#surely its obvious but i read An Insulting Indifference and i was very much inspired

[meoowwwhelpme]

i don’t have anything to say for myself . don’t look at me

[spiltscribbles]

Yes yes yes to all of the things you just reblogged about tiktok and atyd. I've been in the fandom since the terms used where slash and lemon. So a while. I don't know if it because lots of new fans are really young (I'm talking 13-15 years old. Literal children) but I've been the one who now feels "uncomfy" in the fandom because well, I like complex, raw and real portray of characters and not versions reduced (by the readers) to a bunch of bullet points taken religiously. Where everything else is sin™. And it's not even about atyd or its author really (who shockingly, left the fandom. I reaaally wondered why) bc their other r/s fic is bloody great (it's a hairdresser/band Au. Highly recommend) but it's mature and I'm pretty sure would be considered really problematic by the same people (especially the bits about Remus past). I'm seeing a trend in this fandom that I absolutely do no like. Atyd is a fanfiction. Nothing more. Everyone has their hc. And if you are a child do not consume media that's not made for you. Fanfic authors are not responsible for your inability to read tags. If they want to write pwp (with or without the plot) and you feel uncomfy bc you are a child and description of sex should make you uncomfortable DON'T READ IT. If you are 14 your understanding of adults is not complete, because you aren't one. You can't know. But if I, an adult, wants to write a lie low at lupins where two other adults take out their frustration by having angry sex after a shouting match of insults and low blows well, Im bloody hell writing it and won't be made feel bad about it.

sugar pop!!! this entire rant is LEGIT SO FUCKING ON POINT!!! truly ✨sexy as fuck✨ and i LOVE IT!!!

ok so first off THIS POST by @eyra is just amazing and that angel is so much more eloquent and so much smarter and more precise than I could ever be so if you have not read that, plz do so immediately!!

but off to give my too sense khdujfdykhfjjgh

I think you were specifically talking about my tags about how I was just indifferent about ATYD and then began actively disliking it because of the fucking TikTok feed! Like literally, folks began using ATYD as a replacement in tags for like marauders and shit, and that was INSANE to me!! And like this is absolutely no hate to the author because I’m sure they are lovely, and they should obviously be so fucking proud of what they wrote and how huge it is, but JFC I hate it when folks find one FIC to latch onto and pretend this is the end all be all for FICs written for marauders era, this was way before my time, but I’ve been told countless times over that this was basically what happened when The Shoebox Project came out, and it’s just maddening to me!! Like ppl taking characterizations from a specific FIC and pretending this is the holy grail, only valid thing??? Like fuck off, no! And it’s also pretty obvious, and I’m sure the author wouldn’t be insulted by this, but ATYD feels very inspired by the movie versions of the marauders we got, and I just simply don’t vibe with those sort of personifications rip.

But this expounds further, like you highlighted in your ask.

TIKTOK COMMENTARY IS SO FUCKING BLACK AND WHITE AND IT MAKES ME INSANE!!!! It feels so ingenuous and phony, and like so many of these folks are in some sort of “woke olympics” or some shit. And listen, this has nothing to do with fucking representation so don’t bring that into my inbox. I’m literally a neurodivergent, pansexual, brown girl— Trust and believe I love all different representation e get and absolutely crave it to a tee. The problem comes when folks begin vilifying others for “problematic” things they write, as if topics like such haven’t been written FOR CENTURIES! and haven’t been explored countless times in traditional media, so yes, Fanfic can both be a valid form of media while also being just a way for some people to get out some practice or whatever the fuck else. Also you don’t know what the fuck trauma people have been through, and I know if I wrote about my experiences, I absolutely will not be validating them by giving you guys my sorted history or what the fuck else, that shit is for me and my future therapist lmfao.

