#bc if I leave arrivals I am NOT allowed to re-enter so I won’t even get this dogshit area that is at least indoors and covered

[hella1975]

11pm in manchester airport plane landed at 10pm after being DELAYED AND ANNOYING AND EVERYTHING WRONG WITH RYANAIR for over an hour. when is my train home from this godforsaken city you ask? 5am. good job im stuck in arrivals where there are no coffee shops or even regular charging ports haha. so glad to be spending the next six hours sat by the squeaky baggage claim machine. thank god my mum was sympathetic about it right haha… right????

[quidfree]

That’s ok! How about #6 for James/Sirius, thanks for doing this!

this could have gone in a lot of directions but since sirius initiated the last one i’ve gone w this setting - and also alternated POVs bc i needed some sirius perspective this time around.

6: i’m sorry kiss

when he awakens in the middle of the night, a tattoo beating through his dreams, to the muffled sounds of conversation in his foyer, it’s equal parts disorienting and expected. in some way, he feels like it’s a dream; in another, he feels like he was waiting for this all night, all week, for five summers, maybe.

it’s somewhere past two in the morning when james pads downstairs, almost tripping over himself, and his parents are in their gowns by the door, faces open and welcoming, and sirius is silhouetted between them, comically out of place in the normalcy of the potter home, all sleek inky lines and barely constrained thunder. he looks to james immediately, instinctively, before james has even looked up from the stairs; it’s a dog thing, probably.

sirius doesn’t look thunderous now. sirius looks misplaced like james has seen him maybe once before, and there’s something almost- he doesn’t know. maybe fragile. something fragile to his gaze.

sirius is never fragile. sirius is not the impenetrable fortress he thinks- everyone thinks- he is, but sirius is steel under silk, inflexible beneath the theatrics. there is a fragility to his moodswings, a delicacy to his passions, but even at his most upset sirius always commits himself fully to his rages, to his sorrows. james is sure that when he left grimmauld place he was not fragile, that he was at his very best-worst, raging and contemptuous and blazing with passion. it makes this fragility somehow james’ responsibility, and he is overcome with the intense need to force it back down wherever it came from, like it’s its fault that sirius even considers james might turn him away now.

it has to be that- the uncertainty. he’s not being egotistical. sirius is afraid of nothing because nothing has power over him. james has power over him, ergo sirius can be afraid of james, sometimes, just within those infinitesimal spaces where sirius thinks they’re on uneven footing. sirius can be stupid like that, because those uneven spaces where sirius is not in control are the ones where james is utterly controlled by him. james is perfectly content to tussle for obedience with sirius at his very meanest, but for sirius unmoored he will do anything, thoughtlessly.

he doesn’t voice this, because even diluted to its purest form if he said “sirius, you are a lovely idiot” right now his parents would find it very mean. so instead he hops the last step and shoves through the space left between his parents and drags sirius physically into the realm of the living, big swooping hug that is more bone-crushing than comforting, he’s sure, but then with sirius that’s sort of the same thing. he lifts sirius off his feet, almost, even though sirius is still damnably taller than him and he’s starting to suspect he will be for the rest of their days. sirius does not sag bonelessly into him, all unfriendly sharp angles like always, but his fingers clench and unclench reflexively near his stomach and when he puts him down his gaze has refocused.

“all right?” james asks, simply, still holding onto his arms, eyes catching onto the mottled bruise under his eye and the bloody scrape down his palm, cataloguing the one bulky suitcase by his feet and the faint hum of an engine nearby.

“all right,” sirius echoes, mirror that he is, and he’s not really lying so james allows it.

they detach in unison, and james glances very briefly at both of his parents with all of his well-honed powers of persuasion, but he can tell it’s not warranted. it’s not like they’re short on money, and his parents adore sirius.

“i’ll go park my bike,” sirius says, and james, very briefly, is dizzy with the knowledge that in sirius’ mind there existed some reality where james would say no, somehow. he recovers in record time, sticks his hands into the pockets of his flannel bottoms.

“i’ll get us butterbeers,” he says, knowing no one will protest. sirius nods.

they’re still not allowed to use magic outside of hogwarts, underage as they are, but james and sirius have spent years testing loopholes for this sort of thing, so he knows he can get away with a little (or a lot, even, if you consider transfiguring yourself into an animal a lot), waves his wand so the drinks are fixed in record time. his mother hugs him to her, sighing a little, then steps back.

“i’m glad he’s here now.”

“so am i,” james says. then, feelingly: “i hate his family.”

“i know, darling.”

he really does, is the thing, genuinely hates them, and he doesn’t hate anyone, not really. maybe voldemort and his lot, but then he doesn’t know any of them, except sirius’ family, and god, he really hates them. hates them with a sort of incredulous edge, because he doesn’t understand anyone who can mistreat sirius. and he knows he’s had it easy and his parents love him more than anything but it still just doesn’t compute that there are families out there who exude cruelty in their every interaction, who nurse their babies on spite, who handle insubordination with vicious rage, and who can’t fathom that they’re in the wrong for it.

never mind them, anyways. sirius has left and sirius is fine, will be fine, now. james won’t spare them a thought again.

his father levitates sirius’ bag upstairs, and they duplicate his mattress so sirius has somewhere to sleep, but it’s more for sirius’ peace of mind than anything else. if they do manage to get sirius to sleep at all it won’t be on his own bed.

