Harry Potter wanders back into his life a year later, undoing everything Draco has worked towards.  Or, a tale about healing, forgiveness, and living for no one but yourself.

📻 Heartbeat [E, 22,791]

🎵 Prompt: Heartbeat by Childish Gambino  🎵 Summary: Harry hates Draco, and Draco hates him in return. Only it's not hate, not even a little bit. Featuring: a cooperative independent study, golden hour on wrecked sheets, strawberries in the summer at Grimmauld Place, water from fountains of (dubious) origin, purple Mardi Gras beads, and a bird with silly legs.  Also featuring: heated arguments, infidelity, unquenchable desire, and heartbreak. Over and over again.

📻 Long for Bliss! [E, 9,400]

🎵 Song Prompt: This Must Be It by Röyksopp  🎵 Summary: Harry has a tough decision to make: take the blue pill or the red pill. He chooses a pink one instead and throws caution to the wind. What blows back comes in the form of a blond fallen angel that talks like he’s the Devil and moves like he’s fucking.  Or: Harry tries MDMA for the first time and unexpectedly encounters a mysteriously captivating Draco at KOKO London.

📻 Going Down Swinging [E, 4,661 ] 

🎵 Song Prompt: Hello Mudduh, Hello Fadduh! by Allan Sherman  🎵 Summary: “Who are you?” he asked, feeling around for a truly abominable pair of glasses he fixed firmly above his nose.  “I’m Draco,” he answered. “Draco—” He paused. It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember; it was that the memory wasn’t there.

📻 The Most He’s Ever Said [E,16,431]

🎵 Song Prompt: One of Your Girls by Troye Sivan  🎵 Summary: It takes them twenty years.

📻 Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Seduction (DISCLAIMER: not guaranteed to work on one HJ Potter) [M, 11,107 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Push the button' by 'Sugababes'  🎵 Summary: Harry's gorgeous. Draco wants him.  Draco's exasperatedly trying to get him to get. the. message.

📻 karma is a (cat) [E, 8,714 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Karma by Taylor Swift  🎵 Summary: Draco knew that his karma would come one to him one day and make him pay for all the mistakes he made during the war.  But he didn’t expect for it to have four legs, white whiskers, and a soft bushy tail.

📻 Kiss and Tell [E, 27,786 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Kiss and Tell by Bryan Ferry  🎵 Summary: Sometimes, Harry really fucking hated being himself. All he wanted was to be left alone. That, and someone to share his life with. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so.  When Harry’s sex-life was plastered across the front page of the Daily fucking Prophet, he decided to get away until it all died down. Unfortunately, trouble had always known how to find him.  Would it be possible to forgive the unforgivable?

📻 When the Flood Comes [E, 10,340]

🎵 Song Prompt: Eat Your Young by Hozier  🎵 Summary: Nine years on from the war, Auror Potter is upholding the Ministry of Magic's rule of law.  Senior legal counsel Draco Malfoy is challenging it.  And absolutely nothing is as it seems.

📻 Never Getting Over You [E, 4,396]

🎵 Prompt: Attention by Charlie Puth  🎵 Summary: Harry finally gets the push he needs to fight for what he's lost after a breakup that no one wanted.

📻 Mermaid [E, 3,000]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Mermaids' by Florence and The Machine  🎵 Summary: “Your magic,” Harry says. “It’s gone.”  “It’s a curse,” Draco says, sounding wry. “Courtesy of Aunt Bellatrix. Disown a Black, and you’ll take their magic away, too. Even if their family name is Malfoy.” “What could bring your magic back?” Draco laughs in his ear. “True love’s kiss," he murmurs. And then he turns in Harry’s arms.

📻 Us, infinite (unfortunately) [E, 77,287 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: All Things End by Hozier  🎵 Summary: It’s very fitting for how Harry’s life has gone thus far that he gets trapped in a time loop without rhyme, reason, or warning.  To make matters infinitely worse, the one other person stuck on the same hellish chronological ride is Draco Malfoy, git extraordinaire.

📻 I made loving you a blood sport (so let's play) [E, 3,032]

🎵 Song Prompt: Blood Sport by Sleep Token  🎵 Summary: They sat in an odd kind of silence, comfortable in its discomfort. In the predictability of its recklessness. The thing between them was as palpable as the thick smoke in the air, consumed with every breath, and likely just as bad for them.

📻 Everything that can go wrong will go wrong [T, 5,178]

🎵 Song Prompt: If You Were Mine by Leon Bridges and Miranda Lambert  🎵 Summary: “You can move in with me!”  Shit. Apparently there was still a possibility to make a fool out of himself to his crush despite his best efforts at minimizing contact. Draco and Andromeda looked at him in record speed, showing their own expressions of confusion. Maybe at his appearing out of nowhere, maybe at his panting that made it seem like he just ran a marathon for some reason, or maybe at his abrupt and impulsive suggestion. Shit. Teddy wasn’t even here to take off the edge—Harry was completely alone in this one.  After a pause, Draco fully turned to him with a manner that definitely showed his opinion of how stupid Harry was, and asked, “What?”

📻 Antelucan Ruins [E, 29,453] 

🎵 Song Prompt: Ghost by Justin Bieber  🎵 Summary: From the bloody Prophet, Draco discovers Harry Potter’s death splashed in grey ink printed on the front page. Potter is dead before Draco gets to see him again to fulfil a half-spoken promise. And yet, these days Draco has the power to bend the world to his heart’s desires, and that includes fucking Harry Potter even after he personally saw Potter’s pale, lifeless body lying in a coffin before it got buried under the soil. —  "Do you realise that you're just as pathetic and insane? You're so hung up on the idea of me that you'd fuck a ghost, Malfoy. You risked your life for it."  Draco puts an arm around Potter's body, "Whoever says I am sane? Certainly not me. It's calculated risk with more success rate than failure. And you are dead, Potter. You refuse to move on to the next realm because you crave for my cock."

📻 I've Been There (sitting in that same chair) [Gen, 2,212]

🎵 Song Prompt: The Village by Wrabel  🎵 Summary: People keep knocking on Draco’s door. Draco just wants to read his book (he doesn’t mind, really).  Or: Draco gets to be the supportive queer person he’d wished for when he was younger.

📻 Lonely Rivers [M, 7,370]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Unchained Melody' by 'The Righteous Brothers'  🎵 Summary: Six years after the end of the war, Harry takes care of Teddy Lupin and has started to learn guitar. Hermione negotiates with foreign powers. Draco's a trainee Healer with a glam karaoke routine. And when Ron and Parvati decide to get married, they find a job for everyone...

📻 How to Begin [E, 8,478]

🎵 Song Prompt: Blush by Orville Peck  🎵 Summary: Harry is completely, pathetically besotted with his flatmate, Draco. Fuelled by liquid courage, he finally makes his move when he's absolutely sozzled. What could possibly go wrong?

📻 Oneiros [E, 13,125]

🎵 Song Prompt: Enter Sandman by Metallica  🎵 Summary: When contact with a weird vase traps Harry in his nightmares, it's Unspeakable Draco Malfoy's task to rescue him. In order to do so, he will have to face his past and his family history and win a duel of wits against a Morpheus and try to be better than his father each step of the way...

📻 Say When [E, 24,545]

🎵 Song Prompt: Undisclosed Desires by Muse 🎵 Summary: When Auror Harry Potter is sent in undercover to determine if Draco Malfoy is laundering money through his BDSM club, will he be able to keep up the ruse and close the case? Or, more to the point, will he keep from falling in love?

📻 crawlin' helpless on the floor [M, 1,525]

🎵 Song Prompt: Cure For Pain by Morphine  🎵 Summary: It doesn't take much to torment a man when he's three broken contracts away from being out of a job and down a newspaper.

📻 Hell is the talkin' type [E, 7,309]

🎵 Song Prompt: Dinner and Diatribes by Hozier  🎵 Summary: “Morgana, I need a drink,” Draco sighs. “Why did I let you convince me to participate in this torture again?”  Harry chuckles. “Because I’m your husband, and you love me?” he offers.  “Bah. Remind me not to let myself be so sentimental next time.”

📻 Mr Blue Sky [E, 69,024]

🎵 Song Prompt: ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ by ‘Electric Light Orchestra’  🎵 Summary: Mr Blue Sky, please tell us why, you had to hide away for so long...   After five years, Malfoy had finally escaped house arrest, and he moved in just a few streets down from Grimmauld Place. Overnight, the Daily Prophet seemed to fall in love with him. For his charity work, and his charming smile, and—Harry was sure—his prattish fucking personality. No matter how hard Harry tried, he couldn't stop running into him.  He had bigger problems, though. His best friends in the world were having a baby together, which was fantastic, except that they weren't sure he could hold it together well enough to be Godfather.  But despite being flat broke, with a dead dad, and no one willing to risk hiring him, Malfoy appeared to be completely in control of the narrative surrounding his newfound freedom. Maybe Harry could learn a thing or two from the best of the best.  After all, he had the entire pregnancy to convince Ron and Hermione he was perfectly, entirely, 100% fine. If sometimes he had to fistfight Malfoy about it, well, that was nothing new.

📻 'tis the damn season [M, 2,892]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'tis the damn season by Taylor Swift  🎵 Summary: He doesn’t know why the universe seems to keep placing him in Potter’s proximity every time he returns to London. He doesn’t know how they keep falling into bed, every year, like clockwork.  Draco has tried not to question it.

📻 Tecum Ad Astra [M, 3,257]

🎵 Song Prompt: Levitating by Dua Lipa  🎵 Summary: It's Friday night and Harry Potter is relaxing with a good book in front of a crackling fire.  But he should be at the club.

📻 Music to my ears [E, 13,190]

🎵 Song Prompt: River flows in You, Yiruma  🎵 Summary: Harry is completely captivated by the beautiful music played on a street piano at a park in Cambridge. He is, however, unprepared for whom the pianist turns out to be.

📻 Pancakes for Dinner [T, 2,176]

🎵 Song Prompt: Pancakes for Dinner by Lizzie McAlpine  🎵 Summary: Draco’s on a trip to visit Harry in his new city at his new job. He’s not brave enough to say how he really feels.