I think we all have no gos, and I think we all know the large ones that I personally am thinking of, so I won’t name them here, but like I’m not going to go into someones comments section or their Tumblr inbox and yell at them for it, hell, I probably won’t even subtweet about it unless it’s mad vague, I keep that shit in the DMs, like a fucking decent human being— and this does not include a server of 100s of folks, becs that’s still shitty, and I know as a Admin for my own server, I’ve had to scold folks for shit talking certain FICs in RWRB and told them to keep it in the DMs, even if I agree completely with what they’re saying. 

However, I’ll include the caveat that it’s really, really important to listen to people in those actual communities, like queer folk or people of color, who find portrayals problematic. Like they absolutely do not owe it to us to speak their minds, but when they do, we HAVE TO LISTEN. But I’m going on a tangent, I think my main point here is that…

NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!!! 

That’s the flat out truth, and if shit like toxic relationships or sexual writings, or whatever the fuck else isn’t your cup of  tea, yuh mood. Hell, we probably agree, but why are you out here making a TikTok scolding this characterization or trope or whatever??? As if a majority of us aren’t above 18 and like writing and reading about sex BECAUSE THAT’S A PART OF ADULT LIFE— unless of course you are on the Ace spectrum, then you of course are completely valid for not caring for it.

Just, listen . AO3 is miraculous for a lot of things, but their tagging system is absolutely fucking incredible. Folks are out there giving their entire triggers list in the tags, and in the rating, and if not, I will bet my bottom dollar that they talk about it in the Notes section before the FIC, so it’s on you to fucking read it and understand what your getting into. The only responsibility a writer has is to warn you in those sections, LEGIT THAT’S ALL THEY HAVE TO DO!! And like listen, when I was a wee ten year old trying to read FIC, I was stuck with fucking FF net and read shit I definitely shouldn’t have been reading becs I wasn’t lucky enough to have AO3 and all of the ways it protects and warns minors. 

Okay, I’m not sure where exactly I’m going with this, but this was a good way to let off some steam tbh lakfsdjlkgjaeoighklsdg so thank you Nonny!!!

And if you write this angry sex LLAL FIC PLEASE FUCKING HIT ME  UP!!! That’s the shit my angst ridden mind loves to see!!! This is why first war era is my absolute favorite thing! Because we can still get these moments of fluff and light heartedness, amidst all the mistrust and pain and the way that a heart wrenching sort of love spills across all of it, ugh it’s so good!!! Awful for my emotions, but SO FUCKING GOOD!!! bahahaha 

[wizardsnwookies]

POTA080818 - Debates

“Well now, looks like you managed to get one of them at least.” Constable Murray motioned towards his deputy who eagerly took custody of the shackled man thrust towards him. “I’m assuming the rest didn’t come so quietly?”

“They put up a bit of a fight, but we managed.” Drenaris watched as the man was led inside the single holding cell inside the office. “Not much of a jail you have here.”

“Well, we’re not really the jailing type here.” Murray walked behind his desk and pulled out a small strongbox that rattled with the heavy weight of coin. “The people of Redlarch prefer a swifter more efficient justice. Usually that means either working the quarries or being fitted for a hempen necktie.”

Drenaris frowned at the small offering dropped into her hands. For four bandits it was almost laughable, had it not been for their collection of loot it almost would not have been worth the effort.

“That’s for three of them being dead mind you.” The constable noticed the slight frown, snapping the strongbox closed, just in case this stranger decided to get handsy. “I was pretty clear about getting them back alive if at all possible.”

Drenaris shot an icy stare towards Poh. If he noticed her it he didn’t seem to care what she thought of his actions, he was far too busy polishing his twin blades. “He mentioned a large group of them taking over Riverguard Keep. Know anything about that?”

“That’s news to me, ‘course there’s been a lot of stories flying around lately. Ghosts, plagues, masked strangers...then there’s all the excitement around the next caravan coming in. Everyone’s getting themselves ready, a lot of coin to be made.”

“It might be a good idea to have them taken care of then, I’d say.” Aviate’s didn’t bother insulting the constable with feigned coyness. He had seen quite a few lawmen in his day, and had developed a talent for sniffing out those few he would be wise not to trifle with. Constable Murray was one of those men.