“here,” james says, when sirius reappears, handing him a change of clothes and a toothbrush. “you can use my towel.”

sirius blinks down at him, takes the offering. “this is my shirt.”

it is. james doesn’t know how it ended up in his possession, but then that’s true of most things between them.

he thinks, as he listens to sirius shower, quick and efficient and not at all the hour-long dramatics he’s used to from hogwarts, that he is maybe a terrible person, because in a way he’s almost glad sirius’ family is so horrible, so sirius can just be here, where he belongs, in james’ house with all the rest of james’ things. and that makes him sound creepy, and crazy, and he doesn’t mean it like that, but he doesn’t know how to put it otherwise.

he’s sure he never used to think about these things so much. all of this weird interpersonal introspection. that’s sirius’ influence. sirius complicates things, and paradoxally makes them easier. sirius is so odd, and so unlike him, and yet somehow they are exactly the same, and sometimes-

the shower cuts off, and james runs a hand through his hair, stops thinking so much. sirius is here now but sirius is in a state, most likely, and until that’s fixed the rest doesn’t matter.

—

when he re-enters the bedroom james is sat on his bed with a knee propped under his chin, snitch between his fingers like he’d caught it just before sirius came in, and he looks like he has on a thousand other nights, tousled and sleep-warm but alert, brown eyes and a keen gaze. home, something in sirius says, very confidently, home home home home.

something else in him, unflinching and cold and defensive, stays wary. this is almost more instinct than the other, because rationally he knows it’s fine, now; he’s at james’, james won’t turn around and kick him out like a jackass. but ever since he realised he was actually leaving his defences have been on high alert, fight or flight, and it keeps his limbs stiff with tension, his thoughts knife-sharp despite the comfort.

showering helped. the shirt helped. james staring at him helps. he wants to not need to be helped.

james pats the bed, offering silently, so sirius goes, drops into the spot next to him, curls his legs up underneath himself. his thoughts are a strident buzz and he knows he’s not spoken properly since he word-vomited all over the potters on arrival but he doesn’t like the silence, not for right now, only he doesn’t know what to say. or rather he does, can think of plenty of things to say that would make james stop looking like that, except he can’t quite say them, so he just sits there and takes the silence.

“we were going to go into london over the weekend,” james says, catching and releasing the snitch, over and over, thoughtlessly. “dad and i, i mean. buy some new quidditch stuff. i don’t suppose you want a broom.”

“i’ve told you a million times-”

“yeah, yeah,” james says, rolls his eyes, “when you fix up that piece of junk it’ll fly better than any broom, sure, live your delusions.”

sirius almost smiles at that, but: “i don’t have any money, anyways. i don’t have anything, currently. my wand and some shit i shoved into that suitcase.” it makes his lips curl, bleakly: “don’t have the money to buy my textbooks, even. reckon dumbledore’ll let me do without?”

“don’t be an idiot,” james says, firmly. “you live here, now, don’t you? my parents’ll cover it.”

“i don’t,” sirius starts, then stops, because this is so predictable, all of it, i don’t want their charity, except he does, evidently, or he can live with it, because otherwise he’d not have run straight here. he’s had time to think about this, despite the recklessness of his departure. he hates to be a burden and he hates to be dependent but in this regard it’s something he’s resigned himself to.

“they’re as good as your parents,” james continues, after a beat. which is funny because they’re better, actually, given that he has no parents- he suffers no delusions that walburga didn’t blast him off the tapestry the moment his feet hit the pavement.

“we hardly pass for brothers, prongs.”

“your in-laws, then,” james adjusts, unconcerned, and that makes sirius crack the slightest of smiles, despite himself, glance sideways to raise a brow at him.

“in that case i’ve missed something, i think.”

“you mean the marriage contract we had you sign at the door?” james asks, switching tracks seamlessly into well-humoured mockery, his expression wholly innocent. “you’re just such a catch at the moment, you know. had to sweep you up before any other blood traitor family got their bid in.”

“i have always gotten that vibe from molly weasley,” sirius throws back, and smiles again when james laughs, because molly weasley is as far from interested as it can get.

“seriously, though,” james says, sobering. “i don’t just mean money, although you will have noticed that we aren’t exactly lacking it. this is yours, now. all right? has been for a while.”

by this he means this house, and this room, and the borrowed shirt, and himself, probably, because sirius only has claim to the rest through him, and that’s- fine. that is fine. relying on james potter is something he can do.

his shoulders relax a fraction; he picks at the bedsheet (all red and gold all over, bright and proud and comfortable), lets stray strands of his hair fall into his eyes. it’s as long as it’s ever been; he’s been growing it out all summer in strident rebellion, regrowing whatever walburga cuts off, and it hands below his chin now, wildly uncombed.

he wants to say something to close this chapter, so it can be over, so they can move on, like they inevitably will, but the receding clasp of panic has left something heavy in his chest, all blood and bone and inherited poison, and he finds purging it harder than expected. if he were the crying type he expects he would cry, now, but then if he were the crying type he never would’ve ended up here.

he focuses very hard on thinking about it, runs relentlessly through his memories to remember why he hates his family so entirely. he tears down hazy memories of laughter and regulus’ little hand in his, recounts instead months of cruelty and ignorance and shouted arguments, sullen silences and bitterness, and lets it fester in his chest, lets it burn. he doesn’t want peace- he wants righteousness, and he has that in spades.

“i like your hair,” james announces, while grimmauld place crumbles to the ground in flames. sirius looks up. “reckon it’d look stupid on anyone else, but it suits you.”

“thanks,” sirius replies. he’s not quite adjusted enough for cockiness, and besides for some reason the compliment has destabilised him a little, so that he stares down at his butterbeer and then bites his lip. “there was no particular reason.”

“today?” james asks, though he knows, knew; he’s just being helpful, vocalising. sirius nods.

“i always thought there would be. after all the years. the shit i’ve heard them say. i thought at some point it would get- well, i guess it did, in a way. get worse. but not today.”

he finishes his butterbeer on reflex, sets it down. as a rule they don’t talk about these things. it’s generally because sirius doesn’t like to, because he doesn’t like to be vulnerable, mostly because he doesn’t think james can get it and doesn’t want him to. tonight, though, they’re closing a chapter, so it feels expected somehow.