📻 Seasons [E, 9,314]

🎵 Song Prompt: Águas de Março (Waters of March) by Antônio Carlos Jobim  🎵 Summary: Seconds pass, and it’s like he can see Draco worrying the sliver of glass in his heart, looking for a way to press it out, to expose the wound to the sun. It’s life; Harry can be patient.

📻 Two Houses [E, 11,498]

🎵 Song Prompt: Social Cues by Cage the Elephant  🎵 Summary: Two households, both alike in... meddling Floo connections, apparently?  Draco Malfoy is a highly professional and well-respected Ministry official, with a demanding schedule, a loving son, and—through no fault of his own—a faulty Floo connection that keeps regurgitating the Minister for Magic through his fireplace.

📻 Perpetual Motion, Perpetual Sound [E, 51,165]

🎵 Song Prompt: Perpetual Motion, Perpetual Sound by Lovers  🎵 Summary: Harry Potter can’t sleep.

📻 Closing Time [E, 18,406]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Closing Time' by 'Semisonic'  🎵 Summary: Draco’s been invited to Neville’s stag party in Bristol, and he's confident he knows what to expect. There’ll be too many Gryffindors, for starters, plus a few humiliating team-building activities, some dodgy clubs, and a truly preposterous level of alcohol consumption.  But… a drunken Harry Potter climbing into Draco's bed when he’s having a wank?  No, he definitely didn't see that coming...

📻 every scrap of you (you left them all to me) [E, 54,191]

🎵 Song Prompt: marjorie by taylor swift  🎵 Summary: Twelve years on from the war, Harry finds himself in an endless cycle of bedding Draco Malfoy, and waking up alone. Desperate to understand why Draco won't give him a chance to be something more, he commits to courting the slippery blond git.  But there's a reason Draco can't fall for him, and Harry will go to the darkest depths to change that.

📻 What are you doing Sunday, baby? [M, 12,034]

🎵 Song Prompt: Disco 2000 by Pulp  🎵 Summary: Draco needs a respectable husband to strengthen his reputation before his in-laws try to take Scorpius from him. Who better than his ex, the independently wealthy, out and proud single father, Harry Potter?

📻 Too Good At Raising Hell [E, 87,462]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Too Good At Raising Hell' by 'The Struts'  🎵 Summary: When Harry Potter walks into Draco’s nightclub looking like trouble, Draco can’t stop staring. He really ought to train his dick not to react so enthusiastically to red flags, but where would be the fun in that?

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 [Podfic] Move, move [T, 54:30 ]

🎵 Song Prompt: Bar Italia by Pulp 🎵 Summary: She grabbed Harry’s hand, slipping something small into it and pressing his fingers around it.  “Dilectio. It’ll cheer you up. Make you feel like dancing.”  Harry gaped at her. Drugs. Ginny’s fucking giving me drugs?  At Stasis nightclub Ginny does indeed give Harry drugs. But it's all good: Malfoy looks after Harry, and Harry grapples with newfound enlightenments, not to mention a newfound fascination with all things Malfoy—one which persists even when he finds out what Malfoy's up to.

📻 [Podfic] A Different Kind of Meaning by p1013 [E, 01:42:57]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Outnumbered' by Dermot Kennedy  🎵 Summary: The ceiling doesn't hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There's a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning.  It's the first constructive thing he's done in years.

📻 [Podfic] Case of You [Et, 11:48:56]

🎵 Song Prompt: Case of You by Joni Mitchell  🎵 Summary: Draco was doing just fine working as an Unspeakable in Paris, hanging out with his living and ghostly pals, inventing new spells, and definitely not thinking about Potter. Then, Lucius just had to break out of prison and turn his world upside down.  Now, Draco has to return to England, where he is forced to confront how family ties bind us—and one infuriatingly fit Harry Potter.

[slytherizz]

In The Shadow of Us - Sebastian Sallow x Female!MC/Reader

a/n Scene from Chapter 11 of 'ItSoU' commissioned from the incredibly talented @diligentcranberry as a Christmas present to myself - It's so pretty I still cannot stop staring at my traumatised darlings. I never really shared much of my long fics on Tumblr besides the first chapters so here's some smut.

Chapter 11 Tags: Smut | Angst | Post-Azkaban!Seb | Enemies to Lovers | explicit sexual content | explicit language | forced proximity | Only One Bed (life sentence in Azkaban for me and my tropes)

You can read the complete fic on Ao3.

Chapter 11 under the cut...

The streets of Hogsmeade were deserted besides a small grey cat that scurried along the chimney stacks. Perhaps the return of Ashwinders to the area had scared most reasonable people to their beds. But neither she nor Sebastian had ever been reasonable people and they stood oddly calm in the night air outside the familiar tavern she'd apparated them to. 

“I don’t want to go back to Poppy’s - too dangerous. Harlow may be bold but even he’d think twice before darkening Sirona’s door,” she said with a tight smile. Sebastian recalled that first trip to Hogsmead and was pleased to know some things hadn't changed.   

She pushed through the heavy doors of the ancient pub. It was quiet. Where one would usually find patrons huddled in corners, playing cards over stiff drinks there were empty chairs. Where you'd see student that had sneaked out of the castle to drink and sing crude songs of their rival Quidditch teams until Sirona would shoo them out in the wee hours of the morning, there was silence. There would be no stumbling drunken feet of friends and young lovers up the long path to the castle castle tonight.

“Sirona?” she called and her voice echoed through the emptiness. The older witch appeared from behind the bar, her wand in hand as if she expected trouble to come knocking more than revelers these days.

“Oh, there’s a face I haven’t seen in a while. Hello, love-” her eyes landed on Sebastian with a look of surprise, but her eyes softened as she took him in. 

“Hello son, you look like you could use a drink,” she smiled. Sirona looked older, her hair peppered with grey around her temples the creases around her eyes more defined but her manner was familiar and Sebastian felt the tension leave his shoulders. 

Sirona like any good innkeeper, had that innate ability to sense your needs before you had a chance to voice them. With a flick of her wand two glasses of firewhiskey settled on the bar in front of her. Sebastian took a seat on the high stool and took a deep gulp from the glass relishing the burn as the amber liquid slipped down his throat. 

The witch slid into the space seat beside him and took a tentative sip from her own glass with a wince. She never had been able to handle her drink and he laughed slightly at her sour expression. 

"It's good to see you, Sirona," Sebastian said honestly. Sirona had always been kind to him. An aunt like figure to Sebastian and a shoulder to lean on more times than he’d care to remember. She'd seen him grow from a mischievous boy into a troubled young man, but unlike other she had never drawn back from Sebastian. Much like the pub itself Sirona was a constant pillar of support, always open when someone needed it most. 

Sirona poured herself her own glass, and topped up Sebastian's. She leaned back on against the counter on the opposite side of the bar her eye flicked between the two of them. 

"I won't ask exactly what event have led to you both being here tonight," she gestured between them amused "I know you can't tell me about your work dear, as much as I'd love to know the details - my guess it has something to do with Harlow."

"You're too perceptive for your own good, Sirona," the auror chuckled. "I promise, you'll be the first to know when this is all over."

"I hope so. Business has been dreadful, the inn is doing well but my bar sales..." she grimaced "Hogwarts is practically under lock down and even I'm beginning to miss the Gryffindor Quidditch team's terrible singing." 

"No one wants to be on the streets these days so most of my rooms are full. Unfortunatly, you'll have to share." The witch sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and looked at Sebastian nervously through her lashes. It wasn't like they had never slept together before. They had infact done a lot more together than sleep, it was almost amusing how this woman who had fought fully grown trolls at the tender age of fifteen, who had spent the last five years fighting dark wizards; yet Sebastian made her nervous and he luxuriated in the knowlege. He shrugged at her, as he schooled his features into an unreadable mask. Sirona's eyes flicked between them. 

The witch beside him stretched her arms as she yawned and wrinkled her nose at the dirt crusted under her fingernails. 

“It’s the usual place in the attic, dear. The bathrooms just down the hall,” Sirona smiled warmly at her. The witch finished the last dregs from the bottom of her glass, stifled a cough on her sleeve from the burn and slid off the stool to make her way upstairs. 

Sebastian tracked her movements across the bar before she slipped up the stairs. A knowing smiled tugged at the corner of Sirona’s mouth, her eyebrows quirked and he drowned the lump that formed in his throat with a deep swig from his glass.

“I must admit despite the circumstances - it's nice to see you both together again. You two were inseparable as teenagers and both so serious too. I guess with hindsight, I know why…" a sad smile deepened the creases around her eyes. 

"We bring out the worst in each other," he sighed with a shake of his head.

"I'm not so sure. Unfortunately, I think you both would be who you are no matter what. You both had to grow up far too fast, but I think you understand each other in a way others can't."

“Maybe we didn’t understand each other as well as you thought,” he grumbled. If she truly understood Sebastian wouldn't she have stood by his side after everything that happened but her words still rung in his mind -

I would care.

Sirona fixed him with an assessing eye, as if she was peeling him back. As if she could sense every hateful, lusty and confusing thought he’d had of the witch upstairs. Sebastian shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and she softened. 

"Not everyone gets a second chance at happiness, Sebastian. Don't waste yours."

Sirona said it like it was so simple. Like he could erase the last five years if he let himself. Coming from anyone else he would have hexed them. Sirona she met the world through the doors of this old pub, listened to everything from the lamenting of love sick teenager and world weary travelers who'd seen the darkest crevices of this world. He didn't know where his own problems fit in to that scale but he rolled it over in his mind.

A second chance. The words soothed his soul.

***

The summer at Poppy’s had done him good. Sebastian stared at his face no longer gaunt and hollow through the steamed up mirror of the small bathroom in the Three Broomsticks. If it wasn’t for the tattoos that covered his torso and crept up his neck he would barely think he’d been in Azkaban at all.

His clothes no longer hung off of him as he’d regained the strength and despite the nightmares that still haunted him nightly his eyes were no longer framed by dark bruises. The constellations of freckles that peppered his face and shoulder had returned in earnest, dark across his nose and cheeks. He adjusted his towel around his neck to cover the tattoo on his chest and placed his hand over the one on his neck.

This is who he would have been, if he’d never been to Azkaban.