“You go on right ahead, no one’s stopping you. I’m not giving you a copper in advance, and no more writs.” Murray nodded to the wagon, laden with ill gotten goods. “Looks like you made out well enough for yourselves. Bring me back some more to put to justice and you’ll be paid in kind.”

---

Aviate sat alone for a change. Poh had managed to slip out of the Tavern sometime between drinks, something that was becoming a bit of a regular occurrence. It would appear the creature was not one for company much. Meanwhile, Drenaris was up at the bar, questioning the innswoman about the rumors and whispers flying around town. After all, she was in the perfect position to overhear many a secret whispered a bit too loudly over a tankard...or several.

This left the pirate withe the perfect opportunity to inspect his custom order from the bakery. He almost felt sorry for having fooled the amazon. She was amusing in her own way, and certainly better company than the bird. However for now, he would let her go on believing that the two loaves of bread he acquired where nothing more than that.

Carefully he plunged a finger through the crust on one side, feeling for the waxed piece of paper carefully rolled and inserted before baking. Once the second had been retrieved he tossed the discarded bread into a soiled bowl on the table next to him that had yet to be bused and began reading.

Old maiden Mythera Madiver’s talking of seeing ghosts is a bunch of horseshit. An elaborate spook setup by goblins, nevertheless it must be dealt with.

Aviate snorted. He could have guessed that. He had seen a lot of things in his days, but an honest to goodness ghost was not one of them. He ignited the scroll on the candle in the center of the table while reading the second note.

Something’s going on in town. Can’t put my finger on what or who. All I know for sure is that someone or several someones are pulling strings from behind the scenes of recent events. Be watchful.

Interesting. Not quite the information he was hoping for but, it still warranted investigation. Unfortunately this was still his best, and only, source at the moment. He didn’t exactly have the luxury to pick and choose the leads he followed up on. But even as leads go, it was more vague than he would like. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, Drenaris was breaking with the innswoman and heading back to the table. Calmly, he burned the second note and wore a smile he wasn’t exactly feeling.

“Well?”

“Nothing we haven’t already heard from the constable, unless of course you want to go rescue a few whelps who got themselves lost hunting for a mythical treasure trove.” Drenaris slumped into a chair and took a large gulp of ale. She noted the absence of the bird and shrugged indifference.

“That might be profitable, if said treasure exists.”

“Mmm. I’m still of a mind to check out Riverguard. She we bother consulting with the bird?”

“I think we can guess his answer to be honest.”

“Blood first.” Drenaris nodded. “Either way, I think we should use some of what we earned today to buy a horse. We already got the wagon.”

“Agreed. A sound investment.”

“So is ale. Another round then?”

---

Three days had seen them on their way to Riverguard. Three days of relative quiet, broken only by the intrusion of an Ankheg into their camp one evening. Though eventually fleeing, it was enough to put all three off their nerves enough to pickup and resettle in the middle of the night, making the following morning quite difficult indeed. Though Aviate tried to hid his weariness with song, he felt as though he might sleep upright in the wagon with its gentle swaying.

“ -passion, and intensity. It is the very symbol of power and spirit that you only claim, yet have no right to.”

A muffled voice risen in anger sounded from around the bend in the road, waking Aviate from a light doze. Looking around he saw the sun was still high in the sky, barely hourse since they had left camp, they were nowhere near their destination.

“There is no physicality to the power you claim. Anyone who has swam in the bluest of waters can tell you the strength they feel pressing around them. The feeling of insignificance, of powerlessness in comparison to depths in which they are merely interlopers. And do we need to remind you that it takes but a bucket to extinguish your flame, yet no matter how hard it might try, water will never burn?”

The second voice was bolster with the cheers of others. There had to be at least half a dozen, perhaps more including the two arguing. By this point. Drenaris had stopped the horse to listen.

“What is that?”

“A debate, by the sounds of it.”

