#the way his face crumples in the second one after Lucius asks his what if it’s not a death what if life just begins again 🥲✌️

[sheeple]

Miracles don't exist | 38: The day I lost you

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): idk man... lot happens here A/n: y'all are not gonna be happy with next week, let me tell you that [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

"Well, well. What brings you here, Potter?"

You whip around. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle stand with their wands pointed at the two of you.

Harry moves in front of you, handing you the diadem. "I could ask you the same."

"You have something of mine. I'd like it back." His eyes flicker towards the wand in Harry's hand. Oh… your cousin lost his wand to Harry? How interesting.

"Draco", you say cautiously, drawing the attention towards you. "Stop, please. Think for a moment. Is this really what you want? Or is this Uncle Lucius' ideas of the world?"

The blond's wand lowers for a moment before he renews his stance. "I have to… You know I have to." Sorrow fills his face briefly before it's gone and replaced with an angry sneer pointed at Harry.

"Come on, Draco", whispers Goyle, egging your cousin on. "Don't be a prat. Do him."

Draco seems to hesitate for a moment. His eyes flickered between Harry and you.

Suddenly, a spell gets cast from behind you and disarms Draco. You gasp, whipping around. Hermione and Ron are absolutely soaked and Hermione has a triumphant look on her face.

Goyle fires the killing curse at her and Hermione manages to deflect it. The three Slytherin boys run off with Ron in pursuit.

The diadem has managed to fly out of Harry's hands and landed on top of a pile of old furniture. The three of you climb and struggle against the tables and chairs and even a pair of couch cushions before Harry manages to finally grab the diadem.

Once back on the ground, you have not even a minute to collect yourself before Run comes running back, screaming something. "Goyle's set the bloody place on fire!", he yells out as he passes you, grabbing Hermione's hand and sprinting away.

A gigantic snake made of fire comes slithering around the corned and opens its beak. "Oh shit!", you yell and follow after Hermione and Ron.

The heat is scorching as flames fill the chamber. You conjure a wall of water but it boils almost immediately. Harry pulls you away before a fire dragon bakes you like a cake.

In the scuffle, the four of you have worked yourself to a dead end, fire on three sides and a wall of trunks on the other. You look around and spot a couple of brooms. You sigh deeply, knowing what needs to be done.

"Here!", you throw the brooms towards the others and you push yourself off. Don't look down. Don't look down. Don't look down.

"Come on! This way!" Ron points towards the exit, but your eyes catch something.

It's Daco! He has started to climb up a tower to escape the flames, but it's catching up to him. "Draco!", you yell, catching the attention of the blond. You steer your broom towards him and hold out your hand, ignoring the protest of the others.

The first time you miss, a panicked cry escapes you. The second time it's a success and you let Draco take the reigns of the broom.

You escape just barely thanks to Hermione and you come to a screeching halt outside of the chamber. Rolling over the ground, you manage to snatch Draco's leg and pull him towards you.

"You prick! You daft idiot! You bloody nitwit! You-!" A feeling like being stabbed before heat burning your insides makes you stop your assault. You crumple to the ground, gasping for air.

Something weird is happening. It's cold. So so cold. Doesn't matter that you've just escaped the fire pits of hell. You're freezing and Draco's hands scorch your skin.

He looks over you in concern, the same look in his eyes he had in the toilets last year. "What's happening?! Do something?!", he yells out to the Golden Trio.

The conversation that they have is muffled as you focus on your cousin. "Go", you whisper, clutching his arm. "Flee. Now is your chance."

Draco nods and starts sprinting away. Ron wants to chase him but your hand on his wrist stops him. You've managed to get yourself in a sitting position, resting against a wall. "Please."

Ron hesitates for a moment but stands down eventually. He goes to Hermione and wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"What's the plan next?", you ask, dusting off your pants. You're still unsteady on your feet but you need to continue.

"The snake", is all Harry says and you nod. Because you know. You've always felt her, deep down. The way she acted around you, all points towards her being a Horrcrux.

You nod and follow after them. They need every help they can get.

You're shooting spells left and right, disarming Death Eaters and pulling students out of danger's way. Sometimes a Death Eater recognises you. Some hesitate to attack you, others use unforgivables without a second thought. You make sure those get sent right back to their sender.

Eyes scanning across the stairway to check if it's safe, something catches your eye. Or rather… someone. Dark curls stick to a sweaty and bloody forehead as he is struck down by a Death Eater.

You can't stop yourself and call out his name. "THEODORE!" You raise your wand and with a powerful blast, the wizard that towered over him is disintegrated to dust.

Ignoring the calls for your name, you rush towards Theo and grab his face. Tears fill your eyes as you brush off the Death Eater dust, the rough texture of an outgrown stubble a new but welcome feeling. A laugh escapes you at the big, dumbfounded look he gives you.

With a trembling hand, he traces calloused fingertips over your lips. He seems mesmerised, not believing that it's really you. "You're just as beautiful as the day I lost you."

A sob escapes you before crashing your lips against his. Theo lets out a 'hmmpf!' before closing his eyes, a hand holding the back of your neck. Your hand travels from his chest to his face, cradling it and keeping him close.

For a moment, the two of you forget the war raging around you and just kiss like your life depends on it. It's only you and him back at the summer home. A low hum escapes you, and you feel Theo smile against your lips.

A spell exploding next to your faces makes the two of you jump up and you fling a spell back at the caster. You look back down to Theodore. His eyes are wide and his lips parted. Unconsciously you bite your bottom lip as you help him off the ground.

For a moment the two of you stare at each other before you snap out of it and begin to fight back to back. Your hands are clasped together as you pull each other out of harm's way.

As Theo pushes you to hide behind a pillar, something weird happens. The fighting stops.

The Dark Lord's voice echoes through your head and you clutch on tightly to Theo. "You have fought valiantly… but in vain, I do not wish this. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a terrible waste. I therefore command my forces to retreat. In their absence, dispose of your dead with dignity."

Theo clutches his head in pain as the speaking finally stops. Around you, Death Eaters disappear in clouds of black. The castle is destroyed and bodies litter the hallways.

"Are you okay? Nothing hurts?", you ask quickly, grabbing Theo's head in yours and wiping away dust. He gives you a small smile while holding your hands.

Looking around, you swallow thickly. "Let's… let's go to the Great Hall." Theo helps you over debris and down the stairs, his hands never leaving yours.

Once you've passed the threshold, your eyes scan around. Looking for familiar faces. Dead or alive. You see many classmates luckily alive. But also a few that haven't gotten so lucky. Swallowing thickly, you watch as Professor Trewlany covers Lavender Brown's lifeless body with a thick blanket.

A call of your and Theo's names pulls you away and Sirius comes limping towards the both of you. Letting out a relieved sigh, you rush towards the man and hug him.

"Oh praise Merlin. Glad you're alive. Both of you." Sirius holds you close while he clasps Theo's shoulder. "Good to see you, son."

"Likewise, sir", nods Theo.

