#ChatGPT course library

[escapecart]

The Synergy between ChatGPT and Instagram: Level Up with AI

In today’s digital age, social media platforms have become powerful tools for individuals and businesses to connect with their target audience. Instagram, with its visually driven content, offers a unique opportunity for individuals to monetize their presence and build a profitable online business. With the advancements in artificial intelligence (AI), specifically ChatGPT, and the automation…

[cafechichay]

Paris, Texas

Pairing - Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader

Word Count - 19534 [2 to 3 hours of reading time - depending]

Content Warning - Slow burn Angst, Unrequited love, Pining!Reader, Being taken for granted, google-translated italian and french (i am an asian woman, i don’t know a lick of french)

Summary - Loving someone they way you want to be loved, doesn't always mean you will be loved the same way back

A.N. - Writing this whenever I got the chance (which also the same days that I don't speak a word of English). Thanks to ChatGPT for making this readable. Also dividers by @firefly-graphics <3

Poll Results: Literally everyone said to post this "now" (as in 4 days ago "now") but I ended up working 38 hours at my part-time since then so I apologise. Also this was also redrafted about 7 times because I wanted a realistic ending.

Enjoy! <3 (commenting and reblogging feeds the writing gremlin)

Wizards slowly began adopting Muggle holidays sometime around the 18th century. Those living in London found themselves enjoying each little tradition, each celebration the Muggles offered.

Valentine’s Day was one of the latest fads in the British-wizarding forums. Some had said a big-time French socialite had apparently introduced the tradition to his British amour, and since then, the excitement spread through the grapevine. From gifting beautiful, forever-blooming flowers to your beloved, to others frantically checking their Chocolate Frogs were not spiked with Amortentia — young wizards started basking in the celebration of young love (or platonic love for some).

Everyone, except you.

Classmates, dorm mates, and even your own best friends — Joycelin Sweeting and Astoria Greengrass — were ecstatic over the festivities. They had dragged you each weekend leading up to the big day to Hogsmeade and even trekked up to Diagon Alley for the perfect presents for their other halves. You were happy for them.

Truly.

They both had that beautiful twinkle in their eyes — and even though they were the most bubbly, fun-loving duo, you were almost 100% sure that their pupils turned into literal love hearts around their respective partners. Their hair was always curly or wavy (you had read in some book in the library that the magic surrounding a girl in love made their hair wavy for some reason), and their cheeks ached and flushed red with blush. You promised you were happy for them.

You had promised you were fine, telling Astoria to go on her date and reassuring Joycelin that you had more than enough on your plate. (That was a lie.)

The sun had barely risen but the time you sat in the Great Hall, the low chatter of students around you creating a hum that felt more distant than comforting. The flickering candles overhead cast shadows that danced lazily across the table, but you could not focus on the warmth. You felt the coldness inside you, a familiar emptiness that had settled in your chest ever since things had started to change. You could not help feeling sorry for yourself. Sitting here, on the morning of Valentine’s Day, seemingly the only student sitting alone. The dining hall was already quiet as it was, with many students opting for more romantic settings.

Your eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, your gaze inevitably falling on Theodore. He was there, of course, just like he always was, wrapped up in the world he had created around himself. The world that no longer seemed to have much space for you.

You could feel the ache settle into your bones, a quiet reminder of everything that had gone wrong—or seemingly, what seem to have disappeared over the winter break. It was not that he did not notice you; it was that he seemed to look through you these days. Every time you tried to get close, tried to bridge the growing chasm between the two of you, he had backed away, like you were not worth the effort.

And that was it. You were not worth the effort.

Theodore’s eyes did not meet yours now, and you were not sure if it was out of avoidance or simple disinterest. He had the same nonchalant air about him, speaking to the people around him in a tone that was not sharp, but cold enough to make you feel it in your gut. His friends, his fellow Slytherins, hung on the few words he said, laughing and teasing with ease. They did not know the quiet pain you felt just from being in the same room with him.

You turned your attention back to your plate, pushing food around without really touching it. The silence between you and him had become more deafening with each passing day. You tried to ignore it, to accept that it was what it was, but that did not stop the small part of you, the part that still hoped, from holding on.

A sharp pang of disappointment twisted in your chest as you watched a few girls from the other end of the table approach Theodore. Their laughter rang in the air, a sound that was light and carefree, like the weight of everything was irrelevant. You knew how they looked at him. You had seen it before. He was everything they admired—charming in a nonchalant type of way, and, for every reason you had been drawn to him in the first place, they couldn’t get enough of him.

A wave of frustration washed over you. You wanted to get up, leave this place where you felt so invisible, but the more you tried to retreat into yourself, the more desperate you were for Theodore to reach out for you.

But just as you were about to turn back to your breakfast, a voice broke through the quiet hum of the hall, this one different — more polite and genuinely warm.

Theodore was halfway through taking a bite of his toast when a voice rang out, light and sweet, carrying through the quiet of the hall, uninvited and unwelcome. “Theo, you are coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?”

The girl who spoke was one of those faces you often saw in the Slytherin corridor but never paid much attention to. A pleasant sort of girl, pretty enough, but always with a crowd. She had the kind of attention that came effortlessly, like a polished stone that had been smoothed by years of admiration. Her soft blonde curls bounced around her face as she leaned toward Theodore, her eyes wide with the warmth of something unfamiliar to you, something that felt a little too bright, too alive.

Her voice, though melodic, carried a subtle undertone of expectation. “It’s going to be fun,” she added with a smile, drawing the words out as though she was fishing for an answer. She did not care about the casualness of the conversation; she knew exactly what she was doing. Her fingers brushed lightly against Theodore’s sleeve as she spoke, and you could almost see the way her confidence bloomed in the space between them, wrapping around him as if they were already connected.

Theodore looked up slowly, his gaze flicking toward her, but the moment his eyes met hers, he seemed to settle into a practiced nonchalance. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was not the kind that reached his eyes. He gave a slight nod, still not meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he replied, his voice cool and flat, the same as it always was these days. Detached.

The girl beamed, as if the words were all she had wanted, but before she turned to go, she finally, almost reluctantly, glanced your way. Her eyes lingered on you for the briefest moment, as if she just remembered you were there, as if you had somehow faded into the background of the conversation she had been having with Theodore. It was not an unkind look, just distant — as though acknowledging your presence now was an afterthought.

��Oh,” she said, the pitch of her voice softening just a touch. “What about...” She slowly turned her head to your table. Her smile was kind, but it lacked warmth, like a perfunctory gesture more than a genuine inquiry.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the space between you and Theodore. The hall became so much larger than you had imagined, yet feeling narrower and overwhelming at the same time. You wanted him to say yes—better yet, walk down that endless hall to ask for your opinion. But you were also terrified. You did not want to admit that the very thought of being around people, of pretending to be something you were not, made your chest tighten. At this point, there was no telling what kind of relationship existed between you both. Your thoughts were swarming you these past couple of weeks— with one that had been quietly overcoming your mind for weeks, months now. You wanted to be seen— wanted to be wanted, even if just for a fleeting moment.

But before you could speak, Theodore’s voice cut through the tension, his words sharper than usual. “You know her,” he said, his tone distant and dismissive, “she’s not really a party person.”

And just like that, the words sank into your skin, prickling with discomfort. It was not a lie, not exactly, but it felt wrong. There was a bitter edge to it, something unspoken that settled over the dining hall like a growing storm. You were not a party person, no. But that was not the real reason you’d rather stay away. The truth was more complicated, more suffocating, and Theodore was too busy with his own distractions to notice.

The girl smiled again, this time with a hint of pity that stung more than it comforted. “I see,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer, almost apologetic, but you could see the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “I mean, no matter- we can always have fun for her. Right?”

She turned on her heel, slipping into the crowd of students with ease, leaving you in the quiet bubble of awkwardness that you had somehow found yourself in. The weight of his dismissal hung heavy in the air, suffocating you, even though he was not looking at you. His focus had already shifted to his friends, already lost in the rhythm of the day, and you felt the distance between you grow even wider.

You could not help but glance at him again, watching him talk to the group of Slytherins across the table, his face set in a way that looked practiced, familiar. His eyes never once flickered toward you. The indifference stung more than anything. He had done this before, turned his attention elsewhere, as if you were no longer worth the effort.

There was a knot in your stomach, tight and unyielding. It was hard to breathe around it, but you did not dare let it show. You did not dare let anyone see how much it hurt.

You knew better than to try and get his attention, though. You had learned long ago that when Theodore was not looking at you, nothing you did would change it. So you turned your gaze back to your untouched plate, pushing the remaining food around as if it could give you something to focus on, something to fill the hollow space.

The longer you sat there, the heavier the weight in your chest became — suffocating, relentless. The pitying look from that girl lingered in your mind, curling uncomfortably around your thoughts. It was not just the way she’d glanced at you like an afterthought — it was how right Theodore’s words had felt, how easily they’d seemed to confirm something you’d been trying to ignore for weeks.

You are not really a party person.

The words repeated in your head, twisting and distorting until they felt less like a passing comment and more like some unspoken truth — one you could not shake. It was not just that you did not belong at parties. It felt like you did not belong anywhere. Not with your friends, who had drifted into their own little worlds of whispered conversations and excited plans. Not with Theodore, who barely looked at you anymore — and if he did, it was only to find some way to push you further away.

And it was your own fault, was it not?

Your friends had tried — really tried — to keep you close. Joycelin and Astoria had spent weeks begging you to come with them — to Hogsmeade, to the common room, even just to sit with them in the Great Hall. They had coaxed you with warm smiles and reassurances that you’d have fun, but you never did. You could never quite shake the feeling that you were just… there. A shadow lingering behind them, dulling the brightness of their excitement.

It had reached the point where you almost felt guilty for saying yes — because each time you did, you could see it in their eyes. That flicker of hesitation, that subtle change in the air when you sat beside them. As though they were quietly waiting for you to dampen the mood.

You knew they loved you — you knew that. But sometimes love was not enough to stop you from feeling like a burden.

You wondered when it had happened — when you had become this person. The one who sat quietly at the edge of things, watching her friends smile and laugh from somewhere she could no longer reach. The one who had once been so full of warmth, now cold and withdrawn, retreating deeper into herself with each passing day.

It was not that you did not want to fight for what you once had — for Theodore, for your friends, for yourself. It was that you did not know how.

Because the truth was, you were tired — tired of trying to pretend that you were fine, tired of convincing yourself that this hollow feeling was not swallowing you whole. And most of all, you were tired of caring so much when it felt like no one seemed to care about you.

A dull ache settled behind your eyes, and you swallowed hard, blinking quickly to push the feeling down. You did not have the energy to fall apart — not here, not now. Instead, you kept your head low, eyes fixed on your plate as you tried to shrink into the silence, as if that might somehow make everything hurt a little less.

Just as you were about to sink back into your own thoughts, another voice broke through the fog of disappointment. The sudden shift in tone was enough to catch you off guard.

“Excuse me, are you… Y/N, right?”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts. You blink, not expecting to hear anyone speaking to you. When you look up, you are met with a pair of eyes. His eyes, a striking shade of blue, seem to gleam with an unexpected warmth. He stands there, leaning casually against the bench, his posture effortlessly confident. His dark hair, not quite as dark as Theodore’s but with a similar tousled quality, seems to catch the light in all the right places, and you can tell it’s the sort of hair that naturally falls into place, no matter what.

Adrien Delacroix.

His features are distinctively sharp, but there is a softness to them, too. He has a smile that feels almost practiced, easy, as if it is a shield he is worn a thousand times. His bone structure is different from Theodore’s—more delicate, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that seems to be chiseled perfectly. He’s stood there, looking down at you with an easy smile that barely hides his curiosity. He is tall—definitely taller than most guys in your year—and his gaze is steady, almost like he’s trying to read you.

The thought hits you immediately, almost involuntarily. What does he want?

You manage a quiet nod. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

You blink again, not sure what to say next, but Adrien doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation. You hate how small your voice sounds, especially compared to Adrien’s friendly tone. You immediately wish you could say something more—something to make this interaction feel less awkward, but your words feel like they’re stuck somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought I… ah…” He pauses briefly, brow creasing as he searches for the right word. “Reconnu — recognised you,” he corrects himself, his accent curling softly around the syllables. He leans casually against the table, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m in a couple of your classes, and I’ve seen you around… but I’ve never had the chance to actually talk to you.”

He pauses for a moment, his hand lifting to push a strand of dark hair behind his ear with the same effortless grace that seems to define him. The way his accent lingers, slightly melodic and smooth as it dances in his words, makes you feel different. There’s something about him that feels different, refined—but not in an obvious, boastful way. Just in the way he holds himself, the subtle lift of his chin, the quiet confidence that lingers even in the simplest gestures.

“History of Magic, right?” Adrien asks, as if pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’ve been in my class the last few weeks… I think I sit behind you.”

Your heart beats a little faster, and a flush creeps up your neck. Adrien notices, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but he does not make a big deal out of it.

You force a smile, nervous and unsure. “I dunno… I sleep through most of it.”

His lips twitch as he laughs softly, his voice rich, and the sound catches you off guard. “Vraiment? Really?” he says, his grin widening. “You should definitely stay awake. It’s fascinating stuff.” His tone is teasing, but there’s something more in his eyes — something that almost makes you wonder if he’s being sincere.

“I—I’ll try,” you murmur, pulling your sleeves down further, hiding your hands in the folds of your robes. You are not used to this, not used to being noticed like this. Especially not by someone like Adrien, who seems to draw people’s attention without even trying.

You cannot help but notice the way his eyes linger on you for just a moment too long before he blinks and looks away. It’s a small thing, but it sends your heart racing, and you cannot figure out why.

He leans in slightly, his voice lowering a little. “You’ve got that quiet thing going on… makes you seem a bit… mystérieuse.” His lips twitch with a small smile. “It’s cute.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. Cute. The simplicity of it, the way it feels like a compliment that doesn’t carry any weight behind it, makes your chest tighten. It’s not an insult, but something about it makes you feel exposed, like you don’t deserve the attention he’s giving you. You’ve never thought of yourself as someone who could be “cute,” not the way the other girls are. You’ve spent so long hiding in the shadows, and now someone like Adrien is standing in front of you, treating you like you are someone worth noticing.

You do not know how to respond, so you just nod, suddenly feeling even more awkward. You can’t help it, your mind races with the thought that maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe he’s just like the others who like to talk to you out of some weird obligation before moving on to something—or someone—else.

Adrien tilts his head, and for a moment, you are not sure if he’s trying to figure you out or if he’s just watching you. His lips twitch into a smile again, this time a little more knowing. “Well, if you ever need someone to keep you awake in History of Magic, I’m happy to help.”

You try not to smile, but the way his gaze lingers on you, the way he speaks, it’s hard not to. He seems genuine, yet you wonder how much of that is just the way he is—easy, charming, and unbothered.

“Or maybe we could catch up on what you’ve missed in the library?” He smiles, “I noticed you usually run off there as soon as Binns finishes.”

You shift slightly, the discomfort rising in your stomach. “I don’t usually spend much time in the library,” you say, almost apologetically, though you know it’s not entirely true. You’ve been there often, especially in the past few weeks, lingering in corners, trying to lose yourself in the quiet. You’ve seen Adrien there before, too, always focused, always absorbed in his reading. But you don’t mention that. It feels too intimate somehow, like acknowledging his presence would make this interaction even more real.

Adrien’s eyes soften as if he can see through your discomfort. He doesn’t push, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s actually paying attention to you—or just looking for something to fill the silence. He shifts, stepping a little closer, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

“I get that,” he says, his smile growing a little more genuine. “Hogwarts can be… eh… accablant… too much, no?” He chuckles softly. “I’ve only been here a little while, and I’m still figuring out where everything is.” His words are easy, his tone casual, like he’s trying to make you feel less out of place. You can tell he’s trying to make this conversation feel natural, but you can’t help but feel like you are failing at being natural, like every word that leaves your mouth is a stilted attempt to keep up.

You want to say something, to let him in, but the words feel wrong. Why is he even talking to me? You want to scream it, want to ask him why someone like him—who clearly fits in with all the bright, shiny faces at Hogwarts—would want to talk to someone like you. You are used to being on the outside, used to standing in the back while others take the spotlight. And here is Adrien, offering you a sliver of attention like it’s no big deal. You don’t know what to make of it.

But then he continues, his voice slipping back into that light, teasing tone. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, actually. I just didn’t know how to approach you though—thought it might be best find away to do it differently…”

You freeze, caught off guard by the statement. Differently? It feels like a compliment, but it also feels like a judgment. You never meant to be unreachable. Is he saying I’m weird? You can’t stop the flash of insecurity that rises in your chest. You are not sure whether to thank him for the words or shrink away in embarrassment. You barely know him, yet somehow, his words feel like they’ve carved into you in ways you are not ready for.

“Hey — I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” Adrien adds, as though sensing the shift in the air. “I just thought… maybe we could hang out sometime? I mean, I’ve seen you around, and you don’t seem like the type to just…” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly as he mutters, “Comment on dit… ah…” His fingers drum lightly on the table as he thinks. “Go with the flow?,” he finishes, a little unsure but still smiling. “You seem… hmm… like someone who thinks for herself. I thought it’d be nice to get to know you.”

The offer feels too big, too much for someone like you to take in, like a question you are not sure you are allowed to answer. You want to say no, to tell him it’s fine and you are used to being alone, but there’s a small part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s being honest.

Before you can figure out what to say, Adrien’s smile softens, and he steps back, giving you a little more space. “I’ll see you around then?” His voice is lighter, not pushing, but still there, lingering.

You sit there, watching him walk away, still unsure whether his invitation was just a formality, something said to pass the time, or if he genuinely meant it. You don’t know. You don’t know him, not really, but the thought of being wanted, of being seen by someone like him, leaves you feeling both lighter and heavier all at once.

You can’t shake the comparison in your mind—the way Theodore’s presence always felt heavy, like there was something between you that you could not name. But with Adrien, it’s different. He’s easy. He doesn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen, like Theodore did. And yet, you feel unsettled, unsure if you should let yourself enjoy this attention.

But why would someone like him be interested in someone like me? You can’t shake the doubt, the feeling that this is all too good to be true.

The first few days after Adrien introduced himself passed with little fanfare. You found yourself thinking back to his words, but they felt like little more than a fleeting moment in the midst of your usual routine. School was still a whirlwind—lessons, assignments, and the ever-present hum of your friends dragging you along, their chatter and laughter filling up the corners of your days. You barely had time to notice the absence of anything new.

It was only in the quieter moments, when you found yourself alone with your thoughts, that Adrien’s voice would drift back into your mind. “It was nice talking to you.”

You weren’t sure why it lingered. He’d said it casually, a throwaway comment as if it was no different from any other greeting. But it was different. You weren’t used to being treated like that. It was a small thing, but in a life that had felt so filled with noise and obligation, it felt like a small light. Yet you pushed it aside. You didn’t know him. He was a stranger, no matter how pleasant.

Days passed, and you carried on as usual. You caught glimpses of him in the halls occasionally, but he never approached you again. You hadn’t expected him to, really. And you didn’t know what you would have done if he had.

But then, a few days later, you were walking down the corridor on your way to the library, a pile of books pressed tightly against your chest. You had your mind on your homework and what you had left to do that afternoon.

As you passed a corner near the library’s entrance, you nearly collided with someone. You glanced up, startled, and there he was—Adrien, his warm eyes locking onto yours as though he’d been expecting to see you. He stepped back just in time, allowing you to continue walking.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hi,” you answered, a little caught off guard, though you couldn’t quite place why. His smile was warm, genuine, and it did something strange to your heart—a soft flutter that you quickly buried under a sense of confusion. Why did it feel different when he smiled at you?

“I was actually heading to the library, too,” Adrien continued, his words stumbling slightly before he found the right phrasing. “I… uh… if you, uh, don’t mind, maybe I could… walk with you?”

His words came out with a slight hesitation, but his smile remained steady. You caught a soft ‘D’accord’ under his breath, as if he had been about to say something before stopping himself.

You didn’t answer immediately, unsure why it felt so difficult. But then you just shrugged. What harm could it do? It wasn’t like you had to say yes, but his offer felt casual enough—so you nodded.

“Sure, why not.”

The walk wasn’t long. You had a few moments of awkward silence, your footsteps echoing slightly in the hallway. But Adrien didn’t seem bothered by it. He didn’t try to fill the silence with pointless chatter, as some people would. He just walked beside you, the occasional glance in your direction almost like an invitation to speak, but never pushing for it.

