#spill error in excel

[datawitzz]

What is the AGGREGATE function in Excel|| 19 functions in a single formula|| How to use the AGGREGATE function in excel

What is the AGGREGATE function in Excel What is the AGGREGATE function in Excel – The AGGREGATE function in excel is a conglomerate of functions. We can use 19 functions from this single function. This is just a “Function of Functions” which incorporates multiple functions. It was introduced in the 2010 version. So if you are using an older version then it would reflect #NAME? errors. The excel…

[kittenan2]

Troubleshoot My Heart

Trope: IT Helpdesk Chaos Pairing: Grumpy Genius IT Guy!Yoongi × Bored, Unhinged Newbie!Reader Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, office romance, age gap (~10 years), smut, forbidden romance, workplace chaos Word Count: ~5k Rating: 18+ | Explicit | Minors DNI Some viruses come from shady websites. Others wear glasses and a smirk.

The office is a prison of beige and buzzwords. At 22, you’re a fresh graduate, drowning in Excel spreadsheets and shared calendars that multiply like roaches. Your cubicle is a purgatory of motivational posters and recycled air, and the 4 PM quarterly update call is sucking the last dregs of your soul. The presenter’s voice drones on about “synergy” and “KPIs,” and you’re half-asleep, chin propped on your hand, when boredom—your old, reckless friend—whispers in your ear.

Just one click. For the thrill.

You know better. You do. But the corporate firewall is a challenge, and you’re restless. So you type a shady URL (NSFW) into the browser, something you overheard in a freshers' group chat about “exclusive content.” It’s blocked, of course—big red warning, “Access Denied.” But not before something slips through. Your laptop stutters, screen flickering, then freezes entirely. A pop-up screams: “CRITICAL ERROR: SYSTEM COMPROMISED.”

Panic claws at your chest. You mash keys, but nothing works. The IT helpdesk form is your only salvation, a digital confessional for your sins. You type, hands shaking: “System acting weird. Might’ve clicked something. Send help (preferably cute help).” You hit submit and pray.

Ten minutes later, he arrives.

Min Yoongi, head of IT support, is a walking paradox: hoodie under a blazer, dark hair falling into sharper eyes, and a voice so low it should be illegal. At 32, he’s a legend in the office—not for charm, but for fixing disasters with minimal words and maximum disdain. He doesn’t look at you as he drops into your chair, his fingers flying over your keyboard.

“Did you accidentally download six trojans,” he says, not asking, “or was that part of your productivity strategy?”

You lean against the cubicle wall, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just… clicked a link.”

He glances at you, one brow raised, and you feel it—a spark, like static from a bad outlet. His glasses slide down his nose as he mutters, “Idiots who think VPNs make them invincible.” But he’s already working, pulling up diagnostics, his hands moving with a precision that makes your throat dry.

The screen stabilizes. He stands, brushing past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of coffee and cedar. “Don’t do it again,” he says, and he’s gone.

But you’re already hooked.

By Wednesday, the office is a hamster wheel of monotony, and Yoongi’s dry wit is your only lifeline. You decide to make a game of it: How far can I push the grumpy IT guy before he cracks? It’s not just boredom driving you—it’s the way his eyes linger a fraction too long, the way his voice dips when he’s annoyed. You want to unravel him.

Your first move is small but deliberate. You submit a ticket: “Mouse not working. Urgent.” He shows up, slouching into your cubicle, glasses catching the fluorescent light. “Urgent,” he repeats, voice flat as he picks up the mouse. It’s unplugged. His eyes flick to you, narrowing. “Really?”

You bat your lashes, all innocence. “It just… stopped. Maybe it’s shy?”

He snorts, plugging it back in with a flick of his wrist. “Shy. Right. Next time, check the cable before you waste my time.” But he’s lingering, leaning closer as he tests the mouse, his arm brushing yours. You catch a hint of his cologne—cedar, sharp—and your pulse spikes.

“Waste your time?” you say, tilting your head. “I thought you liked visiting me.”

His fingers pause on the mouse. He looks at you, and there’s a glint in his eyes—half irritation, half something else. “You’re gonna be trouble,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away.

By Thursday, you’re bolder. You spill a splash of coffee on your desk—nowhere near your laptop, but close enough to justify a ticket: “Coffee incident. Laptop at risk. Save me.” Yoongi arrives, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your brain short-circuit. He scans the desk, sees the tiny puddle, and sighs, long and suffering. “This is what you call a crisis?”

You lean forward, letting your blouse gape just enough to draw his eye. “Could’ve been. Better safe than sorry, right?”

He grabs a tissue, wiping the desk with exaggerated care, his movements slow, deliberate. “You know,” he says, voice low, “if you keep crying wolf, one day I might not come.”

You pout, twirling a strand of hair. “Oh, Yoongi, you’d miss me too much.”

He freezes, just for a second, then tosses the tissue in the trash. “Keep dreaming, princess.” But his voice is rougher, and when he leans over to check your laptop, his shoulder brushes yours, lingering a beat too long.

Friday, you go for broke. Ticket: “Desktop icons too aggressive. Hostile work environment.” He shows up, arms crossed, leaning against your cubicle like he’s bracing for a storm. “Aggressive icons,” he deadpans. “Care to explain?”

You point at the screen, where your perfectly normal icons sit innocently. “They’re glaring at me. It’s intimidating.”

He stares at you, then at the screen, then back at you. “You’re unbelievable.” He slides into your chair, closer than necessary, his knee brushing your thigh as he pretends to inspect the screen. “Maybe they’re just mad you keep breaking shit.”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Language, Min Yoongi. What would HR say?”

He smirks, typing something pointless. “HR would say you’re a menace who needs constant supervision.” His fingers brush yours as he slides the laptop back, and the contact sends a jolt through you. “Or maybe just a leash.”

Your breath catches, but you recover fast, leaning in until your lips are inches from his ear. “Only if you’re the one holding it.”

He stiffens, glasses slipping down his nose. For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far, but then he updates your ticket with a note:

Try restarting. If that doesn’t work, I’m available. For troubleshooting. Or kissing. Whichever works first.

You choke on your smoothie, heart hammering. He’s already walking away, but you catch the smirk on his lips. Game on.

The flirting is a full-blown war now. You’re addicted to the way Yoongi’s jaw tightens when you push his buttons, the way his eyes darken when you get too close. You call him for every minor issue, each ticket a thinly veiled excuse to see him. He knows it, and he’s playing along, showing up in person even when he could resolve things remotely or send someone else. His sarcasm is sharper, but so is the heat in his gaze.

Monday morning, you’re chewing a pen cap, voice deliberately breathy as you call him. “Yoongi, I think I clicked something bad again…” You’re perched on your desk, skirt riding up just enough to be dangerous.

He arrives, tie loose, hair slightly mussed, looking like he’s already had three coffees and zero patience. He leans against your cubicle, arms crossed, glasses glinting. “Clicked something bad,” he repeats, voice dripping with skepticism. “What was it this time? Another ‘productivity’ site?”

You twirl the pen, letting it slip between your lips before answering. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted your expertise.”

He steps closer, crowding your space, his voice dropping to a low growl. “My expertise? Or my attention?”

Your pulse spikes, but you hold his gaze, smirking. “Can’t it be both?”

He chuckles, dark and low, and slides into your chair, his knee brushing your thigh as he checks your laptop. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he mutters, but his fingers linger on the keyboard, brushing yours. “Keep this up, and I’ll start charging you for house calls.”

You lean in, close enough to smell his cologne. “What’s the price? Coffee? Dinner? Or… something else?”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you right there, cubicle walls be damned. But he pulls back, adjusting his glasses. “You couldn’t afford me, princess.”

Tuesday, you up the ante. You wear a tighter blouse, top button undone, and submit a ticket: “Laptop lagging. Need urgent assistance.” He shows up, visibly fighting to keep his eyes on the screen. “Lagging,” he says, voice flat. “Or are you just fishing for compliments in that shirt?”

You gasp, mock-scandalized. “Min Yoongi, are you objectifying me?”

He leans closer, voice a dangerous whisper. “If I was, you’d know.” His fingers brush your wrist as he types, and you swear the air crackles. “Fixed. Try not to break it again by lunch.”

Wednesday, it’s a fake email issue. He’s at your desk in minutes, looking like he’s one ticket away from throttling you. “Your email’s fine,” he says, not even touching the keyboard. “What’s the real problem?”

You lean back, crossing your arms, pushing your chest out slightly. “Maybe I just missed you.”

He stares, jaw tight, then mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me.” But he doesn’t leave. He lingers, pretending to check settings, his hand brushing yours again. “Stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice low.

“Like what?” you ask, all innocence, batting your lashes.

“Like you’re begging for something you can’t handle.”

Your breath hitches, but you recover, whispering, “Try me.”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes burn, and you know you’re winning.

Then comes the fire drill, means everyone needs to evacuate building for around 30-40 minutes.

It’s the third one this month, alarms blaring, everyone groaning. You’re halfway to the exit when Yoongi grabs your arm, pulling you toward the server room. “Need to check something,” he says, voice clipped, but his grip is firm, possessive. You follow, heart racing, the chaos of the drill fading behind you.

The server room is a claustrophobic box of humming machinery, blinking lights, and stifling heat. The door clicks shut, auto-locking. It’s tiny, fans roaring, air heavy with static. You’re both sweating, your blouse clinging to your skin, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He leans against a rack, glasses fogging slightly, and growls, “You really don’t care about fire safety, huh? Following me in here like it’s nothing.”

You step closer, bold, reckless. “Maybe I just like tight spaces. Especially with you.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown. “You’re trouble,” he says, voice rough. “And you know it.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “And you’re not? Dragging me in here, all alone, no witnesses?”

He steps forward, closing the gap, his breath hot against your cheek. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll give you something to complain about besides your laptop.”

Your stomach flips, but you hold your ground, whispering, “Promise?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The air in the server room is thick, charged. You’re inches apart, and you can’t resist pushing him. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” you tease, voice low. “Fixing my laptop so fast, showing up every time I call, even when you can do it remotely or can send someone else from your team. You’re obsessed.”

He snaps. “You think I’m obsessed?” His voice is rough, dangerous. “You’ve been downloading viruses, calling me for fake crashes, bending over your desk like it’s part of your job description.”

Your breath catches. He steps forward, crowding you against the server rack. The metal is warm against your back, cables brushing your arm. His hand grazes your waist, then slides under your skirt, fingers skimming the edge of your panties. “You want chaos?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll give you chaos.”

You gasp as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you already wet. He groans, low and feral, and you’re done for. His mouth crashes against yours, all heat and desperation, tasting of coffee and something darker—need. You tug at his belt, fumbling, and he chuckles against your lips, dark and teasing. “Impatient.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, yanking his shirt free. His hands are everywhere—under your skirt, gripping your thighs, lifting you slightly so you’re perched on the edge of a rack.

The machinery hums, vibrating through you, amplifying every touch. He pushes your panties aside, fingers sliding inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right. You moan, loud, and his free hand clamps over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he growls, but his eyes are wild, pupils blown. “Unless you want the whole office to know you’re getting fucked in here.”

You bite his palm, and he curses, thrusting his fingers deeper. Your nails dig into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s hard against you, straining through his slacks, and you grind against him, desperate for more. He undoes his belt one-handed, freeing himself, and you nearly whimper at the sight—thick, flushed, and all for you.

He doesn’t wait. He pushes inside you, slow at first, letting you feel every inch. The stretch is exquisite, and you arch against the rack, cables tangling in your hair. He thrusts harder, deeper, the rhythm relentless, each movement sending sparks through your core. The fans drown out your gasps, but not the slick, obscene sounds of him moving inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, voice wrecked. His hands grip your hips, bruising, pulling you onto him with every thrust. You’re close, so close, and he knows it, angling just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars. Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you, and you clench around him, trembling.

He’s not far behind. His thrusts grow erratic, and he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name as he spills inside you. You’re both panting, sweat-slicked, clinging to each other in the humming dark.

Then you shift, still dazed, and your elbow bumps the emergency restart button on the rack.

A low hum dies. Lights flicker. The servers reboot with a whine.

You freeze. Yoongi’s eyes widen. “Did you just—”

“Oops,” you whisper.

Monday morning is chaos. Emails flood in:

“Why did the servers reboot?” “We lost six hours of sales data.” “Also, someone left a bra in the server room.”

Yoongi’s inbox is a warzone, but he’s calm, typing responses with that infuriating deadpan.

You’re avoiding IT helpdesk department now, because the office is buzzing. Whispers follow you—your tickets get resolved suspiciously fast, and someone saw you leaving the helpdesk department, blouse misbuttoned.

It’s early afternoon, and you’ve locked yourself out of your laptop again—right before a client presentation, a bad habit of not remembering the password. You could’ve go to helpdesk, but you’re avoiding the department after the server room fiasco, terrified someone saw you. Instead, you text Yoongi directly on his personal contact:

“Locked out my laptop. Conference room. Help. Have client presentation in 1 hour.”

He storms in, tie askew, glasses slipping, looking like he’s ready to strangle you. “You forgot your password?” he snaps, slamming his admin laptop onto the conference table. “Again?”

You’re leaning against the table, blouse tight, top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of lace. “No,” you say, voice dripping with mischief. “I just wanted to see your face.”

His jaw clenches, but his eyes betray him, flicking to your chest before he catches himself. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, typing override commands with aggressive precision. You slide closer, letting your hip brush his, and murmur, “You know, no one uses this room until after 2.”

He freezes, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice low, but he doesn’t move away. You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Good thing I like danger.”

That’s his breaking point. He spins, grabbing your waist, and pulls you under the table, out of sight of the glass walls. The projector hums to life, casting the company logo across the room, but you’re already on your knees, hands working his belt.

His breath hitches as you free him, stroking slowly, teasing the tip with your thumb. He’s thick, hard, and you can’t resist tasting him, tongue swirling around the head before taking him deep.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice barely a whisper, his hand fisting your hair. You move slowly at first, lips sliding along his length, savoring the way he twitches against your tongue. The projector light dances across your face, the hum masking your soft moans.

His hips jerk, pushing deeper, and you hollow your cheeks, taking him to the back of your throat. His grip tightens, guiding you, and you can feel him unraveling, his breaths ragged.

He pulls you up, voice wrecked. “Get up here.” He spins you, bending you over the table, your skirt hiked up, panties shoved aside. His fingers find you soaked, and he groans, teasing your entrance before sliding two fingers inside, curling them just right. You gasp, gripping the table’s edge, the wood cool against your heated skin. “Yoongi,” you whimper, and he chuckles, dark and low.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers to replace them with his cock. He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch, the stretch making your thighs tremble. He grips your hips, thrusting hard, the table creaking with every movement.

The projector flickers, casting distorted light across your back as he fucks you, relentless, each thrust hitting that spot that makes you see stars. His hand slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can whisper in your ear. “You feel so fucking good.”

You’re close, the pressure building, and he knows it, angling his hips to hit deeper. Your orgasm crashes through you, and you clench around him, gasping his name. He follows, pulling out just in time to spill across your thighs, his breaths heavy against your neck.

He zips up, adjusting his glasses. “Next time you lock yourself out,” he pants, “I’m locking you in instead.”

You’ve been avoiding the IT department like the plague, terrified of the rumors swirling after the server room incident. But your laptop’s battery is genuinely overheating now, the fan screaming like it’s possessed.

You try to fix it yourself, but every troubleshooting guide fails, and you’re forced to face the inevitable: you need Yoongi. Emailing him feels too risky—too many eyes on the network—so you swallow your fear and head to IT, clutching your laptop like a shield.

The department is quiet, most of the team out for lunch. Yoongi’s at his desk, headphones on, typing furiously. You hesitate, heart pounding, but you need this fixed before your afternoon meeting. You clear your throat, and he looks up, eyebrows raising behind his glasses. “You,” he says, pulling off his headphones. “Thought you were avoiding me.”

You blush, setting the laptop down. “Battery’s overheating. It’s real this time.”

He smirks, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Real, huh? Not just another excuse to get me alone?”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse races. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stands, locking the office door with a casual flick of his wrist. “Break hours,” he says, pointing to a handwritten sign taped to the door: “IT Lunch Break: 12-1 PM.”

“Can’t have anyone walking in on us troubleshooting.”

Your stomach flips, but you play it cool, perching on the edge of his desk. “So, you gonna fix it or just stare at me?”

He steps closer, crowding your space, his voice dropping. “You mean you’re overheating.” His fingers brush your knee, and you shiver, skirt riding up as you shift. He’s right—you’re burning up, even more than your laptop.

You grab his tie, pulling him closer, and kiss him hard. He groans, hands sliding to your waist, lifting you onto his lap as he sits back in the chair. The blinds are half-open, light chatter drifting from the hall, but the locked door gives you courage. Your skirt hikes up, and his hands find your thighs, squeezing as you grind against him, feeling him harden beneath you.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, lips trailing down your neck. You fumble with his belt, freeing him, and he’s already tugging your panties aside. His fingers tease you, circling your clit before sliding inside, slow and deliberate. You gasp, rocking against his hand, and he smirks, voice low. “Keep making those sounds, and the whole department’s gonna need help.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet as you sink onto him, the stretch making your head spin. He’s thick, filling you completely, and you rock your hips, slow at first, savoring the way he grips your waist.

He’s on a call now, headset on, voice infuriatingly calm as he says, “Yeah… just another quick fix. Shouldn’t take long.” You clench around him, and he stifles a groan, pretending to adjust his headset.

You lean forward, whispering in his ear, “Liar.” He thrusts up hard, making you gasp, and you ride him faster, the chair creaking under you. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you, and you’re both teetering on the edge. The blinds cast slatted shadows across your bodies, the risk of being caught only heightening the thrill.

You come first, trembling, biting his shoulder to muffle your moan, and he follows, thrusting deep, spilling inside you as he mutters, “Fixed,” into the mic.

You collapse against him, panting, and he kisses your temple, voice soft. “You’re gonna get us both fired.”

The rumors hit critical mass by Wednesday. Your tickets are resolved before anyone else’s, and the whispers are deafening. Someone saw you adjusting your skirt outside helpdesk department again.

HR calls you both in, and you’re sweating, heart pounding as you sit across from the stern-faced manager. Your job—your first real job, the start of your career—feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. You’re 22, barely out of college, and the thought of being fired for “unprofessional conduct” makes your stomach churn.

The manager peers over her glasses. “Is there a reason her tickets are prioritized, Yoongi?”

He leans back, glasses glinting, voice calm as ever. “She breaks things a lot. I’m just thorough.”

You nod, throat tight, barely breathing. The manager’s eyes flick to you, and you force a smile, but your hands are trembling in your lap. “We’ve noticed… irregularities,” she says.

Your heart stops. Yoongi’s knee brushes yours under the table, a small anchor, but it’s not enough. You’re spiraling, imagining unemployment, blacklisted from every corporate job, your career dead before it started.

After the meeting, you’re a wreck, avoiding Yoongi’s gaze as you hurry to your cubicle. He catches up to you in the hall, pulling you into an empty stairwell. His hands are on your shoulders, firm but gentle, and his voice is low, urgent. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do, eyes stinging. “I can’t lose this job, Yoongi. I just started. I—”

“You’re not losing anything,” he says, voice steady. “I’ve been through this—corporate bullshit, getting blamed for things that aren’t your fault. I won’t let that happen to you.” His thumbs brush your arms, grounding you. “We need to cool it at the office. No more server rooms, no more conference tables. Not because I want to stop, but because I won’t let you go through what I did. Your career’s just starting. I’m not gonna fuck that up for you.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “But… what about us?”

He softens, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “My place. After hours. I do repairs there too.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “And I’m not letting you go, princess. Not now, not ever.”

It’s Friday night, and you’re at Yoongi’s apartment, a small, cozy space with exposed brick and mismatched furniture, a stark contrast to the sterile office. He’s cooking—actual cooking, not just microwaving ramen.

The kitchen smells of garlic and sesame oil, and he’s stirring a pan of japchae, sleeves rolled up, glasses fogging from the steam. You’re perched on the counter, swinging your legs, watching him move with quiet precision.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, not looking up. “You’re distracting me.”

You grin, stealing a noodle from the pan. “Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re domestic.”

He snorts, but his cheeks pink slightly, and you feel a warmth that has nothing to do with the stove. He plates the food, handing you a bowl, and insists on feeding you the first bite, chopsticks hovering at your lips.

“Open,” he says, voice soft, and you do, letting the flavors burst on your tongue. His eyes are on you, warm, unguarded, and you realize this is a side of him the office never sees.

You eat in comfortable silence, sitting cross-legged on his couch, a soft lo-fi playlist humming in the background. When the dishes are cleared, he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. It’s quiet, intimate, and you feel the weight of something unspoken.

“Yoongi,” you say, tracing circles on his wrist. “Why are you so… cold at work? I know it’s not the real you.”

He tenses, then sighs, his breath warm against your neck. “Ten years ago, I was a cybersecurity hotshot at a big tech firm. Thought I was untouchable. Then a system crashed—major project, millions lost. Wasn’t my fault, but they needed a scapegoat."

" I got dragged through the mud, humiliated, fired. Landed here to lay low, avoid the corporate bullshit. I hate the politics, the small talk, the way people treat you like a machine. So I shut down. Keep my distance. It’s easier.”

You turn, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “But you’re not distant with me.”

He looks at you, eyes soft, vulnerable. “You’re different. You’re reckless, restless, like I was back then. You don’t treat me like a tool—you tease, you challenge, you see me. First time in years I didn’t feel like I was rusting away.” His voice cracks slightly, and he pulls you closer, forehead against yours. “You bring color to my life, princess. I didn’t know I needed that until you.”

Your heart aches, and you kiss him, slow and sweet, tasting salt and warmth. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, and he smiles, real and unguarded, pulling you against his chest.

“You better not,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Because I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

A/n: Well recently I raised a ticket regarding my email's not working and somehow this idea popped in my mind. But why my office IT Helpdesk doesn't have Min Yoongi? 😩

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

[madameisaacpereire]

a masterful translation of desire

❝No ivy ever grew about a tree as tightly as that monster wove itself limb by limb about the sinners body; they fused like hot wax, and their colors ran together until neither wretch nor monster appeared what he had been when he began,❞

– Dante Alighieri, The Inferno.

The first time.

okok i took my time editing this but will prob edit this post 20 more times later on bc i'm only one girl & cannot catch everything.

read on ao3 + sparrow masterlist

    One of the first things you ever learned about painting was this: when not layered properly, oil paints will crack. To avoid this you must work slowly, diligently, allow your piece to dry between layers, and lay paints with a higher oil content over ones with less. You've never been good with oils. Oils require a patience the likes of which you do not, will never possess. You work better in watercolor, acrylic, tempera. There’s less room for error, mind; you work fast, precise, and remain prepared to abandon any preconceived ideas about how the work is meant to end. You hardly consider the ending at all. 

   Beginnings, however, you excel at.

   Except for the first time you meet Henry Winter. 

You turn up at the door an utter mess: hair bedraggled, wearing an old button up of Charles’s— which happens to be stained with blue and green acrylic paint ,— over your dress. You wouldn’t even be getting the door, if it weren't for the fact that your cousins headed out to the market for dinner supplies, and have now been gone for two hours. You expect them when you pull the apartment door open, and instead you find him.

   An intimidatingly large, poised man, whom reminds you of Victor Frankenstein’s daemon spectre. A crease forms between his brows when his eyes settle on you. They’re a blue so tragically empty, it’s almost autumnal. He’s beautiful in a terrifying sort of way, and it makes you wish that you were more skilled in portraiture, so you might attempt to capture this exquisite wretch in all his glory. 

 “You’re not Camilla,” He looks befuddled, or something like it, “Or Charles.”

     Your voice has escaped you in this moment, bewitched as you are, but you manage a head shake. Your fingers press into the door as though you need it to hold yourself up. He watches you, and it takes an embarrassingly long stretch of time for you to realize that he’s awaiting an explanation.

“Oh, right, um-” 

“You’re early.” Camilla’s voice interrupts you, announcing the twins’ return. 

The man’s face softens at the sound. He turns, revealing your cousins and the overstuffed brown paper grocery bags, which are nearly spilling from their arms

  “So, you’ve met Sparrow,” Charles brushes past, headed towards the kitchen. 

   Camilla follows and you scour the depths of your mind trying to decipher which of their friends this guy is. They’ve described them all in such vivid detail that you feel you’ve met them already. And there’s something familiar about him, frustratingly enough, yet his name escapes you.

  “Sparrow?” The way his voice grinds your nickname into something formal and detached melts your stomach.

   Your mouth finally seems to switch back on, long enough for you to stammer out your name. You’re unsure if you like having his attention on you, or if you find it frightening. Whichever one he is, he’s clearly smitten with Camilla- an unfortunate effect she has on all the men that dare cross her path.

      “...but everyone usually just calls me Sparrow. Like the bird.” You press your lips together in an effort to stop rambling.

     He studies you for a moment longer before holding out a hand. He smiles, or attempts to, in a way that seems foreign.

    “Henry Winter.”

      You shake his hand and you’re doomed. It’s unclear whether he feels it too, that zap of something unnamable that twines itself from his fingers, up your arm and into your chest- but it’s so tangible that you don’t see how he couldn’t. You flush, and unexplained vanity needles into your skin. This is new. You excuse yourself to freshen up as soon as you can.

 You do your best to look nice. You pair a long lace slip with a navy blue dress, patterned by red and white flowers, which is slightly shorter so the lace peeks through. You fight your hair until it looks the exact right amount of voluminous and smooth- not too much or too little of either thing- and locate a cardigan that matches well enough. You don’t bother to find shoes since you rarely ever wear them, especially indoors- a trait Camilla and yourself share. 

   You have a list, mentally, of every similarity and difference betwixt you. After all, there has never been a time in your life where you haven’t been compared, loudly. As far back as memory’s river winds, there are fish and stones with your differences burned into them, ready and waiting for inspection should you ever forget. Camilla has always been slighter, taller, more graceful, more cunning. Easier to like. Perhaps this is cruel of others to point out continuously. But you’re used to it. You don’t know why you’re fussing so- it isn’t as though you’ll attract his attention. Not while she’s around. 

  And yet, fuss, you do. Because you’ve felt attraction in passing, of course, but never of this caliber. The nonsensical, nerve wracking, stutter inducing, all consuming need to be close, closer, closest to another has skillfully eluded you up to this point. There’s nothing you can do to stop this mad affliction. You know because you spend the evening trying. 

   It’s slightly easier when the other guests arrive. You engage yourself in rapt conversation with a man they call Bunny- who is confusingly easy to chat with, as well as terribly funny- for a good chunk of time. But even he cannot keep your awareness away from Henry the moment he enters a room. It is as though all of your molecular makeup has been replaced, suddenly, by metal, and Henry is a neodymium magnet. It takes extreme force of will not to follow him around the apartment like a lost puppy. 

   This is as pleasant as it is vexing. Pleasant, because you feel more alive than you ever have in this inscrutable sort of way. Vexing because the one doing all of this to you is a hulking, very nearly ugly, older man (you do not see him as a boy,) who doesn’t speak much, and when he does, his voice reminds you of a spruce tree; crisp, deep, eternal in the way it’s going to haunt you. Sparrows often build their homes in spruce trees. You try not to think about that. 

   Dinner is unfortunately, the worst portion of the night as far as your distraction goes. You’re sat across from each other, thrillingly enough, which means you can spend as much time as you like sneaking glances at him when you think nobody’s watching. But the roast turkey is good, Sauvignon Blanc even better, and he has the decency not to draw attention to the small handful of times he catches you staring. 

   Perhaps you’re imagining the way his eyes seem to linger on your lips when you bring your wine up to drink. You’ve seen the way he looks at Camilla, after all. Lovestruck as Apollo. He would chase her through a forest tirelessly, you’re certain, if he thought it might convince her to love him. He looks at Camilla the way Camilla looks at Charles, or in the mirror. When your eyes meet, there’s no sentimentality, but you spot the tiniest glimmer of something that makes you want to give him your skin and teeth. 

   After dinner, there are drinks in the front room. More wine curves into your glass, crisp and vibrant on your tongue. Some paint is stuck deep beneath your pinky nail. A small fault. One you’re  unaware of. One Henry noticed the moment you came back from freshening up; a detail which has been captivating him all evening. It’s blue like your dress. Serene as the Holy Mother, wise as Athena, compassionate as Quan Yin. It’s sweet, he thinks. But one cannot help who they love, and he does not love you; no, what he feels is nothing near adoration. It’s a blooming predilection toward something far more prurient.

   Somehow, you still think you’re imagining the way his gaze travels your form as you talk. Chest, cheek, chin, mouth. It makes your head fuzzy, mouth dry with a want the likes of which you’ve always believed imaginary, and kindles a burning deep within your marrow. It’s disorienting, this strength of feeling. It’s revolting and compulsive and devastating. 

   He holds a cigarette in one hand, stubby glass of melted amber over ice in the other. He swipes condensation off the glass with his thumb, and you wonder what it might feel like for him to drag that same thumb over your lips. Cool and damp. It’s a feeling that beats wildly against your skin. It’s a feeling that bakes you to ash. 

     Richard tells some sort of fabricated story or other. Henry catches your eye, and your thighs are reduced from flesh to gelatin. He blows curling blue grey clouds through his lips. You chew on the inside of your cheek until it bleeds, and wish it was Gator-Gum. Maybe then this fever would break. 

    You want him. On top of you; dead, gone, buried beneath your muscles, ground to dust beneath your molars, melted into a mug of hot cocoa. So you excuse yourself as soon as you can, lock yourself in the bathroom and run cool water in the sink. You cup your hands beneath the stream and you drink, splash your face, even pat the back of your neck. You go back out, you laugh and smile, you continue to burn. You want him, but you do not have him tonight. 

    You do not have him the next time you see him, either, or the time after that. Each time you’re in the same building, you’re a raw nerve. It doesn’t take him long to notice: you avoid his gaze, yet simultaneously shrivel and preen when you do catch it. You search rooms for him when you enter. You want him and he has never been desired so ardently before. It’s difficult to resist, but not impossible. Weeks pass like wet paint smeared over layers of thick, wet paint until, finally, the portrait cracks in two.

    The thing is, you most often paint using sketches as a reference, on occasion over top of them, and you’ve begun a series based off of the nearby Hampden College campus. You find the white clapboard sided, green shuttered, farmhouse-ish buildings captivating. Still more buildings are stout red brick, pushing up through clusters of hugging trees, and you wish to capture this, too.  Hampden College is beautiful in a strong, rural sort of way; a way most exquisitely expressed through watercolor. 

   So you’ve been spending your days like this: spread out in the commons or meadow, depending on your mood, sketching while the summer sun beads sweat along your hairline. It would be nice, you think, to paint these buildings en plein air, but you find sketching supplies much easier to tote around on foot, and as your cousins have no car, foot is your main method of transport. Not that you mind, exactly; you’ve grown quite accustomed to making the best of things.

   You’re heading back from a day such as this, skin warm and tender with sunburn, when a car pulls over to offer you a ride. This happens often, as you’re a young and decently attractive woman, and you prepare to courteously refuse when a familiar face peers out at you. Henry. What he’s up to, you’re uncertain, but you clamber into the passenger seat the moment it’s offered. And then, most remarkably, you’re kissing.

    Neither of you can tell who leans in first. Is it Henry, upon seeing the level of exposed skin left by your linen shorts and cap sleeved button up? Or perhaps the heat overtakes you, leaving you weakened to your desires. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the outcome is the same. Kissing him is forceful and chaotic. Of course it is. Kissing Henry Winter couldn’t be any other way.

   He apologizes when you break apart, for being impolite in greeting. You flush and do the same, and it happens that neither of you mind the discourteousness of it all, thrillingly enough, which leads to more kissing. Kissing with hands that wander delectably until someone knocks into the car horn. It sluices through the Dickensian fog muddling your mind and brings awareness to your surroundings. You won’t lose your virginity in a car– not that he needs to know that it is,- and he dislikes the idea of being exposed in public. So he invites you to his apartment for a drink you’ll never get, and speeds through Hampden in silence with a hand resting on your thigh all the way.

   You stumble through the front door like altricial birds, helpless to think of anything aside from this incredible hunger. He presses you against the door a moment, doorknob digging into your lower back, then against the wall after you make a noise of protest. Labored breath hangs humid between you. It sounds symphonic to your ears. 

   His hands roam like he can’t decide where he’d like to touch you first. Gripping a hip one moment, your ass the next, and clumsily working the buttons of your shirt seconds later. You don’t mind. Your hands do the same, in the form of holding fast to his tie, untucking his shirt from his slacks, mussing the hair at the nape of his neck; anything that keeps him closer or less clothed, you’re doing. It’s nonsensical and delirious and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. 

   You break apart for nothing. You shove each other through the house. There is most certainly a chair upended, several books knocked from a side table, and something that sounds, suspiciously, like glass breaking. You barely notice. All that registers is him. His hand knotted in the back of your shirt, lips bruising your jaw, muscles tensing beneath your touch. He’s feverish against you. You’ll revel in it as long as he lets you.

  A doorframe digs into your spine, sudden, sharp, and stinging. The noise that leaves you is enraptured, needy. Henry’s a mess as he undoes the last button of your shirt and traces his hand across freshly unveiled skin. You’re burning from the inside out and the outside in, both. He touches you through your shorts experimentally, and if you had been reduced to gelatin the first time you saw him, you are now nothing more than mud. 

   Before you know it you’re being shoved into a bed much too small for something like this, too small even for him to sleep in alone, your shorts and underwear in a heap across the room. He’s hardly clothed either, pants around ankles, shirt gone, undershirt hanging by one arm. Very little comes between your skin and his, which delights you. 

    You stretch up like Alexandre Cabanel’s Venus melting into the ocean beneath. The skin of his shoulder is salty against your teeth when he pushes into you, quick and forceful. Your eyes prickle with tears as you gasp against him. It burns the way nettles burn against your shins in the fall, so stuck into the fabric of your tights that you can never get each stinging hair out. But it soothes itself soon; into something pleasant, something new, something holy.

   He never stops kissing your neck and face, muffling noises of his own into your skin and forcing yours out into the apartment air. You’re losing something with each push, selling your soul to him for pennies, in pieces. It’s a deathbed scene. It’s cremation and burial, respiteless, exhaustive, boiling. You are one, burning and smoking together, a mushroom cloud over his bed.

    There has never been anything but this, you realize, since the dawn of time. You are infinite, immortal in this binding of souls, killed only to be created anew. Because you are something new now. Your body squeezes against him, fingers dig into his back as if to tear him to pieces. It’s harsh and soft, a ceaseless chase, a promise encased within a threat. It is agonistic. It is exquisite. 

    His fingers rub circles into your clit because, he’s found, he likes the way you wrap tighter around him when he does so. He revels in the way your chin tips back and gives him more of your neck to devour. It’s dirty and rough and sweet. A passionate tempest, a never-ending flight, a betrayal of all reason. It is the blood of life itself. It is, he thinks, a pleasure worthy of damnation. 

