#Harry Potter fail

[drarrargh]

happy mermay!! have a little merdraco lounging about with kitty harry

[soup-of-the-daisies]

Tom: I am at a LOSS for WORDS

Abraxas, Orion, and a handful of assorted Knights: Despite being at a loss for words, Riddle yelled at us for the next 45 minutes *

(* They were tasked with befriending Harry to aid Tom’s future Harry-wooing but failed miserably)

[daddiesdrarryy]

James: Are you straight?

Sirius: I tried but...*looks at Remus*

[faeriemarie]

did you dream about your dr OR did you shift while your dr self was sleeping and dreaming about their own life? food for thought

[my-castles-crumbling]

My friends: Ah, yes, Cas would kick ass at Harry Potter trivia. They won't shut up about it!

Me, freaking out, because I can't remember what the fuck is canon, fanon, and just my own little headcanon: 😬

[enfinizatics]

just thinking about an insufferable brat with emotional trauma and a savior complex, and his mentally damaged git of a mentor.

[basiatlu]

hi..... (let's pretend i shuffled into your office disguised in a massive trenchcoat and slip a note onto your desk) C2 for drarry...... I'll let you decide who is the grumpy one and what the offense was (ily)

Since C2 very quickly chosen may I gift you - them switched!!

Lil different posing to not make it the exact same. Is that cheating? Idk there aren’t any rules here, you know better.

What do you think he’s saying? 🤭

[delicrieux]

𝐣𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angst, doomed to fail trope <3 summary—what could the cards have in store for him? word count—1.6k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

“you will be great.”

those words, spoken in a pliant tone, do little to move regulus. perhaps history, tradition, and the cumulative expectations of both had shaped him in such a way that prophesy meant greatness, whether desired or not. he will be great, because he is the only son of the great and noble house of black, and he will be happy, because he knows no other alternative, nor does anyone care to provide him with one. the reality of such an existence has weighed him slightly, made his expression pensive and head stuck slightly downward. happy. in a depthless, easy sense with no meaning.

regulus longs for meaning. you search for it in the cards.

you sit, and he sits in front of you, and together you are illuminated by the fire. the hearth burns and the carpet feels scratchy on his palms, and regulus likes the way you shuffle the cards — the rhythmic slide and click of expensive laminated paper, the soft way you breathe with the lower lip slightly gaping — and the way you draw — the flick of your wrist, the schooled expression, the lazy flick of your lashes, and the light twitch of your cheek.

in your eyes he can find a pensieve — not for their colour, but for a quality entirely different that in all of his reading and thinking he has still failed to name.

“naturally,” he responds slowly; he hopes that as you see past the pretty image held between your fingers, you will see past the layers of a lie, too, “that is all i need to know, yes? i will be great, and so this is pointless."

"if that is all, then i will not tell you more."

your response is too simple. "and if i ask for more?"

"you are free to. the cards not only speak of destiny, regulus. they can guide, but they are not a prophecy."

"so the cards do not tell the future?"

"the future is never set," you tell him, and this time you look up. in his eyes he thinks you might find a reflection, but it is only a mirage. "it is an amalgamation of events. each and every choice we make changes it and changes it again."

 "so what good are the cards then?"

"they are a guide," you chide, your expression morphing into something vexed, "merlin, you grow more stubborn by the hour. the cards can only show the possibilities."

"useless. i already know my path."

"you will be great."

"i will be great."

"do you not wonder what that means, regulus?"

you speak as if you already know the answer. you speak as if you know everything. you are a seer, or, at the very least, penchant for the gift of one. like your mother and grandmother and the women before you, you suffer from fever and delirium late at night. they had gone mad prophesising a future undeciphered, and you shall, too, only regulus refuses to believe it only for the fact that he cannot bear the idea of your fate.

"what more is there to know? it is simply a title and an empty one at that. my father will be the minister, and he is great. i'm his son, and, so," and then he pauses, his lips twitching. "i will be great."

regulus is not naive. he knows the reality of the world he lives in. the weight of responsibility and expectation upon his shoulders is not one he is blind to. he has always known that his future is to be a facsimile of the past, a carbon copy of his father and a shadow of his ancestors. his fate is written and the pages are sealed. he can accept his but he can never accept yours. it appears absurd to him. the very thought scorns.

"is that really the life you want?"