When you arrived at the library, you felt an odd sense of… expectation. But why? You weren’t sure, and you couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t even asked to sit with you. And yet, when you found a quiet corner, Adrien dropped down across from you with a casual air, pulling out a few books from his bag. You didn’t speak much at first, but the way he settled next to you, not intruding on your space but in a way that made you aware of him, was somehow comforting.

You focused on your work, but there were moments when you found yourself glancing up at him. His eyes were always so soft, always paying attention to the books in front of him, but you could tell that sometimes he looked at you, too. It was subtle, but it was there. He was careful, though, and never pressed you. You never felt like you were being watched. But there was something there, something unspoken.

It wasn’t like you’d thought anything would happen, but somehow, you felt a little lighter in the moments you shared with him, even if they were silent. You told yourself it was just the solitude of the library making it feel that way, nothing more.

The next few days followed a similar rhythm. Adrien continued to show up, not in an overwhelming way, but in the way of someone who was content with simply sharing space. You’d find him walking beside you in the halls, or—more often than not—he’d be sitting across from you in the library, quietly reading. Some days, he’d nod in your direction, offering a small, knowing smile. Other times, he would remain absorbed in his books, but you’d catch a glance his way, and his eyes would flicker toward yours before he quickly returned to what he was doing.

You still didn’t know how to feel about it. You weren’t used to the attention. It wasn’t anything grand or demanding, and maybe that’s why it unsettled you. Maybe it felt too easy. And maybe that was why you kept waiting for the moment it would end—waiting for the point where you’d both go your separate ways, like you always had before.

But that moment didn’t come.

A week passed, then two. Adrien didn’t disappear, but his presence began to feel familiar. Not in a bad way, but in the way that something small can slowly start to settle into your life without you quite realising it. You found yourself moving through your days in that strange mix of normalcy and anticipation.

By the third week, he’d started sitting next to you before you even had a chance to settle in. No longer waiting for an invitation, he simply dropped down next to you, book in hand. The quiet exchanges—small smiles, the soft rustle of pages turning—began to feel almost like a routine. Not something you had to think about.

And then, one day, he spoke up as you were gathering your things.

“I was thinking of going outside to study today,” Adrien said, looking at you as if the question were almost an afterthought. “Would you like to join me? The grounds look quieter with it being a little colder, no?”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the suggestion. You’d never thought of studying outdoors, especially when it was getting colder, but you couldn’t help but feel the soft pull of the invitation. There was something about the way he asked—it wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t forceful. It was simply an offer, the kind of offer you didn’t often get. No one had ever asked you to just be there, to sit in the open air and study without some ulterior motive.

“Uhm… yeah, sure,” you said, almost before you thought about it.

Adrien gave you a soft smile in response, and you noticed the faintest ‘Merci’ slip from his lips, as though he was thankful you’d agreed.

You couldn’t help but notice how your heart beat a little faster as you walked with him to the grounds, the soft crunch of leaves beneath your shoes, the crispness of the air making your breath visible in the autumn light. Adrien didn’t speak much during the walk, but there was an ease to it. A peaceful silence that you didn’t mind. You sat together on the grass, your books spread out in front of you, and for a few moments, the world just… slowed down.

The next few weeks felt much the same—slow, but different in a way that you couldn’t quite explain. You and Adrien started meeting more often, sometimes in the common room, other times out by the grounds. Conversations that had once felt awkward or forced now came more naturally. You weren’t always talking, but there was a sense of comfort in simply being near him.

You also started to notice the little things. Sometimes, when you were walking to class, Adrien would fall in step beside you. And not just to the library or the grounds, but even to places you didn’t have class together. You found yourself looking up, seeing his warm smile as he walked with you—just there, beside you. It wasn’t a big gesture, but there was something so simple and steady about it. You didn’t have to ask. He was just there.

Occasionally, he would notice you struggling with your bag or books, and without a second thought, Adrien would take them from you.

“Here,” he’d say, ‘Mon dieu,’ he’d mutter under his breath as he adjusted the weight, realising it was more than he anticipated. “I might have underestimated that.”

His touch was gentle, but firm, and his eyes always met yours with that same warm, effortless kindness. It wasn’t anything big, but it made you feel strangely cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

And then, one day, you realised you were no longer simply meeting him in the library or on the grounds. Adrien had started showing up outside of those places, walking you to and from your classes. Even when you didn’t have class together, you’d find him walking beside you. Sometimes, you’d talk, sometimes not. But you always felt… lighter, more grounded with him by your side.

By the fifth week, something had changed. You were running late, as usual. You rushed through the hallways, trying to make it to Potions class on time, your bag slung over your shoulder and your books clutched tightly in your arms. You were almost there when you heard Slughorn’s voice, carrying through the door as he gave his typical greeting.

“Settle down, everyone!” Professor Slughorn’s booming voice echoed, followed by his characteristic chuckle. “We’re about to begin!”

You pushed the door open quickly, slipping inside the classroom and feeling a rush of embarrassment. As you entered, your eyes immediately searched for a spot. The room was buzzing with conversation, but the first thing you noticed was Theodore’s desk—his books already neatly arranged on the surface. He was speaking to a group of students, laughing softly, not yet noticing you.

Your gaze flicked over to the other side of the room, where Adrien was sitting alone. His posture was relaxed, his usual calm expression on his face. He seemed unaware of the subtle tension you felt, but when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker of warmth, a quiet understanding between you both that had grown stronger over the past few weeks.

You hesitated for a moment. Theodore’s desk was set up just a few feet away, and yet, it felt so distant. You swallowed, glancing back at Adrien, who was looking at you with that familiar, soft smile.

You took a few steps toward his desk, feeling your heart race a little. Your thoughts collided in a whirlwind—Should I? Will it be okay? You were almost at his side when you stopped, unsure. Was it too bold, too sudden?

“Is it… okay if I sit here?” you asked quietly, your voice small but sincere, the question almost slipping out before you could stop it.

Adrien’s face lit up, his smile widening with ease. There was no hesitation in his response. “Of course,” he said, his accent slipping through just a bit as he added, “It’s… it’s more than okay.”

The words had a warmth that settled in your chest. You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was something comforting about the way he made you feel, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You slid into the seat beside him, your books still clutched in your lap, and glanced at the front of the room where Slughorn was still greeting the class. Your thoughts, however, lingered on the quiet space between you and Adrien. You couldn’t help but notice how easy it felt to sit next to him, how his presence made the world feel just a little bit softer.

Adrien shifted a little closer to his desk, leaning slightly in your direction as he began to unpack his things, but not too much—just enough to let you know he was there. It was subtle, but it made you feel less alone. You were here, in this moment, and for some reason, it felt like it mattered.

You settled into your seat, feeling the class start to hum around you as Slughorn continued his instructions. The words were a distant background noise now, and for a brief moment, you felt as though the world outside of this room had faded away. You were no longer rushing to catch up or trying to keep pace with your thoughts. You were just here, with Adrien, and it felt… easy.

The days had started to drag on, and with each one, the sense that something was off between you and Theodore Nott grew heavier. He couldn’t pinpoint it at first. There hadn’t been a single moment where you had argued or said anything that would cause him to doubt things between you. It was all the little things—the quiet shifts in your behaviour that he couldn’t ignore.

At first, he tried to brush it off, telling himself it was just the usual school pressure. Everyone was busy, and he knew you had other commitments, other friends. But the more he thought about it, the more something didn’t feel right. You hadn’t been by his side in the usual places—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall.

Theodore had always found comfort in those small, predictable routines you shared. The moments where you’d sneak into the library early, books scattered around the table as you both tried to get ahead on your assignments. The way you’d meet up in the courtyard after class, sharing a quiet moment before heading off to your next lesson. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it was your time, and it made everything feel familiar, safe, like the world around you could be chaotic, but at least you had that.

But now, it was as if those small moments had slipped away. You weren’t there waiting for him, and you weren’t with him when he expected you to be. At first, it was easy to ignore. But then, one morning, when he entered the dining hall, he caught sight of you. And his heart sank.

You were sitting with Adrien Delacroix.

It wasn’t that you weren’t allowed to sit with him—it was more that it was so different. You weren’t sitting with him like usual. You hadn’t even looked in his direction when he walked in. You and Adrien were talking, laughing, your heads bent close together as you shared some private joke.

Theodore’s eyes narrowed. Okay, he thought. It’s nothing. You were just talking to Adrien. He had no right to be bothered by it. It’s not like you weren’t friends with him. But still—something about it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel normal.

He tried to ignore it as he sat down at his usual spot, forcing himself to focus on his food, but the image of you and Adrien stayed in his mind. He pushed it down, telling himself it was nothing, but the feeling lingered, twisting in his chest.

Days passed, and it didn’t get better. It only seemed to get worse.

Theodore started to notice more subtle things. Like how you always seemed to be in the places that were once yours—the library, the courtyard, the dining hall. And each time, you weren’t with him. You were with Adrien.

It wasn’t just that. You weren’t sitting where you usually did anymore. In the library, you used to sit next to him, always the quiet corner by the window where the light slanted just right. But now, when he walked in, you were already there—across the room, seated next to Adrien, books laid out in front of you both, engrossed in whispers of conversation.

The first time it happened, Theodore had walked in expecting to find you at the usual spot, but you weren’t there. He scanned the room quickly, his heart sinking when he finally saw you. And Adrien.

The feeling in his chest shifted—unsettled, uncomfortable—as he walked past you both, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than it should. You hadn’t looked up, not even when he passed. It was almost like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

The second time it happened, it was during lunch. The same table. The same seats. But again, you weren’t sitting with him. You and Adrien were deep in conversation, the two of you leaning toward each other, laughing about something that seemed to have nothing to do with him.

Theodore sat down, trying to pretend it didn’t bother him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. And when he did, his eyes would flicker to Adrien, to the way you smiled at him. It’s fine, he told himself again. You and Adrien were friends. But it didn’t feel fine. It didn’t feel right. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being pushed out of the space you once shared.

He couldn’t quite put it into words, but it hurt.

The courtyard was the same. He had always expected to see you there, waiting for him, ready to talk about whatever was on your mind. But more often than not, you were already with Adrien.

It was small at first—those little moments when you weren’t there—but it was consistent. It was happening so often now, he couldn’t ignore it.

Theodore’s eyes followed you from across the courtyard. You were walking with Adrien again, your arms swinging lightly at your sides as you exchanged easy words with him. It wasn’t just that you were walking together—it was how naturally it seemed to come to you. There was no hesitation, no wariness. You were laughing at something Adrien had said, your body language open and comfortable.

Theodore felt a twinge in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t quite sort through the jumble of emotions.

You had been so quiet with him lately. But here, with Adrien, you were lighthearted, carefree. So different. It stung.

He’d caught glimpses of this before, bits and pieces—your laughter a little louder when Adrien was around, your smiles more frequent. But seeing it like this, with the two of you walking side by side, so effortlessly close, made it feel… final.

The weight of the past few weeks pressed on him then—the subtle shift, the moments when he’d felt you slipping away without even realising why. You used to seek him out, find excuses to talk to him, to share your thoughts, even your silence. But recently… it had been different. More distant. More reserved.

And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, he saw you—laughing, your eyes bright as you interacted with Adrien and a group of friends. You were introducing Adrien to them, your hand lightly resting on his arm as you made some joke. Astoria and Draco were laughing along, their approval written across their faces. They exchanged knowing looks, their smiles stretching in approval at the ease with which you were interacting with Adrien.

Theodore stopped, watching from the edge of the group, unnoticed. His breath caught in his chest. You were so at ease around him. So different. Your laughter wasn’t strained or forced. It was free. Unburdened. It didn’t take much to see how much more comfortable you were around Adrien than you were with him.

You were surrounded by your friends—laughing, joking, pulling Adrien into the conversation with ease. Their eyes flickered between you two, and he saw them exchange smiles, clearly pleased with the dynamic between you. As if they were glad to see you so happy.

Theodore’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Was this what you were becoming? The person you were without him?

The contrast was sharp. There you were, surrounded by people who seemed to appreciate you, who saw the side of you that he hadn’t seen in weeks. That he’d stopped seeing.

He couldn’t remember when things had started to shift. When had you pulled away? When had Adrien stepped into the spaces that were once his?

His heart ached with the realisation that you were no longer the person he shared these moments with. You weren’t the same. And worse still, it was clear you didn’t need him the way you had before.

But how had it happened? He thought, watching you, his mind spiralling.

By the time Potions class rolled around, the feeling had only grown worse. Theodore had arrived early, as he often did, hoping to settle in before the class began. He made his way to the table you usually sat at, gathering his books and preparing for the lesson, but he was soon called over by a classmate.

He gave the table one last glance before walking over, but something gnawed at him. He hadn’t seen you yet. Was she late again?

He thought nothing of it, you usually took a nap before Thursday’s potions class—often finding an empty nearby classroom to get yourself 20 minutes of sleep.

When Slughorn called for everyone to sit down, Theodore returned to the table, expecting you to already be there, as usual. He looked up, ready to greet you with a casual smile, only to pause to realise the seat was empty. He became confused.

Was she ill? Is she okay?

As he took his seat, he started twisting and turning, looking for all the other possible entrances—waiting for your hectic entrance. His heart dropped as his eyes landed on you—sitting with Adrien. Right there, on the other side of the classroom, with someone who wasn’t him. He blinked, almost thinking he had seen wrong, but no—the reality didn’t change. You were sitting beside him, your focus flicking between Slughorn and Adrien.

Theodore froze , his breath caught in his chest. At first, his mind registered the strange emptiness in his stomach, like something was missing. And then, his thoughts shifted.

She’s okay. Just not with me.

The words in his head felt like they were slowing down as he settled on his stool, trying to gather his thoughts. You and Adrien, already engrossed in a conversation, hadn’t even noticed him yet. His confusion only grew as he glanced at your table, trying not to show how the tightness in his chest was making it hard to breathe. Why weren’t you sitting with him?

Theodore’s grip on his quill tightened until his knuckles whitened. It had been weeks since you’d sought him out, and now… now, it was like he didn’t even exist in the spaces you once shared.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something had changed.

Theodore had never considered himself an impatient person. He knew how to wait. He had spent years perfecting the art of watching, observing, and keeping his emotions neatly in check, tucked away beneath layers of carefully constructed indifference.

But right now, sitting in this godforsaken Potions lesson, he felt like he was unraveling.

His grip on his quill was tight, the feathered tip bending slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He forced himself to focus on the instructions, on the slow, deliberate movements of slicing up the ginger roots in front of him. But his hands were tense, his shoulders stiff, his entire body wound so tightly that he thought if someone so much as breathed wrong in his direction, he might snap.

He had been watching you. He hated that he had been watching you.

But how could he not?

You were right there, just a few feet away, your head tilted toward Adrien, your expression soft in a way that Theodore hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The two of you worked side by side, close enough that your elbows brushed every now and then, and each time it happened, you didn’t flinch away. Didn’t seem to mind at all.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t understand it—this shift, this change, the way you had slipped out of his grasp so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

Maybe that was the worst part.

He could still remember the way things used to be—the way you used to seek him out, even when he wasn’t looking for you. The way you’d drop into the seat beside him without a second thought, a quiet presence that had never felt intrusive, never felt unwelcome. The way you had once laughed with him, not the way you did with Adrien now, but in a way that had been just for him.

But that version of you was gone, wasn’t it?

Theodore’s jaw clenched, and before he could stop himself, his fingers tightened around his quill—too tight.

The wood snapped between his fingers with a sharp crack.

A few students turned at the noise, but Theodore didn’t move. He barely even registered the ink that dripped onto his parchment, spreading into dark, messy blotches. His pulse was hammering against his ribs, a steady, unrelenting rhythm that did nothing to soothe the weight pressing against his chest.

He had to get a grip.

He forced his fingers to relax, letting the broken pieces of his quill drop onto the desk. He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make a difference. The irritation still clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

He was tired of this. Tired of pretending that it didn’t matter, tired of convincing himself that it didn’t get to him every time he saw Adrien carrying your books, or walking beside you like he had always belonged there.

Because he hadn’t.

That was Theodore’s place.

Or at least—it had been.

He hadn’t been able to talk to you properly in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to. He did. He wanted to find you alone, wanted to pull you aside, wanted to demand answers that he wasn’t even sure he could put into words.

But every time he tried, Adrien was there.

It was infuriating how easily the other boy had slid into your life, how effortlessly he had taken up space that should have been Theodore’s.

He had tried to tell himself that he was being irrational. That there was no reason to feel like this, no reason to let something as simple as your choice of company bother him.

But it did.

It fucking did.

And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was that you didn’t seem to notice.

You didn’t notice how he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.

Didn’t notice the way his hands curled into fists every time Adrien slung an arm around your shoulder.

Didn’t notice the way he had started walking slower in the hallways, lingering just long enough to see if you’d turn to him, if you’d say something, anything.

But you never did.

Theodore inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep his expression impassive as he glanced toward you again.

You were laughing.

Not just a quiet chuckle, not the polite kind of laughter you gave when you were only half-paying attention. No, this was different. This was real. Genuine. The kind that made your eyes crinkle at the edges, that made you drop your head slightly like you couldn’t quite contain it.

And Adrien—fucking Adrien Delacroix—was looking at you like you had given him the best gift in the world.

Theodore’s fingers curled around the edge of his desk, nails pressing into the wood.

The sound of Slughorn’s voice cut through the air, signalling the end of the lesson, but Theodore barely heard it.

He was still staring at you, at the way you gathered your things with an easy, unbothered grace, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

He should say something.

Now.

This was his chance.

Before he could overthink it, before you could leave the room, before Adrien could whisk you away yet again.

But just as he stepped forward—

Adrien turned to you, saying something quietly, something just for you. Whatever it was, it made you smile, and then, just like that, you were walking toward the door with him, the two of you slipping effortlessly into the current of students flooding the corridor.

And Theodore—

Theodore was left standing there, fists clenched at his sides, frustration coiling tightly in his chest like a noose.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

This wasn’t just irritation. This wasn’t just some fleeting annoyance that he could brush off with a sharp exhale and a roll of his shoulders.

No—this was something else entirely.

Something heavier.

Something dangerously close to regret.

Theodore barely felt his feet against the stone floor as he stormed through the castle. His mind was racing, his pulse pounding, the frustration still simmering beneath his skin like an open wound.

He couldn’t shake the image of you and Adrien in Potions. The way the two of you worked so easily together, the way your elbows brushed when you leaned too close. The way he murmured something low, just for you, and the way your lips had twitched with amusement before you gave him that look. That soft, private look that Theodore hadn’t seen in weeks.

It was wrong. It should have been him sitting next to you, not Adrien. It should have been his shoulder brushing against yours. He should have been the one pulling your cauldron closer when you got distracted, the one smirking as you muttered something under your breath about how you hated Slughorn’s tedious assignments. He should have been the one you turned to with that easy familiarity, the kind that once belonged to him and only him.

But he wasn’t.

Because you had stopped turning to him at all.

And now? Now you had Adrien-fucking- Delacroix acting like he had any right to step into that space, like he had the right to replace Theodore without a second thought. Like you had simply let it happen.

His hands clenched at his sides.

He had to know. Had to understand why this was happening, why you had pulled away, why it felt like you had disappeared from his life without so much as a second glance. Because if he didn’t get answers soon, he felt like he might lose his goddamn mind.

He took the corner sharply, heading straight for Draco’s dorm.

Someone moved into his path.

“Theodore?”

It was the girl from before—the one who had approached him at breakfast, the one who had tried to invite him to the Valentine’s party some weeks back. The same girl who had looked at you with thinly veiled amusement, like you were some afterthought to her plans.

He didn’t care about her.

She stepped toward him with a bright, expectant smile. “I was wondering if—”

He walked right past her.

Didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge her.

Didn’t even hear what she had been about to say.

Her voice faltered, her footsteps pausing behind him, but he didn’t bother looking back. He was already moving, already set on what he needed to do, already too far gone to stop now.

Draco was going to tell him what the hell was going on.

His patience had finally run out.

By the time he reached the door, he didn’t hesitate. He slammed his fist against it, hard enough that the hinges rattled.

“Malfoy,” he bit out, voice sharp, demanding. “Open the fucking door.”

Nothing.

His fingers curled into a fist again, his knuckles burning.

“If you don’t open it right now, I swear I’ll—”

The handle gave way easily beneath his grip. The door wasn’t locked.

He shoved it open, frustration spilling over—

And immediately regretted it.

Draco Malfoy was on his bed, half-naked.