“they’re supporting voldemort openly, now. i didn’t say in my letters. bellatrix and her husband joined over lent, and the malfoys over summer. they were before, i suppose, only not so fully. my parents- they’ve always been the more conservative pair. not keen on supporting any outsiders. but regulus, he...” he trails off, shakes his head. doesn’t want to say it. “he just adores him. the dark lord. fucking spineless moron. and i’ve known that all summer, but for some reason today it just- i don’t know. i saw him leave his room and i just thought to myself, like, what the fuck am i doing here? with these people? and the rest of the evening i was thinking about it, and we started arguing, and while that was happening i knew i was leaving. i couldn’t stay. if i’d stayed longer i’d have offed myself.”

the thing is he means it, but then he never would take his own life, so he’d come to james, like he was inevitably always going to. sometimes sirius has wondered about what his life might have been like, elsewhere, but life without james is an impossibility. it’s not sentimental; it’s fact, and he believes it as much as he believes anything. the two of them fundamentally exist to exist simultaneously. can’t be done otherwise.

james taps a rhythm out against his knee, leans to set his butterbeer down too. he scoots closer gracelessly, brows set and eyes serious, and sirius stills but doesn’t stiffen, lets him into his space.

“i’m sorry,” james says, calloused fingertips on the ridge of his foot. he says it gravely, but not sadly, and sirius can’t imagine what james might possibly be sorry for, opens his mouth to protest, gets cut off before he can. “i’m sorry your family is fucking awful. and i’m sorry that i’m sort of happy they are.”

“that is fucked up,” sirius remarks, undecided as to how he feels, chest tight nonetheless. james only shakes his head.

“i was thinking about it earlier and i didn’t know how to tell you, but i figure you’ll understand. it’s just-” he pauses, scrunches his nose in thought. “it’s good that you’re here now, yeah? that’s why. i’m happy you’re here. it feels right that you are.”

sometimes james is charmingly naive, if he thinks some creepy underlying statement of possession isn’t exactly the sort of thing sirius loves to hear him say. he drags his gaze away only so that he doesn’t look too obvious about it. “yeah. i understand.”

“sometimes,” james continues, thoughtful now, “i feel like you and me are the only two people that exist in the world. you know?”

sirius does. sirius does very much. he wants to clear his throat but doesn’t like to do so, nods instead, turns back. “all the time, jamie.”

“right,” james says, “course you do.”

he looks- something, relieved or enlightened or conspiratorial or guilty or some mixture of all of them, and sirius feels his lungs expand with abrupt ease, so physical a release that he actually shivers a little. this is fine. he’s fine. this is james.

“i am sorry, though,” james repeats, and this time sirius gets it, and so forgives him, even though he could never resent james for anything, even though he will always resent his family for everything.

“yeah,” he says, aloud. a little shaky. forgiveness tastes foreign. “i know you are.”

he doesn’t know how it comes out but there is something blazing in james eyes for a moment, and then his hand is threading through sirius’ hair and he’s tugging him in, not so fast that he couldn’t stop him if he liked, but fast anyways because both of them know he won’t. sirius sits still and watches james kiss him, then closes his eyes.

it tastes like the following: a baptism, divine absolution, and teenaged boy, butterbeer-sweet and somewhere between tender and boyishly rough. sirius is sure the latter is for his benefit, because james can be very pleasant if he wants, but gentleness makes sirius on edge.

it feels good. he could think himself into a stupor but he doesn’t want to, just sits there and takes it, licks his lips when james pulls back. it’s not technically the best kiss he’s ever had, or anything; it was chaste by most standards. sirius thinks he may never kiss anyone else again.

“think that’s supposed to come before the marriage contract,” he says. james’ eyes are bright and content and he’s not fine, he’s good, things are good.

“was saving it for the wedding night,” james says, a brilliant flash of white teeth, and hooks a leg around his waist to reel him in, possessive and friendly and familiar all in one. sirius goes easily, doesn’t know where, but james just wraps them up in each other and tips them over, face to face on his bed, half tangled in the covers.

i love you, he thinks, fiercely, digging his heel into james’ shin until it hurts a little.

james doesn’t shake him off, and that says it all.

[vivithefolle]

Technically this is a fic rec. Technically, because I am in the middle of writing it, but, uh, I’m also……………. worried about the reaction (I don’t tend to write ‘character critical’ pieces, especially for HP, especially about certain stanned characters) so….. uh…. I was wondering if submitting the first chapter here would, maybe, perhaps, I don’t know… it’s late and I just read a bunch of things about how “”“abusive”“’ Ron would be and I’m just. Tired. of that shit and bc it’s Late so. uh….. here, I hope you like it? :

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings

:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M

Gen

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationships:

Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley

Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley

Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley

Harry Potter & Ron Weasley

Lavender Brown & Parvati Patil

Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley

Characters:

Ron Weasley

Harry Potter

Lavender Brown

Hermione Granger

Parvati Patil

Minerva McGonagall

Additional Tags:

Ron Weasley-centric

Hermione Granger Critical

Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley

Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley

Friendship

Friendship/Love

Best Friends

Male-Female Friendship

Female Friendship

Male Friendship

Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

not so much implied as very much stated but it doesn’t occur duing the story

Child Abuse Leaves Mental Scars Thanks

You Don’t Attack Your Friends Kids

That’s Called Assault And Even Potentially Abuse

y'all are out here calling Ron abusive and like???? no??? Clearly if any of them were

it’d be Miss Granger - thank god she’s not because she’d be a terror

but - Freeform

violent behaviour?? check

violent behaviour that went unaddressed except to be praised????? check check check

mhmmmmmmm no thanks

Language: English Stats: Published:2019-05-23Words:

Chapters:1/1Hits:0

Golden Bullets

CescaLR

Notes:

It’s the 'Graphic Depictions of the Aftermath of Violence From A Previously Trusted Source’ sooooooooooooooooooo since that’s not a tag, per say… that Unholy Trinity of warnings is to be used by me. Again.