He muttered a scourgify on his trousers before he pulled them on. Spells never made his clothes fully clean and not wanting to dirty himself further he left his dusty shirt in a the wicker laundry basket. Sebastian padded across the hall and hesitated in front of the door. He couldn't hear anything from beyond the door. 

With a long exhale he stilled his breath and rapped once on the door to announce his entrance.

She leaned against the windowsill her arms crossed over her thin nightdress. Her hair was loose from its braids and it fluttered in the warm summer breeze from the window. She watched the streets with a feline stillness, like an assassin on the roof alert and vigilant. Her eyes flicked up to meet his own as the door creaked, announcing his arrival. 

He clicked the door behind him but he could feel her eyes on him. Sebastian raised his eyebrows at her a small smile tugged at his lips at the way her eyes roamed over the bare expanse of his chest. The room seemed stiflingly small, the low vaulted ceiling left little space for more than the bed and a small nightstand. She was propped up on the windowsill, Sebastian leaned beside her and felt the warm air lick over his skin. 

She swallowed audibly and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. He see her from the corner of his eyes scan the bare expanse of his skin. 

"What do they mean?"

"You're an auror, I thought they would teach you this kind of thing?" Sebastian frowned. 

"No."

Sebastian moved in front of her her and caught her hand in his, admiring the way her chest swelled as she held in a tight breath. He brought her fingers to press into neck, his skin tingled under the featherlight touch.

“This is me. Prisoner identification number,” he supplied, as he turned so her fingers could glide down his spine "These mark each unforgivable curse, they found when the Wizengamot surveyed my wand."

Her nimble fingers traced each ugly black stain on his skin in turn. 

Crucio. Imperio. Avada Kadavra.

She lingered over each one, as if they were familiar like she knew they should decorate her own skin. 

Sebastian turned slowly back to face her and took her hand in his once again. Finally, he pressed her palm flat over the one on his chest. Directly over his heart. He knew she could feel how hard it pounded in his chest. Sebastian's face so close to hers, he could feel her stuttered breaths against his freckled cheeks.

"This is my sentence. Life In Azkaban." She sucked in a breath through her teeth. 

Sebastian didn’t want to explain the one on his wrist. The one he scratched at more fervently than the others. A particularly cruel form of punishment designed especially for him. When they peered into my mind, saw what tortured him most; It was always her. They’d inked her name in their ancient texts.

They stared into each other for what felt like an eternity. He waited for her to pull back, to recoil from him. Waited for his own body to do the same; to remember every aching moment of the past five years. But with her hand still pressed against his skin, her eyes boring into his own every rational thought burned away.

Sebastian wanted to be the version of him that stared back at him from the mirror. The one that did not bear the weight of the last five years. 

He let his lips ghost across hers.

Sebastian wondered if this was some new form of torture and this was some feverish fantasy of a man slowly dying in Azkaban. Or if they'd chained him to her on purpose, the only one who made him feel blood boiling hatred and blinding desire. A kaleidoscope of feelings, brutal, dirty and wonderful. To make him lose every rational thought in his body as her mere existence overwhelmed him before they ripped it away. 

She whimpered into the hairbreadth distance between his lips and hers. A pleasureful little sound that made some primal part of Sebastian practically purr with need. With one hand still pressed to his chest her other to wrapped around his neck to roughly pull his lips to hers in a feverish kiss.

Sebastian’s hands fisted into her hair, drawing her into him. The taste of her, the feel of her pressed against him made him feel like the world tipped on its axis. He nipped needily at her bottom lip and she gasped, granting him access to flick his tongue between her now parted lips.

She kissed him back feverishly, her own tongue collided with his own. He knew no one had touched her like this and it was like they’d both been starving. Her lips hungry against his own.

But he needed more.

In his desperation to feel as much of her as he could, hold her to him so she couldn't be stolen from his grasp Sebastian maneuverer her back until she collided with the wall. He pressed the entirety of himself against her, shamelessly dragging his hands along her curves.

He knew he was being rougher than he’d ever been as his hands groped every inch of her. But he was a man starved of touch for so long and he clung to her as if his very life depended on it. She seemed to crave that hardness as much as he did, as she ground her core against him where his leg had nestled between her thighs. Her fingers clung to his shoulders; her nails decorated half-moons amongst the splattered freckles. He hissed with delight at the pleasureful pain, as it broke through the numbness he’d felt for so long.

He grasped her chin to access her neck, to trail fire down her skin as he nipped at her thundering pulse. His teeth grazing every inch of her throat.

Sebastian snaked down the dips of her curves, to pinch and knead at her sides through the fabric as he worked his way to the hem of her nightdress. He slipped under her skirt to squeeze her backside and he savoured the vibrations in her throat against his lips from the groan that escaped her lips.

With how soft her skin was against his calloused hands he wanted – no needed to feel more of it.

She groaned in protest at the loss of his lips as he pulled the offending garment over her head. As if to stop their passions for even for a second would stifle the flames.

Sebastian stopped his assault on her skin to drink her in. His hands swept over the curves, fuller than he remembered, over the puckered skin of faded battle scars. In the soft lamp light, her hair unbound and wild, her lips swollen and her chest heaving she looked fucking exquisite.

She pulled him back into her roughly, her teeth knocked against his as her tongue delved into his mouth once more. Her fingers entwined in his chestnut hair, he shuddered as her nails scratched against his scalp. Sebastian hands resumed their assault, exploring ever dip and curve of her exposed flesh he’d devoured with his eyes. Intoxicated by the way her nipples pebbled as he grasped her breasts in his calloused hands. He captured the needy mewls that escaped her as he rolled them between his fingertips.

Sebastian trailed his hand between the peaks and down her stomach. His fingers grazed the sensitive spot between her thighs through the lace of her knickers. He chuckled against her lips as he slid his hand beneath the already damp material. Her folds were already slick and needy. Her lips didn’t say it, but her wetness told him she craved him as much as he did her. He stroked tantalising circles the small bundle of nerves, savouring every moan and whimper against his lips. He could feel her heart hammer in her chest. She ground her hips against his fingers as her eyes fluttered closed as a waves of pleasure crashed over her.

“Look at me,” he commanded. Her eyes snapped open to meet his own, she looked at him through hooded eyes “I want you to know it’s me - Who does this to you. Makes you feel like this.”

Her lips were parted as if she was going to respond but any words died on her lips as he slid a finger inside of her. Sebastian crooked his finger to find that spot inside of her that made her knees buckle. Her head lolled back against the wall with a throaty cry, barely held up by her weaked legs but her eyes never left his. He nipped at her throat approvingly.

Sebastian was achingly hard and strained against his trousers. He relished the friction of where his cock was rutted against her thigh. The scent of her own arousal coupled with the feel of his own was a heady concoction. He wanted to feel her climax under the entirety of him not just his fingers.

He withdrew sharply from her; a groan escaped her at the loss but Sebastian was quick. He unbuckled his belt and tore the leather from around his hips. His hands groped her perfect backside, as he lifted her up. She yelped in surprise, but her thighs instinctively squeezed round his middle. She kissed across his freckled face, and nipped at his earlobe as he carried her.  

Sebastian flung her onto the mattress and it creaked under her weight. He shoved off his trousers and underwear in one swift motion. His hard cock arching proudly, relieved to finally be released from the confines of his trousers. He prowled up the bed towards her and she lifted her hips so he could peel her knickers down her legs.

He ran his hands along her shapely calves and trailed his mouth along her stomach. He took her nipple in his mouth; he flicked his tongue over the bud whilst his hand re-found the bundle of nerves at her core. He circled it twice before teased two fingers into her entrance, she groaned and rutted her hips shamelessly against his fingers. She wanted him, her kiss swollen lips wouldn’t say it, but her body couldn’t lie.

She clasped at his freckled cheeks and pulled his lips to hers again. He growled with satisfaction as moved her legs apart expectantly. Caged under the full weight of him she wanted to feel all of him, between her legs.  

Sebastian aligned himself with her entrance and paused to savour the lusty look in her eyes. Sprawled out below him, bare and wild like a nymph from some Greek tragedy that would surely be his undoing. They would be each others undoing. 

She wouldn’t say it, but he knew he needed to hear it from her swollen lips. 

“Beg me for it,” he growled low in her ear, his nose burrowed into her tangled hair.

“W-What?” she stammered. Her pupils were blown wide, and he savoured the mix of confusion and lust that swam in her eyes. He knew she wanted him. He could feel it between her thighs. But he wanted her to proclaim it, to know he wasn’t mad to think this was something she didn't just want but needed; just desperately as he did. 

“I said - Beg. Me.”

“Please-” she murmured as her hips inched towards him.   

“You can do better than that,” he purred, as he teased his hardened length across her folds once more making her groan.

They both knew this was insane. But if he was going to succumb to complete blinding madness, throw all rationale away; then she was coming down with him.

“I want you- I need you inside me. Sebastian, please,” her fingers scratched across his freckled shoulders in a desperate attempt to pull him inside of her.

Sebastian practically purred with delight to hear her beg for the man she’d condemned. Satisfied he sheathed the entirety of himself inside of her with one strong thrust. Her eyes rolled back and her eyelashes fluttered as she arched her back as he filled her. The feel of her pulsing heat around him almost sent him immediately over the edge. He released a groan of his own, low, and deep.

This was not the tender explorative touches of teenagers it had once been.

With every deliberate thrust into her, he drew incomprehensible moans and pleas to deities from her lips. Her hips bucked to meet each stroke as she writhed under him. Her calloused fingers mapped his skin, over each tattoo along his spine. Each one a mark of the sordid past they shared. She traced every freckle in every impossible spot no one had seen but her. The sensation of each featherlight touch and rough scratch sent shivers cascading through him.

Sebastian’s mouth fixed on her neck, leaving red welts where he sucked at the skin like he could replicate the branding of her that marked his own skin. To claim what had always been his.

As he ground his hips against her and she arched her back in approval, Sebastian wrapped his arm through the vacant space below her. He hauled her up to leave more bites along her chest. His other hand fisted possessively into her hair as if he despite the impossibility he could be closer to her. Each frantic thrust brought incoherent curses and praise from her lips. He felt dizzy with how her hips jerked demanding as much of him as she could, with how perfectly he fit inside her even after all this time.