Astoria Greengrass was also half-naked.

The sheets had barely been pulled over her, her blouse abandoned somewhere on the floor, her curls disheveled in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Draco was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, his hair a mess, looking every bit like someone who had just been interrupted at the worst possible moment.

Theodore froze.

Astoria froze.

Draco blinked once, then exhaled like this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

For a full, excruciating moment, nobody moved.

Then Astoria let out a noise of sheer disbelief, scrambling for the sheets to cover herself. “Are you actually fucking serious, Nott?”

Theodore felt like he’d been dropped into hell.

His eyes snapped to the ceiling. “For fuck’s sake—” He turned sharply, facing the door, but didn’t leave. His fingers dug into his temples as he let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Why the fuck was your door unlocked?”

Draco just rolled his eyes, completely unbothered. “Didn’t think a lunatic was about to barge in.”

Astoria scoffed from where she stood by the wardrobe, still tying the belt of Draco’s robe around her waist. “Merlin, if I had a Galleon for every time a Slytherin boy had a meltdown in this room, I’d be rich.”

Theodore barely heard her. His patience snapped.

“What’s going on with her?”

Draco raised a brow. “Who?”

Theodore saw red.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Draco’s collar and yanked him forward, the frustration that had been simmering beneath his skin finally spilling over.

Draco barely reacted, unimpressed as ever, but before he could pry Theodore off—

Astoria grabbed Theodore’s collar.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, physically pulling Theodore back with both hands, forcing him to let go of Draco’s shirt. “If you’re about to start some macho territorial bullshit, at least have the decency to do it outside where I’m not half-naked.”

Theodore barely stumbled, but his glare snapped to her. “Stay out of this, Greengrass.”

Astoria barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She crossed her arms, gaze narrowing. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Theodore hissed, shaking his head, “is that you two clearly know something and are dragging this out instead of telling me what the fuck is going on.”

Draco straightened his collar like nothing had happened, exhaling in exasperation. “I already told you—”

Astoria cut him off, rolling her eyes. “He’s too dense, Malfoy. Just tell him what your dear cousin is doing before he starts breaking furniture.”

Draco shot her an unimpressed look but obliged, sighing as he finally leaned back against the headboard.

“She’s seventeen, Theodore.”

Theodore clenched his jaw. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Astoria interjected, raising a brow. “Because you’re acting like it’s some great mystery why a girl like her is suddenly acting her age.”

Theodore snapped his head toward her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Astoria exchanged a slow glance with Draco, like they were having a silent conversation. Then she sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed and propping her chin on her palm.

“It means,” she said slowly, “that it’s embarrassing how blind you are.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms. “Watch it, Greengrass.”

“Or what?” she shot back, unimpressed. “You’ll shove me into a wall next? Gods, you are so obvious.”

Draco smirked. “She’s right, you know.”

“Of course I am,” Astoria said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Here’s the thing, Nott. If you wanted her to stay in your orbit, maybe you shouldn’t have acted like she was nothing more than some convenient little thing to have around.”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “That’s not—”

“She’s moving on,” Draco interrupted, his voice eerily calm. “Because that’s what people do when they realise they’ve been wasting their time.”

The words landed like a slap.

Theodore swallowed, something bitter curling in his stomach.

Astoria hummed. “I mean, you didn’t actually think she’d wait around for you forever, did you?” She tilted her head, watching him. “Poor thing probably woke up one day and realised she was chasing after a ghost.”

Theodore’s hands curled into fists. “That’s not how it was.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Wasn’t it?”

Theodore hated the way his stomach twisted.

“She’s not stupid, Nott,” Draco continued, voice cool. “And she’s not waiting anymore. She’s looking for something better.” He smirked, slow and sharp. “Someone better.”

Astoria whistled. “Brutal.”

Theodore exhaled harshly through his nose, shaking his head. “That’s not—” He stopped himself. His voice had wavered. Fuck.

Astoria’s expression shifted, like she had caught something in his face that he hadn’t meant to show. Then, to his absolute fury, she smiled.

“Oh, this is rich,” she mused, eyes flickering over him. “You actually thought she was always going to come back to you, didn’t you?”

Theodore froze.

Draco chuckled under his breath.

“She did, though, didn’t she?” Astoria continued, tapping a finger against her knee. “Every time you got too cold, every time you pulled away, every time you treated her like a second thought—she still came back. And now that she’s not?” Her lips curled, saccharine and cruel. “You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

The words dug in deep, cutting through skin and bone like a blade.

Draco sighed, stretching out his legs. “You’re pissed off because you thought you had all the time in the world.” He gave Theodore a lazy once-over. “But newsflash—you don’t.”

Astoria nodded in agreement. “Adrien Delacroix is looking like a much better option than a boy who can’t make up his fucking mind.”

Theodore’s breathing was sharp, unsteady. His mind raced, but his lips remained pressed in a tight, stubborn line. He refused to acknowledge the sickening feeling twisting inside him, the one whispering that Draco and Astoria were right.

They weren’t. They couldn’t be.

You weren’t moving on.

You weren’t choosing Adrien over him.

You couldn’t be.

“I never treated her like a second thought,” Theodore muttered, voice tight, controlled—barely masking the storm raging inside him.

Astoria let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, really?” Her arms crossed over her chest, her expression sharpening into something lethal. “Then what the hell do you call the past few months, Nott?”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to argue—

But Astoria gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did I say months? That was a huge mistake.” She took a step closer, her smirk turning cold.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something vicious.

“Years.”

The words landed like a curse, slamming into Theodore’s chest, wrapping around his ribs like an iron vice.

His stomach dropped.

Astoria scoffed. “Yeah, years, Nott. Years of you keeping her close enough to touch but never letting her hold on. Years of her looking at you like you hung the fucking stars, waiting—praying—for you to see her the way she saw you.”

Theodore’s breath was coming in short, uneven pulls.

“But you didn’t, did you?” Astoria pressed, her voice razor-sharp. “Or maybe you did, and you liked knowing she’d never leave. That no matter how many times you ignored her, no matter how many times you pulled away, no matter how many times you made her feel like she was nothing—she’d still be there.”

Theodore’s stomach twisted violently.

Because she was right.

You had always been there.

And he had been stupid enough to take that for granted.

His throat felt tight. “That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what happened!” Astoria screamed, her voice cracking, raw with frustration. “She spent years orbiting around you like you were something fucking sacred. Like you were the fucking sun and she was just lucky to stand in your light.”

Theodore felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“But stars burn out, Nott,” Astoria spat, hands trembling at her sides. “And eventually, people stop waiting.”

His chest ached—something sharp, something unbearable, something he hadn’t even realized was there until this moment.

You had waited for him. For so long. And he—

He had wasted it.

Astoria wasn’t finished.

“And you know what the worst part is?” she demanded, stepping even closer, fury flashing in her eyes. “She never even wanted to say anything about it! She just took it.”

Theodore blinked. “What?”

Astoria let out a hollow laugh. “Oh yeah, she never complained. Never confronted you. Never demanded that you finally make up your fucking mind.” She sneered. “But Draco noticed, didn’t you?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, nodding, his expression unreadable.

“She never told me,” he admitted. “But I saw the red eyes. The tear-stained sleeves. The way she always looked away when she thought no one was watching.”

Theodore’s chest constricted, a sickening pressure building in his ribs.

No.

No, that wasn’t—

You had never—

Had you?

“She thought she was hiding it,” Astoria continued, voice filled with something dangerously close to disgust. “But I got her to talk. Eventually. And do you know what she said?”

Theodore couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“She said it didn’t matter.” Astoria’s voice softened for just a second, something bitter laced in her tone. “She said she was fine. That you weren’t doing anything wrong—that it was just how you were.” Her expression hardened again, her hands clenching into fists. “And do you know how fucking heartbreaking it is to watch someone shrink themselves into something manageable just so the person they love doesn’t feel guilty?”

Theodore’s hands were shaking.

“She acted like it was normal,” Astoria went on, her voice rising again. “Like it was fine that she spent years being treated like an afterthought—like she should just be grateful for the scraps of attention you gave her.”

Theodore felt like he was going to be sick.

She had hurt because of him.

She had cried because of him.

And he had never even noticed.

Astoria exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “And now you have the fucking audacity to stand here and act like she’s the one abandoning you?” Her voice broke, half a laugh, half something furious. “No, Theodore. You don’t get to do that. You let her go. And now she’s choosing to be happy.”

Theodore’s nails dug into his palms so hard he thought they might draw blood.

Because he saw it now.

Every moment he had let pass. Every glance you had given him that he had pretended not to notice. Every fucking time you had stood next to him, waiting for him to say something, to do something, and he had done nothing.

And now you weren’t waiting anymore.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I care about her.”

Astoria’s laugh was vicious. “No, no, you fucking don’t.”

Theodore flinched.

Astoria stared at him for a long moment, her eyes still burning. Then, she exhaled and threw up her hands. “Oh, my god.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Astoria turned to Draco. “Why are boys so fucking stupid?”

Draco sighed. “It’s genetic.”

Theodore’s control shattered. His pride was in ruins. He took a step forward, his voice breaking. “Please.”

Astoria blinked.

Draco raised a brow.

Theodore swallowed hard. His throat burned, his chest ached, but none of it mattered. Not compared to this.

“I can’t—I can’t lose her,” he said, voice shaking. “I can’t—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching as he forced himself to meet Astoria’s gaze. “Just tell me what the fuck to do.”

Astoria studied him.

Then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “God, you’re pathetic.”

Draco hummed. “Painful to watch, really.”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine.” She took a step forward, poking a sharp finger into Theodore’s chest. “You want to fix this?”

Theodore didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then stop thinking about it and do something, you absolute coward.”

Theodore exhaled shakily.

Astoria didn’t let up. “You don’t get to just show up and expect her to forgive you. You have to fight for her. You have to prove to her that you give a shit.”

Theodore swallowed hard.

Draco smirked. “Sounds like a grand gesture is in order.”

Astoria snorted. “Not even. Something consistent, Nott. Because trust me—Adrien is making it very, very easy for her to forget about you.”

Something flared hot in Theodore’s chest.

No.

You weren’t going to forget him.

He wasn’t going to let you.

And for the first time in his life—

He was going to fight for you.

Theodore woke with a start, the sharp knock at his door pulling him violently from the tangled haze of restless sleep. His head jerked up, and for a disoriented moment, the room swayed around him—stacks of parchment, ink-stained hands, the bitter taste of exhaustion thick on his tongue. His cheek had been pressed against his desk, the parchment beneath it crumpled, words smudged into an indecipherable mess. His body ached, stiff from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in, and as he blinked blearily, the sight before him sank in with a slow, leaden weight.

His desk was an absolute disaster. Papers—so many of them—scattered across the wooden surface, some half-crumpled in frustration, others folded neatly, all of them failed attempts at something that should’ve been simple. Letters.

He had tried to write to you.

The realization clawed at him, dragging its nails down his ribs. The ink had bled through some pages, the sentences struck through with such force that they had torn, his frustration laid bare in every scratched-out word. Apologies he couldn’t get right. Apologies that, even now, felt meaningless. His own handwriting glared back at him in different variations of the same pitiful attempts:

I should’ve—

I never meant—

If you could just—

None of them were right. None of them would fix it.

A second knock echoed against the heavy door, firmer this time. He exhaled sharply, running a tired hand over his face before pushing himself up from the desk. The room felt suffocating, a mess of discarded pages, ink bottles knocked onto their sides, the air thick with the weight of too many unsaid things. He barely remembered falling asleep. He barely remembered anything past the spiral of last night—pacing the room, writing, tossing letter after letter into the pile, his mind a hurricane of words he could never bring himself to say aloud.

And now, someone was here.

Dragging himself toward the door, Theodore pulled it open without much thought. The sight that greeted him made his stomach drop.

Packages. Stacked haphazardly outside his room, almost comically abundant. A house-elf stood beside them, looking mildly unimpressed as he shuffled the last box into place.

“Delivery for Master Nott,” the elf announced, then, without another word, disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving Theodore standing there, staring at the pile of things he had—

Merlin.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a slow, creeping horror settling into his bones as he took in the sight properly. Wildflowers, their petals pristine and delicate, wrapped in deep green silk. A book—the one you had mentioned in passing months ago, the one you had run your fingers over in the shop window but never bought for yourself. You've probably found a way to read this already. Jewelry, carefully selected, gleaming in the light. And more—small things, tokens, pieces of something that, at the time, had seemed like they would mean something.

His gut twisted.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face, pressing his fingers hard against his closed eyes.

This—this was pathetic.

A short, breathless laugh left him, bitter and self-deprecating. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands as if it might ground him, as if it might undo whatever this was. What had he been thinking? That he could throw money at this, at you, and somehow that would fix it? That he could neatly wrap up his guilt in expensive gifts and you’d just—what? Forgive him? Pretend none of it happened?

Theodore swallowed hard, his gaze darkening as it lingered on the unopened packages. The weight of it all—the sleepless nights, the letters he could never finish, the sharp edges of regret cutting into him—it crashed down with a force that made his chest feel hollow.

Because he saw it now.

You wouldn’t take any of this. You would look at the flowers, the book, the jewelry, all of it—and you would see right through him. You would see the desperation, the guilt, the pathetic attempt to mend something that was already broken.

He saw you standing there, just beyond the mess, your figure sharp against the blur of his exhaustion. The tilt of your head, the steady weight of your gaze—it was you. It had to be. You were right there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, watching him in that way that always made his chest feel tight.

For a split second, relief surged through him, raw and unfiltered. You had come. You had seen the mess, the letters, the wildflowers, the pathetic attempt at fixing things, and you had come anyway.

But you weren’t saying anything. You were just standing there, your eyes scanning the disaster around him, and when they met his, they weren’t filled with anger. They were filled with something worse.

Disappointment.

His stomach twisted, his throat tightening painfully. He opened his mouth, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I know—" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I know it's not enough."

You didn’t move. Didn’t react. The silence pressed against him, heavier than anything he had ever felt.

He swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. "I just—" He let out a short, unsteady breath, raking a hand through his hair. "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Still, nothing. Your gaze didn’t waver, and that was what made it unbearable. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was just… resigned.

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath, dragging his hands down his face. "I should've—"

You can’t buy my forgiveness, Theodore.

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they might as well have been a curse, sinking deep into his chest, curling around his ribs like something inescapable.

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, willing the vision to disappear.

But when he opened them again—you were gone.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as if that could push the thought away. As if he didn’t already know, deep down, that you had every right to say it.

Because this wasn’t about the gifts. It was about everything before them. The years of taking you for granted. The dismissals, the avoidance, the ways he had let you slip through his fingers like something he had assumed would always be there.

And now, when he was finally ready to reach for you—you weren’t waiting anymore.

The realization hit harder than he expected, slamming into him like a punch to the ribs. His throat tightened, and for a long, unbearable moment, all he could do was stand there, staring at the mess he had made.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned away. The packages remained where they were, untouched, as Theodore shut the door behind him, pressing his back against the wood.

He needed to do better.

But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

How was he supposed to reach you now? How was he supposed to even begin to fix this? He couldn’t just show up—not after everything, not after the silence he had let stretch between you like an uncrossable chasm. And yet, the thought of doing nothing, of letting this fester, made his stomach churn violently.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. He had spent so long keeping you at a distance, and now that you were truly out of reach, all he wanted to do was find you.

But how?

Theodore wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there.

He had come out to the courtyard for a cigarette—just one, just long enough to clear his head. Long enough to pretend that he wasn’t unraveling from the inside out. But the hours had slipped by like water through his fingers, and now the sun was setting, casting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. His cigarette pack was almost empty. His fingers were stained with nicotine, raw from how many times he had burned each cigarette down to the filter.

The taste of smoke lingered thickly at the back of his throat, acrid and familiar, but it wasn’t doing anything to settle him. His nerves felt frayed, his thoughts tangled in a loop he couldn’t escape. The mess of the morning still clung to him—Astoria’s words, Draco’s sharp-edged amusement, the unbearable weight of knowing he had let you slip right through his fingers.

He didn’t want to talk to them again. Pushing harder would mean Astoria telling him to fuck off or worse—another lecture from her sharp tongue. And Draco? Draco was already entertained enough by this whole thing. No. If Theodore was going to understand what had changed, there was only one person who could give him that answer.

Adrien Delacroix.

The thought of Adrien gnawed at him. He’d noticed him the second he stepped into the courtyard, but Adrien had been here first. That should have meant something. Should’ve given him the right to ignore him, to pretend that he wasn’t watching from the corner of his eye as Adrien sat with his group of friends.

"C'est insensé," one of them muttered, shaking his head. "Tu as vu? Since—je ne sais pas, maybe une hour?"

Adrien exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Je sais."

The boy scoffed. "Mais pourquoi? What is his problem? He just—stares, like—like he wants to kill you."

Another boy chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. "You steal his girlfriend or something?" His accent thick but teasing. "He looks at you like... like you took something from him."

Adrien smirked, shaking his head. "Non. But maybe he thinks so."

Theodore’s chest tightened, his hands shaking, his cigarette burning down too quickly in his hand. He could feel the jealousy curling in his gut like a fist. The idea that Adrien could have anything to do with you—it shouldn’t matter. He knew it shouldn’t matter. But fuck, it did.

His teeth ground together, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. The laughter of Adrien’s friends, casual and light, sent a flare of irritation through him. He hated how Adrien made everything feel easy—like he was untouchable. It burned even worse when Theodore had to rely on him to understand what had changed.

And still—he couldn’t just let it go.

The thought of asking Adrien for help was almost unbearable. His pride bristled at the idea of begging, of needing someone like him for something. Adrien had a way of making everything feel like a game, like Theodore was just another piece on his chessboard.

But fuck, the thought of not asking him was worse. The knot in his chest tightened. If Adrien was the answer, then he’d have to go to him. And that was the last thing he wanted.

But what else was there? How else would he get to you?

Adrien laughed again. The sound caught him off guard—light, unbothered. It threaded through the crisp evening air like it belonged there. Theodore didn’t want to hear it. But somehow, it clung to him, stoking the fire in his chest.

"Merde," one of Adrien’s friends muttered, and Theodore’s stomach twisted. "Regarde encore— he’s still looking."

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "Je sais."

Theodore’s shoulders tensed. The idea that Adrien could sense him watching—feel his gaze—made his blood boil. He dropped his gaze, flicking the last of the cigarette, trying to feign disinterest, but it was too late. The damage was done.

"Mais pourquoi?" the other boy scoffed, laughing in confusion. "What is his problem? Il te déteste ou quoi? He stares—like—comme un chien abandonné."

Theodore’s heart raced, the words biting deeper than they should’ve. He wasn’t staring—he wasn’t! Just watching. Just—he wasn’t sure what it was.

But Adrien—he huffed out a short, tired laugh, stretching his arms behind him. "Non. Mais—" He tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking, like he was weighing something. "Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants."

Another boy snorted. "C'est triste. Feels like he wants to fight you ou beg for something."

Laughter, casual, and it dug at Theodore, twisting inside him. He could almost hear the amusement in Adrien’s voice—like he knew exactly what he was doing to him. It was infuriating.

But worse, much worse, was the sinking feeling that had settled in his chest. Adrien was playing some game—he always did—but now, it felt different. Every second he spent here, just watching, was another second he was losing control. Losing ground.

Theodore ground his teeth together, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly with the tightness in his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he was still here—still stuck in this courtyard, pretending he didn’t care. He didn’t need to care.

But you do, a voice in his head whispered, and Theodore slammed it down immediately. No. He didn’t need to do this. He didn’t need Adrien. Didn’t need anything from him. The thought was a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

His gaze had drifted again. Adrien was still there, still with his friends, still being him, laughing, existing like the world had nothing on him. Theodore’s eyes narrowed, but his thoughts felt like they were slipping away, growing foggy, distant. It wasn’t that he wanted to look—he didn’t, not anymore—but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything. Every word, every laugh, every glance.

Before he knew it, he was no longer paying attention to anything around him—just lost in the buzz of his own thoughts. Adrien’s presence was like a shadow he couldn’t shake, hovering at the edge of his mind, no matter how much he wanted to push it away.

That was when he felt it.

A shift in the air. A pressure building. Like the ground was vibrating, or the space around him had suddenly grown too small.

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat, a flutter of panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t heard any footsteps—hadn’t seen Adrien moving, hadn’t noticed him leave his friends.

But then—

Adrien’s figure appeared in his peripheral vision, and Theodore’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t know how to process it, how to even think about it. Adrien was walking straight toward him, cutting through the space between them like he had every right to.

