#making amends

[jomiddlemarch]

to be two chaoses 

The nightmares began after Rose was born. 

Resumed was the more accurate term, as Hermione had nearly become dependent on Dreamless Sleep within a few weeks of Harry’s victory over Voldemort, when the multiple years’ worth of trauma, especially the torture she’d experienced at Malfoy Manor, had come bearing down on her like the Hogwarts Express on steroids, an expression Harry would pretend not to understand and Justin would shrug at in commiseration. Her parents, sequestered in Mugglish obscurity in Melbourne, would not have been any help if she’d been able to get to them and restore their memories, something she repeated to herself as a mantra, since she couldn’t get to them and it turned out she couldn’t restore their memories, orphaned in a way no one around her grasped. There was a nightmare about that, but it wasn’t in the top tier, such that she almost welcomed its arrival; it was the only way she saw her parents when they knew who she was to any degree. Though it ended in devastation, it always started with her mum smiling at her.

*

If Ron hadn’t been able to help her, they never would have stayed together. She knew that in some deep, indefinite part of herself, just as she knew not to tell him. There had been lust, initially fierce and apparently unslakable, and the affection of their schoolyears together, the shared jokes, the homely memories of jacket potatoes and Madam Longbottom’s horrific flower-pot hats secured with jeweled pins that were nearly as deadly as a wand, the scent of the first snow, and so many recollections in candlelight, but none of it would have been enough if he hadn’t taken her into his arms and held her the first night she woke breathless from a scream she’d swallowed, the arm Bellatrix had cut burning terribly, the scar from Dolohov as heavy as the weights they’d used to press witches with in Salem. He’d said her name completely, not dropping a syllable, Hermione, and then I’ve got you and nothing else, letting his heartbeat and his breath be the only sounds she could hear. He’d grown into his frame that last year on the run when she’d starved in the woods, losing her period and handfuls of her brittle curls, and he’d somehow known how loosely to hold her so that she was able to nestle against him. The fragrance of the herbs his mother used in her laundry spells was faint but present, familiar. There was nothing sexual about his embrace then, but there was an intimacy greater than any fucking in the way he reacted, the inviolable memory of the agonized way he’d cried out when he’d heard her being brutalized that lived between them, as potent as the delight he took in her ecstasy.

She’d wondered that first night if it was a fluke, his ability to comfort her, and had told herself not to expect anything the next time but she’d been glad to be wrong. She put aside the sedative potions in their battered flasks and let herself fall asleep with a book in her hands, her hair still damp from the bath she’d taken, able to rely on his presence in the dark, the slight gleam of bronze in the moonlight that was his hair, the nearly grey blue of his eyes. They didn’t speak of it during the day, other than the infrequent mornings he greeted her with all right then instead of a nuzzled kiss to her temple or collarbone. The nightmares began as an onslaught and they waned slowly, slow enough Ron didn’t even ask when she might consider having children, though Hermione recognized the Weasley impulse to obscure their losses with babies, Fleur glowingly enceinte within a few weeks of Victoire’s birth, Ginny’s hand lingering over the small matinee sweaters her mother knit by the dozen. Percy’s return to the fold was eased by his hand at the small of his bride Penelope’s back, her radiance reflected in Molly’s face when they announced they expected a set of twins by the solstice. Ron gave Hermione what she needed to sleep and he gave her time to let the past become the past, her bloody, broken youth a shore increasingly distant. He couldn’t give her everything, but what he did was enough she’d been willing to let herself conceive the future he wanted so badly. He’d wept when she told him, burying his face in her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her instead of laying one large hand on her belly. It was his hands on either side of her spine that reassured her she’d been right.

*

The pregnancy was ordinary enough. Her only real dilemma was how to satisfy her cravings for Branston Pickle and Hobnobs without offending Ron’s mother or drawing too much attention from his father, whose fascination with the miscellany of Muggle life hadn’t declined with the end of the war. Ron, displaying the thoughtful observation she’d first found impossibly attractive while watching him play Wizard chess, maintained a calm affection towards her in company, a quiet tenderness when they were alone that made her worry sometimes he was trying to be someone he wasn’t just to please her. And then there were the times she found him gazing out a rain-streaked window at the Burrow. She knew he was thinking of Fred, of Tonks and Remus, of the scars on Bill’s face, the brother Ron most resembled, and she knew he’d been forged by grief as much as by victory. Hermione ate, she slept, she complained of heartburn and was told she must be carrying a ginger with curls as wild as her own. She read what passed for child-rearing books in the Wizarding world, nearly decapitated Harry chucking the third book across the sitting room in an only-partially hormonally mediated rage and bought every glossy paperback on the display at Foyles, which gave her some idea of what she might expect if she’d been a Muggle and included the concept of a birth-plan. Plans, as ever, held an irresistible appeal and were nearly as tranquilizing as Professor Binns.

*

When she mentioned that bit about the birth-plan to Ron while they were visiting his parents, George hanging about as usual, Percy working on some document at what passed for a desk over in a corner Hermione couldn’t remember previously existing, her mother-in-law just managed to keep from saying “Nonsense.” Hermione could clearly see that was what Molly had wanted to say and that she decided against it at the last minute after taking in at the book gripped tightly in Hermione’s hand and then Ron’s blue glare. Arthur kept fiddling with an immersion blender the way a Muggle child would handle a Rubik’s cube.

“A birth-plan is a very good idea, dear, but you’ll need to follow a witch’s plan and I do think, with the number of other witches you’ll require, you’ll be more comfortable at home or here at the Burrow,” Molly announced. Hermione glanced around and saw everyone present agreed with her mother-in-law.

“I’ll need to—or else what?” Hermione asked, curiosity outweighing her annoyance at Molly’s declaration.

“It’ll be too dangerous, for you and the baby,” Molly said. “Wild magic’s always an issue during delivery. For a witch as powerful as you and the baby likely to be the same—”

“It might be a boy,” Hermione said.

“Yes, I suppose it might,” Molly replied, her tone now entirely humoring-the-pregnant-daughter-in-law. She was convinced Hermione was carrying a girl, though Hermione and Ron had declined to find out when offered the chance at St. Mungo’s. “I meant the baby is likely to be magically gifted, considering her, that is, their parents. You’ll need at least four witches and seven would be safer. Obviously, Ginny and I will be there but you must decide who else you’d like.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. She’d never imagined childbirth to be organized like a tea-party. “I hadn’t thought to have anyone with me except Ron. And a midwife.”

Would she have wanted her mother with her, if she’d had the choice? She didn’t let herself wonder.

“If you don’t mind, dear, I’d suggest Augusta Longbottom,” Molly said briskly, making it clear that the if you don’t mindwas merely pro forma. 

“Neville’s gran?” Hermione said.

“She’s a very powerful witch and she’s quite fond of you,” Molly said. “She’s got better control than Minerva, though I’ll never admit that I’ve said that, and she’s no little experience with a laboring mother.”

“I’ll have Luna,” Hermione said. Ron gave her a quizzical look but knew enough not to say anything else, though she could see the effort if took for him to keep from mouthing nargles? at her. “That’s four, that’s enough.”

“Seven would be less dangerous—"

Who else would she ask? Part of her longed to throw up her hands and tell Molly to stuff it, she’d rely on the NHS to see her through, she still had her card, but then the baby kicked, sharpish, as if to scold her for being an absolute ninny, and Ron was still holding his tongue when she knew it cost him to be quiet. He worried about them both, she could tell he’d be a good father, and Molly was only trying to make sure they both came through it, privy to knowledge Hermione couldn’t easily learn from any book.

“I’ll have Luna, but I’ll ask Andomeda, in case Luna isn’t able to come,” Hermione said. “There’s no trouble with five if they both show up, is there?”

“No. There might be a wobble, but nothing Augusta and I couldn’t manage between us and Andromeda’s a light hand,” Molly said.

“A light hand with pastry?” Ron asked. 

“That too,” Arthur put in. “I believe your mother meant in channeling a magical surfeit, but she does make a very satisfying treacle tart. Not a patch on your mother’s, but close. Quite close.”