   Above all, this is a metamorphosis. You melt into each other like candle wax. His skin and hair swirl into yours monstrously, wickedly. It’s chewing on embers so high in temperature that they turn back into ice, freezing you together, leaving him to gnaw at your neck for all time. Incomprehensible. You’re undone quickly, body locking up against his, and it takes every ounce of will in Henry’s body to not follow you over that cliff until he has safely replaced your body with his hand. 

    When you’re both done, you lie side by side in silence. Your feet hang over the side of the bed because you won’t both fit lengthwise. Your hair is stuck to your face and neck with sweat. Hundreds of tiny spots ache with the promise of ink stains, a masterful translation of desire written all along your skin. It takes time to catch your breath. Neither of you speak. 

   He dresses first, and hands you your things, now folded neatly. There is nothing softer. He doesn’t kiss your temple, or hug you, or ask if you’re alright. Desolation flowers in your sternum while you dress. Dark and lonesome.

    This is all there is, in the end. You’ve gotten the worst gift a girl can be given: everything she asked for. Everything she wanted. You swallow it down, but still it beats against your bones.

You wonder if there will be anything left of you, at all, by summer’s end.

[cdragons]

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Prologue

Next chapter

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Future NSFW, Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), Childbirth, Future Sexism & Misogyny (this is Westeros), Political Struggles, Future Deaths, Dark Themes, etc. etc. Also translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom!

Author's Note: WHO ELSE SCREAMED AT THE HOTD SEASON 2 TEASER TRAILER????? The costumes, the cinematography, the set design, FUCKING BAELA ON MOONDANCER???? But this idea was something that had been on my mind for a while, and I am really excited to share it with all of you! Shoutout to @valeskafics whose works served as a HUGE inspiration to this idea! If you liked reading this work, reblog and comment if you want to be tagged in future installments of this work! Also I apologize for any grammatical errors, I wanted to post this as soon as possible.

“PUSH!” yelled the midwife to the soon-to-be mother. “Lady Doreah, I can almost see the head!”

“Almost?” the poor woman cried out; her body had grown weary after experiencing a day’s worth of labour. Her hair clung to the sweat on her brow as the rest of her skin was soaked in perspiration from the pain. She cried out in agony as a gentle kiss from above attempted to soothe her from the torment that came with bringing new life into the world. Normally she would preen at such affection, but considering the circumstances she was in, she was in no mood for soft affections. “Ao nādrēsy! You did this to me!”

“Yes, my love,” agreed the man beside her. Unlike most husbands, Hotho Pyke refused to not remain by his beloved wife’s side during the birth of their child. He wanted to welcome the product of their love into the world with open arms. He was desperate to hold this new tiny babe in his arms as his fingers would trace over the features given to them by both their mother and father.

“You speak true my darling; I am a bastard. But if memory serves me right, it was my bastard birth that finally made you look my way after months of me begging for your attention. Well, that and a bit of my bastard tongue.” He tried to hide the wince that almost spilled from his lips at the furious grip on his hands in response of his wife. Even at the worst times, the man would never stop in his attempts to make her laugh. It was a most excellent quality in a husband in any other time but now.

“Gods help me Hotho – if this child does not come out of me soon, I will take my shears and cut out that bastard tongue of yours myself!” Doreah let out another scream as she continued to push her child out – although the pain was intense, the longing to hear the newest member of their family was greater than anything else she had felt in her lifetime.

“The baby is crowning!” exclaimed the midwife, who stood forgotten by the couple. “You are so close my lady, a few more pushes and you and your husband can welcome the newborn!”

This news filled Doreah with a newfound determination. Using every bit of her strength, she grasped her Hotho for support as she let out a furious yell as her body clenched to push out the newborn.

And after what seemed to both a lifetime and no time at all, powerful and shrill cries filled out every corner of the room. Not bothering to lean back against the pillows to rest, Doreah reached forward and demanded to hold her baby. She didn’t even care if you were a son or a daughter- you could have been a goat for all she cared. All she wanted to was to hold whomever had been growing inside her for the past nine months. She wanted to breathe in the scent of their skin and kiss their tiny faces. She wanted to love her child- her new world and her greatest love. Son, daughter, goat- Doreah knew that this child would forever be perfect in her eyes.

And perfect this child was indeed, and perfection suited their daughter.

Ten toes and ten fingers covered in blood, and kicking as hard an airborne goat, Doreah and Hotho wept as loudy as their newborn girl. It was only when the midwife insisted that she have the baby cleaned and wrapped in blankets were the two able to part with her. When you were returned to your mother’s arms, all felt right with the world as they continued to weep at the sight of the newest member of their small and strange family.

“Ziry's kesīr, īlva tala,” whispered Doreah with tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked up to gaze at her husband. “Gaomagon ao ūndegon zirȳla, ñuha jorrāelagon? Jurnegon rȳ zirȳla! Iksis ziry daor se olvie precious riña emā mirre ūndegīon!”

“I see her my coral,” whispered out her husband, whose face was soaked in tears in response to the overwhelming joy flowing within him. “Our pearl is beautiful. But most importantly, she is healthy and she is loved.”

He traced a finger across his daughter’s delicate features. Although you were currently sleeping, he knew that your eyes would take after hers, and he was ecstatic. There was a time when he believed that he would never love anything or anyone more than he loved the sea, only now there were two women in his life whom his love was consumed by entirely.

As the world slipped away into the background, the love from the new parents was so great it formed an almost impenetrable barrier surrounding them. But all peaceful things reach an end and theirs came from the knocking of a serving girl.

“My Lord and Lady…Pyke,” came a new voice, clearly disgusted by the act of referring a bastard as a lord, “if the Lady is presentable, the Queen Alicent would like to come in to see the child.”

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Doreah. “Please let her in! I would be most honored to have Alicent meet my sweet pearl!”

“My brightest coral, are you sure? You just went through birth. Queen or not, shouldn’t you recover before she asks your attention?”

Hotho Pyke was an impoverished bastard born from the Iron Islands. He knew how to predict wind patterns and navigate with the stars before he could write. His skills as a seafarer were so great that he caught the attention of Lord Corlys of House Velaryon who sat on the Driftwood Throne. But however impressive his skills were with a sail, there was still much to be desired with his knowledge of etiquette appropriate for the Royal Court of the Red Keep in the Crownlands. His raised brow and confused tone suggested that he believed his question to be one borne of common sense despite the horrified expressions on everyone else’s faces save for his wife.

“Hotho, ñuha jorrāelagon,” Doreah tiredly chuckled as she shook her head, “there is still so much for you to learn about the Red Keep. Please Jeyne, let the Queen enter. I want her to meet our pearl!”

Almost immediately, a heavily pregnant figure in resplendent green and gold came dashing into the room in hopes to be the first to reach the bedridden woman and greet the child.

“Doreah!” exclaimed out the queen, relieved that her dearest friend had survived the trials of birth with the result of a healthy child. “Let me see you! How are you? Are you sure you are well? Do you need anything for the pain?”

Doreah couldn’t help but laugh at the onslaught of questioning from her fretful childhood friend. Since they were still just young girls, Alicent Targaryen nee Hightower always worried about the seamstress’ health and wellbeing despite being a few years younger. She fondly looked back on the days when she and her would peacefully discuss about their days as they worked on their embroidery or took lessons from the Head Septa. Handing their daughter to her husband to hold, she reached out to her friend in attempt to soothe her worries.

“Alicent, I am fine. Truly, there is no need to fret so much.” Doreah reassured her friend before looking back to the love of her life. “Besides, I was never in any danger. Not with my brave Iron Knight by my side the entire time.”

Still holding their radiant babe, Hotho Pyke beamed at his wife’s tender words before laying kisses on her hands, her fingers, the top of her hairline, before eventually stopping at her lips.

Alicent, however, was less than pleased at the shameless display of affection shared between the couple.

“Ser Pyke,” – she refused to refer a bastard of all things as a lord – “surely you know that men are not permitted in the birthing room during the delivery. I thought that this was made clear to you when you first learned of your wife’s pregnancy.”

Not recognizing the insult in being referred as “Ser” as opposed to “Lord,” Hotho only took the queen’s words as a sign of worry for her favored companion.

“My mother would rise from her watery grave to string me by my feet and call me a cunt if she knew that I left my wife alone in bringing our child into the world. Besides, had I not been in the room, she would have let her vicious tongue loose on another unfortunate soul.”

“In any case, are you sure you should not be resting? You are carrying the King’s child, surely that takes priority over seeing me.” Doreah knew that this pregnancy had been particularly difficult for Alicent, recalling the many times she walked in on her kneeling before her chamber pots in emptying out the contents of her stomach.

“Nonsense,” replied Alicent, who shook her head at the statement, “there is no one more important to me at this moment than you, sweet Doreah. I just hope that your husband’s brash tongue does not influence such a young innocent.”

“Ah, no worries my Queen. The brashness of my tongue is no match for that of my wife. She proved that many a time in our quarters.”

The Iron Island-born bastard was promptly cut off by a swift slap on the arm from his wife.

Before Alicent could respond to such vulgarity, she was interrupted by the presence of another figure dressed in a gorgeous red and black dress patterned with masterful gold embroidery.

“Rhaenyra!” Doreah exclaimed in excitement, happy to have not one but two of her closest friends greet her daughter. “You did not have to come! Are you sure you are not currently preoccupied with your duties?”

“Oh, please,” the princess uttered, “what could possibly be more important at this moment than to greet the firstborn of Laenor and I’s closest friends?”

Walking over to Hotho’s side, Rhaenyra was entranced by the sight of the newly arrived babe. She could already see how you would grow to be the spitting image of your mother.

“May I hold her?” she asked with arms already reaching toward your father.

Looking back to his wife to make sure she approved of it, he carefully handed you to Rhaenyra – but not before he laid a dozen kisses on your face.

“Oh Doreah,” Rhaenyra softly cooed, “she is absolutely perfect. I can tell that she will grow up to be as kind and beautiful as her mother.”

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” tears filled your mother’s eyes at her friend’s kind words, “kirimvose.” She turned to Alicent, who was currently sitting beside the bed in a chair brought to her to ease the stress on her body from her third pregnancy. Your mother reached one arm to each of her friends as a way to show solidarity. “Thank you to the both of you. I would not be where I am now – so happy and full of love – without the both of you here to guide me through the Red Keep. I owe you two everything. I only hope that our children can remain as friends so that they will never know loneliness.”

If your mother knew of the cruel fate she thrust onto you with that wish, she would have given everything to the gods in hopes to free you.

Your father took you back into his arms before handing you once more to your mother. Although you had woken from your slumber, you made no noise. You only gazed at the figures surrounding you with wide and eager eyes. Ever so slightly, you reached out your hand to paw at the green fabric of the queen.

So young, and you already seemed to recognize the beauty in the custom-made garment.

Alicent laughed in a way that was so genuine that it seemed unfamiliar, fascinated by the fervent grabbing of her dress on your end.

“It seems that this little one will be a seamstress as well,” she stated as she reached forward to let you pull and tug at her sleeve in enraptured delight, “I can only imagine what talent she will possess.”

“What will you name her?” Rhaenyra asked, hoping that you will be blessed with a name with Valyrian roots.

But a shared glance between your parents showed that they had already decided a name for you far before this day.

“Ashirri, Ashirri Pyke” your mother confidently stated, “in honor of both our cultures.”

Your father grasped his wife’s shoulder in agreement. “We will never let our child feel she must restrict herself to one background. As her parents, we want to let her know that her world will be one of endless possibilities.”

On this day, Doreah Pyke gave birth to a child for her and her husband to raise. This child will be raised with so much love that it will not matter that you were born from two bastard parents, one from Essos and the other from the Iron Islands. No, you were born as a result of the love from two people from opposite sides of the world who miraculously found one another, and that was all that would matter in the end. Doreah would teach you an art that could only be made through masterfully crafted embroidery and needlework, while Hotho will teach you how to use the stars to navigate waters and open their horizons to an endless sea of possibilities.

And if you did not wish to become either a seamstress or a sailor, it made no difference to them. Westeros, Essos, the Red Keep, the Iron Islands – the world was your oyster, and you were the miraculous pearl.

Their child will not be like the close-minded fools of their homelands, but someone whose mind will be open to new opportunities and will never stop seeing the joy in discovering the unknown. And they would always be there to help guide you in any way the could. Nothing would ever come between the love your parents held for you.

If only the gods could allow for such happiness to last forever.

But dragons have a tendency to burn rather than create, especially ones with sapphire for eyes and strong blood in their veins.

Translations:

"Ao nādrēsy!" - You Bastard!

"Ziry's kesīr, īlva tala... Gaomagon ao ūndegon zirȳla, ñuha jorrāelagon? Jurnegon rȳ zirȳla! Iksis ziry daor se olvie precious riña emā mirre ūndegīon!" - She's here, our daughter. Do you see her, my love? Look at her! Is she not the most precious child you have ever seen?

"ñuha jorrāelagon" - my love

kirimvose - Thank you

Tagging: @valeskafics, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @aphroditesmoon, @nighttwingg, @marvelescvpe, @nellychick, @its-actually-minicika, @biancaweasley

[dissociation-station123]

Nerdy CEO Gojo & Reader

One Shot… unless you guys want me to write more 💕

Warnings: Suggestive situations; Language; Small NSFW scene: Oral

~

You are here again; in Suguru’s bed even when you promised yourself and others you wouldn’t be. He had texted you that he had a rough day and you wanted to ease it like always. Practically running to him addicted to the pain and pleasure when he takes his stress out on you.

You felt a sick sense of accomplishment everytime; Suguru is a calm and collected man. Yet you were often the one seeing him break down. Tense jaw and soft curses spilling from his lips. Furrowed brow and bruising grasp. It was a twisted relationship.

He lays beside you now; breathing steady and in a deep sleep. Passed out without a care. Yet you were wide awake, your mind refusing to shut off, and the adrenaline has worn off. Your body aching in protest as you shift to sit up. You cringe at the bite marks littering your skin.

You struggle to stand; take a deep inhale and force yourself up. Blindly shuffling and fumbling for your discarded clothes scattered across the floor. Each movement sends a sharp pain up your spine. You glance over cautiously and see him still lost to the world.

You needed a shower and comfy clothes as soon as possible. The aftermath always made you feel disgusted by yourself. Wincing you tugged on your jeans and sweater, thankful you were smart enough to set your other belongings on the kitchen counter rather than tossed somewhere haphazardly.

You unlock and escape unnoticed out of his bedroom door and make your way down the hall. When you reach the main area you freeze. Sitting at the island hunched over his laptop was Suguru’s roommate, Satoru Gojo. He wore an oversized long sleeve shirt and pajama bottoms with his favorite Digimon from his childhood. You watch him, a frown on his face as he pushes up his thick frames sighing over an excel sheet.

Satoru Gojo was an interesting person to you. You have only ever met him at the apartment. In his domain he often geeked out over special interests and was quick to give you recommendations on books and anime. When Suguru explained he was a CEO of his family's multibillion dollar company it was hard to imagine.

“What are you doing up Satoru?” You whisper and he jolts upright. The moment he hears your voice a bright smile replaces his weary expression. You can’t help but return it; his energy is always infectious.

“Y/N! Ooo looking over the companies financial reports. I found some errors.” Even though you knew such things vexed him; you could never tell by his chipper tone anytime he spoke to you. “I- well I knew you were here so I brought out an extra mug if you would like some coffee or tea.”

He is such a generous and kind soul. The two men who shared this space were like night and day. You make your way over and are about to prepare your cup when he gets up and pulls out a chair. “I got this. Just sit.”

A small bit of shame crawls to the surface as you see his gaze fall to your neck in concern. You curse Suguru knowing you told him not to leave traces of your escapade in obvious areas. When he is in a feral state you know your pleas fall on deaf ears.

You watch him clumsily move around. You knew you had been here too often when you realized he knew how you like your coffee without even asking. “Have you seen the latest episode of Solo Leveling?”

His movements become more erratic; his excitement visible in his body language at the topic you bring up. “Yes!! Visually it's amazing and the story has been great so far!” His voice is loudest when you discuss his favorite things; it was an endearing sight. You nod your head in agreement as he sets the mug beside you.

Your heart swells pleasantly when he also sets down a couple tabs of ibuprofen. Always thoughtful without asking for anything in return. He was an enigma in your eyes. You grin to yourself as you take them with your coffee. You make a pleased sound at the bitter sweet liquid; comforted by its warmth.

“I can’t wait to see what happens. I am trying really hard not to watch them as they air. But I’m kind of failing.” He looks away in embarrassment and you laugh lightly at the adorable gesture.

“I get it, Satoru. I tend to do the same.” You say and he instantly perks up nodding his head. “You should work on this during the day rather than gaming. You need sleep, you know.” You glance over at the laptop and he sighs at your chastising. But the dark circles under his eyes were prominent in the soft glow. You were merely worried and you knew he would understand.

“A new update came out and we’ll…” He looks down at his hands, which were folded in front of him. When he immersed himself in one of his favorite computer games he tended to lose track of reality which made you anxious for him.

“Have you eaten anything Satoru?” You ask softly and he picks at his nails nervously. “Satoru…” you gently call out and he sheepishly looks up and shakes his head. You click your teeth and begin to get up but he quickly argues for you to remain where you are.

“Please don’t worry about it. I will order DoorDash, a big breakfast.” He counters and you study him suspiciously. He lifts his arms and stutters out a promise.

“Fine but you promised so you better.” You say sternly and he agrees profusely. You smile at him again and he becomes less defensive. “So tell me about this game you're playing.”

And he does; You don’t realize it but after his speal nearly an hour has gone by. You were immersed and moved by his explanation. Engrossed by his excited expressions. “That does sound pretty great. I need to get back into playing. I love turn-based games.” You admit and his eyes widen even more; you did not think that was possible.

“If you get it we can play together! I would show you the basics and help level you up!” He shouts his hands motioning. You would love to play but you knew your computer did not have the specs. It was mostly used on the rare occasion you got to remote work from home.

“I wish I could but I don’t really have the set up for it.” You felt bad for getting his hopes up; his expression falling. He runs his hand through his messy white hair now in thought.

Satoru suddenly perks up, “I could text you some recommendations!” He burst out and you chew anxiously on your bottom lip. Unlike a CEO your salary was average in your city. With inflation you barely managed to cover the bills you had. Yet you didn’t want to burden the happy go lucky Satoru Gojo with your problems.

“I appreciate it, Satoru.” You say as he grins brightly in your direction. “But right now I don’t have a lot of extra money to spend. I’m sorry.” He looks a bit defeated but then shakes his head.

“Let me buy it for you!!” He beams as you take a sip of your coffee, nearly spitting it back in the cup. “It’s no big deal I swear!” You want to resent him for saying such a thing so easily. A thousand dollars merely pocket change to him. But when you look at his puppy-like expression you can't feel any negative emotions.

“No Satoru. I would feel bad. It may not be much to you but to me that is way too much.” You try to explain but his head tilts in confusion. “I could not just accept such a big purchase. I would feel bad.” You try to explain and it finally clicks in his brain.

“I see.” He looks so sad; you pat his hand to reassure him. “What if I get it and then you take your time paying me back?” He refuses to give up on the discussion and you laugh. “Please Y/N! In a way you would be doing me a favor. I get uncomfortable playing with random people online. But with you playing with me it would be stress free.”

There was a long pause between you as you contemplated his offer. He stares at you holding back his enthusiasm until you respond. “Fine…” you finally say and he physically jumps out of his chair cheering. He is so adorable.

“I’ll order everything and can even help you set it up!” He says, more excited about this than you are. He pauses mid fist pump, “If you want. I don’t want to intrude.” His demeanor changes within a second. His shoulders slump as if expecting you to scold him.

A quiet rage builds up within you. Not because of Satoru. But at the people in his life who most likely punished him when he got this way. Who discouraged him for being who he was. That told him he needed to grow up or act normal.

“I would love that Satoru. When I have free time I will definitely let you know.” You are desperate to see the light return to those piercing blue eyes. And we’re grateful when his exuberance returned. Nodding he fidgets with happiness at your response.

“I need to get out of here but text me.” You say the dull aches in your body are becoming stronger. You needed to rest before having to return to work. He nods as he observes how you try and stretch, you catch him scowl which was unexpected. You wonder if he resents his roommate at times for how he tends to only call you when he wants something.

He hurriedly opens a cabinet pulling to go coffee cups down. He takes the mug and pours the remaining contents in and adds a bit more from the pot. “Be safe on your way home Y/N.” He hands it to you and your bag.

“I will! And you better eat or else!” You threaten but you feel a bit like a hypocrite. You always get onto him about taking care of himself; when you don’t follow your own advice. Satoru slips a granola bar into your belongings and you grin. He leads you to the door and waves goodbye.

~

A few weeks had passed since you made a late night visit to Suguru’s place. Satoru was quick to send you his plans for your new setup. You found yourself smiling as he texted you more often. Suguru on the other hand has not reached out since; you attempted to act like it didn’t hurt but a part of you felt wounded.

Today Satoru made plans to come over. He had called early and you could hear his eagerness in every word. He spoke quickly; giving you the low down on the specs and design of the computer. When you gave him your address he promised to stop by.

A knock on your door interrupts your desperate attempt to clean. Work had been rough and once you got home all you could manage was dinner and a glass of bourbon. You were thankful it was the weekend but you grimace at the mess. You answer and apologize for the chaos as you usher him inside.

You do a double take when you look him over. You rarely saw him outside of his abode so seeing him in a pair of jeans and a nice shirt took you by surprise. He looked good; his current outfit is more form fitting. His arms strain, veins visible as he carries in the box with your new CPU; you realize for the first time he is built very well.

You shake yourself from a stupor, “Do you need help?” He sets down the box and you see that he is nervous. “What’s wrong Satoru?” You ask in concern. A blush coats his cheeks as he scratches the back of his neck.

“N-nothing…” he stammers and you raise an eyebrow in his direction. “A few more boxes in my car! I’ll be right back!” He shouts before you could question him further.

“Can I help?” You walk with him but he shakes his head avoiding your eyes.

“No, it's fine. I’ll be right back!” You are perplexed at his awkward behavior; believing you both had grown closer since meeting. You sit down overthinking until you hear another soft knock.

You rush to let him in and he fumbles past with two more boxes and a large bag. You hurry to grab the bag in an attempt to help and at your sudden closeness he pulls away frantically.

Not able to correct his footing he begins falling forward, in a panic you attempt to protect the equipment and Satoru. Everything including the man landed on you, his weight nearly crushing you.

“S-sorry!! O my Y/N!” He moves the boxes, concern present on his features as he scurries to sit up. “Did I kill you?!” His voice high as he lifts you up as if you were a sack of potatoes, your eyes widened at his strength.

You inhale deeply, now able to breathe and then burst out into a loud cackle. His terrified expression morphs into relief and then he joins you in laughing hysterically. When you both manage to pull yourself together, you reach out and grab his chin. The soft blush that coated his face deepens to a darker hue and his eyebrows raise in alarm.

“Satoru Gojo, why are you so anxious?” You question him with a raised eyebrow. “Are we not friends?” Your voice is commanding and he is not able to make eye contact. He squirms a bit in your hold, biting his lower lip.

“W-well.. I-I of course we are.” He mutters, wringing his hands. You release him and he shys away from you. He pulls the boxes near him and begins unpacking. “It’s just…” He pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose.

“Go on. I’m listening.” You muse folding your arms and studying how he fidgets. The tape is giving him a hard time so you lean forward and use your nail to pierce it. His breath hitches at your closeness.

“Don’t laugh…” He sits back on his knees looking pitiful. And you scowl at him for even suggesting you would and he notices. “I know you wouldn’t but it is still a bit humiliating.”

“We all have times where we feel that way. I don’t mean to pressure you. If you're uncomfortable I will not pry.” You say sincerely even if it does hurt your feelings. He never acted this way with you before. You wonder if you did something to offend him.

He sees how your face falls and sits up straighter. “It’s not you!! You're wonderful!!” He says loudly and you smile. His ears turn red at the outburst. “It’s just… ugh…” He relaxes a bit and then looks determined. “I’ve never been to a woman’s place before. I got all in my head about it.”

Your heart leaps to life at his sweet admission. Satoru Gojo is the cutest human you have ever had the pleasure of knowing and this only adds to the title. “Is there anything I can do to ease your nerves Satoru?” You ask genuinely and he looks over at you with such admiration. To much admiration, you didn’t deserve such a gaze.

A few seconds go by as you both kneel on the floor amongst the scattered mess of components. “You already are just being you. Thank you Y/N.” He gushes praise and it’s your turn to flinch away.

“You give me far too much credit. Be careful placing people on pedestals; you will most likely be disappointed.” Your voice is melancholy and you hate bringing down the mood so you flash a smile and bop him gently on the nose playfully. “Let’s get to work so that we can play! I have been looking forward to this since you told me about the game.”

The mention of the game transforms his nervousness into enthusiasm before your very eyes. He nods exuberantly and you both begin putting everything together. He bombards you with more knowledge of the lore and characters. The distraction is exactly what you needed; Suguru and work the last thing on your mind as you both chat.

~

You did not realize that putting together a set-up could be so exhausting. Yet as you stare at the completed project you are overwhelmed by happiness. “We did it! Honestly without you here I would have been lost.” You laugh reaching your hand up to high five Satoru. He eagerly returns it with a beaming smile.

It was beyond what you could have imagined; LED lights (in your preferred color) illuminated perfectly from the white surface. Two 27 inch curved monitors set above a Corsair keyboard and mouse. You were unable to tear your eyes away from how majestic it looked.

“I wanted to help you get started customizing your space even more so…” he sheepishly grins as he pulls out one last box. He pushes it towards you.

“Satoru! You have already done way too much!” You chastise him but your voice was too elated for him to really take it to heart. You open the box and gasp in surprise. A custom desk mat of your favorite fandom. You blink back tears, no one has done anything like this for you. “Th-Thank you!”

You always envied people’s creativity when creating their own space. You had wished you could do the same but it was never possible. This sweet man has made it come true.

Without thinking you pull him into a tight hug; his whole body tenses not expecting the contact. “Thank you so much.” You say gleefully and at that moment you feel him wrap his arms around you and return the gesture.

As you hold onto him you realize how small you feel; your eyes nearly at chest level; his body feels hard in comparison to your soft one. This time your cheeks heat up and you clumsily pull away as your mind takes you on a sinful journey. You cough, “Thanks again.”

He looks so happy and his eyes gleam with endearment as he stares down at you. “It’s no biggie. I’m super excited to play with you.” You shift your weight still trying to get the fresh scent of his laundry out of your mind.

“Let me order food for us! My treat for all your help today.” Your voice sounds a bit shaken and he looks so elated you feel shameful. You were unworthy of him. You fake a smile and pat his shoulder as you move away to grab your phone; putting distance between you. To protect him from your selfishness. You knew you had become a comfort person to him, you refuse to take advantage of his trust in you.

~

Satoru is beside himself that you allowed him to come over. Even bought him dinner. You were so kind and caring. Not to mention breathtaking. As he chewed on his meal he kept stealing glances unable to stop himself. Every gesture and quirk he needed to study it; burn it into his memory.

When you were wrapped up in his arms his heart raced and mind turned to mush. He was intrigued by the effects you had on him. No one else in his life made him feel the way you did. At first it was similar to the way he felt about things he liked; warm and safe. The longer you stuck around they morphed into something he didn’t quite understand.

He did not care about romance or flings. Suguru often bombarded him with women but he found excuses to leave every time. His only friend chastised him all the time about not having a life and Satoru never understood why. It was all dull compared to things he truly enjoyed.

He was often bullied but as long as he was able to learn and study he was fine. His escape from the obligations of his family and the harassment of his peers became gaming and other “nerdy” hobbies. Unable to let go of childhood shows that comforted him when his own parents wouldn’t.

He came to accept that no one truly would know him and he them. That was until you began showing up. At first he dismissed you as one of Suguru’s many lovers. Ignoring you as you passed him to head home; early hours before the sun rose. He noticed you avoided his gaze which he was fine with.

You kept coming around; Satoru was surprised, Suguru never had the same lover for more than two or three nights. Satoru’s curiosity was his guide in all things; Seeing this as an anomaly he began wondering why. So much so he stopped you the next time you tried scurrying out the door.

“Hey! I’m Satoru.” It felt strange being the one to initiate a conversation, he expected you to give him a weirded out reaction. Instead you smile and wave. Something about being able to see genuine kindness in your eyes made him dig further. “Do you like coffee or tea? You look a bit exhausted.”

You politely accept though a bit catiously at first. Satoru hated small talk but he was on a mission. Why keep you around? Suguru had been with women who were more beautiful by society standards. You didn’t have an interesting job. His mind was reeling as he grilled you.

“Hey Satoru.” You interrupt his question as you take a long sip of coffee. He cuts off his sentence to listen. “I noticed your manga collection. It’s pretty impressive.” At this moment all queries dissolved from his mind. He smiles excitedly.

An hour later you're both still in deep discussion about Attack on Titan. She nodded along intently, focused on his words. She did not scold him for being overly excited. He no longer cared why Suguru kept you around. His new goal was how to keep you around longer.

And now he was in your home; Trying to learn more about you from glances at your belongings. He isn’t obsessed, you have just become one of his special interests. “Do you need help installing the game?” He asks after finishing his meal. Not really wanting to part yet.

You look down embarrassed as you confess, “That would actually be great. It’s been a long time since I have played on a console…” So cute!!

“I love this stuff so it’s no trouble.” Satoru explains as he follows you over to the desk. He goes to do it and you grab his wrist, his heart lurches in his chest.

“Do you mind if you just tell me? In case you're not around I’ll know.” You explain and he adds another thing he likes about you to his mental list. Satoru moves over and you sit down.

Satoru easily walks you through the steps; you were an attentive person when you focused. Time goes by as you chat with him and share things about yourself. He dreads that the sun is starting to fall. You looked up and must have seen his frown; you were so close his eyes drift to your lips unconsciously.

“Are you ok?” You ask concerned and he nods quickly. He is enjoying his time with you and did not want it to end. But he knew you had other things you probably needed to do. “Suguru is going to worry if I keep you for too long.”

At the mention of his best friend's name a strange and bitter feeling surfaces within Satoru. Suguru didn’t deserve your time but the way his name fell from your lips, he knew you felt something for him. He hated that.

“He probably has company anyways.” It comes out harsh. He regretted saying it immediately when your expression fell dramatically. “I-I no you are right. I’m sorry!” Satoru panics, desperate to see you smile again.

You laugh but it sounds forced and his chest pangs painfully; stange he wasn’t injured. “No need for you to apologize to me, Satoru. I would be a fool if I believed I was the only person.” Your voice is shaky and he sees tears forming at the corner of your eyes.

He kneels beside the gaming chair and his hand acts on its own, reaching up to wipe them before they fall. He swallows heavily as his lips quiver. “No…” He whispers and then his voice rises, “You are not the fool. He is! You are amazing. You deserve the world.”

~

You look up at him surprised by the passion in his tone. You have heard him go on thousands of tangents with vigorous declaration. This felt different and more emotional. He looks like he is hurting. As he attempts to stop you from crying you see he is on the verge of sobbing.

“Toru.” His gaze meets yours as soon as you mutter his name trance-like. You cup his cheek in your hand and he whines softly at your touch. Leaning almost nuzzling then your thumb swipes across his lower lip; his breath hitches. A new tension envelopes you both and heat radiates between you. “Do you like me?”

“Of course I do.” Satoru says his eyes flutter as you stroke the back of his neck. You shake your head at his casual tone. You click your teeth and he attempts to open his eyes to gaze at you.

“Romantically?” You ask softly. He looks like he is struggling to formulate an answer. Almost as if he is malfunctioning. “Toru?” You say and he stills.

“I think so. I’m not sure.” He is still struggling but he continues, “I just know I want to see you happy all the time. I like being around you and I don’t care for most people. I wanted time to stop tonight so I can spend more time by your side. I like when you touch me. It makes my heart race.”

Then his face contorts and his eyebrows furrow, “Suguru does not treat you well. He is my closest friend. I have never been bothered by him even when he dragged me to large social events but now…” his jaw clenches, “I have this bitter ugly feeling when he talks about you. Or he ignores your texts.”

You are stunned by his admission. You are now at a loss for words and your arm falls to your side. He notices, “Is that abnormal?! Say something.” You hear the panic in his voice and know he is confused.

“No it is normal Satoru.” You quickly reassure him. Noone has spoken about you with such passion. Your body freezes up, “I have just never been told something like that.” You are unable to keep up your confident teasing facade. He looks more upset than you when you say that.

He takes your hand in his own, a bold move for someone who was just blushing about being at your place. “Fools all of them.” His voice laced with determination, as he laces his fingers around your own. You still don’t know how to react. “How do you feel about me?”

Satoru is sweet and kind. You love how carried away he gets when he talks about his interest. He always seems to take care of you after dealing with Suguru. You trust him, which is rare. But you can’t seem to form those thoughts into words. “I like being around you, a lot.” You feel pathetic that you can’t express yourself, but he smiles so brightly.

“I’m glad. I trust you too.” He nods as if he has some weird ability to read your mind. He drops eye contact and chews on his lower lip. “I REALLY want to kiss you right now.” His voice shakes with unease and he shyly looks up at you; the tip of his ears and cheeks are bright red; it seems he was willing to overcome this fear if you would allow him.

He looked so cute in this state, so bashful yet resolute. You could not deny him, you were weak so you simply nod. He looks at you in wonder when you agree, now unsure what to do next he fidgets. “I don’t have much experience with this kind of thing. So I…” Your heart melts at his visage.

You take hold of his face placing your forehead against his own, his gasps at your closeness. “It’s alright. Just relax the best you can for me.” You whisper into his ear and you feel him shiver. He nods his hands on both sides of you clasping and unclasping, not sure where they belong in a situation like this. “It’s ok to touch me.”

The moment you told him it is ok his hands move to your sides, he squeezes gently. Without warning he stands, lifting you up and you let out a pathetic squeal. “How?” You mumble as he carries you towards your couch, as if you were merely a bag of groceries. You expect him to be clumsy but he gracefully strides across the room with a determined look on his flush face.

“Shit…” you curse as he sits onto your couch, you now straddling his lap. You place a hand on his very firm chest and his heart is beating rapidly. You look up at him and a warmth spreads down your lower stomach. His eyes are low lidded and his breathing heavy.

“What now?” He asks, the rough deep tone makes you stifle a moan. This feels wrong, the sweet Satoru you know and love is practically putty in your hand. You can sense he would be willing to do anything for you by his expression.

“Are you sure Satoru?” You ask if this is really what he wants. You don’t want to take advantage. You sit up on your knees to relieve the feeling of him pressed so close. Immediately his hands find your hips and push you back down against the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Yes! Fuck yes…” He seems to be in a haze as his fingers tease your skin from under the thin fabric of your top. This was the first time you heard him curse and it sounded so sweet from his lips. “Please.” He begs and you lose any control you were grasping at.

