#that one student was just a-ok being in her dressing gown in her flat with him there? F A K E

[chocolate1721]

Gala

Ok, soooooooo since my first fic was well received, I decided to write another one. Hope you like it.

It was the end of the Gotham trip. The class was getting ready for the Gala that they were invited to. Marinette was standing by the hotel door in a black satin Chinese evening gown with red embroidery, black strappy heels and a black over the shoulder purse. She was wearing minimal make up and her hair was in a bun with a few loose tendrils of hair framing her face. She stood away from the others, not wanting to be anywhere near people who she thought were her friends. She wants no part of anything Lila said. “Oh yes, my Damiboo convinced his father to hold this gala for us because he won’t be here to meet you all. He is off in Achu right now. Both he and Prince Ali are in love with me so Damiboo went to challenge him for the honor to date me, or so he said.” Lila was boasting to her loyal flock. Lil was decked out in want can only be considered a prom dress. An orange bodice covered in gaudy rhinestones and glitter, with an orange skirt with scattered rhinestones on it. Her hair in her signature sausage style. It was obnoxious, and insulting as a designer. To think that, that fox is trying to gain attention by wearing a dress that is obviously not meant for this event.

“That’s amazing gurl! If anyone deserves to have to wealthy and famous guys fighting over you then it’s so you” Alya exclaimed. She was sporting an atrocious yellow-orange, floor length, sleeveless dress, with a white rhinestone sash around her waist. The fashion choices of her classmates nauseate her.

“Oh Alya, I just don’t want them fighting over me. I simply hate violence.”

“You are the sweetest person ever, gurl. Maybe I can get an interview about how the fight turns out and who can date you.”

‘Uhg they make me sick’ Marinette thought.

The chattering was interrupted by a slick, black sports car pulling up to the curb. A tall dark-haired youth stepped out of the car, walking towards Marinette with a pep in his step “hey there Angel. Ready to go?” Damian inquired.

“Wait! Marinette can’t leave the group!” Lila jumped in before Marinette could answer.

“Yeah, besides why would you want to hang out with her. She bullies Lila!” Alya interjected. Ms. Bustier hearing the commotion came over.

“Marinette, you should set a better exa-“

“I’m going to stop you there ma’am” Damian interrupted. “We got permission from both her parents, my father, and the principle who said that you would be told. Also how is she supposed to ‘set an example’ in this situation?” Leaving a flabbergasted class, Damian escorted his lovely angel to the car and took off.

They sat in comfortable silence for the entire ride there.

Once they arrive Marinette was in awe of the building. She whipped out a mini sketch book and let her ideas flow. Damian flagged down Jason to stay with her while he was greeting the guests with Dick, Tim, and his father. Hours later found him back with his angel and dancing the night away, while also keeping those classmates of hers far far away from her. It was close to midnight when his father took to the stage. He hid a smile not wanting to let Marinette know that he knew what was going on.

“I would like to get everyone’s attention. Tonight, we of the Wayne foundation, have a special surprise. We are giving an award to a person who we believe has done the most to help their community.” As Bruce was saying this Damian noticed that lying fox from his angel’s class walk up onto the stage; waving to the press.

‘Oh this will be good’ he thought.

“I just want to thank the Wayne Foundation for recognizing all of my accomplishments. My friends who have supported me through all of the tough times this past few years, and-“

“Miss please get off the stage. This award is **NOT** for you. We did our reach by personally going to Paris and finding out who they believed deserved this award. They unanimously declared Marinette Dupain-Cheng as deserving of this award.” The crowd clapped and cheered as Marinette walked up on stage to receive the medal. Lila would not have it

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh Marinette how could you! You pushed me! Why are you so mean to me! I have done nothing but try to be your friend and you just bully me!” Lila wailed

“MARINETTE! WHY ARE YOU SUCH A BITCH! LILA HAS BEEN NOTHING BUT KIND AND THOUGHTFUL AND YOU ARE JUST TOO JEALOUS OF LILA BEING BETTER THAN YOU TO SEE THAT NO ONE LIKES YOU!” Alya shouted.

“Ms. Cesaire why do you Marinette is undeserving of this medal, and why should Ms. Rossi receive it?”

“Marinette has been bullying Lila due to jealousy since they met. She is jealous because Lila knows so many famous people and has helped a ton of charities around the world!” Alya defended.

“Can you show me proof?”

“Proof?”

“Proof of Ms. Rossi’s amazing deeds.”

“Of course, I can!” Alya said with confidence. Lila paled looking around trying to find a way out of this mess, but it was too late Alya’s face screamed confusion. Alya’s confusion quickly turned to frustration before finally becoming anger. Whipping her head towards Lila she demanded answers, “were you lying to us?”

“Of course, not Alya! How could you question me like that!”

“Because there is no PROOF of anything you said!”

Ms. Bustier not wanting to cause an even bigger scene pulled Alya and the class aside while Bruce continued with the award ceremony. “Class, Lila has a rare condition that makes her exaggerate. The school didn’t want her to have trouble making friends so it was kept quiet.” The class noticed that Marinette was walking back towards them. “Marinette you should set an example for the class and give Lila the award.” She froze.

“Excuse me? I should give MY award to Lila?”

“Yes, show the class what it means to accept Lila and not make it hard for her to have friends.”

“Ms. Bustier, I am sorry to interrupt you but that is a horrible thing to make your student do.” She turned around to face Bruce Wayne, who looked both disgusted and disappointed. “Marinette worked hard and deserves to have her work acknowledged and to have this award. Making her give another student that award is showing favoritism and flat out cruel. Another thing there is NO disease that forces people to lie. The symptoms closest point to a pathological liar. You are encouraging toxic behavior in your students.” Leaving the teacher trying to protest, he turned and walked away.

“YOU WERE LYING TO US ALL THIS TIME!!!!!!!” Alya shouted. The rest of the class ganged up on Lila yelling about promises to met famous people and lost opportunities.

“Guys, guys, yelling at Lila won’t make the situation better. You are just humiliating her and she won’t learn. Besides, it’s not like those lies hurt anyone.” Adrien defended.

Marinette shook her head and went to find Damian. “You knew about this didn’t you?” She asked once finding him near the punch bowl.

“Of course, I did angel.” Setting down his drink Damian offered her his hand. “Care to dance?”

“I would love to.” Taking his hand she danced the night away with her Robin.

[certifiedskywalker]

Academic Misgivings (Part Eleven) - Peter Parker

You and Peter Parker aren’t friends, but you’re not entirely enemies either. You don’t like him but he always tries to be nice to you. He has everything you’ve ever wanted and you’ll do anything to show him that you can make it on your own. But can you? 

Now Peter knows the truth, he knows about how deep your dislike of him ran before you got to know him. Can he forgive you? Would he if you were given the chance? Could to make it on your own again?

 / PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR/PART FIVE / PART SIX / PART SEVEN / PART EIGHT / PART NINE / PART TEN / 

When you wake up, you’re not expecting the light of Tuesday morning to blind you. You must have slept through the night, but your body ached in a way that told you that it had been a restless sleep. The sound of birds chirping outside of your window gave the new day a crippling touch of reality. With a groan, you sat up from under the covers.

Light rays of the sun streamed through your curtains and glinted off of your phone. As you reached for the screen, the refracted glittering of light around your room disappeared. The movement stirred the screen of your phone to life and you caught sight of the time. Nine o'clock.

Before panic set in with the gripping fear of being late to school, you were struck with a memory. The dance. It had been moved to Tuesday because of the fact it was Teachers Institute day. You had nowhere to go or anywhere to be. 

You were reminded about that cruel fact when your phone went off. Your heart raced at the thought of a text. Who was messaging you? You couldn’t bring yourself to look. The phone buzzed again in your hand; the vibrations traveled up your arm like a shock. It was enough to coax you into taking a peek.

Your spirits fell when you saw the notification of a new Instagram post. It wasn’t from Peter. Granted, you weren’t sure if he ever used social media for anything. No, instead it was a notification from Betty’s Instagram. A photo of the blonde girl with a boy, a freshman, if your memory served you well. They were both smiling, clutching a poster that read: Please don’t snow-flake out on me, come to the Winter Formal?

With a groan, you shut your phone off and held it against your chest as if to dull the ache there. Had Flash...no...had you not made your stupid mistakes, you would still be going with Peter to the Winter Formal. Now, there was nothing. Although, the pull to apologize, to find Peter, was still lingering.

It coiled around you, tied you to your guilt. But it didn’t render you immobile. Slowly, you peeled yourself out of your bed and dressed. Your limbs moved through sludge as you pulled your sweatshirt over your head. A heavy breath shook your frame and a lingering scent of Peter’s cologne wafted into your nose. No matter what you did, you couldn’t escape him. 

And if you couldn’t escape him, you might as well find him.

The walk from your apartment to the coffee shop was a long one. Each step felt like slogging through tar. You were fighting every impulse to bury your nose in a book, drown yourself in studying rather than worry. Yet, you could not stop your feet as you trekked through the crowded sidewalks of Tuesday morning. 

It wasn’t as bustling as it was yesterday morning. The rush of people desperate to make to their place of work on time was over, leaving a few scattered do walkers and idle persons ready to start their day. Brisk morning air kept their cheeks a rosy pink and you imagined your nose had turned red in the cold. It was amazing that it hadn’t snowed yet. 

However, a bit of frost had gathered in the large windows of the coffee shop. Little branches of ice reached up, clambering to get ahead of the sun that was beginning to beat down on the glass. Before long, it would melt and would fall. The feeling of falling you knew well. Now, you were on the floor, dropped there in the heat of the moment and melting in your own mistakes.

The coffee shop wasn’t busy or alive as it once was. Perhaps it was because you were without Peter; whenever you were there alone it felt cold. Or it could have been the fact the blue-haired barista wasn’t at the counter. An older gentleman with greying long hair and lanky arms worked behind the counter, sorting cups and tea bags. 

You peeked around the booth that blocked the view of the shop’s interior and frowned at the near-empty tables. It was hard to believe that, with a day off school, the cafe wasn’t filled with students from Midtown. A few sneakers poked out from under tables, tapped against the wood floor in a fumbling beat. There was no familiar head of chestnut hair or light laugh filling the air. With a heavy heart, you turned back to the door.

“Y/N?”

You spun on your heels and locked eyes with the owner of the voice. The peak of curiosity in the pitch was odd, especially when you saw it came from MJ. 

“Oh...hey.”