*

Molly was right.

Seven would have been safer, but Hermione and Rose bloody well squeaked through, as Ginny put it, earning herself a sharp glance and then an approving nod from Augusta Longbottom. The toucan-adorned hat had come off as Hermione entered transition and Madam Longbottom had had to exert herself to contain the burst of near Fiendfyre Hermione had unleashed. Luna had commented, with clear admiration in her usual dreamy tone, that Hermione was very equitable when it came to her elemental wild magic, as they’d had to contend with not only flames but a gale, a wave that overwhelmed Molly’s hastily conjured hip-waders, and a trembling underfoot that had made Arthur pop his head in and ask whether he ought to firecall St. Mungo’s or the Department of Mysteries. The gnomes had all cleared out and there was an ominous odor of brimstone seeping through the latched windows.

It was terrifying. What she was capable of and how proud they all were of her for it. She nearly burnt down the Burrow and Molly was as red-faced as she’d been battling Bellatrix Lestrange at Hogwarts by the time the baby was crowning, but she had a smile Hermione had never seen directed at herself before, a deep satisfaction that only grew more pronounced when Rose was delivered and discovered to be a little ginger witch, complete with a birthmark shaped like a phoenix’s tail-feather at the nape of her neck. Every peach on the trees Neville had painstakingly espaliered on the south wall withered in an instant and Augusta Longbottom only remarked, “Well done, you.” Luna had almost suffocated before she’d thrown up a Protego and her eyes were bright as she patted Hermione on the shoulder and Ginny had let out a long whistle, as if Hermione had captained the Harpies to a world championship when the Burrow had rung with the sound of the good china shattering.

A new marker appeared on Molly’s clock, the hand for Hermione pointing to “A Mortal Danger” instead of “in.” 

Ron grasped Hermione’s dismay, but he was more concerned with her health and Rose’s. Once reassured, he kissed her softly and then asked to hold his daughter. Something about seeing his big hands cradling the swaddled baby and the tears in his eyes when he looked back at her made Hermione think everything would be all right.

That was probably the hormones and the residual magic kickback.

*

She chalked it up to sleep deprivation, since she was nursing and Rose was a little colicky and Molly said, no, believe it or not, dear, there wasn’t a spell that was safe to use to help settle a colicky little witch. Hermione knew this meant there was some Dark magic that would do the trick, but she’d probably be sacrificing her pinky finger or years of her life or Rose’s, so she gritted her teeth and reminded herself she’d get to sleep again. At some point. Likely before Rose went to Hogwarts.

The first dreams to return were from her earliest days of Hogwarts. The troll, the bathroom, the terror of being alone in her curtained bed and hearing Parvati and Lavender chattering away, but now there was an overlay of Rose’s crying to mix with the tears Hermione had swallowed back or sobbed out silently. In the manner of dreams, the smallest details were vivid—the nap of the velvet bed curtains, the shimmer Moaning Myrtle made in the mirror above the sinks—and yet Hermione woke with only a sense of dread, no memory of the lengthy half-imagined conversations she’d had with Harry or Ron.

Those were the easiest dreams to deal with.

Days turned into months. Rose grew, her silky ginger hair showing a decided curl, her eyes the same warm brown as Ginny’s. She babbled and scooted, crawled and stood and ran, and only Hermione hoped it would be a little while longer before her magic manifested. Hermione’s dreams grew darker, more terrifying. There were a thousand Horcruxes. Harry didn’t survive the final battle. Ron turned away and didn’t come back.

Snape bled to death in her hands.

Fenrir Greyback took her in the flight of the Harrys.

Azkaban. Gringotts. The Room of Requirement.

Bellatrix, laughing, singing, coaxing. Cruciatus until Hermione woke with tears in her hair, afraid it was her brain leaking out. Ron calling out for her under the chandelier, Dobby whisking her away, the knife in Harry’s back.

Everything impossible that had never happened.

Everything possible that had.

They became less gruesome, more disturbing. She thought she might be losing her mind. She worried about having another child and leaving Ron with two children to raise alone, being locked up in the Janus Thickey ward. Not knowing she was locked up, trying to play the out-of-tune piano because she had once wanted to play Liszt’s “La Campanella” at Carnegie Hall. She couldn’t decide which would be worse.

She spent as much time doing Arithmancy as she could and walked away when the conversation turning to curse-breaking or the old days. Hugo was conceived, carried, and delivered with far less fanfare and commotion than Rose and he was a solemn-eyed baby who needed a lot of rocking in the night. She dozed but didn’t sleep deeply enough to dream. It was a respite.

She grew used to it. She perfected her glamour for the shadows beneath her eyes. She learned to manage her hair after a jaunt to a Muggle stylist in London who scolded her for using a brush and sent her off with a bag of oils and conditioners and advice on a silk head-wrap for sleeping in. She worked her way up in the Ministry and Rose levitated herself to their roof along with the seemingly immortal Crookshanks. Hugo made the apple trees bloom at Yule. She lived. She dreamed. She considered the alternatives she’d dreamed and tried to be satisfied with silence.

Rose began to resemble Hermione’s mother.

Hugo hummed off-key under his breath like her father.

Rose turned eleven, got her letter, found Hermione’s old copy of Hogwarts: A History and packed it first along with a set of Extendable Ears from her Uncle George.

They went to the station platform.

Hermione saw Draco Malfoy for the first time in over a decade. His wife fussed with their son, the strap of his satchel. Ron reminded Rose that the Hogwarts pumpkin pasties wouldn’t be as good as Nan’s but she wasn’t to let the house-elves know or that would be all she had to eat for a week.

Draco looked back at her.

He knew.

*

He sent the letter to her office at the Ministry and not their home, the thoughtful tact therein encompassed being the primary reason she responded. 

Yes, she would meet him at the coffee-shop he’d specified. The time was agreeable. No, she did not need directions in Muggle London. 

She didn’t tell Ron about the letter or her answer. There needn’t be anything to tell. She knew how much omission was required for their marriage. She loved him. There was no betrayal.

She wore Muggle trousers and a cashmere jersey that hadn’t come from Molly’s needles beneath robes she Transfigured into a Burberry knock-off trench. It was a kind of armor, like the wand holster strapped to her forearm, the leather charmed to feel like silk and be stronger than dragonhide. She left early, to get there first. She wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.

Draco was sitting at a table off to the side when she arrived. He’d left her the place backed up to the wall, leaving himself the vulnerable party, the nape of his neck bare, his kidneys neatly framed by the slats of the chair. When she got close enough, she saw his eclipse-bright hair had begun to turn grey. The cufflinks at his wrists were malachite, neatly secured.

There was a tea-service set between them. The steam smelled of bergamot and smoke, an Earl Grey made with lapsang souchong. Her favorite but not a secret, something it would not be difficult or intrusive to discover, something that showed attention, discretion, and care. Slytherin, as always. He rose when she approached, waited to sit until she’d settled herself. His old-fashioned manners were exercised without any awkwardness, the politeness he would have shown to any witch. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet, Madam Granger,” he began, using the title she had decided on after completing her Arithmancy mastery via correspondence under Professor Ergodic. When Bill had pointed out the more traditional address was Domina Nimue Granger, Ron had nodded and stopped making his incipient fuss.

“Do we need to be so formal?” Hermione asked. “We’ve known each other since we were eleven.”

“Whatever you prefer, Hermione,” Draco said, his voice giving a slight upward inflection to her name. She couldn’t recall him ever using it before, only Granger said with a sneer, but the boy who’d smirked seemed long gone from the solemn, careful man sitting before her. “You are the one doing me the favor—”

“Am I? What exactly do you mean?”

“You read my letter. You responded. You showed up,” he said. “You didn’t need to do any of it.”

“I read the letter you sent after the trial,” she replied. 