You reach up and pull him towards you, lips connecting slowly. You wanted to increase the pace but held back. Softly you guide him and he quickly follows your lead. You lean back for a breath and he exhales with a satisfied sound. You grin when he pushes his frames up his nose, the familiar gesture makes you smile. Then he opens his cerulean eyes and pure hunger greets you. “More… feels good.”

You moan when he lifts his hips up and your eyes widen as you feel him rubbing against your center. “Satoru?” You look at him surprised, his hidden muscular figure not the only large thing about him.

“Say Toru…” He whispers, “I like it when you call me Toru.” Your resolve is slipping quickly from his desperate demeanor. Your fingers grip his snow white hair and yank softly, his eyes roll back instinctively. “I can’t think… it’s so strange.” He mutters as his hands cup your ass.

You kiss him roughly and he groans against your mouth. Your tongue slides along his lower lip and he opens his mouth obediently. You both cling to each other pushing as close as possible as you grind against him. The saccharine coos that escape him while his tongue slides clumsily against your own is addictive. Who needs air?

He whines as you disconnect, drool coating and dripping messily. You devilishly nip at his ear and his nails dig into the fat of your butt at the sensation. “Are you sure you are ok Toru?” Your voice is breathless and you feel him shake below you, his clothed cock twitching.

“Uh huh…. Hah… great actually… Ngh…” He tries to answer as you suck at the soft flesh on his neck. You smirk against his skin, letting the newfound power go to your head. Your hands now under his shirt feeling the defined planes of his abs, shifting at your touch deliciously. “Oo my… ummm…” he cries out as your fingers dip lower below his belt line. “Shit…”

You look up to read his expression; you can tell he is a bit overwhelmed but his pupils are blown wide with lust. You bit down on his collarbone to hear more of his cries. Fending for the sounds he gives you from a simple touch and he does not disappoint.

You begin to unbuckle his belt and a string of curses escape from his trembling lips. His phone suddenly rings loudly making you both jump in unison. Of course he doesn’t keep it silenced. “S-sorry…” He mutters, reaching for it and you see that Suguru is calling. A wicked idea pops into your mind. He goes to hang up but you shake your head.

“Answer it, he is probably worried.” You don’t recognize your own voice, laced with venom. As you unbutton Satoru’s jeans and his eyes widen in shock. He does what you say without question like a good boy.

“Hey Suguru...” You see him dig his nails into his palm as you work his zipper, trying to hide the quiver in his tone. He bites down on his lower lip harshly as you place kisses along his lower abdomen.

“You ok? I think this is the longest you have stayed out of the house besides work.” You scoff when you hear that deep tone, slightly chastising him as if Satoru was not the same age; It annoys you. You pull down Satoru’s jeans in one swift motion and kneel between his legs. You watch him swallow heavily.

“Huh?” Satoru must not have heard a word Suguru said, his focus solely on you. You don’t touch, just admire, your mouth opens agape at the bulge nearly escaping his boxer. Satoru Gojo has no idea how rare he is. You lift up your head to smile at him brightly and he returns it goofily. Those cerulean eyes looking down half lidded.

“Are you ok? Are you still at Y/N’s place? Are you playing a game or some’n?”Suguru asks, you hear concern. Probably because Satoru was not often distracted unless by a game or show. Satoru suddenly strokes your cheek affectionately. You take his hand and place a chaste kiss on his palm.

“Yeah. I should be leaving soon. I’m… mmm” He groans suddenly when you take one of his long fingers and places it in your mouth. Your tongue circling the digit. “So-so good!” You swallow his digit and he drops the phone covering his mouth with his free hand, to stifle his whimpers.

“Suguru…” You say condescendly sweet, after pulling Satoru’s finger from your lips. “He is fine. He is going to head out soon.” You knead Satoru’s defined thighs and he uses both hands to cover his mouth, his eyes wide as he watches.

Suguru laughs then, the sound fox-like. He was a calculating and cunning man. “Y/N! I know you are taking good care of him. Don’t keep him out too late, treasure.” He practically purrs full of amusement, it throws you off completely.

Satoru grabs your wrist and places your hands where he wanted you, desperately bucking against your touch. No longer able to hold back his groans. “Have fun you two!” Suguru hangs up, you could envision his soft cocky grin from the sound of his voice.

Seems your scheme backfires, yet the look of pure fascination and need on Satoru’s face is a wonderful distraction. You focus on him freeing his aching cock from the confines of his boxers. It springs free, almost slapping your face, pulsating, and drops of precum trickle from the tip. The sheer length makes you swallow, you feel almost intimidated.

“Looks painful, Toru. Let me help you.” You build up a confident facade but honestly you weren’t sure how to fit this thing in your mouth. You swirl your tongue along the tip and his entire body arches, head falling back against the wall. He wouldn’t judge you, this is all new for him. “Is this ok?” You ask to verify this is what he wants.

“God-God yes yes…” He whines his fingers now traveling to your head for some type of control. You take as much as you can down your throat, choking causing saliva to build up. Your hands squeeze and pull his balls for another form of stimulation. Then you begin to move, stroking the length you could not fit in your mouth, his body quakes beneath you. “Fuck! Fuck! I’m going-wait! Slow down-I’m going to! Hah! Hah!”

It does not take long before he releases down your throat. You grit and bear the sheer amount that slides down, swallowing multiple times. When you pull away you have to catch your breath. “Damn you were backed up huh…” You laugh teasingly and gaze up with a smirk.

He does not verbally respond, his eyes glaze over completely lost in the aftermath of pleasure. His body is still twitching and his breathing shallow. His cheeks flushed, head still back. “Toru?” You whisper sweetly to help shake him from his daze.

You pull his boxers back up and help him dress, he is completely malleable to your actions. “When you get back home we can play for a bit.” That seems to work as his eyes look over at you, that goofy grin returning to his face.

“I love you…” He mutters barely audibly, still trying to recover. Managing to finally sit up on his own. “Shit…”

“What?” You tilt your head in confusion. He finally realizes what he has said and shakes his head. He yanks you down now hovering above you.

“Nothing! But I don’t want to go yet. I want to… umm…” he looks away sheepishly, even after cumming down your throat he is bashful, “Return the favor.” You pull his chin to face you, his thick frames sliding down his nose. You pull him in for a kiss and he eagerly reciprocates.

“Next time, Toru. It’s getting late.” You say and he pouts, so adorably. You flick his forehead playfully and laugh. “Don’t look at me like that.” He then initiates the kiss, the fever and passion making you dizzy. He humps you pushing you deep into the worn cushions. Your legs wrapping around his waist instinctually, craving the friction.

It took every single ounce of will power to shove him back. “Next time…” You remind him sliding your thumb across his drool coated lips. He groans in frustration but nods in understanding.

Reluctantly he gets up and helps you to your feet. You help him gather his things and walk him to your door. “Still up to play when I get home?” He asks you, hopeful.

“Of course. It’s the weekend so I can stay up late with you. Though I apologize if I get you killed a hundred times.” You laugh and he hugs you, lifting you off the ground.

“It’s totally ok.” He smiles, it is radiant as always. He stares down at you with adoration. Then kisses all over your face.

“Satoru!!” You giggle, trying to playfully fight him off but your heart feels so full. He sets you down gently and waves. He begins to walk away but rushes back to you. This time leaning down and kissing you breathless.

“I’ll see you soon right?” He asks almost timidly. And you pat his head affectionately and nod. He returns it and does finally begin to leave.

You walk back inside and collapse against your door. Your heart is leaping and your stomach is fluttering. Who knew the nerdy CEO could sweep you off your feet in just an afternoon. The more you think about it you realize he had always been there after a while. You were just to blind to see it.

[geniemillies]

Yearning For Spring | Ch. 4 | Tamlin x Oc

◇— Chapter 4 - Nobody's Children

Ch. Warnings: violence

A/n: This whole chapter is just a big flashback 🧍🏻‍♀️

✧ masterlist

<<Ch.1 <<Ch.3 ||◇|| Ch.5>>

|| Flashback ||

My ascent in the ranks meant Father recognising my efforts. He no longer called upon me to fill his cups or carry his things while I trip over myself. He showed me his tower where he worked, all the spellbooks he keeps, the plans he schemes in the dark. He taught me ancient languages, spells that manipulated the earth in ways the Mother might condemn us for. Taking lives without taking the soul, making life that did not live.

All things I was forced to learn and excelled in. Forced to use against my people who rebelled against him or made him unhappy. It became a normal thing, eventually. Snuffing out the King’s enemies.

Yet every time.. it never gets easier.

He said he was waiting for me to bear my claws, to show him a glimpse of the beast that hid within me. He made it sound like I'm some sort of monster. That before my many triumphs in the ring I was only a girl, a stupid girl that had no value to him. And only when I killed and spilled blood was I worthy of his attention.

Worthy of being called daughter.

The more I showed my claws the more he took pride in me. Then I became a member at his court, standing beside him as a figure to be revered. All matters of discussion were open to me, I was allowed to voice my thoughts, I was made to be taken seriously. I was given power.

And at first I thought I really was his daughter. And he was my father. My father who.. loved me enough to be doing all those things.

But then I became subject to his experiments. And when I disobeyed and made errors he'd perform experiments with an audience. Even when he did such horrors to my body he praised me, stroked my hair and commended me for being the only person that could handle it.

‘Others break easily. You don't. You're fascinating, Niamh. Utterly, truly, fascinating.’

Words of twisted compliments that no longer made my heart melt. They became poison.

‘I will mould you into perfection..’

His love is abnormal. And once I might've longed for it, yearned for a shrivel of affection from him, did his every command in hopes to get his approval.

I thought I wanted his love. Quickly did I realise that he loved no one but himself. That, if anything, he loves like a child loves his toys.

I am no daughter. I am nothing.

And he’s no father of mine. He's a disease. To me. To everyone in Hybern. To the very land itself.

Everything he touches wilts. And he watches as they do. Revels in it, even. And now he plans to turn the very world we live in into the hellscape he yearns for. A world of golden shackles bound to him.

And only then, on the cold floor of the throne room, when I felt the poison he injected in my very veins crawl inside me, up my arms, willing me to break–

I didn't. Couldn't.

The only thing that faded was my love for him. The longing for fatherly affection that I realised didn't exist. Replaced only by hatred.

Hatred that made way for want. For hope.

Hope for myself and my people to be free of him..

And so the first seed of rebellion was sown.

— —

|| Flashforward || Two centuries before Amarantha's Reign

The High Lord of Spring never visited Hybern again after that party when I met his youngest son. And bonded with him. But he still frequents Hybern though without his sons in tow. And when he doesn't, he still remains in contact through letters, mainly discussing troops and scheming for the future. And while the High Lord might think my Father trusts him because they share a similar hatred for humanity he is mistaken. More often than not Father dismisses the Lord Callan's letters, his requests for aid and troops in exchange for humans that wander too far from the wall are easily denied.

During meetings where he is present, Father would obscure details of his plans. He knows nothing of what he truly wants, really. Father just makes him think he does but they are not true allies. Not fully. He is yet another pawn.

And now I am forced to stand by while he complains about some other High Lord to the King. Lord of Night I think. I wasn’t really listening. I’m thankful for the mask for allowing me to close my eyes for a few seconds without consequence.

“Your youngest.. What was his name..? The little golden child my Amarantha likes so much?” My eyes shot open at the mention of.. him. And I cringe beneath the mask at the mention of that female.

“Tamlin.” The Lord answers. “My youngest and yet, my most formidable warrior.”

The King leans back on his seat. “I thought your most formidable was the eldest?”

“Well, yes.” The Lord of Spring shrugs. “But my youngest is formidable in a way that his full might is still contained and hidden within him. Biding its time, itching to be shown..” A prideful grin comes across his face.

"Is that right..?" Father asked, his head turning to me for a moment.

“I see him in battle. He is strong yet he does not know it yet, doesn't unleash himself fully. He is blindsided most of the time, my strongest son and yet my weakest. A victim to his own emotions.” Then he looked up at me, observing my gloved hands and the mask I keep on my face, my hand on the hilt of my sword. The image of pure obedience.

There’s an impressed look upon Callan’s face. “How you’ve moulded this one. From a timid youngling who cowered in the shadows holding your cups to.. this. Now.. your Court lower their heads when she passes by.” I was tense.

“How do you do it?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

The King chuckles. “I'm not sure you want parenting advice from me. No children can handle my love. No children are like my Niamh.”

I cringe eternally.

And Lord Callan seems to as well, finding truth in my Father's words. And as cruel as he may be he doesn't seem to wish whatever horrors my Father inflicts upon me to be forced upon his children.

I felt relief wash over me.

They continued to chatter away and I remained there as a spectator, never leaving my Father’s side. There is a reason for this meeting. It's because he wanted something from the High Lord. Something in his Court. An ancient book that may lead him to the pieces of the Cauldron. He's been searching for it in every seasonal Court but his Ravens return with nothing.

“May you open your library to me, my friend??” Father asked. “Libraries are a rarity in Hybern and the book I'm looking for I fear I do not possess. The winds come back to me whispering that what I seek might be in your Court.”

“What do you seek?”

“It does not concern you. One night is enough time to search for it. And if it's not in your possession then I will search elsewhere.”

The High Lord thought for a moment then shrugged. “Why not? You've done enough for me. Are you to retrieve it yourself?”

“I'm occupied with other things. My Ravens will retrieve it for me. I hope you do not mind them searching about your estate.”

Callan raised a brow. “You think what you seek is in my home?”

Father nods and the Lord Callan doesn't seem too pleased with the idea of Hybernian soldiers sniffing around his property.

He thought for a moment and then his gaze wandered to– me.

There's a flicker of.. something.. in his eyes.

“Does she ever get out of these palace walls?” He asked.

“She has no need to.”

“A shame. I find that, just like plants, children have need for sunlight too.”

“She’s not a child. And my daughter is not some weed in the garden. She is a Princess of Hybern and so she will stay in Hybern. She has no need for sunlight.”

The skin around my cuffs seem to itch..

“Princess.” The High Lord ignores him and calls upon me. “Do you wish to see the world beyond Hybern lands?” He asked, his voice taunting and I heard my Father groan in disapproval but he looked at me and waited for my answer.

“Hybern is my home, my Lord.. I'm well content here.” I simply said.

Unlike his son's, his eyes were golden eyes, dulled with the colors of the earth, swirling in a pool of mud. He looked at me with a face I couldn't quite read, a puzzle I couldn't quite solve.

The Lord stared at me for a while longer before turning to my Father. “Send her to retrieve what you seek.” He said, his tone firm. As if.. commanding him.

A bold thing to do.

Father looks at me, as if pondering his choice. Then to the High Lord.

They stare at each other for a moment. And when Father closed his eyes he looked like he figured out a secret.

“Very well.”

— —

I was only meant to visit for a short time…

A few days to search Callan’s estate for the book my Father wanted. I was kept in the library with the curtains closed, shielding me away from even a glimpse of the sun. Surely it is my Father's request.

Because ‘I have no need for sunlight’, apparently..

I stayed there at the library with only papers and towers of books to keep me company. Father wanted a book that could aid him in translating Leshon Hakodesh. He has twelve volumes of ancient texts he stole all around Prythian Courts. He is only missing one. And so he has sent me here with little information about the book. He didn’t even show me what the other books looked like.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for.. He always does this. Sending me on tedious quests. Testing me. Playing me. I could really scream. But alas.., this isn’t my home. I must be respectful..

A day and a half passed as told to me by the clock, ticking away somewhere, driving me insane. Some servants would come every now and again to bring me food. They do not speak to me. The High Lord doesn't even check on me. The estate is.. eerily quiet.

I look towards the exit, the skin around my golden cuffs itching.

I do not wish to think of it often but every now and again I’d.. search for the bond, see if it still exists within me now that a few centuries have passed since that night.

I trace the pulse in my wrist, feeling the warmth and smoothness of my skin beneath the cold metal of the cuff. Try as I might I couldn't. I've read that bonds do fade. And if ours did fade then.. would it be so bad? We are.. too different. Too out of reach after all.

Oftentimes, I find myself drawn to the southern cliffs of Hybern, where the rising sun casts its golden light over Spring lands in the horizon. It's foolish. Embarrassing, even. To stand there and hope that the bond will respond, that I'll feel some kind of connection to him. I close my eyes, trying to imagine his warmth, his presence, something, anything.

But there was nothing.

Even here. In his home. Where I felt.. hopeful that I might feel something, there is once again.. nothing.

But, just when I was about to return to my work I felt a sudden burst of anguish, my stomach twisting and turning with great regret like I've done something so cruel.

"Agh.." It all felt too much to bear that even tears threatened to prick at my eyes and I almost fall to my knees.

I felt like I was being hit. Over and over and.. over again.

As I stood in silence, clutching my aching chest, I realised that it wasn't my own emotions that were drowning me. It was his. I feel him at last. And I could feel every inch of his torment like a crushing burden, weighing me down with a sadness I couldn't describe. Every emotion hits him like a storm, and he feels each one with an intensity that I've never seen before.

I willed my legs to step out of the library to a long corridor, all the windows uncovered making way for the view of a starless night.

The clearest I've ever seen is the night sky void of red fog.

And the farther I walked the more I felt my chest heavy with grief and many other emotions that swelled together.

Then I saw him, on the path towards the gate, his golden hair a tangled mess. His brothers circling him like vultures would their prey.

And before him was a corpse. Or so I thought.

“Come on, Tammy. Just finish the job.”

“He won't do it, Darach.” The middle teased, his voice a cruel tone of mockery.

“I know he won't.” The eldest, Darach, circled around.. Tamlin who was knelt on the ground, in front of the body. Almost as if protecting it.

Protecting… her.

“It is not enough he has to befriend half-breeds, he won't kill them either.” Darach taunts. “Now you play the good friend? You? You who sold them out?”

“I told him where I've been.. Who my friends are..” His voice was a trembling mess, blood oozing out of his mouth. “I didn't expect him to kill them!”

The eldest tilts his head, crouching to the ground to the female limp on the ground. He grabs a fistful of her raven hair and lifts her head up. “Is that the reassurance you'll feed yourself from now on? To soothe yourself of guilt whenever you pass the halls to see their wings mounted on the wall?”

“Stop it.” Tamlin growled. “He already killed Rhys’s mother. I will not partake in this. I will not!!” He crawled to the girl, his body trembling, his clothes already tattered.

“You know what Father will do if you disobey him, right?” The middle huffed. “He already threatened you’d be sent away. Away from mother.”

Darach clicked his teeth. “Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing?” He kicked him away from the girl and Tamlin coughed out blood as he hit the ground, whimpering and holding his stomach. “Maybe then she'd stop wasting her energy pitying you whenever you couldn't fucking stand up for yourself.”

He grabbed him by the collar now, shaking him like a doll, his voice seeping with hatred I couldn't understand. “Your fault that she's always so guilty that you're on the floor writhing. Her poor pathetic son she could only ignore.” He drops him and returns to the girl.

“Stop it!” Tamlin let out a rugged roar, lunging at the eldest before being yanked by his hair back to the ground by the other brother.

“Eoghan! Let go!!” He fought with the middle one now, being pushed and held down by him, his boot crushing his back.

“Watch me, little brother. Watch.” Darach breathed heavily as he pulled out a dagger from Tamlin’s belt and brought it to the girl's neck.

“Stop! Darach!!”

“I will finish what you cannot and rid this pest off my lawn.”

“Now you shy away from bloodshed? Where is Father's little warrior now, hm?”

He draws blood. Slowly. A trickle of red drops down the girl's neck as she whimpers.

“DARACH!!”

Tamlin managed to push Eoghan off of him. The eldest gritted his teeth, pulling away from the girl and dropping her head to the ground as he prepared to attack.

Darach took a hit to the gut, grunting and groaning before retaliating with a blow to Tamlin’s face using the dagger's hilt.

He falls to the dirt with his blood spilling to the grass, coughing out blood as he clawed at the earth.

And I felt it. His hurt. Every hit he took. It stung my body, my face, like I’ve been the one to shield the blow. My heart ached, beating rapidly in my chest.

There is so much rage in me. And I did not know if it was my own or his.. I was seething.

“You have the soft heart of a fucking mortal, Tamlin. The Gods churned at the sight of you when you came into this world. You do not deserve to wear our colours, much less wear our crest– you are our greatest embarrassment!!”

“You should have never been born.” Darach yelled at him, his voice broken.

“I should gut you out just as this girl and present your head to Father, then he will know. He will know that you are nothing.” His voice shakes with desperation. His voice seeps with a loathing driven by.. jealousy.

Only then I understood why they're so cruel.

It's because he knows his youngest brother is stronger than him. Stronger than he will ever be. He knows it, their Father knows it, the raw power that hides inside Tamlin that not even he knows of. Or he chooses not to recognize.

Because anyone could sense it. I certainly do. That's why they beat him down and diminish him in an attempt to keep that power at bay. They don't just hate him.

They're scared of him.

Tamlin was held down by vicious roots, trapped beneath the earth as the middle brother held his head aloft, forcing him to watch as Darach hovered a dagger over the girl's neck once more.

“STOP!” Tamlin's voice was heard throughout, his cries, his desperate pleas for his brother.

And then everything was still.

A blinding fury coursed through my veins, my power rising to meet it. I clawed my hand upwards, summoning a fraction of it, willing Darach to freeze as I stepped out of the porch.

“She's still here.” I hear Eoghan mutters.

“So she is.” There is a grin in Darach’s face when his eyes darted upwards to me. Yet he did not move. Could not move.

“The Blood Witch of Hybern.” He said the title with such disdain.

I let my power free him. “I did not realise I was summoned at a time of a crisis.” I said, stopping at a distance from them as Darach lowered the dagger. Tamlin's dagger.

“No crisis here.”

“I thought Spring would be more peaceful..” I look down, getting a clearer view of the female on the ground. “Must you kill in the presence of a guest?”

“You’re not supposed to be here, witch.” Darach sneered.

My neck cracked to his direction. “I am Princess. You will address me accordingly.” I snapped at him and Eoghan visibly flinched in the corner of my eye.

The older brothers exchange looks, a silent communication between them. Darach looked back at me, a smile on his face I would’ve considered charming had I not seen how he acted earlier.

“Apologies, Princess. We’ve been rude. Just some squabble amongst brothers. Nothing to concern yourself over. Go. Resume what you came here after.”

I do not reply. I look down at Tamlin still wrapped in roots, his hands bloodied and trembling, squirming out of his restraints. I saw the middle brother yet he refused to look at my mask.

“What are you hiding?” I ask, staring into Darach’s eyes. He went stiff. And when I peered into his mind, his mental shields were up.

He doesn't want me snooping in there.

My hand shot up, forcefully clutching his jaw as I forced him to meet my gaze. He froze again and so did his brother, caught in the same motionless trance as he watched.

“What are you hiding?” My glove disintegrated, fully touching him and allowing his memories to intrude upon my mind, my vision flooded with his thoughts.

The images flashed before me, familiar voices echoing. I see Darach by his father's side, their schemes fixed on the goal of overthrowing the Night Court Lord and his family. I hear their shared hatred for their enemies' soft hearts towards mortals and the whispers from Darach as he sells out his little brother to his father, claiming he's been befriending the children of Night. Ultimately using it to their advantage.

I dug even deeper into Darach's mind, sifting through memories of his father's rants about the King when he returns from Hybern. And then.. discussions about me, the experiment Father always gloats about. The High Lord would always show curiosity for my power, my revered reputation. He’s.. he’s been curious about me for a while, about what I’ve been moulded into to be so worthy to stand beside the King.

I see visions of a camp, echoing screams and fire. The dirt was covered in blood as a tall figure stand over a female's corpse. I hear the vicious cracks of bones as he guts out her wings. I hear him command the two brothers to finish the other one. The girl. But they didn't. They only took her, back here, back to Spring. As a present for Tamlin. So that.. so that he may kill her himself.

I feel my breathing slowed as it all pieced itself together like a puzzle. And now I’m here. In his Court. With the looming threat of the Night Court’s retaliation for the murder of their Lady and the abduction of this girl.

Only then I realized.. what it meant. The look between them before my Father agreed to let me go to Spring. He figured it out. He knew I was here for something else entirely. And he agreed.

He let me go just to indulge some twisted impulse to sate his curiosity. I am reminded yet again that I am a fucking experiment..

For centuries, Father tossed me in a ring and watched me fight his most elite soldiers. I fought his strongest commander and triumphed. I endured endless battles with monsters that left scars on my flesh and memory. And time and time again I emerged victorious.

And yet it's not enough. Now.. now he has agreed to unleash me against a High Lord.

I could laugh. I should have known that he wouldn't just let me go without gaining something from it. Of course, it all came back to his self-serving advantage in the end.

I let go of Darach, a scowl appearing on my face. “Your father misled me. I'm not here to retrieve books.” I say between gritted teeth.

“You are not.” The eldest grins as he rubs his jaw. I can feel his heart beating loudly in his chest. Only now do I feel the fear in him.

“You're here to get rid of an ancient Lord.”

I inhaled. “These were not the terms. I should have your head for tricking me.”

“Father has long been curious of what sort of power the King of Hybern is hiding. He wishes to see your power.”

“The King will hear of this.”

“King Dearil already suspected this is why we've brought you here. We need you.”

I feel my nails dig into skin as my hand turned into fists “I will be no tool to some Lord too coward and too weak to fight an enemy.”

“Your King let you go. He knows why you’re here. You're already a tool. We all are. From the moment we came into the world. So we must make ourselves useful. The High Lord of Night must be dealt with.”

I scoff, a huff of bitter laughter. “I will not partake in this.”

“You will.”

“I won't.” I hold his blood and he freezes again, shivering as my power touches him.

“Get out of my sight or you will be the first blood I spill tonight. Maybe then you'll find out just what the King is hiding.”

“Get. Out.”

His stare fixed on me, his throat bobbing as he held it there. The ugliest shade of green flashed in his eyes— green of jealousy and greed. Mixed with a twinge of fear. He was trying to suppress it, to keep it buried beneath the surface. But I could see it. He knew that I could see it.

I let my power over him fade as he slightly stumbles back. “Come. Eoghan.” He calls to his lackey, his gaze never tearing from my mask.

He looked at Tamlin as the roots slowly faltered around him, returning to the dirt below. “Finish the job, Tammy. Or he will.”

I stand there, hearing footsteps fade into nothing until I no longer sensed their presence.

“Gods.” Tamlin immediately knelt to where the girl was. A girl.. not much younger than him or me. A girl with raven black hair and wings similar to a bat's. Illyrian.. Daughter of Night.

She lays lifeless on the grass below, a trickle of blood slowly drying up on her neck. Yet.. I can hear her beating heart from where I am, a sign of life still flickering within.

She is alive.

“I can't do it..” Tamlin was shaking, crying as he held the blade he couldn't wield. Couldn't bring himself to take her head.

I shouldn't meddle. Shouldn't even approach him. But I've already broken the rules when I left the library and threatened his brothers. Now I watched as he held the girl in his arms, his shaking hands holding her cold face as tears streamed down his own, muttering frantic apologies.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry.. Please. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, Vel..”

I feel my chest ache at the sight, his emotions still infecting me, twisting my heart.

“I'm sorry, Rhys..”

Even now. Even when four hundred years have passed and the mating bond should’ve faded.. I feel the pain that he feels, the regret that he carries.

“I'm sorry.. I'm sorry..”

As if his heart was mine.

His inner world exudes a familiar sort of anguish that I have come to know all too well. Because I am also faced with choices I never dare choose for myself. We are similar in that regard, that we never chose to be our fathers's children. But this is the life the Mother has condemned us in. A life led by fathers who wish to rule the world.

So even people outside of Hybern suffer such fates.. Does it ever get easier? Are all fathers like this?

The skin around my cuffs itch. A thing that happens whenever I get the urge to.. disobey.

I took a breath and knelt before him.

“Give her to me..”

Tamlin looks up at me, his head a mess of golden locks, smudged red with blood.

“W-what?”

“I'll take her to Hybern. She'll be safe. You don't have to kill her.”

What was I saying?

He slowly shook his head, holding the girl closer. “No.. no.. My father-”

I wield my power to command the very ground we step on.

“What are you–?”

What am I doing..?

The earth beneath my feet glowed with a peculiar fervour, alive and ever-changing. With a flick of my hand, I commanded the soil, bathing it in dark glamour that transformed the dirt into a twisted mirror image of her. Her appearance macabre, her skin pale and devoid of life, her eyes open and blank.

I unsheathed a dagger from my boot, slashing my palm and letting my blood flow to my creation.

Creating the perfect illusion of life.. and death.

It is not the first time I had to fake a dead person. But it is the first time that I had to fake one's death in another land. Because much to Father's dismay, I am still swayed by my emotions. And more often than not, my heart triumphs over his commands. In secret, I take pity on my people and spare the lives of a few when he is not around to bear witness to my mercy.

Mercy that he abhors.. mercy he forbids from flourishing. Yet it resides in my heart, this seed of compassion sown long ago. Perhaps, it was planted in me by this boy. This boy who offered me an act of kindness when he had no reason to. This boy, this stranger bound to me.. who saw my pain and extended a handkerchief and silent company.

A small act of kindness that meant the world to me.

I face him, meeting his emerald eyes up close for the first time since that party when the bond snapped for me. And I falter at the sight of it. Even when I could barely see it through the tiny slits of my mask.

“He will never know.” My voice came out in soft whispers.

“Kill the abomination. Take its head, it’s wings. Present it to your father. He will never know. I will take the girl.”

“Wait.. Where are you taking her?”

“Somewhere safe. Temporarily. When the storm has subsided. I'll return her to Night.”

He looked at me, sceptical, still holding the girl in his arms. “I don't even know your face behind that mask. How can I know you're speaking the truth?”

“You don't. You'll have to trust me.”

There is a pause when he looked at me. “You're the King's daughter.”

“And you're the High Lord's son. And yet you cannot bring yourself to kill this girl.” I look down at the girl.

“We can't choose our fathers, can we? We share the same blood as them. Doesn't mean we have to share anything else beyond that.”

He falters. “No.. no we don't.”

“Will you place your trust in me, Prince of Spring?”

“Give me one good reason why you're doing this. What do you have to gain?”

I shook my head. “I have nothing to gain. Maybe I just want her to live. Maybe.. I want to repay you.”

“Repay me for what?”

I paused.

“For.. the handkerchief.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Have you.. forgotten?”

He shook his head. “No.” And his body eased. “Of course not.”

I stare at him for a moment. Because it would only take a moment to ingrain his face to memory again.

“Why did you do it?” I asked not even knowing that the words have left my lips.

“Do what?”

“Offer me that kindness.”

He leaned back, not expecting my question. But he softened. “You looked like you really needed it.” He answered simply.

There was silence between us after that. I wanted to say.. thank you. I wanted to say a lot of things to him, really.

But I find myself unable to.

“Promise me you'll keep Velaria safe?”

I swallowed and nodded. “I promise.” I say simply before walking towards the girl's real body, touching her cheek with the back of my gloved hand. Then I looked at Tamlin.

“We don't have to be like our fathers.”

He didn't say anything. Perhaps he didn't know what to say. He only looked at me with those eyes filled with nothing but guilt.

I knelt down towards the girl. Velaria. I scooped her limp body up in my arms, careful with her wings.

“You have a good heart, Tamlin..”

He shook his head, staring at his bloodied hands, to a dagger’s hilt encrusted with Illyrian patterns. “That’s not true..” His voice cracks.

“It is. And I hope you never forget that.”

“Come what may.”

— —

A/n: Since sjm won't name her characters I've taken it upon myself. I named Tamlin's middle brother Eoghan (literally just Owen but with a different spelling. It means 'born of yew'). The eldest I named Darach (which means fruitful/oak grove). And then their father I named Callan (which means brave/powerful in battle). AND THEN I also named the King of Hybern, Dearil because it means red haired/call of death. Veryyy fitting. All of them Irish/Gaelic origin I think. Also because I am tired of writing High Lord and The King in every sentence 😔..

Also also, I will be writing Velaria's pov in a few chapters, see what she's been up to after going to Hybern.

[cleaningcommunity]

Tile Floor Cleaning and Sealing: Common Mistakes That Can Ruin Your Sealer

Tile floors are a beautiful and durable choice for homes and businesses, offering timeless appeal and practicality. When properly maintained, they can last for many years, providing an elegant finish to any space. However, keeping tile floors looking their best requires more than just regular cleaning. The key to preserving the shine, durability, and cleanliness of tile floors lies in proper tile floor cleaning and sealing. Unfortunately, there are several common mistakes that can damage both the tiles and the protective sealant, which is essential for maintaining their longevity.

This article will highlight these mistakes and offer guidance on how to avoid them, ensuring that tile floors continue to shine for years to come.

1. Using Harsh Chemicals

One of the most common mistakes in tile floor cleaning and sealing is the use of harsh chemicals or abrasive cleaners. Many commercial floor cleaners contain ingredients that can strip or break down the protective sealer applied to tile floors. These cleaners, which often include ammonia or acidic substances, can not only damage the sealer but also leave the tiles susceptible to staining, discoloration, or etching.

Instead of these abrasive solutions, it is recommended to use a pH-neutral cleaner designed specifically for tile floors. Products like Garcia Scrub are excellent alternatives. Garcia Scrub is formulated to clean tiles gently yet effectively, removing dirt, grime, and buildup without compromising the protective sealer. By opting for the right cleaning products, property owners can ensure that their tiles remain beautiful and the sealer remains intact.

2. Not Rinsing Properly After Cleaning

A common error in tile floor cleaning and sealing is neglecting to rinse the floor after cleaning. Leaving cleaning solutions or residue behind can damage the floor’s finish and compromise the integrity of the sealer. The residue may attract more dirt, leaving tiles looking dull or streaky.

To avoid this issue, always rinse the floor thoroughly after cleaning, especially if using a solution with any form of cleaner. A clean mop or cloth should be used to wipe away any lingering solution, ensuring the tiles are completely free of residue. Proper rinsing ensures that the floor remains shiny and that the sealer continues to provide the necessary protection.

3. Skipping the Sealing Process

Tile floors, particularly those made of porous materials like natural stone, require sealing to maintain their appearance and protect against stains and moisture. A common mistake in tile floor cleaning and sealing is skipping the sealing process altogether or delaying it. Without a protective sealant, tile floors are more vulnerable to damage, and spills and stains can penetrate the surface, leading to long-term discoloration.

It is crucial to seal the tiles after installation and regularly reapply the sealer as recommended by the manufacturer. Regular sealing creates a protective barrier on the surface that repels dirt, grime, and liquids, making it easier to clean and maintain the floor. It also helps to extend the life of the tiles and prevents damage from everyday wear and tear.

4. Using the Wrong Mop or Cleaning Tools

Using the wrong cleaning tools, such as abrasive scrubbing brushes or harsh mop heads, is another mistake that can ruin the sealer of tile floors. Scrubbing with a rough material can scratch the surface of the tile, and over time, these scratches may wear away the protective sealer, leaving the tiles vulnerable to stains and damage.

To maintain the integrity of both the tiles and the sealer, it is best to use soft mops, microfiber cloths, or soft-bristled brushes. These tools are gentle on the tiles and effective in removing dirt without causing damage. For regular maintenance, microfiber mops are ideal because they can trap dust and debris without scratching the surface.

