#anyway <3 goo nigh nigh

[mashmouths]

I'VE MADE PROMISES CHEAPER THAN ONE BY THE REAPER AFTER DRUNKENLY GAMBLIN THE BLAME BUT I'M GOIN ALL IN FOR YOU BABE SHOULD YOU EVER TAKE ILL I'LL SUGAR YOUR SWILL SEE ABOUT THE SHIFTS I CAN TRADE TO LIE AND WATCH MOVIES ALL DAY TO FLOAT ON THE WOOZY PARADE

WITH YOU

[thesilverlock]

if you could, how would you flesh astral and mist out as characters? especially since they sort of got the short end of the stick in canon, especially mist

HOOOOOOOOO BOY. Lol. I am apologizing now because I know this is long, and I am sorry. <3

I also apologize for the ramble style of this but I have no other way to articulate thoughts at this second --- agshdjk

1.) Let Astral have a relationship outside of Yuma. I adore the sunshine boy plenty, but good grief he can be a blackhole of a main character.

(Even things like the Zexal morph? He had predominant control, and Astral was a glorified voice in his head. And, this could be inaccurate, but I remember it even being to a point were people lowkey treated Z forms with the vibe as if they just?? Were Yuma?? Maybe that’s more a fanon thing I am misremembering cause I haven’t watched Z1 in a spin, but you get the gist)

Though I know the central issue is that Astral’s character was written in a poorly handled way for what was supposed to be and advertised as the Secondary Main.

Astral was reduced to being the “ghost duelist” for nigh the entirety of the series. They forced him to not be able to really get to know anyone else. Yuma alone could interact with him, see or talk to him. He had no development that wasn’t attached to Yuma, and even with Yuma his development got still snuffed or overshadowed a lot.

There was even some plot device with the pendant having some invisible or implied tether? So Astral couldn’t physically remove himself from a certain radius to the pendant and/or Yuma -

(mentioned in that filler montage episode where Kite keeps freezing time to check all the places the two have dueled, but then again, an earlier episode where Yuma lost the key and reminisced about his dad also maybe contradicts this, so idfk)

Anyway - That contributed a lot to Astral’s entire character falling flat and often being codependent. And, at worst, horribly stilted and one-dimensional. Yuma had all these other explored relationships, with different sets of characters, but Astral didn’t and couldn’t.

Number 96 was probably the closest thing we got to Astral having that. And in the end that in itself was. . . not much, to say the least. Lol

But yeah I think if Astral had someone else to bounce off of, it would have broken ground for a lot more in-depth things to be fleshed out for him.

Speaking of the goo ink boi;

2.) You give all basically all season 1 villains redemptions. Give Shark like nineteen. Even make Don Thousand and Eliphas sympathetic. Topping it off with a cherry of Vector redemption (??!).

But don’t throw a single, gosh-darned bone Mist’s way. That is pure disrespect.

And that is all I am gonna say on this because GOSH this is already long!

( Thank you for the ask though <3 )

[whimsicaldragonette]

Some Other Metal Than Earth (Part 1 of 5)

Summary: Draco Malfoy is bored out of his mind in his eighth year at Hogwarts. After a prank gone wrong, he discovers that Harry's life isn't really that much better than his own. As they try to keep their friends from realizing that they've somehow swapped minds, they find it's easier to spend time together. Becoming friends comes naturally. But are their friends really as fooled as they believe? Complete at 5 chapters; will post a chapter a day all this week as a birthday present to myself.

Part 1 (You are here)~ Part 2~ Part 3~ Part 4~ Part 5~

-Part 1: Monday-

A fly buzzed around the windows of the new Potions classroom, hurling itself futilely against the glass. Draco found himself wishing he could do the same. Salazar, he was bored. He sighed, propping his head on his hand, fighting to keep his eyelids from drooping. His attention wandered from the lecture again and he found himself watching dust motes dancing in the beams of golden late-afternoon light.

Thank Merlin this was his last class of the day. Staying awake through double Potions right before dinner was turning out to be nigh impossible. Especially on days like this when the sun had heated the room and turned it stifling.

Professor Slughorn’s voice droned on, listing the properties of something-or-other in painfully exhaustive detail. Merlin. The man was worse than Binns. Nearly, anyway. At least Binns could be relied upon to turn a blind eye to the eighth-years’ increasing absences. Draco had been ducking out of History of Magic for weeks now, joining most of his classmates out on the grounds.

Well, not joining, exactly. He usually joined Blaise and Pansy for a walk around the grounds, steadfastly ignoring the Gryffindors as they ran about in their usual madcap fashion or lounged in the sun. Sometimes Daphne tagged along, hauling Theo with her, but Draco was indifferent to their presence. He was only close with Blaise and Pansy, anymore. Greg had chosen to enter an apprenticeship in lieu of returning for eighth year, and Vince…

Draco tried not to think about Vince.; it hurt too much. There was an empty spot on his left, a bit like a missing tooth, and it was so hard to keep from prodding at it. Vince had brought it on himself, gotten in too far for Draco to pull him out again; but he still felt like he’d failed him.