“You drink coffee?”

“Uh,” you directed your eyes to your shoes and scuffed them gently against the floor. “No, I was just...looking.”

“At coffee or for Peter?” You lifted your shocked gaze to MJ’s relaxed expression. One of her brows was quirked up with interest, that cool intrigue that never left her features. When you stayed silent, MJ sighed. “Ok, I don’t like getting into things like this but I mean, you guys are both my….” she screwed up her nose with strain, “...friends so I want to know.”

“MJ...it’s a lot…” She raised a hand and you trailed off. There was something comforting about her stance, her unwavering indifference with specks of care peppered in. MJ was there and always herself. Something you wished you had been.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she explained, “I just want to make sure you’re alright.” You let out a bitter huff of a laugh and shook your head.

“That depends on whether you’ve seen Peter.” MJ frowned at your words and nodded.

“He disappeared right after you. I didn’t seem him after that yesterday.” You bit the inside of your cheek and nodded sullenly. 

“Yeah,” you shook the grip of sadness and nodded once more. “I have to go.” You heard MJ’s plead to stay but you pushed open the door. The cold air greeted you once more, kissed your cheeks and wrapped you in a chilly embrace. 

You started walking down the sidewalk but not back to your house. Part of you pulled to go anywhere but back. You only had to move forward. Only hurt lingered behind you. That, and the slamming of a door.

“Y/N, wait up,” the slapping of MJ’s sneakers against the pavement echoed her words. In a matter of seconds, she was catching up with your pace. Her bundle of hair tumbled over her shoulder as she fell into step beside you. 

“MJ, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” she conceded but continued to walk with you. 

“MJ….”

“Are you still going to go to the dance?” Her question pulled you to a halt. MJ stopped too, her arms swinging to a stop. The look she wore was flat, although her deep brown eyes were bright with interest. 

“I...no...I was going to go with Peter...so...no.” MJ pursed her lips and sighed.

“I know I said it’s a mating ritual but you don’t need to go with someone. You can come with...you should go by yourself.” She kicked a few pebbles with the toe of her Converse as she spoke. For the first time, it seems like MJ is shy.

You wait for a beat, your mind racing at the proposal. The idea of going to a dance was only appealing when you were with Peter. You looked at MJ’s face when she looked up at you. There was a half-hearted smile on her lips and you sighed at the sight. She was only trying to help.

“And support a high school cliche?” You asked in a breath, “that seems to go against your cause.”

“Pft, what cause?” MJ played along, but the smile on her face warmed you against the cold. 

“I don’t have anything to wear though...Pete-” you sighed, “I made plans but they didn’t fall through.” MJ nodded and glanced around the street. Along the road, a few clothing shops displayed an array of dresses, suits, and skirts in their windows. You tried to follow MJ’s eyeline but saw only a secondhand shop.

“Don’t worry,” MJ said suddenly. She turned you to give you a grin. “I’ve got us covered.”

“I don’t know about this,” you said wearily as you studied your reflection. The material of the dress was puffed out beyond your reach. It was clear that, when MJ suggested the gown, she meant you to wear it as a joke. 

The fabric sounded like plastic whenever you brushed your fingertips against it. Rough leaves were more akin to the material of the skirt but the bodice shimmered like scales of a fish. It felt as if a seamstress blinding picked and pulled different samplings of fabric blindly and hoped the colors wouldn’t clash; giving no thought to the texture. Despite how perfectly it fit your frame, hugged you like a dream, the dress was an affront to nature. 

“You don’t like it?” MJ’s teasing was enough to coax your gaze from your reflection. Her brown eyes were mischievous and bright as she grinned at you. 

“Funny,” you shot back and stepped away from the mirror. “You want to wear it?”

“Nah, I’m good,” MJ waved a dismissive hand and stood from her chair. “I’ve got a dress already.”

“So you were going to go this whole time?” MJ scanned her eyes along the dress as you spoke. Her eyebrow quirked up with slight cringe of disgust.

“I may hate high school cliches but that doesn’t mean I won’t participate in them. I have to get out of the house sometime…”

MJ, having trailed off in her speech, found interest in a rack of discarded gowns that looked much too Spring colored for a Winter formal. You were still caught on her words to notice the next dress she wanted you to try on. Perhaps you and MJ weren’t so different. She was bright, as were you, and lonely. You bit the inside of your cheek as you thought of Peter and what he had said: you are more than what’s under the mask.

Now that you had caught a peek past MJ’s mask, you were pleased to find you were no longer alone. “I want to go to the dance with you.”

MJ’s head poked up from the rack of clothes, her curls bouncing like loose springs. “Aren’t you already ...?”

“No, I mean,” you sighed and let your arms fall to your sides in defeat. “I just wanted you to know. That I want to go with you.” You met MJ’s eyes and smiled softly. “That you’re my friend.”

You saw it then. The same loneliness that had held you for so long, turned you bitter with every passing second a person; the loneliness that kept you from seeing past yourself melted away from MJ’s face. Shared and now lost, you both smiled at each other. At least, before MJ coughed and shook her shoulders.

“Cool.” Your smile widened.

“Cool.” MJ looked back to the racks of dresses, some that reeked of mothballs and others that, somehow, looked more appalling than the one you were wearing. 

“So...you wanna talk about it?” You peered at MJ with a quirked brow. The girl didn’t meet your gaze. Her fingers danced through the fabric and left you hanging in confusion.

“About what?” 

“Peter?”

“Don’t overthink it.” 

“What?” For a split second, you expected to see Peter at your side. But when you glanced to your right, you saw only MJ. Her curls were bundled up and out of her face that was illuminated by the blue light emanating from the lights hanging in the gymnasium. 

“Don’t overthink it, just….” she gestured to the huddled bodies of your peers as they swayed to the music. “Just enjoy it...if that’s possible.”

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” you replied. You could see Betty’s done-up blonde hair as she spun around with her freshman date. She was smiling like every other couple on the dance floor.

“I don’t think it was ever a good idea,” MJ sighed as she leaned back against the wall. “But it’s better than-”

“Moping? Staying at home?” A low voice broke through the dull rhythm of the beat. In sync, you and MJ looked to your left. Ned, wearing a flimsy, blue suit-jacket walked towards you with a strained smile on his features.

“Are you projecting?” MJ fired back as Ned stood by your side. 

“Are you?” Ned turned back and raised a brow at MJ.

“Touche,” MJ nodded, “touche.” You let out a huff and turned your attention back to the dance floor.  People still pushed through the doors with laughs carrying after them. Your heart ached a little at the sight, the strings of the muscle pulled by longing.

You had thought about this night before. Entertained its possibilities in your dreams as you got closer to Peter. Now, Peter was nowhere in sight and the possibilities were limited. Even with your friend, it felt like something was crushing your chest.

“Hey, Y/N,” you shook your head and brought your attention to Ned. His dark eyes glinted in the light and you saw a softness that reminded you of Peter. 

“Yeah?”

“He’s alright.” He gave you a gentle smile and you felt the pressure lift off of your shoulders. “Peter’s okay.”

“You’ve heard from him?” 

Ned nodded. “He texted me.”

“Did he…” you swallowed hard and frowned. “Did he say anything about anything?” Ned shook his head and rested a hand on your shoulder. In the touch, you felt a new sense of dread run up your spine. 

“He’ll come around, really, Y/N.” MJ looked over and you felt your stomach tighten. You had told her how you felt about Peter and, with minimal judgment, she had listened. She nodded in agreement with Ned who smiled. “He likes you.”

“He did,” you clarified and Ned’s hand dropped from your shoulder. “People hold grudges and I-”

“Peter doesn’t do that,” Ned said, “trust me.” 

You did trust Ned, as much as you could trust someone you hardly knew. The problem was you barely trusted anyone in general. Only recently were you learning to trust yourself. How could you trust Peter to forgive you? Did you even deserve forgiveness?

“Y-yeah, okay,” you breathed and you turned your gaze back to the crowd. The shades of blue lights that shown down on the polished floor danced along with the flood of bodies. You decided then you that did deserve forgiveness, but you did not deserve Peter Parker. 

So when he walked through the doors of the gym, you felt your heart sink. His pale cheeks were bathed in the light of the Winter Formal; the tones of azure sharpened the features you had come to know and adore. Even with the distance between you, you could see the sparkle in his eyes as he looked at the bodies writhing on the dance floor. You had missed him, you knew it then, in that moment, how horribly you had missed talking to him; seeing him. 

“Wow, he came around fast,” MJ jested as she tipped her head in Peter’s direction.

“See, I told you,” Ned cheered softly, although his voice already sounded far off in your ears. You felt dizzy on your shaking knees and, for support, you reached out and grasped at the air. Your hand met with an arm and you were shocked by a sudden warmth.

“You don’t have to talk to him, Y/N,” MJ said in a slight whisper. “But you might feel better if you do.” MJ lifted her arm to steady you. Soon your feet let grounded and you heart rate slowed from its sprinters’ pace. You wanted to feel better.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you breathed. You let your hands fall your side and you fingers brushed against the skirt of your dress. It wasn’t the gaudy gown MJ had joked around with, or any of the ones you tried on with a goofy grin. This dress was one your mother had picked out for your high graduation years ago. 

When you had told MJ about the dress, about how you weren’t even sure if the store sold gowns like it anymore, she had dived deep into research. Soon the store that still had one in stock was found. Luckily the subway fare ended up costing more than the dress itself. When your mother had picked it out it had been expensive. It was funny how things changed.

Like how in one moment you were immobilized by fear and in the next you were wading through waves of people to face the fear at its source. Rejection could not hurt you, not if you didn’t let it. Your mother’s absence could no longer hurt you, not anymore; not at school; not at this Winter Formal; and not while you looked into Peter’s eyes. 

“Hi…” The pause that greeted you resounded in your ears. Not a murmur dared to break it or Peter’s gaze as he studied your features. You studied him too, although his expression was unreadable. His pink cheeks could have been from the cold or anxiety; wide eyes with blown pupils could stem from the barrage of light or the sight of you. There was no way to be sure.

“Hi,” he replied suddenly. Every sense focused on the sound of Peter’s voice and you tired not to marvel at him in his suit. 

“Pete, I-”

“I got your voicemail,” he interrupted. Your voice fell flat, trailed off in the music that swirled about you. 

“You...you listened to it?” The air around you thickened and you found it hard to simply breathe. It was a stupid question, you knew that, but it was all you had.