Her nimble fingers pushed his still wet hair from where it had dropped into his eyes. She pressed her lips to his to absorb the curses and moans he hadn’t even realised were spilling out of his own mouth.  

Sebastian caught her trembling leg behind her knee in a bruising grip to hitch it up. To roughly plunge himself deeper inside of her, she released a strangled cry of approval. Her legs were strong from years of fighting, but he admired the valleys and dips he created in the soft skin of her thighs with his fingers. Her breathing hitched becoming more frantic as the angle pushed her to new heights of bliss. Every rasped moan spurred the motion of his hips as he eagerly chased the sounds only he could draw from her.

He could feel her body begin to tighten and pulse around him in a way that was maddening. Sebastian was desperate to feel her peak, but his body had a mind of its own as he thrust into her desperately, he knew his own release build deep in his gut. The last coherent part of his brain not overtaken by an animalistic need guided his hand down her stomach to stroke her clit. The overwhelming sensation of his cock and his fingers had her keening and stuttering as she began to crest her peak.  

“Say my name,” his voice no more than growl, as he struggled to hold back his own release.

Amongst the other senseless words that escaped her she cried his name. Loud and desperate from her swollen lips; an intoxicating sirens call, he would follow willingly to a watery grave. She hauled him down to bring his full weight on top of her as she climaxed. The way she said his name, even when she was near delirious, practically vibrating as she rode her orgasm.

To know he was the one who made he feel like this. The only one who could make her skin feel like it was on fire. The only mans name she’d ever cried when her earth shattered.

He slammed into her hard and fast prolonging that feeling of ecstasy for as long as long as his own frenzy would allow. But the feeling of her trembling release, and the continued raspy gasps of his name made his hips faulter. His teeth bit into her shoulder to muffle her own name that slipped from his lips in a guttural moan as he released inside her.

Sebastian’s chest heaved as his heart rattled against his ribcage, as he came down from his own earth-shattering bliss. They stayed like that for a while, his head pressed into the crook of her neck, still inside her to the hilt. Every inch of his skin where they were connected felt like it was on fire.

He didn’t kiss her again.

Sebastian rolled off of her, and she whimpered slightly at the loss of him inside her. They lay there together, sheets tangled around their limbs their minds fogged from their shared ecstasy.

Her mallowsweet scent was on the sheets, on his skin; it soaked into Sebastian’s mind. It silenced intrusive questions that simmered in his mind about what they’d just done. He knew they would come; he’d have to face them eventually but for now he wanted to pretend things were different.

So, for the first time in years - Sebastian slept and didn’t dream.

***

Sebastian woke as the dawn light streamed through the curtains. Golden hues illuminated the witch still curled beside him. The sheets tangled around her doing little to hide the curve of her hips, her hair fanned out around her like a halo.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. His brain felt loud as too many questions bubbled to the surface and made his head spin.

She stirred slightly when the mattress dipped as he climbed out of bed, but she buried her head back into the pillow. Sebastian released a relieved breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He needed to clear his head before he was ready to face her. He pulled on spare clothes from the nightstand Sirona had left out for him and slipped out the door.

It was the crack of dawn and Hogsmead was still very much asleep. He walked the empty cobble streets and tried to make sense of the complicated cocktail of emotions that bubbled in his chest. Sebastian seemed to be existing in a plane somewhere between self-loathing and infuriating yearning. 

Sebastian didn’t know what this meant for him, let alone for her. For them.

Could a version of them even exist anymore? Sebastian wondered if he even wanted it to. As much as he wanted to pretend the past five years hadn't happened they had and like a self fulfilling prophecy she had gotten under his skin, clouded all rational thoughts and distracted him from his mission once more. 

He’d began his slow plod back to the Three Broomsticks, resigned to the fact that he must face her eventually. He hadn't quite decided whether he wanted to pretend it had never happened or make her scream his name a hundred more times when a figure stepped into his path.

Sebastian froze, his hand instinctively reached for his wand. He cursed himself for being so wrapped up in thoughts of her that he’d left it in his old clothes. He squared his shoulders and met the amused stare of the stocky man in front of him.

“No need for dramatics, Sallow. I’m not here to hurt you,” chuckled Harlow. Sebastian should be shocked a wanted man like Harlow would appear so brazenly in the streets of Hogsmead. Maybe his own actions had last night had tapped him out and nothing could suprise him more than himself.

Much like Sebastian, months on the outside had brought a fullness back to Harlow’s face. Although no longer hollow cheeked his fine clothes did little to hide the ancient letters branded across his neck. But perhaps Harlow wasn’t trying to hide them, didn’t feel them burn into his skin as Sebastian did.

“Some how I find that hard to believe,” Sebastian ground out through clenched teeth. If it wasn’t for the knowledge that the auror would probably have to scrape what was left of Sebastian off the cobbled streets he would have launched himself at Harlow and tried to rip him apart with his bare hands.

“Come on now mate, we’re friends, aren’t we? Besides - I owe you, Sallow. With all our little chats, you’re the one who gave me my grand idea,” Harlow said with palms to the sky. His open face and arms mimicked the posture of a pious man of the cloth so at odds with the man Sebastian knew him to be.  

Sebastian’s felt the bile rise in his throat. What idea had he given him?

“I was thinking too small. Blackmail, bribery - why do all of that when I could be Minister of Magic? Wielder of dark ancient powers. Get revenge on the girl who locked us both away. Who could stand in my way? You understand don’t you, what it’s like to have that kind of power at your fingertips. What it would feel like to make them pay. Clever I admit, earning her trust before stabbing her in the back,” Harlow cast a wry eye over the collection of bruises that had formed below Sebastian’s jaw, and he chuckled. “She is a pretty little thing I admit. Don’t blame you for wanting to fuck her first.”

“You can’t get to the repositories. The goblins tried, it’s pointless-” Sebastian began. 

“I don’t need those repositories; I already have enough from what the goblins took to fix this,” his yellowed teeth broke into a wide smile, as he presented the pieces of the broken relic from the catacomb. That’s what Bettie had been desperately clutching to her chest “Then I can take her power for myself.”

The relic.

The one that could control the dead, dark magic and grant you any impossible desire if you paid it in blood. A man like Harlow would not be far pressed to provide it with a dark sacrifice it demanded. 

Sebastian felt a blood grow cold in his veins. Sebastian had spilled his secrets to the man beyond the wall and now they were all going to pay for it.

“I’ll see you round mate. Give her one for me will you,” Harlow winked. He whistled as he strode off through the vacant streets leaving Sebastian alone.

***

Sebastian stumbled back to the pub in a daze. His mind raced so fast he felt like it couldn’t remember how to breath and choked the air out of his lungs. Sebastian pushed into the attic room, desperate to feel his wand between his fingers, find the safety in his own magic.

The witch lifted her head woken from her slumber by his heavy footsteps. She greeted him with a sleepy smile.

No soft smiles could shake the panic from Sebastian’s bones. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff and his knuckles white where the ligaments in his hand strained against the door handle.

How can he tell her he’s the reason Harlow was after her ancient power. That he, however unwillingly, had given the man who’d designed his sisters pain all the tools he needed to spread it like a unstoppable poison.

This was his fault. He wondered if the world had always been right and Sebastian Sallow truly was cursed.  

She looked wounded at the frown that twisted his face and she drew the sheets tighter around herself protectively. Sebastian knows what this must look like. Like he must regret their night together. That last night was just one moment of madness.

She’ll think last night was a mistake eventually so why not cut to the chase. Save himself the pain of thinking he could be anything but cursed.

[descendantsramblings]

Hiiii could I maybe request an uliana x hooks sister where they are dating but hook is like super annoyed by them and just like super fluffy?

The Uliana girls are slowly making me love her as much as I love Uma, and I love to see it.

Double the Trouble

Uliana x Hook!Reader

Pronouns used: she/her/hers

Summary: It was like the couple couldn't go anywhere without her twin staring them down

Warnings: fluff. Minor mention of Ursula being awful, tongue kissing, pet names

Word Count: 1.6K

    He had been extremely clear, no siblings. James Hook was knowingly a flirt, a Casanova even. He loved the chase, cat and mouse was his favorite game, but even he had limits. No siblings. It would only make problems in their little group;  stir a pot that already lived on the brink of bubbling over. Of course, James and Uliana were the only ones who had ever had a sibling in the school, it feels a touch biased. But when Uliana saw his sister, when she really got to know her, all bets were off. If you were to ask the sea witch, the female pirate was double everything her brother was. Twice the flirting, twice the intelligence, double the brawn, and double the trouble. Were she a siren, Uliana would have had her under the spell of her song before she could understand what was happening to her. The best part of it was, she didn’t have to, there was absolutely no need to spell her. (Y/n) had approached her, cocky and arrogant, well aware of what she wanted. What she wanted originally was to piss off her brother, the boy had swooped in on a girl she’d been flirting with and stole her affections. Something that simply wouldn’t do in (Y/n)’s book, what else was she to do except for going after one of his friends? Scores had to be evened, didn’t they? 

     Except that, one fake date turned into two, then three. It doubled into six. And somehow, some way, the two went from only acting like a couple where Hook could see them to snuggling in one of their dorms until the wee hours of the morning. The kisses quit being preformative and started feeling incredibly natural. Both girls swearing -and instantly regretting- that Castlecoming would be their one last outing. They would be done harassing Hook for the fun of it, but surely going to the dance together would be a better look  for their group. It would look less suspicious if at least two couples showed up in the group right? Who would think they were there to pull a prank if they were dancing so close to someone? But when the two girls were slow dancing to “This is Love” as what they swore was a goodbye, (Y/n) couldn’t help but lean into Uliana’s lips. It was more real, more raw, not preformative like it should have been. And the sea witch, ever smitten with the first mate, couldn’t help but kiss her back. Not much changed between them after that. The girls simply went from “girlfriends” to girlfriends. A silent and seamless transition that no one outside of the two would have noticed. Never sharing the fact that they were ever a fake relationship to begin with. They decided that somethings got to just be theirs, their own secrets they’d take to their graves.