Also, I want to reiterate; I do not nor have I ever hated Hermione Jean Granger. I don’t particularly like or enjoy some of her actions, quite frankly, and the same can be said for many a character. It’s like my love for Willow Rosenberg, or Stanford Pines, or - well, any number of characters. Flaws are /there/, and they should be addressed, especially if the author overlooked them. Hermione is an egregious example of doing things without repercussion, and this is the most startling example of that. Not even Harry said /anything/ about how bad this was. Ron wasn’t even really /mad/; he didn’t /retaliate/, and this is /Ron/. Ron not retaliating to verbal abuse or physical violence is unlikely to the point of it being OOC, and I can’t belive JK did this. Even if it was Hermione who did the spell, and though it’s unlikely since that’s the case that he’d retaliate in a phsyical manner - but he’d surely not so easily go back to the will-they-won’t-they of before, frankly. That shit was betrayal, plain and simple; you. Don’t. Hurt. Your. Friends. I can’t believe I have to explain this. I’ve seen /defense/ for her actions in this scene and.

. . . No.

So here this is.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

”… Ron,“ Harry starts.

"I’ll just - do what she says,” Ron interrupts. “Hermione’s right, anyway - don’t want to leave Lavender waiting.”

And then he’s gone, before Harry can finish what he was going to say. And, frankly… he’s almost glad, because Harry’s not sure what words would have come out of his mouth - or how much worse they would have made the situation. 

Not how much better. Harry’s not sure he could have made this situation any better with just a few words - he’s still in shock, really. Hermione just - she just.

On the flip of a coin - Harry had thought her tears were for sadness, and he thinks that they were, yes but - also, it can’t be ignored -

They were for anger. Vicious fury, really - she hadn’t held back, hadn’t pulled her punches.

Ron’s arms were - are bleeding, Harry thinks, faintly. It’s like -

He doesn’t like to think this, but in the quiet privacy of his own head, this is like those times when he’d be doing his chores, and his Aunt would be in the room, and he’d do one thing, just one small mistake he didn’t even notice - and she'd snap. Swing a frying pan at his head, yell at him, throw something… it’s like that. Calm to furious; sad to violent.

Harry, in this private moment, allows a shudder at the thought - but then, furiously, violently, shoves it into the back of his head.

This isn’t his argument. For once - it’s not his fight. He should - he would, but Harry… Harry knows Hermione’s upset with Ron for kissing Lavender, and maybe, perhaps, just slightly, he things there’s an irony to that - to her being upset with that, when she’s jealously upset with Ron for being jealously upset about her kising Viktor - but also -

Ron doesn’t… Ron doesn’t know that, Harry thinks, just as Hermione doesn’t know that’s why Ron’s upset with her. And it’s not - Ron didn’t resort to… that.

And Harry - Harry doesn’t want to get between Hermione’s wand and her - target.

And he hates this - but.

That goes for when the target is Ron, too.

(The thing is. He flinches enough when people he doesn’t know very well move suddenly towards him, he moves quickly away enough when people he doesn’t like get near his personal space - he doesn’t…. he doesn’t want to associate his near-sister with - with…

With that.)

Lavender watches with a frown as Hermione stalks past, and not a few moments later the door opens and -

“Ron!” She exclaims, and hurries to his side. They aren’t dating yet - god, they’ve only shared the one kiss! They’ll be dating soon, she’s got plans, but not quiet yet - but, ohmygod -

“Ron!” She repeats, horrified, as she gingerly picks up his hands by the unblemished skin - what’s left of it, anyway - and holds his arms up for inspection. He’s bleeding - holes and cuts and slices… and are those feathers?

“What happened?” Lavender asks, gently pulls him away from the door and towards an alcove, as she takes out her wand. “Episkey,” She says, and the wounds don’t close. “Episkey,” She repeats more forcefully, and Ron hisses, but the wounds do stop bleeding a little. It slows down, anyway. “Sorry!” Lavender cries out quietly, for any pain she caused, and hastily puts away her wand. “We should take you to the hospital wing - what happened?” Lavender repeats, looks up into his (dreamy, ohmygod, I kissed Ron Weasley!! Focus, Lavender, are you really thinking about that now? He’s hurt, God-) eyes and pleades with her expression for him to tell her.

Lavender’s not stupid - she can totally figure it out on her own; Harry would never attack Ron, and besides, his conjouring could do with some work, plus, he’d want any wounds he inflicted on his best mate to be fixed stat and whoever’s magic caused this doesn’t want that - so…

That leaves Granger.

(There’s a spell with your name on it, I swear, Hermione- If you did this to not just my boyfriend but your best friend -)

Lavender had never particularly liked Hermione Granger, she’ll be the first to admit that. In their first years she’d been bossy and wouldn’t talk with them about much, and then she closed off after becoming friends with Harry and Ron, and then she was petrified for most of second year so Lavender never got a chance at a better second introduction, and then third year rolled around and she was so tired Lavender didn’t want to bother her, and then she had the gall to say what she did about Lavender’s rabbit and then Lavender really didn’t like her, for reasons that should be obvious, and in fourth year she was distracted and Lavender didn’t want to be friends with her anymore, and then in fifth year everything went so terribly that Lavender was just focusing on keeing her head above water -

And now. And now.

“I don’t -” Ron starts, falters, as he looks down and seems to realise what happened to his arms - “I don’t need the hospital wing,” He says. “And it’s -”

“If you say fine I swear -” Lavender lets go of his hands and places hers on his shoulders, shaking him lightly, “Ron, please. Think! You’re hurt, please, just - just tell me.”