“Y-yeah, I-I did.” Peters’ eyes darted behind you and then back. You hoped that not everyone was looking at you two but you could feel the fury of burning stares

“Peter, I am so sorry.” The corners of his lips lifted slightly in a small smile. You had missed that smile. 

“I know, Y/N. But, is it true?” You furrowed your brows and Peter gave you a shy smile. “That you can be a better person, is that true?”

“Yes,” you breathed, “more than true. I hope that...maybe you could help me with that. If you want to…” Peter smiled a little wider and you felt your own expression shift. 

“Of course,” Peter gushed. “I-I just uh...that’s all I can do...with you…”

“Oh, yeah, no, I understand.” Your cheeks burned at the thought of a deeper relationship with Peter. You had been so close, literally holding his hand and now there was only friendship. That was something you could get used to; you could be okay with that.

“Y-yeah, cool. But I...I mean I haven’t been entirely honest with you either.” Peter scratched the back of his neck with the muscle of his arm bulging slightly against the dark-grey fabric. He seemed nervous suddenly and his words set you on edge.

“What do you mean?” You leaned towards him and tried to meet his gaze. Peter turned head and glanced at you with pinkened cheeks.

“I mean, I-I,” his hands fell to his sides and the aura of confidence returned to him. “I mean I just want to dance with a pretty girl.” He gave you a questioning look with big doe eyes and a quirked brow. 

“Well...that’s good because I want to dance with a pretty boy.” You and Peter beamed at each other for a moment of silence. Then, another moment later you were both gripped in the throes of laughter. It felt easy and calm again.

There was no longer worry suffocating you or dread that filled your gut. You only felt Peter. His hands on your waist and the smell of his cologne enveloping your senses. He was warm and his shoulders were strong when you rested your arms on them. Everything felt right and in rhythm; swaying to the gentle music.

The tips of his fingers gathered at the dip of your spine and the touch was enough to quell nausea that swelled in your gut. As you slowly spun and paraded through the pockets of couples dancing, you could feel their eyes on you. But, with Peter, that didn’t matter.  Nothing else mattered when you were with Peter; even if you weren’t with Peter. At least, not in the way you truly wanted to be.

“The punch is gone, the party is officially over,” MJ sighed as she took the seat at your side. The chair legs squeaked against the floor of the gym and the sound echoed out, over the quieted music. With the night winding down, you were fighting to stay awake. Your feet ached from dancing and you wondered how Peter was still going.

He and Ned had summoned enough energy to continue cupid-shuffling. They looked ridiculous, arms waving and legs kicking out madly. You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips as you watched. It was impossible not to.

“They’re dorks,” MJ grumbled. She was slouched in the plastic chair, her eyes half-closed. “Why are you friends with them again?”

“Why are you friends with me?” You countered with a tired grin. 

“You’re in a better mood,” she leaned towards you, “did you talk to Peter?” You felt your smile fall but you nodded. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah, we’re friends again so…” You barely met MJ’s eyes but when you did you saw only disbelief. “What?”

“You sound overjoyed,” MJ drawled.

“I am happy but it’s...we almost, we were close and I know why we’re not. I do, it’s just hard to not think about it.”

“Wow,” MJ rested back in her seat, “you really like him.”

You let out a heavy breath and sank back in your chair. Peter and Ned still ambled about, their smiles shone bright under the flickering lights. They were carefree, even as the song ended. Barely a drop of sweat graced Peter’s glowing face as he walked over to the table. Ned was clapping as he took the seat beside MJ.

“You guys missed out!” He cheered. Peter took the seat across from you, nodding in agreement. You watched Peter as Ned repeated every move of the shuffle while seated. The bright smile he wore was starlight-bright. You were wholly enraptured and couldn’t stop staring, even when he met your gaze. 

“Are you tired?” 

“What?” You shifted in your seat and straightened your posture. Peter mirrored your actions and leaned over the table slightly.

“I can walk you home if you’re tired.” Silence fell over the table. Ned stopped with his cramped dancing and MJ went more quiet than usual.

“I…” you heard MJ cough loud enough that the quiet broke. She gave you a pointed looked and you read her easily. “Sure, I’m pretty tired.”

“Okay, cool,” Peter stumbled out of his chair, “let’s uh, let’s go?”

“Y-yeah.” You scooted away from the table and stood in an excited rush. You nearly would have forgotten about your jacket if MJ hadn’t held it out to you. With a silent ‘thank you’ you took it and trailed after Peter. 

“Walk safely,” MJ shouted after you and Peter. 

“We will,” Peter shouted back. You hurried to catch up with him at the gym doors. Like clock-work, he held open the door for you with a smile. 

“Thanks,” you said softly as you passed into the hallway. Even with the school’s walls and heating system, the growing Winter cold breezed through poorly sealed windows. 

“You’re welcome,” he said as he fell into step beside you. The steady footfalls of your shoes filled the air as you neared the school’s exit. It wasn’t entirely tense but there was something beneath the surface. Whatever it was, it was bubbling up and seeping through the cracks of the bandage you had covered old wounds with.

“You look handsome, by the way,” you said in the hopes of masking the nerves. “I hope that isn’t overstepping. I just wanted you to...know…”

“Thanks, Y/N,” Peter’s cheeks reddened, “you do to. I mean, pretty. You’re pretty, not handsome.” You laughed softly as Peter opened the door to the school. The cold wind hit your skin and you wished you had thought to bring a heavier coat. 

“To be fair, ‘handsome’ was equivalent to saying ‘beautiful’ in the 1800s. It’s flattering,” you explained. Peter let out a breathy laugh but still quiet enough for you to be concerned. You lifted your gaze and saw him looking at you. “What?”

“Nothing, I-I just,” he raised his hands as you walked along the sidewalk. Under the streetlamps, Peter looked warm. “I missed you. It’s silly but…”

“You got used to having me around?” Peter’s brown eyes met your gaze and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah ...I did.” A new wave of quiet swirled around you. It followed the two of you as you walked down the block with too much space between you to be relaxed. Peter must have felt that something too. It wasn’t just you.

So it lingered between the two of you as your apartment complex came into sight. It formed a lump in your throat and choked your hope. Peter was so close, you were back to where you started with him; friends. So why did it hurt?

“Peter?” Your apartment was across the street and you couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping, or trying to sleep, with the worry in your heart. So you stopped walking at the crosswalk and hoped that Peter would too.

“Yeah? Ar-are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just sorry, Pete. I know I’ve said this before but I just feel like it needs to be said again.”

“It’s okay, Y/N. You’re okay,” Peter’s hands reached for yours that waved in the air wildly.

“But we...we’re not okay,” you sighed and tried not to get caught up on how soft his hands were on yours.

“We are,” Peter stressed. His brown eyes were wide and you frowned.

“Not like we used to be and I know why but…” you trailed off and let your hands fall to your sides. “I just have to get used to it and you just seem to have it all figured out.”

“I don’t,” Peter admitted with a smile, “not at all. I thought you did.” You let out a small giggle through a sniffle. 

“Well, then we’re screwed huh?” Peters’ smile widened and he nodded. 

“Hey,” Peter took a step towards you and you lifted your eyes to meet his. “It’s too cold to do this now. How about tomorrow we meet at the coffee shop? I mean, if I’m still your tutee.”

You let out a half-hearted laugh and nodded. “Of course, Pete.”

“Cool,” Peter breathed. He was very close now. So close you could feel the warmth of his body and all you wanted to do was hug him. Instead, you stepped back into the crosswalk. 

“I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see yo-Y/N!”

All you heard was the screeching of wheel and the gross sense of deja vu. However, there were no headlights this time. A rush of air, it felt like falling again right off of the balcony of Willis Tower. Only it was cold then warm then cold again as Peter rushed towards you at a nearly inhuman speed. What was most alarming was the white string that shot out from his wrist.

One moment, he was at your side and the next you were up in the air. And you were screaming. 

“Hold on, hold on!” Peter shouted over the wind but you struggled against him. How was he doing this? Was he flying? What was Peter, an alien?

All of the questions flew about your head, even as your feet hit the ground. Your heart was pounding and your legs shook with sick unease. You looked down at your dress and saw what looked like spider-webs clinging to the fabric. A trembling finger pulled at the web and it stuck to your skin. 

“Are you okay? Y/N?” Peter’s brown eyes and soft features filled your vision. Concern was written in his furrowed brows and all you wanted to do was cry. His hands gripped at your arms and pulled you towards him. “Y/N?”

You met his gaze with wide eyes. Before you, you saw Peter. The boy you once hated; the boy you got to know; and the boy you cared for deeply. But something was different. It was as if you were seeing all of him for the first time. What was under Peter’s own mask. 

“Peter….” you whispered, “what the fu-”

[a-second-hand-sorrow]

King of My Heart (Roger Taylor X Reader)

WC: 3842

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, sexual references and implied smut, she is a Long Fic bois I apologise. 

Summary: Y/N and Roger’s relationship, told through Taylor Swift’s ‘King of My Heart’.

A/N: This is a Very Early entry for @yourealegendfred ‘s almost 3k celebration. This is probably the fic I am proudest of so I really hope you guys like it.

BORHAP MASTERLIST

I’m perfectly fine, I live on my own. I made up my mind, I’m better off being alone

“I’ve told you before, Brian. I don’t need a roommate.” Y/N said, frowning at her older brother’s fussing about. It was the September of 1969 and the beginning of the third year of Y/N’s English Literature degree. She had only just moved into a flat by herself and Brian was less than impressed. 

“Maybe you should move into halls. That way you’d at least have one girl living with you.” Brian said, causing his sister to groan, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. 

“I worry about you, Y/N! You’re only 22 and London isn’t exactly the safest city. I’d rather you lived with someone.” Brian said, resting his hands on Y/N’s shoulders as he spoke to her. 

“Brian, I appreciate the protective older brother sentiment but if man can land on the moon, surely I can live in a tiny one bedroom flat by myself.” Y/N said, and Brian took in a deep breath, his hands falling by his side. 

“I can’t believe you used the moon landing against me.” Brian muttered, causing Y/N to let out a victorious squeal, hugging Brian tightly. 

“I knew it’d work. Thank you Brian!” Y/N said excitedly, so happy that she didn’t even complain about Brian ruffling her hair. 

“Now that that’s settled, I was going to head down to the pub for dinner. You want to come with?” Brian asked, and Y/N nodded, immediately searching for her purse. 