It had been delivered by a splendid eagle owl she did not recognize, the parchment hand-written in a perfect copperplate hand. The opening section had been rendered in ancient Etruscan, indicating the gravity of the statement, a Pureblood ritual she’d had to ask Ron, Molly and finally Neville’s gran to explain to understand the significance thereof: there was no greater level of ceremony invoked, the abasement of the writer compleat. If it had been a final examination paper for a mastery, it could not have been more exquisitely and thoughtfully written. It was a letter than required no reply and sought none, a detailed acknowledgement of Draco’s transgressions against her. Still, it went across her inarguably upper middle-class background to fail to send some kind of response, so she’d managed to find some monogrammed stationery her Aunt Judith had given her for a birthday gift and had penned a quick note in her crabbed hand to say Draco’s apology was duly noted and accepted. She had balked at wishing him well in his future endeavors, but to be fair, she had been eighteen, effectively orphaned, unable to sleep more than three hours in a night, and had been known to hold a grudge.

“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean that letter however,” Draco said. “I meant the one I sent last week. After the train station.”

“You didn’t say what you wanted to talk about,” Hermione replied.

“I thought you would be more likely to show up if I didn’t,” he said. “Your curiosity remains renowned—”

“Are you insulting me?” Hermione asked, without any of the heat of her girlhood. 

“Not at all, though I should be able to express myself more skillfully than this, if you’re wondering,” he said. There was a wryness in his tone that was new to her. “I wrote because of the dreams—”

“What dreams?” she interrupted.

“I have them too,” he said gently. 

“I don’t know what you mean, why you think we have anything in common, it’s mad—”

“They are a torment,” he said. Like four notes, the Tristan chord creating the opening between them, leaving her struck by the misery in his voice, the utter candor.

“I—they don’t—” She could not finish the sentence, could not think of what to say next. Draco picked up the teapot and poured them each a cup, stirring a lump of sugar into his own, never once hitting the china with the spoon’s lip.

“You’re not going mad,” he said.

“I know that,” she snapped.

“Then you’re ahead of me, as per usual. I’ve wondered, worried, for years. When Scorpius was born, I thought, maybe I’d be locked up in a straitjacket somewhere by the time his magic emerged. If it did, if he wasn’t a Squib,” Draco said.

“You were worried your heir would be a Squib?” Hermione said.

“I was worried the son of two Purebloods with known genetic disorders and curse-damage would be a Squib. I was worried I wouldn’t be there to defend him from the rest of the family,” Draco said. “You wouldn’t have had the same worries. Hybrid vigor, brightest witch, and the Weasley-Prewett line—”

“They thought we might both die in childbirth from my wild magic,” Hermione said. Draco cocked his head to one side and nodded. “We should have had seven witches present.”

“I did hear something about it,” Draco said. “My mother was quite impressed, though she did say they should have let the Burrow and all its tat burn to the ground and start over with the Ministry money.”

“What?”

“There’s money set aside for those situations, a fund. It’s because it only occurs when there is a surfeit of power. It’s in the Ministry’s interests to make sure a family with such a witch remains properly housed,” Draco explained.

“Oh. I thought maybe I’d die when she was born,” Hermione said.

“And then the dreams would be over,” Draco finished.

“Yes,” Hermione said. She took a sip of the tea, the universal panacea, unsurprised when once again it did nothing for her. It was properly steeped, she’d give him that, since he hadn’t been able to use magic in the Muggle café.

“It was Bellatrix,” he said. “You and I, I believe we’re the last sane survivors of her spells. That’s why we have the dreams, why they don’t attenuate.”

“Dark magic then,” Hermione said.

“Not exactly,” Draco said. “There was something wild about her even before she turned to Dark magic and you know the Blacks are given to madness, throw off restraint like a stallion bucking the bridle.”

“Is that all, then? I suppose it’s helpful, to have some idea why, though it’s not much of a relief,” Hermione said. She refrained from pointing out he was also of the Black line.

“Master Mamu at Uagadou has a theory we’ve been corresponding about,” Draco said. “Oneironautika, whether a charmed potion could function as an inducer, what a traveler could reliably affect within the dream structure, it catalysis is the only viable intervention. But Neville—”

“Neville knows? He’s been writing to Mamu?” Hermione exclaimed.

“They prefer to Floo. Such a mess, all that ash, but I suppose it’s nothing to the greenhouses and Bubotuber pus,” Draco said. “Neville’s been quite helpful, even though it’s not his area of interest. But his parents, well. He and his grandmother have years of observation to draw on.”

“Does Neville know about me?”

“Only if you’ve told him. He may have put two and two together, he’s quite brilliant for someone who was such a duffer,” Draco said with such fondness Hermione could not be roused to irritation. “I can’t imagine he’d ever speak of it to anyone, even if he suspects. Though if your glamour starts to fail, exquisite work, that, I shouldn’t be surprised if he sends along his alternative to Dreamless. He uses heather honey in it, it’s a revelation, but it’s not as much dream-lessening as muting.”

“You want my help,” Hermione said, having figured it out. It was what anyone ever wanted from her. “With Master Mamu, Neville, you want me to work the Arithmancy, perhaps to interpolate the runes—”

“No,” Draco said. “Rather, if you wish, you are most welcome, a witch of your caliber could only be a tremendous asset, but that’s not why I wrote you. That’s not what I wanted.”

“What do you want? Pardon me if my directness offends your Slytherin sensibilities,” Hermione said, tired, the tea in her cup cold, the broken night beckoning.

“I want to help you,” Draco said. “To make you feel better.”

“No one can do that,” Hermione said. Ron did what he could, steady now as he hadn’t been in their youth, astute enough not to speak of it.

“I can,” Draco said.

*

“You can,” Hermione repeated. “You can do something no one else can and beyond being able to, you additionally want to. There’s no life-debt between us, Draco, even if I believed you, there’s no reason for you—”

“I didn’t protect you when I could, Hermione,” he said. Had his eyes been lighter when he was a boy or had they always been this stormy shade, grey clouds over a grey sea?

“She would’ve killed us both,” Hermione said. 

For a moment, she was lying on her back looking up at the chandelier, the bare outline of a girl around nothing but pain. She couldn’t not have told anyone her name if she’d been asked. Ron had been screaming but his voice had been distant, as distant as the future and the past, while Draco’s eyes on her had been a tether. They’d been bound in that second, in hopeless, blameless recognition and agony, and there had been some tiny, inviolate spark of herself that loved him then in a way she could never love anyone else. “You do mean when Bellatrix cursed me, don’t you?”

“I didn’t protect you then. Not before. Not after,” Draco said.

“Well, we were enemies,” Hermione said. She waved over a waitress, asked for a fresh pot of tea and a plate of lemon biscuits while Draco stared down at his hands. They were well-made, beautifully shaped, the hands of a sculptor or a pianist. Neither was the career a wizard would undertake, certainly not an aristocrat like the heir to the Houses of Black and Malfoy. 

“No, we were schoolmates. Rivals. We were children and then teenagers,” Draco said. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, bowing his head. “I liked you—”

“You liked me?” Hermione snorted. “Is this revisionist history? Are you going to tell me you wanted to take me to the Yule Ball and buy me sweets at Hogsmeade weekends? Were you terribly fond of Harry and did you think Ron was a good chap whose family was just a bit down on their luck?”

“I liked you, Hermione,” Draco repeated, his voice low. “I wasn’t supposed to, wasn’t allowed to, but I did. I do.”

“You’re married. I’m married,” Hermione said. “Handfasted. Your family isn’t the only one to follow the Old Ways.”

(She would have married Ron at the Ministry, but Molly wouldn’t hear of it. Hermione’s own parents wouldn’t hear of it at all, so she’d acquiesced to the whole thing, the ring in the garden, the saffron yellow veil, the woad, the unsalted cakes she and Ron had had to bake in a solar oven without any magic. The only part she’d liked had been laughing together as they looked at the ugly lumps of dough, the gleam in Ron’s eyes as he’d told her they’d only have to choke down one bite each.) 

“I know. I’m not trying to interfere. Weasley’s a good man and I would never dishonor Astoria,” Draco said. “But he can’t do this for you. You know that. He’s done what he can and you’re still suffering.”