5. Allowing Excess Water to Sit on the Floor

Water is one of the most significant threats to the longevity of tile floors and their sealer. Allowing excess water to pool on the floor for extended periods can seep into the grout and cause discoloration or damage to the tile and the sealer. Prolonged exposure to moisture can also cause the grout to deteriorate, leading to uneven tiles or the need for costly repairs.

When mopping or cleaning, it is important to avoid oversaturating the floor. A damp mop should be used rather than a soaking wet one, and any standing water should be wiped up immediately. This will prevent water from seeping into the seams or corners and damaging both the tile and the protective sealer.

6. Neglecting to Reapply Sealer

Tile floor sealers are not permanent, and over time, they lose their effectiveness due to wear and tear, cleaning, and exposure to elements. Failing to reapply the sealer as part of regular maintenance is a mistake that can result in compromised protection for the tiles.

It is recommended to reapply the sealer as often as necessary, depending on the amount of foot traffic and the type of tile. For most residential floors, sealing every one to three years is sufficient. Property owners should follow the instructions provided by the manufacturer for reapplication to ensure the sealer is applied evenly and effectively. Reapplying the sealer not only preserves the tile’s appearance but also extends the floor’s lifespan.

7. Ignoring Grout Maintenance

Grout is a key component of tile floors that often gets overlooked in tile floor cleaning and sealing routines. Grout lines are porous and can absorb moisture, dirt, and stains, which can affect the overall appearance of the floor. When grout becomes dirty or discolored, it can detract from the beauty of the entire floor, even if the tiles themselves are clean.

To prevent grout buildup, it is important to clean grout lines regularly with an appropriate cleaner. Products like Garcia Scrub can be effective for this purpose, as they are designed to clean both tiles and grout without damaging the surface. It is also important to consider applying a grout sealer to protect the grout from stains and moisture. A grout sealer will prevent dirt and liquids from penetrating the porous surface, making it easier to clean and maintain the grout.

8. Not Following Manufacturer Instructions

Each type of tile and sealer comes with its own set of care and maintenance instructions, which should always be followed carefully. Many mistakes in tile floor cleaning and sealing are the result of not adhering to the manufacturer’s guidelines for cleaning products, sealing methods, or reapplication schedules.

To avoid errors, property owners should always read and follow the manufacturer’s recommendations for their specific tile and sealer. This includes using the right cleaning solutions, following proper cleaning techniques, and applying sealer at the right intervals. By doing so, tile floors can remain in excellent condition, and the sealer will continue to provide long-term protection.

Maintaining tile floors requires proper care and attention to detail. By avoiding common mistakes, such as using harsh chemicals, neglecting to rinse after cleaning, or failing to apply a protective sealer, property owners can ensure that their tile floors remain in excellent condition for years. Using the right products like Garcia Scrub and following a regular maintenance schedule for cleaning and sealing will help preserve the beauty and integrity of tile floors. Ultimately, with the right practices in place, tile floors can continue to shine while maintaining their durability and longevity.

[evaskjew]

The Chains of Silence - OS Evangeline

Summary: Evangeline Rosier, a new French student at Hogwarts, struggles with isolation and the judgments of her peers. One evening, as she becomes lost in her dark thoughts, an unexpected encounter might just change everything.

Word count: 30.1k

A/N + warning: It's a bit of a continuation of that piece of writing. I had the idea during a period when I wasn't feeling well and I wrote it during periods of micro-depression 🥲 So some of the themes aren't necessarily the happiest: there's talk of harassment (being rejected) and one passage talks about dark thoughts.

Oh and I hope it's proper English, I used a translator because I wrote in French!

“I would be grateful if you would cease experimenting with your potion, Miss Rosier. We already have more than enough commotion in this class. We certainly do not need a second Weasley. Therefore, I must deduct 10 points from Ravenclaw.”

Professor Sharp let out a weary sigh as he observed the contents of Evangeline’s cauldron. The mixture was bubbling dangerously, spewing out a greenish foam that was slowly spilling over the workbench. Occasionally, small sparks shot out, casting unsettling glimmers across the table. With a sharp gaze, Sharp scrutinised her for a moment, then shook his head with an expression that was part indifferent, part resigned, before walking away without a word. Evangeline lowered her eyes to her cauldron, a deep sense of discouragement washing over her. Why on earth would he think she was doing this on purpose? Why would she deliberately experiment with random ingredients, especially in Potions? It made absolutely no sense. She had never excelled in this subject, and everyone knew it — at least back at Beauxbâtons. It was her nemesis, the subject she dreaded most. She lacked both the talent and the patience required to handle ingredients and formulas with precision.

Yet, here it was, undeniable: a complete disaster. The strange fumes, the alarming colours... Everything in her cauldron screamed chaos. She couldn’t exactly deny that a part of her was beginning to wonder if she really was incapable of succeeding, no matter how hard she tried to follow the instructions. Evangeline stared at her cauldron, confusion mingling with anxiety. She was certain she had followed every step to the letter. So why this mess? Why, out of all the students, was it always her cauldron that looked like a failed experiment by a novice alchemist? Unable to make sense of it, she frantically reopened her Potions textbook, her hands trembling. But even after rereading every line, every word, she couldn’t find anything that explained the strange transformation of her concoction. She had done exactly what was written... or at least she thought she had.

In a moment of despair, Evangeline cast a furtive glance around her, observing her classmates’ workstations. At first glance, everything seemed normal, almost too perfect. But then something caught her attention. Everyone had dittany leaves neatly placed on their tables… except for her. Her eyes fell on her own leaves, and her heart sank painfully. She had, instead, fluxweed leaves—an ingredient that had no place in this regeneration potion. The truth hit her like a ton of bricks. She had been using the wrong ingredient from the start. A mix of humiliation and frustration overwhelmed her as she fought back tears. How could she have made such a basic mistake? This stupid, elementary error had made her cauldron the laughingstock of the class.

Around her, she could hear the mocking whispers and muffled sniggers from a few students. Smirks were exchanged, condescending glances bore down on her, like needles pricking her skin. She could even feel the disapproving, impatient stares of some Ravenclaws turning towards her. She knew what they were thinking. They were probably wondering how she could still be one of them after so many failures, after already losing points for their house earlier in the week. She was just an extra burden, a weight on her house, and each mistake seemed to prove it a little more every day. But the worst part was, Evangeline couldn’t even blame them. Not after what had happened in Herbology…

Earlier in the day, the fifth years had their first Herbology lesson of the year with Professor Garlick. The atmosphere was cheerful, with most of the students eagerly rushing towards the greenhouses. Everyone chatted excitedly, sharing holiday memories and the thrill of seeing their favourite teacher again. Only Evangeline lingered at the back of the group, preferring to avoid drawing attention to herself after the duelling confrontations in the previous classes. As she stepped across the threshold of the greenhouse, she froze, captivated by the beauty that unfolded before her.

Golden light bathed the space in a comforting warmth, and the massive tree at the centre of the room looked almost unreal—majestic and imposing, with its branches stretching out in a complex web of vibrant green leaves. The soft murmur of water trickling from a nearby fountain added to the sense of harmony that permeated the air. Awestruck, Evangeline slowly moved forward, her eyes drawn to two butterflies gracefully dancing between the branches. Their delicate wings shimmered in the light filtering through the dense foliage, casting a magical interplay of shadows and light. For the first time in days, she felt her heart ease slightly, as if this place had the power to soothe her anxieties.

Evangeline noticed with a hint of panic that all the students had already entered Greenhouse No. 2. Quickening her pace, she hurried to join the group, relieved to see she wasn’t late yet. Inside, Professor Garlick greeted each student with a warm smile, handing them two cotton balls, evidently to be used as earplugs. As she glanced at the terracotta pots carefully arranged on the worktables, Evangeline frowned. "Mandrakes…?" she murmured in surprise. It was a plant she had already studied at her previous school, and she hadn’t expected it to be taught only in fifth year at Hogwarts.

“Ah, a face I don’t seem to know,” exclaimed Professor Garlick upon seeing Evangeline. “Please, welcome a new flower to our garden!”

Professor Garlick, always kind-hearted and full of energy, addressed the class in her usual warm tone. But to Evangeline’s surprise, all eyes suddenly turned towards her. Blushing with embarrassment, she immediately lowered her gaze, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "Why did she say that?" she wondered, confused. Was it common for the professor to single out students, or was it because of her surname, Rosier? She had no idea, but the embarrassment was very real. Fortunately, without dwelling on it, Professor Garlick swiftly moved on to the day’s lesson: repotting young mandrake plants. Evangeline, however, was already quite familiar with this plant, having had a similar lesson in her third year at Beauxbatons. She worked confidently and finished well before her classmates. Noticing this, Professor Garlick approached her with a warm smile.

“Well, it seems that Mandrakes hold no secrets for you! In that case, I believe you can go to Greenhouse 5 to tend to the Chinese Chomping Cabbages. One of your classmates has volunteered to accompany you. Oh, and be careful, these plants have a habit of nibbling anything that comes near them. Watch your fingers.” Professor Garlick moved away to assist other students struggling with their mandrakes. Evangeline, still absorbed in her work, didn’t have time to respond to the professor’s encouragement before a light tap on her shoulder made her jump. She turned slowly, her heart beating a little faster, to find a tall boy with short red hair looking at her with a slightly nervous expression.

“Hello… I’m Leander Prewett, a fifth-year Gryffindor, like you. I mean, a fifth-year. Not a Gryffindor, as you’re a Ravenclaw.” He gave a nervous laugh, and although Evangeline was caught off guard, she forced herself to smile back, trying her best to appear normal. Her heart was racing a little faster, and inside, the familiar anxiety slowly crept in. She wasn’t used to people her age, let alone from her class, being friendly towards her. These kinds of interactions always unsettled her, stirring up a wave of uncertainty, a fear of doing something wrong or appearing odd. She crossed her arms unconsciously, seeking a more comfortable stance in the face of this unexpected situation.

“Well, if you don’t mind, let’s go check out those Chinese Chomping Cabbages. Please, follow me.” Leander nodded towards her, gesturing for her to follow. Evangeline fell into step behind him, the silence between them growing almost tangible. The atmosphere felt heavy, thick with unspoken words, and neither of them seemed willing to break the invisible barrier. Their footsteps echoed softly on the ground, accompanied by the faint creaking of their leather shoes. Evangeline felt a pang of guilt for not speaking. "But what should I say? What do people talk about in moments like this?" she wondered, her mind racing. "If he wanted to talk, he would have by now, wouldn’t he? And what about my accent—will he even understand me? My grammar… it’s terrible… and my vocabulary, let’s not even go there…" Her thoughts swirled chaotically, only deepening the silence.

“Here we are! The realm of Chinese Chomping Cabbages!”

Evangeline was jolted from her thoughts by Leander, who was holding the door to Greenhouse 5 for her. She looked at him timidly and stepped inside slowly, with a hesitant gait. “Thank you…” Evangeline entered the greenhouse, her attention immediately drawn to the strange plants surrounding her. She approached cautiously, curiosity piqued, but mindful of Professor Garlick's warnings. The plants were unlike anything she'd ever seen before. At first glance, they resembled ordinary cabbages, but at their centre, a gaping mouth lined with sharp, imposing teeth distorted their otherwise familiar appearance.

As she stared at them, a mix of fascination and apprehension stirring within her, Leander silently joined her, his shadow falling beside hers. “Fascinating plants, aren’t they? You know, they can be used for defence. Here, I’ll show you! First, take a cabbage. Don’t worry, they’re quite calm if handled gently.”

Evangeline remained hesitant despite Leander’s encouragement. She stared at one of the cabbages, her mind torn between curiosity and fear. Slowly, she extended her arms towards the plant, her movements deliberate and cautious. With care, she placed her hands at the base of the cabbage, preparing herself to lift it gently. As she grasped it, she raised the plant slowly, handling it with particular attention, as though she were afraid of causing it harm.

“You’re doing quite well. Follow me!” Leander made his way towards an old, dilapidated mannequin, forgotten at the back of the greenhouse. Evangeline followed him, her gaze fixed intently on the cabbage she held at arm's length. Her full concentration was on the delicate plant, determined not to damage it in any way. “By the way, congratulations on your duel with Sallow in Defence Against the Dark Arts the other day! It was incredible! What an achievement! Sallow is a very skilled duellist, but you defeated him with such ease! You’re truly impressive! Remarkable even!”

Evangeline's heart raced. She stared at Leander, a mix of surprise and confusion clouding her thoughts. Compliments were rare for her, especially back at Beauxbâtons, where she had never experienced such gestures of kindness. This unfamiliar situation sent her anxiety spiralling. "What do I do now? Do I say something back? But what? I... I..." Her thoughts became a tangled mess, her panic rising. So much so, she didn't notice the stone sticking out from the ground. Tripping forward, she fell, and before Leander could react, he was met with the biting cabbage she had been holding.

Horrified, Evangeline froze, unsure of what to do. Should she help Leander? But that might provoke the cabbage even more. Should she use magic? What if she accidentally harmed Leander in the process? Her mind was a whirlwind of frantic thoughts, sinking her deeper into panic as the situation unravelled in front of her. Thankfully, Professor Garlick entered Greenhouse No. 5 at that exact moment. Her horrified gaze landed on the chaotic scene, and she quickly intervened to stop the disaster. The outcome? Leander was sent to the hospital wing, Ravenclaw lost 15 points, and Evangeline earned herself a detention.

And there she was again, losing points for Ravenclaw due to her potion mishap. “What a terrible day…” she thought, despair beginning to wash over her. The hardest part for Evangeline was holding back her tears. She refused to let anyone see her in such a state. Whispers about her had already started to circulate, and she didn’t need to give them more fuel.

When Professor Sharp announced the end of the lesson, a throng of students rushed towards the exit. Evangeline, her head down, slowly closed her textbook and packed her belongings at her own pace. As she silently stood up, she was intentionally jostled by a Slytherin girl who smirked as she brushed past. The girl, sporting a ponytail, sauntered over to a Gryffindor boy who was ready to leave the classroom. “Well, it looks like you're going to have some competition this year, Garreth! It’s not every day you come across troublemakers with your… talent.”

The boy named Garreth rolled his eyes and shot a quick glance at Evangeline, tinged with disdain—most likely due to the incident with Leander—before leaving the room with the rest of the class. She found herself alone once more, except for Professor Sharp, who was seated at his desk. Grasping her wand, Evangeline raised it in front of the mess created by her potion, a wave of frustration and anxiety washing over her as she surveyed the chaos.

“Evanesco.” Evangeline’s voice was barely a whisper, almost inaudible. Her throat was tight with emotion. She needed to clear her mind. She slowly and listlessly made her way towards the classroom door.

“One moment, Miss Rosier. I would like to speak with you.”

Evangeline turned to face Professor Sharp, who was still seated at his desk, absorbed in what she guessed was a potions essay or perhaps some students' assignments. The closer she got, the larger the knot of anxiety formed in her stomach. She began to think about how to "I notice that you are a quiet student who does not seek attention," Sharp’s deep and measured voice resonated through the room, imbued with a natural authority. "However, you must understand that failing to follow the instructions in the textbooks can have disastrous consequences, as demonstrated by your potion today."

Evangeline lifted her head slightly, a hint of redness colouring her cheeks. She wanted to protest, but the words escaped her. Finally, she murmured hesitantly, but sincerely, "I understand. Forgive me, I made a… mistake with my potion—"

Sharp didn’t let her finish. Crossing his arms, his piercing gaze seemed to analyse her every subtle movement. "Mistaking dittany for fluxweed is not a common error." He tilted his head slightly, as if to emphasise his point. "These plants look nothing alike."

Evangeline lowered her eyes again, her hands clutching at her school robes. She could think of nothing to say, and her silence seemed to suspend the moment in time.

"Nevertheless," Sharp continued, his tone softening slightly, "I am aware that you come from France. The names of ingredients vary considerably in French. That likely explains today’s incident. However, in the future, it will be imperative that you master the English terms."

"I understand…" she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Sharp regarded her for a moment longer, as if trying to discern her true thoughts. Then, he leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on his desk in a posture both relaxed and authoritative. "You know," he said in an almost reflective tone, "I assign additional work to Mr Gaunt, who also struggles with his potions due to his condition."

At the mention of Gaunt, Evangeline reacted slightly. That name was familiar to her, as if it recalled something she had read in a book. She then remembered that it belonged to an old British aristocratic family of pure blood. "Certainly a rich kid using his family's influence to get ahead..." she thought with a hint of disdain.

“To compensate for the language barrier, I could allow you to bring along a glossary of English and French terms to the next classes. This should help prevent further catastrophes in the future.”

Evangeline nodded, relieved by this suggestion. As Professor Sharp seemed to have nothing more to add, she headed towards the classroom door. Upon crossing the threshold, she let out a deep sigh, preparing to face the tumult of the Great Hall, which, as usual, was lively and noisy. Barely visible to the other students, she immediately felt murmurs and heavy glances directed at her. “Here we go again... Just like at Beauxbâtons...” Tears began to well up again, but Evangeline forced herself to hold them back, determined not to let her emotions take over.

Evangeline made her way to one of the few places where she truly felt comfortable in the castle: the library. This place calmed her for several reasons. Firstly, its atmosphere was a soothing quiet, a welcome contrast to the turmoil of school life. Moreover, students seemed to hold a certain disdain for Mrs. Scribner, the librarian, which meant that the library was often deserted. Thus, she could enjoy her solitude, surrounded by books, even if, unfortunately, most of them were written in the language of Shakespeare. She pushed open the library doors and was immediately soothed by the quiet and cosy atmosphere that prevailed. The towering bookshelves, filled with dusty tomes and yellowed parchments, seemed to shield her from the outside world. Here, she was no longer the foreign student, the one whom others looked at with curiosity, disdain, or mockery. Here, she was simply a scholar among many, a lover of books seeking knowledge or a bubble in which to find refuge and indulge in the joys of reading.

Evangeline weaved between the shelves, her fingers brushing the spines of the books, searching for the potion and herbology books she needed. She enjoyed lightly tracing the edges of the books with her hand. She didn’t know exactly why, but this habit reassured her. It was as though each book carried a promise of discovery, a chance to escape into another world, away from the whispers and judgments she was accustomed to. She made her way to an isolated table near the large window that overlooked the west wing of the library. The soft afternoon light filtered through the stained glass, casting colourful patterns on the pages of the open books. She placed the books she had selected on the table and took out a quill and parchment to follow Professor Sharp’s advice and create her glossary. She immersed herself in her work, opening the books to the pages listing and explaining various potions and plants with their English terms. She read carefully, focusing mainly on the descriptions to identify the potions or plants in question.

This mental exercise allowed her to practise her English, painstakingly translating each word, each phrase, to find the corresponding French term. It wasn’t easy, but she knew this effort was necessary if she wanted to succeed at Hogwarts. This study session was also a form of escape, a refuge where she could forget the persistent glances and whispers. She took her parchment and quill in her left hand, dipped it in ink, and began writing her glossary:

Dictame (ENG: Dittany) : Plante aux propriétés curatives puissantes, capable de guérir des blessures profondes et de provoquer la régénération des tissus.

Evangeline carefully inscribed the letters on the parchment, making sure to clearly distinguish each term. The silence in the library was only broken by the soft rustling of pages and the scratching of her quill on the parchment. She continued, listing potions and plants one after another.

Mandragore (ENG: Mandrake) : Plante magique aux cris mortels pour quiconque les entend directement. 

Sisimbre (ENG: Fluxweed) : Plante essentielle dans la préparation de la potion Polynectar. Elle doit être récoltée pendant la pleine lune pour conserver ses propriétés magiques.

Polygonum (ENG: Knotgrass) : Plante magique couramment utilisée dans la préparation de la potion Polynectar. Ses longues tiges fines et flexibles sont facilement reconnaissables.

Potion Wiggenweld (ENG: Wiggenweld Potion) : Potion de guérison puissante, capable de soigner des blessures graves et de restaurer la vitalité. Elle est couramment utilisée par les sorciers pour récupérer après des duels.

Breuvorage (ENG: Thunderbrew) : Potion qui crée une tempête tonitruante autour de l'utilisateur, étourdissant et repoussant les ennemis proches. Très utile en situation de combat.

Potion de Beauté (ENG: Beautification Potion) : Potion qui améliore l'apparence physique de celui ou celle qui la boit, rendant la peau plus lumineuse et les cheveux plus brillants. Les effets sont temporaires.

The task was tedious, but she felt strangely calm as she worked. The translation required intense concentration, which kept her from dwelling on the day’s events or worrying about the whispers in the corridors. Each word she successfully translated was a small victory, proof that she could overcome the language barrier and find her place here. In addition to writing her glossary, Evangeline enjoyed drawing illustrations for each term. As a result, she lost track of time. Looking up from her parchment, she realised with horror that the shadows on the library walls had changed: the golden light of late afternoon had transformed into a soft orange glow, signalling dusk. It was nearly 7:30 PM, and dinner would soon be served.

Evangeline quickly gathered her things in a hurried, disordered fashion. Her hands trembled slightly as she shoved her parchment into her robe pocket and closed the books before returning them to their place. She rushed towards the exit, her heart racing at the thought of being late for dinner. As she left the library, she dashed down the corridors, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone of the castle. She quickened her pace, hoping she wouldn’t be too late.

When she finally entered the Great Hall, she realised that everyone was already seated and the meal had begun. She hurried to her table, heading towards the only available seat. The looks cast in her direction were far from welcoming. Conversations abruptly ceased, and some students exchanged knowing glances, their faces expressing a mix of reproach and discomfort. Evangeline sat in the empty seat, her stomach in knots. She tried to focus on her meal, but each bite seemed to deepen her discomfort. The murmurs of her classmates, though faint, were clearly audible. “Hang in there, Evangeline, the week isn’t over, it’s not all lost!”

The rest of the week didn’t go much better, unfortunately. As the days passed, Evangeline found herself increasingly isolated and rejected by the others. Not only did rumours spread quickly throughout the castle, but Evangeline also fuelled them with a string of mistakes and blunders in class, leading to lost points and a few detentions. Her intense anxiety over what others might be saying about her in class caused her to imagine the worst, and because she was lost in her thoughts, she didn’t fully pay attention to the lessons. She even forgot to note down the homework for a Transfiguration class and was in quite a predicament when it was time to turn it in. As a result, she had to serve an hour’s detention, during which she was required to complete the assignment under Professor Weasley’s supervision.

Each day followed a similar pattern. Whenever Evangeline walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, she felt every gaze upon her, as if the very walls were judging her. The half-heard whispers, the furtive glances, and the mocking smiles had become, or rather returned to being, her daily reality—unseen wounds that cut deeply. Each moment spent in the company of other students felt like an ordeal. She would have given anything to blend into the background, to become invisible, no longer the constant target of veiled mockery and silent reproach. Every gesture, every look, every silence weighed on her soul like a condemnation, making her feel insignificant, inadequate, guilty for the mistakes she kept making since her arrival.

At the Ravenclaw table during meals, Evangeline felt increasingly isolated. The conversations around her were punctuated with innuendos and exchanged glances that she understood all too well. Whenever she forced herself to speak, an awkward silence would fall, as if her presence was an intrusion into the normalcy of others. It had become a vicious cycle: the more she withdrew, the more they kept their distance, and the more she retreated, convinced that she didn’t deserve their company.

The laughter echoing in the corridors never seemed to include her. On the contrary, it always seemed directed at her, another dagger twisting in her heart. She even began to wonder if she deserved this solitude. Perhaps the others were right to keep her at arm’s length, to judge her so harshly. The school year had barely begun, and Evangeline was already tired of the classes and the knot in her stomach she felt every time she stepped into a classroom. She had just one desire: to leave Hogwarts. But where would she go? She didn’t miss Beauxbâtons at all and had hoped it would be different at Hogwarts, but history seemed to be repeating itself. Perhaps she would have been happier if she were a Muggle, like her father.

At night, when she sought refuge in her bed, tears often flowed uncontrollably. The pain of being excluded, rejected, and ignored gnawed at her from within. She tried to convince herself that it would eventually pass, that the others would forget about her, but with each passing day, the weight became harder to bear. In the morning, she put on a neutral mask, trying to keep her head held high, but the emotional exhaustion always caught up with her. She felt trapped in a spiral of suffering, unable to confide in anyone, having no friends. This insidious isolation, this venom slowly dripped by those around her, was destroying her little by little.

There was no respite, not even in moments when she should have felt safe, not even in the silence of the library. Evangeline spent a great deal of time there, reading, studying, and trying to clear her mind. But the weight of the stares and judgements followed her everywhere. The memories of those smirking smiles, those glances exchanged over her head, were etched into her mind, impossible to forget. They haunted her, and she couldn’t help but recall her daily life at Beauxbâtons, a life she would have preferred to forget and never experience again. Books, however, were still the most effective way she had found to distract herself. As soon as classes ended, she would rush to the library to find solace among the shelves of books. The familiar smell of paper made her feel safe, far from the judgements and mockery.

She would immerse herself in her readings with fierce determination, the sound of her finger brushing against the pages becoming her only companion. Hours passed unnoticed as she was absorbed in the texts of Maupassant or the adventure tales of Jules Verne, which allowed her to escape. Meals in the Great Hall became rare; she preferred to ignore her hunger and remain lost in her books or studies, convinced that hard work was another escape, the only way to regain a semblance of control in a world where she felt increasingly out of place and lost.

Finally, Friday had arrived. As the lessons drew to a close, Evangeline's situation couldn't get any worse than it already was, and at least this meant two days of respite—as long as she found a secluded corner to avoid running into anyone. The day seemed relatively calm: just two classes. One on the History of Magic in the morning and a broomstick flying lesson in the afternoon.

History of Magic was the class she looked forward to the most, having always had a passion for history, whether related to the wizarding world or the study of Muggle history—a passion she inherited from her father. Yet, despite her enthusiasm, she felt a knot in her stomach as she entered the classroom. "What if they laugh at me for asking a question? What if I have so many questions and end up interrupting the professor all the time? The others will hate me if I disrupt the class... Maybe I should just blend in and try not to draw any attention." Forcing herself to push her passion for history aside, Evangeline resolved to behave like everyone else. As she entered, Evangeline immediately felt the weight of history that filled every corner of the room. The golden sunlight filtered through the magnificent stained glass windows, casting colourful reflections onto the stone walls. Three massive windows dominated the room, each depicting legendary figures from the wizarding world, including the four founders of Hogwarts. The central one portrayed Merlin, majestic in his blue robes, holding a grimoire, symbolising the wisdom and power of knowledge.

The details in the glass were so intricate that Evangeline could have spent hours marvelling at every finely drawn line. The height of the windows and their vivid colours created an atmosphere that was both solemn and enchanting, inviting deep reflection and a journey through the tales of the past. The place exuded a near-mystical serenity, accentuated by the prevailing silence. Despite its grandeur, Evangeline couldn’t help but feel a certain intimacy, a subtle yet palpable connection with the wizards who had come before her. She moved cautiously, her steps echoing faintly on the stone floor as she headed towards the only empty desk.

Something seemed odd to the young witch, however: the classroom was unusually quiet. Evangeline quickly glanced towards the other tables—two students appeared to be working on their homework, while the rest of the class seemed to be in the midst of the nap of a lifetime. She couldn’t believe it. Everything about this room was perfect for learning. The aura of the great figures depicted in the stained glass made her want to know more. Then Professor Binns entered the classroom. "Is the professor... a ghost?" But in the end, Evangeline wasn’t really surprised; it actually made sense for a ghost to teach the History of Magic at Hogwarts. His expertise on historical events must have been remarkable—he might have even lived through some of them.

Evangeline eagerly took out her quill and parchment, determined not to miss a word of the lesson. But the moment Professor Binns began to speak, her enthusiasm waned instantly. "Ah, that explains why everyone is asleep..." At Beauxbatons, the History of Magic professor managed to convey his passion in every lesson. But here... it was hard to imagine anyone more soporific than Professor Binns! Despite his monotonous tone, devoid of any spark of excitement, Evangeline hung onto his every word. His teaching method might have been dreadful, but the content was utterly fascinating for Evangeline, who filled her parchment with notes on the Goblin Rebellion of 1752. And with everyone else sound asleep, for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Evangeline could be herself without feeling scrutinised. Time seemed to fly by between the questions she kept asking Professor Binns—who, in turn, was delighted that a student was finally interested in the noble era of the Goblin Rebellion of 1752—and the class hour passed swiftly.

As the rest of the class slowly awoke and hurried off to the Great Hall, Evangeline preferred to stay and continue chatting with Professor Binns, who recommended several books available in the library if she wanted to delve deeper into the topic. When the chimes rang out, Evangeline realised she had spent her entire lunch break talking to the professor, once again forgetting to have something to eat. She thanked Professor Binns and dashed off to her broomstick flying lesson. While History of Magic was Evangeline's favourite class, the same couldn't be said for broomstick flying. It was, along with Potions, her worst nightmare. "If only Headmaster Black had also cancelled flying lessons…" thought the young French witch. Her fear of heights made this class a real ordeal, and she knew she would likely become the target of ridicule once more.

The closer she got to the flying grounds, the more her anxiety and apprehension intensified. But this time, it wasn’t the same as before. She was used to having a knot in her stomach before class; it had been her unwelcome companion for five long years. This, however, went beyond her usual social anxiety—it was a true fear linked to her phobia of heights. Though she tried to hide it, her face betrayed her nerves, with her lips pressed so tightly they turned white. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the sleeve of her robes so hard it hurt her knuckles. She knew she couldn’t back out now, yet every fibre of her being begged her to find any excuse to avoid mounting that wretched broomstick. But it was too late.

Professor Kogawa arrived on the field with a light yet confident stride, exuding a natural elegance that seemed perfectly attuned to the brisk morning air. Her slim, straight figure, wrapped in a grey cloak billowing behind her, immediately drew everyone's attention. Her face was serene, almost calming, but her eyes sparkled with a focused energy, as if nothing could escape her notice. She carried a meticulously polished broomstick under her arm, a testament to her unmatched expertise in the art of flying. When she finally stepped into the centre of the field, silence fell as if by magic. Every student looked at her with a mixture of fear and admiration. In a gentle yet firm voice, she greeted them: “Welcome to your first flying lesson of the year. Today, we’ll simply go over the basics. Begin by picking up your brooms and mounting them. Hover above the field and pass through the rings I’ve set up. Then return to the ground at my whistle.”

There was something reassuring in her tone, yet also an implicit demand for perfection that left no room for error. Evangeline’s heart raced even faster, knowing that this professor would not be fooled by her attempts to mask her fears. With trembling hands, Evangeline bent down to grasp her broom. The cool wood of the handle almost slipped from her grip, so tense were her fingers. Around her, her classmates seized their brooms with enthusiasm, exchanging excited smiles and competitive glances. As for Evangeline, every heartbeat pounded in her chest like a drum, and her legs felt on the verge of giving out. Taking a deep breath, she placed the broom beside her and whispered feebly, “Up.” The broom barely stirred, wobbling before falling flat to the ground. Her cheeks flushed red. She gritted her teeth, trying to conceal her panic. 

But Professor Kogawa didn’t let her wallow in self-doubt. “Focus, Miss Rosier,” she said in a soft but clear voice, loud enough for everyone to turn their heads. “The broom responds to your intent. Trust it.”

Evangeline slowly nodded, feeling the weight of the gazes fixed on her. "Great..." This time, she closed her eyes, let out a trembling breath, and murmured in a firmer voice: "Up!" To her great surprise, the broom jumped into her palm, as if it had been waiting for this more decisive command. She opened her eyes, almost incredulous, and caught a faint approving smile on Kogawa’s lips. But the worst was yet to come. Mounting the broom was one thing, but taking off...

She glanced at the rings suspended in the air, floating several metres above the ground, and the world seemed to sway around her. The brisk air stung her skin, and an icy fear settled in her stomach. Evangeline swallowed hard, feeling her apprehension rising.

“Go on. Take off!” the professor called out calmly, sweeping his gaze over the group in an encouraging manner.

The others took off without hesitation, their brooms lifting gracefully and effortlessly, but Evangeline remained rooted to the spot, immobile. She couldn’t bring herself to give the slightest push, her feet seemed anchored to the ground. Her knees were trembling, and her throat tightened. Yet she knew that if she stayed there, if she let fear get the better of her, she would draw even more attention... and become, once again, the source of her classmates’ mockery. She swallowed again, her palms sweaty, and gripped the handle with all her might. “Come on, Evangeline. Courage. Just… a little kick… to lift off.” she whispered to herself silently. “A small jump, nothing more... Take it slow and don’t think about the height... Come on, breathe, and let’s go...”

Taking a desperate breath, she gave a hesitant kick to propel herself off the ground. The broom reacted instantly, soaring into the air with a speed that took her breath away. The empty space suddenly opened up beneath her, and Evangeline found herself suspended, her body instinctively tensing. All around her, her classmates were already weaving between the rings, their laughter and exclamations echoing in the clear sky. But Evangeline didn’t share their enthusiasm at all. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on Kogawa’s voice, who continued to give flying instructions. “Slowly… Breathe…” she whispered to herself, struggling to steady her erratic breathing. Her fear of heights threatened to overwhelm her, every second in the air felt interminable. But when she reopened her eyes, she forced herself to look straight ahead, not down. “You can do it… you have to do it!” she repeated to herself.

But her eyes drifted for a moment towards the ground below. Instantly, a wave of pure panic washed over her. Her vision blurred, and a deafening buzzing rose in her ears, almost drowning out Professor Kogawa’s voice. Every fibre of her being screamed in terror. The fear tightened around her throat like a vice, cutting her breath into ragged gasps. Her heart raced, each beat thudding painfully in her chest. She tried to inhale, but the air refused to fill her lungs. For Evangeline, it was certain: she was going to fall. There was no doubt. Pure panic petrified her, locking her muscles into a deadly immobility. The broom suddenly vibrated beneath her, reacting to her imbalance. She swayed slightly to the side, her stomach flipping at the slightest motion. Fighting to regain control, she shut her eyes, tears welling up on her pale cheeks. Instinctively, she directed herself back to the ground with what little strength she seemed to have left. She was trembling, still clinging to the broom, her knees buckling beneath her. When she realised she was back on solid ground, an involuntary sob escaped her throat. She let go of the handle, her legs giving way completely. She collapsed onto the grass, her face buried in her hands, shaking from head to toe.

“Miss Rosier! What are you doing on the ground?” Professor Kogawa scolded upon seeing her on the ground. “Get back on your broom immediately!”

All Evangeline could do was shake her head, her lips pale and trembling. “I... I can’t... I...”

Seeing Evangeline trembling and in tears, the stern look on Professor Kogawa’s face softened. The professor watched for a moment, seeing the girl curled up on the ground, utterly distressed. Her severe expression turned gentler as she slowly crouched in front of her, careful not to frighten her further. “Listen to me, Miss Rosier. You don’t have to fly very high. Just a few metres, to try…” Her voice, usually strict, was now just a soft murmur of reassurance.