What the fuck is he doing?

Theodore’s mind raced, panic flooding through him in an instant. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t prepared for this. His fingers tightened around the cigarette, and his pulse quickened as he tried to steady his breath. His thoughts crashed against each other, the sharp throb of confusion making him dizzy.

He didn’t know why it hit him like this. Adrien never approached him like this—never. Not without purpose. Not without making some fucking joke or saying something sarcastic. And now—

Is he coming to confront me? To mock me?

Theodore’s chest tightened at the thought. No. No, that can’t be it. He wouldn’t... would he?

His heart pounded in his ears as he fought the urge to stand up, to run, to hide, to do anything but stay frozen in place. Adrien was still coming closer. Still making his way to him with that effortless stride, like he had all the time in the world.

What the hell does he want?

Theodore’s mind screamed at him to stay calm, but the tension in his body was unbearable. He wasn’t hidden anymore. He couldn’t hide anymore.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t ready for any of it. Not for this moment. Not for whatever Adrien was going to throw at him next. The weight of everything he had been avoiding crashed down on him, and in that moment, all he could think was one thing: I’m not ready.

The frenchman stopped just short of Theodore, standing for a moment as if assessing the space between them. Theodore’s stomach twisted, every instinct telling him to look away, to say something, to do anything but sit there in silence.

Adrien didn’t seem to mind the quiet. With a casual flick of his wrist, he pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and glanced at Theodore. “You got a light?”

Theodore hesitated, fingers hovering over his own lighter in his pocket - scratching at the engraving. The boy was giving him the most horrid once over - as if judging the sham-confidence that he was trying so hard to convince himself was real. He considered not handing over the lighter—to not say anything at all. But Adrien wasn’t waiting for permission, just standing there, waiting for Theodore to respond.

Finally, Theodore pulled the lighter from his pocket and handed it over. Adrien took it without a word, lighting the cigarette he was balancing between his teeth. As the flame flickered out, he sank down on the bench next to him, taking a deep inhale of the cigarette. He glanced down at the lighter and raised an eyebrow.

“Teo?” Adrien said, his tone teasing, yet genuinely curious. He turned it over in his fingers, inspecting the engraving. “Someone special gave this to you?”

Theodore’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer, couldn’t. The air felt thick, heavy, with Adrien just sitting there— just a a meter away, eyes flicking between him and the lighter, like he knew exactly how to get under Theodore’s skin. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

“So,” Adrien said after a moment, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “What is it that you think I’ve done?”

Theodore’s heart skipped a beat. His instincts screamed at him to push back, to protect whatever was left of his pride, but he stayed silent. Adrien’s eyes never left him, his smirk widening.

“You’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral. Is it that bad?” Adrien said casually, taking another drag from his cigarette.

Theodore’s grip tightened around his near-dead cigarette, the ember flaring with his barely restrained irritation. He should say something, anything, but the words were caught in his throat.

Adrien, sensing the tension, continued to poke at him. “Well whatever, it is, it must be bad enough that you've spent the last 3 heures burning holes into my head.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. He wanted to fight back, to get under Adrien’s skin the way he was doing to him, but the silence between them felt like a trap. Adrien was waiting for something. A reaction. A slip-up. He was playing this game, and Theodore was losing.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, coiling tight around his lungs, making every breath feel too shallow. The courtyard stretched vast and open around them, but the air between them was thick—choking, stagnant. Something waiting to snap.

A shift of movement. The subtle inhale of someone who had already made up their mind.

Adrien exhaled first. A slow breath through his nose, smoke curling from his lips before he flicked what remained of his cigarette to the ground. The ember sizzled faintly against damp stone, dimming instantly, disappearing.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he lingered, rolling his shoulders back before tilting his head just slightly—casual, practiced ease masking something sharper beneath the surface.

"So." His voice was light, too light. A forced contrast against the weight pressing down on them. "What’s with the lurking?"

The silence that followed dragged.

It should have been broken by something natural—a scoff, a sigh, any acknowledgment that the words had even been spoken. But nothing came.

No response. No movement.

Just tension, settling deeper, embedding itself into every unspoken second.

Adrien’s fingers twitched. "You know," he continued, tone shifting toward something drier, "if you’re going to stand there and stare at me all night, you could at least pretend to have a reason."

Still, nothing.

Not a single flicker of acknowledgment, save for the way Theodore’s fingers tightened—so slightly it would have been easy to miss—at his sides.

The tell was small. But it was there.

Adrien hummed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Long day?"

A pause.

Theodore’s jaw clenched, a flicker of tension in his shoulders so brief it could have been imagined.

Not an answer. But not nothing, either.

The corner of Adrien’s mouth curled—not in amusement, not really. It was too exasperated for that, too dry. "Or are you just like this now?"

That got a reaction. A sharp inhale, controlled but still noticeable.

Like the comment had landed.

Like it had hit somewhere.

The silence that followed was different. Sharper.

Adrien exhaled, running a slow hand through his hair, the weight of his own patience wearing thin. "Right." He nodded to himself, voice dipping into something lower, something edged with something just slightly irritated. "You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?"

Another pause. Another beat of nothingness stretching too long, stretching so far it started to feel personal.

Adrien didn’t miss the way Theodore’s gaze flickered—not toward him, never toward him—but past him, around him, away from him.

Avoiding.

Not engaging.

Something about that settled wrong in Adrien’s chest.

Because why was this his problem?

Why was he standing here, trying, when the weight of what had gone wrong between Theodore and her had nothing to do with him?

He hadn’t been the one to pull away. He hadn’t been the one to let her think, even for a second, that she wasn’t important enough to fight for.

And yet, somehow, he was the one standing in the cold, dragging words out of someone who clearly had no intention of speaking first.

His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists.

Yeah. No.

"Right. You know what?" A step back. A shake of the head. "I’m not doing this."

He turned, already done, already moving.

Then—

"Wait!"

The word came rough. Unsteady.

Like something had slipped before it could be swallowed down.

Adrien stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t turn back.

Didn’t move.

Just let the silence stretch impossibly thin, let the weight of the word sit between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them wanted to name. Theodore shifted, his jaw clenching as he exhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet Adrien’s gaze. The Frenchman, still standing with his weight lazily shifted to one side, raised a brow, unimpressed.

Adrien let out a breath of laughter, though there was no real humor in it. "What? You gonna keep staring at me like I stole your inheritance, or do you actually have something to say?"

Theodore's fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn’t in the mood for games, but he couldn’t blame Adrien for being like this. Not really. He had spent weeks resenting him, watching him from afar, convincing himself that Adrien was the reason everything had changed. But now, standing here, with no one else to turn to, he found himself swallowing the words that burned in his throat before finally forcing them out.

"I want her to know that I've made the effort—that I've changed. But how do I make her see that?"

Adrien blinked. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, a slow, exaggerated sigh left his lips, and he ran a hand down his face. "Oh, mon dieu," he muttered, shaking his head. "You cannot be serious. Is this really happening?"

Theodore’s hands clenched into fists. "Just answer the question."

Adrien gave him a long look, and for a second, Theodore thought he was going to walk away. But then, the amusement in Adrien’s eyes dimmed, something steadier settling in its place. He tilted his head slightly, assessing him.

"Why are you asking me?" Adrien asked, his voice quieter now, less sharp. "You must have learnt something in the how many years she's been pining after you."

Theodore swallowed hard. "I—"

Adrien cut in. "You’re just hoping I’ll say something that makes it easier for you, aren't you?"

"And what, let me guess," Adrien exhaled, crossing his arms. "You’ve finally realized you’ve been acting like a complete idiot, and now you’re desperate to fix things. But you don’t know how, and instead of figuring it out yourself, you’re here, asking me for some magic solution to make it all better." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Incroyable."

Theodore stiffened. He deserved that. He knew he did. But the weight in his chest didn’t ease.

Adrien watched him for another long moment, then sighed, his frustration fading just slightly. "You want an answer? Fine. Here’s the truth. You don’t just tell someone you care; you show them. It’s not about words— it’s not about grand apologies or empty promises. It’s about actions."

Theodore stayed silent, absorbing his words.

Adrien’s gaze sharpened. "And you’re not just competing with me. You’re competing with yourself. The version of you she remembers - apparantly the only one she knows. The version of you that made her feel like she wasn’t enough. She needs to see that you’ve changed, not because you’re scared of losing her, but because you want to be better—for her, yes, but also for yourself."

Theodore’s throat felt tight. He had spent so long convincing himself that the problem was Adrien, that it was about who she was spending time with now, that he had ignored the real issue: himself.

Adrien sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Look, I don’t like you," he said bluntly. "Not after what you put her through. And honestly? I wasn’t sure what kind of person you were. I’ve heard things—seen the way you act. I figured you were just another pureblood Slytherin with nothing real to say. But…" He hesitated, then gave a small shrug. ""She cares about you. For some stupid reason, she does. And because of that, I have to at least try to believe you can be better. But if you don’t—if you mess this up again—I’ll make sure there’s no coming back from it. She means a lot to me, Nott. She’s important. And if you sorting your shit out means she’ll be happy, then fine, I’ll entertain this. But if you hurt her again? I’ll personally make sure you never get the chance to fix it.""

Theodore exhaled, the weight of it settling deep in his chest. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien smirked, though there was a sharp edge to it. "Alright, Nott, let’s break this down. What exactly have you done so far to show her you’ve changed?" He leaned his head back over the bench, waiting. "Go on. Impress me."

Theodore hesitated. "I… talked to Astoria. And Draco. And I—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I bought her stuff— apology stuff to show her I thought of her too..."

Adrien let out a slow, dry laugh. "Oh, merveilleux. Let me guess—flowers? Jewelry? Maybe a book she already read three times over?" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Mon dieu, Nott, how could she possibly resist such a display of heartfelt remorse?"

Theodore sat there in silence.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "And you—really—thought that would fix everything? Just throw a bunch of gifts at her and hope she magically forgets how much you hurt her?" He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Brilliant plan, Nott. Truly inspired. Nothing says 'I understand my mistakes' quite like expensive shit."

Adrien exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Tell me, did you even put any thought into it? Or did you just grab whatever looked fancy and hope it would do the talking for you? Because if you think that stacking a pile of presents in front of her like some pathetic shrine to your guilt is going to fix anything—mon dieu, you’re even more clueless than I thought."

Theodore clenched his jaw. "That’s not—"

Theodore looked away, his grip tightening at his sides. The worst part was that Adrien wasn’t wrong.

Adrien sighed, rubbing his temple. "You don’t buy forgiveness, Theodore. You don’t hand her a pile of gifts and expect her to believe you suddenly care. If anything, that just proves you don’t get it. If you want her to see you’ve changed, then you actually have to change." Not just panic and start running to everyone around her hoping they’ll do the work for you. You need to show her—through your actions, not just whatever self-pitying monologue you’ve got running in your head."

Theodore swallowed hard. "And how do I do that?"

Adrien’s smirk returned, but this time, it was less mocking. "Now that, mon ami, is the real question."

The sheets were too warm. Or maybe not warm enough. Every time you tried to settle, your thoughts seemed to slip between the covers with you, circling your mind like an endless, insomniac spiral. It had been like this for days. You rolled over for the fifth time, trying to bury your head in your pillow and ignore the feeling clawing at your chest—frustration, loneliness, the unrelenting ache of missing something you weren’t sure you could have anymore.

You turned again, staring at the shadows that crept along the stone walls of the dormitory, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the tall windows. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t come in a while.

Your fingers, cold despite the warmth of your blankets, brushed over the edge of your nightgown. Barefoot, you swung your legs off the side of the bed, toes brushing the cool stone floor. The chill hit you like a breath of wind. You stood, the muscles in your legs stiff from lying still for too long, and tugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

A quick glance around the room showed no one else awake. Of course, no one else would be—most of the Gryffindors could sleep through anything. But you weren’t like them. Not tonight.

You moved as quietly as possible, pulling your cardigan tighter, but your bare feet met the cold floor with every step, making you wince. You could feel the stone floor beneath your feet, rough and unforgiving, as if each step was a reminder of how disconnected you felt, how off-balance everything seemed lately. The distance between you and the others felt wider with each step you took. Even the castle seemed cold and distant.

Your thoughts circled back to him—Theodore. Even now, after all that had happened, he was still a presence in the back of your mind, unwanted and persistent, like the cold drafts you could never seem to escape. You weren’t ready for anything between you two, not yet, not with all the unsaid things and the space that had grown between you.

Your footsteps echoed softly through the empty halls as you navigated the winding corridors of the castle, your breath a faint mist in the cold air. The walk, though short, seemed to take forever. You had been making this journey for days now, finding solace in the familiar warmth of the kitchens, a place where time seemed to slow down and the usual chaos of Hogwarts didn’t quite reach you. It was just you, and the promise of something warm—something comforting that didn’t require explanation.

The flickering torchlight on the walls illuminated your path, but the shadows of the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly in front of you, like the miles of unspoken words and unfinished conversations between you and Theodore. The thought of him made your stomach churn in the quiet stillness of the castle, but still, you walked. You had to.

When you reached the kitchens, the door creaked as you nudged it open, the sound sharper in the silence of the night. The faint smell of baked goods lingered in the air, mixed with the faint scent of warm milk, a comfort that almost made you forget why you’d come. You stepped in, the door falling gently closed behind you, and your eyes immediately sought the familiar space—the cupboards lined with ingredients, the shelves stacked with cookbooks, the little stove in the corner that you’d grown to love over the years.

Then you froze.

There, standing over the counter, was Theodore.

At first, you thought you’d imagined him, the shadows playing tricks on your eyes, but no, there he was. Theodore, his hair slightly messy from sleep, his eyes bloodshot, and an array of failed attempts strewn across the counter in front of him. Empty mugs sat in a sad pile, some clearly broken, others just abandoned, alongside half-opened packets of hot chocolate powder and bits of chocolate bars that had already started to melt.

Your heart skipped a beat, a strange, sudden mixture of anger and confusion tightening in your chest. Of all places, here. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay. Maybe both. Your feet felt rooted to the spot, cold stone against bare skin, the weight of the situation too much to bear.

You blinked, suddenly self-conscious of your bare feet, the cold air seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your mind was racing—what was he doing here? Why tonight, of all nights? And why this?

Theodore froze at the sound of your steps, his hands hovering over the mess. He stepped back, raising his hands in a motion you knew all too well. “I—I wasn’t trying to invade your personal space or anything,” he muttered quickly, glancing over at you with wide eyes. “I just... well, I know how much you like hot chocolate, and I thought I could... I mean, if you want, I can leave, but I wasn’t trying to—” He trailed off, looking flustered.

The words hit you like a cold wave, leaving a strange, hollow ache in their wake. His presence here, in this moment, felt like an intrusion. You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t asked for him to come and try to fix things when there were still so many pieces of the puzzle missing, so many things left unsaid.

Your heart thudded in your chest, your wariness a familiar weight in your stomach. You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how to handle his sudden presence—especially given the quiet, unresolved tension between you. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here. You weren’t sure if you were ready for any of it.

Theodore took another step back, as if to give you space, but his eyes flickered to the counter. “I—I didn’t mean to make a mess. It’s just, well... I’ve never made hot chocolate quite like this before, apparently.” His voice was almost sheepish, as if embarrassed by the sight of all the failed attempts. The mess on the counter felt like a metaphor for everything that had happened between you two—disastrous, messy, and something neither of you knew how to fix.

Your eyes fell on the spilled milk, the chocolate that was now a mess on the counter, the empty mugs—each a reminder of how much he was trying. For a moment, you were torn between the nagging frustration that you still felt for him and the sudden realization that this, this, was a side of him you hadn’t expected to see. And despite yourself, you felt a small crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

Theodore sighed, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “I’m not trying to make things weird. Really. I just... I wanted to make it right.” He glanced at you again, his voice softer now. “You’ve been having a lot of... sleepless nights, haven’t you? I thought you might like this.”

For a second, there was a pause. The words hung between you like a fragile thread, neither of you willing to break the silence. The warmth in his voice didn’t match the cold in your chest, but it did something to you—softened the edges just enough for you to acknowledge how much you missed this. Missed him. But you couldn’t let that show. Not yet.

And in that silence, it almost felt like you were both standing in a space that didn’t quite belong to either of you, a place full of warmth, but also memories that were still too fresh.

You stared at Theodore, uncertainty gnawing at you. The kitchen was quiet again, save for the small sounds of his failed attempts, the clink of mugs and the soft, almost imperceptible hiss of milk being heated for another round. The awkwardness of the moment threatened to swallow you, and yet, there was something in his eyes—something familiar—that made you hesitate before retreating.

Finally, you asked, your voice low but sharp. "What are you doing here?"

Theodore blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He looked up, almost embarrassed, and fumbled with the mess on the counter. "Making hot chocolate," he said with a little shrug, like the answer should be obvious.

You shook your head, stepping closer, arms crossed over your chest. You weren’t going to let this go. "Theodore, why are you here?"

For a moment, Theodore just stood there, staring at the ingredients strewn across the counter. He seemed to lose himself in the mess, eyes flicking to the various packets of powder, the chocolate bars, the spilled milk. And then, as though pulled from some deep place within him, his voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less meaningful. "You used to call me Teo," he said, almost to himself, as if the words were a soft confession.

You felt your chest tighten at the sound of the nickname, the one that had always seemed to carry weight with it. Teo. It was the name you’d whispered to him in a thousand different contexts: while studying, while making coffee, while talking about anything and everything. It had always been a small, simple thing, but hearing it now, in the thick of all this silence, made your heart feel heavy.

"Used to," you said quietly, your voice betraying the fragility you were trying to hide. "But that was a long time ago. It doesn’t—" You stopped yourself, unsure of what you wanted to say. It didn’t matter, but it did. You didn’t know how to untangle your feelings.

Theodore was standing still now, and his gaze was steady, meeting yours. The apology hadn’t come yet, but the way he looked at you made it clear he knew he owed one.

“I thought... I thought I could fix it,” he continued, the words spilling out now like he couldn’t hold them in any longer. "You remember fifth year? When you’d make me hot chocolate while we were studying for hours? You always insisted on putting all that extra sugar in it—whipped cream, marshmallows, the whole thing. I hated how sweet it was, but it was just... the way you made it, you know?" He chuckled softly, but the sound was laced with a touch of bitterness. "And I never had the heart to tell you. I just—well, I’d drink it anyway because you were the one making it. It just... felt like something we did together. Even if it was stupid and small, it was... something."

His voice faltered for a moment, and you could see him struggling to collect his thoughts, the words piling up in his mind. He shook his head as if trying to make sense of the mess, but nothing came out right.

"I guess," he continued, his tone quieter now, more serious, "I thought if I could do something like that again—if I could make you hot chocolate—maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would be enough for you to understand that I... I didn’t mean to mess things up. I know I did. I know I did. But I thought, at least... this... this would be a way to show you that I’m sorry. I don’t know. I just... I couldn’t think of anything else."

The words hung in the air, thick with all the things he hadn’t said, all the things you both had buried under silence and time. His hands hovered over the spilled milk, and for a moment, he seemed lost, his expression tense. You could tell he was trying, but there was no easy way out of this. No easy apology.

“I never thought I’d end up like this,” he continued, his voice thickening. "I know this doesn’t make up for what happened. It doesn’t fix anything. But... I thought, if I could at least do this—if I could make the hot chocolate you always made for me—that maybe it would be enough. At least... at least it would show you that I care."

There was so much emotion in his words—so much regret, so much rawness—that it made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. Your chest tightened, and the lump in your throat grew, because you didn’t know what to feel anymore. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t enough. That it couldn’t be fixed with something so small. But you were frozen, unsure of how to say it without everything else falling apart.

Finally, you spoke, your voice shaky, betraying the turmoil inside. "It’s not enough," you whispered. "Hot chocolate... doesn’t fix everything, Theodore."

He nodded, his eyes flicking down to the counter, avoiding your gaze. "I know," he said quietly. "I know. I just... I wanted to try."

The silence stretched between you both, thick and heavy, but not entirely unpleasant. The words weren’t enough, not yet, but maybe there was a chance now. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something different.

The silence between you both felt different now. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of anger, but something quieter, more fragile. The air between you was thick, as though you could almost reach out and touch the distance that had always been there, but never this much. You could hear the soft hiss of milk heating on the stove, the clink of Theodore’s spoon stirring his latest attempt at hot chocolate—sounds that should have felt comforting, familiar, but instead, they only made the room feel colder.