"yes," he answers, perhaps a little too quickly. "of course it is. who would not?"

you could be great, too. you predicted exam questions, menial relationship drama between classmates, a meteor shower mid-june. the death of the heir. when you spoke of it, your voice wavered; in the candlelight, regulus looked hard for a sign of sorrow, but he found nothing.

the stars had aligned in a month with his mother's raised wand. sirius was burned out the family tree, leaving a stain of soot and a strange emptiness. you saw the change, and remained gravely silent, and your eyes, such pretty twin planets constantly calling him into your orbit, had poured into his portrait instead.

the cards seem meaningless now. a paltry mood has enveloped him and an ancient sorrow swells. the darkness of the dining hall seems closer, nearer, and the fire crackles and your clothing glows and your skin shifts with each flicker.

he wishes that he could sit in the gentle silence of your presence — however awkward it may be — until the sky erupts into another storm. a part of him imagines that it would be nice to watch with you. better than his empty room, the oppressive solitude he always seems to return to when he looks at you or thinks of you or remembers you suddenly and for no reason. just because he can think of nothing he would not tell you should you ask, but he realises this is less indicative of a desire to speak and more of a desire to keep you close to him.

the light hits and regulus is struck by a sudden awareness. a desperate longing arises inside him. whatever this feeling is, whatever this urge is, is overshadowing rationality and decorum. his palms feel sweaty on the taupe fabric covering his legs. he feels shaky and anxious and his stomach stirs with a familiar unease that he has learned to repress in your presence, yet some fluke, some unaccounted for variable in this constant, ever-growing, uncontrollable infatuation has taken root and is growing far quicker than any other sprouts had before.

an undeniable change is bubbling up inside him and he feels he might collapse into himself surrounded by your fragrance.

how pretty, how lovely, how much he wants to touch you. to stroke a fingertip across your bottom lip. how strange that regulus cannot tell you such. he wants. in a soft, quiet way; a greedy sense of need overwhelms him, so he clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes, and wills it away. in the darkness he thinks and then realises that the ache in his stomach is only a hunger.

"can you," he begins slowly, clawing through his muddled thoughts for a shred of clarity. he needn't see you to know you are at attention. he feels it, perhaps, or wishes it to be so. to see the truth would be to deny himself a selfish sweetness. a dog can live on scraps, but he is supposed to be more than that. he keeps his eyes closed, "can you see others?"

"others?"

"in my future," he clarifies, though he believes he is saying too much.

"in a moment," he hears you murmur. paper sounds as if brushed aside, and there is a brief moment of what feels like privacy before the clicking begins again. the slow, rhythmic thudding of regulus' pulse. his breath. your breathing is more stilted.

regulus is patient; when he opens his eyes you have spread out five cards on the rug between you. your fingers graze each one and he is envious. each movement is so purposeful.

"...i'm sorry, regulus," you begin, your voice lacking the confidence it possessed only minutes ago. there is a nervous drawl in your tone that disturbs him. "i can't see past the waves."

a metaphor, surely, but regulus knows he is sinking under the expectations placed upon him. in his mind, the words play in a loop: i will be great.

"it's alright," regulus says, his voice hollow. something of a void has overcome him and he feels cold — so cold. "you must be tired."

with another smooth noise — a soft, pleasant sound — the cards are carefully returned to their container. regulus bites his tongue. the dull sensation of a headache settles in his temples. a thought. an action. decisions not yet made. he wonders if the cards could show him each and every action he could have made to show you what he feels for you, and what you could have done in return. would they emphasize his failure or gloss it over in the vague fog marked 'past.'

"a tad," you admit, a bit lighter, the life pouring back to your face in a gentle stream. you look at him as if you are waiting for an invitation he can't find in himself to make.

is it better this way?

regulus feels a sickly disappointment stir. it sits heavily in his chest, an unpleasant reminder that he still yearns for something else and has given up on finding it. if he stares into the fire long enough, perhaps it will consume him. but it's not his element.

"regulus?"

"no," he starts before you can ask the question and beg the answer he will not give. "i'm fine."

"ah."