For a moment, even if it's just brief, almost all the people you care about are safe with you. If you only knew where Draco ran off to…

Taglist (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry  @choppedpartymuffinwinner @ledtassoo @literallyobessed @lestat-whore​ @vanishingcherry @harrysnovia @pietrobae @ireallywannasleep127 @yeolsbubbles @fruityfrog505 @fluffybunnyu @theroyalmanatee @shinrjj @hegdus @kermits-bitch @m1kasawps @noah-uhhh-what @mypolicemanharryyy @fals3-g0d @decapitated-coffee @thatgirljas13 @slytherinambitious @raineisms @mastermindmiko @timmytime17 @regsg18 @supernatural-lover @bubybubsters @lafrone @hermionelove @the-sander-fander @akengii @aliciacat20 @unstablereader @burns-in-the-sun @rachelnicolee @damagelove @mqndrqke @llpovi @clairesjointshurt @222244445555 @jolly4holly @padf00ts-l0ver @fandom-life-12 @prettyb1tchsblog @pari-1 @f14ever @nopedefe @randomgurl2326 @rinalouu @yazminetrahan @ellen3101 @comfyvic

[colorsunimaginable]

the spare // chapter fifty-seven // death eater ! tom hiddleston oc x plus size ofc - voldemort wins au

story summary: 

While on a mission to avenge the death of her best friend, Ilvermorny graduate Melisa Alder finds herself in the middle of the fight to defeat Voldemort. Upon capture after the Dark Lord's triumph, she's being sold at an auction with other muggle borns and blood traitors. Her only hope is also her only bidder - the tall, dark, and handsome Thomus Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's younger half-brother. Is he just another Death Eater or is he hiding more than just his face beneath the mask? Will she realize her true potential to be one of the resistance's greatest weapons?

*a Voldemort Wins AU with Tom Hiddleston cast as an OC x a plus size protagonist* *takes place in The Auction universe by Lovesbitca8*

word count for this chapter: 2.5k warings for this chapter: none

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Chapter Fifty-Seven:

The next time I wake my body is entirely too stiff. When I open my eyes, it’s barely morning, everything beyond the doorway of the dog house tinted blue.

I’m warm, though, really warm. I’m wrapped up in something, cocooned. Based on smell alone, I realize it’s Thomus’ cloak. He’s behind me, arm over my stomach, legs tucked tight behind mine. I can feel his deep even breathing, hear it next to my head on the throw pillow we’re somehow sharing.

Slowly, I lift his arm, scooching out of his embrace and the cloak without disturbing his sleep. I push up onto my hands and knees, crawling out onto the damp grass. Then I stand and stretch, thrusting my hands into the sky. I bend down to touch my toes and notice the golden choker discarded a few feet from the dog house, like it was tossed there without care. Good.

When I straighten, I’m shocked to see an owl perched on the back of a patio chair. It’s got a definitive circle around it’s white face and pitch black eyes the size of marbles. I freeze and we just stare at each other for a hot second before the owl’s hackles start to rise, it’s wings restless.

“Shh,” I coo softly at it, taking a step forward. The owl’s head twists to an almost unnatural angle as it shoves one foot forward while balancing on the other, and I realize it’s got a scroll tied to it.  

I glance back at Thomus to make sure he’s still passed out before rushing to the owl and taking the scroll. As soon as the scroll’s in my head, the owl departs. While my fingers fumble with opening the scroll, my eyes follow its flight path into the trees towards the creek. When it’s gone, my eyes scan the paper.

meet me at the creek – KG

K.G… Kyle... Goldman? It’s gotta be.

With the paper crumpled in my fist, I make my way through the damp grass to the path to the creek. I check over my shoulder every few seconds and don’t stop until the cottage is no longer visible beyond the trees.

Next to the creek I walk slower, my eyes scanning for movement, for anything out of place… for a disillusionment charm.

And there, on a fallen tree across the creek, the familiar shimmer catches my eye. I stop and stare at it, crossing my arms over my chest.

“What do you want?” I ask, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the bubbling water, but soft enough my voice won’t carry to the cottage.

Kyle chuckles as he sheds the disillusionment charm. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

“Thomus could wake up at any moment and will wonder where I am, so make this quick.”

He just stares, quietly assessing me without the humor from a moment ago. “I wanted an update on the magic suppression situation.”

I bite my lip. I don’t wanna lie, but I have a feeling he isn’t going to like the truth.

“It’s… fine.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Just… fine?”

“The ones you gave me, didn’t really affect me, especially the third one. The batch he was giving me was already stronger than what they were giving us at the start.”

“That’s what I’d given you. I’d managed to scrounge up some left over vials from a contact at the Ministry.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How did the stronger batch affect you?”

I shift my feet, trying to adjust to where the rocks aren’t killing me. “Three days was the minimum, but it was easy to do magic than when I’d tried any other time.”

“Well, that’s great,” he says, clearly pleased. “Do you think you’ll be able to do it in less than three days?”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

The satisfied look on his face disappears as his eyes narrow and he frowns. But I go on.

“I don’t know because Malfoy had been… suspicious, and so he made it stronger.”

“Did you give him a reason to be suspicious?”

“Not really,” I shrug. “I think he’d believed I was using Occlumency.”

“How long is it taking you with the new batch?”

I shrug again. “Today’s the third day, so I don’t know yet. I’ve only taken the new batch once.”

He gives me an expectant look. “Try it right now, then.”

I hold out my hand, palm up. I stare at my palm, wordlessly trying to cast the illumination charm. The familiar ball of light doesn’t appear and I don’t bother trying to cast the spell verbally.

With his eyes on me, the anxiety in my chest is pounding in beat with my heart. I get down on one knee, touching my fingers to the damp ground.

“Electrovis,” I mutter, but the heat that usually pour from my fingers with the spell doesn’t come. I repeat the spell and wind up with the same effect. My fingers are even colder than they were before actually.

“Does it come out under pressure?” he asks. “Say if you were in a situation where you needed it, if your life was in danger.”

“It’s a mixed bag with that one,” I admit, standing and brushing the crud off my calf. “My magic doesn’t seem to care how much danger I think I’m in.”

“So, theoretically, let’s say Dementors attacked you, you don’t think that would be any sort of catalyst?”

When I straighten, it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him. He’s looking at me calmly, without any sort of misgivings about what he said.

“Dementors?” I ask, my voice flat. Thomus had been sure it wasn’t Bellatrix, but he hadn’t been sure about Rodolphus. Meanwhile I think Rodolphus wouldn’t send a third party, at least not with me, at least not after what happened.

But Kyle?

“Did you send them?” I ask, point blank. “The Dementors?”

He releases a humorless laugh and breaks our eye contact. “I guess my question wasn’t subtle.”

“And I’m not an idiot.” I want to scream at him. How could he? “Why did you send them?” I demand angrily.

“It was just a test,” he says smoothly.

“A fucking dangerous one!” I hiss. “Thomus almost –“ I stop, breathing heavily through my nose to calm down. “It was fucking pointless. I already had my magic. Now that’s the reason he made the potion stronger.”

His head tilts, his tone is accusatory. “You exposed yourself.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I bite. “Malfoy can’t produce a Patronus charm.”

“Most Death Eaters can’t from what I’ve heard,” he shrugs. “Too much dark magic.”

“So you knew there was a possibility we’d both die?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to perform under pressure,” he says casually. “The threat of rape didn’t seem to be a strong enough motivator.”

My jaw actually drops this time. “What the actual –“  

He ignores me. “As it happens, the test didn’t prove to be fruitless. There’d been a few things I hadn’t anticipated.”

“Like what?” I fume.

“Malfoy’s a liability,” he states. “You care for him and because of that, you’ll need to be separated.”

My mouth falls open again, but I quickly shut it, my mind whirling. “How is that the conclusion?”

“The attack proved that you will risk the entire operation by exposing yourself just to save him.”

The new perspective on the situation has me stunned and momentarily speechless.

“Severing ties with Malfoy will be the only way to get you close to Voldemort.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “There has to be another option besides his death.”

He starts shaking his head. “There is no –“

“If you want me to cooperate, then he stays alive. If you don’t know how to do that, figure it out.” As I glare at him, I hope then venom in my voice conveys my seriousness.

He stands, glaring right back. “This war has to end.”

“No shit Sherlock,” I snap. “Answer me this, do you know how I’m gonna get close to Voldemort?”

“The first step is severing –“

“Ties with Malfoy, yeah, okay, what’s after that? Do you know who’s going to buy me? Is it you?”

He scoffs, pinching the bridge between his nose. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters.