“You’d be my Healer then? Without any certification, Healing mastery, apprenticeship?”

“Your friend. A fellow-traveler,” Draco said. “Whatever you’d allow.”

“My friend,” Hermione said. 

“You are the same person who pledged her friendship for life to Potter and Weasley after being brought together in a bathroom by a troll,” Draco said. “It shouldn’t be that great a stretch for you.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed,” she replied.

“Perhaps,” Draco agreed, then hazarded a very small smile. “I don’t think so though. Not in this regard.”

“Will it help you with your own dreams?” Hermione asked.

“That’s not relevant,” Draco said. “That’s not why—”

“It’s relevant to me,” she said firmly.

“Of course it is,” he said, under his breath, as if he could get away with it sitting across from her, the café much quieter as the late afternoon rush had ended. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know. Possibly,” he said. For the first time, he sounded put out, frustrated. It was the throughline to the boy he’d been and she found herself liking him for it.  “Before you ask, it’s very unlikely to make anything worse for me. This isn’t some grand Gryffindor gesture of sacrifice on my part.”

“I think we’re beyond House identification, Draco,” she said.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“It’s a tell me more about how you mean to proceed. What this dream-walking entails precisely,” she said. 

“Will you let me show you something?” Draco said. Hermione considered. They were in a public place and she had faced greater horrors than a prematurely greying Draco Malfoy in his Savile Row suit. She nodded. Draco pushed the teapot and their cups to one side, reached over and took Hermione’s right hand in his own. His palm was warm against hers, his grasp charged with the familiarity one had with their wand, the tenderness of a long-awaited reunion. Hermione looked at their hands and then up, to find Draco watching her.

When she didn’t pull her hand away, he reached out with his left and took her other hand. Something surged between them, electric and yet sustaining, soothing. Something that was not magic but was of it, an ardent affection that sought only to give, to cherish, some fundamental realignment. Later, she would puzzle over it, scribble equations, then manipulate them with her wand, with an incantation of runes. She would find a way to explain it to Ron so that he’d understand. When he did, she might. 

“Yes?” Draco asked. She could tell what he hoped for and that he would wait as long as she wanted. She could tell he would let their hands fall apart if she refused.

“Yes,” she said. He held her more tightly then and the brightness in his eyes was like moonlight, like the first time she had cast Lumos and banished darkness. Between them, it was as if a cup was filled, spilled over. She could not, however, resist poking.

“You must’ve worked some part of it out. I’ll want to review your notes.”

“Certainly,” he said. 

*

Master Mamu authored the definitive text on oneironautika, but Draco wrote the introduction and Hermione the acclaimed chapter on runic expansion.

Draco insisted Hermione be the editor of the journal. He provided the funding for the first five years. After that, as he’d predicted, no financial assistance was required.

Ron wasn’t remotely put out, though he did scold her a bit for worrying he might be. “You the one always telling Rose and Hugo love’s not a pie. Well, that means you can’t get too full or lose your appetite for it.” At the service for Astoria, Ron told her to go over to Draco and played a three-hour game of Wizard chess with Scorpius he worked hard to throw stealthily enough the boy didn’t notice. 

They weren’t one big happy family. But they could be happy and they could be a family.

When Kimah was born, there were seven witches present.

Draco collected a handful of knuts warm from Ron’s pocket when Scorpius announced she had red hair, Transfigured them into a bouquet of apricot tea roses, and gave them back to his son for his daughter-in-law.

Hermione, who had been up all night, slept.

And dreamed.

@artielu you are my main Dramione mutual so I hope you enjoy this atypical offering!

[ladylore97]

Here’s the last of the stevinel doodle requests from literally months ago that I had done. The last one is the ending of Making Amends vs Steven and Spinel’s date from MUFLT

[exvangelicalrage]

Sin Is Fake

6/5/23

I realized something this week. Which is that I don't believe in sin. Obviously, I don't believe in a lot of things, including god, christianity, and literally anything, haha, but I realized this week that I'd been taking the idea of "sin" as a given.

The idea of sin has been a constant in my life since my birth; only a few weeks after we came home from the hospital, my parents had me "dedicated" in front of the church congregation, which is the protestant alternative to the catholic baby baptisms. Instead of saving your soul, however, it's merely a commitment by christian parents to "raise their child in the way he should go" or whatever. And in this case, that meant raising their child to believe they were inherently sinful and needed to be saved by jesus in order to go to heaven. 

I've long determined that people are not inherently sinful; that babies are not evil from the moment they are beget; that children do not need to plead forgiveness for imagined wrongs. 

But the idea that perhaps sin simply... doesn't exist at all? That is new.

When I was five, I kneeled next to my bed on the pink throw rug my great grandmother had given me, clasped my hands together, and said, "Dear jesus, please come into my heart and forgive me." As I said the words, there was a deep sense of "this is what I'm supposed to do in order to get to heaven." I hadn't quite put together the "I'm sinful and need to be forgiven" part, despite the emphasis on that during Sunday school and vacation bible school, but I knew the words and I said them and I meant them. 

But as I grew, it didn't take me long to fully understand what "sin" was. 

Sin was whining about chores. Sin was arguing with my brothers. Sin was being obstreperous. Sin was reading instead of cleaning my room. Sin was talking back to my parents. Sin was watching other kids get picked on in school and doing nothing. Sin was not wanting to do my homework. Sin was getting bad grades. Sin was not listening to the teacher. Sin was watching movies. And listening to secular music. And reading books with swear words in them.

Sin was doing anything that upset my parents for any reason. 

Sin was lack of total perfection.

Sin was making god mad.

I asked for forgiveness regularly. As a 7 year old. As a 10 year old. As a 12 year old. I knew my soul was irreparably blackened, and jesus was the only one who could cleanse me and guarantee my way into heaven. 

When I reached my teenage years, I continued to pray for forgiveness, but I tacked on an extra little request at the end of my prayers: "Please forgive me, and also, if you notice me doing something wrong, could you just let me know?"

"If I'm doing something and don't realize it's a sin, could you please point it out to me?"

"I'm not entirely sure quite what I'm doing wrong, but I know it must be something, so please forgive me even for stuff I don't realize is wrong."

It's a pretty heavy weight, to walk around thinking that you're perpetually committing grievous offenses but have no idea what they are. To believe that god is incessantly watching every movement, every choice, and every thought, and judging you accordingly. Especially as a child. And sure, the pastors said "his blood covers it all" but what does that even mean? And if his blood covers "it all" why couldn't we just be regular people? Why did we have to focus on being as perfect as possible? 

The thing is, though, the existence of sin is necessary to christianity. If humans weren't inherently "sinful" then what would the point of christianity be? Because if we weren't inherently sinful, nothing would be preventing us from accessing heaven. We wouldn't need jesus, we wouldn't need the bible, and most of all, we wouldn't need the church. 

Sin, at least in a christian context, is a direct and willful violation of god's will. But in order for it to be real, a.) god has to exist, and b.) we have to be able to determine what his will is—irrefutably. But since god (if he exists) hasn't provided a clear-cut directive... how can we possibly ensure that we aren't violating god's will? And if we can't know his will, we can't violate it on purpose.

Hence, sin is fake.

But if pastors, leaders, humans make clear-cut statements that say, "This is wrong and I know because god told me so," then they can claim that your violation of their commandments is sin, and in doing so, they strip access to heaven from you.

The idea of sin allows humans to control other humans. Even humans who don't believe in their ideology.

But if sin doesn't exist in the first place? That hill they're standing on is nothing but air.

To be clear, I think mistakes are real. I think we can do things that we wish we hadn't. I think we can cause harm. We can do things that upset or cause pain or discomfort toward other people, ourselves, or the world around us.

But sin? Nah.

I think I still carry this weight, even though I left christianity over a decade ago. 

It's clearest for me in this subconscious  pressure that suggests I'm "living a sinful lifestyle," despite the fact that even according to christian standards, my "lifestyle," as it were, is pretty innocuous. I'm straight & hetero, married and monogomous, donate and volunteer to causes, mind my own business most of the time. But I do swear. And read romance novels (with sex scenes *gasp*). And I'm not christian. Which all equals "sinful lifestyle" in my subconscious, I guess.