"a fortuitous reading," he remarks with a small, wry smile. "i am truly favoured."

you offer a lopsided smile back, though he is taken aback by your weariness. it is a glimpse beyond the false pretence of your pleasantries, and he knows you must pity him, even if you will not say. you are always saying things he wants to hear and not saying things he needs to. you offer distraction and praise where you should offer reality. what is the point in fortunes and dreams and spells to foresee one's future? such things merely lead one to misfortune, or, in regulus' case, a predetermined, inevitable misery.

he will be great, won't he? it matters so little. you don't reveal what hurts him. he knows that you can't see past the waves because you aren't there to cut through them. whatever future exist, it exists without you.

to him, that is no future at all.

hope u enjoyed! mwah! <3

[curioushabitforarivergod]

Pre wwii what would conditions in the orphanage Tom grew up in hsve been like? (Ie in the 1926-37 period)

Honestly, conditions would've been pretty shit. Firstly disease was rife, especially as the East End (where Wool's presumably is) was a slum throughout the Industrial Revolution and into the 20th century (with it only really changing post WWII). Tom would be familiar with stuff like mumps and whooping cough, even if he never got sick himself due to magic protecting him (as we see with Harry). But they'd also be other diseases like tuberculosis, diphtheria, scarlet fever, rickets, polio and even the flu. It's likely multiple children at the orphanage would have physical disabilities due to polio maybe even with callipers (a permanent kind of splint to help people who'd suffered from polio walk). While children would often be isolated with most illnesses, it would be incredibly difficult for an orphanage to do so, and it's probable that children died as bouts of sickness and disease spread through the orphanage. Kids who were one day at dinner are gone the next.

The first legal precedent for adopting children occurs with the Adoption of Children Act in 1926, so legal adoption how we understand it today, was fairly new. Children were lined up on Sundays, washed and in their best clothes (after attending church!) for rich people to adopt, but it tended to be a way for getting free labour rather than out of an actual desire to have children to love and care for.

I'm not sure what JKR was basing her orphanage off (likely something modern), but Tom probably wouldn't have gotten his own room, even if he was considered 'insane'. There simply wasn't enough room. Children shared a dormitory, one that could be overstuffed and cramped, sometimes even with several children to a bed. Food was similar — it was a cramped long hall (almost like a smaller, horrible version of the great hall) with rows of tables and children waiting their turn for a meal. They were probably only given one or two a day; likely gruel in the morning and bread with a stew in the evening. Tom's diet would've been vegetarian because meat was insanely expensive, although he may have had meat on Christmas and potentially Sundays if the orphanage could afford it.

On that note, Tom and the other orphans would've been Christian, most likely CoE. Although Catholic orphanages did exist, Wool's is not named after a Saint and so was more likely Protestant. Tom would've gone to church every Sunday, perhaps in a chapel on Wool's grounds, although if not, it would've been at the local church. He also would've been expected to pray. He'd go to Sunday School alongside normal school (which would've been at the local public school or perhaps, if Wool's was especially large, which I don't think it was, there would've been one of the staff who could teach or they'd bring someone in). For Christmas itself, Tom would likely get an orange which was incredibly special due to his diet likely not including fruit.

Tom would've shared everything, including clothes. He probably didn't even have underwear, and may sometimes have had to wear dresses/frocks, especially when he was younger, due to a lack of clothes. These clothes would've been stiff and itchy, potentially with lice. They would've been washed once a week, as with the orphans themselves (in large buckets!), and been hung out to dry on huge lines. Depending on how many clothes there were to go round, Tom would've spent this time in underwear (although sometimes orphans didn't even have this) or in another pair of clothes that had been worn by other children hundreds of times before. It's no wonder Tom stole — he literally had nothing, not even his own clothes (and perhaps not even underwear either).

Tom would've been expected to care for children younger than him, including babies, from a very young age. Even if he didn't enjoy it, Tom would've been good with young children and it's no wonder he was able to make Head Boy at Hogwarts because of it.

The Great Depression would've made these conditions worse. Although some of the conditions would've improved over the years, the Great Depression meant that everything was more expensive. Meals were probably downsized, if not cut entirely to one a day. The amount of kids at the orphanage probably rose during this time due to parents having to abandon children, which would've been especially prevalent in the East End which, as I've mentioned previously, was just slums and dockyard. Meat probably disappeared completely from Tom's diet, even at Christmas.

All in all, Tom's early life and conditions at the orphanage were grim. Kids died around him, conditions were cramped with diseases, illness and lice, he'd not even have his own clothes, meals would be limited, he'd spend his free time looking after kids younger than him and he'd fear being adopted. The roaring twenties were shit and the thirties shitter still. Hogwarts would've been the best thing that ever happened to Tom — it's no wonder he called it his home.

[profoundmakerdreamerss-blog]

Tomarry AU

Where Tom wakes up in a world as a canon fodder, no named villain who is fated to die a horrible death in the hands of the hero. He is that one villain that is just destined to die and oh boy, does he hate it.