But Evangeline shook her head again, breathing shallowly, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. “No... no... you don’t understand…” Her words were choked by her sobs, each one seeming to be torn from her trembling body. "I… I can't… it’s stronger than me. The emptiness… up there… I feel… I feel like I’m going to fall… and… and…”

The distress in her voice pierced Kogawa, who took a deep breath. She gently reached out a hand towards Evangeline’s shoulder, hesitating to touch her. "You’re not going to fall." she murmured. "And even if that were to happen, I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to you. Try again; I know you can do it."

But Evangeline looked up at her, her pupils flooded with tears and anxiety. "You can't know… You… you don't know what it's like… to have that fear… that panic… that paralyses you… That fear that stops you from doing anything and makes you feel useless and worthless…" She began to cry harder and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. "I… I want to try; I would like to… But I… I can't do it..."

A silence settled between them, only disturbed by the whistling wind around the Quidditch pitch and the shouts of other students who continued to fly in circles far above their heads, oblivious to them as they were too busy enjoying the sensation of freedom that flying on broomsticks provided. Kogawa silently watched Evangeline and lowered her head as if pondering what she could possibly say to her.

"Alright, Miss Rosier." she finally replied, her voice measured. "You don’t have to fly higher today. I’m not going to force you. I can see that you’re not in the right state. And I refuse to let any of my students put themselves in danger because I’m making them fly. I do not want flying on broomsticks to be seen as a chore in any way."

Evangeline looked down. She struggled to hold back her tears and not think about the shame she felt. "Honestly, being in fifth year and not being able to fly on a broom… You’re embarrassing yourself, Evangeline… You don’t deserve to be a witch… The others are right to despise me and mock me… I’m just useless…"

"Don’t take this as a failure; it’s not one." Professor Kogawa continued. "Think of it as a step towards building your self-confidence. I can see that you’re terrified at the thought of flying and that you want to do well. But don’t rush; go at your own pace. Little streams make big rivers. The last thing I want is for my students to see flying on broomsticks as a burden."

Evangeline looked at her, surprised. "Y-you mean… that I… that I don’t have to continue? You’re not going to penalise me for refusing to do the exercise?"

The professor nodded slowly. "Sometimes, recognising your limits is just as important as pushing them. But I want you to stay with us, alright? Even if you remain on the ground today. Even if you don’t practise, watching others is a good way to progress." She paused, as if to ensure Evangeline understood. "And if one day you feel like you want to try again, even just a little bit... I will be here to guide you."

A faint smile crossed Evangeline's face, almost imperceptible. She had never heard anyone speak about her fears with such understanding. And most importantly, for the first time since she had started her schooling, she felt that someone truly understood her and took the time to grasp what she was feeling. "Thank you, Professor..." Evangeline replied, her voice weak and choked with emotion.

Kogawa gently stood and extended her hand to her. "You are braver than you think, Miss Rosier. Take your time. And when you’re ready... I’ll know."

Evangeline accepted Professor Kogawa’s outstretched hand, carefully rising. Her legs were still weak from the anxiety attack she had experienced, but she managed to steady herself. The professor gave her one last understanding look before returning to assist the other students, who were gracefully soaring through the air. Evangeline remained still for a moment, observing the broomstick she still held in her hands. Her grip on the handle tightened, and then, with a resolute gesture, she walked toward the edge of the pitch. There, she set the broom aside, carefully placing it on the grass as if she were returning it to its final resting place. She took a deep breath, a strange sensation of relief mixed with frustration rising within her. She knew she wouldn’t be getting back on a broom anytime soon — perhaps never. But deep down, a hint of regret lingered.

The lesson ended far too quickly for Evangeline, even though she hadn’t really participated. The other students landed smoothly on the lawn, their smiles still glowing with the exhilaration of flying. Professor Kogawa gave a few final instructions before dismissing them, her voice echoing across the field. With no reason to linger on the grounds, Evangeline slipped away quietly, hoping to disappear before anyone could speak to her. But as she made her way toward the doors leading back to the castle, a familiar figure broke away from the group and quickly caught up with her. It was Imelda Reyes, one of Slytherin’s top flying students—the very same who had already made a cutting remark to her in Potions class. Imelda stopped right in front of her, a sly smirk playing on her lips.

"Well, well, well..." Imelda began, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Looks like Miss Rosier has decided that the ground is safer, huh?" Her tone, sharp and mocking, pricked Evangeline like a thorn under her skin. She clenched her fists, her heart pounding in her chest. She really wasn’t in the mood for teasing.

"Leave me alone, Reyes." she murmured, trying to sidestep the Slytherin.

"Oh, but why rush off so quickly? You should stay; perhaps Professor Kogawa could show you how to use a broomstick. Do they teach you how to clean with them in France?" Imelda snickered, drawing the attention of a few other students lingering nearby.

Evangeline felt her cheeks burn with shame, her hands tightening around the fabric of her robe's sleeve. The gaze of others was unbearable, scorching the back of her neck like a live flame.

"It seems Ravenclaw has found her new aerial terror!" Imelda said in a syrupy voice, each word laced with mock concern.

Evangeline felt her heart constrict. The words she wanted to say got stuck in her throat. She wanted to defend herself, but an invisible wall seemed to hold her back. The weight of anger and humiliation pressed down on her, leaving her frozen in place, her gaze fixed on the ground, as if staring at the cobbles could make her invisible. 

"Imelda. Leave her alone!" The firm yet fair voice interrupted the cruel moment. Evangeline looked up, recognising Natsai Onai, the Gryffindor girl she had faced in a duelling class during the last lesson, now stepping between her and Imelda.

"What are you doing, Natty?" Imelda retorted, waving her hand dismissively as if to downplay the situation. "I'm just teasing her; it’s all in good fun."

"Maybe you don’t mean any harm, but look at her, Imelda," Natty replied, her tone becoming more serious. "You can see she doesn't appreciate it. "Evangeline felt a wave of gratitude towards Natsai, but at the same time, she felt even more exposed. Natsai shot Imelda a stern look. "We can say things with a bit of respect." Then she turned to Evangeline, her expression softening. "Come on, let’s get away from here."

Imelda glared at her, her smile fading gradually to a more disdainful expression. Evangeline hesitated, her heart still racing. She cast one last glance at Imelda, who rolled her eyes and was already losing interest in the scene, before following Natsai. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the ensuing silence, but in Evangeline's mind, Imelda's taunts still lingered.

Once they were a safe distance away, Natsai offered her an encouraging look. "You don’t have anything to prove, you know. And don’t pay any attention to Imelda. She’s not cruel, but she tends to belittle others to feel better about herself, especially when it comes to broom flying. She’s very good and likes to brag about it."

Evangeline nodded, lowering her head slightly, still overwhelmed by the emotions washing over her. "I... thank you." she murmured, her voice barely audible. Yet, Natsai heard her perfectly and nodded back with a kind expression.

"You're welcome!" Natsai replied softly, a slight smile on her lips. "It's the least I can do. I know how hard it can be to be new at a school... especially when you come from another country. Believe me, I know what it's like."

Evangeline gently lifted her gaze, surprised by the sincerity in Natsai's voice. She realised she might not be the only one feeling out of place in this vast castle. Natsai, too, must have faced the unknown upon arriving at Hogwarts from Uganda. This simple thought brought Evangeline a bit of comfort, but she still struggled for words. "How..." Evangeline began, hesitating for a moment. "How did you manage to... fit in?"

Natsai smiled even more brightly, her eyes lighting up with understanding. "It takes time, and you have to be patient with yourself. There will be days when everything feels easier, and others when it’s more complicated. But you’ll find your place. I’m sure of it."

Evangeline nodded slowly. The idea of one day feeling at home at Hogwarts seemed distant, almost unreal. But Natsai's words sparked a faint glimmer of hope in her mind.

"And if you need anything..." Natsai added, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "don't hesitate. You can come to me."

Evangeline felt a weight form in her chest as Natsai placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. She desperately wanted to believe in the sincerity of her words, but a part of her couldn’t shake off the doubt. What if Natsai was only interested in her out of pity? After all, why would a girl as strong and respected want to be friends with her, a clumsy outsider who seemed to constantly mess up and draw the ire of everyone around? A forced smile flickered on Evangeline’s lips. “Thank you.” she said softly, lowering her eyes to avoid meeting Natsai’s kind gaze. “It’s… really kind of you.” She straightened up a bit, trying to regain her composure, but a bitter thought gnawed at her. "I don’t want to be a burden to her." she told herself. "She surely has better things to do than hold my hand every time I fall apart." A wave of guilt washed over her. The very idea of befriending Natsai made her almost anxious—as if she didn’t deserve such a friendship. “I… I think I’m going to head to the library,” she finally said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I still have some things to revise.”

Natsai seemed to hesitate for a moment but didn’t push the issue further. “If that’s what you prefer, okay. But remember, I’m here if you need anything, alright?”

Evangeline nodded, carefully avoiding showing the anxiety that was consuming her. “Yes… thank you.” she repeated, turning away to hide the shadow of her emotions. As she distanced herself from Natsai and the comforting embrace she might have offered, Evangeline felt the emptiness inside her grow. She clutched the fabric of her robe, as if to shield herself from the oppressive sensation. “No, Evangeline, you can’t impose on her.” she repeated inwardly, trying to convince herself. “You don’t deserve her friendship; it’s obvious.” A heavy silence settled around her, enveloping her thoughts like a dark veil. She allowed herself to be overwhelmed by her emotions, her mind running in circles with the same reflections. “What’s the point of trying to make friends anyway?” she wondered, bitterness swelling in her heart. “I’ll just end up ruining everything... like always. If it’s not me, it’s the others who will end up avoiding me. It’s always like this.” She lowered her eyes, biting her lip to hold back a wave of emotion. “Why get attached when I already know how it’s going to end?”

Realising what she had just thought, Evangeline slapped herself inwardly, the gesture symbolic and as violent as her thoughts. “Stop thinking like that! You’re being ridiculous, complaining as if everything is already decided. Make an effort, Evangeline! Surely, there must be people who will want you... Statistically, there’s bound to be at least one person who will accept you as you are... One... Just one...” But instead of reassuring herself, those words had the opposite effect. Her shoulders slumped, and tears began to flow silently down her cheeks, betraying the inner struggle she was struggling to face.

Stepping through the library doors, Evangeline found herself alone once again, surrounded by the silent shelves and the books she still struggled to fully understand. The weight of solitude pressed heavily on her shoulders as she moved slowly between the aisles, trying to hold back the lingering traces of her tears. This was her refuge, this quiet place where every book was a gateway to a world where she could lose herself, free from the judgmental gazes of others. She settled in a secluded corner near a stained-glass window, where the soft, muted light of the late afternoon gently bathed her space. With a sigh, she pulled two books from her bag: Bel-Ami by Maupassant and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. Familiar, comforting companions in the vastness of a foreign and, to her, hostile school, where she felt so small and rejected.

As she leafed through the pages of Bel-Ami, Evangeline imagined for a moment speaking to Georges Duroy, that cunning and opportunistic character. "You, at least, would know what to do in a situation like mine," she murmured inwardly. "You’d never let others walk all over you, would you?" A sad smile crossed her face as she recalled his clever ways of manipulating those around him to climb the ranks of Parisian society. "But I’m not like you…" she thought, "I can’t lie or manipulate others to get by. I’m… too weak for that. A nobody." The thought pulled her back to harsh reality. She could neither strategize nor be as ruthless as Duroy, though she sometimes wished she possessed his strength. It would have helped her in more than one situation—here in the UK, or back in France, particularly at Beauxbâtons. Her gaze shifted to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. There, she sought solace in Professor Aronnax, a man of science, captivated by the mysteries of the ocean and far removed from the petty squabbles of daily life. "How would you have handled all this?" she wondered. "You’d have delved into the depths of human nature as you did the oceans, maintaining your curiosity, even in the toughest times." The idea of a hidden world beneath the waves, as vast and incomprehensible as her own feelings, brought her a strange sense of comfort she hadn’t known she needed. Perhaps that was the key to Evangeline finding peace with herself—perhaps she could find it if she learned to understand her own emotions.

In the silence of the library, she imagined a fictional conversation with Aronnax, confiding in him about her struggles to fit into this new world that was Hogwarts, her battle to understand others, and, above all, to accept herself. Evangeline often imagined conversations with the characters from the novels she read. They were, in a way, friends she could rely on. “You’re like an ocean,” she imagined Aronnax saying to her. “A complex and unfathomable world. It takes time to uncover its richness, but you will, wave by wave and storm by storm.” This imaginary dialogue allowed her, for a moment, to forget the weight of her reality. She pictured herself sailing through uncharted waters, surrounded by fantastic creatures, far from the mockery of her classmates and the doubts that consumed her days at Hogwarts. This world, though fictional, was a refuge where she didn’t need to justify herself or prove that she deserved her place. Above all, she could simply be herself, free from the judgement of others. “Perhaps Aronnax is right.” she thought. “Maybe I just need to let the storm carry me and see where it takes me…” But these positive thoughts were fragile, ready to shatter at the slightest touch of reality. For now, she allowed herself to remain there, safe in her secluded corner, finding solace in her companions of paper, hoping that one day she might find the strength to break free from her isolation. Deep down, though, she knew it was already a lost cause, aware that she would never dare to leave the comfort zone that her solitude had become over time. The soft rustle of turning pages was the only sound that disturbed the silence of the library, where the young witch sat.

Absorbed in her reading and her imaginary discussions with Professor Aronnax, Evangeline lost all sense of time. The pages of Vingt Mille Lieues sous les Mers captivated her so much that she found herself, in her mind, exploring the depths of the ocean aboard the Nautilus, far from earthly troubles and personal concerns. The underwater adventure and the quiet wisdom of Professor Aronnax provided her with a perfect escape from the harsh reality of Hogwarts. The light in the library gradually dimmed, but Evangeline noticed none of it—not even the few students who came to fetch books or study in silence before leaving. Twilight slowly settled outside, and eventually, the shadows crept into the isolated corner where she sat.

It was a barely perceptible noise—the creaking of a distant door or perhaps the wind rustling through a poorly shut window—that suddenly pulled her back to reality. Evangeline lifted her head, her eyes blinking as if she were emerging from a deep dream. The library, once peaceful, was now enveloped in an almost eerie silence. The flickering wall torches cast dancing shadows on the empty shelves. A chill ran through her when she spotted the clock above the entrance. Her heart raced in an instant: it was much later than she had thought. “No… it can’t be…” she murmured, realizing the late hour.

Dinner had long since finished, and worse still, the curfew had just sounded. Evangeline had already grown accustomed to skipping meals, especially when she immersed herself in her books, but crossing the curfew line was a mistake she couldn’t afford. Her fingers tightened on the open pages before her, and a wave of anxiety surged within her. It was a recklessness she needed to avoid at all costs, especially after such a difficult week: accumulating hours of detention, increasingly unpleasant rumors about her, the hostility of her entire house due to the points she had lost for Ravenclaw, and to top it off, Leander was in the infirmary… because of her. Evangeline hurriedly got to her feet, her books clutched against her chest. She had no bag to carry them. The inner pocket of her robe, which she had enchanted with an extension charm, already held her journal and sketchbook, two items she always carried with her, discreetly. Though this enchanted pocket had enough space to contain much more than its size would suggest, she knew that adding those heavy volumes might upset the charm's balance.

Out of necessity, the young French girl tucked the two books under her arm. She hurried to leave the library, glancing cautiously between the shelves to avoid crossing paths with the librarian. "Madam Scribner will kill me if she catches me here at this hour..." she thought, casting an anxious look toward the door leading to the exit. Finding the coast clear, Evangeline quickly made her way to the door, doing her utmost to remain as discreet as possible. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the books in her arms, trying to slip away unnoticed despite the urgency. After one last, quick glance around the shelves to ensure the way was clear, she weaved between the rows, attempting to make as little noise as possible. The library was now enveloped in an eerie silence, and every creak of the floorboards under her feet echoed like thunder in the vastness of the space. At last, she reached the entrance door, pushed it open gently, and slipped into the empty corridors of Hogwarts.

Night had fallen, and the flickering shadows of the torches danced along the stone walls. Evangeline quickened her pace, her mind fixated on a single goal: reaching the Ravenclaw Tower before encountering a teacher or prefect. She knew that if she were caught wandering after curfew, she risked losing even more points for her house and earning yet another detention—a punishment she could not endure after such a catastrophic week. The corridors seemed darker and more labyrinthine than usual. Every corner felt like a potential trap, every sound an imminent threat. Her breathing quickened despite her efforts to stay calm as she turned a corner, coming face-to-face with the vast central staircase. It loomed before her, appearing impossibly long and almost impassable in the dim light. The oppressive silence made her even more anxious. It was ironic, really. During the day, she wished for quiet, for the other students to stop talking whenever she was around, so she wouldn’t have to hear the whispers and rumors about her. But now, in this solitude, the absence of voices, laughter, and even murmurs weighed heavily on her. The echoes of her own thoughts seemed louder than ever, amplifying her unease. She moved cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. Each step on the stone floor felt deafening, each movement heightening her awareness of how exposed she was. She avoided glancing at the mirrors lining the walls, too afraid of catching a glimpse of herself—of that lost, doubtful girl staring back at her.

As she continued her hurried journey through the deserted corridors, Evangeline suddenly turned into a narrow passage that led to the Ravenclaw Tower. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the stone floor, her heart racing with the fear of being caught and the urgency of her mission. She had one singular goal: to reach the door to her common room and collapse into her bed, desperately seeking the rest she needed after such an arduous week. At last, she arrived at the spiral staircase leading to the Ravenclaw Tower. Breathless, she paused briefly to steady herself before ascending the final steps two at a time. Her legs trembled from the effort, but the sight of the familiar circular door, adorned with its grand eagle-shaped knocker, brought her a small measure of relief. She was almost safe. But the relief was fleeting. As always, the final hurdle awaited her: solving a riddle to gain entry. Normally, Evangeline didn’t struggle with the Tower’s enigmatic questions, but in her current state of panic and exhaustion, even the thought of thinking clearly felt overwhelming. The eagle-shaped knocker stirred to life as she approached, its sharp, knowing eyes glinting in the dim light.

"I am both a guardian and a guide, silent but ever-present. Who am I?"

Evangeline blinked, caught off guard. She repeated the riddle in her mind, trying to make sense of it, but her thoughts, still muddled from the reading, the fatigue of the day, and the stress of the week, struggled to focus. "A guardian and a guide... What could that mean?" She searched for an answer, but nothing came to her. Evangeline stood frozen in front of the door. She repeated the riddle over and over in her head, but the words seemed to jumble together, as if they no longer had any meaning. Each passing second felt heavier than the last. Her mind emptied, unable to concentrate. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself. But the day had been long and exhausting, and her mind was far too restless to focus. She tried to think rationally, but her thoughts always drifted back to her awkwardness, the mocking glances of the other students throughout the week, and the feeling of strangeness that never seemed to leave her.

"Think…" she murmured, almost to herself, but nothing came. "Come on, Evangeline, you’re not going to let a stupid riddle humiliate you more than you already are!" The seconds dragged on. The oppressive silence of the night seemed to weigh on her shoulders, already burdened with exhaustion and frustration. "Ugh! If only I were better at this… If only I could just get in without solving these blasted riddles… Why can’t we have a password like everyone else?" She lightly bumped her forehead against the wooden door, despair etched on her face. The riddle played on a loop in her mind, but no answer presented itself. She felt trapped—physically, standing before this unyielding door, and emotionally, in a storm of uncertainties and doubts.

Minutes passed, and Evangeline, still unable to solve the riddle, felt increasingly overwhelmed. Her thoughts circled endlessly. "Why can’t I figure this out? Why now? What am I going to do if I can’t get in?" Frustration bubbled up, mingling with a deep sense of discouragement. She ran a trembling hand over her face. "Why am I always incapable of getting things right?". She stepped back, nervously biting her lip. In her mind, she could almost hear the taunts of her Ravenclaw peers, imagining her stuck out here like a fool, unable to solve a simple riddle. "Another failure." The thought froze her in place.

Suddenly, a tight knot of anxiety formed in her chest. And now what? Stuck here like a fool, where could she possibly go? Staying in plain sight was unthinkable, yet… there was nowhere else to turn. She tried to speak an answer aloud, but her voice cracked, little more than a whisper in the still darkness. The riddle seemed to mock her, swirling just beyond her grasp. Evangeline slowly sank to the ground, her back against the door, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor beneath her. The silence of the tower weighed heavily, magnifying her loneliness. She crouched there, her breath shaky, her thoughts spiraling into a storm of frustration and despair. The chill of the stone floor seeped into her, mirroring the emptiness and disconnect she felt with the world around her. Each beat of her heart reverberated like a cruel reminder of her inability to meet expectations—those of her peers, and more painfully, her own.

Evangeline bit her lip, struggling to maintain her composure. "Right, think..." she muttered, trying to suppress the rising panic. "Stay here all night? No, absolutely not. As soon as the first students leave the dormitory, they’ll see me… and with my luck, this will haunt me for weeks, maybe the whole year." She glanced again at the door to the Ravenclaw common room, her gaze fixed on the eagle sculpture perched above. That blasted bird offered her no solace; its mere presence annoyed her to no end. She felt trapped. The pressure was mounting, and a knot of anxiety twisted painfully in her stomach. "Why can’t I think straight?" she thought in frustration. "It’s just a simple riddle, and here I am, stuck outside… Ugh, this is hopeless." Evangeline took a deep breath. The thought of being stranded there all night was unbearable. She could already imagine the mocking laughter of her Ravenclaw peers the next morning, finding her slumped against the door. "No, absolutely not. I can’t stay here. I need to find somewhere else to hide for the night..."

 She needed a new plan, an escape route. But where could she go? The library? Too risky. The Great Hall? A hotbed for patrolling prefects. The Defense Against the Dark Arts tower? That could work! She had overheard some Ravenclaws mention it once—so far removed from the rest of the dormitories that no one ever ventured there after curfew. Perfect. The problem: how to get there without being spotted? Then, an idea sparked in her mind. The Disillusionment Charm. It was far from perfect—she struggled to maintain it for more than a few minutes—but it was her best shot. If she could activate it just long enough to move undetected, she might make it to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, where she could at least spend the night hidden from prying eyes and avoid being caught breaking curfew.

Evangeline pulled out her wand, adrenaline granting her a burst of courage. "Why didn’t I think of this sooner?" she muttered to herself. The thought of slipping under a temporary cloak of invisibility could have spared her so much earlier stress, but better late than never. She hesitated for a moment before whispering the incantation, pointing her wand at herself: "Disillusio." A faint warmth enveloped her body, and she felt a strange sensation, as though a thin layer of water had settled on her skin. Her figure blurred, her outlines melting into the surroundings. She wasn’t completely invisible, but in the dimly lit corridors, she was concealed enough not to draw attention. "Perfect… for now." she thought, fully aware that maintaining the charm would demand significant focus. She wouldn’t be able to sustain it indefinitely—it was a spell she hadn’t yet mastered. But for a short distance, it would suffice. With a deep breath, Evangeline took her first cautious steps forward, her heart racing as she began her journey to the distant tower.

Evangeline took a deep breath and slipped out of the corridor leading to the Ravenclaw tower. The tension in her muscles was palpable with every step she took, but she forced herself to stay focused. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Her footsteps barely echoed on the castle's stone floors as she moved as quickly as possible while ensuring she wouldn’t be noticed. As she made her way through the dark corridors, she reflected that she should have thought of using this spell much earlier. How many times could she have avoided mockery or curious stares if she had been able to blend into the background like this? But her persistent anxiety reminded her that she wasn’t comfortable enough to sustain it for long. "Don’t think about that now," she told herself to regain composure. "Focus."

The Defense Against the Dark Arts tower was finally within reach. The oppressive silence of the castle was punctuated by distant creaks and the sound of the wind against the ancient windows. Evangeline advanced cautiously, trying to remain invisible to any prefects or teachers who might appear. Fortunately for her, the hallways remained deserted. When she finally reached the base of the tower, she released the spell, her breathing labored. The sensation of becoming fully visible again was both a relief and a source of unease. She glanced around, but there was no one in sight. She slipped behind a stone column, searching for a discreet corner where she could rest, if only for a few hours. The accumulated fatigue of the week was catching up with her, leaving her feeling vulnerable. But deep down, the emotional exhaustion was also taking its toll. Reflecting on it, her week had been nothing short of a nightmare. Between the rumors about her, the detentions, the lost house points, and poor Leander… This nocturnal escapade was just the latest trial in a long series before she could hope to enjoy some serenity over the weekend. Her spirits were in shreds, and all she wanted was a bit of peace. A moment of respite, far from it all.

She leaned against one of the tower's cold walls, her back pressed to the stone. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe calmly. At least here, no one would come looking for her. Maybe, just this once, she could simply… have some peace for a night. Evangeline glanced around to ensure she was truly alone before letting herself slide down the wall. She set her books carefully on the ground and ran a hand over her face, feeling the tension that had kept her so rigid begin to ease. "Just one night," she murmured to herself. She removed her wizarding robe and draped it around herself like a blanket, hoping it might offer a bit of warmth. At this hour, the castle was steeped in an unusual stillness, a quiet so serene it was as if the building itself were finally sleeping.

After a while, the chill of the stones began to seep into her, and Evangeline stood to stretch her legs. Her steps carried her gently toward one of the tower's staircases, and as she descended slowly, her gaze was drawn to an old portrait hanging near the steps. The painting depicted a young witch with a soft, enigmatic expression whose eyes seemed to follow anyone passing by. Captivated, Evangeline paused, her fatigue momentarily forgotten, drawn in by the graceful features and mysterious depth of the figure's gaze. She sat carefully on the steps, a mix of excitement and vulnerability washing over her as she reached into her pocket to pull out her well-worn sketchbook, brimming with unspoken dreams and aspirations. She opened it with care, revealing pages filled with past sketches, then retrieved a pencil, her hands slightly trembling. Her eyes returned to the witch in the portrait, mesmerizing, as if she could somehow understand Evangeline's inner turmoil. Inspired by the softness of her features, Evangeline began to draw. The contours of the face took shape beneath her fingers, each pencil stroke a silent dialogue between her and the page. But as she progressed, a familiar, relentless voice crept into her thoughts: "Why bother drawing? It’s not like you’re any good at it…" The words echoed, weighing down her heart with doubt.

That voice, she knew it by heart. She had heard it far too often at Beauxbâtons, drifting through the hallways like an acidic melody, the echo of a cruelty that was almost ordinary. The girls most skilled at drawing, wrapped in their popularity and confidence at the French school of magic, took pleasure in silently watching her, exchanging knowing smiles before bursting into laughter behind her back, not even bothering to hide it. Maybe it was to put on a show, or maybe just to put her in her place—who knew? These teenagers, who dominated the classrooms with their presence, seemed to sense all her weaknesses, every one of her mistakes. And without ever being overtly mean, they managed to erase her, reducing her to her clumsiness and imperfect lines on the paper. Those mocking laughs still echoed within her, a dissonant tune that continued to whisper her doubts, reigniting, with every memory, the sting of those thinly veiled humiliations.

She paused her pencil, her gaze lingering on the portrait she was sketching. At that moment, the still-developing face of the witch seemed to understand her, a gentle glimmer of encouragement lighting up the sketched eyes, as if they were capturing Evangeline’s inner turmoil. Despite herself, she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm the wave of doubts threatening to overwhelm her. Then, her grandmother’s words returned to her, particularly a note left in a box of art supplies gifted to Evangeline—words filled with tenderness and wisdom: “Art, my dear, is a mirror of the heart, not a battlefield. Don’t seek perfection; seek only to put your soul into it. As Balzac said: ‘The mission of the artist is not to copy nature, but to express it!’”

These memories brought her a subtle warmth, like a thread of light in the darkness of her thoughts. Her grip on the pencil steadied. “That’s true. I shouldn’t let others’ opinions influence me,” she thought. After all, this drawing wasn’t for them. Taking a deep breath, she returned to sketching the curves, the shadows, and the details of the portrait, pouring into it every buried emotion, every spark of her own vulnerability. The witch’s face began to take shape, as if a silent dialogue was unfolding between them, where, stroke by stroke, Evangeline was learning to listen to herself.

She focused intently on every delicate detail of the witch’s face: the subtle curve of her lips, the soft shadow on her cheek, and the way a strand of hair escaped to brush her forehead. With each precise stroke of her pencil, Evangeline felt a weight lift from her shoulders, as though every line freed a fragment of the tension that had followed her throughout the evening. In the darkness, her pencil danced across the paper, and with each movement, she let her anxieties melt away. A gentle warmth began to fill her, a newfound peace, as she watched the witch’s face emerge beneath her fingers with an almost lifelike grace. As she drew, she felt something shift within her; it was more than just a portrait—it was a silent dialogue between her passion and her fears, where every line, every shadow traced became a step toward inner freedom. She whispered softly to herself, almost inaudibly, “I am capable,” as an anchor, refusing to succumb to the venom of past mockery. The contours came to life, and with them, a glimmer of her own inner strength began to break free, slowly eroding the chains of self-criticism.

But this moment of calm was short-lived. Barely a few moments of inner peace, and a familiar voice resurfaced, soft and insidious, creeping into the depths of her mind. “Look at your drawing, Evangeline… look carefully. Isn’t it crooked? Full of flaws?” The words seemed to hang in the air, like poison slowly spreading, contaminating the serenity she had struggled so hard to regain. Doubts began to coil around her heart, each silent critique eroding a little more the fragile confidence she was trying to maintain. “Why bother? Don’t you see it’s pointless?” The voice inside her grew stronger, amplified by the shadows of her old insecurities, showing her every stroke as a mistake, each line too harsh or poorly placed. The softness of the face she had tried to capture seemed to slip away, and her hands began to tremble slightly.

Evangeline took a deep breath, trying to push back the thoughts that seeped in like poison. “No.” she whispered, almost as a prayer. “I love to draw… it calms me, and that’s all that matters.” She tried to convince herself, to take refuge in this fragile certainty, but the voice continued to crawl through her mind, relentless. It lingered on every imperfection, every imperfect shadow, every tremble of her line. “Look closely… This isn’t art. It’s nothing but a meaningless doodle, a waste of paper!” the voice hissed, merciless. Evangeline struggled to keep her composure, but her gaze involuntarily drifted to her drawing. What she had once seen as a portrait full of potential was now, under her critical eye, transforming into a collection of glaring flaws: the proportions of the face jumped out at her; the cheekbones were too high, the nose seemed disproportionate compared to the twisted mouth, and the eyes, though full of life in her mind, were now unbalanced, as if they had been placed without any regard for harmony. The voice in her mind grew louder, sharper. “Look at that, Evangeline. It’s far from beautiful. It’s far from art. Admit it, you have no talent.” Her heart tightened, and she turned her gaze away from the drawing, but even in the blur of her tear-filled eyes, the imperfections remained etched in her memory.

A silent sob rose within her, and despite her desperate efforts, her heart tightened, allowing a dull pain to settle in. She tried to resist, to cling to the subtle details, to hear once again the reassuring words of her grandmother whispering that art wasn’t a race, but a reflection of herself. Yet, the harder she fought, the louder the inner voice became, invasive and relentless. The flaws screamed at her: the sorceress’s mouth seemed crooked, the shadows appeared excessively heavy, and the gaze, which was supposed to evoke life, seemed frozen and empty. “Why am I persevering? Why keep trying to prove again and again what I already know? This drawing is nothing more than another proof of my inability, a ruthless reflection of my failures...”

Tears welled up, unstoppable, clouding her vision until one of them slipped and fell onto the paper. The outline of her drawing blurred on impact, and the ink spread, leaving a pale stain that distorted the delicate face of the sorceress. This simple mark was the last straw, breaking what little calm she had left. The sight of that stain distorting the face she had so carefully sketched shattered the dam of her frustration. A sense of helplessness mingled with a dull rage, tinged with despair. Her hands clenched the edges of the notebook as she felt the anger rise, burning. Bitterness mingled with pain, and, gritting her teeth in a furious breath, she muttered, “Why am I so weak? Why does every critique, every dark thought, always pierce me so deeply?” Her voice, broken and vibrating with disgust, echoed faintly in the air, mirroring the pain she had contained for so long.

In an impulsive burst, Evangeline clutched her trembling sketchbook between her hands before throwing it far away, her eyes clouded with tears. The sketchbook spun through the air, flying over the banister of the staircase. Its pages fluttered in a disordered motion, trembling as if they were mocking her, before falling heavily to the lower level. What Evangeline didn’t yet know was that this desperate gesture would lead to an unexpected encounter. At the bottom of the stairs, a boy crouched against the staircase looked up when he heard the rustle of the sketchbook’s pages in the air before it struck him squarely on the head. The impact made him flinch, but instead of getting angry, he simply picked up the object that had fallen into his lap and gazed at it, gently brushing it with his hands, no doubt curious about why this object had ended up there. This impulsive act by the young Ravenclaw would lead to a chance meeting that would mark the beginning of an unexpected bond—a bond that would change Evangeline’s life.

But Evangeline knew none of this. At that exact moment, the only thing occupying her was the desperate effort to hold back her burning tears. "Il doit bien y avoir un domaine dans lequel je devrais pouvoir être douée!" she yelled, her voice rising in French, shattering the heavy silence of the stone corridor. Her cry, filled with frustration and despair, echoed through the cold air, scattering against the walls. "Oui, tu es douée pour troubler la tranquillité des autres!" a male voice replied, tinged with amusement and genuine curiosity. The tone came from the bottom of the stairs, and it had a lightness that contrasted with the gravity of her own distress. Eyes wide, Evangeline jumped. She had thought she was alone. Hearing him respond to her in French with a British accent—adding an unexpected and not unpleasant twist to his words—caught her off guard. She lowered her gaze, her eyes still blurred with tears, and saw the figure of a boy holding her sketchbook in his hands, his expression a mix of intrigue and a hint of sarcasm. It only took a moment for her to realize that he had been the unintended recipient of her impulsive throw. Surprise and embarrassment hit her full force, stirring up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Each step brought Evangeline closer to a confrontation she already dreaded. A wave of anxiety twisted her stomach, like an invisible vise compressing her chest. The thought of facing a confrontation, especially knowing the reputation that preceded her, sent a chill up her spine. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the accusing glares and venomous whispers of other students. The lost points, the detentions—everything that had made her unpopular haunted her thoughts, weaving a tight web of fears and doubts. Her fingers nervously twisted around the cuff of her sleeve, a gesture she had grown accustomed to in an effort to calm herself. Her throat dry, she felt a familiar tingling rise, betraying the panic bubbling beneath the surface. She forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to steady the erratic beats of her heart. As she placed her foot on the last step, the thought that this young man would likely judge her, like so many others before him, made her hesitate for a fraction of a second. But it was too late to back down, and the shadow of her fears had to make way for the fragile courage pushing her forward, despite everything.