He sat as far from the fire as possible now, leaving the cozy chairs for the irritatingly fearless Gryffindors. He felt his face pull into the familiar sneer, but he didn’t have the energy to keep up the expression.  He felt the smallest flicker of jealousy; he’d loved the crackle and hiss of a cheerful fire, once. But now all he could see in the dancing flames was the fear in Vince’s eyes as he fell, burning, burning…

The other students ignored them, mostly, as they strolled around the lake. It rankled a bit. He could do with some brawling, but no one thought them worth fighting anymore. Not even Potter, who seemed content to run about with the others.

The fly buzzed past his head, avoiding his absent-minded swat and bashing into the other window. Draco tuned back into the lecture for a moment. Salazar. Slughorn was talking about Mugwort, now. He knew all this — they’d learned it years ago. Severus’ slow drawl returned unbidden, overlaying Slughorn’s higher, more nasal tones.

He could just walk out. Grab his things and— But, no. He’d have to cross in front of Slughorn to reach the door, and there was no way the man’s sharp eyes would miss him.

The screech of dozens of chair legs scraping across flagstones jolted Draco from his daze and he jumped. His eyes flitted to the clock — there was still nearly an hour left of class. Was Slughorn letting them out early? Then he noticed that the others were queueing up at the supply cupboard and grinned. Labs had been few and far between under Slughorn’s tutelage. Finally. The chance to have a bit of fun.

Draco absently gathered his supplies, wondering how best to relieve his boredom. He hesitated, hand hovering by the jar of powdered lacewing. Just a pinch would react with the mugwort and cause a decent explosion. He’d seen Finnegan do it a few times. The first by accident, the others… well. Finnegan was an enthusiastic pyromaniac. Draco tried to avoid him, as a rule. It had less to do with his infuriating Gryffindor-ness and more to do with safety.

He gazed at the small jar in his hand, wondering. How best to go about this? The sound of approaching footsteps startled him, and he hurriedly replaced the jar as another student entered the dim cupboard, blinking owlishly behind ridiculous lenses.

Draco felt his lips curl into a slow smirk. Congratulations, Potter, he thought. You just volunteered to make things interesting. He shivered in delicious anticipation, wondering whether to make his meddling known. No — there was always the chance that Granger would stick her over-large nose into it and spoil his fun. He’d just have to content himself with the knowledge that he’d been the one to cause their mishap. Though, knowing Potter, it wasn’t likely that he’d cast the blame on anyone else. History had proved that if there was anything he could blame on Draco he would, with relish.

“Potter,” he said, raising a brow as he eyed the other boy. He looked so tired lately, as if all the fight had drained out of him, leaving him an empty shell. He racked his brains for an insult that would knock Potter out of that stupor. “Granger actually trusts you to get the ingredients?” he asked, shaking his head in mock alarm. “Surely she realizes she’s jeopardizing her grades?”

Potter’s eyes flashed warningly, and Draco tensed in anticipation of finally getting a rise out of him, but the fight drained out of his face as Draco watched. It was wrong. He’d thought he’d be relieved at not being tormented or shunned by Potter this year, but this was just wrong. Potter was supposed to be brimming with rage and fire and passion. Draco felt his stomach turn over with a strange, slow flop, but ignored it. It wasn’t important just now. Potter was important. Sparking Potter’s fire was important.

Potter just shrugged, world-weary and listless, and quietly asked Draco to pass the murtlap. Draco didn’t think. His hand shot out and he snatched the illegibly-labeled bottle of lacewing he’d been eying earlier. He held his breath, hoping Potter wasn’t watching, that he wouldn’t notice the switch.

Potter didn’t look at him, just nodded as he accepted the bottle and moved back toward the light of the classroom.

Draco blinked, watching him walk away. He was a mess of roiling emotions, of frustration at Potter not responding to his taunts, relief at not being punched in the face, anticipation for what was to come. He shivered, letting the anticipation take hold, then grabbed the last jar he needed and hurried back to his seat. He didn’t want to miss the imminent explosion.

“Draco?” Pansy asked warily, as he returned to their desk with the ingredients. “What happened?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

She scooted away from him, the legs of her chair scraping across the flagstones. “Well, whatever it is, don’t get me involved. I’ve not had any detentions yet this term and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t want her help anyway. He wanted the satisfaction of finally getting a rise out of Potter all to himself.

Nothing happened for several minutes. The students measured and mixed, murmuring about the changing appearance of their potions and taking notes. Draco left the majority of brewing to an exasperated Pansy. He was too busy watching Potter adding ingredients to his cauldron.

Potter picked up one of the last jars left on his desk, tipping it over the gently bubbling cauldron. Draco leaned forward, trying to see if it was the lacewing.