And so, like the logical man he is; he decides to kill the hero. Or to be more precise, he tries to. But, he is stopped. No, no not by the hero. The hero is weak, still. He hasn't gone through his “character development arc” which happens after the hero's best friend dies. And you see, that is the problem. The problem is the hero's best friend. Everytime, every single time, when Tom is sure that he will be successful, that damn Harry Potter has to come running.

Poison? Harry is the one who gets poisoned because he decides to eat what was meant for the hero. Assassination? Harry pushes the hero away. A burning tower? Harry jumps in and saves the guy.

And Tom hated that guy. The guy who literally wasn't given a personality in the book. The guy who's personality was basically "sacrificed himself for the hero". The guy who looks at Tom like he knows what he is doing. The guy, Harry Potter was infuriating.

But does it stop Tom from killing the main character? No. Cue to him making the most convoluted plan there is to get the hero to die. And the plan? Get Harry kidnapped. And lure the hero into a place where he could finally get him to die.

Alas, as always — it doesn't work. And just like always, Harry Potter finds a way to destroy his plans. Again.

Because,

“I know what you are, Riddle.” Harry, with blood dripping down his chin and green eyes glowing (always glowing), says as he stares at him from the place Tom had him tied.

[writerpetals]

under control | 🔞

; optional male lead smut |  ☁️

w; werewolf!au, thigh riding, restraints

He really can't control himself at times. Being a werewolf with raging hormones and growing desires has its perks as well as its disadvantages, one of them being blissfully aware of his own strength, his pointed canines, and his lack of composure when the mood overwhelms him.

Especially when it comes down to you, wanting to indulge in your advances more than anything, yet being fearful of scaring you, hurting you, or worse. You have tried to reason with him, having trusted him most of your life, even before you knew of the supernatural being that he was. And being his mate when it all comes down to it, destined to be with him for the rest of your life while your body becomes naturally drawn to him, never lets you forget the thick tension anytime you even come close.

"It will be okay," you try to convince him, "you won't hurt me." Though, the fact that he has to leave the room and take care of himself any time you do get too close isn't helping your argument. You have done no more than just kiss, sometimes too intensely for him to cause such reactions only leaving you disappointed, and guilty for even feeling so.

"I don't want to take that risk," he replies, nostrils flaring while sitting on your bed with his back against the headboard. You know even being so close settled next to him is nearly too much to bear, especially when your own body is in overdrive thanks to the desire to be with him.

"What makes you think you'll-"

"Because," he interrupts, jaw tightening for the few seconds he pauses to gather his thoughts, "just... because."

"Well, what if we compromise?" Suddenly, a smirk grows on your lips, earning his attention with a glance in your direction a moment later. Your brows rise, heart beating just a bit faster at springing your sudden idea on him, yet knowing the two of you need some form of release if you are ever going to survive. At this point, you are willing to risk it all just to give yourself to him, but only because you trust him, and his threats of hurting you don't waiver your confidence in the slightest.

"What do you mean?" With his fists tight at his sides as he asks, you know thoughts are already racing in his mind. The confidence within you grows now knowing he is open to suggestions.

"What if I... I bind your hands?" You wince at hearing yourself say the words, his eyes growing wide at the possibility of being tied down while you have your way with him.

Though, the way his lips part and he remains silent, you know he is seriously considering the idea, as well as the thought of you riding him as his hand moves to reposition himself in his sweatpants.

"And then what?" The words release in a deeper voice, raspiness filling every syllable and you realize he is closer than ever to agreeing.

"And then..." you hesitate for a moment, "we see how you feel about the situation?" Suddenly all confidence shoots through the roof, words trembling off your lips while pitching the plan to him, but from the way he takes a deep breath, eyes shutting closed for a moment, you know he can't turn you away.

"Okay," he agrees with a nod of his head, eyes opening to flash a hint of darkness, "but you need to tie me down tight, and make it secure."

You want to roll your eyes at him, assuming he is overreacting, but his tone tells you not to underestimate his strength. You have only witnessed his capabilities on a few occasions of lashed out anger at one of his brothers, yet you want to believe he can control himself when it comes to you.

Still, you stand from the bed with your knees nearly wobbling as you search the nearest dresser drawer for a scarf before turning to witness him pulling his t-shirt over his head. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight, making your way to him as every muscle within his body tenses once you come near. He shifts, lowering himself just a bit while raising his arms to the bedpost above his head, allowing you to wrap the blue-tinted scarf around his wrists and the post three times before tying the knot as tight as you possibly can.