When she reached the bottom, she was able to take in more of the stranger's features. He was a young man with fair skin, his light brown-blonde hair carefully combed back, almost slicked, giving him an air of both elegance and severity. His eyes, a piercing milky blue, didn’t quite focus on her but carried a strange intensity. On his left cheek, a series of beauty marks were subtly arranged to resemble—at least to Evangeline's eyes—the constellation of the serpent, adding a mysterious and captivating touch to his appearance. His black robe trimmed with green and the matching tie he wore over a light shirt marked him as belonging to the Slytherin house.

"I... I'm sorry..." Evangeline attempted to say in a barely audible voice, her timidity betraying her discomfort.

"I didn’t know throwing a sketchbook down a staircase was part of the French artistic traditions," the Slytherin boy responded, this time in English, with a sharp irony and a smirk. "I didn’t realize the stairs at Hogwarts had become French art galleries." His voice, both refined and tinged with a noticeable annoyance, made her falter internally. Each word seemed to slip under her skin, stirring a mix of frustration and embarrassment within her.

Evangeline opened her mouth, trying to defend herself, but no sound came out. Guilt and shame overwhelmed her, weighing on her heart like a stone. Each second of silence only amplified her sense of inadequacy, and she felt like prey under the scrutinizing gaze of a predator. As she timidly extended her hand to retrieve her sketchbook, she noticed the boy wasn’t immediately handing it back to her. Instead, he seemed to weigh the situation, his curiosity mixed with a palpable distrust. She could almost feel the tension between them, her mind swirling with thoughts about her appearance, her past mistakes, and the silent judgment surrounding her. The reality of her situation pressed heavily on her: as the target of mockery at Beauxbâtons, she had become accustomed to the indifference and cruelty of others.

"This sketchbook, this scream... A true tragedy in three acts. The greatest playwrights would have been impressed." he added, raising an eyebrow, the constellation of freckles on his cheek catching the flickering torchlight with an almost mesmerizing intensity. His words, sharp as thorns, pierced the fragile balance Evangeline had managed to maintain. Her heart raced, each beat pounding like a drum in her chest, as a knot of anxiety tightened around her throat. Unable to bear the weight of humiliation any longer, she abruptly turned away, a whirlwind of anger and pain swirling within her.

She rushed through the first floor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower without a glance back, the frantic beats of her heart in sync with her steps against the cold stone. Each stride felt like a challenge to the rising pain within her, a desperate effort to escape the searing humiliation that the Slytherin boy’s words had just reignited. A wave of sadness and anger engulfed her, but her pride, though shaken, remained intact. She could not, would not, allow anyone to witness her in such a moment of weakness. The desire to maintain this facade, to not offer those around her the spectacle of her distress, blinded her. Evangeline quickened her pace, crossing the Transfiguration courtyard, feeling the bite of the cold air rush into her lungs, slicing through her throat like a silent warning. It didn’t matter the sketchbook, the mockery, or the shame; all she sought in that moment was air, a space far from prying eyes, where she could regain control, even if only for a fleeting moment. She passed through the main hall before heading toward the viaduct courtyard.

When she finally arrived on the viaduct, a biting cold wind swept through her hair, striking her skin with an intense brutality. The cold air lashed at her face, chasing away the first tears that had gathered on her cheeks, as though each gust were trying to erase her sadness. Every breath carried away a fragment of her despair, yet left behind a dull, relentless pain. Beneath the starry sky and the encompassing darkness of the night, she let herself sink into her sorrow, hoping that the wind would carry away the ache that knotted her heart and soul.

In the silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind, a soft flutter of wings caught Evangeline’s attention. A grey owl, speckled with white and with piercing eyes, landed on the edge of the viaduct, its talons gently scraping against the cold stone. Surprised by this silent apparition, Evangeline straightened up, hastily wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, as though trying to conceal her vulnerability—even from a mere animal. The owl, impassive, seemed to observe her with a silent wisdom, its gaze intense and indifferent to human dramas. “You, at least, don’t judge me, do you?” she whispered, her voice broken, a fragile smile briefly lighting up her tired face. The owl tilted its head, its large round eyes fixed on her, a mix of curiosity and tranquility, like a comforting presence in the darkness. Under the silvery glow of the moon, its feathers seemed to shimmer gently, adding an aura of mystery to its silhouette. For a fleeting moment, this simple, silent exchange brought her an unexpected calm, a comfort from a creature that could neither judge nor hurt her.

Evangeline sighed, her gaze drifting into the owl's grey feathers. “You’re lucky... No words to hurt you, no mockery to endure, just the wind and freedom…” she murmured, her voice fading into the breath of the night. She inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the serene quiet the animal’s presence offered. She envied the owl, so simple, so free. After all, animals don’t suffer the weight of appearances, the cruel judgments, or the stifling expectations. They ignore the mockery, the sharp gazes, and the words that tear. In her heart, a deep desire rose: the wish to escape the oppression of her environment, the cruelty of the other students, the pressure to be perfect. The thought of living without the constant fear of judgment comforted her, but the pain of her own reality was unbearable. She wished she could fly like the owl, free herself from everything that consumed her, but she felt trapped in a world where even the most innocent of creatures could take flight, while she remained, grounded by her doubts and fears.

But barely had she finished her sentence when the owl flapped its wings, preparing to take flight. Evangeline, suddenly seized by panic, instinctively reached out her hand, as if this gesture could hold onto the fleeting hope it symbolized. She watched as it rose into the air, its feathers brushing gently against her fingers, a brief touch that stirred a mix of sadness and despair within her. The bird quickly disappeared into the darkness, carrying with it the sense of comfort it had brought. Evangeline felt her heart tighten as she realized how precious this moment of connection had been, even though it was brief. The loneliness engulfed her once more, heavier than ever. The bird, a symbol of freedom, had flown away, taking with it her hopes of escaping her oppressive reality. She couldn't help but wonder if, like the owl, she could ever free herself from the burden that weighed on her. Every tear she had held back now flowed endlessly, betraying the fragility of her heart. In that starry night, she painfully understood that she might never be free from the grip of mockery and judgment that surrounded her.

A painful emptiness settled in her chest, growing with every passing moment. She lowered her head, allowing her hair to fall over her face, her shoulders sagging heavily under the crushing weight of solitude. "Even animals are fleeing from me..." she thought, a sharp bitterness tightening her throat like a cold embrace. The tears she had tried to contain fell again, this time with a heartbreaking intensity, slipping down her cheeks like a torrent of despair. She felt abandoned, disconnected from everything around her, and the wind, an insensitive accomplice, carried her sobs into the starry night, scattering them like lost secrets. In this moment of vulnerability, every drop of sorrow that escaped seemed like an affirmation of her inability to be understood or accepted. The darkness enveloped her, and she felt invisible, even to the creatures who inhabited this world. She blamed herself for her sensitivity, wondering why she allowed others to hurt her so deeply. Each thought was a new pain, and she couldn't help but feel trapped in an endless cycle of sadness and solitude.

Evangeline, overwhelmed by crushing despair, stared into the void before her, her gaze lost in the abyssal darkness of the world around her. The tears continued to fall, but she no longer noticed them, swallowed by a sombre stupor. The vastness of the viaduct, the distant murmur of the wind, everything seemed indifferent to her suffering. Each reproach, every mocking word, every moment of solitude she had endured since arriving at Hogwarts weighed on her shoulders like a stone. The memories of Beauxbatons, where she had also been ostracised and rejected, merged with those of her new life in the United Kingdom—still so recent—already filled with despair. The mocking laughter of her classmates, which seemed so far away yet so close, echoed in her mind, painfully emphasising the icy silence surrounding her here. This accumulation of pain and disappointment, this constant struggle against a world that seemed hostile to her, was too heavy and unbearable. The certainty that she belonged nowhere, that she was doomed to solitude, crept into her heart, making every breath more difficult than the last.

The void before her seemed to promise an escape, a release from the suffering that was only growing. Each failure, each disdainful look, every moment of rejection swirled together in a whirlwind of despair. Evangeline found herself facing a terrifying choice, trapped between the desire to escape and the fear of the unknown. In that moment, the thought of ending it all blossomed within her like a black flower, seductive and twisted. She felt drained, ready to give in to the despair that was consuming her, to flee from a reality that had become too heavy to bear. Dark thoughts began to slither into her mind, insidious and convincing. Why continue fighting for a world that seemed to conspire against her? Why not end the pain that was eating her from the inside out? The shadow of the thought seemed gentle, a promise of peace amidst the turmoil. For a moment, she imagined the release it could bring, like a breath of fresh air after being submerged in a sea of sorrow.

Her thoughts whirled with a cold clarity, as if every painful memory and every failure were suddenly etched within her with an unrelenting intensity. The idea of being swept away by the void crossed her mind, troubling and tempting, like a brutal yet definitive solution to escape the dull anguish that consumed her day after day. For a moment, everything seemed clear, as though giving in to this impulse would finally offer deliverance, a way to put an end to the overwhelming weight of isolation. But deep within her, a small voice, soft and faint, rose like a spark in the darkness. It reminded her of the precious moments, almost forgotten, when she had tasted true joy: the laughter shared with her parents, simple and without judgment; the hours spent immersing herself in literary worlds, escaping alongside her imaginary heroes, her inner conversations with them comforting and soothing her; the pages of her journal where she confided her hopes and sorrows; and, of course, the happiness of drawing, of letting colours and shapes speak for her. These memories, which she thought were extinguished, began to surface gently, countering the encroaching darkness. She saw herself again, a little girl, sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen, a coloured pencil in hand, the white paper in front of her filling with clumsy yet lively strokes. She could still feel her grandmother’s caring hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to let her imagination run free. It was a moment of pure freedom, a simple magic she had lost sight of over the years. Evangeline clenched her fists, realising that these fragments of happiness were part of her, even if she had forgotten them for so long. They were a light, faint, perhaps, but enough to pierce the dark veil that surrounded her.

"No…" she murmured, but the battle inside her raged on, an unrelenting fight between light and shadow, between the call of hope and the crushing weight of despair. She closed her eyes, trying to escape the dark thoughts that assailed her. "What if I jumped… No, that would be too easy. A way to prove them right, to show that their words and rumours have managed to get to me." She inhaled, clinging to that thought. "And my parents… they don’t deserve this suffering." A slight shiver ran through her as she continued, speaking softly, almost as if trying to convince herself. "Anyway, Evangeline, you know you wouldn’t have the courage. And… no, crashing against the rocks below… it would be a far too cruel end." She opened her eyes, her gaze still blurred, but a tiny spark had reignited in her eyes. This path, however tempting it had seemed in a moment of weakness, was not hers. She refused to let the bitterness of others become the end of her story.

Breathing heavily, Evangeline slowly slid down the cold stones at the edge of the bridge until she was seated, her knees drawn to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, seeking to curl in on herself, as if to protect herself from the whole world. The tears, which had already flowed so much and which Evangeline had managed to hold back for a brief moment, began to fall again, and she once again let the pain that had gripped her for a week escape. "Why can’t I just be… normal, like everyone else?" she whispered, her voice muffled by sobs. She buried her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking with a sorrow she could no longer contain. She thought of all the times she had felt out of place, as though simply being herself was an insurmountable barrier. "I just wish… I could be accepted, just as I am," she sighed, her throat tight, "even if I’m a bit different, even if… even if I don’t fit into their boxes."

The memories overwhelmed her, relentless, like an incoming tide that couldn’t be stopped: the muffled laughter, the looks that averted, the words whispered under breath whenever she turned her back. Every moment where she had felt the weight of silent judgments bearing down on her returned to haunt her. She felt drowned beneath a wave of contempt and misunderstanding, trapped in a loneliness that seemed unwilling to leave. Deep down, all Evangeline wanted was a place, even the smallest, where she could simply be herself. She dreamt of finding someone with whom she could share her thoughts, someone who would accept her unconditionally, with all her oddities, her awkwardness, her differences. Why did it always seem just out of reach? Why did it feel so hard to find even one person capable of seeing beyond the surface, of making the effort to truly know her? She sighed, a long, trembling breath laden with a weariness that went beyond her body, a fatigue rooted in her heart. Her arms tightened around her knees in that solitary embrace, desperately seeking strength that only she could give herself. Her fingers clung to her shoulders, as if trying to anchor herself, while her ragged breathing spoke of the turmoil within. She felt exhausted, emptied, at the end of her tether. And yet, buried deep in her heart, a small flame of hope, fragile yet stubborn, refused to extinguish. One day, perhaps, she would find that place, that person, where she wouldn’t have to fight to be accepted.

Evangeline, curled up on herself, finally let out a sob, her head buried in her folded arms. The tears flowed silently, rolling down her cheeks like a late release, a sorrow she could no longer contain. The darkness surrounded her like a protective veil, but the cold night air only amplified her loneliness. Suddenly, the faint creak of footsteps on the gravel of the viaduct made her start. She abruptly lifted her head, her reddened eyes landing on the young man standing there, his face barely visible under the silver glow of the moon. It was him, the sarcastic Slytherin from the staircase. Evangeline felt shame and frustration tighten her throat once again. With a lazy gesture, he twirled a thin, dark wand between his fingers, its tip glowing with a faint red light that seemed to flicker, as if hesitating to obey him.

He stopped, tilting his head slightly in her direction, and said in a soft, yet sarcastic voice: "So, crying under the moon, waiting for the stars to applaud? A performance worthy of a tragedy, truly. All that's missing is a violin, and the scene would be perfect."

Evangeline gritted her teeth, stung by his sarcasm, and shot him a furious glare despite the tears still shimmering at the corners of her eyes. "You can leave now!" she hissed in a trembling voice, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. "There's nothing of interest for you here."

The Slytherin boy flashed a smile, blatantly ignoring her request. Crossing his arms, he casually leaned against the edge of the viaduct, his head slightly tilted as if he were watching her—or at least listening intently to the faintest tremor in her breath. "Leave? Oh, I’m not going anywhere. A show like this is rare. It’d be a crime to leave before the grand finale. A performance like this deserves to be seen until the very end." he replied, his smile splitting into an expression of both curiosity and irony.

Evangeline’s anger skyrocketed, and she let out an exasperated sigh. "Who do you think you are?" she retorted sharply. "You don’t know anything about me, so why keep pushing? Why not just leave me alone? Do you think I enjoy having someone else put me down?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, but she forced herself to keep her gaze fixed, burning with resentment.

He raised an eyebrow, as though he took some pleasure in weighing his words. "I should probably leave. But you have this annoying knack for capturing my attention, and that, I can't ignore." His voice, still laced with mockery, softened. "It’s not every day you stumble upon a living tragedy lit by the moon. A touch of drama, I appreciate."

Evangeline looked away, clenching her fists to hold back her frustration. "I’ve had enough of your sarcasm. If you have nothing better to do than mock me... then leave! I don’t need one more person tearing me down." She hesitated, then let out a bitter whisper, as though the words had betrayed her: "Although… if you want to be useful, push me into the void. After all, besides my parents, no one would care if I disappeared." She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting toward the dark horizon, her voice ringing out like an echo of everything she’d silently endured. "Because me," she added in a broken tone, "I’ll never have the courage to do it."

A dense silence settled between them, only disturbed by the breath of the wind filling the empty space. He remained still, his head slightly tilted as if he were trying to fathom the depth of her despair. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice low, strangely stripped of its usual irony. "So, you think that’s not courage?" he murmured, and this time, she detected an unexpected sincerity in his words, almost unsettling. "What you don’t realise is the quiet strength it takes to face the daily disdain of others without giving in, day after day. And that’s a strength no one can take from you. Believe me."

Evangeline stared at him, his words resonating within her like a painful echo, but anger still rose within her, a rush of irritation sweeping her sadness away for a moment. She clenched her fists, the tears of frustration returning. "And what do you know about it?" she retorted, her voice trembling but laced with cold determination. "What could you possibly understand about what it’s like… to be the target of all those stares, to be nothing but a subject of mockery?"

He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his words with a new attention, and the echo of the wind seemed suspended around them, like a discreet witness to their exchange. "Maybe I don’t know all the details of what you’re going through, but you don’t need to know everything to understand there’s suffering," he finally said, his voice softer, almost absent of the coldness that had characterised it until then. "Believe me, I know those whispers well. I’m quite familiar with whispers, too. It’s almost second nature."

Surprised, she looked at him, his usual sarcasm having vanished. For the first time, she glimpsed something unexpected behind that mask of indifference: perhaps a shadow of understanding, or some kind of silent recognition, as though, somewhere, he saw in her a reflection of his own battles.

He tilted his head slightly, letting a silence hang between them, as if weighing every word he was about to say. When he spoke, his voice was softer, strangely free of its usual sarcastic tone. "The difference, you know, is not a flaw. It's just... another way of being. Unfortunately, some people prefer to use it as a weapon because they don't know how to deal with what overwhelms them. But what they think... it doesn't really matter." He paused, the words seeming to cost him more than he'd want to admit. "You shouldn't let them have that power over you. What they say only has the value you choose to give it."

Evangeline gritted her teeth, and a mix of annoyance and disbelief flickered in her eyes. She retorted with an acidic tone, "And you, what do you know about it, exactly? Look at you... You don’t really seem like someone who gets tormented." She waved vaguely at him. "Nice clothes, cologne, impeccable manners... Everything about you screams that you come from a good family. So, sorry if I have a hard time believing you understand what it’s like. Maybe you’ve heard a few whispers, but it’s surely nothing like what I go through." She glared at him with rising anger, her tone suggesting she expected another sarcastic remark from him.

But instead of replying, he stood still, observing his own silence as though he was absorbing her words. Eventually, a smile — devoid of mockery — appeared on his lips, and he slowly nodded. "You're right," he finally said in a deep voice. "I come from a family that has its privileges. But if you think that protects me from everything, you're mistaken. Those fine appearances sometimes hide things you couldn’t imagine. The walls are just higher, that’s all."

Evangeline felt a mix of confusion and curiosity replace her anger, as if a veil had been briefly lifted from the person before her.

"What I mean," he continued, his gaze steady though expressionless, "is that appearances don't hide everything. Believe me, wearing nice clothes has never stopped me from hearing the whispers. Quite the opposite. It’s precisely my background and my family that fuel the rumours about me."

For the first time, Evangeline caught a hint of vulnerability in his face, a fragility buried beneath his mask of indifference. She looked at him, a little taken aback, feeling an unexpected, almost irresistible compassion stir within her.

He continued, his voice softer, as if he were lowering an invisible barrier: "People avoid me because of what I represent, because of this name that sticks to me. So, believe me, I know what it's like to be judged without anyone bothering to get to know me. To hear words I can't erase. To be pushed aside because of what I am, or rather, what others imagine me to be." He paused, his words falling like a reluctant shared confession. Then he lowered his head slightly, as if gathering painful memories that seemed difficult to bring up. "In my first year," he murmured, "the others avoided me like the plague. My family's reputation has never been synonymous with... well, let's just say it's not the kind of reputation that inspires trust." He gave a bitter smile, and Evangeline saw a shadow of sadness in his expression. "To them, I was simply 'the son of,' the heir of a family tainted by ideas that aren't even mine. It didn't matter who I really was; that didn't count. They whispered, kept their distance, as if I were carrying a curse." He ran a hand along the edge of the viaduct, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the cold stone, before continuing in a slightly softer voice. "I convinced myself that solitude would be my only constant, even at Hogwarts... at least until I crossed paths with Sebastian and Anne Sallow."

He let a silence hang in the air, his words resonating in the cold with an unexpected gravity. "They were the first not to be stopped by appearances, to ignore the rumours that made me out to be someone I’m not. With them, I could finally let my guard down and just be myself. For the first time, I glimpsed hope, a chance to find my place in this world." He paused, as if making sure she understood, before murmuring in a softer voice: "That night, in the dormitory, Sebastian took the first step. I could never thank him enough for that. Without him, I think I would have spent a long time wandering the corridors, alone and lost in my thoughts."

Evangeline, stung by his words, let out a dry laugh, more bitter than she would have liked. "At least people come to you. That must make it easier," she retorted, her voice tinged with an irony that betrayed the underlying pain. She turned her gaze away, not wanting him to see the envy and sadness hidden behind her awkward sarcasm.

He stayed silent for a moment, as if carefully choosing the words that would follow. A sigh finally escaped his lips, heavy with something long held back. "Do you really think it’s easy? If that’s the impression I give, then I must be a better actor than I thought." His voice was low, almost inaudible, but this question seemed to contain a truth he had never confessed to anyone. "Yes, they came to me... Sebastian and Anne saw something in me that no one else ever bothered to look for. But even with them, loneliness is still there, lurking somewhere. All it takes is one moment, one corridor where the whispers start again as soon as I show up, for that feeling to resurface." His words floated in the air, like a confession offered to the night. A new silence stretched, deeper, more intimate. Then, in a barely audible whisper, he let out a thought he seemed to have been carrying for a long time. "If only Anne were here… Sebastian wouldn’t be so distant, he wouldn’t have lost himself in his own turmoil… and we’d still be a trio, all three of us, like before." He lowered his head for a moment, as if regretting having allowed that vulnerable moment to slip out. Yet, he didn’t try to hide the pain that surfaced in his expression, that invisible but crushing loss that seemed to haunt him every day.

Evangeline frowned slightly, unsettled by this unexpected admission. She looked up at him, her sarcasm now swept away by the raw sincerity of his words. The Slytherin, however, no longer had his gaze fixed on her. His pale, expressionless eyes seemed to be focused on a distant point, lost in the darkness. "Loneliness… it’s like a persistent shadow." he murmured. "It silently slips into every corner, and even in the midst of a crowd, it’s still there, invisible but relentless. It feeds on everything: our fears, our flaws, and especially that certainty that no one will ever see us as we truly are." His voice dropped even lower, more hesitant, as if revealing a part of himself he would rather keep buried. "It’s tempting to think that everything would be better… that all it would take is one person who could understand us."

The anger bubbled up inside her before she even spoke a word, like a spark ready to ignite everything in its path. Evangeline shot an angry glance at the boy, fists clenched, her eyes bright with tears she refused to let fall. "You, you talk about loneliness?" she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "You dare talk about suffering, rumours, isolation... but honestly, you're pretty lucky, aren't you? You had Sebastian, you had Anne. You're not alone, you had people to support you! But me? Me, I have no one!" Her voice cracked for a moment, caught in the grip of emotion, but she straightened, the rage fuelling her words like a consuming flame. "People judge you, look at you funny, but at least you have friends! Me... I've been alone my whole life! Even before Hogwarts, even at Beauxbâtons. Everywhere I go, I'm rejected, I'm seen as strange. No one bothers to get to know me, to see who I really am." 

The boy, taken by surprise, turned toward her and opened his mouth to respond, but she interrupted him with a sharp, angry gesture. "No, don’t say anything. You don’t understand!" she spat, her voice trembling with rage and frustration. "You say you understand, but you have no idea what it’s like to spend your life fading into the shadows, to be invisible, or worse, to be the target of mockery. Since I’ve been here, they keep calling me the 'frenchie' with such a disdainful tone, as if it were my name! You don’t know what it’s like to hear cruel whispers about you every day for four years of magical schooling, to end up believing they might be right. That I’m worthless. That I’m insignificant." The tears, heavy and burning, streamed down her face without her even trying to hold them back, flowing freely across her cheeks, but she ignored them, her gaze lost in the void. He stayed there, silent, his face frozen, feeling that any more words would only make the already intense pain worse.

Evangeline, as if pulled by an invisible force, suddenly stood up and turned her back on the boy, walking toward the edge of the viaduct, as if she wanted to confide her suffering there. Her shoulders shook with the intensity of her sobs, and her voice, broken by the weight of emotion, broke the last remnants of silence: "I want... I want to be seen…" she said, her voice barely audible, but heartbreaking. "I want people to respect me, to admire me, to seek me out... I want them to see something more than just a weird girl with a notebook scribbling or spending her time reading Muggle books... I want to be like everyone else and have friends. I want to know what it feels like to be in love, to get letters from admirers, to have friends write to me, to wish me happy birthday... I want to be... accepted by others. I want to be... popular! Well, let’s say, I just don’t want to be pushed aside anymore..." These words came out with a wild pain, like a desperate cry that tore through the night air.

She finally turned toward him, her eyes full of tears mixed with deep anger and palpable despair. "I want to prove to myself that I’m worth something, that I’m not as... as insignificant as I see myself. I want to be someone who matters, someone people will remember." Her voice cracked, and a sob strangled her throat. "And yet..." She closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of her own words crushing her heart. "I hate myself. I have no confidence. All I have are impossible dreams of being someone. Someone I know I’ll never be." A shiver ran through her body, and she let out a bitter laugh, a joyless laugh. "I don’t want to be that invisible girl anymore, the girl no one notices. But no matter what I do, it’s all in vain. I remain this shy, anxious girl, crushed by her fears, unable to break through the barriers of her own existence." Her legs suddenly gave way, and she collapsed to the ground, her knees hitting the cold stone. Her sobs erupted violently, each tear seeming to drain her strength. Each tear that fell felt like the weight of a suffering she had carried for far too long, a burden she could no longer bear, one she should have shared with someone earlier.

The young Slytherin stood frozen, his eyes fixed on her, a look of surprise and indecision crossing his features. A heavy silence fell between them, thick with the shockwaves of the raw emotion she had just unleashed. He had never witnessed such a breakdown, as disarming in its sincerity as it was in its intensity. He, who had always hidden his own vulnerabilities behind a mask of sarcasm, playing the part of a boy impervious to criticism and indifferent to rumors, now found himself faced with a pain he didn’t know how to approach. His lips parted hesitantly, as though he were searching for words that could dispel this internal storm, but nothing came. In that moment, he realized how cruel silence could be, and yet, he could find nothing that seemed adequate. What resonated within him, he understood, was not pity but a strange form of recognition, a part of himself that he saw in her. His own wounds, his own weaknesses that he tried so hard to mask, seemed to echo in this confession, and it troubled him more than he was willing to admit. Then, in a voice softer than he had intended, almost a whisper that betrayed his vulnerability, he ventured: "You feel insignificant, but believe me, you’re not. What you carry inside… maybe no one has taken the time to see it yet. And that’s unfair, I know, but it doesn’t change your worth." A silence followed, this time less oppressive, almost soothing, like a fragile truce.

After a pause that felt suspended outside of time, he stepped slowly toward her, each step measured, as if he feared disturbing this delicate moment. He stopped a few paces away, hesitant, torn between the desire to comfort her and the fear of crossing an invisible boundary. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, devoid of any sarcasm, imbued with a sincerity he had never let show before. "I don’t pretend to know exactly how you feel." he murmured, his words weighed, sincere. "Loneliness… I know it well. Not just here, at Hogwarts, but also in my own family, where expectations and appearances crush everything else, making it impossible to see what truly matters..." He paused, searching his thoughts for the right words. Then, with an almost timid gesture, he extended his hand hesitantly, palm open, without insistence or demand. He wasn’t trying to force her to rise, but simply offering to be there, to provide a grounding, a presence. "I don’t claim to be able to erase your pain or free you from what you carry. But... if you’d like, I could try to help you see what, for now, you can’t see in yourself. You don’t have to carry all of this alone." He remained like that, hand outstretched, a moment of shared vulnerability suspended between them. In his eyes, she discerned a shadow of understanding, perhaps even a promise, like a silent echo, an invitation to lay down, for a moment, the weight of her sorrow.

Evangeline finally looked up at him, and for the first time, she saw what gave his gaze that strange, distant glow: he was blind. A bitter smile tugged at her lips as she wiped away the tears that had carved tracks down her cheeks. "Explain to me how you plan to help me see. Because right now, frankly, I don't see anything. Kind of like you," she shot back with sarcasm, a hint of defiance in her tone, as if testing how far he would go. But beyond her sharp words, she felt something new begin to form in their exchange. Her cheeks still burned from her recent tears, her breath short from the internal struggle, but for the first time, she felt like her words were reaching someone. She wasn’t entirely alone anymore, locked in a grief she thought no one else could understand. Her own words felt less heavy in the presence of this strange boy who, without knowing her, had reached out to her. She remembered her impulsive rejection earlier in the day when Natsai had tried to help. Perhaps, she thought, pushing people away was more of a reflex than a true desire to be alone. And now, a gentle but insistent voice urged her not to make the same mistake. She knew this boy, with all his clarity and his flaws, couldn’t erase her sorrow or give her all the answers. But this gesture, uncertain as it was, shone like a spark in the darkness of her solitude.

The boy remained silent, neither defending himself nor justifying his actions. His hand stayed outstretched toward her, with unwavering patience and an unusual serenity. He let out a soft laugh, barely perceptible, before murmuring in a gentle voice: "I don’t pretend to understand everything, it’s true. But sometimes... we don’t need to see everything clearly to move forward. And I’m well-placed to know that. Sometimes it’s enough to feel that someone is there, right beside you, for things to seem a little less dark." His words lingered in the air, like a bridge stretched between their solitude, a quiet invitation he hoped she would take.

She hesitated, her eyes fixed on his outstretched hand, her heart torn between distrust and a shy spark of hope. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing his in a fragile and tentative motion, as if she feared he would retract at the slightest touch. But he remained still, his hand steady, giving off an unexpected warmth. In that simple contact, she felt a silent promise, a sincere presence that didn’t judge her. "Maybe I shouldn’t reject his help. Come on, Evangeline, force yourself to break out of your shell. Just for once."

"Thank you." she murmured softly, gently letting go of his hand—somewhat reluctantly—when she sensed that the young Slytherin had started to tense up from the physical contact. The single word, though barely audible, carried all the gratitude she struggled to express.

"You're welcome." he replied softly, a subtle smile lighting up his lips. After a brief silence, he added, with a slight furrow of his brow, "It's getting late, and the night is turning cold. It would probably be wiser to head back to your common room."

Evangeline swallowed, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Well... it's just..." She lowered her eyes, visibly embarrassed, before casting him an apologetic glance.

"What, afraid of running into the prefects?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

"No, not really... It's just... the knocker," she admitted with a sigh, her voice lower. "The riddle. I can't solve it, and without that, I can't even get into my common room."

A genuine laugh escaped him, loosening some of the tension in the air. "So you're stuck outside because of a knocker? The Ravenclaws and their riddles. Who would have thought they'd be so formidable, even for their own students. How ironic," he said, suppressing a smirk, but this time without any malice. "Don’t you know the passwords at Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, I know, it's ridiculous..." she replied, torn between an amused smile and some embarrassment. "We have to solve a riddle to get into the common room. When it's easy, it’s fine... but when we get stuck, it's a whole different story. Sometimes, we end up all standing there in front of the door, thinking together, like an impromptu collective intelligence contest." She shrugged, letting out a sigh.

After a moment's thought, the Slytherin nodded, as though he'd made up his mind. "Listen... if you want, I can walk you back to the Ravenclaw tower. We'll wait for another Ravenclaw to come along and, with a bit of luck, they'll know the answer to the riddle." A slight smile appeared on his lips. "I'd help you myself, but to be honest, riddles and I... we're not exactly on good terms."

"That's kind of you, but it's really not necessary. It's late, no one's lingering in the Ravenclaw tower anymore. And I've already spent a good half hour thinking about this riddle, but nothing's coming to me... And there's no way I'm spending the night in front of my common room entrance. I... Well, I'm not exactly popular... So I went to the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower to find somewhere to spend the night away from the prefects. I took the opportunity to draw and clear my mind, and... You know the rest..."

He lightly brushed the corner of Evangeline's notebook, a smile barely concealed on his lips. "I see. So, when you realised you’d thrown your notebook at someone, and not just anyone... me." he said, raising an eyebrow in amusement, but without a trace of mockery, "You rushed off, disappearing under the moonlight, like a heroine in a forgotten tragedy." He let out a small laugh, softened by a slight smirk. "Looks like we’re two lost souls tonight."

"Two lost souls?" Evangeline repeated, a note of perplexity in her voice, but a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

The Slytherin let out a soft chuckle. "Well, it seems I'm a bit lost tonight as well," he said, with a touch of humour in his voice. "My wand has decided to make things difficult for me," he explained, furrowing his brows. "It's supposed to help me navigate, but I feel like it's having fun making the task even harder. Not easy to find my common room without it, especially when it's in a mischievous mood." He turned his head slightly towards Evangeline, a playful smile on his lips despite the situation. "So, to be honest... I think we're both lost souls tonight. I can't even get back to my room without my wand causing trouble, and you're stuck here because of that blasted riddle. Seems like we were meant to cross paths tonight, doesn't it?" He furrowed his brows slightly as he looked at his wand, which was emitting a faint red light, flickering erratically. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand over it, as if trying to calm a temperamental animal. However, the wand seemed unwilling to cooperate. "You see, that's the problem," he said, his voice tinged with annoyance but also a hint of amusement. "It acts like it has a mind of its own, but since tonight, it's just been ignoring me and refusing to guide me. Without it to lead the way, I'm completely lost. Literally."

Evangeline felt that the conversation wasn’t as dreadful as she had anticipated. In fact, she experienced a quiet sense of relief at being able to express herself without fear of judgment for the first time in what felt like forever. She looked at the young man, intrigued. “Wait, are you saying… your wand guides you when you walk? That’s… that’s incredible! How does it even work?”

He turned the wand in his hand, as though observing it anew. “It adapts to my needs, I suppose.” he replied, a touch of puzzlement in his voice. “It senses the environment around me, the direction I need to go, and helps me avoid obstacles. It’s quite handy, I have to admit. It’s literally my eyes. But… tonight, it seems to have decided it doesn’t feel like playing along.” A dry laugh escaped him.

Evangeline raised an eyebrow, captivated by his explanation. “It… senses the environment?” she echoed, almost in disbelief. “That’s incredible! I mean, I had no idea a wand could do something like that. It’s almost as if it’s alive… like it has its own personality. Well, I guess that makes sense; they do say the wand chooses the wizard, so maybe that means they’re somewhat sentient.” She paused, watching the red light at the tip of his wand flicker, casting dancing shadows along the walls of the viaduct. “So, you let your wand guide you everywhere? Even places you’ve never been?”

The young man smiled, a flicker of pride in his expression, tempered by a hint of frustration. “Yes, that’s exactly it. It’s not perfect, of course, but it does the job. Most of the time, anyway. Tonight, though…” He shook his head as the wand’s light began to blink more erratically, almost as if it were rebelling against him. “It seems to be having a bit of a tantrum.”

Evangeline looked at him, a glimmer of fascination in her eyes. "I think it’s fascinating… I mean, your wand, the way it guides you," she corrected herself quickly, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. "Not the fact that you’re… stuck." A faint blush crept up her cheeks as she suddenly became aware of the clumsiness of her words. She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. "So, if you were wandering around the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower, it was because you couldn’t find your way back to your common room?" she asked, her gaze flickering between curiosity and mild embarrassment. The boy’s wand resumed its blinking, the soft red light pulsing faintly. An idea struck Evangeline, and she cleared her throat, summoning a bit of courage. "If you’d like… I could walk you back." she offered, a tentative smile on her lips. "I know I’m new here and don’t know my way around perfectly yet, but… well, you’re the first person who’s reached out to me and… you listened when I was… at my lowest. Think of it as… my way of saying thank you." She forced herself to extend her hand slightly, a barely formed gesture offering her assistance.