But there's a lot of freedom in being able to look an action in the face and say "What harm does this cause?" If the answer is "It causes no harm," I can move on with my life. And if the answer is "It causes this specific harm," then I can remediate to the best of my ability. 

Litter? I can donate to an environmental organization or pick up more trash than I dropped. 

Give voice to my internal biases, even unintentionally? Apologize immediately and truthfully. Or donate to an anti-racist/feminist/trans-inclusionary/disability activist organization if an apology isn't possible. Or all of the above! 

Steal something? Give it back. Pay for it. Go to jail. Whatever. Make amends.

There is freedom in accountability. There is freedom in taking responsibility for my misdeeds. I don't need jesus or christianity to "save" me. All I need to do is own up to my behaviors, decisions, and choices, and the consequences therein. 

I can make amends. All by myself. No penance, priest, or prayer necessary.

If everyone did this, instead of just "praying for forgiveness," I think the world would be a lot less shitty place.

-----

A not-exactly side note: 

If I'm being honest, I think this whole blog is partially about me trying to make amends in a way. It's also therapy through writing, an exploration of my feelings, and a process to think through some of the concepts and ideas that still nag at me. But I could do all of that without sharing it online.

The one thing I feel more guilty about than anything in my life, was the evangelism I did as a teenager. I talked down to other people. Tried to convince them they were evil. I built walls around myself, and judged everyone else as either "saved" or "unsaved." I roped people in, with music and a pretty smile and the threat of hell. 

I understand that I was still a child. And that the religion I wielded was placed into my hands by adults. That it's not entirely my fault. I know I was trying to do what was right. But I also feel strongly that I caused harm to those around me. Harm I regret to this day.

I made it out. But not without casualties.

It's a strange type of survivor's guilt.

So I'm hoping that writing out & sharing my experiences, feelings, and pain will maybe help somebody somewhere. I want to do something good that directly counteracts the harm I caused then. Maybe I can support someone leaving the church now, validate someone who is questioning, or offer logic, reason, and experience to help someone see the door. 

Maybe it'll help, maybe not. But it feels like the right thing to do.

[sjsmith56]

Amends

Summary: Bucky prepares to make a visit to a woman make amends for the actions of the Winter Soldier. Reliving the night of the event in his memories brings up the guilt of not just what he did, but what he didn’t do.

Length: 3.2K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, HYDRA handler, two victims, victim’s daughter

Warnings: Memories of violence by Winter Soldier and by HYDRA handler, guilt, remorse, angst.

Author’s notes: The memories are indicated by the italicized font. There’s no doubt that each session where Bucky made amends to the survivors of his victims would become increasingly hard for him. Each time would bring back the memories of his actions, furthering his feelings of guilt. In this instance I thought of how perhaps it was something that Bucky wanted to do for himself, as part of a cleansing his soul process. Agree or disagree with that theory it was still something that affected him deeply each time.

🌟

The list in his notebook had been getting noticeably shorter. Bucky looked at the spread-out sheets of paper on his table, with the printouts of the next person to make amends to. This one had tugged on him emotionally, almost as much as Yori’s son’s death had. With a sigh he began to read over the details again.

The subject’s name was Susan Whitaker, daughter of Richard and Marianne Whitaker. Amends were to be made to her for the death of her parents on June 23, 1994.

“Soldat, you will eliminate the target Richard Whitaker. He has become a problem at SHIELD, and suspects that Alexander Pierce is part of HYDRA.”

“I will comply.”

Bucky shook his head, trying to get the memory of the order out of his head. It was no use; now that the memory had begun he would have to let it run its course.

“You will find him at his home, after 8 pm. The address is on the briefing sheet.”

“Witnesses to be eliminated?”

“If they do not see you there is no need. The wife is an invalid and in a wheelchair. The daughter is young enough not to retain any memory of you. However, you have the latitude to act independently if you decide otherwise.”

“Insertion details?”

“You will be transported to a position near the residence with your handler but you will advance alone into the residence once the sun sets. Confirmation of his death has been requested by Pierce. You will check for life signs and call this number.”

He was breathing heavy as he remembered the phone number that was given to him. It was an untraceable number that allowed him to report directly to Alexander Pierce. It was supposed to be a straightforward hit but sometimes even the Winter Soldier experienced complete and total fuckups. He put the pages into the folder and walked away from the table. Pouring himself a cup of coffee he stood at his counter drinking it while staring at the folder. Gulping down the rest of his drink he sat back down at the table and pulled the papers out again. Even though he remembered everything as if it were yesterday he still wanted to go over it and make sure he had the series of events correct.

It was raining when they arrived at the position where he would leave the vehicle, a stolen cable company van. He was dressed as an installation technician, there on a service call. In the back of the van he pulled on the coveralls as his handler watched.

“Remember to call the number once you have confirmed Whitaker’s death,” said Gary Simons, his newest handler.

A tall thin man, he had a pockmarked face, from untreated acne. The Soldier didn’t have much in the way of opinion of any of his handlers but Simons was not his first choice of handlers to work with. He was quick to anger, eager to punish the Soldier for perceived slights, and had a sadistic streak that the efficient Soldier found unnecessary. Dead was dead, and a single bullet between the eyes was quick, efficient, and wasted little time in cleaning up the evidence. More than once when Simons visual confirmation was needed he would add his own flourish to the Soldier’s work; a shot to the mouth, or an initial carved into the cheek. Several times he had been cautioned against leaving such signatures but a man such as him always seemed to want to leave his mark on a scene.

Once again Bucky had to stop and leave the papers. The memory of Simons always bothered him. HYDRA attracted their share of sadists and Simons was right up there with Rumlow on the list of the worst of the worst. What Simons did that night wasn’t necessary and it could have led to the Soldier being caught because of what he did after.

The door on the verandah was unlocked and the Soldier easily got inside, walking quietly through the kitchen before listening for the sounds that would indicate where his target was. The sound of a television drew him to a small den. The football game was on and Whitaker was watching it, a bowl of potato chips on his lap and a beer in his hand. He looked tired, and didn’t seem to be engaged in the game. In fact, it was almost as if he was waiting. When the soldier entered the den Whitaker turned to him and nodded.

“You’re here for me, I suppose,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“You are my mission,” replied the Soldier.

“My wife and daughter are upstairs,” said Whitaker. “They’re innocent. Please, don’t hurt them.”

“If they do not see me they will live,” was the reply and the doomed man nodded.

He stood up and faced his killer, looking him in the eye. Removing his gun from his holster the Winter Soldier aimed it at Whitaker and fired. The silencer stifled the sound of the gunshot and the man dropped immediately. Removing the glove from his right hand the Soldier felt for the pulse, finding nothing. Mission accomplished. He used the eraser end of a pencil to dial the number on the phone in the den. When it was answered a man’s voice asked for the mission report.

“Target eliminated,” said the Soldier.

“Good work,” was the response and the line went dead.

The soldier wiped his fingerprints off the receiver and prepared to leave, coming back out to the kitchen, noticing the door to the verandah was open. He knew he had closed it and wondered if there was anyone else in the house. Listening carefully he left the kitchen and waited in the entry hall beside the stairs that went upstairs. The sound of a muffled scream hit his ears and he ran up the stairs towards the sound.

A feeling of dizziness hit Bucky and he realized he was hyperventilating. For several long moments he sat there and forced himself to breathe slower and deeper. Fighting down the feeling of panic he counted down his breaths in his mind; ten seconds to breathe in, ten seconds to breathe out. The panic subsided as did the dizziness and he decided to take a break. Taking his phone he texted Sam to ask if he could talk. Receiving a text back he dialled his friend’s number.

“What’s up?” asked Sam. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah … no,” replied Bucky. “I’m going over a file on a person I have to make amends to.”

Sam didn’t answer at first. “What’s bothering you?”

“Just remembering the hit. It didn’t go down the way it was supposed to.”