"How does that feel?" you ask, hesitation in every word, wondering why you are suddenly feeling the effects of his warnings.

"Flimsy," he exhales, "but it will do."

"Are-are you sure?" Your gaze lowers away from the intensity in his eyes as he stares at you, sudden desires filling him to the brim and the lust that is overtaking him goes far from unnoticed.

"No," he says, releasing a breathy chuckle, voice a near groan as he speaks. "But at this point I don't think I can stop now."

"You can't?" Your eyes shoot up to his own upon hearing the strain in his words.

"If I'm being honest," he begins, pausing to take in a deep breath and you wonder if he needs it, or is only trying to capture your scent, knowing you are far past the point of merely aroused at seeing him tied to the bed, shirtless, resisting the urge to pounce, "I know you're afraid, even if you're trying to hide it, and even if you trust me."

"You-you do?" You gulp, not wanting to admit that you are about to go further with him than you ever have, and the thought alone has the fear creeping up your spine.

"And if I'm being honest," he continues, exhaling deeply once again, "it only makes me want you more."

You swallow all words you have no courage to speak, a wave of heat surging through your body to tug at the ache between your thighs due to his confession. Even if you are overcome with embarrassment at the effects you have on him, you know you can't stop now, only getting a chance to convince him to become closer once in a blue moon.

"I-"

"Stand up," he suddenly interrupts, eyes following your every motion while you follow his instructions without a second thought. "Good, now take off your shirt, and then those shorts."

Lazy weekend attire doesn't seem to faze him, realizing as much when you pull the two-sizes-too-large t-shirt from your body, before hooking your fingers into the band of a flimsy pair of gym shorts and tossing both pieces of clothing to the side. You think you hear a low growl deep from within his chest as his eyes travel up and down every inch of your body standing in nothing more than a cute, flowery bra and mismatched underwear. You would have been embarrassed about not planning ahead, even if the event is more than spontaneous, if it weren't for the way he groans harshly while taking you in.

"Come here," he orders, and you don't hesitate to obey. You wonder if his actions, his commands, are due to his overloaded senses and his hormones taking control, knowing the normally polite, cautious, and courteous boy would have never talked so sternly toward you.

Yet, you have to admit you enjoy it. Getting to see another side to him, your werewolf boyfriend, even in the current situation as you crawl back onto the bed with your knees and heels of your hands pressing to the sheets creates a certain pool of arousal between your thighs. You know he can sense it, can smell it, and from the way he licks his lips while his eyes flutter, you absolutely know he wants to taste it.

You can't deny drinking him in, either. The sight of him tied up, his bare chest heaving up and down, his muscles tensing, and the bulge in his thin, gray sweatpants certainly does far more than help your own body to become so painfully turned on that you no longer care about fear.

"Come here, baby," he coos, with a smirk on his lips that has your heart skipping more than a few beats and a certain dominance in his tone that warns you not to disobey him. "Come here and kiss me."

Licking your lips unknowingly, you lean forward, already a few inches from his body when your mouth connects to his, feeling the urgency, the desperation behind the kiss. Feeling him resisting to break free from the restraints with all his might once you lean closer. Feeling him trembling beneath you, wanting you, needing you, craving you, yet suffering more than you know as he keeps his composure. When your tongue slips past your lips to tease his own, his body jerks, his hips buck, and you instantly pull away, heart jumping against the walls of your chest and your mind racing from the possibilities.

"I can't," he gasps, eyes closing, shaking his head, "I can barely resist kissing you when I see you like this, there's no way I won't fucking lose it once I'm inside of you." There is a bite to his words that has you believing him, yet a growl to his tone that dares you to carry on.

You begin to call his name, yet freeze once his eyes meet yours, allowing you to take in the way his pupils have dilated.

"But fuck..." he groans, arms pulling to tug on the restraints, "I don't want to fucking stop. I want to hear your moans and watch your face twist in pleasure when I fuck you and see you come and I want you to call out my name while you do it."

Your jaw drops, completely caught off guard from his confession, knowing he has never even muttered such filthy things to you before. You know he means every word, that the urge to control himself had passed and that he would turn into the wild animal inside of him if you allowed it.

Yet, you wonder what would happen to him if you left him needing you, craving you. You can't bear to think of it, wanting to rid both of you of the tension that is building too high within your bodies.

"I-I don't want to stop either," you tell him honestly, voice just above a whisper, eyes falling to your knees that are still pressed into the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, head falling against the headboard only for a moment. "Then come here, baby. Come here and straddle me."

"But," you mutter.