“Oh, so that’s something else you need to figure out.” I bring my hands together and give him a fake ass smile. “Great. So while you do that, I’ll work on my immunity to the suppression potion. You got that?”

He scowls with his hands on his hips, looking absolutely done with me. Well, the feeling’s fucking mutual.

“Got it,” he snaps.

“Great,” I repeat and turn my back to him, heading for the cottage. I hear rustling leaves and when I glance back, Kyle’s gone.

I get to the edge of the woods and pause, needing a moment to calm down. I’m too worked up for it being, what – barely 8 in the morning? Though I guess I have good reason to be worked up. From Rodolphus’ attack to being chained up while Bellatrix holds a knife to me seems like enough.

After calming a bit, I march up the back yard. Thomus isn’t in the dog house when I get to the patio. In fact, the dog house isn’t even there. All that remains is a square outline pressed in the grass from where it used to be. The chains and choker had been gathered up as well.

I wish this didn’t upset me. I know what happened last night, but seeing it in the morning hasn’t made anything better. I still feel… crushed.

I go inside and upstairs. I’m in need of a shower after sleeping outside in a wooden box.

Thomus has just finished his, as evidenced by the steamy bathroom. As I turn on the faucet and showerhead, I’m already mentally cursing him for potentially not leaving me any hot water.

“Enjoy your walk?” Thomus asks from the open door to his room. He walks into view, dressed in slim pants and an open belt, toweling off his hair. “The mornings are pretty here.”

I close the door to my room and walk over to his. “It was fine,” I reply without looking at him before closing and locking the door.

~*~

After my shower, I find Thomus downstairs with two mugs of steaming coffee already on the table. He’s gathering what looks like the makings of scrambled eggs. I don’t acknowledge him and shove two slices of bread into the toaster.

“Would you like me to make you an omelet?” he asks, his tone a little unsure.

“Nope,” I say, moving around him to pour cream and sugar into my coffee.

Normally, I’d probably sit and watch him try to make an omelet. As far as I know, he can’t cook, but I’m not in the mood.

“I see.” He sounds disappointed.

I grab a plate, butter, and a butter knife just before the toast pops up, and all without really looking at him.

Is this childish? Sure. Do I know what to do with how I feel? Not at all. Do I even know what I'm upset about? No sir-eee.

With my toast buttered and my coffee creamed, I head into the living room and settle on the couch to re-watch Ever After for the millionth time.

The blue titles have just faded in and out when Thomus emerges from the kitchen, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorway. I only see him in my peripheral, preferring to keep my focus on the screen.

“Need something?” I ask after taking a sip of my coffee.

“There’s a dinner on Friday,” he says. “A… familial one, at the Lestrange estate.”

The one slice of toast I’d managed to consume in the last ten minutes turns to lead in my stomach. I grab the remote and pause the movie, finally looking at Thomus. “What do you mean familial?”

“My brother, nephew, Narcissa,” he trails off. “The in-laws.”

“Why?”

“It is… at the Dark Lord’s request.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Weird, but okay. Guess I’m serving again?”

He inhales sharply. “Bella expressed her desires for all our Lots to be in attendance. You, Granger, and Rabastan’s Lot.”

“Well, fan-fucking-tastic,” I deadpan. I bring my attention back to the TV and hover my finger over the play button. “Is that all?”

He takes a few steps into the room, his eyes bouncing from the TV to me. “What are you watching?”

"A movie.”

“Would you mind if I joined you?”

An instinctual heavy sigh releases from my chest. “Don’t you have any Death Eatering to be doing?”

Thomus stands straighter, hands coming out of his pockets. “What’s your problem?”

I hit play and the main orchestral theme blares from the speakers. “Nothing.”

I feel rather than see him scowl at me before promptly turning on his heel and storming into the office.

~*~

He stays in there all day, only leaving to use the bathroom. He asks – no, demands based on his tone – for me to make him a sandwich a little after noon. I sloppily slap something together that I guess one could call a sandwich and I don’t even bother knocking on the office door before barging in and slamming the plate down on his desk.

Around the time I normally make dinner, my depression has gotten so bad that the only thing I have for dinner is an early bed-time. So by 7 pm I’m in bed with the lights off, hugging a pillow to my chest.

I don’t know how long I lie there, pretending to sleep, but I know it’s not long enough when I hear Thomus calling my name from outside my door. He opens it and steps in, taking in the darkness of the room.

“Go away,” I say, pulling the comforter tighter to my chin.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks. To my annoyance, he steps in further, and I hear the door close.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, putting a hand on my ankle. I pull it away.

“Why don’t you come stay in my room?” he asks gently.

My response is quick. “I don’t want to.”

“May I –“

“No, I don’t want you here either.” I turn away from him, hugging the pillow even tighter.

He’s silent for a while before speaking again. “I’m not going to feign ignorance as to why you’re upset, but I just – “

“I’m not upset,” I interrupt. “I’m just tired.”

“I didn’t fuck her.”

His words punctuate the silence that follows, so much conviction in his tone that for a moment I’m speechless. I’m absolutely stunned that he slammed the nail on the head when I couldn’t even do it myself. My chest is heavy and hollow at the same time with that all too familiar ache. Only I know now why it aches.

“I didn’t ask.”

I don’t know if he’s being truthful and I don’t know if I really even want the truth.

He slowly exhales, his voice soft. "Okay."

My lip quivers, but I manage to hold back any tears as he quietly makes his exit. 

[werewolf-transgenderism]

Images That Immediately Deliver Psychic Damage

[seriouslysnape]

Hopeless Romantic

__

Lucius Malfoy x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Implications of sex, Language.

Word Count: 1,634

“I see you found one of my messages.”

__

Even Lucius would admit, he wasn’t very in touch with his romantic side. The love language of Lucius Malfoy was physical touch, have no doubt about that. He felt that if his hands were on you, then he was displaying his care and adoration in the only way he knew how. However, after spending more and more time with you, he learned that there were other ways to show his affection.

Words of affirmation were definitely one that stunned him. You were always telling him how you were proud of him and how you admired him. At first, he tried to ignore the way his heart did a little leap whenever you spoke to him this way. It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, which wasn’t always normal for him. He’d find himself going back to those moments, smiling off into space at how it made him feel. 

Lucius had never been a “flowers on Valentine’s Day” kind of guy. His hands being on your body or his fingers running through your hair or even just brushing by you when he walked by was his way of showing his love. While that was always great and appreciated, he just didn’t understand yet that you needed more than that. 

You had mentioned it a time or two before that you needed to hear his love for you and see it. Lucius became rather irritated, thinking that you were just being overly clingy and ungrateful. Lucius was a VERY proud man, and it was rare for him to ever doubt the way he did things. If you weren’t satisfied with him, then that was a you problem in his eyes. 

While it was incredibly frustrating that he never showed his devotion any other way, you understood that Lucius didn’t know how to. Over time, you were able to identify that his lingering touches and passionate kisses were his way. So, you accepted it and moved on.

Despite this, Lucius began to notice something new. You had accompanied him at a dinner party of sorts, enjoying the company of others and taking that much deserved social time. Lucius had been standing with you, his hand on the small of your back when he caught the conversation you had been having with one of the guests. She was telling you about how her husband had started writing her love notes, and leaving them around the house for her to find later.

Lucius almost audibly scoffed at the thought of such a cheesy idea, but he stopped himself when he saw the way your eyes brightened in a not-so subtle way. You gushed and gawked with your friend for the next ten minutes, going on and on about how romantic that was. Lucius was surprised that you had such a reaction to the idea, and he suddenly began to see just what you had been talking about. 

He spent the rest of the evening thinking about it, wondering if he could pull off the same exact thing. He was confident at first, because how hard could it be to put his love into words? He didn’t realize just how challenging it would be until he had been sitting at his large desk for almost thirty minutes, quill in hand, and the paper completely blank. He was surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper that had been discarded, none of them proving to be successful drafts.