“I’ll pay, don’t worry Y/N. Besides, maybe you can meet a nice guy down there.” Brian said, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he leaned against the small kitchen bench. 

“Bri, how many times have I told you that I don’t want to date anyone right now! I’ve made up my mind and I’ve realised that I, Y/N Y/M/N May, am better off being alone.” Y/N said proudly, and Brian sighed, checking his pockets for his wallet. 

“Whatever you say, Y/N/N. Now, let’s go get some dinner, shall we?” Brian said, looping his arm through his sister’s as she closed the flat door behind them. 

“Yes, we shall.” 

We met a few weeks ago, now you try on calling me baby like trying on clothes 

It was December now, and Y/N was revelling in the semester break. Snow was falling gently as she sat on her couch reading, engrossed in her book. Suddenly the phone in Y/N’s flat began ringing loudly, causing her to set down her book and pick up the phone, fiddling with the cord. “Hello?” She said, sitting down on the kitchen bench. 

“Y/N, hi. How are you?” Y/N smiled at the sound of Roger’s voice, relieved that it was him who called. 

“I’m good, Rog. How are you?” Y/N said, shivering slightly as she clutched her dressing gown around her body. 

“Good, good. I was wondering if maybe I could come over? The heating in my flat is busted and I’m freezing my nuts off.” Roger said, chuckling slightly as he spoke. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll have a cuppa ready for you, Taylor.” Y/N said, and the sigh of relief Roger gave caused Y/N’s cheeks to turn pink. 

“You are an angel, Y/N. I’ll see you soon.” As Roger hung up Y/N couldn’t help but think of all his recent calls. He called at least once a day, sometimes twice if he was feeling up to it. Given that they had only met properly a few weeks ago, she was curious as to why he called so frequently. 

Y/N made her way through the hustle and bustle of Kensington Market, a leather satchel slung across her body that bounced as she walked. Each and every stall had a unique allure to it, but Y/N hurried past them, trying to get to the closest tube station. “

I love your coat, darling.” A man called out from one of the stalls, causing Y/N to stop and swivel around to see if he was talking to her. 

“Yes, you. Satchel girl.” He said, and Y/N chuckled nervously, taking a few steps closer to the stall. 

“Thanks. It was my mum’s but it’s mine now.” Y/N said, fidgeting with the sleeves of her coat as the man eyeballed her. “

Well it’s lovely. Rog, don’t you think it’s a marvellous coat?” The dark-haired man said, whacking the arm of a long-haired blonde to get his attention. The blonde turned around, and Y/N looked at him with furrowed brows, trying to recall where she had seen him before. “

It’s alright.” He said, shrugging his shoulders as the other man gasped in offense. 

“Pay Roger no mind, darling. He’s in a rather bitchy mood today. I’m Freddie.” He said, extending a hand that Y/N shook calmly. 

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you Freddie. Did you say his name was Roger?” Y/N said, and Roger nodded, even though his back was facing her. 

“Roger… You wouldn’t happen to be Roger Taylor, would you? Drummer? Dental student?” Y/N said, hopefully putting the pieces together as Roger turned around, nodding slowly with an apprehensive look on his face. 

“Yes, I am. Do I know you at all?” Roger said, and Y/N shrugged, adjusting her bag as she looked at the man. 

“You might not know me, but you certainly know my brother. He’s your guitarist after all.” Y/N said, and Roger’s jaw dropped, a shocked laugh escaping his lips. 

“You’re Brian’s sister? Bloody hell, how come I’ve never seen you at rehearsals before?” Roger asked, Freddie rolling his eyes at the blatant flirting coming from his friend. 

“I don’t live with Brian, but if you want to see me at rehearsals just give me a call.” Y/N said, pulling a pen and spare piece of paper out of her bag, writing her number down and sliding it to Roger over the stall table, his eyes wide at her forwardness. 

“Now you’ll have to excuse me, gents. I have a train to catch. It was lovely meeting you both.” Y/N said, waving at them as she walked away, a smile on her face. 

“Well, Rog. It seems you’ve finally met your match.” 

Y/N shook the through from her head before quickly making two cups of tea, absentmindedly humming Christmas carols to herself as she moved around the kitchen. There was a sudden knock on the door and Y/N smiled, taking a sip of tea. 

“Door’s unlocked, Rog.” Y/N said, smirking as she saw a very rugged up Roger come bursting through her door. He let out a moan at the warmth of her flat, quickly shedding his snow-covered layers, his hair tousled from the beanie he was wearing. 

“Cuppa, as promised.” Y/N said, passing the mug to Roger with a smile. He took a large drink, sighing as he felt some warmth return to his body. 

“God I could kiss you right now.” Roger said, and Y/N’s eyes widened at his statement. She knew that Roger was attractive from their first meeting, she wasn’t blind, but it wasn’t until the last week or two that she started to realise that she might have feelings for the blonde drummer. 

“You, uh, what was that Rog?” Y/N squeaked out, her cheeks a bright crimson as her gaze fell anywhere but Roger. He gave her a curious look before realising what he had said, and he began stammering, trying to fix the situation but only making it worse. 

Y/N took a deep breath and leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Roger’s lips to silence him. The kiss was over as quickly as it had started, but both of them were blushing and there was an electricity in the room. 

“You taste like tea. Not that I’m complaining.” Y/N said, laughing nervously at the close proximity between her and Roger. He just rolled his eyes, bringing Y/N back in for another kiss.  

Salute to me I'm your American Queen, and you move to me like I'm a Motown beat, and we rule the kingdom inside my room 

Y/N’s eyes opened slowly, feeling extremely content and surprisingly warm. Her gaze moved down, and she noticed Roger, his blonde hair fanning out around his head like a halo. 

He was still peacefully sleeping, his arm around Y/N’s waist and their legs entangled. His bare chest was pressed up against her back, and she could feel it move up and down as he breathed. 

Memories of last night flooded into her head, and a proud smile drifted onto her face. There were marks down Roger’s back and neck, and she was very certain similar ones decorated her body, courtesy of the sleeping blonde. 

Y/N began playing with Roger’s hair, noticing how calming it felt to run her fingers through his soft blonde locks. In that moment, Y/N felt as though her tiny room was a kingdom of some type, and after last night her and Roger had become its rulers. 

Roger stirred, opening his eyes and smirking when he saw Y/N. “Good morning, love.” Roger muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to Y/N’s lips which she returned happily. 

“Morning, blondie. You hungry?” Y/N asked, and Roger gave her a devilish smirk, pressing feather-light kisses down her neck and jaw. 

“Yes, there is definitely something I’m hungry for.” Roger said playfully, raising his eyebrows as Y/N swatted at him gently. 

“I’m flattered, really, but I meant more like toast or cereal or something.” Y/N said, and Roger chuckled, resting his head on her shoulder as she sat up. 

“I’ll take some toast seeing as you��re offering.” Roger said, and Y/N nodded, bending down to pick up her underwear and Roger’s button up, slipping them both on. 

“Ok, you look illegally good in my clothes. Now I don’t want you to make breakfast, I want you here with me.” Roger whined, grabbing at Y/N’s wrist as she stood up. 

“Those baby blues may work on most girls, but you need to put in some more work with me. I’ll see you in the kitchen, Taylor.” 

'Cause all the boys and their expensive cars, with their Range Rovers and their Jaguars, never took me quite where you do 

“I would like to raise a toast. To music, to friendship, and to Her Majesty, Queen!” Y/N shouted, sloppily touching her glass with everyone else’s. Y/N, her brother and his new bandmates were at their local pub’s New Year’s Eve party, celebrating the turn of the year and the beginning of the 70’s. 

“Does anyone want a top up?” Y/N asked, collecting empty glasses off Freddie and Roger who both nodded eagerly at the thought of another drink. 

“I’m good, Y/N. Just be careful, ok?” Brian said, and Y/N nodded, a confused look on her face as she weaved past people to get to the bar. She ordered the drinks before sitting down on a bar stool, finally giving her aching feet a break. 

“You look exhausted.” Y/N turned around, nodding at the stranger’s statement. 

“I am. New Year’s is fun and all but god at what cost, you know?” She said, and the man sitting opposite her laughed, nodding his head in agreement. 

“Exactly. I’m Barry.” He said, extending his hand for Y/N to shake. She took it cautiously, hoping Barry didn’t pick up on her caution. He gave her an unsettling feeling, and she mentally wished for the bartender to hurry up with her drinks. 

“Y/N.” She said, dropping his hand quickly. Y/N turned her attention to the crowd, bouncing her foot as Barry moved closer to her, making her nerves increase. 

“You come here with anyone?” Barry asked, his accent distinctly American and Y/N shuddered, clutching her hands in her lap. 

“My brother and his friends. They’re in a band.” Y/N said, trying to be as polite as possible without seeming invested. It was a hard line to walk, but as a young woman in London she knew how to walk it very well. 

“So no boyfriend?” Barry said, his breath reeking of alcohol, a dark smirk on his face as his eyes raked over Y/N’s body. 

“Here are your drinks, ma’am.” Y/N let out a sigh of relief, thanking the bartender as he passed her a tray of glasses. 

“How about you forget about your brother and whoever else, and come home with me? I could show you a real good time, sweetheart.” Barry whispered, his hand creeping up Y/N’s thigh as he spoke. 

Y/N started breathing rapidly, her eyes shut tight as she cringed at the contact, wanting nothing more than to push him off her and run away. Luckily, Roger had been wondering why Y/N was taking so long and was up at the bar, his fists clenched in fury as he walked over to his girlfriend. 

He tapped Barry on his shoulder, watching him turn around before taking in a deep breath and punching Barry square in the face. Y/N let out a gasp, jumping back as Barry fell to the ground, clutching his nose in pain. 

“Fuck him and fuck the drinks, let’s go.” Roger said, clutching Y/N’s arm as he led her to the booth where the others were sitting. 

“Roger, thank you.” Y/N said, stopping abruptly causing Roger to stumble slightly. Her arms wrapped around his neck, causing Roger to hold her waist for support. 

Roger went to respond but Y/N cut him off with a kiss, her hands sliding into his blonde hair. Roger held her close to him, never wanting to let her go even though they were standing on the floor of a dodgy pub. 

Unbeknownst to the couple they were perfectly in Brian’s line of sight, and as Y/N’s furious brother approached them they knew there was a serious explanation due. 