"It's okay." He takes a deep breath, trying to control his urges to speak the nastiest things to you, allowing you to see he has at least a sliver of composure left. "Straddle my thigh, baby."

After a few seconds of hesitation, you do as he asks, positioning yourself with one knee between his legs and the other resting against his outer thigh. When he bends his knee, bringing his leg up to meet your center just a bit, you gasp, feeling the pressure from contact and the weight of needing to be touched after so long.

"Go ahead, baby," he urges, "lower yourself onto my thigh." Naturally, you follow the request, pressing your body tighter against him, soaking your panties from the evident arousal in the process, dripping onto his sweatpants as he inhales sharply.

Without further instruction, you begin to move your hips, forward and then back, ever so slightly to cause the tiniest surge of friction while he groans, eyes lowering to take in the sight of you riding him. Gaining confidence, you roll your hips a bit harder, clit pressing to the slickness of soaked silk panties as soft whimpers pour from your lips.

"That's it, baby," he groans, catching your eye when his arms harshly pull against the knot, "ride me. Come for me." The commands leave his mouth strained and raspy, having to watch you pleasure yourself against his body getting the better of him and soon he is huffing, and panting, and growling at the sight.

You can only take in the sounds, getting lost in the pleasure of friction, losing yourself to the bliss of riding his thigh as your hips rock against him and your arousal drips to soak both of your pieces of clothing. His name spills from your trembling lips, hands finding their way to his clenched abdomen to brace yourself, nails digging into his skin when he begins to move his thigh toward you, offering a bit more pressure to send you into pure ecstasy.

"Fuck," you curse, jaw slacking, nails scratching his skin, leaving marks and bruises that he would only admire the next day. Your motions speed up, fully fucking yourself against his thigh and with his encouragements spilling from his body, telling you to go faster, telling you not to stop, and telling you to come for him, all you can do is listen to his words, and listen to your body as the the final string snaps in the pit of your stomach.

As the first wave of pure electric bliss hits, you doubled over, body slacking against his own while attempting to keep rocking your hips to greedily receive every last drop of pleasure. You tremble against him and call out his name, only to hear him growl and curse and tell you how much he wants to fuck you as you come undone before him.

Finally your hips come to a stop, too beyond spent to even roll off of him, but he allows you to stay put, knowing he wants nothing more than to hold you and fuck you senseless at the same time, and the thought alone has you lifting your head before removing yourself from around his thigh.

"I think..." he gasps, earning your full attention even in your post-bliss daze, "I think you should go."

You blink, wondering why the hell he is suddenly kicking you out of your own bedroom, but as soon as your eyes lower to take in the sight of him painfully straining against his sweatpants soaked with your juices, you understand.

"I..." You nibble on your lip, taking in his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. "Should I unfasten the scarf?"

"No," he exhales, "I can get out. I could get out the whole time. So, please, baby,, just leave. Lock yourself in the bathroom and take a bubble bath. Something. Anything."

The words sound painful as he speaks, allowing you to realize how hard it is for him to keep his control, immediately jumping off the bed to make your way into the hall, and into the bathroom to heed his advice and calm down with a bubble bath.

But not before hearing a rip of a flimsy scarf as soon as the door shuts and locks behind you, heart rate spiking at knowing he could have easily escaped the entire time.

[drarrargh]

🧍‍♂️🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

[seleneprince]

"I wonder what kind of sleepovers they have in Slytherin. Bet they spend the night worshipping the Dark Lord and preaching the importance of blood purity"

"Yeah, they probably just have silly tea parties and talk shit about the rest of us, those pompous snakes"

Meanwhile, the Slytherin dorms on a normal day:

(Spoiler: Pandora and Snape are the ones to suggest it everytime, and the rest of girls follow out of curiosity)

[impishtubist]

happy birthday, reese <3

For @r33sespieces :) 

---

“Shh, no, you have to be quiet.” 

Sirius pauses outside Harry’s room, cocking his head. Harry’s been holed up in there since shortly after dinner, but Sirius hadn’t thought too much of it. It’s been pissing down all afternoon, and Sirius figured both of them could use a lazy day. For his part, he took a luxurious nap earlier, and the newest book in a romance series he’s been following arrived by owl post this morning. He’s looking forward to curling up with it in front of the fire. If he’s lucky, maybe Harry will come downstairs with his chess set later and ask to play a game together.

There’s a whine from behind the closed door, and then a soft yip. Sirius blinks.