Bucky walked to the window and looked outside. It was raining, just like it was that night.

“Buck?”

“I killed a SHIELD agent,” he said. “The man began to suspect Pierce was HYDRA, well before anyone else ever had an inkling. The hit request came from Pierce himself and I had to phone him immediately after with my mission report. His wife and daughter were there but as long as they didn’t witness me I was allowed to let them live.”

“What happened?”

“My handler entered the house while I was on the phone with Pierce,” said Bucky. “I didn’t hear him but he left the door open so I went looking for whoever had entered the house. He went upstairs, found the wife, an invalid and began raping her. I got there too late to stop him and he strangled her.”

“Fuck,” said Sam. “Did it register with you?”

“Yeah, it did,” said Bucky. “I killed him, crushed his throat with my metal hand, and left his body there. He was a sadistic bastard, as bad as Rumlow and I had no second thoughts about killing him.”

“What about the daughter?”

Bucky didn’t answer at first then he coughed. “I took her out of the house, Sam. I wrote a note about what happened and put it inside her clothes, then dropped her in front of a police station and told her to go to the door. Then I left. She was barely three years old. When I got to the rendezvous I told the team he left the van and sent me on my way. I was conditioned to obey his orders. They accepted that.”

“What happened after?”

“When the hit made the news and the discovery of his body on the scene was released they knew I lied about him telling me to go but he was a loose cannon and likely would have been sanctioned anyways,” said Bucky. “I got away with it. The police attributed her murder to him and the husband’s murder to an unknown assailant who also killed the other intruder. It’s officially still unsolved, until I file the amends statement.”

He could hear Sam give out a noticeable breath. “So what’s bothering you? You killed a rapist and you saved the life of a little girl. You’ve already been given a pardon for the father’s death.”

“I should have locked the door behind me to keep him from entering the house. He did shit like that, although not to the extreme he did that night. How do I tell this woman that I feel responsible for her mother’s death, even though it wasn’t me who killed her?”

“I guess exactly the same way that you just told me,” said Sam after a considerable pause. “The truth will always set you free. Isn’t that the saying?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” sighed Bucky. “I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else. Thanks for listening.”

“Buck, anytime,” replied Sam. “You good?”

“No, but I will be. Goodnight.”

Returning to the table Bucky put the file back together and left it on the surface. Putting his leather jacket on he left the apartment, making sure to lock the door and he headed down the stairs to the street. Even with the rain it was busy outside, as people were headed out for dinner or an evening at a bar. He got on the subway, taking it to Manhattan and transferring to a train to the Bronx. When he got off there he consulted a map on his phone for the address. She ran a bookshop, one of those used ones, that people could bring their extra books to and exchange for money or for more books. He stopped at the window, noticing there was a cat asleep in a bed on a shelf. He grinned slightly, wishing he had visited here before, just so he could have spent time with the cat. When he opened the door there was a little bell sound and a woman of about 30 years of age looked up from where she sat behind the counter.

“Hi,” she said cheerily. “Still raining?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “mostly but it isn’t heavy. Nice place.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “I do alright and it gives me time to work on my master’s degree. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

He shook his head. “No, do you mind if I just browse?”

“Be my guest,” she said warmly. “I’m here if you have any questions.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped to scratch the cat’s head and began to look at the assortment of books. There was a good selection of titles, which he noted, even taking a couple to buy but he was really checking to make sure she was alone. Bringing his choices to the front he put them down in front of her and she smiled, picking them up and ringing the reduced price into the cash register.

“That will be $8.50 with the tax,” she said. “Interesting choices.”

“You have a nice little store,” said Bucky, taking a ten dollar bill out. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks! Every little bit helps.”

He stood there and picked up his books, looking her in the eye. “Are you Susan Whitaker, daughter of Richard and Marianne Whitaker?”

She looked at him strangely. “Yes, they died when I was little,” she said. “Why are you asking?”

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “For a time I was known as the Winter Soldier, and I was forced to work as an assassin for HYDRA through brainwashing. I am no longer that person, having regained my freedom but it requires that I make amends to the families of those who were my victims.”

She whimpered, looking at him with emotion. “It was you,” she whispered. “You carried me out of the house and took me to the police station. Why?”

“I was only programmed to kill your father but my handler was a sick man,” said Bucky. “Your father had anticipated his death and accepted it. I made it quick and was on my way out when I saw the door was open. Listening for the sounds of another intruder I went upstairs where my handler had just killed your mother. I’ll spare you the details. What he did was wrong, even to me, and I killed him. I knew you were there and didn’t want to leave you alone in that house so I wrote out what happened, put it into your clothes and took you to the police station. You were innocent and I blamed myself for your mother’s death. I’m here to make amends for the deaths of your parents and to give you closure so you know the truth of who was responsible.”

“But you didn’t kill her,” said Susan. “The police figured that out. He raped her but someone caught him and crushed his throat causing him to suffocate. They said it was a painful death. That was you.”

Bucky nodded, ashamed. “I don’t kill anymore, not since 2014 when I finally escaped from their control. It doesn’t excuse what I did. Even though I had no choice in any of them I still did them.”

He turned to leave, having said what he wanted to say.

“Wait,” she said, getting off her stool and standing in front of him. “I’ve read about you, about what HYDRA did to you to make you their killer. I know from the HYDRA files that were released that Alexander Pierce ordered my father’s death because Daddy was going to report him. You weren’t responsible for my mother’s death and you made sure I was safe. I have barely any memory of them but I do remember you, your arm mainly, the silver one. The star was so pretty and I always called you the Star Man. You were so kind to me. Were you still the Winter Soldier when you took me out of the house?”

Bucky looked down at the ground remembering that evening once more.

“Where’s Mommy and Daddy?” she asked.

“They’re not here,” said the Soldier, holding her face close to his chest so she wouldn’t see her father’s body in the den. “They told me to take you somewhere safe.”

“What’s your name?”

Her voice was so sweet and he had a flashback of another little girl, with braids in her hair, cuddling in his arms.

“Bucky, I had a bad dream.”

“I know, Becca,” he whispered, as he sat on her bed. “I’ll stay with you until you’re sleepy again.”

The Soldier looked at the little girl. “It was Bucky once.”

They got to the van and he opened the back door placing her on the floor. He took his coveralls off, placing them beside her, and little Susan Whitaker looked at his arm.

“Star,” she said, reaching out with her tiny hand and touching the red star on his left arm. “You’re Star Man.”

He smiled at her and gestured for her to climb into the seat in the front, closing the door and opening the driver’s side door. With a grimace he realized that Simons had the keys but he wasn’t going back to the house, not willing to leave Susan alone. Pulling out the wires from below he hot wired the van, starting it up. Before he got here he was given a briefing on the layout of the neighbourhood, including the location of the nearest police station. Carefully, he drove, making sure that Susan stayed seated in the front seat, which wasn’t easy as she wanted to look out the window.

About a block away from the police station Bucky pulled over to the curb and looked for a pad of paper, something to write on. He wrote down Susan’s name and address, saying what had happened there. Then he folded it up and told her to hide it inside her pyjamas. Gesturing for her to come to his arms he held her for several moments, stroking her hair..

“I can’t come inside with you but I want you to go the door of the building I’m going to take you to, okay?” he said. “They’ll take care of you and make sure you’re safe.”

“Okay,” she said. “What about Mommy and Daddy? Will they come for me?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m sorry but you won’t see them again.”

She smiled, not understanding and he hugged her, kissing her forehead. Then he opened the door and took her as close as he could to the station entrance out of the view of the security cameras. Setting her down on the ground he pointed out the door to her and told her to go there and knock.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “The police are your friends. Off you go.”

She turned around once and waved to him. He waved back but started walking backwards to the van, getting inside at the same time she arrived at the door. Watching as she knocked he started up the van and as soon as an officer came out to investigate her presence he backed up, turned around and drove away.

“No, I was in between him and my blank state,” he said to the adult Susan. “I had a memory of my own sister while I held you. You were never in danger with me and I didn’t leave until I saw an officer come to the door for you.”