He couldn’t think of a solitary thing to say, or even how to say it. It seemed that his penmanship skills were less than perfect. He was growing more and more aggravated with each passing moment. This shouldn’t be this hard. He was crazy about you, so why couldn’t he string together a damn sentence?

He tossed his quill back onto the desk, ready to give in to defeat. He sighed harshly, his eyes roaming over his previous attempts that were scattered in front of him. His gaze wandered to a gold-framed photograph that he kept at the front of his desk. He picked it up, letting out a soft chuckle as he remembered the day it was taken. 

It was a rather candid picture, which was much different than any of his other images of you, but it was his favorite. It was a bit of a secret hobby of Lucius Malfoy, but he had a glimmer of interest in photography. You were often the subject of his pictures, sometimes they were fully staged and sometimes not. He might take pictures of you just cuddled up next to him on the sofa, or sometimes he’d have you model for him to take more sultry, provocative pictures (that he kept stashed away in a locked drawer in his desk for his sole viewing pleasure).

He glanced over the finer details of the framed picture. The way you looked so glowy and gorgeous. Your eyes sparkled a little more and your skin looked heavenly. His mind wandered to how he loved to touch you as a reminder that you were there with him. How he cherished the way you snuggled up next to him when you were cold or wanted attention. Before he knew it, he was thinking about all the things he loved about you. Exactly the things he wanted to put into words.

He quickly picked his quill back up before he lost his stroke of genius. He wrote like a madman, writing one to three sentences on each piece of parchment before moving on to the next one. He used a lot of the things that you said to him on a daily basis to help him along. He was on a roll after a few minutes, pushing out at least five or six little notes to leave around the house. He planted them in various places, and considering his residence was massive, he had plenty of spaces.

He was proud of himself, but hoping that you would find them endearing. He wasn’t home when you found the first two. The first had been stashed into the novel you were currently reading, falling onto your lap when you opened the book. You raised a brow at the parchment that you identified as Lucius’ personalized stationery. You opened the folded note, reading it so many times because you were sure that you were dreaming.

[Y/N],

Your heart is as pure as the words written on these pages. I love you for being my greatest story.

Lucius.

You were totally shocked. Surely, this wasn’t YOUR Lucius that had written this? The same Lucius Malfoy that sneered at anything even remotely commercially romantic? This was a textbook definition, straight out of a romantic Muggle movie that he would never be caught dead watching. You were filled with joy, an amazing feeling of care rushing over you. It was a wonderful surprise, one that you would keep close to you. 

While the first one was a shocker, the second one was three times that. An hour or so later, you entered the bathroom to take a shower when you caught a glimpse of the small piece of parchment tucked into the corner of the mirror. You plucked it into your grasp, a blinding smile appearing on your face.

My love, 

I hope you find this with a smile on your face, the same one that I have undoubtedly fallen in love with. I love you for being the light of my life.

Lucius.

This one caused tears to prick at your eyes. You were overwhelmed with emotions. You had watched Lucius become “soft” over the years and watched him comply with your needs. Seeing HIS handwriting, writing THESE words that he put together was a gorgeous thing. You wiped away at the happy tears streaming your face when you heard someone enter the connecting bedroom. Sure enough, the man in question appeared in the doorway. A grin appeared on his face when he saw you holding the note.

“I see you found one of my messages.” Lucius said, approaching you at the bathroom counter. 

“I’ve found two...how many are there?” You asked, even more gleeful that you might have more to find.

He hummed thoughtfully.

“Quite a few,” He admitted, snaking an arm around your waist. His smile disappeared when he saw the faint tracks of tears on your cheeks; “Have you been crying, darling?”

He swiped at your damp cheeks, a soft giggle escaping your lips.

“Yeah, but happy tears. I wasn’t expecting this at all, Luc.” You confessed, resting your hands on the collar of his shirt.

He felt his heart melt. He never knew how something so simple would touch you like this. You deserved to feel worshipped and appreciated, and if this was the way he needed to do it, then so be it. 

“I meant everything I said. I do love you. Even if I don’t always say it.” He said, holding your face in his hand.

“I love you, Lucius. I’m proud of you.” You said. 

Oh, there it was. His favorite words of encouragement. He smiled again, listening as you carried on.

“Even if you don’t say it a lot, you always show me,” You said in a seductive tone; “And, oh, do you show it well.” 

His smile faded into more of a smirk. His first instinct to pick you up and place you on the counter, stepping between your legs and leaving hot kisses on your neck. Before he progressed further, he stopped.

“Wait, don’t you want to find the rest of them?” He asked, figuring you’d rather do that instead.

You shrugged. While you did totally want to, you could spare a few minutes for this. You kissed him in response, replying before making sweet love with him.

“Yeah, but I want you more.”

[gryffindors-weasley]

Promises

Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: After you have an unpleasant encounter with Lucius Malfoy, it leaves Draco in fear of losing you. Though he can’t seem to keep himself from you.

Requested by @kiiramalfoy : “i would like to order something with Draco where the reader is Slytherin, and they date, and Draco’s father hurts the reader, and Draco cries a lot for fear of losing her.”

Warnings: mentions of injury, scars, anxiety, fluff

A/N: Thank you for the lovely request!

You exhaled a quiet sigh, one of many that afternoon though the sun was beginning to dip lower into the sky and turn over to evening. It’s golden rays still cast its beauty, however, coloring everything it had landed on in varying hues of a warm orange the more time that goes by. It had always been your favorite time of day for that very reason, that and it was when you could spend most of your time with Draco.

His midnight black blazer had long since been discarded in a crumpled heap in the grass next to you, the top two buttons of its matching dresshirt undone and its corresponding tie loosened around his neck. The light breeze caused a ripple in the water of the Black Lake, the edge not more than a few feet from where the two of you resided against the same old tree you claimed as your own.

This very location was one the two of you had claimed as a whole for that matter, a place that was secluded and nearly unfrequented by most. Despite that fact, Draco had always felt he’d been a target for prying eyes as of late, but he couldn’t seem to keep himself away from you for very long. He’d tried. He’d tried so hard to withdraw himself and keep you away, if only to keep you safe was his reasoning. But his reasoning quickly became overshadowed by his desperate need to be near you, to be with you. So he broke the promise he made to himself not long after it was made.

He lay in the grass with his head in your lap while you sat there, tucked comfortably between the thick roots of the familiar old oak tree. Unseen grass stains litter his black slacks but he couldn’t bring himself to care about such trivial things, instead focusing on the warmth of the sun on his skin or the sweet smell of your perfume wafting his way every time the wind blew. A few stray stars had begun to twinkle directly above the two of you as evening slowly crept in, lightning bugs flickering like glowing yellow dots along the waters edge as they flutter aimlessly through taller blades of grass.

Your hand had been absentmindedly running through his hair as you read a new book, making sure to miss the few sections where a wildflower or two was carefully woven into it. They offered a burst of color in contrast to the iciness of his hair. It took everything in him not to fall asleep at the comforting feeling, because he wanted to take in every single second he had with you in fear that there wouldn’t be more. Though sometimes the task of staying awake wasn’t very difficult when his hair pokes in his eyes or you gasp upon reading something surprising in your book, your hand pausing its movement right over top of his face. Still, he wouldn’t trade these moments for the world.

“Are you going to talk to me, Love?” He asks softly, peeking one eye open to look at you.

“After this chapter, Draco,” you say, though you weren’t entirely sure what he’d said, your eyes focused on the tattered pages as you run your hand down his cheek gently.

“You’ve said that three chapters ago,” he huffs, though he isn’t truly angry.