And all at once, you are the one I have been waiting for. King of my heart, body and soul, and all at once, you are all I want, I'll never let you go. King of my heart, body and soul 

“Rog come one. If we’re late you know David will personally kick our asses. He’s a punctual man and you should respect that.” Y/N said, putting in her earrings as her husband was getting dressed in their shared bedroom. 

It was the January of 1980 and the couple were getting ready to attend David Bowie’s 33rd birthday party. Y/N and Roger had been married for five years, and they had stuck together through thick and thin. Sure they fought, but fights were always resolved quickly. 

“Is this to your liking, Mrs Taylor?” Roger said, gesturing to his outfit as Y/N spun around to look him up and down. 

“Very much so, Mr Taylor. You look wonderful, now let’s go.” Y/N said, kissing Roger’s cheek before heading downstairs, her husband following suit. They climbed into the car and sighed, sitting comfortably as the drive began. 

“I don’t say this enough, but I love you Rog.” Y/N said, resting her head on his shoulder, the fabric of his jacket brushing against her chin. 

“I don’t know what prompted that, but I love you too, Y/N/N.” Roger said, and Y/N groaned, rolling her eyes at that nickname. 

“You know only Brian can call me that.” Y/N mumbled, and Roger chuckled, slinging an arm around her shoulders. 

“I’m your husband, surely I can call you whatever I want. Sweetheart, love, darling, babe, honey, sugar, teddy bear, apple of my eye.” Roger said, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s face after every pet name until she was blushing scarlet. 

“Roger! I’m trying to be serious and romantic and you’re being a child.” Y/N said, shaking her head at Roger’s behaviour. 

“Fine, I’ll stop but only because I want to hear you be romantic and serious.” Roger said, leaning back so he could get a better look at Y/N’s face. 

“Well firstly I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else, which is always nice. You make me laugh when I need it, and you’re always willing to do whatever it takes to make me feel better.” Y/N said, reaching up to link her fingers with Roger’s as he prompted her to continue talking. 

“You, Roger Taylor, own my heart. Not only my heart, but my body and my soul as well. You’re the man of my dreams, Rog, and I promise you I will never let you go, even when things get tough.” Y/N said, looking up at Roger and noticing the tears beginning to form in his eyes. 

“Are you crying?” Y/N asked softly, letting go of his hand and bringing her own to rest on his face, giving him a reassuring smile.

“I forgot you did an English degree. You’re very good with words, Y/N.” Roger muttered, causing Y/N to laugh softly as she wiped a tear from his cheek. 

“Sorry for making you cry, Rog.” Y/N said, and Roger chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he rested his hand on top of Y/N’s.

“Don’t apologise, Y/N. These are happy tears, and I’m always happy when I’m with you.” 

Late in the night, the city’s asleep. Your love is a secret I’m hoping, dreaming, dying to keep. Change my priority, the taste of your lips is my idea of luxury. 

Roger had been away on tour for a while, promoting the band’s new album ‘Hot Space’. The album had caused some tensions between the boys, but it was nothing they couldn’t handle. Y/N desperately wanted to join them, but her work schedule made it impossible to do so. 

Tonight was the night Roger was due to return home, so Y/N sat up waiting for him, watching reruns of The Brady Bunch on the television as the hours passed. Y/N felt herself growing tired, and she stumbled into her bed, closing her eyes briefly, despite her wish to stay up for her husband. 

She woke slowly to the sound of footsteps and jangling keys, her head perking up immediately at the sound of Roger humming to himself as he walked up the stairs. 

“Welcome back, rock star.” Y/N said, a grin on her face as Roger entered their bedroom, dropping his bags before shedding his shirt and jeans and scrambling into bed next to Y/N. 

“I told you that you didn’t have to stay up for me.” Roger said, his words slightly muffled as he began kissing Y/N’s neck. 

“I haven’t seen you in months, love. Can you blame me for staying up?” Y/N said, relaxing into Roger’s embrace for the first time in a while. 

The clock beside their bed said that it was 2:30 in the morning, and Y/N was sure that the rest of London was asleep, save her and Roger. Y/N let out a content sigh as she rolled over, positioning herself under Roger. 

“How was the tour?” Y/N asked, running her hands up and down Roger’s back, enjoying the shivers her touch sent down his spine. 

“Same as every other tour. Loud, fun and busy. How was it without me?” Roger asked, tucking a strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear. 

“Boring. I hated going to bed without you. It was so cold and empty, but I guess it’s the price I pay for having a gorgeous rock legend for a husband.” Y/N said nonchalantly, and Roger felt his heart clench at the casual attitude with which Y/N said those words. 

“You shouldn’t have to feel alone, Y/N. I’m your husband and I won’t stand for it.” He said, leaning forward and kissing his wife for the first time in months. He had forgotten how luxurious her lips tasted, and he nearly let out a moan at the feeling. 

The couple spent the next half an hour kissing and holding each other, making up for time lost by the tour. As Y/N fell asleep Roger looked at her, realising how much his priorities had shifted over the years.  

He used to prioritise trivial things like alcohol and schoolwork, but now his only priority was her, his wife. 

Is this the end of all the endings? My broken bones are mending with all these nights we're spending up on the roof with a school girl crush, drinking beer out of plastic cups. Say you fancy me not fancy stuff, baby all at once this is enough 

“You guys have the world at your feet, I know it.” Y/N said, clutching a plastic cup half full of beer as she spoke, giving genuine smiles to the band and their partners.

“Today has been a big day, but here’s to a bigger night still.” Freddie said, raising his cup which prompted everyone else to raise their cups as well. Queen had done their part for Live Aid earlier in the day and they decided to throw a celebratory post-concert party at a bar in the city. 

“Did you hear that there’s a rooftop area as well? Isn’t that exciting?” Roger said, taking Y/N’s cup out of her hand and sipping some of the beer, chuckling as Y/N shot him a dirty look. 

“Just because we’ve been married for ten years doesn’t mean that you can pull shit like that.” Y/N said, indignantly drinking the rest of the beer as Roger shook his head.

“Let’s get a refill then head up to the rooftop. It should be quieter up there.” Roger said, placing his hand on the small of Y/N’s back as they topped up their beers before heading upstairs to the roof. 

Y/N sighed contentedly, looking out at the city skyline brightly lit up. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Roger said, standing next to Y/N as she nodded.

“I like it up here. It’s calm and quiet. That’s all I need, Rog. As much as I love presents, I don’t need all the fancy stuff. I just need you, the kids, and some relative peace and quiet.” Y/N said, smiling as she took another sip of beer.

“I love you more than all the stuff in the world, Y/N. You mean so much to me. You’re my wife, the mother of my children. God, I love you.” Roger said, hugging Y/N from behind as they looked out at the sky. 

“We have been together for nearly sixteen years, and you still manage to make me feel like a schoolgirl with a helpless crush.” Y/N said, adoration evident in her voice as she leaned into Roger’s touch. 

“It’s a skill, love. You know, it’s weird to think that when you kissed me for the first time all those years ago, that would be my last first kiss.” Roger mused, swaying gently with Y/N in his arms. 

“Our relationship isn’t an end of beginnings, Rog. Not at all.” Y/N said, and Roger kissed her neck gently, curious as to where this was going. 

“Well then, what do you think our relationship is, love?” Roger asked, and Y/N paused, a pensive look on her face as she weighed up her husband’s question. 

“I’d say it’s the end of all our endings, because when I’m with you it feels like nothing will end. We’re going to be happy forever, Rog. I know it.”

[limpblotter]

16 boyf riends

(Boyf Riends 16) “I foundyou–in the bathroom at a formal event, crying in the bathroom over how you sawyourself as ugly” (I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE ANON, I SEE IT AND I THINK ITSGREAT)

“You know…” Jeremy smiled ashe fixed his tuxedo tie. “I never thought we’d make it here…” His eyes in aweas he took in the chandeliers and grand, gold and champagne paisley walldecals, this was easily the nicest place either boy had been.  “Prom.”

They made it to their seniorprom, of course not without some flaw. Jeremy had missed his chance to askChristine, who was already going with a group of girls as they either hadpassed up too many invitations or just got none. Michael, too, missed hischance in asking anyone out. So as per usual, the friends were together again. “Thisis going to be nuts…” Michael muttered to himself, and then nodded. He pinchedboth sides of his bowtie and ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s make this thebest night two bros can have!” They were dateless, sure, but they survived tosee their senior prom. Jeremy watched Michael bolt through the crowd of fancily dressed teenagestudents and smiled. His best friend cleaned up pretty nice in a red suede suitand bowtie. It wasn’t until he lost Michael on his sprint towards the pier sideballroom that Jeremy felt a sweat start up. “MICHAEL! WA-WAIT!” He gulpednarrowing tripping over some girl’s excessively long gown. “S-sorry” He gulped,holding up his hands defensively as her date gave Heere a look that made himwant to disappear. Squip-less Jeremy was working on the little dexterity he wasknown for. He followed the herd to the ballroom, ooh’ing and awe’ing at thedome shaped room, wall to ceiling windows giving them a perfect view of theriverside pier.

It wasn’t long before thiselegant ballroom turned into a massive, grinding house party. There was somethingvisually jarring watching formally dressed teens turn into gyrating, jitteringjuveniles who were most likely looking to get a little something-something atthe end of the night. Jeremy felt himself nervously swaying side to side, offbeat, as he tried to locate safety.

His body was a small boatlost in a sea of yachts. He was barely keeping himself up as beautiful, massiveships swayed and moved along the endless ocean of a dance floor. “Jeremy!”Called a beautiful red buoy in a bowtie coming to his way, he drew a smallbreath of relief. He stopped swaying by the time Michael reunited with him. “Theyhave milkshake SHOTS” Michael beamed chugging a small glass of pure dairygoodness down. “The music is kinda lame, what the top fuckboy hits of 2017?” “H-Heh yeah…” Jeremy rubbed his arm a bit; usually he felt a little more easebeing around Michael. Something about the atmosphere was off putting. Maybe itwas something about the music? Or the fact they were two dateless guys. Orperhaps how good Michael looked in his suit, clean cut, bright smile, and thered was the same shade of Jeremy’s favorite drink. “You ok? You look…” Michael looked Jeremy up and down, enjoying how nice helooked in a plain black suit with a red tie. Shame his look didn’t match theexpression he wore; his delicate, wispy brown brows furrowed forming a small ‘v’wrinkle between them. Michael wanted to iron out the worried line with histhumb…but … “You look constipated” Jeremy internally flinched. Was it thatobvious he was uncomfortable? “We can bounce you know, prom isn’t that great,the food looks meh at best. We can –“ “No, no!” Jeremy didn’t drag Michael out to prom just to bail. He wanted to behere. He really did, there was just something bothering him. It had been sincethey purchased the tickets and the suits together. “Actually, I think you mightbe on to something.” He chuckled, looking for a good out, thankfully even whenMichael didn’t mean to he managed to give Jeremy an escape route from this bossbattle. “I’m going to hit the bathroom.” “O-Ok Jeremy…” Michael watched as his small, lanky friend spun on his heel andzipped through the dancing crowds. He weaseled his way through densely packedbodies. He left a train of ‘sorrys’ and ‘excuse mes’ as he bumped and weaved tothe opposite end of the dance floor. He kept his eyes on the floor worried hisbig feet would catch something, a dress or someone’s heels, and send himcareening to the floor. The last thing he needed was to fall flat on his face.