“Draco! What on earth are you—”

He waved her off, not taking his eyes from Potter, ignoring her heavy sigh.

It was the lacewing, he was sure of it. The powder was tipping forward, right at the lip of the jar, and—

“Harry!” Granger lunged at him, trying to knock away his hand, but she was too late. Draco stood up abruptly and moved closer, watching in delight as the powder fell into the cauldron, settling for a moment on the sludge-brown surface — wait, Draco thought, feeling an icy finger of dread creep up his spine, it’s not supposed to be that color, is it? — and then they melted into it, spreading a golden lacy layer atop it, and he stared, fascinated. He’d never seen anything quite like it.

And then everything happened at once.

Granger’s grasping hand knocked Harry’s arm. The rest of the lacewing fell into the potion. For a second, nothing happened, and then it sucked inward and erupted with a sickening glop all over Potter and himself.

Granger escaped the muck, tumbling backward into Weasley’s arms, and Draco scowled as he wiped the brown goo from his face. It really wasn’t fair, how all of his schemes ended up backfiring. But even that frustration was familiar and oddly comforting.

Professor Slughorn approached, waving his arms in alarm, and hovered over Potter, turning occasionally to scowl darkly at Draco, then finally bundled them both off to the hospital wing.

Pomfrey listened to his rant, seemingly quietly amused, and then sent Slughorn away and turned to examine him and Potter.

“Well, boys,” she said, after running several tests, “you appear to have escaped harm this time. I feel I really ought to thank you for livening up my afternoon. It’s been duller than a blast-ended skrewt’s love life here lately.”

Draco snorted in amusement, surprised at the wan conspiratorial grin Potter flashed him. It faded quickly, though, leaving Draco feeling oddly empty.

“Come along Potter,” he drawled, “wouldn’t want you to miss dinner on my account. You’re far too thin as it is.”

Potter studied him, an odd expression on his face, and Draco racked his brain for an insult to hurl at him, just to put them back on familiar ground. But his mind had gone curiously blank, and eventually, he turned with a sniff and dramatic whirl of his robes that did little to reassure him as he stalked toward the Great Hall.

Why could Potter still get under his skin like no one else? From the moment they’d met he’d felt like Draco’s personal tormentor. His eyes darted to Potter’s face, quite without his permission. Somehow he’d caught up to Draco, and now they were walking in step, the squeak of Potter’s worn-out trainers mingling with the crisp slap of expensive leather on stone.

Draco grit his teeth. Potter was smiling at him, that lopsided smile that always sent Draco’s stomach into slow flips, though it wasn’t usually directed at him.

Draco pressed his lips together firmly, determined not to smile back. He didn’t know what Potter was doing, but they were not friends, and he wasn’t going to let his guard down that easily. Potter, seemingly reading his mind, shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other, and turned away as the entered the Great Hall, veering toward the Gryffindor table and leaving Draco feeling as if the stones under his feet weren’t quite as solid as they appeared.

“So,” Blaise asked as he sat down, nudging Draco in the ribs. “What happened?”

Draco frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be coy, Draco,” Pansy drawled, “it doesn’t suit you. You and Potter have been gone for ages.” She raised one carefully stenciled brow, and Draco sighed.

“Drop it, Pansy. Nothing happened. Pomfrey just insisted on running as many tests as she could think of.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And, what were the results of your little… experiment?”

Draco shrugged. “Nothing. A bit disappointing, really. I’d hoped for an explosion.”

“From Potter or his cauldron? Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve been itching for a fight with him since we got back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Draco rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness that had been building there, and turned his attention to his food. The only way to shut Pansy up was to ignore her so thoroughly that she gave up. After several minutes of pointedly focusing on his plate, she huffed in annoyance and turned her back to him, joining Blaise and Daphne in some inane conversation Draco had no interest in.

It was like it had never happened — those last, horrible years. They were all pretending so very hard that he thought some of them had started to believe it. He didn’t want to forget it, didn’t think he could. Maybe it was different for them. They hadn’t let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Hadn’t tried to kill Dumbledore. Hadn’t had the sodding Dark Lord living in their home, commandeering their bedroom to house some of his more loyal followers.

As usual, the thought of Greyback and Aunt Bella left Draco’s mouth tasting of ash. He shoved his plate away, suddenly unable to stomach even the thought of food, trying to shove the memories away with it.

“Excuse me,” he said, not caring that he had interrupted Pansy mid-sentence. “I’m not feeling well, after all. Think I’ll go sleep it off.”

“Draco? You don’t look so good — should we take you to the hospital wing?”

He waved her off, needing to get away from the food, the chatter, the overwhelming press of people in the Great Hall. “No. No, I just— I just need to rest, I think.”

He turned, stumbling a little as he hurried out of the room, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed, sneak another sip from the vial he kept under his mattress and let the arms of Dreamless Sleep claim him.

Part 1 (You are here)~ Part 2~ Part 3~ Part 4~ Part 5~

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