   It drove her twin brother mad. Especially in situations like this one. If Hook wanted to see his sister, he would go find her. She was not meant to be in Uliana’s dorm; her face nuzzled into the sea witch’s neck, Uli’s nails ghosting up and down the girl’s spine. The scene was too domestic, too cuddly, and he hated to admit it to himself, a touch romantic. That is not what he wanted to see while coming to ask- or more so beg-Uliana for something. “Hey, so Morgie and I need-“ she cuts him off with a snappy wave, her fingers pinching together in a sharp movement. “Do you have eyes, genius?” He does evidently, as they roll into the back of his head, his eyebrows raising with the motion. “Obviously.” “Then you can see that she’s asleep. Lower your voice or get out,” she’s whisper-yelling,  holding her girl ever so slightly closer. As if his only goal in coming to her dorm was to harass his sister, like he knew she’d be there asleep. The two of them could be so exhausting.  “So Morgie and I need to get a memory erasing spell, can you do that or do I need Maleficent’s help?” The snappy tone in his lowered voice earns him a pointed glare, a near-snarl painted on the girl’s lips. “What did you two geniuses do to need a memory erasing spell?” He waves her off, “Doesn’t matter. You or Mali?” She sighs, looking from one Hook to the other, “When would you need it by?” The boy smiles, convinced he’s succeeded in the task at hand. Surely Morgie was doing much worse trying to get the spell from Maleficent. He was winning now. “Preferably in the next 30 minutes?” She lets out sound vaguely similar to a hum, a very condescending hum. “What, Uli?” “Go get Mali to do it,” she grumbles the words, pulling the girl on her side ever closer, “I’m a very busy woman.” 

    He turns on his heel, head moving nearly animated as he speaks, mocking her, “I’m a very busy woman. God what do you want Uli? My voice? My soul? My blessing? You’re never getting that last one by the way. Siblings are still off limits!” Despite the snappy tone and rolled eyes he closes her door so softly you can barely hear the latch catch. He might not like the scene ahead of him, but his sister deserved her rest. He’d been on a pirate ship with the girl -and lived with her in general - long enough to know how badly she struggled to fall asleep. He’d never dare to genuinely mess with her needs. And Hook might never admit it, but if you looked at his face, you would be able to see the softest smile on the boy’s lips. A quiet sense of pride towards the fact that she found someone to put her above everything, it was something comforting. As if they all deserved a happy ending of their own rights.

  𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

    Uliana honestly couldn’t care less that her girlfriend’s brother could come in at any point. The hideout was hers; she could be all over (Y/n) there if she wanted to. Laying on that old sea shell chair, her lover lying beneath her while she rests her head on her chest. The pirate’s hand rubs over her lover’s back, creating a heart littered pattern on the fabric of the girl’s top. She peppers Uli’s forehead with kisses, humming a soft tune between them that the sea witch pretends she doesn’t know. It’s intimate, a quiet, cuddly display that tells her everything she needs to know.

    It was rare to see, (Y/n) knew it was rare to receive as well. Uliana was not one to give herself away to comfort. She had a need to be seen as a dominant, be seen as evil and strong. But she needed her girlfriend. Her arms were so warm, her hands so gentle and calculated in their movements. It made Hook being her twin all the more confusing. The boy was so fiery, making rash decisions and clumsy mistakes. Perhaps that’s why she was the first mate, he was the yin to her yang. She was the needed calm to his storm. And if she was honest, Uliana often wished he would be okay that she was standing in the eye of that storm. Not that she would ever admit to that. 

    “So, Dollbaby, do you have any interest in telling me what has your feathers all ruffled?” She shakes her head silently, leaning further into her lover’s touch. “Come on, there’s nothing to hide from, love. It’s just me, just us. I want you to talk to me.” Her eyes flicker up to the adoring and soft face of (Y/n) Hook, her smile calming the witch slightly. “Got a letter from Ursula.” She knew better than to push on something like that, instead pulling the sea witch up ever so slightly. Their lips meet the moment she’s close enough. A soft and needy thing, nearly lazy in its motions. Uliana’s hand find’s (Y/n) jaw, a slight smile being pressed against her lips before she goes back to kissing her. The hand on her back pulls her closer, lips coming ever so slightly parted which Uliana’s partner quickly takes advantage of. It was the easiest way to comfort the girl, making her your full focus. Who cares what others want from you when you have one person who brings you in like air? Like you were what kept oxygen in their lungs. At least that’s how Uliana felt, and (Y/n) had no interest in convincing her of otherwise.

    A gag comes from the entryway to the hideout, interrupting what could have been an extremely sweet moment. The soft laughter that follows the sound is immediately recognized as Maleficent and Hades, telling the kissing girls exactly who the gag came from. “Oh, leave them alone, Hook. They’re cute,” Morgie is giggling, watching Uliana move to sit up from where she previously rested on her partner’s chest. “Yeah Hook, we’re cute.” Dark eyes, looking at the cocky sea witch like he would bite her. “If you want to be all over my sister, you could at least go somewhere with an actual door. Don’t make me watch you treat her like a piece of meat.” Her eyes roll, smiling as she feels an arm wrap around her from behind. (Y/n)’s body heat finding its way back to warming Uliana up. “For your information, James, I was kissing her. That’s normally how it goes,” if Uliana were to turn around she’d see a cocky smirk on her lover’s face. The girl’s brow raised as if daring Hook to argue with her. “I don’t need to know all that. Don’t tell me all of that.” She giggles, turning her attention back to her girlfriend, pressing little kisses to Uliana’s shoulder. And he fake gags again, though when (Y/n) looks up she can see the soft smile on his face. He could hate them, not really. Not with how happy they both visibly were. It made it almost not worth teasing them, just almost. He could accept that having them next to each other would just have to double his troubles.

[munsonsduchess]

Monster Smash

summary: you meet eddie at a house party and the night takes an unexpected turn warnings: underage drinking, recreational drug use (weed), face sitting, oral (f receiving), semi public sex (eddie and the reader are in a room at a frat house during a party) w/c: 977 a/n: surprise bitch! another halloween fic! honestly with the amount of ghostface content on tiktok these days it was kind of inevitable we'd end up here, i was originally just going to post the other halloween fic but this one wouldn't leave me alone

It was Halloween and you were having the worst time. You didn’t know anyone at this party your roommate had dragged you to, citing that you needed to get out more, the drinks were shit, the music was shit, honestly you were tempted to just sneak out the back door of this frat house and claim you’d met somebody if your roommate asked the next day. 

You sighed and took another drink from your lukewarm beer and pulled at the hem of the black dress you were wearing. Usually you didn’t feel self conscious in the things you picked for yourself but being, less petite, than some of your peers and wearing something your roommate had picked out so you could both wear matching costumes (you got to be the bad witch) in a room full of obnoxious frat bros made you feel slightly … less confident than normal. 

You were about to cut and run when a guy appeared in front of you wearing a Ghostface Costume,

“What’s your favourite scary movie?”

“The Exorcist, 1973. A masterpiece in horror cinema” you responded without thinking. You hadn’t actually expected anyone to talk to you, after being basically ignored all night

“That’s, yeah that’s a really good pick” the guy pulled his mask off and you found yourself looking into the face of the local weed guy, Eddie Munson. 

Everyone you knew, yourself included, bought their weed from Eddie. His stuff was guaranteed to be the best and not laced with anything it shouldn’t be,

“It’s the line from the homeless guy in the subway ‘can you help an old altar boy father’ and then later on when they’re in Regan’s bedroom and she says the same thing in the same voice. Chills. Literal chills” 

“Such a good movie. They don’t make movies like that anymore, y’know? Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Rosemary’s Baby” 

“Have you seen X? Or Pearl? They have the same kinda vibes but are totally modern movies” 

“I’ve seen X. Massive Texas Chainsaw vibes” 

“Right!” 

You ended up finding a quiet corner with Eddie where the two of you could talk about horror movies for the rest of the evening. You’d honestly never really found anyone who loved horror the way you did so it was amazing to be able to vibe with someone like this. 

⊱ ────── {.⋅ 👻 ⋅.} ───── ⊰

The party raged on into the wee hours and by now both you and Eddie were feeling the effects of the beer and few joints you’d shared. You were feeling pleasantly buzzed and enjoying the attention of an attractive man, even if it wouldn’t go anywhere. 

“It’s so cool that you’re into horror, most people get freaked out or maybe enjoy those like conjuring movies”

“Ugh. The Warrens are the absolute worst, by all accounts they just scam people and then use their stories to write books and make more money” you gestured widely around the room, “how fucked is that?”

“Totally fucked” Eddie agreed 

“You know I almost didn’t come tonight but my roommate kinda forced me to” 

“Remind me to send your roommate a fruit basket or something as thanks then” Eddie said, “cause this is definitely a way better night than I thought it was gonna be”

“It’s so cool to meet a friend tonight” you agreed, “but aren’t you like ‘working’ the party?” 

Eddie laughed and you had to admit you loved the sound. You wondered if he would want to still be friends after the party was over,

“You’re cute. I mean sure it’s great talking like this but honestly, I saw you standing on your own and seriously couldn’t understand why cause just the sight of you in that dress had all the blood in my body run south. I mean, the fact that you’re awesome on top of being drop dead hot is a bonus”

Your brain short circuited for a moment and you couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing,

“So, you wanna get a room?” 

“Absolutely I do”

Eddie smirked wickedly at you before helping you off the couch and pulling you behind him to the main staircase and along a corridor to an empty room. 

⊱ ────── {.⋅ 👻 ⋅.} ───── ⊰

“Sit on my face, come on” Eddie grinned at you, taking one of your hands and pulling you towards the bed. 

You followed the tug and threw one leg over the bed and balanced on your knees. Before you could even try to think about how much weight to bear down you felt Eddie grab your hips and pull you down onto his face forcefully. 

There was no way you could focus on anything but the way Eddie licked into you hungrily. His hands on your hips dug into the flesh there and you threw your head back with the intense feelings, moaning loudly. 

“Oh my god Eddie”

Beneath you Eddie made a muffled noise which you assumed was positive since he didn’t stop what he was doing for even a moment. 