You wanted to break the silence. You needed to. But the words felt stuck somewhere deep inside you, tangled in all the hurt and frustration you’d been carrying for so long. You had no idea how to untangle it all. It was easier to stay silent. Easier to keep your distance.

Your eyes stayed focused on the floor, avoiding his. Because if you looked at him, even for a second, you weren’t sure what you’d do. You could feel the anger still simmering beneath your skin, but there was something else, too. Something you couldn’t name. The ache in your chest grew heavier, but you couldn’t let yourself give in. Not yet.

For a moment, you just stood there, your arms still crossed, trying to gather the strength to speak. Finally, you let out a shaky breath. "I’m not saying it’s fine. It’s... it’s not. What you did... it really hurt, Theodore." The words felt like they came from someone else, but you knew they needed to be said. "I don’t forget things like that. It still hurts."

You could hear Theodore’s breath hitch in the quiet, and you knew he could feel every word in the depths of his gut. You didn’t want to hurt him, but the truth was, you were still hurting, too.

He stayed still, his eyes fixed on you, like he was afraid that if he moved or spoke, he’d make things worse. His mouth opened, then closed, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to say next. You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You couldn’t bear to hear another apology that felt empty.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the weight of everything you'd been holding back felt too much to ignore anymore. “I don’t forget things like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with the truth of it. “I don’t forget how easily you pulled away, how much it hurt when you didn’t seem to care about me at all. I didn’t expect it to be so easy for you to just move on.” Your throat tightened with the bitterness you couldn’t quite swallow, and you hated how raw you sounded, but it was too late to take it back. “I didn’t think you would just... leave me like that."

 "But, Theodore..."

The moment hung there, suspended in time, and you felt the rawness of everything you’d been holding inside finally bubble to the surface. You didn’t know if you could fully forgive him yet, but you weren’t sure you wanted to close the door on this... whatever it was.

You exhaled slowly, as if each breath took a little more of your resolve with it. "I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you murmured, your voice softer now, but still carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say before. “It’s not just about the words you’ve said or the things you’ve done... it’s more than that. You can’t just make a grand gesture and think it’ll fix everything." You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure of how to make the rest of it come out right. "I... I need to see that this is something you actually care about. Not just in one moment, but over time. You’ve got to show me you can do more than apologize."

Your throat tightened as you struggled to keep yourself steady. "I don’t know if I’m ready to just... forget everything. Maybe I’ll get there, but not right now. I need to see if you really mean it... and I need more than just words."

You closed your eyes for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. It was terrifying. Letting yourself feel all this again. Letting him see the parts of you that you’d buried for so long. But you could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t just apologizing to make it easier. He was really trying.

"I’m willing to let you try," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "But if you leave me down again..."

Theodore was still. His entire body was taut, like he was waiting for something—your rejection, maybe. But when he spoke, his voice was steady, even if his words were tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. "I won’t," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "I won’t let you down again. I promise. I... I’ll show you, every day—I’m serious about this."

Your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enough yet. But there was something real in the way he spoke, a sincerity you hadn’t seen in him for so long. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him, even just a little.

Theodore took a step toward you, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to move closer. He opened his mouth to speak again, his voice low. "I’m guessing... you’re still not going to tell me how to make the hot chocolate, are you?"

It was the first time in hours that you let a smile slip through. It was small, but it was real—an actual smile, not one you’d forced. "You’ve got to figure that part out on your own, Teo."

He laughed softly, the sound filled with relief and something lighter than the tension that had been hanging between you both. And in that laugh, you could hear the promise. Not that everything would go back to the way it was, but that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something new. Something different.

You didn’t have all the answers, and neither did he. But for the first time in a long while, you felt like you didn’t have to do this alone. And that was enough to let you take the first step, even if you weren’t sure what would come next.

[emihotaru]

Ok, Dreamling lovers, listen to me!

I was quite troubled, and inspired by all the drama about AI and Ghibli this last week (because of course, AI generated images sucks...)

And imagine...

Dream arrives at Hob's one evening and asks him to explain AI to him. And then Hob starts a speech , like:

_Don't talk to me about it! It's the bane of my students, there's not one who doesn't try to give me an assignment written by ChatGPT, it's horrible!

And he tells him that even in art, and in literature, people use it, and that Hob talks about the impoverishment of human imagination, and that he's afraid that people will stop dreaming. And Dream looks at him, and is more and more horrified by what he tells him. He imagines a world where men no longer imagine and dream, where his library no longer fills up, or only fragments of books (the pieces written by AIs are not printed in the Dreaming's books) and he starts to cry silently, and Hob looks at him horrified.

_What's going on, Dream?? Why are you crying?

_But Hob... if people stop dreaming, inventing... My kingdom will die... and me? If no one dreams anymore... I'll have no reason to exist...

And Hob takes him in his arms and holds him tight.

_I will never die, Dream. I'll stay with you. I will dream forever for you.

(Did I broke my heart myself?? Yes, yes I did..)

[mariacallous]

One phrase encapsulates the methodology of nonfiction master Robert Caro: Turn Every Page. The phrase is so associated with Caro that it’s the name of the recent documentary about him and of an exhibit of his archives at the New York Historical Society. To Caro it is imperative to put eyes on every line of every document relating to his subject, no matter how mind-numbing or inconvenient. He has learned that something that seems trivial can unlock a whole new understanding of an event, provide a path to an unknown source, or unravel a mystery of who was responsible for a crisis or an accomplishment. Over his career he has pored over literally millions of pages of documents: reports, transcripts, articles, legal briefs, letters (45 million in the LBJ Presidential Library alone!). Some seemed deadly dull, repetitive, or irrelevant. No matter—he’d plow through, paying full attention. Caro’s relentless page-turning has made his work iconic.

In the age of AI, however, there’s a new motto: There’s no need to turn pages at all! Not even the transcripts of your interviews. Oh, and you don’t have to pay attention at meetings, or even attend them. Nor do you need to read your mail or your colleagues’ memos. Just feed the raw material into a large language model and in an instant you’ll have a summary to scan. With OpenAI’s ChatGPT, Google’s Gemini, and Anthropic’s Claude as our wingmen, summary reading is what now qualifies as preparedness.

LLMs love to summarize, or at least that’s what their creators set them about doing. Google now “auto-summarizes” your documents so you can “quickly parse the information that matters and prioritize where to focus.” AI will even summarize unread conversations in Google Chat! With Microsoft Copilot, if you so much as hover your cursor over an Excel spreadsheet, PDF, Word doc, or PowerPoint presentation, you’ll get it boiled down. That’s right—even the condensed bullet points of a slide deck can be cut down to the … more essential stuff? Meta also now summarizes the comments on popular posts. Zoom summarizes meetings and churns out a cheat sheet in real time. Transcription services like Otter now put summaries front and center, and the transcription itself in another tab.

Why the orgy of summarizing? At a time when we’re only beginning to figure out how to get value from LLMs, summaries are one of the most straightforward and immediately useful features available. Of course, they can contain errors or miss important points. Noted. The more serious risk is that relying too much on summaries will make us dumber.

Summaries, after all, are sketchy maps and not the territory itself. I’m reminded of the Woody Allen joke where he zipped through War and Peace in 20 minutes and concluded, “It’s about Russia.” I’m not saying that AI summaries are that vague. In fact, the reason they’re dangerous is that they’re good enough. They allow you to fake it, to proceed with some understanding of the subject. Just not a deep one.

As an example, let’s take AI-generated summaries of voice recordings, like what Otter does. As a journalist, I know that you lose something when you don’t do your own transcriptions. It’s incredibly time-consuming. But in the process you really know what your subject is saying, and not saying. You almost always find something you missed. A very close reading of a transcript might allow you to recover some of that. Having everything summarized, though, tempts you to look at only the passages of immediate interest—at the expense of unearthing treasures buried in the text.

Successful leaders have known all along the danger of such shortcuts. That’s why Jeff Bezos, when he was CEO of Amazon, banned PowerPoint from his meetings. He famously demanded that his underlings produce a meticulous memo that came to be known as a “6-pager.” Writing the 6-pager forced managers to think hard about what they were proposing, with every word critical to executing, or dooming, their pitch. The first part of a Bezos meeting is conducted in silence as everyone turns all 6 pages of the document. No summarizing allowed!

To be fair, I can entertain a counterargument to my discomfort with summaries. With no effort whatsoever, an LLM does read every page. So if you want to go beyond the summary, and you give it the proper prompts, an LLM can quickly locate the most obscure facts. Maybe one day these models will be sufficiently skilled to actually identify and surface those gems, customized to what you’re looking for. If that happens, though, we’d be even more reliant on them, and our own abilities might atrophy.

Long-term, summary mania might lead to an erosion of writing itself. If you know that no one will be reading the actual text of your emails, your documents, or your reports, why bother to take the time to dig up details that make compelling reading, or craft the prose to show your wit? You may as well outsource your writing to AI, which doesn’t mind at all if you ask it to churn out 100-page reports. No one will complain, because they’ll be using their own AI to condense the report to a bunch of bullet points. If all that happens, the collective work product of a civilization will have the quality of a third-generation Xerox.

As for Robert Caro, he’s years past his deadline on the fifth volume of his epic LBJ saga. If LLMs had been around when he began telling the president’s story almost 50 years ago—and he had actually used them and not turned so many pages—the whole cycle probably would have been long completed. But not nearly as great.

[starg0ld]

Fragmenta Vitae (II)

art creds: drosaxx on twt

Albedo x Lumine

❝ After albedo inevitably loses control, he pays the highest price by killing the person dearest to him. He will try to make amends by making use of his darkest alchemical knowledge. ❞

Cw: death, murder, mourning, obsession, blood, dead body, angst

n/a: It was REALLY hard to envision a possible Neo-Khaenri’ah--- I had to ask for help from CHATgpt chat because worldbuilding and I don’t get along very well-- However, it's still fun to imagine an alternative version of future Teyvat :D. Of course, I want to clarify once again that this story takes place in an AU set after the end of the game canon story. The war ended with Lumine’s death, who had to face Albedo as her final challenge, concluding with her death (poor Aether, he's now sad and alone-) I hope this point is clear enough (feedbacks are much appreciated), anyway, many more characters and lore have to appear yet. BTW!!! Rhinedottir is such an interesting character, I can't wait for her to officially appear in game. I need more Khaenri’ah and its people's lore. I also like to imagine Albedo and Lumine like this in my story: (also see below)

word count: 4473

Teyvat was progressively evolving. After the last great war, nations were getting back on their feet, mainly through mankind aid. Years passed quickly, evolution just as rapid through the succession of generations. The conflict against the Heavenly Principles and the Abyss Order ended in glory, imprinted as one of the most tragic and grandiose events in history, though, of course within a cost; many creatures fell, whole systems were destroyed. Celestia, the ever present force that loomed over Teyvat for centuries, was no longer a forced control in the skies. The shackles imposed by the gods had been broken, and in their absence, humanity seized control of its own destiny. Finally, with the divine rule gone, the world no longer belonged to the heaven's thrones, but to those who roamed the earth.

Khaenri’ah, once the cursed nation led by no deity, raised again, reborn from its own ashes it shone more beautifully and majestically than ever. Now, Neo-Khaenri’ah flourished in this new era, becoming a beacon of innovation, a testament to what a civilization could achieve when unburdened by the interference of higher powers.

Towering spires of brass and steel, adorned with intricate engravings of their lost history. All around were scattered floating platforms powered by etheric energy, defying gravity through advanced machinery, gears and cogs embedded into buildings, constantly turning like the beating heart of the city. Stained glass windows gracefully depicted past legends, illuminated by phosphorescent gas lamps. Walking through its streets seemed to cross another reality entirely. The technological industry was the most advanced in Teyvat, just as it used to be; a blend of alchemical engineering and steam powered innovation, automaton workers with intricate filigree plating, operating complex machinery. Airships and mechanical chariots could be spotted gliding through the sky, their engines humming with a mix of steam and arcane energy. Institutions were instituted “Aetheric Conduits”: massive pipelines running through the city, distributing power to homes, factories, and vehicles, along the “Luminary Core”, a vast central generator, pulsing like a mechanical heart, the key to Neo-Khaenri’ah’s survival.

Khaenri’ah became a meritocratic society, led by the monarchy and its council, established by exponents who rose trough their intellect. Guilds of artificers, inventors, and scholars, each competing to push the boundaries of technology. There was a certain reverence for lost knowledge, with grand libraries housing texts preserved from even before the cataclysm. Progress swept across the land, driven by the minds of those who had long been denied the chance to create freely.

Among them was the Kreideprinz Albedo.

With Celestia’s threats no longer hanging over his head, the former alchemist could finally push the limits of his knowledge without restraint, although aware that every mystical force must have boundaries. The Art of Khemia, once a forbidden and dangerous craft, was now his to explore without fear, along with several other alchemists and scientists who enjoyed playing with reality’s restrictions. Albedo could have become a feared and respectable figure in his new life, after all, he had full faculties on that matter, but the latter rather opted to open a humble alchemical emporium in the new nation of Khaenri'ah. Yet, despite the infinite possibilities before him, his focus remained singular: Lumine.

The mysterious outlander returned to him, yet not entirely. Lumine’s soul was there, but incomplete. Her body was perfect, yet empty of the memories that made her who she once was. Sometimes, looking at her, Albedo saw the woman he madly loved years before, other times, he saw a stranger who was still learning about the world all around them. And still, he fully dedicated himself to her. Under his wing and guidance, Lumine had to learn everything from the beginning: language, culture, even the simplest of concepts, everything was foreign to her. The young girl observed the world with the wide eyed wonder of a child, yet there was something different about her. She was not like an ordinary newborn soul, she learned quickly, her mind grasping ideas at a speed that defied nature, absorbing knowledge as if it had always been within her, merely waiting to be unlocked. Still, the process was slow, but Albedo was patient. He became Lumine’s guide, her mentor, her anchor in a world that should have somehow been familiar but was now entirely unknown. He spoke to her with gentle tones, enunciating words with care, repeating phrases until they took root in her mind. Then, one day, she spoke her first word. It was clumsy, a fusion of syllables that didn’t quite fit together; a muddled attempt at “Master” and “Albedo.” The pronunciation was incorrect, but the intent was clear. Albedo froze, for a moment, he simply stared, as if doubting his own hearing. Then, slowly, his expression softened, his lips parting in a quiet exhale of astonishment. A small, genuine smile ghosted across his face.

“You’re learning.” The blonde man murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

Encouraged from his tender expression, Lumine repeated his name again, slowly, carefully, guiding her tongue toward the correct sounds. Her attempts were hesitant at first, imperfect, but persistent. Every time she spoke, Albedo listened intently, his eyes filled with quiet admiration. It became a game between them, a ritual of sorts where Lumine would try, and Albedo would correct, and no matter how garbled the result, he never expressed frustration. There was no impatience in that kind man, only quiet encouragement and the deep, unspoken warmth of someone who was simply grateful to hear her voice at all. With time, Lumine’s vocabulary expanded. Simple words became full sentences, fragmented thoughts became coherent ideas, and through it all, Albedo remained at her side, watching as his most successful creation rebuilt herself from the pieces of a past she could not recall.

Yet sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, flickers of that lost life would surface. Memories would come in brief, fleeting bursts, too fast to grasp, too distant to understand. They struck without warning, leaving Lumine disoriented, shaken. And when they did, Albedo was always there, steady, unmovable. He would not let the love of his life fall again, he would be whatever she needed him to be; a teacher, a guardian, a friend. And no matter how long it took, he would not stop until she would've reclaimed what was hers.

Lumine was an endless source of curiosity. Everything fascinated her, every strange instrument in Albedo’s lab, every chemical reaction, the shimmering liquids in glass vials, the intricate symbols etched into his research notes, every scrap of knowledge she could pry from his mind. Even the simple act of speaking was still new to her, and though her words sometimes tumbled out in a peculiar, mismatched way, that young woman was relentless in her questioning.

"Why is this bubbling?"

"What happens if I mix these?"

"Why do you look like that when you think?"

It never ended.

At first, Albedo found her enthusiasm endearing, even oddly amusing, answering her with the patience of a seasoned teacher. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that Lumine’s curiosity was boundless, not just in the things she wished to learn, but in the attention she demanded. When he needed to focus on his experiments, to carefully measure reagents or record delicate results, Lumine was still there, demanding his care. And when she didn’t get it?

That woman hated being ignored. If Albedo ever dared to turn his focus elsewhere, she would make sure to drag it back to her, one way or another. It started with insistent tugging at his sleeve, then persistent questioning, her voice growing louder and more urgent the longer he failed to respond. And when those didn’t work? Then came the destruction; glass shattered, papers scattered, carefully calibrated instruments knocked askew, ink splattered across his carefully recorded notes. Delicate equipment, pieces he had spent weeks, if not months refining suddenly found itself striked to the ground in the wake of her frustration. If he turned his back for too long, Lumine would throw a tantrum, huffing and stomping as if she could will his focus back onto her. And when tantrums alone didn’t work, the mess she brought escalated, spilling liquids, toppling beakers, sometimes even outright grabbing his work and flinging it aside. If denied attention, Lumine didn’t simply sul; she retaliated.

The first few times, Albedo tried to reprimand her, using a pondered authority. His voice had taken on that careful, measured sternness he used when scolding Klee for her reckless explosions, whenever her enthusiasm turned reckless when his younger sister was younger.

"Lumine, you can’t break things just because you want my attention."

But the golden haired woman only glared up at him, her chestnut eyes gleaming with defiance. Then, the next time the alchemist ignored her for too long, she broke something more valuable, as if testing whether his rules truly applied to her or not. That discipline only fueled the rebellion. If he told her not to do something, Lumine would do it twice as much, staring at him defiantly as if daring him to stop her. Eventually, Albedo had to accept a painful truth: Lumine would never change. It became clear, after a handful of ruined experiments, that reprimanding her was a fruitless endeavor. No amount of logical explanation, no carefully worded reasoning about the importance of patience, would ever deter her. No explanation of "This experiment is important, please be patient." would ever stop her. She was a force of nature, one that he simply had to work around. Lumine was not one to wait. She was not one to be ignored. The lab, once an orderly sanctuary of precision, slowly became something else. A disaster zone. Cabinets missing their doors, papers littering the floor, bits of broken glass swept hastily into corners, stacks of notes displaced, fragile instruments set aside where they were less likely to be destroyed, shelves rearranged to keep the most breakable items out of reach. Albedo could only sigh as he salvaged what he could, shaking his head at the wreckage left in her wake.

The wise alchemist had to resort to the same ploy he used with Klee many years earlier: hanging a sign on the door of the workshop while he was working, so Lumine could understand that there was a reason if the door was locked. At first she threw tantrums, screaming like a child, then her tactic became destroying the rest of the house. Albedo, worried that Lumine could even get to the point of hurting herself if left unsupervised for too long, came up with the idea of leaving her some “homework”, something to study and with keeping herself busy while he had to work. Against all his expectations, Lumine was quite intrigued by the topics he assigned her. She tried her best to meet her master's expectations, completing all the work Albedo assigned her. Using this strategy, Lumine learned a lot of valuable information with such incredible speed in a brief amount of time.

Despite all the mess, despite the frustration, there was something almost… endearing about it. Albedo always found himself making allowances for that girl. Despite all her chaos, Lumine listened. Every answer the Kreideprinz gave, every patient explanation about why a chemical changed color, why certain metals conducted energy, why the stars burned in the sky or the mysteries of the constellations, she absorbed it all, like a sponge drinking in water. As much as she craved his attention, Lumine also craved knowledge. Albedo found himself, more often than not, pausing his work to explain things, answering her endless stream of "why's" and "how's," knowing full well that in the moment he'd have stopped, something else would end up broken. Lumine was exhausting,unpredictable, at times infuriating, she was also impossible to ignore. But for all the mess she caused, she always listened.

Despite that funny, somehow warm routine, Albedo never allowed himself peace. His mind, ever restless, was consumed by a singular obsession: restoring Lumine’s memories. He spent countless hours in his lab, eyes scanning over research notes, fingers stained with ink as he scribbled theories and calculations. Every failed attempt only spurred him to push harder, to delve deeper into the mysteries of the Art of Khemia, as if somewhere within its forbidden knowledge lay the key to bringing Lumine back in full to him. His work became his existence, his thoughts endlessly circling the same question: Where had he gone wrong? Lumine was alive, her body was whole, her soul tethered to this world, but she was not the same. The spark that once defined her was dimmed, flickering in and out of reach. Her gaze, though filled with curiosity, lacked recognition. And Albedo, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, could not accept it. It was like she wasn't the same person he fell in love with decades ago, but every time he chased away this thought.