He sits up quickly, the sudden movement causing the delicate petals once tucked in his hair to tumble lightly to the ground like feathers. You laugh down at your book and shake your head, turning to the next page. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, another to your jaw, smiling softly when he sees the pink blush beginning to appear on your skin. However, your attention doesn’t seem to falter from the pages you read from, so he kisses your cheek once more before settling his head on your shoulder with a sigh.

His smile widens a fraction when he feels you rest your head on his though, the small action appeasing his need for your attention momentarily. He takes in his surroundings, the reflection of the pointed rooftops of the castle not too far away, rippled and distorted on the lake. The puffy clouds colored with pinks and oranges and yellows, and the grass swaying gently in the breeze. Yet with all the beauty set out right in front of him, it all paled in comparison to you. And surely someone had to have been wondering where the two of you had been all day, but that wasn’t of any importance to him.

Truthfully, he’d abandon any and all things just to be with you.

His attention is soon focused on your hand, more-so the scar that rests atop it. His fingers brush over the pale scarlet splotch on the back of your hand, one that blossoms slightly further up your arm. One that he’s cast numerous Episkey spells on, and several healing potions gathered from Madam Pomfrey. But not even his rather vast knowledge on healing could permanently fix it. He doesn’t think it makes you any less radiant, never, but he remains horrified by the means of how it’d been put there. His very own father. The thought still taunts him with each day that passes and he fears it might never go away.

7 Months Ago

You walked through Diagon Alley in search of the few items left on your list in preparation for your seventh year. It wasn’t as extensive nor did it feel as important, but you still wanted to go. The pathways were crowded with excited young students experiencing this place for the first time. Though you weren’t as worried this time around because you had taken this trip by yourself now that you had been old enough to.

You were startled by the firm grip placed heavily upon your shoulder, your gaze quickly and dreadfully meeting icy blue eyes when you look to your left.

“Mind if I have a word?” Lucius asks, his smile far from friendly.

Of course he knew you’d be there, and you were starting to regret coming here alone.

You swallow thickly, though you remain calm as you try and control the spike in your heart rate. You barely have the time to give a nod in response before he veers off into an unfrequented alleyway, the sneer on his face now completely gone in favor of a more hardened expression.

“Do you think I am blind to what you have been doing?”

Your eyebrows knit together in faux confusion. “Blind to what?”

His jaw clenched at your apparently clueless words and he took a step closer. His stare was intense as he seemingly towered over you, as if he was reaching into the very depths of your soul to pull out whatever secrets you may have been keeping. Ones you fought desperately for him to be unaware of. “Whatever it is you think you have with my son must come to an end.”

Your heart had froze in your chest at the statement, and you clench your fists at your sides to keep your trembling hands from becoming obvious to the man in front of you. “I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about, Mr. Malfoy.”

He laughs bitterly, his eyes scanning your expression as if he could detect the very fact that you were lying. You took a step back from him. “You are merely a distraction and nothing more, you would only bring disgrace to the contuation of the Malfoy name and you know it. You’ve already brought shame to yourself.”

You try not to let his words have any affect on you, though the task is proving to be far more difficult than expected as stinging tears press just behind your eyes. But still, you were becoming angry at his taunting words as he tried to antagonize you. “How so?”

You’re startled by his sudden grip on your wrist, and he tugs it up to eye level. “You might have the purest magic running through your veins, but that does not make you worthy of anything at all. You and your family’s infamy and regrettable choice to defy the Sacred 28 have no place here, you don’t belong,” He says, teeth gritting, “Either you listen to my words now or I’ll just have to do something about it. Won’t I?”

You flinch at his harsh words as you try and pull yourself from his grasp. It only tightens, unrelenting as his nails dig into your skin and you suppressed the urge to cry out. However, it still hadn’t stopped you from speaking your mind.

“Regrettable? My families morals and their ability to defy your terrible ideals and not frown upon individuals you deem to be less than you is not regrettable. At least my family knows what love and kindness is,” you quip, narrowing your eyes up at him.

You watch the anger twist his face into a threatening glare, the pressure on your wrist almost becoming too much to bear. It felt as though it’d snap in two if it got any tighter and you couldn’t suppress your tears as one rolls down your flushed cheek.

“What are you doing?” A voice sounds behind you.

You glance over your shoulder to find Draco, having difficulty masking his surge of emotions as he catches sight of the tears lining your eyes. Then his eyes bounce to his fathers face, furious and so full of venom he couldn’t bring himself hold his stare. Then his eyes landed on your arm.

His worst nightmares seemed to have been coming true right before his very eyes, and he mulled over his next actions quickly. If he protects you from his father, it’d confirm the relationship the two of you held in secret and he would more than likely lose you. If he doesn’t, he’d singlehandedly destroy your trust and lose you that way. The thought made him sick to his stomach and his head spun with worry as he made up his mind.

“Relashio!” Draco utters, his fathers grip on you faltering. You tug your arm away and rush to his side, though your attempt isn’t all too easy.

A searing pain scorches the back of your hand, the sensation traveling up the top of your wrist as you recoil your hand to your chest and peer out from behind Draco. The flames extinguish from the wand in Lucius’ hand just as quickly as they appeared, the very flames that kissed your skin in his spiteful attempt to hurt you. To scare his son with the consequences of his love for you. The horror was apparent on Draco’s face as he drops his wand, looking at his father through glossy eyes.

“Draco, you’re doing it again,” you sigh quietly, marking your page before closing your book and setting it aside for the first time since you’ve been out there.

“Doing what, darling?”

“You’re thinking about it again. You’ve got that look you always have when you do,” you say, knowing he’d try and convince you otherwise. “I know that look.”

His thumb brushes ever so gently against your hand despite the tension in his jaw as it clenches. He closes his eyes and takes a breath to steady his emotions. “Sorry.”

You sigh lightly and press a chaste kiss to the corner of his jaw, lingering there for a few moments before you spoke up softly. “I’ve dealt with worse, you know.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He asks, more so a scoff, the idea of you experiencing anything worse than that moment making his stomach churn and twist in knots. He turns to look at you with furrowed brows and a slight frown, though you remain positive.

“Ideally yes,” you say with a soft laugh, one that makes his heart flutter in his chest as you take his hand in yours, “though I take it it’s not working.”

He’s quiet after that, frustration simmering in his stomach as he tries to control his temper for your sake. His gaze shifts to the sky above him once more as he rests his head back on the crumbling bark of the decades old tree. It’s not his fault, not entirely and he knows that. You knew that. It was his fathers doing and if he had been there sooner he wouldn’t have let it happen. You knew he’d protect you, right?

He could only hope that you knew he’d endure a lifetime of pain just so you never had to experience a single drop ever again. It was risky of him to defy the promise he made to his father, never to see you again. It was a deal he’d made before storming back to his room in a bout of angry tears that persisted for the entirety of the night. He doesn’t believe he’d cried over anything at all quite like this. But you’ve etched yourself in every part of him so much so it’s made it impossible to deny the profound love he feels for you. He could only last three weeks without you once your final school year had started again, barely that, his lingering stares only increasing his longing for you until he cracked.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of you twisting the ring around his finger, the cold silver band sending a shiver up his arm. It’s a habit you’ve picked up, he hadn’t been sure of where it came from, but you did it. Much like the way you often button and unbutton the cuffs of his dress shirts; he can’t remember how many he’s had to replace because they eventually fall off.

Regardless, he doesn’t mind the habit, but the very ring you’re playing with is one he’s grown to dislike considerably. The swirling metallic snake only reminds him of his father, his family, and the mistakes he’s made up to this point. Most notably, what it’s put you through. He’ll get another ring for you to twirl, but he cannot bear wearing this one a moment longer.

He slips it off his finger and stands to his feet abruptly, walking over to the waters edge.