“It’s not that -” Ron shrugs, uncomfortable, and Lavender lets go of his shoulders. A little hurt, but.. well, she hasn’t gotten to the 'get to know each other well and learn that it’s great to divulge secrets to one-another, go communication and sharing!’ stage of her 'woo Ron Weasley’ plan yet, so. She gets it, though… in his place - well. Lavender supposes she can’t claim to know what she’d do, if she were attacked by say - Parvati.

God, she’d be in shock forever.

For. Ever.

Maybe she should skip the 'reaffirm and solidify physical attraction’ portion of the plan?

“Okay,” Lavender says. “Okay. Just… let me bandage some of the worst ones, please?”

“… yeah, alright,” Ron says. Lavender smiles at him, and - he smiles back, a little small and a little forced, maybe because he’s still shocked that one of his two friends just attacked him.

Probably. That sounds most likely.

… Lavender doesn’t think this lightly, but. Bitch.

Lavender carefully links fingers with him, because they managed to mostly escape being diced up, and slowly walks back to the common room with him. Hopefully, by the time they arrive, Hermione will be back in bed or long gone, the latter much prefered, because Lavender isn’t sure what she’d do if she came across Hermione Granger any time soon.

Ron and Lavender re-enter the common room not long after Hermione walked in, walked upstairs, and slammed her dorm’s door.

“Fucking hell,” Someone mutters. “What’d you two get up to?”

Lavender glares at the seventh year, and clutches Ron’s fingers - not his hand, Ginny notes, absently, as she stares in confusion at the mess of Ron’s arms - protectively.

“We didn’t do anything, not that it’s any of your business,” Lavender says, and Ginny feels a suprirsing uptick in respect for the girl.

“Alright, whatever,” The guy says, and then he leaves the common room. The parties died down; the disappearance of Ron and Harry and Hermione and then the rest of everyone who was pairing off or getting tired had left the place quiet a bit quieter than when Ron and Lavender had last been in there - and made their entrance that much more of a scene, Ginny thinks.

“Scram,” Ginny says, loudly, as she stands. Some people look at her. “I said scram,” She repeats, threateningly, and the rest of the people in the room do, as she places her hand on her wand and glares at them.

She might find it funny when mild misfortunes occur to her brothers, she might find it amusing to tease them - but if her brothers are hurt?

No.

“What happened?” Ginny demands, and walks over.

Lavender pouts slightly; obviously, Ron hadn’t degined to tell her. Yet.

“Just…” Ron shrugs. Ginny narrows her eyes at him. “Am I going to have to ask Hermione? Harry?” Ginny asks, and Ron -

winces.

Ginny frowns, and notes Lavender’s glare in the direction of the girls’ dorms.

Ginny looks back at her brother. “What happened?” She repeats, more warily. At that moment, the portrait swings open, and Harry steps into the common room. Ginny rounds on him, because if nothing else, she can ususally expect Harry to defend his friends from harm. “What. Happened.” She demands, slowly, and gestures with her wand at Ron’s arms.

“… Hermione.” Harry says, and it’s - strange. Like, even to his own ears, he can’t believe what he’s saying.

The thing is. Ginny… Ginny kind of can. Just a little. Marrietta’s got permanent scars - physical retribution, because that spell wasn’t preventative, just punishment, that’s… not beyond Hermione’s… ideals, morals, or whatever that falls under, Ginny thinks.

If she thought Ron had betrayed her in some way? Even though they’re best friends, even though Hermione likes him and you’d be dumb not to notice Ron likes her back (which proves they’re both very dumb, at least when it comes to romance, Ginny thinks)… you know, Ginny… Ginny can’t not see it.

That’s a daunting thought. That - realisation. Ginny signed that contract, too. How had the curse - because it’s a curse, only curses can leave permanent, unable to be healed magically, scars - worked? Did it count anyone that hadn’t signed the sheet being told about the DA as betrayal? What if Ginny had wanted to invite someone new to the DA that she trusted? Would the curse have affected her if she’d told them about it in order to invite them, or did the curse somehow differentiate? What if Colin had told his dad, who surely wouldn’t have been untrustworthy; would he have been branded a 'Sneak’? Or little Dennis?

Ginny couldn’t be sure, she supposes, so she pushses that line of thought aside for now.

“Hermione?” Ginny repeats. It - it sounds ridiculous to her own ears. Hermione, who had been friends with her brother for six years; who had been by his side through most every dangerous adventure during that time; who had a crush on him; who was one of his two best friends - she did this?

Hermione - who can be casually, accidentally cruel; who does, Ginny admits, hurt people with magic; who has, Ginny knows, done so before…

“Oh.”

“Yeah, well.” Ron says, gruffly - embarrased, Ginny thinks. Humilliated. Upset. Maybe a little - or, well, no, a lot betrayed.

But mostly… this - as much as Ginny teased him, teases him… this was his night. His victory. This shouldn’t have happened at all, but, today of all days?

“I’m tired,” Ron says. “G'night,”

“Good night,” Ginny echoes. Ron stomps off, and Harry, who shares a dorm with him, trails after. He’s hesitant, Ginny thinks, which is - very unlike him.

But then - Harry just witnessed…

Oh dear Merlin.

“Fuck,” Ginny says. She looks at Lavender, who’s frowning worriedly, chewing at her bottom lip. Anxious and concerned.

“D'you wanna stay in our dorm tonight?” Ginny asks. “The others won’t mind.”

“… Thank you,” Lavender says. “I just - I don’t know what I’d do. She did that to won-won…”

Ginny refrains from commenting on that atrocious nick-name, and grimaces. Because… yeah, she’d probably curse Hermione if she saw her right now.

“Yeah, okay, come on,” Ginny says, and leads the way.