Without taking his eyes offthe floor he hurried into the bathroom and sighed. Why was this not as great ashe thought? What was throwing him off? “Come on…prom…this is fun” He glared athis reflection in the mirror, his blue eyes focusing everything in him to bringa pleasant feeling…that was until the door opened. He jumped at the sight ofChristine waddling in her red dress. “C-C-Chri-nn?!” Jeremy’s voice cracked sobad the rest of her name got lost somewhere between his throat and his lips. “Jeremy what are you doing hanging out in the girls’ bathroom? At a formalevent?” She blinked a few times, “doesn’t matter do you have a pin or something—ofcourse you don’t who would. UGH” She rubbed her face and groaned. “W-What’s wrong?” Christine turned fully and exposed her ripped lacing ribbon to her corset top. “Ihave no idea how I managed to rip the STRING to the corset…I’ve been askingaround for pins or anything to keep my top from falling off…” Her voice soundedso defeated and low, it was unlike her. “So much for prom huh…”

Jeremy bit the inside of hischeek, he mulled over solutions for a second before glancing down at his thin,neck tie. “Hey…” He slowly undid his tie and folded it in half length wise. “Youthink this might work?” Willing to try Jeremy positioned himself by the sinks while Christine stood infront of him with her back to him. He started threading the tie like a newstring, lacing her back up with care. “I saw Michael out there, he looks really neat. He was taking to Rich.” Shegiggled, “did you come here with Michael ?” “Yup, just bros flying solo.” Jeremy muttered, he was more than aware how niceMichael cleaned up for prom. “I’m surprised he’s having so much fun…” Prom wasmore Jeremy’s idea, Michael agreed because they were both dateless…and Jeremywas in need of some moral support tonight.

“Oh…really? I thought…” Shepaused but didn’t let the thought die, much to Jeremy’s dismay. “I thought youguys came together, you know…but it makes sense. Why not, you two are justfriends right? Must be nice to just hang with your friends.” Christine chimedher voice back to its chipper tone.  OnceJeremy was done she spun around and paused. “You should probably get out of thegirl’s bathroom…and join us, maybe you can squeeze a little boogey-oogy- woogytime. I might ask Michael to dance since we’re going twinsies on the red.” “Y-Yea sure.” He watched Christine, in her newly laced dress exit. She lookedequally as amazing in red. Jeremy could picture Christine and Michael dancingtogether. A perfect red pair of bubbling smiles and giggles…he felt envy buildup inside him the longer he thought about how much fun Michael was having. Howwell he was blending in. The last party Jeremy was at, Michael had stowed awayand wasn’t anywhere to be seen for the longest time.

Jeremy looked over hisshoulder and felt heat build around his face. His eyes started to water when avery old and familiar thought crossed his mind. “You look like shit.” He whisperedto himself. Just as he sniffled back the heated tears the door swung open. “Jeremy! There you are” Michael laughed, “dude why are you in the girl’sbathroom, by yourself? At…prom?” Michael’s smile was forced, one look and hefelt an old memory surface. Being alone in the bathroom with a sorry face?Michael knew that feeling a little too well. “You ok? You look…well did you atleast use the bathroom?” He thumbed to one of the stalls. “Or are you planningon using the little boy’s room?” “I’m…” Jeremy sighed, “I’m not fine.” He admitted softly. “…this sucks.” “This was your idea, its prom, we have no dates of course it sucks.” Michaelchuckled, “but hey we’re …in it together, right?” “Oh yeah, that makes me feel better” Jeremy groaned, “Going to Prom with my browho looks ten times better than me.” Who gave Michael the right to look nice?And why was he saying “my bro” like it was a bad thing. Why…did prom feel sostrange all of the sudden. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and slowly hebrought his eyes up to Michael’s.

“Don’t tell me you’re cryingin the bathroom because you see yourself as ugly?” He spoke softly, “Jeremy youlook great, any girl out there would be stoked to dance with you. Like man, you’relike …suaver than 007 in Goldeneye cover! You’re like…” He started to babbleand ramble, Jeremy felt his cheeks flush a bit.

“I don’t want to dance withanybody out there…” He kept his eyes on the tiled ground. “…I don’t know I justdo think its … we’re here together so are we really ‘dateless’?”

“a-ah..no I guess…I mean…”Michael’s babbling was now cut short. The silence hung heavy; there was astrange understanding happening. Michael started to realize what about promwasn’t jiving well with Jeremy. Neither knew how to say it, how to cross thatline of verbalizing that feeling. Suddenly the blasting bass sounds died into aslow, ancient ballad. “Heh Whitney…” “Bet everyone on the dance floor is screaming the lyrics out..” Jeremy added,it was a slow dance song. He looked back at Michael after staring off towardsthe door and noticed there was a clammy, shaky hand outstretched towards him.Michael didn’t say a word, nor did Jeremy. He kept staring at the hand as thesong ticked by. Slowly Jeremy placed his hand in Michael’s, after waiting solong he flinched before grasping his hand.

Michael wasn’t sure how tohold Jeremy…his heart made it hard to keep beat with the song. They settled onawkwardly holding each other’s waist and swaying back and forth.

“I’m glad.” Jeremy spoke up,“I’m glad I’m here with my favorite person…” He kept his head down, his faceredder than Michael’s suit.

Jeremy might have said thisbefore but it sounded so much more…than before. No this was different this was…Insteadof saying the millions of things he could have said Michael opened his mouthand started to sing, off key, “…I don’t have to look, very much further. I don’twanna have to go where you don’t followwww” “Oh jeez, Michael, I’m trying to say like…” This was what he was missing, theworries slid away from him. A truly genuine smile formed on Jeremy’s nervousand slightly sweaty face. He didn’t want to be dateless at prom, he didn’t wantto be here with his bro…He wanted to be here with Michael. Jeremy couldn’t getanother word past Michael who was belting every note as if to drown out thegiddiness. “God, Michael…” Jeremy cautiously leaned into Michael’s chest andresorted to hugging him as they swayed to the Whitney Houston song in themiddle of the girl’s bathroom.

Slowly, Michael’s armswrapped around Jeremy’s small frame and locked him into a tight hug.

Tonight, Michael wasn’talone in the bathroom.

[starlingsrps]

margo lyons char. dev.

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: margaret elizabeth frances rose lyons

MEANING: "pearl" for margaret, "pledged to god" for elizabeth, "from france/free man" for frances, and obvs for rose.

REASONING: margaret elizabeth for her paternal grandmother, frances rose for maternal grandmother

NICKNAME(S): margo, go; alias margo lyons

PREFERRED NAME(S): margo

BIRTH DATE: april 17, 1994

AGE: twenty five

ZODIAC: aries

GENDER: cis female

PRONOUNS: she/her/hers

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: heteromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual

NATIONALITY: british af

ETHNICITY: caucasian

CURRENT LOCATION: london

LIVING CONDITIONS: plush

TITLE(S): her royal highness the princess margaret

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: london

HOMETOWN: same

SOCIAL CLASS: you really can't get more upper than princess

EDUCATION LEVEL: a history degree from cambridge

FATHER: king william V, 65

MOTHER: queen louise, 65

SIBLING(S): richard, duke of cornwall, 32

BIRTH ORDER: youngest

CHILDREN: ---

PET(S): henrietta, corgi

OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: philippa, duchess of cornwall, 30; gemma louise lucille, 3

PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: officially, just one very respectable banker, peter who turned out to be a shit; unofficially, ample bad decisions in uni.

ARRESTS?: ---

PRISON TIME?: ---

OCCUPATION & INCOME

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: being a princess?

SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: no seriously that's her job.

TERTIARY SOURCE(S) OF INCOME: that's it: princessing.

APPROXIMATE AMOUNT PER YEAR: it's rude to talk about money.

CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: like look: as long as she approaches it as a job, she's good. it's her job to show up to every event princess perfect and smiling because damnit people came to see her so she's going to give them something to see.

PAST JOB(S): no?

SPENDING HABITS: reasonable except for clothes. she's on vanity fair's best dressed list for a a reason ok.

MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: technically her tiara but any drawing gemma makes her.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: B+

OFFENSE: B+

DEFENSE: look, she's got people for that.

SPEED: B+

INTELLIGENCE: B - she's very well educated but was always a solid B student to richard's A+++++, much to the delight of the press when her test scores came out.

ACCURACY: B+

AGILITY: B+

STAMINA: A+ - she can stand and shake hands and smile for daaaaaaays.

TEAMWORK: B- - she tries but honestly the only people allowed to boss her around are her parents and gemma. and elliot in a sexy way.

TALENTS: fashion, fundraising, hauling the monarchy into this century.

SHORTCOMINGS: she's a wee bit spoiled.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english, french; she learns enough for polite conversation for wherever she visits.

DRIVE?: yes but not often

JUMP-STAR A CAR?: nope

CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: nope

RIDE A BICYCLE?: yep

SWIM?: yep

PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: piano fairly well

PLAY CHESS?: nope

BRAID HAIR?: yep

TIE A TIE?: yep

PICK A LOCK?: yep no of course not

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: lucy boynton

EYE COLOR: blue

HAIR COLOR: blonde

HAIR TYPE/STYLE: long bob that she got in trouble for because how dare she chop her hair how dare she not have princess hair???? (she'd just broken up with peter and wanted to be ceremonially shorn of the person she’d once been)

GLASSES/CONTACTS?: both

DOMINANT HAND: left

HEIGHT: 5'5

WEIGHT: 115

BUILD: small and slim

EXERCISE HABITS: daily - gotta maintain that sample size damnit

SKIN TONE: fair

TATTOOS: none

PIERCINGS: ears - one hole in her left, two holes in her right ear from ruby tomlinson at boarding school when she was fourteen.