“Here?” Drenaris dropped the reins and leaped to the dirt road. Mindful of the loot stashed in the back, she was not about to bring the wagon any closer until this was investigated.

“You dare?! To extinguish the giver of life is liken to heresey. I should not be surprised your lot would be so ignorant and savage.”

Mounting the hill on the corner two groups lined the road ahead of them, two men standing dead center nearly close enough for an embrace, with nought but hatred in their eyes. Each was strangely garbed in thematic dressings. The elder of the two men whose voice roared like a campfire was dressed in heavy red robes embellished with embroidered flames of yellow and white. Behind him, his entourage was far more armored in glittering copper pieces over red tunics and trousers. The longswords in their hands continued with the dramatic themeing as magical flame danced over the steel which was somehow still a cool blue.

“Us, savages?! You people worship as liken to a noble’s wife, whatever glitters in your eyes, no matter how shallow and empty it may be.” The taller man opposite had a strange blue tint to his skin and was far less armored than their opponents. Instead he and his people chose simple netting with chest pieces and shields made of some kind of shell. Each one of them held a gleaming sword with a serrated blade constructed of sharkteeth. Water, being their obvious inspiration.

“Hey, can you guys argue somewhere else? You’re blocking the road.” It wasn’t meant to be a question as Drenaris’ stance not so subtly hinted. She was sure to thrust her chest forward, flexing the exposed muscles in her abdomen, arms akimbo to show off their thickness. No doubt, any reasonable man or woman would have let them pass. However, these men were not reasonable.

“Who are you to make demands of us? This path belongs to us, and now, so do you.” The sneer the blue man flashed revealed teeth that had been filed down to sharp points. Between the teeth, his tinted skin, and the dark, almost black irises of his eyes gave him the appearance of a shark walking upon two legs. He made to give an order before his arm was seized by the robed one.

“You? Have you forgotten why we are here in the first place? It is you who have staked a claim on our land. These three shall go with us and be taught the glory of the eternal flame, more allies against your mongrel band.”

Thus the argument began anew, insults and half formed philosophies being tossed back and forth with vigor and venom leaving the three otherwise ignored.

“FOOLS.” Poh mimicked.

“Perhaps that can be used to our advantage.” A wicked smile formed on Drenaris lips and she skidded her way down the slope with arms raised. “Gods, what nonsense is this? Clearly Flame is better, we’re going with them!”

“What??!” The shark man growled and all six heads of his followers shot in Drenaris’ direction. Their antithesis on the other hand, cheered in support.

“See?! Even one so common as this one can see the truth of the matter!” The flame priest took a step towards his opponent, emboldened by the sudden appearance of an ally to his cause. The tension between them had grown to an intensity that weighed heavily upon the travelers between them. Just one more push and the two sides would be at each other’s throats.

“Personally, I’ve always thought water was better.” Aviate shrugged, following the amazon’s lead. The result however, was not what was anticipated. The tension, while indeed had reached a breaking point, would explode unfocused dragging them all into one chaotic brawl.

“BLASPHEMY!!! KILL THEM ALL!!” The clash that followed was a whirlwind of fire and death. Steel struck out in every direction cutting both fire and water devotee with equal measure. In the end, the all bled the same color. 

Poh was taken with a flaming bolt from a crossbow, as he fell to the ground he uttered a vicious curse to the one who had invented such a contraption that had taken him off guard twice yet. Aviate craned his head over the crowd, he had lost sight of Drenaris in the outbreak. Yet he could hear her. Grunting and bellowing as she swung her hammer, sending red men flying to the ground. Pulling out his pipes he played an upbeat tune to lift her spirits and inspire the battle fury within her.