She gave out an audible breath while she looked up at him.

“You remember them all, don’t you?” she asked. He nodded. “Are you legally required to do this, making amends?”

It was so easy to say yes as it was partially the truth, recommended as part of his therapy but she seemed to want to know the truth.

“No, I do this for myself,” he said. “I fought them for so long but they broke me and turned me into their weapon. Whenever I resisted they tortured me but I still ended up doing their dirty work for them and I remember every one of the killings.”

“That’s brave of you. Thank you for making amends for my father. You weren’t responsible for my mother’s death and I thank you for giving her justice. James Buchanan Barnes, I forgive you for what you were forced to do. I hope you find peace someday. You seem like a good man to go to this trouble.”

He smiled weakly and nodded. As he opened the door to the shop she said one more thing before he headed back out into the rainy night.

“Goodbye Star Man.”

By the time he got home his face was wet with more than just the rain.

One Shots Masterlist

Tumblr Masterlist

[wayti-blog]

By making amends to all the souls which we have done something to in this life or in our previous lives, we bring ourselves back into harmony.

O

[emperornorton47]

[flkmoresluvr]

Closure ( Axl & Steven one shot)

summary: Axl decides to call Steven up to make amends.

disclaimer: this is kinda terrible, I got the idea at like 3 in the morning. It’s not proofread or grammatically corrected so enjoy!!

+

Axl stared down at the box of polaroids that he managed to scrape up from the tour bus floor, his stomach in knots as his eyes trace the face of Steven. His arms were draped over Slash’s neck and Axl can see himself laying against Izzy in the background. His mind wandered about the time when this was taken, he flips the back for answers.

1987 written in black sharpie.

He holds onto the polaroid, his other hand running through his hair as he lets out a long sigh. 1987, although it was only a little under 6 years ago, felt like a lifetime ago. And a tiny part, oh who was he kidding, it was a big part of him that felt sorry for how he treated Steven. How he reacted, how he could’ve helped him instead of giving him the boot.

Maybe he could reach out to Steven, let him know there is no hard feelings between the two.

Then again, he knows that Steven has hard feelings for him. How could you not have hard feelings for someone who kicked you out of your band with no chances of redemption?

But Axl wanted to know how Steven felt, how he was doing and nothing was going to change his mind.

He searched and searched for his number or even an address. Only succeeding after aggravating Slash til he caved in, telling Axl that this wouldn’t end well for none of them and that this could ruin the tiny bit of friendship that he still had with Steven.

“Trust me, it will go well.” Axl assured Slash, then disappearing off to the kitchen and dialing Steven’s number.

ring . . .

ring . . .

ring . . .

“Hello?” Steven’s voice comes through clean, it was softer than he last heard and Axl’s heart is racing. Fuck. He didn’t think this far ahead.

“Is this another prank caller? I swear—”

“No, no. It’s just me.” Axl says. The line goes silent, he can still hear Steven’s breathing. “I know . . . I know this is unexpected and you probably don’t want to hear from me.”

Steven laughs. “Damn right. What do you want?” His voice is now firm.

“I’m not sure. I mean . . . I was just wondering how you’ve been doing.” He mumbles, his voice now low.

“You were just wondering how I’ve been doing? Really?” Steven repeats, almost in disbelief. “Uh, let’s see. Four of my bandmates fucked me over for shit they were doing too.”

“Look, Steven, I—”

“Goodbye, Axl.”

“Wait, Steven, just hear me out.” Axl pauses, shifting slightly so now that his back is against the wall. “I feel . . . I feel bad for how things went down. I know you won’t believe me but I’m trying here.”

Steven almost laughs until hearing the desperation in the redhead's voice and suddenly there’s this weird feeling in his chest. Almost as if he felt sorry for Axl, which was so rare for anyone to ever feel bad for him. But if you were close to him, knew his way of life, you knew that he did have good intentions with his actions.

“Uh . . . ” Steven begins saying, his fingers running through his blonde strands and gripping gently. “You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood today.”

“Thanks, Steven. Really. I expected you to hang up as soon as you heard my voice, Slash told me not to call you.” He admits, twirling the phone cord with his fingers. “But you know me . . . ”

“Well, I’m kinda glad you did call me. I’ve been wanting closure for a long time, Axl, but that died along with the numerous phone calls I left. Ya remember?” Steven asks, his voice dripping with malign.

And Axl stays silent for a moment or two. Unsure of what to say because he was speaking the truth.

Not even a week after Steven was kicked out, he called repeatedly. Blowing the phone up to the point that they had to go through a number change. Axl wasn’t even clear on why they avoided his calls, maybe it was the guilt that he didn’t want to deal with or the fact that he wasn’t ready to face the pleas from Steven.

“But I get it, Axl. Truly, I do,” Steven begins speaking into the phone again after it falls silent between the two. “I guess Izzy leaving put things into perspective for you.”

“Yeah, it did . . . I thought I was making the right decision, Steven.”

“Coulda gone about it better, gave me more time.” The blonde says, a hint of sadness to his tone. “I need an answer, Axl. Why are you doing this?”

“Because I fucked up, I know that now.” Axl admits, his voice shaky and he can feel the tears welling in his eyes. “I tried to keep the asshole agenda up but really . . . really it’s all bothering me.”

Steven nods his head even though the other can’t see. “You’re finally admitting your faults. That’s one step to becoming a better person.”

Axl smiles slightly at his words. “I’m trying. That’s why I reached back out to you. To tell you that I should’ve handled things better.”

“It makes me happy to hear that, Axl, but I can’t accept your apology.”

His smile drops, his bones feel like they're crushing, a lump forming in his throat. He was foolish to think that Steven could forgive him, considering how much of an asshole he was but he was genuinely trying to make amends.

The phone becomes shaky in his hand and Steven notices that Axl isn’t speaking. He knows that he is hurt by him not accepting his apology.

“Axl . . . ” Steven’s voice is gentle but firm. “This is the first time we’ve spoken in years, you can’t expect me to forgive you just like that.”

The redhead nods his head. “I know but, I thought . . . I don’t know. I’m just glad I got this off my chest, you know?” He tries to steady his voice.

“Yeah. I have this question, it’s itching the back of my brain.” The blonde says into the phone, pausing for a second to let his words sink. “Are you doing therapy? Or did you just have a change of heart yourself?”

Axl swallows, his hand raising up to rub his temple. “I did. I mean, yeah. Not recently but over the past couple of months, yes.” Stammering his words, he shook his head. “Are you doing anything right now?”

“Am I doing anything right now? Hmm.” Steven glances around the walls of his house. “Nope. Sitting around like I’ve always been. Is this where you invite me out for drinks?”

“No . . . no, not unless you want to. Just heard lots of sounds on your end.” He lies partially, earning a laugh from the blonde.

“Drinks, huh? Can you handle that?”

“I should be asking you that.” Axl says.

“Don’t.” Steven warns him. Then the line goes silent, other than the sounds of someone rummaging through something and he speaks again. “I’m down for drinks. You’re paying right? I mean, since you’re changing your ways.”

“Yeah, of course, I can pay.” Axl nods, his grip on the phone loosening slightly. “So . . . I’ll see you in about an hour?”

“Great. See ya.”

[awholelotofladybug]

Sorry 2: A Stammering Adrien AU Moment

Based on this AU.

Sabrina: Marinette, I... I really need to talk to you...

Marinette: Okay. About what?

Sabrina: *sigh* I’m sorry.

Marinette: Huh? What for?

Sabrina: Being so mean and always helping Chloé bully you.

Marinette: Sabrina, you were only doing what she...

Sabrina: *shakes he head* No, Marinette, you don’t get it. Even if she did tell me to do mean things, I still did them. *lowers her head* I chose to do them.

Marinette: *thinks about it* That is true...

Sabrina: I used to think if Chloé apologized to everyone, it would mean I wouldn’t have to since I was just “following orders.”  *sigh* But that’s not fair. Not to you, our friends, or her... *gets teary-eyed* *sniffle* So I’m really, really sorry. Can you please forgive me?