MARKS/SCARS: the aforementioned second piercing because her mother screamed and made her take it out and never put it back in.

NOTABLE FEATURES: good brow game, rosebud mouth

USUAL EXPRESSION: pleasant listening face

CLOTHING STYLE: she does the princess drag very well - gowns and suits and cute day dresses and such - but she's a fashion magpie. she has twisted and begged her way into the archives to wears some of her grandmother's couture dresses from the fifties and she's very fond of vintage and couture. she's caught some shit from the press for not always wearing british designers and will be good for like a month but she always cracks. also heels? every day, with everything.

JEWELRY: some costume, some real, prone to trying on her tiara for shits and giggles.

ALLERGIES: nope

BODY TEMPERATURE: always cold.

DIET: she eats like a bird who really likes chips

PHYSICAL AILMENTS: nah

PSYCHOLOGY

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: 7 - the enthusiast

MBTI TYPE: ESFP

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good

TEMPERAMENT: sanguine

ELEMENT: air

MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: like some anxiety as a part of the trade but she handles it.

SOCIABILITY: excellent.

EMOTIONAL STABILITY: not terrible but oof her bad moods are baaaaaad.

PHOBIA(S): horses. she really does not like horses.

ADDICTION(S): not really

DRUG USE: nope

ALCOHOL USE: one glass of white wine at banquets and public events; bottle of red always at the ready in her apartment.

PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: nah

MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE: cheerful and even paced

ACCENT: posh british

QUIRKS: always carries a protein bar in her princess bag. no princess bag? it's in her bodyguard's pocket. there is always a protein bar nearby because a hangry princess is no one's favorite.

HOBBIES: sketching, hiking, wine

HABITS: most of her bad ones have been ironed out by a lifetime of being in the public eye but she does spend two afternoons a week with gemma if she doesn't have engagements to give pippa some time to herself.

NERVOUS TICKS: tucking her hair behind her ears

DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: not letting the family down

FEARS: horses.

POSITIVE TRAITS: enthusiastic, attentive, creative, charismatic

NEGATIVE TRAITS: feisty, impatient, spoiled, dramatic

SENSE OF HUMOR: while she'll politely laugh at anything, she prefers wit

DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: nope

FAVORITES

ACTIVITY: honestly? netflix at home with her dog.

ANIMAL: henrietta. not dogs, just henrietta.

BEVERAGE: red wine

BOOK: publically, persuasion. privately it's lord of scoundrels.

CELEBRITY: does her granny count? because she was badass.

COLOR: red

DESIGNER: dior

FOOD: chips. what's that crinkling sound? margo smuggling ten bags of all dressed chips into the uk.

FLOWER: white roses

GEM: diamond

HOLIDAY: christmas day

MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: being driven

MOVIE: titanic

MUSICAL ARTIST: harry styles

QUOTE/SAYING: "whatever will be will be"

SCENERY: give her a good beach and the ocean to stare at and she's good.

SCENT: her mother's perfume and wood polish

SPORT: tennis

SPORTS TEAM: serena williams

TELEVISION SHOW: great british bake off

WEATHER: sunny springtime

VACATION DESTINATION: ottawa the maldives

ATTITUDES

GREATEST DREAM: to be respected for who she is and not held to the idea of who people think she should be.

GREATEST FEAR: getting smushed by a horse.

MOST AT EASE WHEN: with her family away from the spotlight. her father is a giant nerd, her mother cooks dinner, richard relaxes - they're a normal family then.

LEAST AT EASE WHEN: surrounded.

WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: anything happening to richard and his family and suddenly becoming next in line because holy shit she has not been prepared for that.

BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: her degree.

BIGGEST REGRET: peter.

MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: peter's tell all interview with the daily mail.

BIGGEST SECRET: that she's a mushy soft romantic under the glitter and polish and poise.

TOP PRIORITIES: a good life that doesn't bring shame to the family.

[readbookywooks]