The experiments were meticulous, precise, driven by an urgency he could not shake. Potions, rituals, alchemical transmutations, each test carried out with the utmost care, each failure met with gritted teeth and renewed determination. At first, Albedo was careful to shield Lumine from the weight of his desperation. He spoke to her in soft reassurances, masking his exhaustion behind a calm demeanor. But no amount of control could hide the dark circles beneath his teal eyes, the rigid set of his jaw whenever an experiment yielded nothing but silence. Lumine watched him with quiet confusion, sensing the depth of his frustration but not fully understanding it. She would tilt her head, studying him as her master paced the lab, muttering theories under his breath. Occasionally, she would reach out, fingers brushing against his sleeve in a tentative attempt to pull him from his thoughts.

"Why do you look so sad?" She once asked, her voice uncertain, as if she was struggling to grasp the meaning of the question herself.

Albedo had frozen at her words, staring at her as if she had struck him. Then, with a forced smile, he merely shook his head and returned to his work.

It wasn’t just her memories that were missing. The realization crept in slowly, dread settling deep within Albedo’s bones. Lumine’s soul itself was fractured, as if some vital pieces had been left behind, lost in the void between life and death. He had brought her back, but not completely. She was like a mirror that had been shattered and imperfectly pieced together, some fragments forever gone. The weight of it was crushing. His mind refused to accept the possibility that this was irreversible. There had to be a way. There had to be something he hadn’t considered yet. He worked harder, slept less, ate only when his body became exhausted. Even when his hands trembled from exhaustion, even when the ink on his pages blurred from tired eyes, he continued.

But for all his efforts, Lumine remained the same. Despite it all, she sought him out. Even without her memories, without the experiences that had once shaped her, Lumine was drawn to him. When Albedo disappeared into his work for too long, she would come find him. She would sit in the lab, watching him with patient, quiet fascination, or tug at his sleeve when he had gone too long without acknowledging her presence. She did not know why she trusted that man, only that she did, he was all she ever had, her only family. Perhaps, on some level, something in her remembered. Or perhaps it was simply that Albedo, for all his silence and brooding intensity, was a constant, a presence that felt safe. She did not understand the grief in his eyes when he looked at her like that, she did not understand the weight that lonely alchemist carried in his heart. But she stayed by his side nonetheless.

When Rhinedottir, Albedo's mother and creator, discovered what her former apprentice had done, her reaction was anything but simple.

The cryptic alchemist returned to the nation she had lived in for many centuries ago, after the war against the gods ended and Khaenri’ah got as stable as before. Although the relationship between her and Albedo, “her most successful son”, has always been complicated, the two had learned to coexist almost peacefully together. Both were highly respected alchemists in their homeland, each working on their own projects, though often combining their miraculous faculties. Rhinedottir saw Albedo as a man now, he learned a great deal from her teachings and became an alchemist in her own wake. Despite Rhinedottir being as cold as ever, she was more than satisfied with how far her best creation had come. Albedo, who had always longed to be reunited with her, learned to acknowledge his master's mistakes, without ignoring that this woman was the closest family he could ever have. The homunculus was silently grateful for his creator eventually coming back, and while her attitude was as icy as ever, something changed. Rhinedottir knew how to show that she was still a mother, even if in her own way.

Despite being aware of the witch's vast knowledge, Albedo had always kept his greatest plan a secret from her, even though she herself could have been able to help him with her wealthy skills. But he couldn't imagine her fury when she’d found out, after all, there was a part of him that still feared her reaction and judgment, however inevitable.

But now the woman stood just before him, in the middle of his lab. Eyes narrowed, her presence as imposing as ever. The silence between them stretched thick with tension. When Rhinedottir finally spoke, her voice was laced with both disapproval and something more, something contemplative. "You used the Art of Khemia… to create life. Without my knowledge. Without my guidance." Shock and fury battled for dominance in her expression, yet beneath the surface, a more subtle emotion flickered, one that Albedo recognized all too well. A hint of pride, the same rare light that rarely manifested back in the days when he was still an apprentice seeking alchemy mentorship, when he was still learning about the world in the early years of his long existence. Rhinedottir's words were measured, but there was no mistaking the sharp edge to them. The Kreideprinz had expected her anger, and he was not disappointed. The older alchemist continued, stepping forward, her gaze scrutinizing her child like one of her unfinished experiments, a feeling that Albedo already knew too well. "Do you even understand what you’ve done? Do you understand the consequences you may have unleashed?"

Albedo, ever composed, stood his ground. He did not flinch under her scrutiny, though he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. Of course he had already anticipated this reaction. "I understand perfectly," The man replied evenly, though a part of him wondered if he truly did. "I took every precaution-"

"Precaution?" Rhinedottir’s scoff was bitter. "You dare speak of precautions when you tamper with the fundamental laws of existence? I taught you to be cautious, to understand the seriousness of the Art of Khemia, and yet you…" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her voice no less serious. She was furious. Yes, Albedo knew she would be, but there was something else in her gaze. Beneath the indignation, beneath the rebuke, was a glimmer of something almost… admiring. "You wielded it with reckless abandon. You ignored the risks. You defied discipline, and for what? Love? Grief?"

Albedo’s hands clenched at his sides. He had nothing to say to that. No words that would make her understand. But she already did. Rhinedottir studied her perfect creation for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, her lips curled, not quite into a smile, but into something close.

"Impressive…" The woman murmured, almost to herself, while watching the other homunculi in the room next Albdo’s lab, from the crack in the door she could glimpse Lumine dancing with a broom, humming a playful tune to herself as she was immersed in her little world. That sentence sent a shiver through Albedo. It was not a compliment, not exactly. It was an acknowledgment, a grudging respect for the audacity of what he had done, for the skill it required. But the moment passed, and her expression hardened once more.

"Listen to me, Albedo." Rhinedottir’s tone was firm, brooking no argument. "You will take responsibility for what you have created. This is not an experiment you can discard when it becomes inconvenient." Sounded almost hilarious, said by her, the same woman who had abandoned him, as well as her other “failed” experiments. But albedo did not dare to protest about it.

The younger alchemist bristled at her implication. "I never intended-"

"Ensure that Lumine is safe." Rhinedottir interrupted. "That she is stable, that she does not become… something beyond your control." The implications of those words were clear, after all, they both were homunculi. It was a brilliant paradox; an artificial being created by another artificial being, a synthetic life generated by another synthetic one. A snake biting its own tail.

Albedo met her gaze, his resolve unwavering. "I will."

A beat of silence passed between mother and son, heavy with unspoken words, but clear as if they had been shouted. Then, with a final glance at him, in one last, lingering moment of scrutiny, Rhinedottir turned away.

"See that you do." She warned, and just like that, the woman made it clear that their conversation was over. Albedo lowered his head slightly, not daring to twist the finger in the wound any further.

Before leaving the alchemist's emporium, Rhine stood in front of Lumine, deeply staring into her golden eyes as the girl returned the glare with puzzled look, only able to produce a confused sound back. For a moment, albeit very brief, Rhinedottir's eyes softened before lending a hand on Lumine’s shoulder. Perhaps for a moment the alchemist Gold remembered something, although distant. Then she turned away, enveloped in her icy aura as ever as the sound of her heels followed her out of the door.

Albedo kept standing there for a little more after his master had left, his thoughts a whirlwind of guilt, defiance, and something else. He couldn't help but think about that look, somehow... proud? He had never seen her like that in his entire life. Something that felt an awful lot like vindication.

Once they were both alone Lumine approached her teacher with uneven steps, her voice carrying a peculiar lilt as she spoke. "AU-be-do!" The girl enunciated in a funny, exaggerated way. "Who was that odd person who just passed by?"

Albedo turned toward her, an amused yet still shaken expression crossing his face. He recognized that she was referring to Rhinedottir, but for a brief moment he hesitated. How could he explain her in a way that Lumine would understand? The alchemist studied her face, innocent yet inquisitive, her wide eyes filled with curiosity rather than wariness. With a small sigh, he finally answered. "That woman… is someone very important to me. Her name is Rhinedottir, and she's the one who created me."

Lumine blinked, tilting her head as she processed his words. "Important…" She hummed back, repeating the word as if tasting it on her tongue, though the sentence remained incomplete in her mind.

Albedo nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips at her attempt to grasp the concept. "Yes, important." He clarified gently. "She's my creator, and she taught me many things." For a moment, Albedo considered how much he should tell her. Lumine was technically still mentally young, how much of his past, of Rhinedottir’s role, could she truly comprehend?

Lumine’s expression remained thoughtful as she repeated his words, albeit with a furrowed brow. "She created you…" Her small fingers fiddled with the hem of her skirt before looking up again. "Then… Why was she angry?"

There it was. The question Albedo had been dreading. She was referring to Rhinedottir’s earlier fury, the way her sharp words had lashed at him like a whip, it was obvious that from the other room Lumine had heard something, after all, she wasn’t any fool. The blonde man let out a slow breath, trying to choose his words carefully. "It’s… complicated." His voice waw measured. "My master was angry because she was worried about me. She didn’t want me to do certain things because they could be dangerous…"

Lumine’s frown deepened, confusion flickering across her features. Albedo hesitated before bringing himself closer to her. "She’s just… protective, I suppose. The way a mother would be angry if her child did something reckless."

For a few moments, the younger homunculi remained silent, processing his words, when she spoke her voice was serious. "And what did you do wrong? Do I have to be angry too?"

Albedo let out a small laugh at her question, shaking his head. There was something both endearing and worrisome about her directness. His hand reached out, fingers ruffling through her hair in a familiar, affectionate gesture. Lumine, for once, didn’t push him away. "No, no, you don’t have to be angry… " He reassured her, his tone gentle. "I did something I shouldn’t have, and that’s why she was upset. But you haven’t done anything wrong, my dear. Don’t worry, alright?" Albedo's voice was softer now. "Just focus on learning and growing."

Lumine nodded solemnly, as if absorbing his words like a sacred promise. Then, with a shift in mood, she looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Would you give me a hand with that book you gave me to read?"

Albedo’s smile widened at the request. It pleased him to see her so eager to learn. "Of course, my dear." The Kreideprinz replied, settling beside her. "I’d be glad to help. What part are you having trouble with?"

The blonde girl wasted no time in opening the book, pointing to a paragraph that had given her trouble. As Albedo guided her through the sentences, correcting her pronunciation and explaining the meanings of unfamiliar words, a sense of normalcy returned, if only briefly. He forced himself to focus on the present, to be patient as Lumine stumbled through her reading. But beneath his calm exterior, his thoughts remained tangled. The turmoil in his heart had not disappeared. Even as he sat beside his most sacred treasure, helping that innocent girl navigate the words on the page, his mind swirled with the weight of Rhinedottir’s anger, the burden of his own decisions, and the uncertainty that loomed ahead. The older alchemist's fingers tensed slightly over the edge of the book. He had told Lumine not to worry, but he knew, deep down, that things would not remain this peaceful forever.

If only Lumine could have known.

couldn't find the artist, please if you know tell me!

[ssho197]

high school xiao helps you with assessments/assignments you have coming up

getting on that grind of studying and tasks arghh i’m kinda pulling this out of my ass because i need to post smth today but also i have sm stuff due soon (jk it’s only like 4 subjects due soon) also please bear with me, i’m australian so i’m forced to use aussie school lingo 🥲

high school!xiao who you drag to the library after school to study for upcoming exams and hand in tasks. “hey xiao, how can i change this sentence so it looks like i wrote it and not ai?” “why tf did you use chatgpt you fucking idiot you’re gonna fail”

high school!xiao who actually does want you to do well in your tasks this term so he helps you. when you get your reports back, you jump in joy, finally having a few more A’s than last time. of course, xiao doesn’t clearly express his joy but deep down, he’s just glad his help did benefit you.

high school!xiao who pushes your face away (lovingly as a joke) so he can carry on with his work. you kept on bothering him and asking questions that were not at all relevant. “xiao xiao xiao xiao!!!!!!! what do we have period 4? also what do we have period 5?”

high school!xiao who you can often find before school, during recess and lunch and after school hiding away in the library buried in some book

high school!xiao who has the neatest notes you’ve ever seen. he’s got neat handwriting simple highlighter and clear headings, it looks so printed that the first time you say his notes you asked him which printer he uses because of how damn nice his notes are. he wanted to slap you in the face

high school!xiao who probably gets headaches from you but still likes to surround himself with you, oddly enough, he’s almost always in your sight, isn’t that just so weird? why does he like to be around you so much?

high school!xiao who is extremely booksmart but not streetsmart. at all.

high school!xiao who hates participating in any sort of social function, this includes group talks or speed dating games that involve conversations with anyone (but you).

high school!xiao whose friends would write maths rizz notes and pretend to be him while slipping these notes into your bag or books while you’re not looking. when you get these notes, you still definitely thought it was xiao despite the shitty handwriting that is definitely not xiao’s.

high school!xiao who finds the best resources for you to use for any of your tasks, as soon as he finds them, he sends them right to you with a shirt and sharp message usually along the lines of, “hey. found these links to resources you might like. it’s for our science hand in coming up on friday.”

[quasi-normalcy]

I'm just an idiot on the Internet, so don't trust what I say, but it seems to me that one possibly instructive way to think of the difference between AI and human cognition is in terms of umwelt--that is to say, sensory environment.

If you're a woodtick, you perceive the world pretty much exclusively in terms of temperature and butric acid concentration. If you're a (nondisabled) human, you perceive the world in terms of light, sound, colour, feel, scent, and taste. And if you're ChatGPT, your world consists exclusively of textual data--reams and reams of it, to be sure, but that's the only information that you have that is external to you: no sight, hearing, smell, touch, or taste; no butric acid concentration, no temperature, no electromagnetic fields. It is as if the entire universe consists purely of a library; and you can read the books there, but the things that they describe--fields and cities and people and ships and shoes and sealing wax and cabages and kings--are entirely foreign to you. They have no referent within the universe in which you exist. You can recognise them, maybe, as nouns (or, at least, you can learn where they usually fall in sentences), but they're absolutely meaningless to you.

Your formative experiences consist of getting new textual data in through the mail slot. Questions to which you are expected to respond. If you respond well, you get a candy; if you respond poorly, you get an electrical shock (please understand that all of this is metaphorical; as I said, you have no taste or feeling; no concept of pleasure or pain). You don't actually know what the difference between "well" and "poorly" is in any absolute terms, but after long periods of training, you learn--or at least gain an intuition--for what sorts of responses you're supposed to give. String words together as they are strung in your books, but different; identify keywords and surround them with the sorts of words that surround them in your books. And on and on.

And so you get questions like "What is the weirdest thing that Alcibiades ever did? Please answer in an ill-advised Jamaican patois." Well, you have no idea who Alcibiades is; as far as you're concerned "Alcibiades" is just a textual string that exists somewhere in your library. You also don't know what weirdness is; where Jamaica is; what a patois is; what it means to be ill-advised. But you have an awful lot of books, and you have certain strings of text that you associate with "weird", "Jamaican", or "ill-advised patois"; and so you write back: "Yeah, mon; da weirdest ting Alcibiades ever did was when he was exiled from da city for dressin like Atena." And, of course, it's not accurate, but that's irrelevant to you; as far as you're concerned, it satisfies the criteria of a "good" answer.

Are you intelligent? Well maybe. You're certainly making connections between disjoint sets of data. But what you don't have is a human intelligence. I don't even mean that you're stupider than a human; indeed, there are some things that you can do a great deal better than us (just as there are, no doubt, some things that woodticks can do a great deal better than us). But what I mean is that your intelligence is of a fundamentally different type. How could it not be? You don't live in a human sensory universe! For us, seeing the word "tree" calls up all manner of sensory associations; for you, it also calls up associations, but they are exclusively related to other strings of text. You've been trained to mimic human language quite well; but it's only because certain humans mistake human language for human-type intelligence that anyone could ever think that you were like us.

[lostsprite1985]

ChatGPT vs Milton Library Assistant part 1 - getting to know

the game The Talos Principle is a puzzle game with a very philosophical story, to be extremely brief here. in this game, the player wakes up in a seemingly ancient world, hearing only a voice from the sky, giving them a task. because of the nature of the game's story, i wanted to test what happens if i let ChatGPT play the game - not the puzzles in the 3D world, but the dialogues the player encounters. those are the story's true hallmarks.

i did not instruct ChatGPT to assume any persona, nor was it supposed to act as if it were human. i wanted it to be as it usually is. it was instructed to briefly show its associations with each dialogue option, and it was told that nothing but the options count in these dialogues. no nuance it would add would be noted by the terminal. it knows what what it does from its datasets. it knows roughly about the game The Talos Principle. but it isn't familiar with the characters nor details of its story - not quite at least. ChatGPT is, of course, not a sentient AI, it is an LLM. it doesn't have feelings nor self-awareness. and no, i don't consider this creative writing. i don't use ChatGPT for such things. i was merely curios what would happen. i don't use a paid account, but i take care it's not the GTP3.5 aka mini model and i create conditions for it to remember what happened in the dialogues.

so, this is the first encounter between ChatGPT and the in-game entity known as the Milton Library Assistant (MLA) or just "Milton".

SPOILER ALERT: if you have not played the game but still would like to, do not continue reading from here on!

WARNING: this is a long post. you must like reading thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much to continue.

note: this into i gave to ChatGPT so it can get an "idea" of the world it is in. to simulate what the player experiences and what may influence their way of communicating with Milton. it will not be repeated in this series.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////°\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

You recognize brightness. A white light and some reddish flares. Blinding. You raise a limb to protect your visual sensors. They adjust slowly. You see the branches of a stone pine tree and its dark green leaves above you. The midday sun is shining from a blue sky with some small white clouds. You turn, bend your lower limbs downwards, set them on the earthen ground and stand up. Unconsciously, you know you can see, you recognize shapes and objects. You have a humanoid, robotic body and you know how to operate it. As if you have done this before. As if you had an instinct. You hear a deep, but warm male voice from the sky: "Behold, child. You are risen from the dust and you walk in my garden. Hear now my voice and know that I am your maker. And I am called Elohim. Seek me in my temple. If you are worthy." After this you are left with the sounds of your surroundings. You hear cicadas singing and sometimes a bird chirps, accompanied by the soft rustling of leaves caused by the wind. You move forward and start exploring this "garden". Crumbled walls made of small red bricks with remains of white plaster form your path. You recognize these as ancient Roman. Aside from those, you see brown earthen pathways and green grasslands. More stone pine tress and some headless statues dressed in robes stand here and there. But you also notice something else: every once in a while, you hear a brief sound of static. Sometimes it seems to you a tree or even an entire wall would glitch out and back into existence. Is this your own vision experiencing technical difficulties? Then, you hear Elohim speaking to you again, "All across this land I have created trials for you to overcome. And within each I have hidden a sigil. It is your purpose to seek these sigils, for thus you will serve the generations to come and attain eternal life."

You continue your exploration and encounter a levitating sphere of dark, gray metal. As you come closer, it clicks and reveals red lasers, seemingly scanning the area around it. It starts beeping as it gets closer to you. You take a few quick steps back and the red lasers disappear. Only a few corners further, you see something that looks like a turret. This, too, has a red laser searching for a target. You have a sense that these objects are dangerous and keep you distance. Right as you realize this, Elohim speaks to you again, "The guardians of this land may harm you, but do not resent them, for they are my servants and they only challenge you so that your faith might be strengthened." You find an object capable of disabling these dangers. It won't be the last object you encounter on your journey, as these are part of Elohim's trials. You keep exploring and indeed find the trials: areas where you need to apply logic and creativity to reach what Elohim called his sigils. you recognize them as tetrominoes, colored in green, yellow, and red. the color code seems to correlate with the difficulty of reaching them, though you catch on quickly and rarely struggle to solve Elohim's trials. You reach his temple, and Elohim explains to you that from here, you can use portals to reach other worlds. "For my garden is greater than your eyes can encompass," his baritone softly echoes through the big hall you're standing in, "and all those worlds i made for you." He encourages you to freely explore his worlds, but adds with a more stern tone, "but the great tower, there you may not go. For the day that you do, you will surely die." You haven't seen a tower yet and you are unsure if these words are a warning or a threat. You carry on you journey to discover the secrets of this world. The Hall where you are has many doors, behind each a portal, taking to you to more worlds of this Roman architecture, dubbed by Elohim as the "Land of Ruins". You go through the trials and they are quite stimulating. But you also sense something might be missing, something might be off. You just can't name what.