Men and women fell to the ground with each passing moment, bolts of fire streaking through the air, serrated blades opening wide gashes and spilling intestine into the dirt. Back on his feet, Poh was carefully picking off stragglers from the edges of the scuffle. Aviate watched him with begrudging respect of his talents. He was agile on his feet, his blades knowing exactly where to bite to cause the most pain, both swords wielded with equal skill. Looking back over the battle, the pirate could see that fate had come to favor flame on this day, more and more netted and shelled corpses littered the land than red robes and burnt steel. Both leaders lie dead, one slaying the other and collapsing together in a heap. Aviate smiled, the whole thing reminded him of a good day’s boarding of a selected vessel. All that was missing was the sea air in his lungs.

A cry snapped him back to attention as Drenaris took a flaming sword to the back and fell to her knees. She had fought fiercely, and he could tell by the looks of the men who had been previously engaged with her, she had inspired a sort of terrible awe in them. Who was this woman who fought like one possessed? If they lived past today, there would be a myth whispered about her, this Aviate had no doubt.

With their companion slumped unconcious, Poh reassessed the situation. Aviate could see the gears turning in that little bird brain of his. His grip on his swords shifted, weighing his options, not quite ready to make a decision one way or another. Eventually, he must not have considered it worth trying to fight any further. He dropped his stance, relaxing his arms to his sides.

“HAIL FIRE!” He mimicked.

“Indeed, how foolish we were to ever doubt it. Please, if you but spare us we would sooner call you brothers than enemies.” Always quick with the charm and a flourish, Aviate dropped to a deep bow. 

“Hmmph, and don’t your forget it.” A tanned looking woman sheathed her steel and callously stepped over Drenaris fallen body. “Very well, we have lost many today, worth it though it was.” She spit on the blue skinned man where he lay, crumpled on top of her commanding officer.

“Your companion, she will do well to follow your example when she wakes. Lest we have another body to burn on the funeral pire.” The woman eyed Aviate, he was stunned to see she stood a full inch taller than he. As such, her cold eyes cast downward at him. “Is that understood?”

“I shall slay her myself if need be.” His eyes snuck a glance towards Drenaris unconcious form. Self preservation was of utmost importance at the moment. Let them busy themselves burning their dead. In the meantime, the three of them would wait. Night was coming on, and terrible things tended to happen in the dark.

Buy Me a Coffee

[delicrieux]

amortentia [young!tom riddle x reader]

premise: two students start developing feelings for one another despite having too many secrets to count. tws for this chapter: implied childhood trauma word count: 2.8k

amortentia masterpost | masterlist | music

1. the boy from the train

A light breeze caressed the back of your neck as your fingers dug into the hard red cushion of the train seat. Ever so slightly, you leaned forward to stare at the blurring scenery behind the window.

Echoes of chatter and muggle songs reached your ears from outside the compartment, muted and muddled by the shut door. In the swaying autumn flowers, the last notes of summer already fading, you saw the delicate arch of your mother's hand as she waved you goodbye.

There was something haunting about that memory, new as it was. Just as August gave away to September, so had you traded childish slacks for a prestigious uniform. So young, yet slowly coming with the grips of tweenhood. Realizations boiled there, somewhere in your mind, along with your mother's strange smile -- neither kind nor forceful, it was a perfectly imperfect, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the still and waxen medieval portraits created by muggles.

It was an honest goodbye made by a dishonest person. So young, barely eleven, and yet you knew as much. Without her shadow looming above you, the possibilities were endless. The prospect both frightened and excited you.

Finally, London houses blew by and nothing but plains of dewy green vistas greeted the window. You pulled away and shifted, hitting the back of the seat and feeling the whole train pleasantly rumble down your spine. Lonely but not alone, you sat with three other soon-to-be Hogwarts students - housemates even, perhaps? - that were just as round-faced and doe eyed and joyful as any kid at the prospect of learning magic.

All but one.

The boy beside you, reserved and appearing somewhat cold, was excluded from the buzz of shared happiness, from the forming sense of camaraderie that would fall apart as soon as the Sorting Hat dispersed the fresh crop among the four Houses. Was it a conscious, self-excommunication you could not yet phantom, nor the strange swirl of feelings the boy inspired within you. Somewhat restless, somewhat uncertain of your balance on the seat, you pressed yourself close to that cold window, as if to shy away from the boy and the sense of something that lingered in the air around him. As if inhaling it would be poisonous.