You wondered briefly how he could breathe but the thought left your mind as quickly as it had arrived when Eddie’s nose brushed against your clit and you saw stars. 

Eddie continued to suck and lick you through your orgasm and the aftershocks, the oversensitivity made you want to pull away but Eddie held you firm coaxing yet another orgasm from you until your legs began to shake. Only then did he allow you to pull away and catch your breath,

“Holy shit” you panted, trying to regain some of your self control,

“That’s only the warm up act baby. It’s just you and me and no one is gonna hear you when you scream my name as loud as you want to” 

This was definitely a way better night than you’d thought it would be when your roommate forced you out tonight. 

After all what was Halloween without a few screams?

[4thebedrockbros]

The obligatory SBI Hogwarts AU ( fuck jk Rowling tho)

With Phil, a war veteran as a defense against the art teacher, Tommy as a too powerful Gryffondor/Hufflepuff ( not sure ABT that one ) and Technoblade as a cursed Slytherin.

Technoblade is a pureblood with a family into some cult shit ( blood god ect ) that was supposed to be sorted into Ravenclaw but practically begged the hat to put him into Slytherin because he did nit want to deal with his family bullshit. With than the curse of voices, he gets into fight fairly often which causes him to almost always be in detention. ( That's how he meets Tommy and Phil )

Tommy Innit is a muggleborn just a wee bit too powerful and uncontrollable magic, that gets him into trouble at school but also in his everyday life in the Muggle world where he's a foster kid. ( Try to be a witch and a foster kid it's a pain in the ass ).

Philza Craft is a veteran, and also a crow animagus that's been requested to become a teacher at hogwart because the Minister of magic are a bunch of pussies scared of some prophecy. He's a defense against the dark arts teacher and also is responsible for the detention classes. Tommy and Techno basically becomes his responsibilities and if something happens with them he's called immediately ( before their families yes ).

As for other characters:

Tubbo is a pureblood Ravenclaw, and he's terrifying. The guy likes to create spells and testing things he probably shouldn't test with magic. He's also Tommy's best friend and would do anything for him. They meet while shopping for school necessities their first year and become unseperable.

Ranboo is a half blood Hufflepuff/Gryffondor ( again unsure ) with a powerful magic, to cope with it his body just erase memories of times he couldn't control themself. They meet Tommy Purpled and Tubbo in the train during their first year.

Purpled is a muggleborn Slytherin, he wasn't too shocked to develop magic because of all the weird shit around him during his childhood. While people think Ranboo is the most responsible out of them, he takes care of his friend in his own way and is the most responsible one.

Nikki is a pure blood Hufflepuff with a knack for healing magic. She's one of Techno's closest friend and will defend him against rumours spreading assholes.

Slimecicle is a ghost of a Ravenclaw student, thought he tends to hang out in the Slytherin dorms the most to hang out with Quality. When he's not there he tends to spy on students or spook them for fun.

Quackity is a pureblood Slytherin that used to be a dick to Techno but calmed down after getting his ass kicked. He gets along well with Tommy when the blonde didn't know what happened between them but once he learned Toms kinda kicked his ass verbally so they're not as close.

Sam is Charms/Potions teacher that took Tubbo under his wings to avoid mass destruction. He the second teacher to go to if the quatuor of chaos gets in trouble.

Ponk is our resident nurse of course.

[irishmammonagenda]

Types of Dogs I Think The Obey Me Brothers Would Have

Disclaimer: i know nothing about dog breeds other than my dog is better than every other dog in the world because i said so. this is all obviously my opinion because im 100% not holding off looking at my inbox for requests rn 😰

(wee emo anon + réalta and then the other random one ilysm for not doxing me fir being atleast a month late and not having even started with your reqs yet🙏🙏🙏)

post dividers by @saradika-graphics, images of the brothers below the divider are from amias on pinterest + all animal photos found on pinterest

LUCIFER

Irish Wolfhound

He already has a dog who he obviously loves very much (Cerberus) who is a hellhound, so he thought to himself that another hound would be a good idea since Cerberus gets lonely sometimes :(

He calls the dog 'Tuireann' because he thinks he's fucking funny.

You know that stereotype of the dad not wanting the dog but the dad ends up loving the dog like its his own child or something?

If you do know, then you know Lucifer.

Tuireann gets on very well with Cerberus. Lucifer makes a commitment to taking breaks more often and taking both out on walks, which terrifies his brothers, but has made Diavolo very happy with him. (Yay Lucifer taking care of himself for once!)

He cuddles up to both of them more often. Both dogs are very happy.

Will kill for his dogs btw :)

Laughed one time when Tuireann saw Solomon as a threat.

MAMMON

Golden Retriever

Someone told him he could win 'gold' at a casino. So he gambled, ended up winning (for once) and got his 'gold'.

This man was almost outraged when the 'gold' in question was a golden retriever puppy.

He was about to say something in outrage, then the witch plopped the little guy down into his arms and her little nose started sniffing at his exposed collarbone. He closed his open, outraged mouth and pet the little thing, blinking back small tears because it was so cute.

Mammon would like to argue that this did not happen but it did. The witch in question has proof and has sent Lucifer the video in apology for trying to summon him. Said witch is now a good acquaintance of Lucifer's, and has not been punished brutally. She has learnt her lesson and will not attempt to make a pact with the Avatar of Pride ever again. *Unlike Solomon. That bastard never learns.)

Mammon probably calls the dog something like 'Bailey'

He was originally going to call her 'Goldie' but then remembered that was his credit card's name. So he thought about the name 'Retrievie' but even to him that sounded fucking stupid.

He loves this dog so much and buys her so much dog toys and treats.

Gets his crows to play with her.

Mammon basically is a Golden Retriever if you think about it. (A Golden Retriever with mental issues that thinks its an awesome scary dragon or something, but a golden retriever none-the-less.)

He buys Bailey a bed but she literally only sleeps on him or on his bed.

When he lets her out into the garden while he's busy he always has atleast 2 crows watching her/playing with her.

He tries to train her to dig for buried treasure. Instructions unclear, they both dug up the whole back garden. He now has to fix the garden.

They say that a 'Dog is a Man's Best Friend', but this dog is Mammon's whole life.

There is dog hair all over this man. Atleast he's not an emo and doesn't wear all black.

Hair rollers are a must.

He cries when they're separated for more than a day in case you were wondering.

LEVIATHAN

Kokoni

Lucifer gave him it in an attempt to get Levi to touch grass once in a while.

At first Levi was scared of the dog, then he decided she was cute. Watches an anime about a dog and realises he should be a responsible owner and take her out on walks!

Leviathan has now touched grass. I repeat, Leviathan has now touched grass.

Calls her 'Ruri' you know he would.

He almost called her Henry 3.0

He has to make sure Henry 2.0 is unreachable to Ruri. He's scared Ruri might eat Henry 2.0

He's still kind of scared of Ruri but loves her.

Since getting Ruri he's actually been remembering to take care of himself. As a reward, once a month for a day or two, Lucifer will take over taking care of Ruri so Levi can have one of his gaming marathons uninterrupted.

Levi plays the Devildom equivalent to pokemon go while walking Ruri

Levi rants to Ruri about the anime or manga he's currently obessed with while playing with her with some chew toy or something.

She lays beside him in his bathtub sometimes and lays her head on his lap while he watches anime.

Lucifer is very happy with this outcome. So is Levi.

SATAN

Rottweiler

He originally saw something in some article or whatever he read about Rottweilers being aggressive, possibly saying that they weren't a 'good' dog breed.

Satan knows what its like to be labelled as aggressive and unsafe, so he has sort of a soft spot for 'bad' dog breeds.

So one day, he's talking to one of his various acquaintances, and for whatever reason, they visit an animal shelter.

Satan hears another couple say they wouldn't get a dog because 'isn't that breed really aggressive?' and he feels sad, he's not mad at the couple, it's a reasonable concern, but poor dog :(.

He approaches that worker a couple of minutes after his acquaintance leaves and asks them about the rottweiler.

Long story short he walks out with it on a leash, standard food, and a bowl courtesy of the shelter.

Calls the dog 'Julie' because he had just finished pirating a preformance of Romeo and Juliet. (which he enjoyed criticising, but he liked the name Juliet and also Belphie likes the band Julie so)

He makes sure to take the time and effort to socialise Julie with cats because this is Satan we're talking about for fuck's sake.

He takes Julie on walks before stopping at a dog-friendly café in the Devildom.

Julie also sleeps on Satan's lap when she's tired and he's reading.

Satan gets a lot more into audiobooks after he adopts Julie so he can still technically 'read' without having to ignore his new pooch.

Will write several books on why she's the best girl ever, and will make you read them.

ASMODEUS

Westie

A fan gifted him a dog for his birthday for some reason. At first he accepted the gift and devised a plan to give the dog away but the shelter was closed over the weekend, so he elected to let the dog stay with him until then.

Ends up getting attached. This is his baby now.

Calls her 'Angel' because he thinks she's an angel. She also kind of reminds him of Luke so.

This little rat is all over his Devilgram.

So much so there are fanclubs for her now.

This little rat has fanclubs.

Angel gets walked everyday. Asmo loves the excerise and says its done wonders for his skin.

He doesn't like when she digs, but oh well.

Loves grooming her.

Cuddles galore.

He trains her how to do tricks.

His excitable nature really goes well with hers, and they really bond.

The fan that gave her to him is now one of his friends.

He loves that rat.

BEELZEBUB

Bernese Mountain Dog

Two words. 'Gentle Giant'

He probably names her something like 'Bernie'

Bernese Mountain Dogs are massive, I feel like Beel would be the type of guy who loves big dogs. Given how big this Demon is, I feel like he'd be scared of hurting a smaller dog. He probably got an already adult rescue from a shelter.

It was one of those cliche things, meeting eyes with this big sad dog in a cage and Beel just knowing, "This is my baby."

Bernese Mountain Dogs DROOL, and I feel like Beel wouldn't mind that seeing as he is the Avatar of Gluttony.

Speaking of being the Avatar of Gluttony, Beel's dog 100% gives him puppy eyes while he's sitting at the table eating, and what does Beel do? He sneaks his dog food under the table.

Given his workout schedule this doggo gets atleast one walk a day. ATLEAST.