“What are you doing?” You ask curiously, getting up and wandering to his side. You watch as he examines the ring, running his thumb over the silver snake curling across the front.

He lifts his hand and throws the ring, watching as it bounces once across the shimmering water before disappearing with a small splash. His lip curled up in anger as he grabbed his tie, hastily plucking the matching house pin from the black fabric and throwing it with more vigor. It goes farther than the last, though the action does very little to release the animosity towards his father.

“Draco stop,” you say, grabbing his arm and turning him to face you. It wasn’t until the water calmed again that he looked at you again. His chest heaved slightly, cheeks tinged a soft pink as he stares down at you.

Tears line his eyes as he stands before you. “I don’t want to stop. I want to rid myself of everything that has to do with this place.”

“Would you just calm down? For me?” You ask quietly, offering a patient smile as you grabbed his hands gingerly. “Being angry and upset isn’t making matters any better, Draco. You’re only souring your mood.”

You reach up and wipe a frustrated tear before it could fully roll down his flushed cheek, your thumb tracing over it in a way that set him at ease almost immediately. He closes his eyes as he finds himself leaning into your touch, trying to focus on the warmth of your hand on his skin rather than the anger pressing insistently within his chest.

You have a way of doing that, he realizes. He feels you could take any situation, no matter how miserable, and make it brighter. You could take his sorrows and change them to utter happiness. Perhaps that’s why he was so attached to you. You’d always be there to keep him from sinking, it didn’t take much effort on your end. He could get through anything if you were there to pull him through it.

“How are you so care free? About all this?” He asks once he’s calmed down a bit, both intrigued and envious as he brushes your hair behind your ear. The tips of his fingers trace down your neck, grasping the green tie dangling from it softly as he sighs, his hand running down your arm until it envelops your own tenderly.

You smile up at him, the contours of his face becoming more apparent the lower the sun sets in the sky. “I’ve spent the entirety of my life under scrutiny for my family’s choice one way or another,” you start, brushing the blonde strand away that dipped in his eyes. “It grows tiring after a while, and you learn to tune it out.”

His crease between his brows deepens slightly as you wrap your arms around his neck, his arms quick to hold you close to him with the intention of keeping you there for a long while.

“Words only hurt you if you allow them to, Draco. It’s not always going to be easy, but it’s true,” you say, reaching up to smooth the worry between his dark brows before your hand slides down to rest on his chest, the other tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m scared for the future, I think we all are. But I want to focus on what’s here right now. With you.”

A soft smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, another to your jaw, and perhaps the softest just below your ear. Your perfume was sweet and enchanting as it flooded his senses and left him lingering there for a few fleeting moments, his remaining anger subsiding completely.

“Tell me we’ll be okay,” he asks, barely just above a whisper. His reluctantly pulls away from the crook of your neck, pale blue eyes bouncing around every inch of your face in search of doubt.

You smile sweetly at him, gaze flickering up to his eyes before you lean on your toes and press your lips on his, gentle yet firm as your hands settle on his cheeks. Any traces of tension he had left dissolves in that very moment, his arms caging you tightly against him as your shirt crinkles under his grip. It’s as if nothing else mattered, and to him nothing ever mattered more than you. When you parted, he chased after your lips for another kiss, soft yet full of love as he smiled softly.

“We’ll be okay.”

—

[preciousthingsareprecious]

Hearts Pounding and Blood Coursing

I am back with yet another D&d week fic! Is everything I write going to be set in Dick as Batman times? Maybe. Maybe. This one certainly is. 

Dami Calls Dick “Baba” / First “I love you” / “You’re not my father!” “I am well aware.”

Summary: When Batman goes missing on patrol, it's up to Robin and Batgirl to track him down. Will they fall into the same trap he did, or make it out in one piece?

AO3 Link

~

The old warehouse looked ready to collapse in on itself any second. Damian wondered why Gotham was so littered with them. He’d told Grayson a hundred times that they needed to do something about them. Wayne Enterprises could surely step in and repair them or rebuild them or do anything to prevent them from becoming hives of villainy as they were wont to do in Gotham. 

Grayson. Damian’s chest tightened. Grayson would not be able to talk Lucius into anything if they did not rescue him soon. The stupid man had gone on patrol alone and had not returned. Thus it was up to Batgirl and Robin to rescue him. 

“You ready, Baby Bat?” 

“Call me that again and I will paint that horrible motorbike of yours a garish shade of orange.” Damian snapped, less focused on coming up with proper revenge threats and more on finding his lost partner. 

“Alright, remember the plan, you’ve got the window on the second floor and I’ve got the one on the first. We meet in the middle or wherever we find Batman.” 

“I would not forget such a simple plan so soon after making it.” Damian replied, already pressing a gloved hand against the window in question to test it, “Now may we begin? Or would you like to chatter until whoever is inside parades Batman’s dead body out of the front door?”

“No, let’s go.” Brown replied. 

Damian nodded, the glass was firm under his palm, not quite as ramshackle as the rest of the building. He slipped a laser cutter out of his belt and ran it across the edges of the window, and let it fall backwards into his palm. 

“And Robin?” Brown added, as Damian was setting the glass aside, “Batman’s going to be just fine, okay?”

“Tt.” Damian responded, then added a quick, “I know. He will.” as if to convince himself of the fact as well. 

He climbed in the window and dropped quietly into the building. Damian found himself in what looked like an office. An old desk stood off balance, titled down on a broken leg. Papers and overturned file cabinets took up most of the rest of the room, with huge windows that looked out over onto the warehouse floor below.  

Damian slipped out of the door and into the hallway beyond it. He flicked a flashlight on to illuminate the dark interior and crept through, ears perked up for any sounds. 

The whole building smelled of dust and mildew, and something else that was sharp and sour. Around him, the walls were covered in ancient cracked paint that might have once been white, but now looked more yellow than anything under the beam of the flashlight. Cracked and broken picture frames featuring staff, products, and some construction site Damian couldn’t recognize decorated the walls, and floor where some had fallen. 

An eerie unsettled feeling crept it’s way into Damian’s head, tingling from the back to the front like cobwebs. He spun on his heel, the flashlight swinging wildly first behind him, then up to the ceiling to check for the source of the feeling. 

Nothing. He was alone. 

Slightly abashed, but still feeling odd, Damian turned again to continue down the hall. The feeling only seemed to increase as he walked. No doors presented themselves at first, which was strange. This building should have a number of offices in it. 

Damian thought back to the blueprints he and Brown had analyzed a few hours earlier. Grayson had left them open on the Batcomputer. Their one big clue to where he’d gone. 

There was one section of the building with a longer hall than others, but Damian had thought he hadn’t come in that way. Had he already gotten turned around? That quite simply wasn’t possible. He’d only been moving for a few minutes. 

He slowed his pace, flashlight swinging from wall to wall as he carefully examined each one. No doors still. So he must have come in the other way. Perhaps his fretting over Grayson had caused the error. Mother had not been entirely incorrect in her assumption that feelings for another caused problems. 

Still, Damian had decided that he was willing to fail a little more if it meant keeping Grayson in his life. 

The further into the building Damian moved the worse it smelled. The sour, acrid, scent that had been mostly hidden under mold and disuse gradually became the prevailing one. Damian scrunched his nose at it, and tried to figure out where he knew it from. It tickled his memory, like something he should know and made the hair on his arms raise. 

So far, he had heard nothing from Batgirl. Though, that was a good sign. They had decided to keep the comms silent until they found something or needed immediate assistance. They had no idea what Batman had run into in this warehouse, nor how he had been taken down. It was best not to draw too much attention to ones self, and wasting time with pointless updates or incessant chatter would be just that. 

He could have sworn he’d seen the same picture of the construction site three times now. But, no he was probably just seeing things. Mistaking the weird old building and land for something else in the dim light.