If you could return to that moment, you would recognize those feelings as trepidation. But in 1938, it was just confusion with a clumsily racing heart.

You tried acting graceful with your subtle retreat, not too obvious lest he notices and thinks ill of you somehow. Mother always said that manners were most important and distancing yourself completely would surely displease her. Even if her watchful eye evaded you then, she would know. She always knew. It is a mother's horrible burden to know the failures of her child.

The first quiet snicker between the two boys in front of you grew louder - their hushed whispers no longer hushed nor whispers - and their heads, previously drawn close together conspiratorially, then faced you and the boy by your side without hiding wicked grins that implied nothing but trouble.

Your heart stood still for a moment, rendered useless by overwhelming fear. A thought sprung to you that they knew, that they had noticed somehow, and instantly you reeled onto what could have betrayed you: your eyes, your nose, the way you carry yourself? Where had the resemblance between you and your mother manifested so strongly to earn their ire?

Shall they hate you without so much as a word exchanged?

'We are not very much alike.' You wanted to inform them, soothe their anger with you, 'Father says so, too, and my father has never lied. No, we are not very much alike at all, I assure you.'

But their eyes never strayed in your direction, rather narrowed down on the pale-faced child sharing a seat with you. There was relief when you realized they meant you no harm, that your secret laid hidden behind a linen shirt and a cashmere sweater. And then there was a sickly uncomfortable feeling rooted deep within you, one that made your mouth dry and cower in your little corner. Later, this feeling would be given a name and easily recognized: shame.

"We were just talking," One of the shorter boys spoke up, accent thick and freckled cheeks red with mischief. Scottish, you thought, warily glancing between the two, "about who might be the strongest wizard here."

"'S me, of course." The other piped up, beady eyes gleaming with pride, "Mum said I started reading runes at three. Said I got that talent from my father. He works at the Ministry."

"Sounds like a big fat lie to me, else my father would know yours." The first replied with a playful nudge, "I cast my first spell when I was two. Nearly set the house on fire."

"Nearly? Nothing to brag about if only nearly." The second chimed. With the agility and poise of a poor actor, he suddenly asked, "Oi, you." Not in reference to you, no, you were blissfully excluded from this equation, "What of you, then? Which do you think is stronger?"

There was a slight, tense pause. It was obvious from their demeanor and their harshly sculpted words that the boys did not care for your companion's opinion; that they only spoke to him to tease him; that they, somehow, figured he is less than.

"Neither."

Words could be cruel, yes, but just how cold they could be always surprised you. A single word, uttered in that rasp, unimpressed tone chilled you. It was the first time you had heard him speak, confined to his indifferent silence as he was. You glanced at him on instinct.

And when you saw him, you could not look away.

He was pale, somewhat ill, missing the golden sheen children had when playing outside in sunlight for hours. Not even a blush or a hint of rose anywhere on his sharp features--cold and unfriendly, just like his voice, just like his whole presence. It was slightly off putting, but not enough to deter your inspection. You trailed the outline of his clothing, catching a few loose seams and fried fabric around the shoulders – they were not new, presentable, but hardly fashionable. You understood why he would come under scrutiny by the two.

Perhaps he felt your probing stare because his eyes flickered in your direction, evergreen and glimmering, the only remotely lively thing about him. Instantly you were transported to the dark forests surrounding fortresses you had seen in fairy tales of moving pictures -- how dark they were in the shade until first sunlight warmed them, making them appear almost inviting. They grew in mazes, spirals, uncanny shapes to lure the unsuspecting into deadly adventure.

You were the lost traveler and he the omnipotent nature basking in its private secrets. How terribly your heart tumbled when those eyes connected with yours. You could only look away so quick.

"What did you say?" One of the boys leaned closer, pretending to have misheard, "Couldn't quite catch that."