He hesitated, seeming to fixate—despite his blindness—on her outstretched hand, a pensive expression crossing his face. It was as if the simple gesture she made stirred some kind of strange apprehension within him. "You know, I… I’m not very comfortable with physical contact," he murmured at last, his voice tinged with a slight hesitation, almost regret.

"Oh, of course, no problem," Evangeline replied quickly, lowering her hand and masking her embarrassment with a sympathetic smile. "I can help without physical contact. To be honest, I’m not really comfortable with it either… because of… well, with all the teasing, I’ve gotten so used to being on my own, and… I struggle with physical contact. I’m not really used to being close to people anymore… The touch of others makes me uneasy."

He felt Evangeline’s gaze on him—gentle, understanding, unpressuring. She wasn’t judging him, nor did she push for anything; she simply waited, ready to respect his boundaries. He nodded, visibly moved by her words. In the silence that followed, there was a mutual respect, an unspoken understanding that required no further explanation. Finally, he took a deep breath, as if to brush aside the last of his hesitation, and raised his head. "I suppose a little help wouldn’t hurt."

Evangeline smiled, reassured. "Alright. Just point me in the direction of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, and I’ll guide you there. Once we’re at the door, though, I’ll have to leave you—for… obvious reasons."

"I understand. That’ll be fine." he replied with a nod. "But what about you? How are you planning to get back?"

She shrugged lightly, a faintly amused smile playing on her lips. "Don’t worry about me. Finding a quiet spot to hide is sort of my specialty."

A soft chuckle escaped the Slytherin, breaking the last remnants of unease between them. "I didn’t realise the Frenchie had a bit of a hero streak. Helping a poor, lost, blind Slytherin—how noble of you."

Evangeline returned a playful smile. "Let’s just say I’m making an exception for you, Mister Faulty Compass." A brief silence followed before her tone grew more serious. "But don’t call me ‘Frenchie.’ I… I don’t like that nickname. It’s what the other students here call me, and… I guess it’s a bit like if people called you ‘the blind boy’ all the time. It… it gets to you after a while."

The boy nodded, his smile softening into something more thoughtful. "I get it. Nicknames like that might seem harmless to some, but they reduce you to something you didn’t choose."

She nodded in return, clearly relieved that he understood. "Yes… exactly."

As if afraid of forgetting an important detail, the young Slytherin carefully pulled Evangeline’s sketchbook from his robe pocket, running his fingers over the cover as if trying to feel every texture. "I suppose it’s time to give this back to you... You left so quickly earlier that you didn’t even have a chance to retrieve it." he said, handing her the book. "Actually, that’s why I followed you onto the viaduct." He paused, seemingly hesitant to ask his next question. "About this sketchbook…" he continued, his expression tinged with curiosity. "It’s your sketchbook, right? I flipped through it… well, with my fingers. Obviously, I can’t see what you draw, but I could feel the raised lines, the deep impressions you leave when you sketch. It’s clear you put time and intention into it. You use charcoal, don’t you?"

Evangeline seemed surprised by the precision of his observation and nodded, almost in awe. "Yes, that’s right… charcoal. How did you know?"

He smiled, brushing the cover of the book once again. "There’s a certain texture to charcoal. It sinks more into the paper, leaving a thicker grain when you touch it. Details like that… they’re landmarks for me."

Evangeline took the sketchbook with a shy smile, touched by his attention. She ran her fingers gently over the cover, as though reconnecting with a precious piece of herself—lost but never forgotten. For a moment, she stayed still, eyes lowered to the book, before lifting her gaze to the young Slytherin. Her eyes sparkled with sincere gratitude mixed with a hint of embarrassment. "Thank you for taking the time to return it to me, despite… your wand’s tantrums." she said softly, a slight smile on her lips. "But… you didn’t have to flip through it..." she added, her voice laced with a vulnerability she was trying to hide. "That said… it seems like you understand my drawings better than most people who… can see them." She let out a nervous laugh as a light, fragile smile appeared on her face. The feeling of being understood, even in half-measures, was rare and precious.

They exchanged a meaningful look, a moment of silent understanding, as if, in that instant, something intangible connected them beyond words. Finally, Evangeline slid the sketchbook under her arm and turned on her heel, ready to lead the way into the depths of the castle. "So... the dungeons." she murmured, a mix of excitement and curiosity tinging her voice. "I’ve never been there. I’ve heard that the Slytherin common room is... unique. Is it true that you have a view of the Black Lake?"

He smiled amusedly, a mischievous glint lighting up his face. "To say the least," he replied, his voice carrying a discreet pride. "Slytherins might be known for their affinity with darkness, and it’s true our quarters are in the dungeons, but our common room… it’s something special. From what I hear from the first-years, the shadows dance with the reflection of the water, creating an almost enchanting atmosphere. And sometimes, sea creatures brush against the windows, as if they’re trying to observe what’s happening inside." He paused, a mysterious smile playing on his lips, letting his words linger with an air of intrigue.

"You mean like mermaids or... the Kraken?" asked Evangeline, her eyes sparkling with almost childlike curiosity.

He let out a soft laugh, amused by her enthusiasm. "Maybe... First-years love scary stories. And I have to admit, I enjoy teasing them about it, just to see them cast anxious glances at the windows. Though I also like making them believe that mermaids often swim by the windows. I must admit, it’s fun hearing the first-years spend hours by the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of one." He added an enigmatic tone to his voice, as though savoring the memory. "But to be honest, some rumors are even more disturbing. They talk about ghostly glows drifting in the water or eerie silhouettes sliding slowly against the windows, just enough to chill your bones."

Evangeline rolled her eyes. "You’re pulling my leg. But at the same time, I’m curious. I must admit, I’d love to see that with my own eyes. Hmm. Maybe one day I’ll sneak into your common room." she teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.

The young man smiled, shaking his head lightly. "If you manage that, I’ll take my hat off to you. Few intruders make it into the Slytherin lair without ending up turned into... well, nothing very flattering."

Evangeline laughed softly. "Oh sure, try to scare me. Anyway, there’s no way I’m going into the Slytherin lair. I… Given my... No, never mind. Forget I said anything."

He paused, surprised by her words but didn’t press further. "Well, we should get going. Follow me... or rather, guide me, even though I know the way." he added with a smirk, amused by the irony of the situation.

They began walking along the viaduct, their steps echoing softly against the ancient stones as they made their way to the courtyard near the entrance to the Great Hall. The night wind blew with a biting softness, and the moonlight slipped between the arches, momentarily illuminating their silhouettes. With every turn, the young Slytherin pointed the way in a calm, almost automatic voice, while Evangeline made sure to clear away small unexpected obstacles: a slightly raised stone, a treacherous ledge. Their cooperation was effortless, without the need for many words, each respecting the unspoken boundaries of the other. He didn't protest, accepting this unusual companionship. For him, it was a rare experience, almost disorienting, not having to worry about his direction. For her, it was a delicate balance: intervening just enough without ever intruding. Their exchange, though silent, had a fluidity that grew stronger with each step.

As they reached a staircase leading to the courtyard near the entrance to the building housing the Great Hall, he broke the tranquility with his calm voice, soft like a breath in the night. "You know... your drawings." he began, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "What do they represent, exactly? Are they landscapes, faces, things you love?"

Evangeline, momentarily surprised, briefly turned her head toward him. The question, though simple on the surface, carried a sincere interest that touched her. She slowed slightly, as if pondering her response, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the edge of her sketchbook, which she still held under her arm. The moonlight, filtered through the clouds, gently touched her thoughtful face as she let her mind wander through the images she had captured on paper. She would have thought he’d turn away from this topic. "It’s... a bit of everything, really," she answered. "Landscapes of the castle, little details I notice... But mostly, they're attempts at portraits of people I cross paths with. Well... failed attempts at portraits."

"Portraits, really?" he replied, a light smile on his lips, a teasing spark in his eyes. "I suppose you must have drawn half of the students at Hogwarts then? Even the ones you don’t know?"

Evangeline smiled faintly, slightly embarrassed by the remark, but amused nonetheless. "I wouldn't say half... but yes, I do sometimes draw faces I come across in the hallways. There's something fascinating about the diversity of human expressions. Every gaze, every smile, or even every wrinkle can tell a different story. And with a drawing, I can... capture a moment, an emotion that would otherwise slip away. It's like freezing a memory that isn’t mine." She let out a sigh, as if she had just shared a precious secret.

He nodded slightly, as if contemplating this idea, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. "It's a beautiful way of looking at things. Observing to understand, or perhaps to invent what's hidden behind..."

They continued their walk, crossing the paved courtyard of Hogwarts, the stones beneath their feet echoing in the quiet of the night. The moonlight illuminated their figures, and the large windows of the buildings cast irregular shadows on the ground, creating a strange play of light. The night breeze brought a welcome coolness, and their voices mingled with the murmurs of the castle. "And outside of drawing, other passions? Books, perhaps?" he ventured, hearing her speak of her attempts at portraits, his tone curious but respectful, as if he wanted to know more without pressing her.

She nodded eagerly, her eyes lighting up with an enthusiastic spark. "Yes! Especially Muggle literature. I grew up with books by Jules Verne, Maupassant... Those adventure, mystery, and travel stories have always fascinated me. There's something about the way Muggle authors imagine worlds, inventions, discoveries... And they have a way of capturing the imagination while grounding their stories in such... realistic details. It allows me to dream of other realities, other lives, you know?" She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting absentmindedly into the distance.

"Then it's Muggle stories that fascinate you?" he asked with an intrigued smile, his voice clearly curious. "You seem like someone who seeks to explore everything beyond the ordinary... even beyond what our magical world can offer."

Evangeline blushed slightly, surprised by the accuracy of his observation. She lowered her eyes for a moment, absentmindedly playing with a strand of her hair, before answering in a soft voice, tinged with a dreamy smile. "It's true. Their world is so different from ours, and yet, sometimes, their stories feel just as magical. Maybe even more so, because they manage without... all of this." She made a vague gesture, encompassing the invisible vastness of magic around them. She smiled, aware of how strange her words must sound coming from a witch. "I mean... In the Muggle world, science replaces magic. They don't have spells or potions, but they make up for it by creating incredible worlds. With Jules Verne, for example, you feel like you're traveling to the center of the Earth or sailing twenty thousand leagues under the sea. He makes you believe that anything is possible, even going to the moon... And all of that without a single ounce of magic. It's fascinating, isn't it?" Her voice came alive as she spoke, revealing her passion for these universes.

He paused for a moment, his features softening into a contemplative expression. "That's a beautiful way to see things." he said finally, his voice low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "And I suppose you enjoy... imagining other realities? Worlds where you could be anyone you want?"

The question, asked so gently, surprised her. She lifted her gaze to him, her eyes betraying a hint of melancholy. After a brief hesitation, she nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Exactly... For me, reading is an escape. A door that opens to other lives, other possibilities. A way to... live something else, to lose myself for a moment, and forget who I am." Her voice had dropped lower, almost to a whisper. A silence fell between them, thick with something deeper, more intimate, as they continued their walk, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet of the night. "And then..." She paused, searching for her words, as if unsure whether to go further. But her dreamy smile remained, giving a glimpse of what she might say, if she dared. She lowered her gaze for a brief moment, as if unsure about opening up more, before continuing in a soft voice, laced with an excitement she struggled to hide. "And then, Jules Verne... He has this way of imagining the future that fascinates me. In his stories, everything seems possible. On every page, he goes further than anyone, as if he could see decades ahead. Sometimes, I wish he were right, that one day we could really travel as far as his stories."

"The future?" the young man repeated, intrigued, tilting his head slightly as if to better understand her words.

"Yes, the futur.," she replied, her eyes lighting up with a passionate gleam. "The Muggle world is evolving so fast... Sometimes, I feel like they're in some sort of race against time. Do you know James Watt? The one who perfected the steam engine? Thanks to him, the British Muggles completely transformed industry. Railways, textile factories... all these innovations changed their lives. And that's exactly what inspires Jules Verne." She paused slightly, her tone intensifying as she continued. "He doesn't just describe what's possible today. He dreams bigger. He shows what mankind could achieve in the future. Exploring the depths of the oceans with incredible submarines, traveling to the Moon, building flying machines... He takes what Muggles are creating now and imagines what they could do tomorrow. It's as if he wants to prove that even without magic, they have unlimited potential."

She lifted her gaze to him, a glimmer of admiration and curiosity in her eyes. "Can you imagine? All of that, with just their hands, their minds, and their machines… I find it simply fascinating."

He remained silent for a moment, absorbed by Evangeline's words, gently tapping his wand against his palm, a tic that betrayed his deep thought. "It's true that… when you think about it, their ability to push the limits of their world without magic is impressive. They don't have spells to turn the impossible into the possible, yet they advance at a speed that would leave some wizards dizzy."

Evangeline nodded, a faint, melancholic smile lingering on her lips. "That's what inspires me. Their determination, their creativity. Sometimes I think that if Muggles and wizards worked together… We could accomplish so much more. But… that's just a foolish dream, isn't it?"

"Maybe." the young man admitted, his expression thoughtful. "But you know, sometimes dreams end up catching up with reality. The inventions that Jules Verne imagines might seem unrealistic to Muggles. And yet, who knows? Maybe one day, one of them will manage to create one."

Evangeline slightly turned toward him as they continued walking through the dim corridors of the castle. "You know, speaking of all this… Muggles organize exhibitions to showcase the progress of humanity. The last one took place two years ago, in 1889. The World's Fair in Paris. It was incredible, according to what I read in the Muggle newspapers. Inventions from all over the world, demonstrations of what humanity is capable of…"

"Ah, yes." he murmured, recognizing the name of the exhibition. "I think we talked about it in my family, even though… Well, my family despises anything related to Muggles and their 'strangeness.' But from what I remember… It was at that exhibition that they unveiled that… gigantic thing, right? Some kind of tower."

Evangeline beamed, her eyes lighting up with passion. "Yes, the Eiffel Tower! A structure entirely made of iron, over 300 meters tall! Can you imagine? It was the centerpiece of the exhibition, and it attracted millions of visitors. Some said it was hideous, that it disfigured Paris, but I…" She paused, as if caught in a daydream, before continuing in a softer voice. "I would have loved to be in Paris at that moment, in the midst of all that excitement, surrounded by those wonders from all over the world… It must have been magical, in its own way."

"Wait a second." he interjected, a wrinkle of curiosity marking his forehead. "You've never been to Paris? You're a Rosier, aren't you? I thought the Rosier family was a prominent wizarding family from Paris."

Evangeline's smile faded slightly, and a shadow passed through her eyes. "Oh... Well, let's just say I'm not from the main branch of the Rosiers. My parents… they're on bad terms with the rest of our Parisian family." Her tone hardened, betraying a hint of resentment or perhaps embarrassment. "That's why we avoid going to Paris."

The young man tilted his head, perplexed, but his tone remained measured. "What do you mean?"

"Listen, I… I don't want to talk about it." Evangeline's voice had become a bit sharper, a note of tension breaking the fluidity of their conversation. Her family was a subject she hated discussing. In truth, she disliked communicating with others altogether, having long since grown accustomed to solitude. But with this boy, something different had happened. For the first time, she had managed to share a little bit of that burden, revealing a part of herself, however small it might have been. Yet, some topics remained off-limits. Especially this one. And for good reason. Her father was not a wizard, and the name she carried was her mother's, a woman who had defied all conventions by running away with a Muggle in Aquitaine to start a family without even going through the holy sacrament of marriage. While Evangeline cherished her parents and their unconditional love, she knew that, for society—both Muggle and magical—her family was a scandal, a shame. A secret she carried like a burden.

A heavy silence settled between them, the air charged with subtle tension. Yet, the young man didn’t press further. His intuition seemed to guide him, whispering that he should not push past that invisible line she had drawn. Eventually, it was he who broke the quiet, his voice low and almost hesitant. "So, you... would have liked to go to Paris, for that exhibition, to be in that crowd, exploring all of that?"

His curiosity was sincere, his tone gentle, as though he were trying to bring some light back into their exchange after the shadow of a too-heavy topic.

Evangeline blushed slightly, biting her lip before nodding. "Yes... but not alone. I can't imagine going to Paris by myself and getting lost in the sea of people in the capital, especially with all the people who must have been there. Just thinking about it makes me dizzy." She let out a nervous little laugh before lowering her eyes, lightly fiddling with the cover of her sketchbook. "And then... I’d rather avoid running into my Parisian family, if that ever happened." She paused, as if weighing her words. Then, in a slightly firmer tone, she added: "But enough about my family." She shrugged slightly, briefly looking away as if to hide a bit of embarrassment. "I doubt you'd find it interesting anyway. It's already very kind of you to engage in conversation with me and... tolerate my presence. So, I won’t burden you with my family stories on top of that."

"Tolerate your presence?" replied the Slytherin with a sly smile, raising an eyebrow slightly. "I don't remember signing such a painful contract." A playful glint in his voice softened his words, and after a brief pause, he continued, "But if you really want to know, I'm an expert at listening to family problems... I have quite a collection, believe me."

Surprised by his lighthearted tone, Evangeline lifted her head, meeting his gaze, which was filled with an unsettling sincerity. She shot him a quick glance, a mix of curiosity and complicity briefly flashing in her eyes. For a split second, she hesitated to respond, as if testing the strength of this budding connection. Yet, despite herself, she found herself smiling. That shared look of complicity was not something she was used to exchanging with anyone. With him, everything felt strangely natural, as if the weight she carried was just a little lighter in his company. A genuine laugh escaped them, light but authentic, breaking the tension and returning the moment to something simple, almost joyful.

"Let’s get back to this tower thing. I need to know: is it the structure itself, or the idea of climbing so high that fascinates you?" asked the young Slytherin, his voice tinged with sincere curiosity.

Evangeline tilted her head slightly, thinking, before replying, choosing her words carefully. "I think it's mainly the audacity of the project. The fact that, even without magic, Muggles dare to undertake things that seem impossible. They defy gravity, push boundaries, as if they’re telling pure-blood wizards that you don’t need a wand to touch the stars." She paused, then a smile flickered on her lips. "Maybe it’s naive, but I find it beautiful. And I imagine that, in its way, that tower must give hope, like a symbol that anything is possible."

A silence followed, only broken by the sound of their regular steps on the stone floor. The young man seemed to reflect, his features hardening for a moment, as though weighing each of his thoughts. "Interesting…" he finally said, his voice softer. "Muggles defy gravity while some pure-blood wizards can’t even overcome their own prejudices." A hint of irony pierced his tone, but also a certain admiration. "I have to admit, your perspective gives me something to think about. Maybe their way of rising is more noble than ours, after all."

Evangeline looked up at him, surprised by this remark, which carried an openness of mind she rarely encountered. She had heard many wizards belittle Muggles, especially at Beauxbâtons. Yet, despite being from Slytherin, he seemed to see beyond the boundaries that others imposed. It touched her more than she could have expressed. A sincere smile brightened her face, and she slowed her pace slightly, her thoughts still buzzing with her companion's words. Their steps echoed softly as they approached the grand central staircase, the vast stone walls around them amplifying the tranquility they shared. In this suspended moment, she felt almost understood.

Evangeline bit her lip, her eyes briefly avoiding the ground before she looked up again, as if searching for her words. Finally, after a moment of hesitation, she broke the silence that had settled between them. "And by the way... how did you understand what I said in French earlier?" she asked, a slight blush coloring her cheeks as she thought back to the embarrassment she had felt at that moment. "I’m only thinking about it now, but it’s been on my mind for a while..."

The young man looked up at her, a fleeting smile playing on his lips, almost imperceptible. "I studied French when I was younger," he replied, a hint of irony in his voice. "A whim of my family, of course. For them, speaking several languages is supposed to prove that we’re above the rest of the world. One of their obsessions, as if learning languages like French, Latin, or Ancient Greek could actually make us superior beings." He shrugged, as if disapproving of the tone of his heritage. "Anyway, it's just another one of their absurd quirks to make this 'great' lineage shine."

Evangeline raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "That sounds... intense, as an education." she observed, a note of curiosity in her voice, but also a hint of compassion coming through her remark.

"Intense is a polite word to describe it," he replied with a hidden coldness, his tone growing noticeably heavier. For a moment, he seemed distant, his eyes lost in a memory he likely preferred to forget. "Between two lectures on blood purity and a few lessons on spells I’d rather not name, I was trained to be the perfect heir, the one who would represent an 'immaculate' lineage." His voice softened slightly, as if the memory amused him despite himself. "I was also taught to play the cello and the piano, to lead parlor conversations… Everything that’s supposed to make a boy like me a refined man, 'worthy' of his name." He turned slightly toward her, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, as if he found some comfort in this situation. "Mastering French was just one convenience among many. And here I am, years later, able to understand the complex thoughts of a little solitary French girl lost at Hogwarts," he added, a more genuine smile briefly lighting up his face.

Evangeline felt her cheeks warm slightly, a small smile forming on her lips. "I’m not sure it’s really useful to have been able to understand me and make the effort to respond in my native language..." she began, her eyes briefly settling on him. "But I must admit, your French is impeccable."

"I could say the same about your English!" he responded softly, his tone less mocking this time, more sincere. A flash of truth passed through his eyes, as if the conversation were taking a more personal turn.

A silence fell between them, their steps echoing on the vast stone staircase. The atmosphere was calm, but Evangeline, intrigued by what he had hinted at, decided to break the quiet. "Yet my accent is horrible…" she murmured, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. She shook her head slightly, before turning to him, still curious. "But back to you and your education by your family... Was it really mandatory? I mean, learning things you hated or didn’t want to do?"

He slowed his pace slightly, his hands almost absentmindedly gliding along the stone railing, as if the motion helped him formulate his thoughts. He looked straight ahead for a moment before replying, his voice becoming more serious. "In my family, 'mandatory' is an understatement," he said slowly, as if weighing each word. "Let’s just say the freedom to choose wasn’t exactly an option." He let out a light sigh, his eyes briefly turning to her, a flash of irony crossing his gaze. "But unlike other things I was forced to do, learning a foreign language never seemed like the worst." He paused, his face softening a little. "At least French never tried to kill me."

The remark, laced with sarcasm, brought a small laugh from Evangeline. She didn’t press further, sensing a mix of frustration and acceptance in his words. But something in his voice, a trace of melancholy hidden beneath the irony, caught her attention. He had shared a little more of himself than he intended, and Evangeline, without really knowing why, felt touched by his sincerity. He had this way of approaching heavy subjects with apparent lightness, yet she could sense, behind his words, a sadness he seemed to want to mask. She remained silent for a moment, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her wizard's robe, searching for the right words. "I suppose it couldn’t have been easy..." she murmured, not really looking at him. Her eyes were directed at the floor, but her voice betrayed a sincere empathy, as though she deeply felt the difficulty of what he had endured. "French grammar and all the absurd rules don’t make it easy."

The boy paused slightly before replying, as though weighing his words. "Easy? No, not really," he finally said, a slight smirk on his lips, though his voice remained calm and composed. "It’s true that grammar caused me plenty of problems. And thank goodness my blindness spared me from learning to write and deal with your spelling." His voice was almost deliberately detached, as though he was merely describing a distant, insignificant event. He sighed lightly, his tone growing more bitter. "Those lessons weren’t exactly fond memories for me. Especially when your teachers are parents like mine..." He let out a small, cynical laugh. "But who am I to question centuries of sacred genealogy? After all, I’m just another pawn in the chessboard of my family."

Evangeline felt a surge of anger rise within her, not at him, but at the blatant injustice he had suffered. She clenched her fists, her heart tightening at the thought that a human being could be reduced to a role imposed on them without ever being given the chance to choose. "That’s terrible..." she said, her voice hardening, full of compassion and indignation. "No one should have to live like that... being treated like a pawn. By what right does your own family write your destiny in advance?" Her words were filled with raw sincerity, a revolt against the cruelty of such a situation. She didn’t intend to judge, but everything within her rebelled against this vision of a life dictated by external expectations.

He turned his head slightly in her direction, intrigued by the sincerity that resonated in her voice. "You know, it’s funny," he said, his gaze fixed on her. "Many would have just lowered their heads and wouldn’t have tried to keep the conversation going, but you react as if it’s a personal injustice."

She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, replying almost reluctantly, "Maybe because I know what it’s like to be judged or forced to conform to expectations you can’t always meet. Okay, it wasn’t with my family, but I’ve still experienced that pressure elsewhere." Her voice softened as she spoke of the burden she had carried, and a slight cloud of sadness darkened her gaze.

He remained silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. His features relaxed slightly, as if trying to understand the depth of her words. "I don’t know if it’s comforting or saddening to know that others understand that kind of pressure." He paused before adding, with a touch of melancholy in his tone, "Sometimes, you feel a little alone in facing it, you know?"

Evangeline gave a shy smile as she lifted her eyes, barely surprising herself with the tenderness of her reaction. "Let’s say it’s a common ground, though not the happiest one..." she replied, her voice becoming lighter as they neared the dungeons. It was strange, yet comforting, to know that in this large school full of secrets and judgments, there was someone who understood at least a bit of what she felt. As they ventured deeper into the dungeons, the air growing cooler and the shadows of the walls seeming to close in around them, Evangeline felt an odd sense of calm. Despite the darkness of this passage, the conversation with this boy had given the place an entirely new dimension. Their footsteps echoed softly on the damp floor, and the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the cold stone.

It was he who finally broke the brief silence, his voice resonating gently through the humid dungeon corridors. "It’s not the most enviable common ground, I’ll admit," he said with a hint of irony in his tone, his words almost slipping out like a reflection to himself. "But it has the merit of being sincere. And in a place like Hogwarts, where everything is often about appearances, it’s... refreshing."

Evangeline couldn't help but smile, her gaze drifting for a moment to the flickering shadows the torches cast on the stone walls. There was a nuance in his voice that intrigued her, an odd chemistry between biting lucidity and an almost unexpected softness. "You speak as if solitude were a virtue." she murmured, her tone filled with genuine curiosity, tinged with a hint of skepticism.

He stopped briefly, as though caught in a thought he hadn’t fully formed yet. "Maybe not a virtue." he finally admitted, his voice lowering a tone, more reflective. "But it has its advantages. Solitude teaches us things about ourselves that the company of others often masks. It forces us to confront what we’d rather ignore."

His last words hung in the air, as if he was measuring the impact of his own statement. He paused, letting the silence envelop them once again before adding, with a note of honesty that was almost disarming: "That said, it’s not always pleasant. It’s a harsh lesson, let’s say."

Evangeline slightly averted her gaze, pondering his words, and a subtle shiver ran down her spine—perhaps due to the cold air of the dungeons—or from the truth she recognized in what he had just said. His words had struck her more deeply than she had expected. She understood all too well the ‘harsh lesson’ he had spoken of. Her own thoughts had often pushed her to retreat into herself, but hearing someone else put words to that feeling of isolation stirred in her a strange mix of comfort and sadness. "You mean… you’ve learned to live with it?" she asked after a moment, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness, as if the answer could confirm a fear she wasn’t sure how to express.

"Let’s say I’ve learned to tolerate it." he replied, his voice softening slightly, as if he were weighing each word. An almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, tinged with subtle melancholy. "But ‘live with it’? I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel like solitude can be both a shield and a prison. It all depends on how you choose to look at it."

Evangeline remained silent, her thoughts swirling around this idea, as their footsteps echoed softly against the cold stone of the dungeons. The conversation they had just shared had led her into a deeper reflection than usual. A shield, a prison... those words resonated within her with unsettling accuracy. She had often seen her solitude as a form of protection, a way to shield herself from the gaze of others, from mockery, from judgment. It was her refuge, her way of surviving in a world she sometimes found overwhelming. But listening to him speak, his words gently breaching the barriers she had erected, she suddenly wondered if that same shield hadn’t also trapped her in a cage she had built for herself. A cage that perhaps protected her from the outside world, but also isolated her from everything it had to offer.

"Are we almost there?" she asked finally, breaking the silence, her voice betraying a slight nervousness after the introspection she had shared. She glanced around her, observing the damp walls and flickering torches, unaccustomed to this part of the castle which she found oppressive and foreign.

The boy reached out to gently touch the stone wall beside him, his gesture precise and measured. He moved with a confident assurance, navigating this environment that seemed second nature to him. This simple contact with the stone seemed to be all he needed to orient himself, and she couldn’t help but watch him with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Finally, he turned his head slightly toward her, a faint half-smile lighting up his features. "Yes, we’re almost there." he said in a calm voice, as if sharing a secret. "Just a few more steps... Then we’ll descend the stairs right ahead, and we’ll be at the entrance to the Slytherin common room."

They continued down the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly in the heavy atmosphere of the dungeons. The torches affixed to the walls cast moving shadows around them, giving the place an even more intimidating air. Evangeline turned her gaze to the floor, trying to push away the strange pang that had settled within her. This walk, as unexpected as informal, had offered her a pause she never would have imagined. After the confessions exchanged, she found herself regretting that this moment was coming to an end. In a castle she had often found cold and unwelcoming, for the first time she felt strangely less alone, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Finally, they arrived in a larger space, where the stone walls seemed to close slightly toward a central point. She easily guessed that this place housed the iconic entrance to the Slytherin common room, a place she never imagined she would see, let alone accompany someone to. She slowed her pace slightly, aware that the moment she had been dreading had inevitably arrived.

"Well… I guess we’re here." Evangeline said, her voice tinged with slight hesitation as her gaze briefly met the Slytherin’s. "This seems to be the end of our little late-night tour through Hogwarts." She offered a smile, but felt a twinge of regret creep in, a feeling she couldn’t quite understand. "Thanks again, for the company. I didn’t expect us to have such an… open conversation. Or even any conversation at all, really… It seemed like it was going to be a disaster. My social anxiety… The whole wanting to jump off the viaduct thing..."

At the mention of the viaduct, Ominis raised an eyebrow slightly but didn’t interrupt her. He replied in a calm, composed voice, not rushing the moment, with a faint smile at the corner of his lips. "You know, I think we all have our moments when we feel like everything is falling apart. But I’m glad you didn’t jump… At least not off the viaduct, not tonight." A knowing look passed through his eyes before he continued, more seriously. "I’m also glad you trusted me, even for a moment. It’s not every day someone opens up like that. And I suppose with me, you didn’t have too many reasons to hide." He paused, as though searching for the right words. Then, with a softer, almost reassuring tone, he added, "You know, sometimes solitude is just a way of pushing away what we fear. But that doesn’t mean it’s the only way." He let his words hang in the air, like a truth he had learned through his own struggles. "And talking like this… It’s a nice reminder that even those we think are the most different can find common ground." He paused again before lightening the mood with a more playful tone, as if to break the weight that had slowly settled: "In any case, this conversation wasn’t bad. It’s been a while since I’ve had the feeling of truly talking to someone other than Sebastian or Anne." A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes, as if this simple exchange was a victory in itself.

Evangeline felt a soft, unexpected emotion make its way through her, a feeling she had only experienced in the rare moments spent with her family: gratitude. A quiet warmth flooded her, like a breath of fresh air after a long period of suffocation. She slowly lifted her hand and, with an unusual delicacy, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "It’s true, talking to you has been pleasant. And… I think it did me some good." She paused briefly, her words heavier than usual. Then, with a soft breath, she added, "Thank you."

The Slytherin remained silent for a moment, as if weighing his words. He turned his head slightly toward her, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle, yet filled with rare sincerity. "I’m glad it did you good. Sometimes, it’s easier to talk when you find someone with whom it doesn’t feel forced." He shrugged lightly, a nearly imperceptible smile grazing his lips. "And as for gratitude, I’d say it’s a rare thing to truly talk with someone, without any pretense. You don’t meet people who let you put aside the masks every day."

Yes, you’re probably right... Until now, I’ve never really confided in anyone. Well, except for my family, of course. But with them, it’s different, you know? It’s... natural, almost automatic. It’s easy to let go, to talk without thinking about it. With them, there’s no pressure to present yourself a certain way, no fear of judgment. But with you, it was... more surprising, I guess. I felt like I opened up without even thinking about it, like it was just... necessary. And in a way, it was soothing." She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting into the shadowed walls surrounding them. "Well, I suppose I should thank my impulsive behavior with my sketchbook." she added with a nervous laugh, as if trying to regain her composure. "That’s probably what got us talking in the first place. And then, your wand played its part too. If it hadn’t misbehaved, I probably wouldn’t have walked you all the way here."

He smiled slightly, a subtle expression that touched his lips, but the softness reflected in the calmness of his voice. "You know, it’s almost ironic. If my wand hadn’t acted up, we probably would have missed out on a rather interesting conversation." His words held a detached lightness, as though he was acknowledging a certain truth in this somewhat absurd situation.

Evangeline seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes avoiding the stone walls around them before settling back on him. Then, she took a deep breath, her tone suddenly turning serious. "By the way, are you going to be okay? I mean..." She fell silent for a moment, trying to find the best way to phrase her question. "Your wand is still being temperamental, right? Are you going to manage on your own once you get to your common room? I mean, since I can’t accompany you..." She lowered her gaze slightly, her concern evident despite herself.

The boy shook his head slightly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, as if the question amused him more than he was willing to admit. He smiled slightly. "Yes, yes, it’s sweet of you to worry about me, but I’ll be fine. In five years, I’ve learned every corner of the common room like the back of my hand. It’s not a problem. I should be able to find my way without any trouble." A soft laugh escaped him, almost imperceptible. "But, well, maybe it’s actually you who should be questioned, right? What’s your plan, considering that the riddle on your knocker seems to be giving you trouble and you still can’t answer it?"

Evangeline raised an eyebrow, her face lighting up with a mischievous smile as she responded with a hint of teasing. "Oh, I’ll find a quiet corner somewhere to spend the night. Don’t worry about me." She tried to maintain a relaxed demeanor, though the thought of being alone in the corridors of Hogwarts sent a slight shiver down her spine. But she did her best not to show it, aware that the situation felt lighter than she had initially expected.

The boy looked at her for a moment, a smirk forming at the corners of his lips, a blend of amusement and curiosity that didn’t go unnoticed. The silence stretched out, comfortable but heavy with something unfinished. Finally, after a moment, he broke the quiet, his voice soft but marked by a teasing lightness. "You know..." he said, his gaze softening a bit. "We’ve talked, exchanged ideas, but we never even bothered to introduce ourselves." He paused, a faint laugh grazing his lips. "It’s a little strange, don’t you think?" He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing each word before speaking.

Evangeline froze for a moment, surprised by the obviousness of what he had just pointed out. He was right, after all. They had confided in each other, shared personal things, but had never really gotten to know each other. She gave a slight smile, feeling a bit awkward about the simplicity of the situation, but also about the realization that, in some way, she had opened up without even thinking about it. "That’s true," she said, nodding, a teasing smile forming on her lips. "Looks like we did everything backwards." She paused, then almost shyly added, "I’m Evangeline. Evangeline Rosier. But you probably already know my last name, since the professors can’t stop mentioning it this week..." She laughed nervously before offering him a more genuine smile, as if the act of naming herself gave their conversation a more tangible weight. She hadn’t fully realized how much she had shared, nor how much this encounter, as ordinary as it seemed at first, marked a shift in how she viewed the people around her.