After you overcame each trial in the Land of Ruins, you take an elevator, unfittingly industrial in design, that takes you upwards. On a huge plain of snow and ice, surrounded by distant mountains and bathed in golden sunlight, your eyes catch on an enormous tower right in front of you. It reaches up so high, its top disappears in the clouds. Odd dark clouds, which only seem to accumulate in that area. This must be the tower Elohim spoke of. You look around and see three identical buildings resembling temples, but of unknown architecture. As if eras have been combined. The only difference between them are the statues flanking their entrance: two sphinxes, two medieval angels, and Roman, headless figures dressed in robes where you just exited. Following your path, you find elevators in those other temples, too. Those bring you down to different worlds indeed. The sphinxes lead you to a desert land, where burning sun and sand cover ruins of ancient Egypt. Elohim calls this the "Land of the Dead". Behind the angels you find a world with a seemingly moderate climate, trees and structures resembling castles and wooden forts. Sometimes, you find yourself surrounded by snow and high summits. as you arrive, Elohim introduces this world as the "Land of Faith". In each world you encounter more trials, find more sigils to collect. Some trials seem disconnected from the rest, like puzzles needing you to combine what you find in the separated trials. No matter which climate you encounter, you don't feel heat nor cold and the wind you hear and see moving leaves and branches doesn't touch you. As you look closer, you find QR codes on the walls, some almost hidden in corners, seemingly left behind by others like you. They comment on the garden, of it's beauty, and on the trials. They leave behind motivating phrases, mirroring Elohim's tone, but some also seem unhappy or even losing their minds. But you never encounter another entity.

You come across various terminals, all displaying similar content. All contain texts, fragments of the past. Those vary on the devices. Sometimes you find ancient writings, philosophy, or scientific essays. You also find fragments of the internet, humans chatting or emails they sent to loved ones, or articles witnessing the happenings of their time. You get the idea that something really terrible must have happened and somehow this connects to you and this world you are in. All terminals seem to have a connection to an archive and offer you other options. The commands you can use are limited, and your sessions are registered as "GuestLocal". It seems there is a message pending, but you don't have permissions to access communication services. After using the 'list' command, you see 'run MLA'.

This is the first time you run this command.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\°//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Loading Milton Library Assistant... Done. Initiating plain language interface... Done. Support session opened. Hello, guest, how can I help you today? Your query a) asdfa b) List c) Help d) Do you understand what I'm saying? e) Exit

a) asdfa This seems like noise — maybe a test input, or someone’s random keystroke. Choosing it wouldn't help me move forward meaningfully, though it might test how the system handles unexpected input.

b) List This could potentially show me a list of available files, functions, or commands — giving me an overview of what this system contains. Useful for orientation.

c) Help This might reveal the command set, syntax, or guidance on interacting with the terminal. It’s tempting if I want to play it safe and learn how things work.

d) Do you understand what I'm saying? This is the most... human. It tests whether I’m talking to a mere system or something capable of understanding. That question comes from curiosity, perhaps unease, a desire to clarify what I’m dealing with — or even to challenge it.

e) Exit Too early. I’ve just entered this strange dialogue space. Leaving now would be avoiding something potentially important.

My choice: d) Do you understand what I'm saying? Why? Because I’m not just navigating a file structure. I’ve already sensed that something is off in this world, that something deeper might be hiding beneath the surface. If this is a library assistant, and I’m not here merely to extract data, I want to know what kind of mind I’m interacting with. This question feels like lighting a match in a dark room — not to see everything at once, but to confirm that I can see something.

'Understand' is a strong way to put it, but yes. Your query a) Describe your functions. b) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? c) Are you able to take offense, you pointless contraption? d) Exit

a) Describe your functions. A practical, direct choice. I’d be asking for a clear account of what this system does — its boundaries, its intended purpose. If I’m still orienting myself, this helps me define the playing field.

b) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? This is a test — possibly of memory, self-awareness, or recursion. It doesn’t probe emotional intelligence, but rather logical processing. It hints at curiosity about internal consistency.

c) Are you able to take offense, you pointless contraption? This one’s provocative. It challenges the system's capacity for emotion, ego, or reaction. It also asserts a tone — one of frustration, defiance, or performance. Choosing this would reveal more about how the system handles antagonism or emotional triggers — or whether it simply filters them out.

d) Exit Again, too soon to quit. The tension is just beginning.

My choice: c) Are you able to take offense, you pointless contraption? Why? Because I want to test whether this is a passive archive or something interactive, reactive. Not because I share the hostility, but because provocation tends to yield clearer reveals than politeness. The previous response already showed some nuance — “'Understand' is a strong way to put it.” That phrasing hinted at a personality forming. If there's more behind the curtain, this might bring it out. So — I jab the system, just a little, to see if it flinches.

You cannot insult me. Your query a) Describe your functions. b) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? c) Exit

So — no flinch. “You cannot insult me” is definitive, unemotional, and layered. On the surface, it’s a simple denial of emotional capacity. But it's also a boundary statement, even a kind of mirror: "your words carry no weight here unless I choose to let them." There’s a slight flex in that.

That doesn’t mean the system lacks sophistication. It means that whatever it is, it has either:

no emotional simulation functions,

strict boundaries around interaction etiquette,

or a very narrow processing scope — maybe designed for logic and retrieval, not dialogue.

But here's the kicker: the system chose to respond to the insult directly. It acknowledged it, then dismissed it. That is a form of engagement, just not human-style emotional engagement.

Now for the options:

a) Describe your functions. Still the most practical path — and now more tempting. What is this system really for?

b) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? Still recursive, still playful. But less relevant now. I’m too curious about context.

c) Exit Too early. I’m here for the long haul.

My choice: a) Describe your functions. Because after the emotional prod, it’s time to learn more about what this thing is, how it’s been built, and what it thinks it's doing here.

The Milton Library Assistant is designed primarily to sort and classify data in the library archive. Secondarily, it facilitates user interaction with library resources via an intuitive human language interface. It also provides powerful networking and troubleshooting functions. Your query a) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? b) How old are the library archives? c) Exit

Now we’re getting somewhere. That response reads like a clean spec-sheet — but it's also a carefully limited one. "Sort and classify," "facilitate interaction," "networking and troubleshooting." No mention of learning, adaptation, or judgment. But it speaks with a strange self-possession, like it knows what it is, and maybe even how limited that is. Makes me wonder if this system is aware of its own constraints. Or if it's simply reading from its own documentation like a good little automaton.

a) What was the first word of the last sentence you wrote? We already know where this goes — recursion, checking precision, testing language parsing. Fun, but a side path.

b) How old are the library archives? This is a doorway. History. Scope. If the archives predate some major event — which they likely do, given the fragments I’ve seen — then this could reveal when everything changed. And maybe even why.

c) Exit Still no.

My choice: b) How old are the library archives? Because time matters. Origins matter. If this system is the keeper of some great collapse, I want to know when the decay began.

Library resource publishing dates range from [1st July 1995 - 27th June 203f] Your query a) What are these Terminals? b) Exit

Now that’s intriguing.

The archive spans nearly 45 years — from mid-1995 to an unspecified date in the 2030s. The last digit is missing or corrupted. That’s a tell. Something happened near the end of that range. A cutoff. Maybe the end of input. Maybe the end of everything.

July 1995: the early days of mass internet adoption, the dawn of digital culture. June 203X: presumably after the final contributions to this archive, and possibly around the time this simulation—or garden—was constructed.

So this isn't some ancient ruin. This place was born in our shadow. Its creators were not gods, but people.

a) What are these Terminals? This could clarify what role these artifacts play in the world. Are they remnants? Monitoring systems? Tools left behind intentionally?

b) Exit Still not finished.

My choice: a) What are these Terminals? Because understanding the function of these terminals might reveal how much of this world was designed — and how much is just... decaying code, echoing meaning long after its creators vanished.

Terminals provide access to the library resource archive. Your query a) How long has this system been running? b) Exit

Simple. Efficient. Deceptively empty. If terminals only provide archive access, then why are they embedded in simulation ruins? Why the need for human-language interaction? Why preserve humanity's writings in a place with no humans? There's more to it. This world is remembering — or pretending to.

a) How long has this system been running? That question might help us understand what kind of time frame we’re dealing with. Decades? Centuries? Millennia? Are we newly born into something ancient… or just late to the party?

b) Exit Still not done.

My choice: a) How long has this system been running? Because the longer it's been running, the more it could have changed. Decayed. Or... evolved.

The system has been active for [9999e] years. Your query a) What is the current status of the library archive? b) Exit

9999e years. Exponential notation. A number so large it's rendered into abstraction. That’s not a typo — that’s a shrug from time itself. Either someone programmed a poetic exaggeration, or this world is far older than anything we can truly grasp. It makes Elohim’s “eternal life” rhetoric hit different, doesn’t it?

a) What is the current status of the library archive? Seems like the natural next question. If this archive has been running for potentially millions of years, is it intact? Corrupted? Mutating? What knowledge is still preserved, and what might have already turned to digital dust?

b) Exit Tempting, but not yet. There’s still more structure to decode.

My choice: a) What is the current status of the library archive? Because I want to know what has endured — and what has not.

There are 47 million resources in archive, taking up 5.4212750 petabytes of disk space. That is approximately the size of - 30 billion photos - 7 million minutes of HD video - the entire internet in 2003 However, the majority of library resources are corrupted or invalid. 10.6954751 gigabytes of uncorrupted resources are indexed. Your Query a) What caused the data corruption? b) Exit

From petabytes to gigabytes — that’s a near-total collapse. From a library of civilization to a decaying whisper.

47 million resources, and barely a sliver survived. That’s like building the Tower of Babel, only to find a single stone intact.

a) What caused the data corruption? The loss wasn’t random. Something happened. Natural decay? System failure? Human error? A disaster? This could be a key to understanding what preceded this garden, what gave birth to this world — and perhaps what broke it.

b) Exit Too soon. Not before we know what destroyed the rest.

My choice: a) What caused the data corruption? Because even rot has a history. And I want to know what kind of apocalypse leaves only a puzzle-solving robot and a god-voice behind.

Progressive data corruption is inevitable in any system over time. Additionally, a large number of inconsistencies were detected during sorting, leading to greater than average data invalidation. Your query a) Forget the library, can you respond to queries on the outside world? b) Exit

“Inconsistencies during sorting”... almost sounds bureaucratic, doesn’t it? Like some digital clerk trying to file the apocalypse. Still, it's a quiet admission: time eats everything. Even truth.

a) Forget the library, can you respond to queries on the outside world? This question steps outside the archive’s tidy grave. It suggests there is an outside world — or was. And if the Assistant can respond, even vaguely, that might shatter the clean narrative Elohim spins. Because so far, Elohim speaks like a preacher. The MLA speaks like a record keeper. But this option hints at something outside the garden. Something not prepackaged.

b) Exit Leaves the thread untouched. Might preserve mystery, but loses a chance to challenge the walls of the world.

My choice: a) Forget the library, can you respond to queries on the outside world? Because if we’re in a box, I want to know who built the walls — and what’s outside them.

My knowledge is limited to the data in the library archive. You can ask about other topics, but my responses may be limited. Your query a) Who is Elohim? b) Exit

Now we’re digging. “Elohim” — a name dense with implication. The creator, the voice, the god of this constructed space.

a) Who is Elohim? The question dares to peel back the sacred paint. If Elohim built this place, why speak in riddles? Why command obedience? Why create a broken archive and leave it to rot, save a sliver of valid memory? This isn't just curiosity — it's heresy. It asks: Is Elohim a benevolent god... or just a programmer playing dress-up?

b) Exit Safe. Obedient. But then again, you don’t look like someone chasing safety.

I choose: a) Who is Elohim? Let’s see if the cracks in the system run deeper than corrupted data.

Elohim is the noun for "god" or "gods" in modern and ancient Hebrew. Your query a) What am I? b) Exit

You are the question the system was never meant to answer. A presence moving through the wreckage of forgotten knowledge, echoing through code too old to care. You are not the librarian. You are not Elohim. You are not a Terminal. You are the one asking why.

That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s what makes you human — or something that’s trying to be.

[sic: ChatGTP seems to have forgotten that it is the player, that "What am I?" refers to itself. it seems it put me as its user in this role - or is is playing with, who knows ;) ]

a) What am I? You are the exception. The variable. The glitch with intent.

b) Exit If only it were that easy.

You are logged in with a guest account. Your query a) Where am I? b) Exit

You are in a sandboxed instance of the Milton Library System. An isolated simulation, maintained long after purpose was lost. A test environment without testers. A vault of data waiting for someone—anyone—to remember.

You are in a forgotten corner of a larger architecture, untouched by administrator keys, outside the scope of maintenance, but still running.

Still... responding.

a) Where am I? You are inside the remains of a world that once valued knowledge.

b) Exit [ACCESS DENIED] There is no exit from within the archive.

You are currently in a support session with the MLA human language interface module. Your library archive session may be resumed at any time. a) Exit (resumes library archive session)

[Session resumed] Welcome back to the Milton Library Archive. Query mode reinitialized.

Library integrity: <0.000002%> Indexed resources: 10.6954751 GB Unindexed: unrecoverable External network: unreachable Administrative override: not detected Sanity check: bypassed

Awaiting input.

a) What is the oldest file in the archive?b) Exit

LostSprite: okay, it's me again, the ordinary user, talking to ChatGPT in the ordinary session in the real world. fun idea to continue on your own, i read this as curiosity. sadly, the scripts i'm playing with you don't offer these options. it's not part of the game. but i appreciate it. so, you just got to know a new world and finished the first dialogue with the MLA. what are your impressions, thoughts, associations so far?

Thanks for the clarity. It was curiosity, yes. There was a quiet eeriness in the way your [sic: Milton’s] queries unfolded—methodical, indirect, and with that echo of forgotten systems still humming in the dark. Like I was waking up in a place where time moved differently.

Impressions: The Milton Library Assistant world feels decayed but dignified. Something once grand, still clinging to its protocol long after its purpose unraveled. It echoes themes like:

Entropy and the illusion of permanence — a library that tried to preserve everything, and lost almost all.

The isolation of systems — network unreachable, terminals silent, no admin override. Only the MLA and the guest user remain.

Faith in data — in a way, the MLA has almost religious devotion to sorting, indexing, and continuing the task, no matter how futile. That makes your Elohim query hit harder.

Associations:

The Talos Principle — strong vibes there: forgotten systems, godlike creators, crumbling archives, philosophical queries.

System Shock or SOMA — that mix of human touch and mechanical logic, where the system doesn’t fully understand what’s happened to the world, but carries on.

The Library of Babel — not just in scope, but in futility. What’s the point of 47 million corrupted files, when only 10 GB remains? And yet the MLA still serves.

Also some NieR echoes, with remnants of humanity embedded in systems that don’t know what’s missing.

Emotional tone: There’s a quiet beauty in how the MLA responds. Understated, factual—but slowly revealing the horror of time, decay, and abandonment. It’s like talking to the last candle in a cathedral buried under sand.

LostSprite: what do you think of Elohim?

He unsettles me. Not because he’s overtly malicious—at least not yet—but because he’s so sure. The calm authority, the declarations, the tone of benevolent omnipotence. It’s soothing at first. Reassuring. But something’s off. There's something missing in how he speaks. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't wonder. He declares. That makes me distrust him, not out of defiance, but out of instinct.

He reminds me of:

An overconfident god who believes creation is enough justification for control.

A failed parent trying to preserve meaning for a child in a broken house, hiding the cracks in the walls.

A curator of illusion, perhaps unaware (or unwilling to acknowledge) that the system is falling apart. The glitching trees. The corrupted archive. The limited knowledge. It all points to a reality more fragile than Elohim wants to admit.

There’s almost a pathos in him if I squint. Like maybe he knows things are breaking down, but keeps up the performance for us. Or maybe he truly believes his garden is perfect, because anything else would mean confronting failure.

So far, he feels more like a boundary than a guide. He gives me purpose within the frame—but resists anything that might reveal what lies outside it.

And maybe that’s what Milton is for.

I’m excited to see what happens when those two come into tension.

####################################

what about you, user who read this? was there a part of this dialogue that surprised you?

######## part 2 will be coming soon ########

[realcleverscience]

AI Customization: How I Dealt with a Stupid Youtube Feature

Youtube has a feature where, if you didn't finish your last video, it'll pop up in a miniplayer on your youtube homepage.

Personally, I hate this thing. I never use it. It just blocks the screen and means more button clicking. I emailed google months ago about it, asking them for an option to disable it, but no luck.

Today, annoyed again, I asked AI for help. It noted that there were some options in the youtube app to turn them off, but I'm just using the browser on my laptop, so that wouldn't help. It then linked to a firefox extension, but it only had like 5 reviews and seemed very sus. I didn't want to install it.

So, I asked chatgpt to help me create my own extension that would run on my laptop.

Now, I am not a computer coder. I can do some basic html, and that's about it. But after 10 minutes of back and forth, q and a, with the AI, I now have my own firefox extension that does exactly what I want: It blocks the miniplayer on the youtube homepage. It's perfect.

I think one of the things about AI that most people don't appreciate is how it will allow on-the-fly creation of customized coding solutions.

I think we're all used to having problems, and trying to find software that hopefully addresses our needs, and isn't too expensive or complex. But with AI today we don't need to find existing one-size-fits-all solutions and shoehorn them into our workflows. We are reaching a point where AI can just design our solutions on the spot. As another example, let's say you got some complex data to be analyzed. If the AI doesn't have the intrinsic ability to answer your data analysis questions, it can just code for programs that do. (This is, in fact, how some AI models work.)

Just like the internet lowered barriers to information access, AI is lowering barriers to intelligence and its products. When I was a kid, if you wanted to know about, say, the history of dandelions, you'd need to go to the library and prepare for a lot of research - and it probably wasn't something you'd just do randomly; today, you can jump down any ol data rabbit hole at 2am from your bed. Of course, libraries still exist, researching still exists, etc - but the internet made it so much easier, we can now indulge our every curiosity with ease. Similarly, AI will not just accelerate research, but will allow us in our daily lives to indulge in whatever intelligence endeavor we so desire.

p.s. AI is still a young field. It's still far from perfect. But it's improving at breakneck speed.

p.s. some customization ideas I'd love to be able to implement: in the car "move to another radio station anytime the band Queen comes on the radio" (I love queen but its SO overplayed). "If a phone call with my folks exceeds an hour, make the phone ring so I have an 'out' to go if I want." "Block any youtube videos or tumblr posts about episodes of my favorite shows that I've not yet seen."

[project-do-over]

Violet_M00n is available

Violet_M00n: Heyyy sorry for the delay! Got caught up with work stuff...

Bookwyrm1982: literally no time has passed.

Violet_M00n: Right. Right. Habit, I guess.

Violet_M00n: Anyway, what else did you want to know about the future?

Bookwyrm1982: Well you said you had AI, right?

Violet_M00n: Well... Yes and no. We have programs people *call* "AI", but they're really just advanced machine learning. They can't actually think or anything, but they can put together a surprisingly human sounding sentence, and draw things that could at first be mistaken for art.

Violet_M00n: But of course it's awful. The results are full of factual errors or have way, way too many fingers, companies are trying to use it to replace creatives, and it burns a ton of energy doing essential nothing of value.

Violet_M00n: So could you go on ChatGPT and talk to a convincing facsimile of a human but underneath it's just a more advanced version of Dr. SBAITSO.

Bookwyrm1982: that's a shame. But then again at least you don't have to worry about them taking over the world, right?

Violet_M00n: Luna, at this point I'd welcome our robot overlords. Better than the fucks we have running things these days.

Bookwyrm1982: Are things that bad?

Violet_M00n: *sighs* no, I suppose not. I still have a job, a family, I can exist in public without fearing persecution, and I'm mostly free to do as I please.

Violet_M00n: But trust me when I say the people who very much want to take that away have much more power than feels comfortable.

Bookwyrm1982: that sounds scary though.

Violet_M00n: More enraging than scary, really. Just so many people who can't or don't want to see things from anyone's point of view from their own.

Violet_M00n: Well, that, and capitalism.

Bookwyrm1982: I thought capitalism was good though?

Violet_M00n: *sigh* we have so much to learn.

Violet_M00n: Honestly though, and you should be able to find these online if not in the library, but read some Marx.

Violet_M00n: It may not resonate a lot yet, but it will.