"No, I think we heard him right," the other said, "see, I think he thinks he's so clever. Probably thinks he's stronger, too."

A fake gasp, "He wouldn't! Scrawny thing like that, can barely cast a spell I recon."

"Can't cast spells if you're almost mute, too, now, can you? Oi! Know any other words, or just one?"

A shared laugh between the two and taut silence from your end. If this affected your companion at all was impossible to tell. He revealed nothing, sat silent with a bored expression, and it was that expression that seemed to egg the boys on to continue their jeering.

Perhaps he really did not care. But you did. You were uncomfortable with listening to insults and even more uncomfortable being invisible. The sight of this verbal violence wounded you. Could they not shed their daggers and wait for the Sorting to end at the very least? Must they begin their tyranny now?

"Leave him be." You finally snapped, surprising even yourself: where had such strength come from? "I am the strongest here, obviously, for I had to listen to this nonsense and not say a word. Now what I think is that you should go ask someone else's opinion, from a different compartment, of course. I am sure there you will meet an insufferable match." A pause, "Well? Go!"

Perhaps it was your harsh tone that prompted them into action, perhaps it was the stomach-churning embarrassment they felt that showed so evidently on their faces, but with one last deadly glare directed at the boy - as if he was the problem, not them - the two slid the compartment's door open and left in a cloud of incomprehensible angry huffs and whispers. The door clicked shut. Silence engulfed the two of you again.

"...That was not necessary."

His voice was unmasked, yet when you looked at him you saw no change in his elusive expression. Despite the hint of relief, a little promise of 'thank you' hidden somewhere in his dismissal, something was still not quite right.

But you were content with a slow yet rocky start, and gave him a shy smile, not meeting his eyes in fear of another delirious tumble of your heart.

"It was," You insisted, though not unkindly, "...they fancy causing a ruckus, I can tell... I am (Name) (Lastname), by the way." You introduced, daring a glance into that evergreen forest that stories are made of, "...Pleasure." You extended your hand for him to shake, hoping he would ignore the slight quiver of your fingers. For a moment all he did was examine it, as if contemplating should he touch it or not. Lastly, he hooked his fingers around yours.

"Tom. Tom Riddle."

1943

The windows are tinted dark with black clouds. The small room is drowning in hot, white fumes that smell like lavender and incense and coffee grounds; an occasional rosy flash of colour makes the classroom swim, as if it is going vertigo. Light drumming of cold rain reaches your ears, but what melody it sings you cannot tell – no one can bear to keep their mouth shut in Divination.

A hard nudge on your shoulder and your head slips from your hand, "Did you see?"

Sleepy from the heat and with a mild headache from overlapping scents, you throw a lazy glance at your friend sitting on the other side of the small round table. Briefly you wonder how can Katherine be so chipper on such drowsy weather. Judging by the twinkle in her eyes, the question was repeated, and possibly not once.

Wordless, you sweep the classroom to find what she is referring to. Seeing you at a loss, Katherine leans in, crossing her arms over her chest, her clever features illuminated by the bleak pink glow of the crystal ball, "Over there, by the fire..." She trails off quietly, urging you to observe your housemates closer lest you miss out on something inconsequential yet scandalous.

The Slytherin House is seated among piled books, haphazardly thrown about colorful shawls, Indian rugs, and potted greenery. Closest to the fireplace and entirely drenched in sweat, some of your housemates sit on plush pillows by coffee tables. Only those that were never late to class managed to find a spare table with proper seats.

By the windows, on the other side of the classroom, Hufflepuff made its home. Hardly an interesting topic, even less worthy of your sleepy attention.

You scan your surroundings, not particularly caring if anyone was to notice your stare through the tangle of smoke. Nothing out the ordinary, "Who?"

Katherine gives a whine, half annoyed half excited to deliver the news, "Who else if not Tom?"

"...Tom?" You question, turning to her. "Tom Riddle?"