Harry stares up at the canopy of his bed when he wakes, and doesn’t move until he hears the room empty of other people. He takes his time getting ready for the day, because if he doesn’t then he’s going to have to choose who to sit next to at lunch - most assuredly, Ron and Hermione won’t be speaking for a while, and Harry’s going to have to choose a side.

Again.

Harry’s tired of this. He’s so tired; tired of their arguing, tired of their fights, their mutual jealousy, tired - tired of something so quietly terrible that he didn’t quite realise until Hermione literally caused conjoured canaries to attack his best mate.

Harry rather likes Hermione - but he likes Ron more, if he’s honest, and yet…

He can’t pick Ron’s side, because, right now, Hermione’s, well -

Volatile, a quiet voice whispers in the back of his head. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, her mood will pass. So will his.

Because Ron’s bound to be angry now, too. He got the shock and the sadness part out of his system last night - now, his upsetness is going to manifest in broody, moody anger, and just when Harry had gotten him back to high spirits again.

Harry closes his eyes. He squeezes them shut and counts, quietly, for a bit, before he gathers his wits, squares his shoulders, and heads down into the common room.

  Notes:

#ronweasleydefensesquad #youdon'thurtyourfriendskids #that'seitherassaultorabusedon'tdoit #harry'sanabusedkid;thatshouldhavebeendealtwithatsomepointbutwassteadfastedlyignoredandihateit #jkcancatcharockettospaceidon'twantherheretohurtthesecharactersanymorethanshealreadyhas

VIVI’S COMMENTS:

Oh my fucking holy shit goodness of fuck this is PERFECT.

Like, goosebumps. Through the whole thing. Fuck yes.

Oh, Lavender, Lavender was FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC. I love her so much. She’s adorable and so, so clever too. Gah, I’m practically rooting for Ron and her to stay together, and I’m not a big Ronvender shipper! See what you did to me?!

That was a flipping masterpiece. KEEP IT COMING!!

[rememberthattime]

Chapter 29. Jordan

Chelsay and I have been in sketchy spots before. We swam with sharks in the Maldives, kayaked through claustrophobic shafts in abandoned Slovenian mines, been surrounded by a political demonstration in rural Morocco, and even scratched by a human tooth peddler in the souks of Jemaa el F’na. We aren’t extreme travelers by any stretch, but we’ve still managed to find some questionable situations.

That said, Chelsay and I haven’t been to a place quite as turbulent as the Middle East, one of the most consistently unsettled regions in the world. That isn’t to say that every country in the Middle East is dangerous though. In fact, one oasis from the desert unrest was the site of Chelsay and I’s 29th adventure: Jordan.

There are beautiful places throughout Jordan, but THE reason we chose this trip was Petra. Ever since Chelsay introduced me to Indiana Jones, I’ve wanted to go. There just aren’t many 2,000 year old cities carved directly into the rock.

One of our favorite restaurants in Seattle (named Petra) had the famous Kazneh painted on its walls. As we’d eat our lemon, garlic, and tahini chicken, Chelsay and I dreamed of braving the Arabian Desert to find “the Lost City”.

The problem with a trip to Jordan isn’t the desert though - it’s the turbulence in the surrounding area. Petra is located in the middle of Jordan, which shares its borders with Israel, Iran, Syria, and Saudi Arabia. It’s also about an hour ferry away from the dangerous Sinai Peninsula in Egypt.

Despite the country’s unstable neighbors, Jordan has actually maintained relative peace. Everything I’d read painted the country as progressive and welcoming.

That reputation wasn’t enough for Chelsay and I to book this trip though. When we moved to London two years ago, Jordan was not even a possibility. ISIS had just taken Aleppo, which was only a six hour drive north of the Jordan-Syria border. Even a year ago, after ISIS was pushed back, I was hesitant largely because of my lack of real research.

Finally, about two months ago, I looked into a potential trip and realized the danger was all in my head. Jordan hadn’t experienced turmoil in decades, while tragic shootings and attacks were a monthly recurrence in the US and UK. We was genuinely in more danger in London than we would be in Jordan.

So, with just eight weeks left in the UK, I booked Jordan for our second to last weekend abroad (...we had save our last weekend to pack).

I’d booked the trip from a Thursday to Monday, with flights out of London on Thanksgiving Day. Needless to say, our meal on the Royal Jordanian flight was the most unique Thanksgiving Dinner I’ve ever had. (Side note: Chelsay and I’s last two flights have been on Turkish Air and Royal Jordanian, and they’ve been our best flying experiences).

It’s a five hour flight from London to Amman, the Jordanian capital, and with the time change we actually arrived pretty late. Instead, the trip really began the next morning when our tour guide Hazem picked us from the airport hotel.

Our four day trek was largely based around three sites: Petra, Wadi Rum, and the Dead Sea, with a few smaller stops along the way. Day 1’s focus was Petra, though it would have to start with a two hour drive through the desert. This was actually useful because Hazem used the time to introduce us to Jordan. He explained the Kingdom’s hierarchy, and its tradition as a warm and welcoming culture despite its neighbor’s turbulence.

He shared the reason for the country’s relative stability, which is largely driven by their acceptance of all religions. Jordan IS the Holy Land. It is the site of many stories from the Bible, the Quran, and the Torah. This geographic significance allows Jordanians to understand and respect the similarities and differences between beliefs. 60% of the stories in the Quran are also in the Bible, and 100% of the stories have the exact same intention: to be kind, show respect, and spread peace. I won’t get into how this message gets lost when believers squabble over whose story is correct, but the point is that Jordanians do not judge.