Marinette: *smiles* Of course.*hugs her* But hey, don’t feel too bad. You and Chloé have been doing great. *hands her a tissue*

Sabrina:*dries her eyes* Thanks, Marinette.

[bayesiandragon]

On Repentance and Repair: Making Amends in an Unapologetic World

One of the most interesting and thought provoking books I've read to date! Having grown up in a largely Christian family and living in a country significantly influenced by similar values, topics around wrong-doing and amends have always been through that one lens. Generally this involves a heavy focus on punishment, quick forgiveness, and returning to normalcy instead of rebuilding what was broken.

This book lays out the process of repair and atonement through the Jewish philosophy, which was eye-opening to me with how much more respectful it is towards victims and their needs. It goes into depth on how perpetrators should own harm and and provide restitution while leaving the path open to coming back into society as a transformed and bettered person.

A quote from the description:

...Forgiveness is much less important than the repair work to which the person who caused harm is obligated. The word traditionally translated as repentance really means something more like return, and in this book, returning is a restoration, as much as is possible, to the victim, and, for the perpetrator of harm, a coming back, in humility and intentionality, to behaving as the person we might like to believe we are.

This contrasts to the views and approaches most common in my country that ironically pushes hard for the victim to forgive, regardless of whether the perpetrator has genuinely made amends, while simultaneously leaning on punitive and retributive justice that often reduces the chances that the perpetrator will change for the better - or even have the chance to.

A highly recommended book for those interested in restorative justice, or even just understanding repentance from Judaic philosophy!

[cmweller]

Challenge #03965-J313: Delayed Virtue Signal

When it came to CEO's I was one of the worst.

I'm nearing the end of my life, and have sent a file and an anonymous complaint to the CRC, about myself. I know the Pax Humanis will come soon to end me. I've already sent my security away so they will find no resistance when they come in.

Why did I do this? Because as I've grown older, I've gained something. A conscience.

I deserve the punishment they will put upon me, and maybe, save these people from corporate rule.

To any who read this please know.... I'm sorry. -- Anon Guest

When the rich get old, they start to think about their respective afterlives. Most of them invest small amounts of their total wealth in palliative charities, things that make them look good in the public eye but do very little to actually fix all the problems their prior venality had caused. Small things that only make their fellow wealthy citizens feel better about their lifestyle.

Things like investing in a small-effect technology that will only ever be available to people who can afford it, and not the people who need it.

This old man actually thought about what could make things better. Not just to make things look better. He thought long and hard about the evils he had done to this world... and reported himself to the CRC. Full confession. Then he handed all his financial holdings over to them.

[Check the source for the rest of the story]

[banyan-massachusetts]

Making Amends in Recovery

Making amends is a critical step in addiction recovery, and it involves actively taking steps to apologize and make up for any harm caused to another person. The goal of making amends is to repair the damage caused by substance abuse, restore trust, and rebuild relationships. It can include a sincere apology, offering compensation or restitution, or performing acts of kindness to make up for the wrongdoing.

How to Make Amends in Addiction Recovery

Making amends in addiction recovery is a crucial step towards achieving long-term sobriety. Having a support system of loved ones can be instrumental in helping individuals remain abstinent from drugs and alcohol. Below are some tips to follow when making amends:

Choose the Right Time

Making amends can be emotionally challenging, and it's essential to choose the right time to start the process. It's not advisable to begin early in recovery since many individuals haven't fully understood the extent of their addiction, and they may not know how to process their guilt and shame. It's best to wait until later in recovery when the individual has developed successful coping techniques and understands their challenges.

Be Genuine and Honest

To make amends, individuals need to be genuine and honest throughout the process. This means acknowledging the extent of the damage caused and being sincere in their approach. If they can't be genuine, they're not ready to make amends.

Offer a Real Solution

Saying sorry isn't enough when it comes to making amends. It's crucial to offer a real solution and acknowledge how the damage caused can be fixed or how the person can be helped with their healing. This could mean repaying someone money borrowed to buy drugs or alcohol, for instance.

Apologize in Person

It's important to apologize in person if the person is willing to meet. Speaking in person allows the individual to show their sincerity in wanting to repair the damage and potentially rebuild the relationship if the other person is interested. It also avoids any miscommunication or misunderstandings that might occur during tough conversations via text messages.

[antvnger]

(( continuing that headcanon, do you think Scott and Maggie ever sat down and had a frank conversation post prison about all their heartbreak?))

((Oh 100%. They couldn’t be good coparents without it, and they knew it. Sometime after the Pym Tech heist, Maggie and Jim invite Scott over as part of the attempts to make amends and build bridges.

((Scott’s hesitant to, but he does it for Cassie. It excites her to see all of them together, so he does it for her.

((After Cassie is tucked in, Scott is about to leave but they ask him to stay. He reluctantly agrees, and the adults just kinda stare at each other awkwardly until Maggie says she needs a drink. And the guys agree. A few drinks loosen tongues, and the next thing anybody knows, Scott and Maggie are letting loose pent up emotions and unexpressed thoughts like dams with cracks in them that couldn’t hold anymore. And poor Jim is just watching those two volley like 😳

((After the dust settles, Maggie admits that she knows Scott is not a bad person or the villain her anger made him out to be, and she still cares for him. She’s not in love with him anymore, because she really believes Jim is the better fit for her. But she misses their friendship and apologizes for how she handled things.

((And Scott apologizes for hurting her and Cassie. He won’t apologize for VistaCorp, but he does apologize for them paying for his choices. Is he in love with her still? No, he can honestly say at this point, he’s not. But they do have a history he’s not quite ready to throw away completely yet.))

“Can we still be friends?”

“You still wanna be friends with me? After everything?”

“Yes. If you still want to be friends with me.”

“Yeah…I want my friend since high school back.”

((They were good together married, but they’re better off as friends. There’s better matches for them anyway.))

[theoriginalfool]

I dont say "always" like snape I say "always" like aberforth. I say it as in "I love you, I make mistakes, I've made mistakes regarding you but you are family and I've always thought of you and I wish to make amends and I hope only that you can find it in you to forgive me"

[sabindensmore]

This is my partner’s animated performance of Fiona Apple’s ‘Slow Like Honey’ from Tidal. It is part of a series of portrayals of living portraits as embodiment of song. She is seeking collaborators and friends. Musicians and others to help her on this quest. Take a look and reach out if you'd like. She will appreciate it.

[chattydm]

Sobered Up, let’s Saddle up

I believe many of us profoundly addicted to Twitter are awakening to the new owner’s abject disregard for decency and the safety of others. And as we look at alternatives, many of us remember we have a Tumblr account accumulating dust in a corner somewhere.

Not sure this is what I want as a replacement. Also not sure some people want me here. I come back with a past I’m doing my best to atone for, a past I own, one steeped in alcohol abuse and toxic relationships. 

But making amends also means facing life, facing reality and the consequences of past actions. 

I’m 6 months and a week sober.

This is what a new start looks like. 

Let’s saddle up for what’s next. 

[internutter]

Challenge #03569-I280: Pretty Poison

The farmer's spirit cannot return, but it can get a message through thanks to an observant medium. He forgives the death, understands it was an accident, and only wants for his family to find peace in their lives, and to live good lives. He also forgives the Elf that killed him, hoping the being finds redemption.

https://peakd.com/fiction/@internutter/challenge-03507-i219-making-amends -- DaniAndShali

Old madwomen of the woods were to be expected, honestly. In tracking the source of the farm's sour soil, Wraithvine had one leap on hir from a gorse bush. "It's you, it's you, I saw you. Wraithvine the Eternal, yes. Yes, they will call you that. Korben Tiller wanted me to tell you some things."

Wraithvine lowered hir defensive shield. "Did you know the man?"

"Not in the slightest," cheered the grizzled old lady apparently wearing a tangled mesh of vines. She also had antlers strapped to her head. A sure and certain sign of a Druid. "Old Minta keeps to herself, yes she does. The trees and the creatures of the wild wood are better company than many."

[Check the source for the rest of the story]