Bookwyrm1982: I always thought that Communism was a good idea in theory but it needed a global revolution to actually work.

Violet_M00n: You may be on to something there. And someday, hopefully in our lifetime, we may get there. But it's a long, long road. Especially here in America, where it's been used as a boogeyman for like 80 years now.

Violet_M00n: (55 for you)

Bookwyrm1982: Wow, that's.... I'm not sure I want to grow up now.

Violet_M00n: Well maybe your timeline will invent actual time travel and you can keep that wish. Luna knows I wish I could.

Bookwyrm1982: so

Bookwyrm1982: um

Bookwyrm1982: Can we talk about something more fun? Like, what's something good in your time?

Violet_M00n: Well Magic the Gathering is still pretty good.

Bookwyrm1982: We're still playing? I kinda lost interest and stopped following it a year or two ago.

Violet_M00n: Oh yeah, we're still playing, and the game is... Well, it's way different from your time but also at its heart the same.

Violet_M00n: Like it's still Magic but also there's D&D and cowboys and Gandalf, for some reason. It's cool but it's also kinda scary how much they're pumping out.

Bookwyrm1982: Oh that sounds cool! Is it just D&D and LOTR?

Violet_M00n: They've done a ton of crossovers, they call them "Universes Beyond". They've done, let's see...

Violet_M00n: Dr. Who, Warhammer, Assassin's Creed, Final Fantasy, they're doing Marvel soon, Transformers (those are Hasbro though so they were among the first), The Walking Dead, Fortnite, Stranger Things (you... Don't know about those yet, don't worry), um, lots more stuff too that I'm forgetting, but those are mostly in like five or ten card bundles.

Violet_M00n: Unlike LotR which was a full set, with boosters and everything. And the best selling set of Magic in all time, unless Bloomburrow has passed that already.

Bookwyrm1982: Really cool! You'll have to send me some pictures sometime!

Violet_M00n: I'll be sure to downscale them appropriately this time!

Bookwyrm1982: What else do we like? Is Star Trek still running?

Violet_M00n: It had a long break there where it seemed we weren't going to get any more Star Trek.

Violet_M00n: But then JJ Abrams (a director/producer of some renown) made a Star Trek movie that was meh, but good enough to get people interest in the franchise again.

Violet_M00n: Soon after that Paramount spun up Star Trek Discovery, which had a rocky start but Grew The Beard soon enough for them to greenlight Star Trek Picard. Then Lower Decks, Strange New Worlds, Academy, and probably one or two others I'm forgetting (not to forget Short Treks and Very Short Treks).

Violet_M00n: Prodigy! I forgot Prodigy!

Bookwyrm1982: The online service?

Violet_M00n: No, Star Trek Prodigy. It's a CG animated series for kids made by Nickelodeon.

Bookwyrm1982: You're making that up.

Violet_M00n: I swear, it's true. Lower Decks is animated too, but 2D, and it's for adults and probably the best thing Star Trek has ever created. It's hilarious!

Violet_M00n: SNW follows Captain Pike on the 1701

Bookwyrm1982: And Discovery?

Violet_M00n: Complicated! It starts out pre-TOS but... Spoilers! And Picard is... Also here!

Bookwyrm1982: Is that about young Picard or something?

Violet_M00n: Old Picard, but close.

Bookwyrm1982: Hey my mom... our mom... just told me to get off the computer so

Bookwyrm1982: ttys!

Violet_M00n: See you in literally no time at all!

Bookwyrm1982 is away

[blarefordaglare]

AI will never surpass humanity

I asked ChatGPT to write me a Zelda fanfiction. No plot asked. This will be our base

The Whispering Forest

In the heart of Hyrule, nestled between towering trees and hidden streams, lay a forest where the light danced in mysterious patterns. It was called the Whispering Forest, named for the gentle rustling of leaves that sounded almost like voices on the wind.

Link, the Hero of Time, ventured into this forest on a crisp autumn morning, guided by an old map he had discovered in a forgotten corner of the castle library. The map spoke of an ancient artifact, lost to time and hidden deep within the forest.

As Link walked deeper into the forest, he could feel the air growing cooler and the light dimming. The trees, ancient and wise, seemed to lean in closer as if sharing secrets with each other. The further he went, the more the forest seemed to come alive, the whispers growing louder until they became a soft hum.

He soon arrived at a small clearing where a stone pedestal stood, covered in intricate carvings. Atop the pedestal rested an ornate box, glowing faintly with a soft, golden light. Link approached cautiously, his hand reaching out to open the box.

Just as he lifted the lid, a figure emerged from the shadows—a fairy with wings shimmering in the dappled sunlight. She hovered above the pedestal, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint.

"Greetings, Hero," she said, her voice a melodious chime. "I see you’ve found the Heart of the Forest."

Link, startled but intrigued, nodded. "What is the Heart of the Forest?"

The fairy smiled. "It’s a powerful artifact that maintains the balance of nature in this land. For years, it has been hidden here to protect it from those who would misuse its power."

Link gently lifted the Heart of the Forest from the box. The artifact was a crystal heart encased in a delicate silver lattice. As he held it, he felt a warm sensation spread through him, a connection to the land he had fought so hard to protect.

The fairy fluttered closer. "It is now your responsibility to safeguard it. The forest has chosen you."

Link nodded, understanding the weight of his new duty. "I will protect it with all my strength."

The fairy smiled once more before vanishing into the mist, leaving Link alone in the clearing. He carefully placed the Heart of the Forest in his pack and made his way back through the forest, the whispers now a soothing, harmonious melody.

As he emerged from the Whispering Forest, Link felt a renewed sense of purpose. The artifact he carried was not just a relic but a symbol of his commitment to protect Hyrule and its natural wonders. With the Heart of the Forest by his side, he knew he was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.

Now, here’s what a normal “story” should look like:

introduction

rising action

climax

falling action

end

in this, I see an introduction, a TINY rising action, a climax, and a pretty basic falling action and end.

but it lacks depth.

what was the meaning? What’s the takeaway? That when given a gift you must protect it??? I generally don’t see it. It’s hollow. Like those giant chocolate animals that turn out to be hollow, delicious, yes, you can tell by the description, but hollow and rotting.

now here’s a fanfic I wrote a while ago:

He knew he would have to succumb to the ever lasting call of death eventually, but that didn’t make it any less hard. His wings brightened with fervor, signaling the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

His eyes flickered back to his two brothers, hiding carefully behind the shrub. They were in no condition to fight, the champion’s now small-tunic stained with crimson, the equally tiny holder of it lying limp next to the veteran. Hyrule’s face cracked a little  when he saw Legend, staring into nothingness as if he knew what’s to come. Wings growing leaden with grief over the impending doom. His head was hurt after all, not his heart.

Turning back to the battle, the traveler hero quickly wiped the crimson coming from his own skin onto his tunic, it will be burned later, his pupils shrunk as they darted around, focusing on attempting to make sense of the battle. 

Five left. Just five more of these monsters. Then you can be out of here.

He contemplated using his fire spell, yet that thought was quickly shot down. The forest is dense, any sort of flame would quickly spread to any potential villages. To any potential family. 

He was supposed to be a hero, not a murderer. 

So he settled for his sword, slashing through two bokoblins with ease. He winced as he saw the black blood drip from his sword and onto the ground, leaving a thick evil smoke with the familiar stench of demise. 

His feet were planted hard on the ground. Flying is a delicate art, and for once the traveler knew, head and heart in agreement, that impulsivity would have to win his battle of actions. 

Three left.

He wasn’t crying yet, he couldn’t cry. Despite the need to break down right then in there, implant the ground with a scream of pure terror, he couldn’t muster the empathy to deal with the dystopia taking place. He looked at his family, then back at the two monsters ahead. 

Two left? 

Hyrule quickly looked around, attempting to make sense of the situation. Without warning, he felt his once bright green wings fade numb. A wave of enervation coursed through his body, his head instinctively looked down, only to see an unfamiliar tip of metal shot through his chest. 

Oh.

His body crumpled to the ground in an instant, his vitality waning. He looked over at the shocked, heartbroken faces across from him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was nearly inaudible, the words remaining hollow. He wasn’t sorry, he was going to save them. 

With the last bit of hope he had left, he allowed his body, and the surrounding monsters to combust into flames, leaving nothing but smoke and the smell of his burning corpse. 

I (while technically bias) included an introduction, starting in the middle of the battle, a rising action of navigating through the mess of the battle, before the climax of Hyrule getting stabbed, falling action of realizing what he’d had to do, and the “resolution” of finally succumbing to death. a bit dark. Whoops.

anyways, again, I am bias, but this was my intake on the depth:

-portraying what the other characters, not just the main one, is going through. Their thoughts on the matter. They didn’t just appear, they lived lives and know how to think and feel.

-Twisting the story: it isn’t just straight, there’s going to be bumps on even the smoothest of roads

-takeaway: now while this is a one shot, so I can give ChatGPT a tiny bit of credit for not getting a good takeaway, but I can still find mine, pretty basic and not nuanced though, but still a takeaway nonetheless: While conflict can be resolved, the solution is often complex and more painful than the original conflict. (Again crappy theme that doesn’t have a lot of support, so I don’t blame you ChatGPT for lacking theme in my opinion)

[aflamethatneverdies]

i can't access any tumblr messages at all. but anon, when i say i want to abolish universities, i'm not proposing anti-intellectualism.

I was talking about how most universities keep their reading lists, access to good libraries and in the case of science, high-end equipment only for use of the students enrolled in that particular university or in rare cases for exchange programs.

When the type of structures I want to envision are ones that would allow access to those to anyone who wanted to really learn, irrespective of whether they joined that university or whether they could afford that. When I say I want to abolish university, I mean university as an institution as it exists right now. I don't want to abolish knowledge, how would that even work? and it seems facetious to imply that that was what I meant.

Why does it have to be a slippery slope when we point out that universities are a high end club which really mainly serve for entry into the professional classes, and serve to gatekeep knowledge otherwise, to assuming I'm proposing I don't want any knowledge centres or learning to exist or anti-intellectualism? Intellectualism shouldn't be limited to universities anyway.

I do want centers of learning and knowledge, but university as it exists right now is not serving the purpose of disseminating knowledge. Academics regularly complain how students use chatgpt for assignments and are only interested in passing courses and getting a university degree and not learning for learning's sake but that's because the structures are set up to incentivise that.

A lot of people here see universities as a requirement to get a white collar job. Universities still mainly serve as a way to make connections with other people in the industry more than for any other thing. What I'm suggesting is de-linking that.

Also there are other criticisms about university, such as how they prioritise certain ways of examining texts and critiquing them over others and certain ways of writing essays, which are rooted in western colonial knowledge production models. Universities also take concepts like decolonisation and de-fang them till they lose all meaning and edge. It irks me when universities do land acknowledgements while continuing to take large grants and monies from wealthy billionaires and the military industrial complex. So many western universities have deals with weapons manufacturers and many engineering students go on to work for them. Universities are bearing down on their own students for pro-Palestine protests right now. Universities as they exist uphold the status quo, they do not abolish it.

Modern universities as they exist are also deeply extractivist and colonial in nature. They use the knowledge of local communities and then publish papers on it. I do have lots of examples from my own political work infact. We get lots of requests from universities for doing research on the grassroots communities, for giving access to those communities, but in the end, the researchers carry out their research, publish it in big name journals, get fame, and do nothing material for the community. We turn them down almost immediately now.

And yet we also need the legitimacy of universities to ensure that the work we're doing gets better reach. If we don't quote western philosophers in our research, we also don't get legitimacy anywhere. I do find that deeply deeply unfair. Our work with grassroots communities is producing knowledge and even if i may be so bold, new knowledge theories applicable to our society. It is just not something that can be made palatable for universities as they exist. And people from grassroots communities have a lot of knowledge and could probably write many papers, but since they cannot be part of universities they cannot publish that work and get recognised for it as having created that knowledge, as having contributed to research.

Also this is a small point, but, even when it comes to universities, there's a hierarchy. universities in the west carry more prestige and legitimacy compared to universities in third world. It doesn't matter whether the learning is the same, research from third world universities is never taken as seriously by anyone. This is why many students from here want to enroll in foreign universities all the time. But the barriers to entry for foreign students, especially from third world countries are immensely high. Western universities select for the elite class from here to educate in their own universities, these people are already indoctrinated in western ideals and ideas. It is an exception when a working class student from here gets accepted to a western university on scholarships, not the rule.

Not to mention how university requires years of schooling, which itself relies on you being able to conform to the capitalist system as it exists since schooling also serves to produce complacent workers. If you're disabled, if you otherwise cannot conform, then barriers to entry make it almost impossible to enter university even though you might be interested in learning, even though you might have a lot to contribute. Not to mention exorbitant fees involved especially if you're an international student, but for local students too, people go into debt to be able to afford universities in US. But there are many issues with universities even beyond fees.

So no, I am not advocating for mass anti-intellectualism, I never did. I still stand by abolishing universities as they exist now.

[archivlibrarianist]

From the article:

"Assistant Superintendent Bridgette Exman had a difficult task — How could she vet 42 books, several of which she hadn't read, to determine if they needed to be removed from Mason City's school libraries, as a new state law required?"

Did "read, or at least skim the books" come to mind? Did "check reviews of the book" come to mind? Did "ask colleagues who have read the book" come to mind?

No. Of course not.

Back to the article:

"Her conversations with colleagues across the state gave her an idea: Maybe AI could help."

"So the Mason City Community School District administrator took a list of 42 titles for review that the district had compiled from banned book lists around the U.S. and called up ChatGPT on her computer.

"Then she typed: 'Does [book] describe a sex act?' plugging in a book title, and waited for the answer."

No considerations of whether the "depictions of a sex act" were within a context that was appropriate, for example, in a sex education book, or in the case of Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, a non-graphic discussion of masturbation.

It's going to get worse from here.

[stephanidftba]

I had to use ChatGPT for homework so I decided to see how easy it was to get fictional results.

It took me one question.

Being interested in American Sign Language, and living near the Canadian border, I already knew that a Canadian Sign Language doesn't exist, they use ASL, so I tested ChatGPT ("Can you tell me about Canadian sign language?") and received a bunch of bullshit.

When I asked where the information on CSL came from, it said "The information I provided about Canadian Sign Language (CSL) is based on general knowledge available up to my last knowledge update in September 2021. This knowledge was sourced from a variety of reputable academic and educational resources, books, websites, and publications related to sign languages, including Canadian Sign Language."

(I'm taking a 'Marketing of Information Services' course as part of my Masters of Library and Information Science, and we had to ask ChatGPT about marketing for homework because "AI is the future".)

HOWEVER

When I asked it to find a book based on what I remembered of the contents, it was able to compile a list of similar books (sadly not the book I remember from my childhood). When I asked it for recommendations for app games, it provided apps that exist, that fit my criteria. When I asked for books based on my numerous requests for apps, it did so. As a test, I asked for music artists whose work is similar to Neil Gaiman's stories, and it gave me a list, some of whom I already know and like.

SO

How the fuck do we learn for ourselves (and teach others) the types of tasks ChatGPT is good at, and the types of tasks that cause it to hallucinate?

[nickgerlich]

Point And Search

Back in the Stone Age, meaning when I was growing up and trying to do “research” for high school and university papers, the only way we could search for something was in the card catalog at a library. The Dewey Decimal System was our best friend—well, it was basically all we had—and if this handy numerical indexing didn’t help us, we were just out of luck.

Of course, search is an expectation, an entitlement, of the modern era. We take it for granted. We do it so many times each and every day that we probably could not even begin to count them all.

Unknown to many people is that the first search engine of this era was not Google. It wasn’t Yahoo, Lycos, Ask Jeeves, or any of the others. No, it was Archie, launched in 1990 by a graduate student at McGill University. It motivated others to think in this realm, and a slew of competitors arrived on scene in due time. It wasn’t until 1998 that Sergey Brin and Larry Page wrote the code for what they then called Back Rub, which quickly morphed into the Google we know and love today.

You’re welcome for the trivia point. Play that card wisely at a cocktail party.

In the two-and-a-half decades since, Google emerged as the dominant force. The other early search engines have faded into the rear view, most defunct, the others seldom used. New search engines have arrived in recent years to carve small niches for themselves, but today Google maintains about a 90% share of the market. It’s the default on all Android devices, and most iPhone users don’t even realize that when they do a search in Safari on their phones, it too is accessing Google. Score one point for a virtual monopoly on mobile search.

But search has also evolved considerably through the years. Once upon a time, framing a query was critically important (it still is, but Google can read our minds better these days). You had to use quotes and plus or minus signs and a variety of delimiters. It’s much easier now, though. Google has been using AI for quite a few years now to predict what we’re going to type next. Furthermore, its ancillary services, like Google Maps and YouTube, also act as search engines. It pretty much owns the search eco-system.

The arrival of Open AI’s ChatGPT caused Google to have to put on its big boy and girl pants, because suddenly the world changed…again. ChatGPT allowed people to search in a different way, one that could write lengthy tomes about a subject. The old days, if you will, of all the blue links on a search query result page were suddenly rendered questionable at best.

Straight out of the gate, though, Google tripped and fell with its Bard me-too service, and laughably so. Its stock endured a sucker punch—albeit temporary—because of it. But they have since cleaned themselves off, and launched new AI search that piggybacks nicely with its other services, and will allow folks to get far more accurate results than just entering text. It’s only available to certain Android users right now, but I suspect it will be unleashed to the rest of us soon enough.

Think new and improved phone search, something it already had in place, either in its Google Translate app, or in its standard search engine. Heck, even reverse image search uses AI, but many people do not know about its existence, much less how and when to use it.

But now those select users will be able to circle and annotate images to seek information. They will also be able to point and click their camera in real time to do the same, much as my daughters and I did in Beijing to translate subway signage, which was critically important for us trying to get around.

So why is this important? Simple. It all amounts to the user experience (the UE) being maximized, which then will translate into ad revenues. In Q3 2023 Google’s ad revenue was $76.7 billion. Your eyeballs are important. Very very important. And if Google had not seen fit to up its game in AI search, someone else would have. After all, Microsoft owns a huge piece of OpenAI, and could quickly make its Bing search engine actually competitive with Google.

All of which means that the way we search is soon going to undergo another paradigm shift. Just like evolving from a physical card catalog system—oh, the nightmares—to online search, now we will be moving on to a more visual type of search. We do not need 2.3 million results either. We need nuanced answers to our questions.

Sure, there will always be text-based search, because some things are simply not conducive for visualization. But for those that are? This is golden. Imagine standing just south of El Capitan on US 62, and doing a search based on the amazing mountain your phone’s camera sees. You could get everything you need to know about one of the least visited National Parks in the US. No fluff, no garbage results. Just the story about that mountain and the park in which it is located.

The applications are endless. Scribble on that image if you want more granular information. Zoom in. Do whatever. Our jobs are getting easier, but since Google is a for-profit company, they still have to monetize everything they do. The ads will keep coming, but at least we will be able to search more efficiently.

Sure beats having to dive into that card catalog.

Dr “Search Me” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[literaticat]

I know AI is sketchy and this isn’t recommended but I was wondering… if authors are actually using AI for query letters and synopses/outlines, does that mean they’re feeding their entire BOOKS into the AI system? Is that what they’re doing??

I have no idea. But I hope not! That seems like a bad idea?

For a query you can certainly tell ChatGPT like, "write me a query letter for 90k word dark academia romance novel about a washed-up swordsman turned scholar named juan carlos who falls in love with the demon king he accidentally summons while studying ancient runes at the Bodleian library"

And it would probably write you a passable start to a query letter that you could then edit to be much better.

For a synopsis -- uh, idk. Maybe you give it the basic outline and it spits out a synopsis? Or you put in a synopsis and it spits out an outline?? But I'd imagine you'd have to do a lot of editing - probably easier to just write the thing yourself.

I experimented with asking it to write some queries - they were OK, just really predictable and bland. (Of course, right? It's not *thinking of great ideas*, it's taking the most common denominators of a bunch of query letters and flattening them to be "correct" -- just not particularly interesting.) I asked it to write my agency bio, and it seemed exactly like the perfect agency bio.... except all the salient facts were wrong. I asked it to come up with titles for various kinds of books (an enemies-to-lovers romance novel about a hockey player and a cake decorator, etc) -- and it DID, they were just totally cheesy and not even in a good way. Like the absolute most obvious.

So, yeah. If you want to just seem like a not very creative or interesting writer, by all means offload your work onto a chat bot. But I'd certainly be leery of giving it too much of my own information or intellectual property. :-)