This spiritual discussion was briefly interrupted throughout our drive down to Petra. At one point, we stopped to admire the Dana Natural Reserve, placed within the “Jordanians Alps”, and stopped again outside of Shobuk Castle, where we drank sage tea with one of Hazem’s friends. Hazem’s friend was actually a member of the Jordanian Parliament, so he had pictures with several famous politicians: from Jordan’s current King Abdullah II to former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer (....I’m not sure our new friend knew Spitzer’s full story).

We arrived in Petra around 1:00, which was perfect timing for our two-day tickets. Despite Jordan’s dip in tourism over the past few years, Petra will always draw a crowd. A lot of these tourists are just day-trippers from Amman though, so the buses are only present from around 10:00 until 3:00. With this in mind, I aimed to avoid the tourists by arriving in the afternoon on Day 1, then returning early on Day 2.

Some background on Petra: archaeologists have determined the city was built between 100 BC and 100 AD. It was a thriving Nabatean town, serving as the hub for Egyptian and Eastern trade. With this wealth, the Nabateans chose to display their affluence through architecture, carving their city directly into a large, 6.5 mile stretch of surrounding rock. The city is hidden within the Wadi Musa valley, and the tall surrounding mountains provided lookout views into present-day Israel.

Architects today still marvel at the perfectly calculated design and permanence of structures built 2,000 years ago using only pick axes and chisels. Meanwhile, engineers are equally impressed by the culture’s mastery of hydro-mechanics, which allowed them to divert floods and store water while living in the remote and arid desert. Despite this architectural skill though, the Nabateans couldn’t avoid natural disaster: an earthquake in the 300s crippled the city’s water supply systems and residents abandoned the city, leaving it lost in the desert for centuries.

For nearly 1,500 years, historians theorized on the location of Petra, but the lost city remained a mystery until it’s rediscovery in 1812. Its significance was immediately obvious, and the city is today considered one of the 7 New Wonders of the World.

Whew. Okay, that was a lot of background, but it gives you an idea of everything Chelsay and I were thinking about as we made our way through the narrow gorge known as the Siq.

The Siq itself is beautiful, rising to heights of 600 feet and widths as narrow as 10 feet. It’s also surprisingly long, so if the two hour desert drive hadn’t built our anticipation, this mile-long walk did the job.

We weaved through the narrow Siq wondering which turn would eventually reveal the mysterious Kazneh. Finally, between smooth bends in the rock, we caught a glimpse of the ancient wonder: red stone columns, steps, and pediments. This glimpse makes you feel like you’re the first to discover the lost city.

Only a few steps later, Chelsay and I left the Siq into the city’s open entrance, where the Kazneh (Treasury) was now in full view.

Like I said earlier: I never thought I would see Petra in person, yet here we were. Chelsay and I stared up in awe for an hour, unable to fathom how something like this could be built 2,000 years ago. The structure is 130 feet tall so how do you even go about cutting the top? Scaffolding? There isn’t any wood in the desert! (The trick is that they cut from top to bottom... carving their “platform” lower and lower as they finished each level.)

What’s impressive about Petra isn’t just in the building method, but the executional perfection. There are no re-dos when you’re cutting into stone, so every swing of the pick axe had to be perfect. The weight distribution to each column had to be precisely calculated or the building would collapse. I’m not even sure modern engineers could build a structure to stand for 2,000 years with today’s material and technology... let alone using primitive tools on a rock canvas.

The Kazneh is certainly an impressive structure, but it isn’t the only building in Petra. This was probably the biggest surprise for me: the city is 6.5 miles end-to-end, so a half marathon to do the full loop. It’s also built into the encompassing mountains, so there are some STEEP ascents up worn staircases. To get to the Monastery, which sits about 5 miles from the Kazneh, Chelsay and I had to climb 850 steps!

This trek was well worth it though. We arrived as the west-facing building was illuminated by the setting sun. The tour groups had left for the day, so it was just Chelsay and I peacefully taking in the panoramic view: the ancient Monastery, setting sun, and Israel in the distance.

We then made the long 6.5 mile trek back through the city and Siq, stopping at the Kazneh one more time for some high exposure night shots.

We wanted to be the first ones in Petra the next morning, so knowing that the park opens at 6:00 AM, we were asleep by 9:00. Also, we were exhausted from our hilly half marathon.

It was still dark out when we woke up at 5:15 the next morning. Given how early we went to bed though, the hot start wasn’t a problem. We entered the park around 6:00 and breezed through the dimly lit Siq. It was chilly and eerily empty, except for a wild puppy that tagged along for Chelsay and I’s trek. We named him Short Round.

Short Round, Chelsay, and I followed the same path as the previous day, but were just as awestruck when we again caught a glimpse of the Kazneh between the Siq’s smooth bends.

It was silent this time, the same absolute peace it had been left in when lost for 1,500 years. Without any tourists though, Chelsay and I went trigger-happy with the pictures. Between the GoPro, our iPhones, and the camera itself, we had to have taken 200 photos. All 200 are mesmerizing.

I’d seen pictures of the Kazneh from above, and I wanted to see if we could get there before anyone else arrived. The map showed a route wrapping behind the city, so Chelsay and I set off. As you’d anticipate, Petra doesn’t have the most precise visitor signs. We followed the map, but quickly wondered if we were heading the right direction… Our first warning was when Short Round stopped and started barking as we departed down this particular path. 45 minutes later, after scaling a sketch metal ladder (which I think it was actually just a twin bed frame) and basically rock climbing across 2,000 year old Nabatean homes, we decided this wasn’t the right route. By this time, the local Bedouin vendors had arrived, so they were all looking up and wondering how these white people got so lost...

We were drenched in sweat and finally decided to retrace our climb back. When we got back to the shaky ladder, Short Round was still there waiting for us!

After course correcting (and another hour up an ancient staircase), we made it to the perch overlooking the Kazneh from above. At the top, cushions and pillows had been left my some saint (...this is the Holy Land), so Chelsay and I recharged our batteries as the rising sun crept down the face of the Kazneh.