"Evangeline, huh?" he repeated, an ironic smile touching his lips. "Of course, it had to be a French name, as dramatic as it is melodious. Very chic." He paused briefly before adding, in a calm and composed tone: "As for me, I’m Ominis. Ominis Gaunt."

The name seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment, resonating in the silence like a distant echo. Evangeline couldn’t help but feel a twinge of surprise, a spark flickering fleetingly in her eyes. Gaunt. The name was familiar, far more than she would have liked. "Oh yes, that’s the one Professor Sharp was talking about the other day!" Her thoughts began to race, despite herself. She remembered the discussions about this ancient lineage, a pure-blood family, surrounded by a prestige as dark as it was heavy. She had imagined that a Gaunt would embody the stereotypes she associated with aristocratic families: arrogant, condescending, steeped in a sense of selfishness and superiority. "A daddy’s boy," she thought cynically, "just like those I’ve crossed paths with at Beauxbâtons." But looking at the person in front of her, Ominis, calm, sincere, almost disarming in his demeanor, she felt the truth dawn on her: he was nothing like the caricature she had formed. "I never would’ve thought that the name Gaunt could belong to… someone like him." However, she chose to keep these thoughts to herself. It wasn’t the time or place to explore this revelation.

Taking a gentle breath, she opted for a lighter approach, wiping any trace of surprise from her features. "Nice to meet you, Ominis." she finally said, offering a more serene smile. Her voice had softened, almost as if to ease the strangeness of this discovery. Her light tone contrasted with the whirlwind of thoughts still swirling in her mind, but she forced herself to stay anchored in the present moment. For now, he was just Ominis, the boy she had come to know through an unexpected conversation.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Ominis' lips, laced with an apparent nonchalance, but his expression betrayed a deeper reflection. He seemed to weigh his words, as if he wanted his words to carry a subtle weight. "Well, I’d better head back. The common room is waiting for me, and it’s getting late." His voice was calm, almost measured, but tinged with a touch of quiet irony. "As for you, I hope you’ll find somewhere to spend the night." He paused briefly, letting a light note hang in the air, before continuing with a hint of subtle humor. "You know, the floor in the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower is surprisingly comfortable... for a medieval castle. I highly recommend it for a quick nap." The remark brought a fleeting smile to his face, and he accompanied his words with a small, almost nonchalant wave of the hand, as if to close the conversation. Yet, his milky eyes seemed to turn briefly toward her, creating a strange, almost magnetic impression of attention. "Good night, Evangeline," he added softly, his tone carrying a sincerity that was almost imperceptible.

"Good night, Ominis," she replied, her words calm but subtly tinged with an unexpected warmth. She looked at him for a moment before slowly turning on her heel. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the silence of the darkened corridors, but something within her resisted the departure, as though a part of her mind remained tethered to this shared moment.

As she walked away, she risked a final glance over her shoulder. In the flickering torchlight, she caught sight of Ominis' figure, almost ghostly, on the threshold of the common room. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she continued on her way, though her mind remained chained to their exchange. A strange feeling of interconnection washed over her, a vague conviction that they had just brushed against something invisible but essential, like a door ajar to an unknown world.

On his side, Ominis slowly turned the handle of the door and stepped into the familiar darkness of the Slytherin common room. Yet, as he closed the door behind him, a faint smile lingered on his lips, like a delicate shadow of a memory already etched.

[digkit-toys]

Create Your Own Jurassic World: How to Make a STEM Toy Dinosaur Egg for Kids!

How to Make a STEM Toy Dinosaur Egg: A Fun and Educational Project for Kids

Introduction: STEM education is becoming increasingly popular as parents and educators recognize the importance of providing children with opportunities to develop skills in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. One way to engage kids in STEM learning is through hands-on projects that are both fun and educational. In this blog post, we'll show you how to make a STEM toy dinosaur egg that will inspire kids to explore the world of science and engineering.

Materials Needed for Making a STEM Toy Dinosaur Egg

To make a STEM toy dinosaur egg, you will need the following materials:

Plaster of Paris

Water

Plastic Easter eggs

Small plastic dinosaur toys

Food coloring (optional)

Mixing bowl

Spoon

Measuring cup

Newspaper or plastic sheet

Step-by-Step Guide to Making a STEM Toy Dinosaur Egg

Follow these easy steps to make your very own STEM toy dinosaur egg:

Step 1: Cover your work area with newspaper or a plastic sheet to protect it from spills and mess.

Step 2: Mix the plaster of Paris and water according to the instructions on the package. For best results, use a 2:1 ratio of plaster to water.

Step 3: Add a few drops of food coloring to the mixture if you want to give the egg a colored tint. This step is optional but can add an extra element of fun to the project.

Step 4: Carefully pour the plaster mixture into the plastic Easter eggs until they are about half full.

Step 5: Place a small plastic dinosaur toy inside the egg, making sure it is fully submerged in the plaster.

Step 6: Fill the egg with the remaining plaster mixture until it is almost full.

Step 7: Close the egg and shake it gently to remove any air bubbles.

Step 8: Let the egg sit for about an hour or until the plaster has fully hardened.

Step 9: Once the plaster has hardened, carefully remove the eggshell by gently tapping it with a spoon or a hammer. Be sure to do this over a soft surface, such as a towel or a piece of foam, to prevent the dinosaur from getting damaged.

Step 10: Once the eggshell is removed, you will have a STEM toy dinosaur egg with a small plastic dinosaur inside. You can paint or decorate the egg to make it look more realistic.

The Educational Benefits of Making a STEM Toy Dinosaur Egg

Making a STEM toy dinosaur egg is not only a fun and creative activity, but it also promotes learning in several STEM areas:

Science: Kids learn about the properties of plaster, the chemical reaction that occurs when mixing plaster and water, and how the plaster hardens over time.

Technology: Kids use their hands and tools to mix the plaster, pour it into the egg, and remove the eggshell.

Engineering: Kids learn how to follow step-by-step instructions and use trial and error to perfect their technique.

Mathematics: Kids use measuring cups and spoons to measure the amount of plaster and water needed.

Incorporating STEM Toys into Playtime

STEM toys are an excellent way to introduce kids to STEM concepts in a fun and engaging way. They encourage kids to explore and experiment, develop problem-solving skills, and promote creativity and critical thinking. Incorporating STEM toys into playtime can also help kids develop an interest in STEM subjects and potentially lead to future career paths.

There are many types of STEM toys available on the market, ranging from building sets and coding games to science kits and robotics. By providing kids with opportunities to play with STEM toys, parents and educators can help them develop a range of important skills, such as:

Spatial reasoning

Logical thinking

Analytical skills

Creativity

Perseverance

Collaboration

Conclusion

Making a STEM toy dinosaur egg is a fun and educational project that can inspire kids to explore the world of science and engineering. By following the steps outlined in this blog post, you can create a toy that promotes STEM learning and encourages imaginative play. By incorporating STEM toys into playtime, parents and educators can help kids develop essential skills that will serve them well in the future. So why not try this project with your kids today and see how much fun and learning you can have together?

[blazingsporerebel]

Expert Asphalt Paving Contractors in Medway, OH – Your Trusted Partner for Quality Paving Solutions

When it comes to durable, high-quality asphalt paving in Medway, OH, hiring expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH is crucial for long-lasting results. At CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating, we specialize in professional asphalt installation, repair, and maintenance, ensuring your driveways, parking lots, and roadways remain smooth, safe, and visually appealing. With years of experience and a commitment to excellence, we are the go-to choice for residential and commercial paving projects in the region.

Why Choose Professional Asphalt Paving Contractors?

Not all paving companies deliver the same level of quality and durability. Hiring expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH like CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating ensures:

Proper Installation: Correct grading, compaction, and material selection prevent premature cracking and deterioration.

Cost-Effectiveness: A well-installed asphalt surface reduces long-term repair costs.

Enhanced Curb Appeal: A smooth, fresh asphalt surface boosts property value and aesthetics.

Safety Compliance: Professionally paved surfaces minimize tripping hazards and drainage issues.

Our Comprehensive Asphalt Paving Services

At CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating, we offer a full range of paving solutions tailored to your needs:

1. Asphalt Installation & Resurfacing

Whether you need a new driveway, parking lot, or roadway, our team uses premium materials and industry-best practices for a flawless finish.

2. Asphalt Repair & Patching

Cracks and potholes can worsen over time. Our experts provide seamless repairs to extend pavement life.

3. Sealcoating & Maintenance

Regular sealcoating protects asphalt from UV rays, water damage, and oil spills, keeping it looking new for years.

4. Commercial & Municipal Paving

We handle large-scale projects, including shopping centers, industrial lots, and municipal roadways, with precision and efficiency.

The CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating Difference

What sets us apart as the leading expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH?

✔ Experienced & Licensed Professionals – Our team has extensive training in asphalt paving techniques. ✔ Quality Materials – We use only top-grade asphalt mixes for superior durability. ✔ Advanced Equipment – Modern machinery ensures efficient, precise paving. ✔ Customer-Focused Approach – We prioritize clear communication, transparency, and on-time project completion.

Common Asphalt Paving Mistakes to Avoid

Many property owners unknowingly make errors that lead to premature pavement failure. Here’s what to avoid:

Choosing the Cheapest Contractor – Low-cost bids often mean subpar materials and workmanship.

Ignoring Proper Drainage – Poor water runoff causes cracks and erosion.

Skipping Sealcoating – Unprotected asphalt deteriorates faster under weather and traffic.

Delaying Repairs – Small cracks can quickly turn into costly potholes.

How to Maintain Your Asphalt Surface

To maximize the lifespan of your pavement, follow these maintenance tips:

✅ Schedule Regular Sealcoating (Every 2-3 years) ✅ Fill Cracks Promptly (Prevents water seepage and base damage) ✅ Keep It Clean (Remove debris, oil stains, and standing water) ✅ Inspect for Damage (Early detection saves money on major repairs)

Why Medway, OH Homeowners & Businesses Trust Us

As a locally owned and operated company, CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating takes pride in serving Medway, OH, with integrity and expertise. Our satisfied clients include:

Homeowners – Beautiful, durable driveways that last decades.

Businesses – Smooth, professional parking lots that impress customers.

Municipalities – Reliable road paving for safe community travel.

Contact CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating Today!

Ready to upgrade your property with top-tier asphalt paving? As the trusted expert asphalt paving contractors in Medway, OH, CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating is here to deliver exceptional results.

📞 Call us today for a free estimate! 🌐 Visit our website to learn more about our services.

Don’t settle for mediocre paving—choose CJS Asphalt & Sealcoating for unmatched quality and professionalism!

[accountsandfinancetips]

Top 7 Indicators It’s Time to Switch from Spreadsheets to Cloud Accounting

Overview

Still using spreadsheets to manage your business finances? You’re definitely not alone. But here’s the thing—those rows and columns that once made sense might actually be slowing you down. In this post, I’ll walk you through seven signs it’s time to ditch the spreadsheets and move to cloud accounting. No tech jargon or sales pitch—just real-world signs it’s time to level up.

Introduction

Let’s be honest: we all start with spreadsheets. They’re free, they’re familiar, and for a while, they get the job done. I’ve been there too—juggling budgets in Excel, copying and pasting invoices, scrambling at tax time. It works… until it doesn’t.

At a certain point, your spreadsheet system starts costing you more in time, stress, and missed opportunities than it’s worth. So, how do you know if you’ve hit that point?

Let’s break it down:

1. You Spend More Time Fixing Spreadsheets Than Growing Your Business

If you’re spending hours each week digging through formulas or patching up data, you’re not running your business—you’re babysitting a file.

Cloud accounting handles the grunt work for you. It syncs with your bank, categorizes expenses, and pulls reports with a click. That’s the time (and headspace) you get back to focus on actually growing your business.

2. Your Finances Live on One Laptop—and That’s Risky

If your financial data only exists on your computer, you’re one crash, one spill, or one lost file away from disaster.

With cloud-based accounting, your records are backed up automatically and accessible from anywhere—whether you’re at the office, on the road, or working from a coffee shop. Your data stays safe, no matter what happens to your laptop.

3. Errors Keep Sneaking Into Your Books

Spreadsheets are powerful—but also fragile. One wrong formula or deleted cell can throw off your entire report, and those mistakes often go unnoticed until it’s too late.

Cloud tools pull in data directly from your bank or credit card. Fewer manual entries mean fewer chances for human error—and more confidence in your numbers.

4. Tax Season Feels Like a Fire Drill

If tax time feels like a last-minute scramble—digging through inboxes, tracking receipts, trying to remember what that expense was for—you’re not alone.

Cloud platforms keep things organized year-round. Your transactions are logged as they happen, and most software can generate the exact reports your accountant needs. Less chaos, more calm.

5. You Never Really Know How Your Business Is Doing

When’s the last time you had a clear view of your cash flow?

If you’re relying on spreadsheets, odds are your financial picture is always a few days (or weeks) behind. Cloud accounting gives you live dashboards and real-time reports so you always know where things stand—no guesswork needed.

6. Collaborating Is a Mess

If your team’s sending spreadsheets back and forth, chances are someone’s working off the wrong version—or worse, overwriting someone else’s work.

With cloud tools, everyone can access the same info in real time. Your bookkeeper can reconcile transactions, your accountant can pull reports, and you can check in anytime—no email threads, no confusion.

7. You’re Ready to Grow—But Your System Isn’t

Spreadsheets might work when you’re small, but they don’t scale. Once you’re managing more invoices, employees, or products, things start falling apart.

Cloud platforms are built to grow with you. They handle everything from payroll to inventory, and integrate with other tools as your needs evolve. Your systems won’t just keep up—they’ll help drive your growth.

Conclusion

Spreadsheets are a solid starting point. But if any of these signs hit close to home, it’s probably time to move on.

Cloud accounting isn’t just about saving time—it’s about getting better visibility, fewer mistakes, and a system that actually supports your goals.

Most business owners who make the switch say the same thing: “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

If you're starting to feel that too, trust the signs. It might be time to upgrade.

Blogged by: BDGAGSS

[fixcare1]

iPhone Repair Services in Bangalore: A Comprehensive Guide to Fixcare

In the bustling city of Bangalore, where technology is an integral part of daily life, iPhones have become indispensable tools for communication, work, and entertainment. However, like all electronic devices, iPhones are susceptible to issues such as screen damage, battery depletion, or software glitches. When faced with such problems, finding a reliable and efficient repair service is crucial. This is where Fixcare steps in, offering top-notch iPhone repair services across Bangalore.

About Fixcare

Fixcare is a renowned independent Apple service center in Bangalore, specializing in the repair of iPhones, iPads, MacBooks, and iWatches. With over two decades of experience, Fixcare has built a reputation for delivering exceptional repair services with a focus on customer satisfaction. Although not affiliated with Apple Inc., Fixcare employs certified technicians who utilize high-quality parts to ensure that your device functions as good as new.

Services Offered

Fixcare provides a wide range of iPhone repair services to address various issues:

Screen Replacement: Whether it's a cracked screen or unresponsive touch functionality, Fixcare offers prompt screen replacement services to restore your iPhone's display to its original condition.

Battery Replacement: If your iPhone's battery drains quickly or doesn't hold charge, Fixcare provides efficient battery replacement services to extend your device's battery life.

Back Glass Repair: For iPhone models with a glass back, Fixcare offers back glass repair services to fix any cracks or damages.

Water Damage Repair: Accidental spills or submersion can lead to water damage. Fixcare's technicians are equipped to handle water damage repairs, aiming to salvage your device.

Camera and Sensor Repair: Issues with the front or rear camera, Face ID, or other sensors are addressed by Fixcare's expert technicians to restore full functionality.

Logic Board Repair: For complex issues, Fixcare offers Level 4 (L4) chip-level repairs on logic boards, a service not commonly available in many repair centers.

Software and Hardware Diagnostics: Fixcare provides comprehensive diagnostics to identify and resolve software glitches, system errors, or hardware malfunctions.

Why Choose Fixcare?

Several factors set Fixcare apart from other repair centers in Bangalore:

Expert Technicians: Fixcare employs certified technicians with extensive experience in repairing Apple devices, ensuring high-quality service.

Quality Parts: While not authorized by Apple, Fixcare uses premium quality spare parts that match the performance of original components.

Warranty: All repairs come with a warranty ranging from 90 days to one year, depending on the type of service, providing customers with peace of mind.

Convenience: Fixcare offers free pickup and delivery services across Bangalore. For simpler repairs, on-site service is available, allowing customers to have their devices fixed at their convenience.

Fast Turnaround Time: With most parts readily available, Fixcare ensures quick repairs, often completing tasks within 30 minutes for straightforward issues.

Pricing

Fixcare offers competitive pricing for its services. For instance, iPhone screen replacements start at ₹2,000, depending on the model and extent of damage. Battery replacements and other services are priced accordingly, ensuring affordability without compromising on quality.

Customer Testimonials

Customers have consistently praised Fixcare for its reliable services:

"Fixcare saved the day! Amazing service. Had my screen changed and some dust got into the speaker. The Fixcare executive had cleaned it for free and now I can hear clearly again." – Aryan Kapoor

Such testimonials reflect Fixcare's commitment to excellence and customer satisfaction.

Booking a Service

Booking a repair service with Fixcare is straightforward:

Visit the Website: Go to Fixcare's official website to explore the services offered.

Select Your Device: Choose the iPhone model and specify the issue you're facing.

Schedule an Appointment: Select a convenient time for pickup or on-site service.

Repair and Delivery: After the repair is completed, your device will be delivered back to you.

Alternatively, you can contact Fixcare directly at 8317 401 135 for assistance and bookings.

Conclusion

When your iPhone encounters issues, choosing a reliable and efficient repair service is essential. Fixcare stands out in Bangalore for its expert technicians, quality parts, and commitment to customer satisfaction. Whether it's a cracked screen, battery issues, or complex hardware problems, Fixcare offers comprehensive solutions to get your iPhone back to optimal performance. Reach out to Fixcare today and experience hassle-free iPhone repair services in Bangalore.

[amthorinternational]

Key Features of a High-Performance Lube Liner Tank Truck

Mobile lubrication solutions become essential in industries like construction, mining, agriculture, and fleet services, where equipment uptime is critical. Lube-liner tank trucks have become indispensable in on-site maintenance operations, providing everything from fluid storage to precision dispensing. However, not all lube trucks are built the same. For efficiency, safety, and reliability, a high-performance lube liner tank truck must meet a defined set of demanding standards.

Here are some of the primary features that define a top-tier lube liner tank truck:

1. Multi-Compartment Tank Design

Top-end lube trucks feature a multi-compartment tank system that can carry a bevy of fresh oils, coolants, used oil, grease, and other service fluids. Each compartment would be internally baffled to prevent sloshing, thus maintaining vehicle stability during transport.

Why it matters: Servicing all equipment in one trip without cross-contamination increases the efficiency of the operation and decreases downtime.

2. Robust Constitutive Materials of Construction

High-performance lube liner tanks are generally the custom of aluminum or stainless steel to avoid corrosion and minimize the weight. The tanks, besides, should be DOT and FMCSA certified for transporting lubricants and other fluids.

Why it matters: A longer life for the vehicle translates into a better initial value, a safer operation, and lower maintenance costs.

3. Superior Pumping and Dispensing Systems

Most of the newer trucks are now equipped with either PTO-driven or hydraulically driven pumps for the transfer of the fluids, coupled with metered reels and nozzles for dispensing. Generally, these systems are monitored electronically when it comes to flow accuracy as well.

Why it matters: Accurate delivery of fluids and recovery of wastes helps to ensure compliance with the required manufacturer specifications and the environmental standards.

4. Onboard Waste Recovery

High-performing lube trucks feature on-board tanks and suction systems for the recovery of used oil and other waste fluids. It is designed to enable clean and efficient recovery and containment.

Why it matters: Not only does this make waste handling more ecologically sound and EPA compliant, but it also simplifies the management of fluids at job sites.

5. Temperature Control Options

For regions exposed to extreme weather conditions, heating systems are availed for fluid tanks and pumping system to ensure optimum viscosity and to prevent freezing or thickening.

Why it matters: There would be no reason to doubt operability all through the year, depending on prevailing climatic conditions.

6. Operator Interfaces Designed for User Friendliness

From ergonomically designed control panels to digital monitoring displays, operator-centric design improves usability. Some tanker trucks, indeed, have even been formed into units that allow for remote operation or contain telematics to facilitate maintenance tracking.

Why it matters: The less training involved with operating a unit, the quicker it can be serviced and operated, resulting in fewer operator errors.

7. Customizable Layouts

The finest lube liner trucks have customizations tailored to specific needs within an operation, such as options for tool storage, hose reels, grease systems, air compressors, and whatever else you might need.

Why it matters: A truck built around your workflow enhances productivity and ensures you have everything you need on-site.

8. Safety and Compliance Features

An excellent lube liner offers safety features, from non-slip walkways to LED lights, spill containment, and emergency shutoffs that protect operators and the environment.

Why it matters: OSHA and DOT safety standards protect your team, equipment, and profits.

Final Thoughts

For operational reasons, the high-performance lube liner tank truck is more than a carrier for fluids; it is a traveling maintenance center. This means that by investing in a truck with the right features and abilities, you can greatly enhance service efficiency and minimize downtime while protecting the investment in your equipment.

Whether simply replenishing your fleet or expanding the services you offer, the right lube liner tank truck will make all the difference in the performance you bring forth into the field.

[intvestorrelationadvisor]

How Brands Use ‘Apology PR’ to Bounce Back Stronger Than Ever

Mistakes happen. Brands, like people, aren’t perfect. But what separates a forgettable misstep from a lasting reputation crisis is how a company responds. Some of the biggest names in business have faced scandals, product failures, or public outrage only to emerge stronger. The secret? Apology PR a strategic approach to turning failure into trust-building.

When done right, an apology isn’t just damage control; it’s an opportunity to reinforce credibility, show accountability, and even win back customers more loyal than before. Let’s break down how brands have mastered this art and how the right PR advisor services can make or break the recovery.

Why Apologies Matter More Than Ever

Public perception is fragile. A single misstep can spiral into a full-blown reputation crisis, especially in the age of social media, where outrage spreads faster than facts. But here’s the thing: people don’t expect perfection they expect honesty.

Brands that acknowledge mistakes quickly, take responsibility, and outline clear corrective actions don’t just survive they often gain respect. Take KFC’s 2018 UK chicken shortage crisis. Instead of deflecting blame, they ran a full-page ad rearranging their famous initials to "FCK" with a humble apology. The result? Public sympathy, media praise, and even stronger customer loyalty.

This is where Top Public Relations Advisory Firms excel they don’t just draft statements; they craft narratives that turn setbacks into comebacks.

The Anatomy of a Successful Apology PR Strategy

Not all apologies work. Some feel forced, others insincere. The ones that resonate follow a few key principles:

Speed Over Perfection

Delayed responses fuel speculation. The best crisis PR moves fast, even if all details aren’t finalized.

Example: When Johnson & Johnson faced the Tylenol tampering crisis in 1982, they pulled 31 million bottles off shelves immediately before regulators demanded it. Their swift action set the gold standard for crisis management.

Authenticity, Not Scripted PR Talk

Consumers spot corporate jargon from miles away. A human tone raw, direct, and empathetic works better.

PR advisors in Mumbai often stress this: A local, culturally aware apology (like Maggi’s comeback campaign in India post-ban) lands better than a generic global statement.

Action Speaks Louder Than Words

Saying “sorry” is step one. Showing how you’ll fix it is what rebuilds trust.

Brands like Starbucks (after racial bias incidents) didn’t just apologize they closed stores for anti-bias training, tying words to measurable change.

Leverage the Right Channels

A press release isn’t enough. Social media public relations plays a huge role apologies must live where the backlash began.

When Netflix faced pricing backlash, they used Twitter to acknowledge frustration and explain their rationale, balancing transparency with brand positioning.

When Apology PR Backfires

Not every attempt works. Brands that fail usually:

Shift blame (United Airlines’ initial response to passenger-dragging incident).

Downplay severity (BP’s “tiny” oil spill comment during the Deepwater Horizon crisis).

Ignore cultural nuances (Pepsi’s Kendall Jenner ad trivializing protests).

This is why Public relations advisor in Mumbai or any market must understand local sentiment what’s forgivable in one region may be a deal-breaker in another.

Beyond the Apology: Long-Term Brand Reputation Management

A great apology is just the start. The real test is what comes next:

PR Strategies for Brand Recovery: Consistent messaging, stakeholder reassurance, and proof of change.

Public relations KPIs: Tracking sentiment shifts, engagement rates, and sales impact post-crisis.

PR advisory services for startups: Smaller brands, with less margin for error, need pre-emptive crisis plans.

Some brands even use crises to pivot. After Audi’s emissions scandal, they doubled down on electric vehicles turning a PR disaster into a rebranding opportunity.

The Future: Public Relations and AI

AI is changing how brands monitor crises predicting backlash, drafting rapid responses, and even gauging public sentiment in real time. But the human touch remains irreplaceable. No algorithm can replicate the empathy of a well-crafted apology or the intuition of seasoned PR advisors.

Final Takeaway

A brand’s worst moment can become its defining one if handled with humility, speed, and strategy. Whether you’re a global giant or a startup, having Investor & Public Relations Consulting or a crisis playbook isn’t optional. Because in business, as in life, it’s not about never failing. It’s about how convincingly you rise after the fall.

Need a PR partner to navigate crises before they escalate? The right PR advisory services don’t just clean up messes—they turn them into milestones.

[bluecarpetsdubai]

How to Choose the Best PVC Flooring Tiles: A Personal Journey

Choosing the best PVC flooring tiles can be overwhelming, but with the right guidance, it becomes effortless. In this personal story, discover the essential factors, benefits, and expert tips to select durable, stylish, and cost-effective PVC flooring for your space.

A Personal Journey into PVC Flooring Selection

Selecting the perfect flooring for my home was one of the most challenging yet rewarding experiences. Like many homeowners, I wanted something that was both durable and aesthetically pleasing. After much research, I stumbled upon PVC flooring and quickly realized its many benefits. However, with the vast array of options available, choosing the right one required careful consideration. Through trial and error, I learned valuable lessons that I am eager to share with anyone facing the same dilemma.

Understanding PVC Flooring

Before diving into the selection process, it is crucial to understand what PVC flooring is and why it has become so popular. PVC (polyvinyl chloride) flooring is a synthetic material known for its resilience, water resistance, and affordability. It comes in various forms, including tiles, planks, and sheets, making it a versatile choice for both residential and commercial spaces.

When I first considered PVC flooring, I was amazed by its realistic wood and stone textures, which provided the luxurious look I wanted without the hefty price tag. Moreover, its ease of installation and maintenance made it an attractive choice for someone like me who prefers practical solutions.

Key Factors to Consider When Choosing PVC Flooring Tiles

As I embarked on my journey to find the best PVC flooring tiles, I encountered several critical factors that influenced my decision. Here are the most important ones to keep in mind:

1. Durability and Wear Layer

One of my primary concerns was longevity. I needed flooring that could withstand heavy foot traffic, accidental spills, and daily wear and tear. I learned that the wear layer—the topmost protective coating—plays a crucial role in durability. The thicker the wear layer, the more resistant the tiles are to scratches, stains, and fading. For high-traffic areas like my living room and kitchen, I opted for tiles with a wear layer of at least 20 mils.

2. Design and Aesthetic Appeal

The aesthetic aspect of PVC flooring cannot be ignored. With an array of patterns, colors, and textures available, it was essential to choose a style that complimented my home’s décor. I gravitated towards wood-look tiles for the bedrooms and stone-inspired ones for the bathroom. The variety of choices allowed me to achieve a cohesive yet distinct look for each room.

3. Water and Moisture Resistance

Since I have a kitchen and bathroom prone to moisture, water resistance was a top priority. PVC flooring tiles are naturally resistant to water, but some varieties offer enhanced waterproofing. I made sure to select waterproof PVC flooring tiles for these areas to prevent mold and mildew buildup.

4. Ease of Installation

Another deciding factor was the installation process. As a DIY enthusiast, I wanted an option that I could install without professional help. PVC flooring tiles come with different installation methods, including glue-down, peel-and-stick, and interlocking systems. I found the interlocking type to be the easiest to work with, allowing me to complete the project without hassle.

5. Budget and Cost Efficiency

Affordability was another major factor. I set a budget before beginning my search, which helped me narrow down my options. While some high-end PVC flooring tiles were tempting, I found that mid-range options provided an excellent balance between cost and quality.

Advantages of PVC Flooring Tiles

After finalizing my choices and installing the tiles, I came to appreciate several key benefits of PVC flooring:

Low Maintenance: Regular sweeping and occasional mopping kept my floors looking pristine.

Comfort and Cushioning: Unlike cold ceramic tiles, PVC flooring felt softer underfoot.

Noise Reduction: It effectively reduced noise, making my home feel quieter and more serene.

Eco-Friendly Options: Some brands offered recyclable PVC flooring, making it a sustainable choice.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

During my journey, I also encountered a few pitfalls that others can avoid:

Ignoring Subfloor Preparation: I initially overlooked the importance of a smooth subfloor, leading to minor installation issues.

Choosing the Wrong Thickness: Thinner tiles were tempting due to their lower cost, but they lacked the durability I needed.

Not Considering Room Functionality: Initially, I almost chose non-waterproof tiles for my bathroom, which would have been a costly mistake.

Final Thoughts

Choosing the best PVC, Parquet flooring tiles was a rewarding experience that transformed my home’s aesthetic and functionality. By considering factors like durability, design, water resistance, and budget, I was able to make an informed decision that suited my lifestyle. If you are considering PVC flooring, take your time to research and select tiles that best meet your needs. With the right choice, you can enjoy beautiful, long-lasting floors that enhance your home’s overall appeal.

Have you ever installed PVC flooring in your home? Share your experience in the comments below!

[tessacraig]

Why Every Restaurant Needs a Cleaning Service in Melbourne

Running a successful restaurant in Melbourne involves more than just serving delicious food and providing great customer service. Cleanliness is the foundation of a positive dining experience and essential for meeting health regulations. A professional restaurant cleaning service Melbourne plays a crucial role in ensuring restaurants remain hygienic, safe, and appealing to both customers and staff. Here’s why every restaurant needs professional cleaning support.

1. Maintaining Health and Safety Standards

Health and safety compliance is a non-negotiable aspect of operating a restaurant. Melbourne’s regulations require strict adherence to hygiene practices, including the proper cleaning of food preparation areas, storage facilities, and dining spaces. A professional restaurant cleaning service Melbourne ensures these standards are consistently met. Trained cleaners use effective methods and specialised products to eliminate bacteria, reduce contamination risks, and create a safe environment for everyone.

2. Ensuring a Positive Customer Experience

First impressions matter in the hospitality industry. Customers expect restaurants to maintain high cleanliness standards, from spotless tables to gleaming floors. Visible dirt or an unkempt environment can leave a lasting negative impression and deter diners from returning. Engaging a reliable restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne helps maintain pristine conditions, enhancing the dining experience and building customer trust.

3. Saving Time and Boosting Efficiency

Restaurant staff often have demanding schedules, focusing on food preparation and customer service. Adding deep cleaning tasks to their responsibilities can lead to fatigue and errors. A restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne takes this burden off the staff, allowing them to focus on their primary duties. Professional cleaners work efficiently, handling detailed tasks like grease removal, floor polishing, and equipment cleaning, ensuring every corner is spotless.

4. Preventing Pest Infestations

Pests thrive in unclean environments, posing serious health risks and potentially damaging a restaurant’s reputation. Crumbs, spills, and improperly stored food can attract unwanted guests like cockroaches and rodents. Regular cleaning by a restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne minimises these risks by thoroughly sanitising food preparation areas, waste bins, and storage spaces. This proactive approach keeps pests at bay and maintains a hygienic environment.

5. Prolonging Equipment Lifespan

Kitchen equipment is a significant investment for any restaurant. Grease build-up, dirt, and neglect can reduce the efficiency and lifespan of appliances. Professional cleaners have the expertise to maintain equipment like ovens, grills, and refrigerators, ensuring they remain in excellent working condition. A restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne prevents costly repairs and replacements, saving money in the long run.

6. Customised Cleaning Solutions

Every restaurant has unique cleaning needs depending on its size, layout, and cuisine. A professional restaurant cleaning service Melbourne offers tailored cleaning plans that address specific requirements. Whether it’s a casual café or a fine-dining establishment, cleaners customise their approach to ensure optimal results. This flexibility ensures all areas, from the front of house to the kitchen, are cleaned effectively.

7. Enhancing Employee Morale

A clean and well-maintained workplace has a significant impact on employee morale. Staff members feel more motivated and productive when working in a hygienic environment. A restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne ensures workspaces are free from clutter, spills, and odours, creating a positive atmosphere that supports employee satisfaction.

8. Meeting Customer Expectations

Diners in Melbourne have high expectations when it comes to cleanliness. Online reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations often focus on a restaurant’s hygiene standards. By partnering with a restaurant cleaning service in Melbourne, businesses can consistently meet these expectations. A clean restaurant not only attracts new customers but also ensures loyal patrons keep coming back.

9. Supporting Sustainability Goals

Many cleaning services in Melbourne use eco-friendly products and practices, helping restaurants reduce their environmental impact. Sustainable cleaning methods minimise the use of harsh chemicals and conserve resources like water and energy. Partnering with a restaurant cleaning service Melbourne that prioritises green practices demonstrates a commitment to sustainability, appealing to environmentally conscious diners.

10. Avoiding Costly Penalties

Failure to meet hygiene standards can result in hefty fines, temporary closures, or even loss of licences. Regular cleaning by professionals ensures compliance with Melbourne’s health regulations, protecting restaurants from these risks. A proactive approach not only safeguards finances but also upholds a restaurant’s reputation within the community.

Conclusion

Cleanliness is a cornerstone of success in the restaurant industry. By engaging a professional restaurant cleaning service Melbourne, businesses can maintain high hygiene standards, provide exceptional dining experiences, and ensure long-term success. From meeting regulatory requirements to enhancing customer satisfaction, professional cleaning services are an indispensable asset for every restaurant in Melbourne.

FAQs

1. How often should a restaurant be professionally cleaned? The frequency depends on the size and operations of the restaurant, but high-traffic establishments benefit from daily professional cleaning.

2. What areas do professional cleaners focus on? Key areas include food preparation spaces, dining areas, restrooms, storage rooms, and kitchen equipment.

3. Are eco-friendly cleaning options available? Yes, many cleaning services in Melbourne offer sustainable solutions that minimise environmental impact.

4. Why is pest prevention important in restaurants? Pests pose health risks and can damage a restaurant’s reputation. Regular cleaning helps eliminate conditions that attract pests.

5. Can professional cleaning extend equipment lifespan? Yes, regular maintenance and cleaning by professionals prevent wear and tear, ensuring equipment remains efficient for longer.