The Ministry of Magic

Harry awoke at half-past five the next morning as abruptly and completely as if somebody had yelled in his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the prospect of the disciplinary hearing filled every tiny particle of his brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on the wall sniggered. Ron was lying sprawled on his back with his mouth wide open, fast asleep. He did not stir as Harry crossed the room, stepped out on to the landing and closed the door softly behind him. Trying not to think of the next time he would see Ron, when they might no longer be fellow students at Hogwarts, Harry walked quietly down the stairs, past the heads of Kreacher's ancestors, and down into the kitchen. He had expected it to be empty, but when he reached the door he heard the soft rumble of voices on the other side. He pushed it open and saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks sitting there almost as though they were waiting for him. All were fully dressed except Mrs. Weasley, who was wearing a quilted purple dressing gown. She leapt to her feet the moment Harry entered. 'Breakfast,' she said as she pulled out her wand and hurried over to the fire. 'M-m-morning, Harry,' yawned Tonks. Her hair was blonde and curly this morning. 'Sleep all right?' 'Yeah,' said Harry. 'I've b-b-been up all night,' she said, with another shuddering yawn. 'Come and sit down....' She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it in the process. 'What do you want, Harry?' Mrs. Weasley called. 'Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? Toast?' 'Just--just toast, thanks,' said Harry. Lupin glanced at Harry, then said to Tonks, 'What were you saying about Scrimgeour?' 'Oh ... yeah ... well, we need to be a bit more careful, he's been asking Kingsley and me funny questions....' Harry felt vaguely grateful that he was not required to join in the conversation. His insides were squirming. Mrs. Weasley placed a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade in front of him; he tried to eat, but it was like chewing carpet. Mrs Weasley sat down on his other side and started fussing with his T-shirt, tucking in the label and smoothing out the creases across his shoulders. He wished she wouldn't. '...and I'll have to tell Dumbledore I can't do night duty tomorrow, I'm just t-t-too tired,' Tonks finished, yawning hugely again. 'I'll cover for you,' said Mr. Weasley. 'I'm OK, I've got a report to finish anyway....' Mr. Weasley was not wearing wizards' robes but a pair of pinstriped trousers and an old bomber jacket. He turned from Tonks to Harry. 'How are you feeling?' Harry shrugged. 'It'll all be over soon,' Mr. Weasley said bracingly. 'In a few hours' time you'll be cleared.' Harry said nothing. 'The hearing's on my floor, in Amelia Bones's office. She's Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and she's the one who'll be questioning you.' 'Amelia Bones is OK, Harry,' said Tonks earnestly. 'She's fair, she'll hear you out.' Harry nodded, still unable to think of anything to say. 'Don't lose your temper,' said Sirius abruptly. 'Be polite and stick to the facts.' Harry nodded again. 'The law's on your side,' said Lupin quietly. 'Even underage wizards are allowed to use magic in life-threatening situations.' Something very cold trickled down the back of Harry's neck; for a moment he thought someone was putting a Disillusionment Charm on him, then he realised that Mrs. Weasley was attacking his hair with a wet comb. She pressed hard on the top of his head. 'Doesn't it ever lie flat?' she said desperately. Harry shook his head. 'Mr. Weasley checked his watch and looked up at Harry. I think we'll go now,' he said. 'We're a bit early, but I think you'll be better off at the Ministry than hanging around here.' 'OK,' said Harry automatically, dropping his toast and getting to his feet. 'You'll be all right, Harry,' said Tonks, patting him on the arm. 'Good luck,' said Lupin. 'I'm sure it will be fine.' 'And if it's not,' said Sirius grimly, 'I'll see to Amelia Bones for you....' Harry smiled weakly. Mrs. Weasley hugged him. 'We've all got our fingers crossed,' she said. 'Right,' said Harry. 'Well ... see you later then.' He followed Mr. Weasley upstairs and along the hall. He could hear Sirius's mother grunting in her sleep behind her curtains. Mr. Weasley unbolted the door and they stepped out into the cold, grey dawn. 'You don't normally walk to work, do you?' Harry asked him, as they set off briskly around the square. 'No, I usually Apparate,' said Mr. Weasley, 'but obviously you can't, and I think it's best we arrive in a thoroughly non-magical fashion ... makes a better impression, given what you're being disciplined for....' Mr. Weasley kept his hand inside his jacket as they walked. Harry knew it was clenched around his wand. The run-down streets were almost deserted, but when they arrived at the miserable little underground station they found it already lull of early-morning commuters. As ever when he found himself in close proximity to Muggles going about their daily business, Mr. Weasley was hard put to contain his enthusiasm. 'Simply fabulous,' he whispered, indicating the automatic ticket machines. 'Wonderfully ingenious.' 'They're out of order,' said Harry, pointing at the sign. 'Yes, but even so...' said Mr. Weasley, beaming at them fondly. They bought their tickets instead from a sleepy-looking guard (Harry handled the transaction, as Mr. Weasley was not very good with Muggle money) and five minutes later they were boarding an underground train that rattled them off towards the centre of London. Mr. Weasley kept anxiously checking and re-checking the Underground Map above the windows. 'Four stops, Harry ... three stops left now ... two stops to go, Harry...' They got off at a station in the very heart of London, and were swept from the train in a tide of besuited men and women carrying briefcases. Up the escalator they went, through the ticket barrier (Mr. Weasley delighted with the way the stile swallowed his ticket), and emerged on to a broad street lined with imposing-looking buildings and already full of traffic. 'Where are we?' said Mr. Weasley blankly, and for one heart-stopping moment Harry thought they had got off at the wrong station despite Mr. Weasley's continual references to the map; but a second later he said, 'Ah yes ... this way, Harry,' and led him down a side road. 'Sorry,' he said, 'but I never come by train and it all looks rather different from a Muggle perspective. As a matter of fact, I've never even used the visitors' entrance before.' The further they walked, the smaller and less imposing the buildings became, until finally they reached a street that contained several rather shabby-looking offices, a pub and an overflowing skip. Harry had expected a rather more impressive location for the Ministry of Magic. 'Here we are,' said Mr. Weasley brightly, pointing at an old red telephone box, which was missing several panes of glass and stood before a heavily graffitied wall. 'After you, Harry.' He opened the telephone-box door. Harry stepped inside, wondering what on earth this was about. Mr. Weasley folded himself in beside Harry and closed the door. It was a tight fit; Harry was jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal had tried to rip it off. Mr. Weasley reached past Harry for the receiver. 'Mr. Weasley, I think this might be out of order, too,' Harry said. 'No, no, I'm sure its fine,' said Mr. Weasley, holding the receiver above his head and peering at the dial. 'Let's see ... six...' he dialled the number, 'two ... four ... and another four ... and another two...' As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not from the receiver in Mr. Weasley's hand, but as loudly and plainly as though an invisible woman were standing right beside them. 'Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.' 'Er...' said Mr. Weasley, clearly uncertain whether or not he should talk into the receiver. He compromised by holding the mouthpiece to his ear, 'Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, here to escort Harry Potter, who has been asked to attend a disciplinary hearing....' 'Thank you,' said the cool female voice. 'Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.' There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appeared. He picked it up: it was a square silver badge with Harry Potter, Disciplinary Hearing on it. He pinned it to the front of his T-shirt as the female voice spoke again. 'Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium ' The floor of the telephone box shuddered. They were sinking slowly into the ground. Harry watched apprehensively as the pavement seemed to rise up past the glass windows of the telephone box until darkness closed over their heads. Then he could see nothing at all; he could hear only a dull grinding noise as the telephone box made its way down through the earth. After about a minute, though it felt much longer to Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes watering. 'The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,' said the woman's voice. The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr. Weasley stepped out of it, followed by Harry, whose mouth had fallen open. They were standing at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that kept moving and changing like some enormous heavenly noticeboard. The wall's on each side were panelled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right-hand side, short queues were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart. Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin and a house-elf. The last three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard. Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur's arrow, the tip of the goblin's hat, and each of the house-elf's ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of the Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, strode towards a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall. 'This way,' said Mr. Weasley. They joined the throng, wending their way between the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying tottering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases, still others were reading the Daily Prophet while they walked. As they passed the fountain Harry saw silver Sickles and bronze Knuts glinting up at him from the bottom of the pool. A small smudged sign beside it read: All proceeds from the fountain of magical brethren will be given to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries If I'm not expelled from Hogwarts, I'll put in ten Galleons, Harry found himself thinking desperately. 'Over here, Harry,' said Mr. Weasley, and they stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees heading for the golden gates. Seated at a desk to the left, beneath a sign saying SECURITY, a badly-shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet. 'I'm escorting a visitor,' said Mr. Weasley, gesturing towards Harry. 'Step over here,' said the wizard in a bored voice. Harry walked closer to him and the wizard held up a long golden rod, thin and flexible as a car aerial, and passed it up and down Harry's front and back. 'Wand,' grunted the security wizard at Harry, putting down the golden instrument and holding out his hand. Harry produced his wand. The wizard dropped it on to a strange brass instrument, which looked something like a set of scales with only one dish. It began to vibrate. A narrow strip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base. The wizard tore this off and read the writing on it. 'Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use four years. That correct?' 'Yes,' said Harry nervously. 'I keep this,' said the wizard, impaling the slip of parchment on a small brass spike. 'You get this back,' he added, thrusting the wand at Harry. 'Thank you.' 'Hang on....' said the wizard slowly. His eyes had darted from the silver visitor's badge on Harry's chest to his forehead. 'Thank you, Eric,' said Mr. Weasley firmly, and grasping Harry by the shoulder he steered him away from the desk and back into the stream of wizards and witches walking through the golden gates. Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr. Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind wrought golden grilles. Harry and Mr. Weasley joined the crowd around one of them. Nearby, stood a big bearded wizard holding a large cardboard box which was emitting rasping noises. 'All right, Arthur?' said the wizard, nodding at Mr. Weasley. 'What've you got there, Bob?' asked Mr. Weasley, looking at the box. 'We're not sure,' said the wizard seriously. 'We thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding to me.' With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Mr. Weasley stepped into the lift with the rest of the crowd and Harry found himself jammed against the back wall. Several witches and wizards were looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid catching anyone's eye, flattening his fringe as he did so. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift ascended slowly, chains rattling, while the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the telephone box rang out again. 'Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office.' The lift doors opened; Harry glimpsed an untidy-looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls. One of the wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and disappeared down the corridor. The doors closed, the lift juddered upwards again and the woman's voice announced: 'Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre.' Once again the lift doors opened and four or five witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several paper aeroplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up at them as they flapped idly around above his head; they were a pale violet colour and he could see MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edge of their wings. 'Just inter-departmental memos,' Mr. Weasley muttered to him. 'We used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable ... droppings all over the desks...' As they clattered upwards again the memos flapped around the lamp swaying from the lift's ceiling. 'Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.' When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed out with a few more of the witches and wizards, but several more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the lamp flickered and flashed overhead as they darted around it. 'Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau. ' 'S'cuse,' said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of memos. The doors clanged shut yet again. 'Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.' Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr. Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing on the floor. The remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upwards again, then the doors opened and the voice made its announcement. 'Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.' 'This is us, Harry,' said Mr. Weasley, and they followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined with doors. 'My office is on the other side of the floor.' 'Mr. Weasley,' said Harry, as they passed a window through which sunlight was streaming, 'aren't we still underground?' 'Yes, we are,' said Mr. Weasley. 'Those are enchanted windows. Magical Maintenance decide what weather we'll get every day. We had two months of hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay rise.... Just round here, Harry.' They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy oak doors and emerged in a cluttered open area divided into cubicles, which was buzzing with talk and laughter. Memos were zooming in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS. Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as they passed. The Aurors had covered their cubicle walls with everything From pictures of wanted wizards and photographs of their families, to posters of their favourite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily Prophet. A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer than Bill's was sitting with his boots up on his desk, dictating a report to his quill. A little further along, a witch with a patch over one eye was talking over the top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt. 'Morning, Weasley,' said Kingsley carelessly, as they drew nearer. 'I've been wanting a word with you, have you got a second?' 'Yes, if it really is a second,' said Mr. Weasley, 'I'm in rather a hurry.' They were talking as though they hardly knew each other and when Harry opened his mouth to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasly stood on his foot. They followed Kingsley along the row and into the very last cubicle. Harry received a slight shock; blinking down at him from every direction was Sirius's face. Newspaper cuttings and old photographs--even the one of Sirius being best man at the Potters' wedding--papered the walls. The only Sirius-free space was a map of the world in which little red pins were glowing like jewels. 'Here,' said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand. 'I need as much information as possible on flying Muggle vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We've received information that Black might still be using his old motorcycle.' Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added, in a whisper, 'Give him the magazine, he might find it interesting.' Then he said in normal tones, 'And don't take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs report held our investigation up for a month.' 'If you had read my report you would know that the term is "firearms",' said Mr. Weasley coolly. 'And I'm afraid you'll have to wait for information on motorcycles; we're extremely busy at the moment.' He dropped his voice and said, 'If you can get away before seven, Molly's making meatballs.' He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley's cubicle, through a second set of oak doors, into another passage, turned left, marched along another corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end, where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished brass plaque reading Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Mr. Weasley's dingy office seemed to be slightly smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had been crammed inside it and there was barely space to move around them because of all the overflowing filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were tottering piles of files. The little wall space available bore witness to Mr. Weasley's obsessions; there were several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to have cut out of Muggle children's books, and a diagram showing how to wire a plug. Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley's overflowing in-tray was an old toaster that was hiccoughing in a disconsolate way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were twiddling their thumbs. A photograph of the Weasley family stood beside the in-tray. Harry noticed that Percy appeared to have walked out of it. 'We haven't got a window,' said Mr. Weasley apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and placing it on the back of his chair. 'We've asked, but they don't seem to think we need one. Have a seat, Harry, doesn't look as if Perkins is in yet.' Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind Perkins's desk while Mr. Weasley riffled through the sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him. 'Ah,' he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, 'yes...' He flicked through it. 'Yes, he's right, I'm sure Sirius will find that very amusing--oh dear, what's this now?' A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccoughing toaster. Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, '"Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately." This is getting ridiculous ...' 'A regurgitating toilet?' 'Anti-Muggle pranksters,' said Mr. Weasley, frowning. 'We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything disappearing--well, you can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those--pumbles, I think they're called--you know, the ones who mend pipes and things.' 'Plumbers?' '--exactly, yes, but of course they're flummoxed. I only hope we can catch whoever's doing it.' 'Will it be Aurors who catch them?' 'Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it'll be the ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol--ah, Harry, this is Perkins.' A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white hair had just entered the room, panting. 'Oh, Arthur!' he said desperately, without looking at Harry. 'Thank goodness, I didn't know what to do for the best, whether to wait here for you or not. I've just sent an owl to your home but you've obviously missed it--an urgent message came ten minutes ago--' 'I know about the regurgitating toilet,' said Mr. Weasley. 'No, no, it's not the toilet, it's the Potter boy's hearing--they've changed the time and venue--it starts at eight o'clock now and it's down in old Courtroom Ten--' 'Down in old-- but they told me--Merlin's beard--' Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp and leapt from his chair. 'Quick, Harry, we should have been there five minutes ago!' Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry close on his heels. 'Why have they changed the time?' Harry said breathlessly, as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles; people poked out their heads and stared as they streaked past. Harry felt as though he had left all his insides back at Perkins's desk. 'I've no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, if you'd missed it, it would have been catastrophic!' Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the 'down' button. 'Come ON!' The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside. Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed furiously and pummelled the number nine button. 'Those courtrooms haven't been used in years,' said Mr. Weasley angrily. 'I can't think why they're doing it down there--unless--but no...' A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did not elaborate. 'The Atrium,' said the cool female voice and the golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The plump witch got out and a sallow-skinned wizard with a very mournful face got in. 'Morning, Arthur,' he said in a sepulchral voice as the lift began to descend. 'Don't often see you down here....' 'Urgent business, Bode,' said Mr. Weasley, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing anxious looks over at Harry. 'Ah, yes,' said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly. 'Of course.' Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more comfortable. 'Department of Mysteries,' said the cool female voice, and left it at that. 'Quick, Harry,' said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was quite different from those above. The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. Harry expected them to go through it, but instead Mr. Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight of steps. 'Down here, down here,' panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. 'The lift doesn't even come down this far ... why they're doing it down there...' They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to the one that led to Snape's dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes. 'Courtroom ... ten ... I think ... we're nearly ... yes.' Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark door with an immense iron lock and slumped against the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest. 'Go on,' he panted, pointing his thumb at the door. 'Get in there.' 'Aren't--aren't you coming with--?' 'No, no, I'm not allowed. Good luck!' Harry's heart was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam's apple. He swallowed hard, turned the heavy iron door handle and stepped inside the courtroom.