With every step that unsettling feeling grew stronger, until at last, he came across a door. 

Damian should have been relieved seeing it, but the anxious feeling only grew as he reached out to turn the knob. 

Slowly he eased the door open, and peered into the room, listening for any sounds of occupation. When no lights flared on or voices sounded he took a step into the room. 

The smell here was far worse than it had been in the hallway, as if something inside were the source of it. Damian gulped back bile and stepped further inside, his flashlight held ahead of him like a shield. 

As he did so, the world swayed sideways. Damian blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the room still seemed skewed to the side. 

He took another step forward and all at once the memory of the smell hit him. Fear toxin. Not as strong or as tick as he was used to, and still masked with unknown notes but Crane’s toxin all the same. 

He reached up to alert Brown of the situation and tapped the comm unit in his ear, comforted by the fact that the usual hum of connection reached his ear. 

Before he could say a word though, something cracked against the back of his skull and his world went black. 

When Damian came to, it was slow and plagued by shadows cast over everything from the back of his eyelids to the ceiling above him. He blinked at the ancient popcorned paint and yelped as all at once it seemed to morph into staves, razor sharp and now raining down on him. 

Damian shot up from where he lay, and found himself not impaled by a hundred sharpened stalactites of paint but simply faced with a throbbing headache and hands bound in front of him. 

He sat, just breathing for a few moments and staring down at the cuffs and his gloves. After a moment the nightmare faded, but left that same lingering uncomfortable feeling he’d gotten on entering the hallway. Fear, he now recognized it as, not the overwhelming fear Crane’s toxins were best known for, but something more subtle. Like waiting on the jump scare in a movie. 

The room didn’t smell of the toxin, and Damian assumed what he was feeling was lingering effects from what he’d breathed in earlier, and not a new dose. 

The lighting in the room was provided by a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling which Damian glared at. Of course Crane would be so predictable as to make the room he’d been placed in creepy in the most cliched of ways. 

His gaze travelled down from it and across the mostly bare room. More yellowed walls, cracked with age, and decorated with dreary photos resided here. And then there was—

“Batman.” Damian breathed. 

Grayson lay in a crumpled heap in the center of the room. Damian had been dropped in at the back, either before his brother had been returned or Crane had purposely carried him over the unconscious body of his partner. And Grayson had better only be unconscious or Crane would feel Damian’s wrath unleashed fully against him without hesitation. 

Damian scoffed at the flimsy cuffs Crane had put on him and picked the lock quickly. The villain had not even bothered to attempt to remove Damian’s belt or other gear. 

Soon he was up on unsteady legs, much to his displeasure, and then taking the few strides needed to reach his Batman. 

He crouched beside him and began his examination of his partner. The first thing he noticed was the rise and fall of Grayson’s chest. Then his eyes caught sight of the variety of bruises coloring his chin, how his lips were split and swollen, and the various rips and tears littering the Batsuit. One lense of his cowl was broken out and Damian could see another ugly black bruise over his closed eye. 

Crane had not wasted a moment with Batman it seemed. Something he would pay for if Damian had the opportunity to avenge Grayson. But first, he needed to get his brother out of here and inform Brown of the true danger lurking in the warehouse. 

This time when he activated his comms no one bashed him over the head. 

“Batgirl.” He said, keeping his voice low, “Scarecrow is here. He has incapacitated Batman and locked us in a room together. I will do my best to get him out, but I would do better with your assistance.”

As much as he despised asking for help, Damian was not a fool. He could not both carry Grayson and defend him if Crane returned. Batgirl’s backup would be key in them all getting out of there alive, and in potentially apprehending Crane. 

“I will be right back.” Damian promised Grayson, then stood. 

There was only one door in the room, and Damian moved towards it. He was careful in his examination, wary both of traps and his mind playing tricks on him. He was far too lucid for the earlier gas to have been pure fear toxin, but he could not discount it having lingering effects beyond what he had experienced waking up. 

He tried not to wonder if any of this was real or fake. He was sure now he’d imagined the hallway being longer than it was. If that was false, what else might he be seeing that was a lie? What if he was hallucinating his Batman being there, beaten and bruised? What if something worse lingering outside the door? 

What made it worse, was the fact that with Crane lurking it was highly likely a nightmare was waiting for them, real or imagined. 

It didn’t matter. Damian couldn’t be frozen by what ifs. His Batman was hurt and needed him. Grayson needed him to act like this was real and keep moving. 

The door was not locked. Of course it wasn’t. This trap was turning into an even deeper trap with every minute longer they stayed. It made the fear in his chest twist into dread. A cold sharp worry right between his ribs. 

Damian swung the door open right into more darkness. He growled, this was getting ridiculous. The one thing he no longer had on him was his flashlight, dropped when he’d been foolish enough to get knocked out. 

Fine, he had other light sources he could work with. And if he had to walk in the dark he would. Brown was surely on her way, even if she had not responded to him yet. 

He turned back to Grayson to crouch beside his brother. 

“Batman?” Damian prompted, shaking Grayson’s shoulder gently, “I would much prefer it if you were mildly conscious and were not complete dead weight.” 

He prayed that the Grayson who woke up was both sensible and toxin free. It was a hope he thought might be in vain, but based on his own experience with Crane’s toxin tonight the man seemed to be testing a new strain. It seemed less all encompassing and more designed to disorient and instill a quiet, constant, fear of a more general nature. 

His brother groaned. 

“That’s it.” 

Damian’s encouragement seemed to help drag Grayson back to the surface. So much that he watched a bleary blue eye blink open through the shattered cowl lense. Grayson’s eye was bloodshot, but his iris looked normal. Well, normal enough for a possibly concussed, probably drugged, and definitely beaten, Batman.  

“Come on Batman, we need to go.” Damian said, tugging at one of Grayson’s arms. 

His brother mumbled something incoherent, but allowed himself to be dragged up from where he’d been curled. It took some effort, but eventually Damian had Grayson awkwardly positioned over his back like some kind of kevlar covered sloth. One arm draped over Damian’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his uniform, with the other was held tightly in Damian’s hand. 

He tapped his R insignia to light it up. The beam was pathetic compared to his flashlight, but it was all he had right now unless he wanted to waste time searching Batman’s belt for a flashlight that might or might not be there. 

On Damian’s first step forward, Grayson seemed to be putting in some effort to push himself with his feet. By the time they made it out the door, and took a random left down the hallway, he was already flagging. 

Damian grit his teeth and bit back a complaint. Even this situation was better than the alternative. Damian would drag Grayson for miles over dealing with him under the influence of fear toxin the way it normally worked. 

He hefted Grayson a little higher against his back from where he’d slipped. His brother’s chin rested on his shoulder, and Damian could feel his breath against his neck. He felt Grayson’s breath pick up, as he stirred back to wakefulness. 

“What’re we doing?” he asked, voice thick with exhaustion. 

“We are escaping a trap you fell into.” Damian explained. 

Grayson tried to pull away, “S’not safe. You have to go.” 

He was thrashing now, so much so Damian had to stop moving forward just to keep him held up.

“Stop fighting me and we will! If we do not keep moving we will be in even more danger--idiot!” 

Grayson had thrown himself off Damian’s back, and thumped against the floor with an oof. After a moment he flipped over to look up at Damian, a deep frown on his lips. 

“Batman!” Damian snapped, then realized, that perhaps he had been wrong in his assumption that Grayson was not dealing with toxin effects. 

He was a fool. He should have given Grayson a shot of the anti-toxin the moment he found him. 

“Calm down.” Damian said, lowering his voice to something soothing, “You are injured and drugged, and if you do not listen you may hurt yourself worse.” 

Grayson pushed himself up on his palms, wincing, “You need to leave, Scarecrow is here and he’s after Batman.” 