Katherine nods, her dark brown curls bouncing around her sun kissed face. She leans closer and whispers, "He was looking at you again. In that wistful way he does...Oh, you are so lucky, (Name). I'd curse you if I was any more jealous." She add in a playful jest, "Me and, well, the rest of the school, I suppose. You're most lucky we are such good friends." She finishes with a wink.

She was always a character: playful, snobbish, a bit mean but in a harmless way. Coming from a rich family from Austria, Katherine is familiar with expensive views and handsome boys attending her family's annual balls. A feast of grotesque grandeur and posh personalities, or so you were informed.

Someone as Tom Riddle fits beautifully into Katherine's polished life, like a lost puzzle piece returned to create a magnificent paysage. She is a pretty girl, if not a tad dense. Her delusions often spark terrible rumors that shake the whole castle for months. She revels in all of it, that notoriety. As fitting for a Slytherin.

This is why Katherine's insistence on Tom's secretly harbored affection for you feels more like a joke rather than an actual possibility; a glass bubble that was always meant to shatter. How happily she snickers at the absurdity at the thought, and how she craves for you to buy into it, if only for a moment.

But you never do. And today, you are too tired to even humor her, "He was not." comes your dry reply, yet your eyes stray in his direction anyway. It is not difficult to locate him in the crowd of students. You always possess a vague idea of where he is, as absurd as that sounds. It is like a six sense you had acquired that chilly morning years ago, on the train, sparked by a handshake and eyes that kept wandering back to one another.

Over the years you spoke with him little, confined to your world as he was crafting a whole new one around himself. By the time any meaningful friendships could form, he was already out of reach.

You can feel Katherine roll her eyes, and with a curt sigh the shorter girl leans out and crosses her legs behind the table, softly hitting you in the process.

"Oh come now, don't be so glum. I would never lie to you, now, would I?" The lopsided smile she gives you informs otherwise, "Well, perhaps..." She says with a heavy sigh, as if divulging some terrible secret, "Perhaps he was looking at me, and I was mistaken. If so, my (Name)," Her hand snatches yours and squeezes gently, "I am terribly sorry."

Her gaze on you is short lived as she tilts her head to the side, keen on admiring him, "He is most dreamy though, isn't he?"

"Dreamy? Yes, but..." You murmur, "Can you not feel it?"

"Feel what? The discontent glares of my rivals?"

You crack a smile, "No, not that...It is just...something about him...something different." You glance at him, sat with his dearest friend, laughing quietly about one thing or another, "Would you not agree?" Katherine's expression turns thoughtful and after a brief pause she nods.

"Oh yes, completely different..." She says, "He's so perfect it's hardly fair." Then, she, releasing her hold on you and leaning back in her seat, smiles in a ditzy, love-sick way; the same way you used to grin as a kid dreaming of Prince Charming, "Tom...Tom Riddle...Katherine Carlotte Riddle? How does it sound, (Name)?"

"Sounds like a symptom of hysteria. Inform your mother, or shall I send her an owl instead?" Your playful words are met with a scoff and a good natured chuckle.

But curiosity quipped, you cannot help but sneak a glance at him, only to find him staring right back. There is a barely notable smile on his lips, head dipped downwards listening intently to a tale weaved by his seatmate. Perhaps Katherine had been right about him looking – your eyes connect, the only thing truly clear through the curtain of fumes being his magnificent green irises that halt all thoughts you had had prior. You offer him a shy smile before pulling away.

"Just you wait, though." Katherine mumbles, missing this small exchange as she flips through her coursebook,  "I'll have him confessing his love to me in no time."

"Are you certain it will not be the other way around?" You ask with a raised brow. You can tell it takes everything she has in her to not smack your arm or throw her teacup in your direction.

"You are terrible, (Lastname). "

"Yet you love me still."

"Merlin, that I do. The most, in fact, well-...After our dearest Tom, of course."

"Certainly," You answer, gazing down into the depths of your teacup where your impending future lays written in tea leaves. Somehow, even if their meaning is lost on you, you know it is intertwined with him, "would not want it any other way."

onto the next part?