Beel one hundred percent cuddles up with that dog. You thought he had a mental bond with Belphie? Well that man has a mental connection of that caliber with his dog.

He is covered in dog hair but he sees that as making him part of the pact with Bernie so he couldn't care less. (He does clean up shed hair with a roller when going out though)

Bernie might've been a rescue and maybe could've lived a hard life before Beel adopted her, but Beel loves her like she's his own child that is his BABY.

BELPHEGOR

Shiba Inu

It reminded him of Beel, okay??!

Normally Belphie can't be bothered with animals, but when he saw the ad saying 'FOR SALE: NEEDS BETTER HOME' and saw that closed eye Beel smile his grinchy little heart grew three sizes that day.

He adopts the dog.

He calls her something like, 'Bella'

No thats not because it sounds like Beel. Piss off.

Bella isn't too high maintenence and actually does well for Belphie's productivity.

The seventh born actually goes on regular (though albeit) short walks with Bella.

Beel bonds with the dog as well and is very happy to take her on his morning runs with him.

Bella is affectionate but fucking stubborn. (Just like Belphie if you think about it)

Sometimes while cuddling (which only happen on Bella's terms by the way), she will not get off of Belphie, no matter how much Belphie asks. (Not that he minds, its an extra excuse to be lazy)

The cuddling in question is literally just Bella laying on top of Belphie like she's some sort of cat.

Bella is more of a brat than Belphie and thats saying something. The man spoils her.

Finally, a being (other than you and Beel) that understands him.

as you can tell I love big dogs and think small dogs are little rats. (said affectionately)

all of these dogs are female btw bc i got humped by my cousins dog recently and i wish that pain on no one. not even my worst enemy (which is solomon btw)

by the way unhinged anon im still waiting for you to go through with that threat 🤨🤨

[hexpositive]

Hex Positive, Ep. 047 - What My Granny (Weatherwax) Taught Me

Now available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and all major platforms!

Lozzie’s back, friends and neighbors! And this month, we’re sitting down to talk about everybody’s favorite coven - the Witches of Lancre, from Discworld. Longtime fans of the show have heard the works of Sir Terry Pratchett (RIP) and the wisdom of Granny Weatherwax quoted many times on the show, but what other lessons might the Lancre coven have for us over the course of their many odysseys, quests, holidays, and general mucking about? (Tangents include which fantasy character is Legolas’ hot grimy dad, why certain tourists are so bloody annoying when they go abroad, which Discworld quote made Lozzie snarf tea out her nose, and what Bree and the sainted Sir Terry’s origin stories have in common.)

If you love Discworld, this episode is for you. If you’ve never heard of Discworld or are only passing familiar, consider this your introduction. Bit late for the Glorious 25th of May, but all the same - Here’s to Truth, Justice, Freedom, Reasonably Priced Love, and a Hard-Boiled Egg! 

The Witches of Lancre 

Equal Rites - Wyrd Sisters - Witches Abroad - Lords and Ladies - Maskerade - Carpe Jugulum

The Tiffany Aching Saga

The Wee Free Men - A Hat Full of Sky - Wintersmith - I Shall Wear Midnight - The Shepherd’s Crown

(GNU Terry Pratchett)

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Follow Bree and Lozzie on Instagram at @breenicgarran and @bihexualhistory. Visit the Willow Wings Witch Shop on Shopify and check out this month’s featured items. Make sure you also visit the Redbubble page for even more cool merch!

Check my ⁠⁠Wordpress⁠⁠ for full show notes, as well as show notes for past episodes and information on upcoming events. You can find me as @BreeNicGarran on TikTok, Instagram, and WordPress, or as @breelandwalker on tumblr. For more information on how to support the show and get access to early releases and extra content, visit my ⁠⁠Patreon⁠⁠.

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MUSIC CREDITS

Intro & Outro – “Spellbound” & “Miri’s Magic Dance” Host-Read Ads – “Danse Macabre – Violin Hook” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

[deancaspinefest]

All in Honesty

Author: golbygloom | Artist: TwinOne

Posting on Tuesday March 19

It's been years of watching Dean and Cas dance around their feelings and at this point, Sam's losing hope that they'll ever take that step and talk things out already. One well-placed spell from Rowena makes Dean and Cas incapable of not talking, but even that doesn't get them together. Will Sam ever be able to help the morons he's forced to live with get together already, or is he destined for a life of perpetually being stuck between them as some sort of bizarre marriage counselor that neither seems aware the other also talks to?

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

"It's just so painful," he laments a few days later to Rowena, both more than a little drunk in the Bunker's library, Dean and Cas having already gone to bed (unfortunately in different rooms). "They're just…so obvious to everyone except each other. How don't they realize?"

"Noo, why should they? It's not like all of Heaven and Hell figured it out before them or anything."

"I just don't get it. I mean, Dean's eyes are always practically glued to Cas' eyes or lips or his butt and he still hasn't picked up on the fact that there might be something a little weird about that if they really were 'just friends'?" Sam's drink sloshes violently in his glass as he gestures around the room, agitated. "Cas only gets an excuse because he hasn't even been on Earth for a decade, but somebody as old as him should probably at least have an idea what all those feelings are, right?"

"Aye, the poor dears don't have a brain cell between them when it comes to matters of the heart, it seems," Rowena says sagely. "They can be more than a little daft when something doesn't involve killing or dying or crying…"

"They're so hopeless," Sam agrees miserably, burying his face in his hands to rub at his forehead and push his hair behind his ears. "I have to live with them so it's just constant. I-I don't know what to do anymore."

Rowena's quiet for a long moment before she hums to herself. "There might be some way to get their heads out from within their tushies…"

He looks up at that, though judging by the twinkle in the witch's eye, he's gonna regret listening. "What do you mean?" he asks warily anyway, blaming the alcohol for him even considering…whatever it is Rowena is going to suggest.

"Well, all it takes is a wee spell or two and those two will be singing like canaries."

"About their disgustingly sappy love for each other?" Sam guesses, but the witch just smirks.

"About everything. Anything that comes to mind." Sam stares at her blankly, but Rowena doesn't seem to notice. "Oh, I imagine it wouldn't be more than but a few days before certain thoughts come out and certain feelings are revealed…"

"Rowena…"

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind? It's not like there are all that many ways to get those two to sit down and talk about their feelings, Samuel."

Sam considers it, his drunken mind unable to see why this might be a bad idea beyond Dean getting pissed off. Then again, Dean gets pissed if he sees something green on his plate, so Sam's not all that concerned. "What's the cure?"

Rowena's smirk widens, nearly splitting her face in two. "True love's kiss."

(continue reading on Ao3 on Tuesday March 19)

[okay-j-hannah]

They Meet You And Your Powers

Preference

Characters: Merlin, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Theseus Scamander

Warnings:

Request: “My magic boys! Please, Merlin, Ron, Harry and Theseus reacting to meeting a girl with "Wanda's powers" and falling in love with her!” Anon

~~~

Merlin

She held the glass bottle full of the healing brew. It had taken days to collect all the herbs and stew the petals to create the antidote. It was going to be the saving grace for the infectious disease plaguing the town.

Merlin was sitting on the staircase to his bedroom, watching (Y/N) as she bustled about preparing the precious brew.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” he asked.

“It better,” she replied, “Gaius is no fool.”

“Which is why he asked you to make the brew instead of me.”

(Y/N) laughed aloud and knocked into a table, the bottle of medicine flying from her hands. As it fell in slow motion, she considered for a second whether to use her magic to save the bottle. But that would reveal herself to Merlin and risk her chances of all of Camelot knowing.

But in that instant a pillow came levitating off Gaius’ cot and cushioned the fall of the bottle.

(Y/N) looked up, astonished to see Merlin with an outstretched hand and golden eyes.

“Merlin, you have magic!”

“Yes,” he said quickly, “I can explain.”

She had her hands over her mouth, “I don’t believe it.”

“It was something I was born with,” he said, a clear panic in his voice, “Nothing evil about it.”

She laughed, “I’m not going to turn you in, Merlin.”

He stared at her, his look of fear turning into one of confusion. “I never picked you to be a supporter of magic, (Y/N).”

“You can’t help what you’re born with,” she shrugged, feeling her own power grow in her fingertips. “You’re not the only one.”

Merlin paused, “What do you mean?”

(Y/N) smiled, her eyes beginning to glow scarlet as ribbons of red mist flew from her fingers. It wrapped around the glass bottle and floated it to her hands.

It was incredible the shift of emotion on Merlin’s face. “(Y/N)!” he cried, “You have magic!?”

“I guess Gaius prefers apprentices with powers.”

They shared a laugh, Merlin shaking his head in wonder. His voice became soft and fond as he said, “You’re incredible, (Y/N).”

Ron

She walked down the halls of Hogwarts with hunched shoulders, trying to keep herself as small as possible. Being an extraordinary student came with an upheaval of consequences.

Students saw her magical abilities as an unfair advantage and full of the potential to be evil. Professors revered her and often requested demonstrations of her talents.

Regardless, (Y/N) sought the solitude of her common room more often than not. There were few that regarded her as a friend and not as a magical abnormality, meaning she avoided social interactions as much as possible.

Another instance was now as a group of Ravenclaws passed her in the hall.

“Oh, look out,” they said, “Here comes the freak.”

She ignored their snickers, escaping down the next corridor, only to be stopped by a flying menace.

“Ah, the wee red witch is upset,” came the grading voice of Peeves the poltergeist. “People should run for their lives!”

“Shut it, Peeves,” a new voice appeared, “Go destroy the trophy room and leave her alone.”

(Y/N) turned around to see Ron Weasley defending her. He was one of those fair few that treated her more kindly than the others.

Peeves blew some raspberries in their direction, floating off to cause more mayhem.

“You alright?” he asked, approaching her.

She sighed, “I’m fine.”

“I bet you could’ve sent him off with that magic of yours,” he said, smiling.

“You think,” she said, a surge of power descending her arms and to her hands. It was involuntary how red mist began to spark between her fingers. “You’re not intimated by it?”

Ron looked at her in awe, “That’s the appeal.” He watched as the red tendrils of magic grew and danced in the air, “I think your magic is amazing.”

She grinned at him, that was until the sound of blowing raspberries returned above them.

“The red witch is at it again!” yelled Peeves, “Harming students, she is!”

(Y/N) grumbled, flicking her wrist and sending ribbons of magic towards the poltergeist. His hands and mouth were immediately bound in red. Another crack of her fingers and the ghost was sent flying through the wall.

Ron laughed aloud, “That was incredible,” he stared at her with clear astonishment. So much so that (Y/N) started to believe she really was something special.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, sending a few threads of magic to play with his robes and hair.

He continued to laugh, “I love you!”

He said it so causally and she knew it was because of the way she took down Peeves, but despite that…

… his words made her blush.

Harry

The library was overly quiet that evening, books lazily floating to their respective shelves. The lamps were beginning to dim, and (Y/N) was peering over into the next cubicle, packing her schoolbag.

Harry Potter was slumped over the table surface, head bent at an uncomfortable angle. He was fast asleep, his glasses digging into his nose.

He was twitching in his sleep, his face beginning to contort as if he were in pain.

He was dreaming, she thought, perhaps having a nightmare. She slung her schoolbag across her shoulder, finding herself drawn to him.

Making sure no one was watching, (Y/N) let tendrils of her magic empower her arms. Her eyes began to glow, and ribbons of red came from her fingers, searching for the open mind of her classmate.

He was starting to mumble, sweat dotting his temples as the red magic went for his dream.

She tried not to watch, keeping his thoughts private as she envisioned a peaceful scene for him to wake up to:

Sun on the Black Lake. A warm breeze across the cheek. Back resting against a mighty tree. Green grass tickling toes. Laughter filling ears. Friends gathered for a summer day outside, free from homework and exams.

(Y/N) knew of his friends and made sure they were there to calmly pull him from the previous nightmare.

His face was now serene as he awoke. He sat up, hands going for the crick in his neck. He caught the last remnants of the red glow in her eyes.

“Hello,” she said awkwardly, “You were mumbling in your sleep.”

Harry shook his head, as if to expel the fleeting tendrils of her magic. “Was that you?”

(Y/N) looked down sheepishly, “I know nightmares aren’t fun.”

He knew of (Y/N) and her extraordinary magic but normally she kept to herself. “How did you do that?”

“Change your dream?” she asked, wringing her hands around her schoolbag strap. “I can change realities and give visions to others. I just put a different picture in your head to cover up the nightmare.”

Harry seemed torn as he considered her, his fingers fidgeting with his own bag. It was long enough that (Y/N) started to back away, embarrassed by what she did.

“I’ll see you around, Harry.”

“Thank you,” he choked out. She turned around as he continued, “That was the first time, in a long time, where I woke up from a good dream.”

She smiled, “You’re welcome – anytime.”

“I might take you up on that,” he said more warmly.

Theseus

“What are you doing here?” she asked, resting against the countertop in the lounge room.

Theseus Scamander, head auror for the offices, was looking at her with an interrogative stare. “I’ve heard a few things floating around.”

“Such as?” she asked, stirring her coffee.

He smirked, “That you have some pretty extraordinary abilities. Things that the wizarding world has never seen before.” He tugged on his vest, “I’m impressed that MACUSA was able to recruit you.”

“Why?” she asked, “Surprised that I’m not one of those villains you need to take down.”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” he said all smug. “Can you show me?”

She scoffed, “I’m not a dancing monkey.”

His smile had a bit of mischief and (Y/N) had the impression that he might’ve been flirting.

“Then I’ll duel you for it.”

She raised her brows, “You don’t want to take me on.”

“I like a challenge.”

“I can tell,” she said, enjoying the banter more than she should. “I could obliterate you.”

He nodded, “You’re not instilling confidence in how you’re not a villain.”

She felt a flicker of power surge to her fingers. The heat was building behind her eyes. This auror was really trying to rouse something out of her and she was embarrassed to say that it was working.

“Oh no,” Theseus said, spotting the light dusting of red appearing between her fingers. “Losing some control there, are you?”

“Are you always this infuriating?” she said lowly.

He kept smiling, “I’m a perfectly pleasant person.” His eyes widened as her power grew, “What are you able to do?”

She sighed deep in her chest, raising her hand and bending her fingers. Rivers of red floated around her palm, matching the color of her eyes.

“Telekinesis and manipulation.” Her coffee mug began to stir itself, red mist levitating the mug between them, “I can invade your mind,” she said darkly, “I could make you see things – believe things.”

Theseus swallowed hard, trying to watch her demonstration of power without much of a reaction. “Fascinating.”

Her blood was boiling, “Had enough? Could you leave me alone now?”

The smirk returned to his face, “If you’re interested in auror work…” he tossed a business card towards her and watched as her magic caught it in midair. “… give me a call.”

He winked at her, and (Y/N) knew it was just the beginning of their relationship. The flirtatious, overconfident wizard was going to be the death of her. But she might as well have some fun with it.

~~~

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[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 1 EPISODE 14 || THE SEARCH ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

Traveling openly—and slowly—along the main roads, we stopped at every croft and village and hamlet we came to. There he would make a quick survey of the local populace, round up anyone suffering from illness or injury, and bring them to me for treatment. Physicians being few and far between in these parts, there was always someone ailing to attend to. While I was occupied with my tonics and salves, he would chat idly with the friends and relatives of the afflicted, taking care to describe the path of our journey toward Beauly. If by chance there were no patients to be seen in a place, we would pause nonetheless for the night, seeking shelter at a cottage or tavern. In these places, Murtagh would sing to entertain our hosts and earn our supper, stubbornly insisting that I preserve all the money I had with me, in case it should be needed when we found Jamie. Not naturally inclined toward conversation, he taught me some of his songs, to pass the time as we plodded on from place to place. “Ye’ve a decent voice,” he observed, one day, after a moderately successful attempt at “The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.” “Not well-trained, but strong and true enough. Try it once more and ye’ll sing it wi’ me tonight. There’s a wee tavern at Limraigh.” “Do you really think this will work?” I asked. “What we’re doing, I mean?” He shifted about in the saddle before answering. No natural horseman, he always looked like a monkey trained to ride a horse, but still managed to dismount fresh as a daisy at day’s end, while I could barely manage to hobble my horse before staggering off to collapse. “Oh, aye,” he said, at last. “Sooner or later. You’re seein’ more sick folk these days, no?” This was true, and I admitted as much. “Well, then,” he said, proving his point, “that means word o’ your skill is spreading. And that’s what we want. But we could maybe do better. That’s why you’ll sing tonight. And perhaps …” He hesitated, as though reluctant to suggest something. “Perhaps what?” “Know anything about fortune-telling, do ye?” he asked warily. I understood the reason for his hesitancy; he had seen the frenzy of the witch-hunt at Cranesmuir. I smiled. “A bit. You want me to try it?” “Aye. The more we can offer, the more folk will come to see us—and go back to tell others. And word will spread about us, ’til the lad hears of us. And that’s when we’ll find him. Game to try, are ye?” I shrugged. “If it will help, why not?”

I made my debut as singer and fortune-teller that night at Limraigh, with considerable success. I found that Mrs. Graham had been right in what she had told me—it was the faces, not the hands, that gave you the necessary clues. Our fame spread, little by little, until by the next week, people were running out of their cottages to greet us as we rode into a village, and showering us with pennies and small gifts as we rode away.

“You know, we could really make something of this,” I remarked one evening, stowing the night’s takings away. “Too bad there’s no theater anywhere near—we could do a proper music-hall turn: Magical Murtagh and His Glamorous Assistant, Gladys.”

Cap 34 ~outlander

[adventuresofalgy]

It was indeed the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, but Algy suspected that neither mists nor fruitfulness were quite what the English poet Keats had in mind…

However, the fruitfulness of the local rowan trees was greatly appreciated by many of Algy's feathered friends, if not by poets, to the extent that by the time Algy decided to help himself to a wee feast he found that there were only a few scattered clusters of the tempting red berries left 😞

As he relaxed in the arms of the welcoming tree, munching happily, Algy wondered how many of his friends around the world knew how important the rowan tree is in Scotland and in Celtic mythology, and why so many rowan trees are planted at the doors or gates to people's homes in this part of the world.

He recalled a wee poem in the Scots language which explains it well:

When the days were still as deith And you couldna see the kye Though ye’d maybe hear their breith I’ the mist oot-by; When I’d mind the lang grey een O’ the warlock by the hill And sit fleggit like a wean Gin a whaup cried shrill; Tho’ the hert wad dee in me At the fitstep on the floor, There was aye a rowan tree Wi its airm across the door.

Which translates into English roughly as:

When the days were still as death And you couldn’t see the cows Though you’d maybe hear their breath In the mist outside; When I’d think of the long grey eyes Of the warlock on the hill And sit frightened like an infant If a curlew cried shrilly; Though the heart would die within me At the footstep on the floor, There was always a rowan tree With its arm across the door.

But then, when the rowan tree is gone:

But that is far, far past And a’thing’s just the same, There’s a whisper up the blast O’ a dreid I daurna name; And the shilpit sun is thin, Like an auld man deein’ slow And a shade comes creepin’ in When the fire is fa’in’ low; Then I feel thae lang een set Like a doom upon ma heid, For the warlock’s livin’ yet— But the rowan’s deid!

Which translates (roughly):

But that is long, long past And everything’s just the same There’s a whisper in the wind Of a dread I dare not name; And the sickly sun is thin, Like an old man dying slowly And a shadow comes creeping in When the fire is getting low; Then I feel the long eyes settle Like a doom [death sentence] upon my head, For the warlock’s living yet- But the rowan’s dead!

Fortunately, there are many rowan trees planted around Algy's assistants' garden and by their gate, so Algy need not fear the warlock by the hill 😀

[Algy is quoting the poem The Rowan by the early 20th century Scottish poet Violet Jacob.]

Notes: (1) Algy thinks that the use of the term warlock here is not the common one of a male witch who casts spells, but the more symbolic one in folklore, where warlocks are evil supernatural beings associated with darkness, death, and the devil. (2)Algy is not quite sure about some parts of his translation of the second stanza of the poem, so if anyone is able to correct it, please let him know!