“Hazza,” he says, rapping his knuckles softly on the door, and he hears Harry curse. “Everything alright?”

“Fine!” Harry says quickly. “I’m just--”

He’s interrupted by a loud bark, and Sirius’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and he hears Harry sigh.

“Yeah.” 

Harry’s standing over by the bed, dripping wet and clutching a soaked brown-and-white puppy against his chest. 

“Well, hello,” Sirius says as he steps into the room. “Who’s this?”

“Dunno,” Harry says, cuddling the puppy close and shrinking away when Sirius takes a step forward. Sirius freezes. “Found him out in the garden.” 

“Poor thing,” Sirius says. It’s been miserable outside for two days now. “Can I take a look at him?”

“Why?” Harry asks, instantly suspicious. 

“I just want to make sure he’s okay, that he doesn’t have any injuries or anything like that.” Sirius starts to pull out his wand, but Harry backs away, so he quickly pockets it. “Can we sit down?”

They sit on the circular rug in the middle of Harry’s bedroom, and Harry gently places the puppy in front of him. The puppy shivers, and then takes a few uncertain steps. He’s wobbly, but that seems to be due to how young he is, not any injuries. Sirius puts out his hand, and the puppy sniffs him. His tail wags.

“Aren’t you mad?” Harry asks softly, not meeting Sirius’s eyes.

“I’m not thrilled you snuck a puppy in here without talking to me first,” Sirius says. “But no, Harry, I’m not mad. If you’d told me you’d found him in the garden, I would’ve had you bring him inside, too. We can keep him warm and dry for a night, and then tomorrow we’ll take him to a shelter. Speaking of, can I dry him off? He’s shivering. You as well, kiddo.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry nods, and Sirius pulls out his wand. He performs a quick drying spell, and then a cleaning charm, and then casts a heating spell over both Harry and the puppy.

“I bet he’s hungry,” Sirius says. “Why don’t you bring him down to the kitchen, and we can feed him?”

Harry hesitates again, then gathers the puppy in his arms and goes down to the kitchen, Sirius following them. He doesn’t know what exactly is causing Harry’s reluctance, but he has a suspicion. 

He cuts up some leftover chicken for Harry to feed the puppy, and then goes into Remus’s office to gather up the rope toys Moony likes to use, as well as the crate he sometimes curls up in to nap off the Wolfsbane during full moons. Harry eyes the crate warily when Sirius comes back into the kitchen.

“So he’ll have somewhere warm and safe to sleep tonight,” Sirius says. “I doubt he’s house-trained, and sorry mate, but I don’t fancy him pissing all over the house all night.” 

Harry reluctantly nods. “Yeah, okay.” 

The puppy eats and drinks his fill, and then Harry entices him to play with one of the rope toys. Sirius can’t help the smile that touches his lips as he watches them, the puppy having the time of his life and Harry giggling--giggling!--while they play.

The puppy eventually tires himself out and falls asleep curled up in Harry’s lap. 

“There was a dog in the Dursleys’ garden once.” Harry’s not looking at him. He strokes one of the puppy’s ears with a gentle finger. “She was a stray. I brought her scraps from the table whenever Aunt Petunia sent me outside to do chores.” 

Scraps that Harry had probably needed for himself, but he’d split them with a stray instead. His heart ached. “That was really kind of you, Hazza.”

“She was my first friend,” Harry says softly. “My only friend. She lived in the garden for most of the summer, until Dudley found out about her.” 

“Oh, Harry.”

“He and his friends chased her off. Hit her with sticks and threw rocks at her. I never saw her again.” 

“She probably found a home,” Sirius says. “She sounds friendly. I’m sure someone took her in.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I hope so.” 

Sirius hears the Floo roar, and then Remus calls out a hello.

“In here, Remus,” he says.

Remus comes into the kitchen, and his eyes widen. “Well, you two were certainly busy today.” 

“Harry found him in the garden,” Sirius says. “The weather’s shite. I don’t see a problem with letting him stay tonight, and then we’ll take him to a shelter tomorrow.”

“Sure, of course we will,” Remus says, sounding amused. 

The puppy wakes himself up with a yawn, and then eyes Remus curiously. He gets out of Harry’s lap and trots over to the other man, sniffing him curiously. Remus holds very still--animals tend to have very strong reactions to him. Either they adore him, or they’re terrified of him. 

The puppy is apparently in the former category, because his tail starts to wag and he lets out a series of happy yips. Remus crouches down to pet him. 

“You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you,” he says. “Yes, you are. And much better behaved than Padfoot.”