We could tell the tour buses were arriving as more and more visitors exited the Siq and came into sight. Chelsay and I realized it was time to make the long trek back. After about a million steps, we weren’t walking the whole way though: we got horses for part of the ride back. I actually wasn’t bad for my first time, getting my horse up from a slow trot to a steady gallop. Chelsay, on the other hand, kept kicking her legs to make the horse go faster. At one point, I heard our Arabic speaking handler mumble to himself in broken English: “Pull back lady.”

After relaxing back in our hotel, we met back up with our driver Hazem and started towards our next destination: Mars.

By Mars I actually mean Wadi Rum, though it’s red sand, towering plateaus, and desolate valleys were the perfect film set for the movie The Martian.

We were staying in a desert camp, though I’ll get to that later. For now, just know that we quickly dropped our bags off before heading out on Jeep tour.

Our driver, Mohamed, was a local Bedouin that had grown up in Wadi Rum. He started working in tourism when he was just 12, and had been giving tours for the past 10 years... I write that for two reasons: first to say that he knew all the best sites (including a perfect view at sunset), and second to explain why he was so comfortable mobbing through the desert like it was Fast & Furious. Mohamed was a cool dude though, and because we got along so well, he took us sand boarding before it got dark.

We returned to the camp afterwards, where I can now tell you about the surprise I kept from Chelsay. I normally tell Chelsay each trip’s itinerary beforehand so that she has an idea where we’re heading. This time, I left out one detail: the desert camp.

After The Martian’s filming, camps in Wadi Rum started to capitalize on the alien setting. One even set up “bubble tents”, which look like the hab-unit from the movie. Though covered during the day, the top half of the bubble is see-through so guests can stargaze from bed! Once the sun set, Chelsay and took in the interstellar show from the warmth and comfort of our space pod. (Note: our camera sucks and can’t capture anything at night, so I actually had to use someone else’s travel photo. First time I swear, and only because I want to remember the view.)

The next morning, we woke up at 4:00 AM... Yes, the day after waking up at 5:15, we woke up at 4:00... on vacation. This early wake up was for good reason though: I had arranged a hot air balloon to take us 3,000 feet above Mars. I mean Wadi Rum.

Because it was still so dark, I could see Mohamed’s headlights rattling through the desert from miles away. He was clearly far more awake than Chelsay and I, and kept jokingly turning his headlights off. Dude, stop or you’re going to hit a camel!

We then made our way to the balloon site through a series of bizarre and somewhat sketchy car changes (apparently it takes three cars of people to get these things in the air), before finally cramming seven people into a single pickup.

Our three cars converged on a dehydrated clay flat, where the men began setting up. Some pulled the large basket from one of the pickup trucks, while the others began unfolding the massive balloon. The men setting up the basket then attached two massive hydrogen gas tanks, which they used to start filling the balloon. All the while, Chelsay and I looked on at the sunrise began to illuminate the desert valley in various shades of red, orange, and yellow.

The balloon was soon ready for takeoff, so Chelsay and I hopped in the basket. The ascension is an interesting feeling... the basket floor is obviously rising with you, so it isn’t like you’re levitating. Instead, the objects below just shrink as you get further and further away. One minute, you’re only 10 feet off the ground and waving goodbye to a fellow ballooning Australian couple… Two minutes later your 3,000 feet in the air and the pickup trucks looks like specs in the expansive desert.

Chelsay and I were speechless as we were in the air. It was silently peaceful, and the views were unbelievably dramatic and alien. I’m actually still speechless now... it’s definitely top 5 action experiences for us, and may beat out Sahara ATV’ing, Slovenia cave kayaking, and the Iceland trio of ice climbing, black sand ATV’ing, and glacier snowmobiling. Just like while we were on the balloon though, I’ll shut up and let the views do the talking.

This hot air balloon had the same effect as a massage. After landing, we stepped out of the basket in a peaceful daze. Hazem picked us up while blaring celebratory Arabic music, but quickly realized Chelsay and I’s state. He turned the radio off and led us on a quiet ride past the Red Sea and through Wadi Araba, the bordering valley shared between Jordan and Israel.

To complete this relaxing ride, we then stopped at the Middle East’s natural spa: the Dead Sea.

The Dead Sea is located 1,200 feet below sea level, so the excessive salt content makes it uninhabitable for fish (hence the name). Driving in, we could see the salt deposits at the base of the cliffsides. 

The “heavy water” also means that you naturally rise to the surface, so you have to float rather than swim. It feels like you’re a boat with your entire body on the surface, but any sudden movement will “capsize” the boat. Chelsay struggled with this....

One benefit of the salty water is that the mud is actually very mineral rich... I swear we weren’t doing blackface when we covered our bodies in the skin-softening mud.

After this refreshing dip, and with our flight the next morning, we made our way back to the airport hotel. We made a few religious stops, including Mount Nebo (the site where God showed Moses the Promised Land in Israel) and Madaba (home to a 2,500 year old mosaic map of the Holy Land), but these were very brief.

We’d already filled our enjoyment tank with Petra, Wadi Rum, stargazing space pods, Petra, Martian hot air ballooning, Dead Sea mud masks, and of course, Petra.

Genuinely, this trip could not have been any more fun. It’s too immediate to say for sure, but Jordan MIGHT have been our best trip. It had elements from all of our favorite adventures: the desolate alien setting of Iceland, the quiet desert of Morocco, the unique culture of Seville, and the active pace of Croatia. One element that was not present: a sense of danger.

I started this post by listing some of the questionable situations Chelsay and I have been in. Instead of sketchy hosts though (like looming sharks in the Maldives or handsy souk peddlers in Marrakech), Chelsay and I enjoyed the welcoming hospitality of the pleasant, genuine, and accepting people of Jordan.