“You hear how he talks to me, Harry?” 

Harry laughs, and Sirius wishes he could bottle the sound. It doesn’t happen enough.

Harry and the puppy are inseparable for the rest of the evening. Remus keeps throwing Sirius significant looks that he tries to ignore. They’re not getting a pet. Hedwig is enough. In the morning, they’ll take the puppy to the nearest shelter, and Sirius will personally make sure he goes to a good home. 

When it comes time for bed, Harry lines the crate with plenty of blankets and sets the puppy inside. He closes the door and locks it, and the puppy immediately begins to whimper.

Harry chews on his bottom lip. “You’re sure he’s going to be alright in there?” 

The puppy whines, and Harry looks distraught. Remus squeezes his shoulder.

“He’ll be fine. He’s got toys and water and soft blankets. He’ll probably make a mess, but that’s alright. That’s what magic is for. He’ll settle down as soon as we all leave him be.” 

***

The puppy cries for an hour after they all retire upstairs. 

Sirius stares at the ceiling. He’s not going to give in and check on the puppy. He’s not. 

“Don’t even think it, Sirius,” Remus murmurs from his side of the bed.

“I’m not,” Sirius says. “It’s just--do you think he’s cold?”

“We gave him blankets and cast a heating charm.” 

“Maybe he’s hurt.”

“You checked him over before bed. He’s perfectly fine.” Remus rolls over and rests his head on Sirius’s chest. “He’ll settle down eventually.”

Remus is right--the puppy does eventually quiet down. Remus’s breathing evens out soon after that, and Sirius quickly follows him into sleep.

Sirius wakes up before dawn, his new normal, and pads downstairs to make some tea. Harry will sleep for at least another couple of hours, and they won’t see Remus until almost noon. 

But when he comes into the kitchen, the first thing he notices is his godson curled up on the floor. The crate is open, and the puppy is nestled in Harry’s arms, also fast asleep. 

“Sirius?” Remus comes up behind him, knuckling his eyes. 

“What are you doing up?” Sirius whispers.

“Needed a piss, and the bed’s cold without you. What--” Remus finally catches sight of Harry and the puppy, and immediately softens. “Oh.” 

“That’s why the puppy stopped whining last night, I bet.” 

“Probably,” Remus says. He wraps his arms around Sirius’s waist and props his chin on Sirius’s shoulder, though he has to stretch to reach it. “You can’t make him go to a shelter.”

“No,” Sirius sighs. “I won’t. Looks like we’ve got a pet, Moons.” 

“Looks like it. Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to write to the Board of Governors,” Sirius says. “I have six weeks to persuade them to add dogs to the list of approved pets for Hogwarts students.”

[vivithefolle]

Was just scrolling through YouTube. found a poll asking “who would live the longest?” with the Golden Trio as options, so I looked in the comments and found this ^

Yes, because clearly the boy whose family had barely afforded to feed and dress him and lacked many aspects of a healthy childhood must be ridiculed for his “eating problem,” even when the topic has absolutely nothing to do with that. Ron bashers literally have to look for any way to shoehorn in their Ron hate into even the most random conversations. And I love how they mentioned “Harry works a very dangerous job while Ron eats like a pig” even though 1. Ron was an auror too 💀? 2. Wouldn’t “eating like a pig” because you understood being fed was a privilege actually help you with living longer?

Sorry to dump this in your inbox, I know you’d prefer not to see any Ron hate, but this random comment made me really moody lol

Yeah... no wonder.

Sigh. You know the worst part? Out of the Trio Ron's relationship with food is probably the healthiest. He knows the importance of a good meal and encourages his friends to eat. Hermione is often shown ditching basic self-care when she's really into her research, while Harry has been starved.

Ron's the only one of the three who knows the importance of taking care of himself... and he's mocked for it because the movies couldn't be bothered to come up with more intelligent material (as in, actually showing Ron's sense of humour rather than having him be a clown).

So, to anyone who's still browsing this blog and still cares, let it be known Ron-bashing is still alive and well, so keep correcting the misconceptions and addressing them. Maybe one day we'll finally get it through this fandom's thick skull that liking to eat isn't a sign of being an evil materialistic pig.

[alcoveofconcealment]

I like to think that Percy goes out of his way to give multiple tours of the castle to first year's during the first couple months. It can be difficult to navigate with the moving staircases.

Too bad nobody informed this 15 year old that a pack of 12 year-olds are not gonna be paying attention when they could instead just talk to their new friends/dormmates