He nodded, kneeling beside Grayson, “I know. You need to let me give you a dose of the anti-toxin, and then we are leaving.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

Damian blinked at him, surprised by the sudden petulance in Grayson’s voice. It sounded a bit like Drake when he was disagreeing with Grayson. 

Careful, Damian slipped a vial of anti-toxin out of his belt, and popped off the lid. He held it out so Grayson could see it. 

“Okay. I am not telling you what to do, simply asking. Will you let me give you this? It will help you feel better.” 

Grayson shook his head, lips going from a frown into a pucker. Is this how everyone felt when Damian was being difficult? He would have to keep that in mind in the future. Grayson was a saint for putting up with his antics longer than the ten seconds Damian had been dealing with Grayson’s. 

“Listen. We need to get moving. If we stay here much longer we’re going to get caught. You need to let me do this.” 

Damian reached out to take Grayson’s arm. He was just about to press the syringe between a tear in the uniform when Grayson yanked his arm back.  

“You’re not my father!” He shouted, sounding almost just like Damian had heard himself sound a  hundred times when he’d still been wary of his brother. 

“I am well aware.” Damian frowned, furrowing his brow. 

It felt very strange to him to imagine Grayson seeing Father in Damian. It was a complicated feeling that made his chest feel tight like he was about to cry. It was also something he could not linger on for long. Grayson was not in his right mind, and every moment they sat there on the floor was another moment Crane could find them in. 

More than that, it was frightening. A word Damian did not use often or lightly. Seeing Grayson like this was...wrong. Grayson should not be childish. He should not be so confused he saw Father in Damian. For one they were nowhere near the same height. For the other, well, Damian did not think himself worthy of being compared that closely with his Father yet. Perhaps ever. 

But it was more unsettling to see Grayson so helpless. So disarmed by this drug in his system. Damian did not like it, and he wished to right this wrong as soon as possible. He resolved himself to get the anti-toxin into Grayson’s veins now, no matter how the man fought him. 

Of course, that’s when he heard it. The creek of a footstep on the wood paneling in front of him. 

“Stay down.” Damian said, standing, then added, “Please.” 

He didn’t wait for Grayson to respond. Instead he spun on his heel, trading the syringe in his hand for a batarang. 

A few feet before him, Crane stopped in his tracks. Even illuminated by Damian's dim light he could see the man wore his typical scarecrow mask, and carried a scythe in between his palms. 

“Hello, Little Bird.” Crane sang, “I see you found your bat.” 

“Tt. He was not hard to miss.” Damian said, bracing himself. 

Crane hefted the scythe, pointing it towards them, “Of course. I was hoping you’d be a little more impacted by the sight and not run off so quickly. You’re a hard bird to frighten. Do you know how much toxin I pumped into that hallway earlier?” 

Damian shrugged, “I don’t care. In fact, I’ve had enough of your blabbering.” 

He threw one then two batarangs at Crane watching the man deflect one with the scythe, and dodge the other. 

Crane tsked him, stalking forward. “Not so fast, Bird Boy. I have a bone to pick with your mentor first.” 

“No.” Damian growled, brandishing a third batarang in his hands, “Keep moving and I will end you.” 

“Doubtful.” Crane said, his mask pulling up into a smirk, “Bats don’t kill.” 

“Batman doesn’t kill.” Damian corrected him, “You touch him again and I will not hesitate to take you down.” 

Crane chuckled, and took a step forward, only to yelp, then jerk as if he were being shocked. When he collapsed forward, Damian saw the source of his sudden strangeness. Batgirl stood, taser held forward, a blinding grin on her face. 

“I had it covered!” Damian protested. 

“You’re welcome.” she said, already moving to zip tie Scarecrow. 

“Tt.” Damian said, and opened his mouth to argue further, but was stopped by a hand on his ankle. 

“Damian?” 

He turned, and found Grayson leaned forward just enough he could grab Damian. He was looking confused, and concerned mouth turned down and eye worried. Damian’s heart skipped a beat. Grayson had heard him say he’d kill Crane. Damian would not break his promise, not with Grayson safely behind him, but he’d also been furious with Crane and ready to defend his Batman however he needed to. 

Dread pooled in his stomach. What if Grayson thought Damian serious? What if he--He did not have time to worry about that right now. They needed to get him home and taken care of. Batman’s health was his priority, not how he viewed Damian. 

“It’s alright.” Damian said, voice dropping back to a careful softness he hoped would soothe an toxin induced reactions, “We are leaving.” 

Damian knelt again by Grayson’s side, and began the process of trying to help him up. Thankfully, Brown was here. Once she’d finished with Crane, she added her own strength to Grayson’s other side, and together they carried him out of there. 

The exit was surprisingly close, and soon Damian was settled in the back of the Batmobile beside his Batman. While Brown drove, Damian held Grayson's hand and did his best to explain the rescue to his brother. At some point, however, Grayson passed out again, tilted over, and against Damian. It was not an unpleasant feeling being the one Grayson trusted enough to fall asleep against. 

Pennyworth took over when they got home, and Grayson was, mercifully, mostly fine. Bruised, battered, and unconscious, but he’d be fine. That knowledge eased some of the tension in Damian’s chest.

Both Grayson and Damian received doses of anti-toxin. The way it almost immediately started to make Damian feel better hinted that he'd been more effected than he'd first assumed. Damian would never voice it, but he was grateful for Brown's save. He wasn't sure how well he would have done in a true fight against Crane in that cramped hallway.

He showered quickly then planted himself at Grayson’s side, ignoring Pennyworth’s suggestion that he should lay down and rest his own bruised head while he waited for the anti-toxin to completely remove the lingering feelings of fear in his system. Sitting was just as good as laying, and this way he could keep an eye on his brother. Brown offered to stay, but Damian waved her upstairs along with Pennyworth. He’d be fine keeping an eye on Grayson, while they moved for a cup of victory cocoa, or tea in Pennyworth’s case. 

There was no victory for Damian tonight. Not until his brother woke up and he knew he was fine. 

Even being home, and not in the middle of some wild trap, Damian still couldn’t get over Grayson being so vulnerable. It was wrong. His Batman could be an idiot, but he was also competent and strong and worthy of respect. He was not helpless or so confused he viewed a child as Batman. 

So Damian held vigil. 

He played on his phone, opening up a mindless game he could pass the time with while still being able to keep one eye on his brother. Unfortunately, Damian ended up getting kind of wrapped up in a particularly hard level. It took a solid ten minutes for him to clear it, and when he looked up again it was into bright blue eyes, totally aware of where they were and who they were watching. Damian’s cheeks flushed. 

“Grayson.” he said, dropping his phone into his lap and straightening. 

As he did, his phone slipped off his thigh and smacked onto the floor with a loud thump. Damian stared down at it for a moment, briefly considering leaning down to pick it up. Instead he planted his fists in his lap and looked back up at Grayson.

“I am glad to see you have awoken.” 

His brother’s lips quirked into a wry smile, “You would have seen a bit earlier if you hadn’t been so focused on, Candy Crush?”

“Angry Birds.” Damian muttered, cheeks still hot. 

He leaned forward to examine his brother. He couldn’t say Grayson looked too much better, but the split skin on his forehead was cleaned and closed with a butterfly bandage, and his lips were looking less swollen. His expression, happy and open is what was truly improved. 

“You are looking better.” he said, “I’m glad.” 

“I’m feeling better.” Grayson responded, “Wanna give me a run down of what happened? My memory is spotty at best.” 

Damian kicked his feet up onto the bar on the bottom of his chair, “When you did not return by morning Brown and I began to make a plan for your rescue.” 

Grayson nodded, “You found me?” 

If his cheeks were not already red they would have blushed again, he shook his head, “Crane got the drop on me. I am not sure what he was planning, however it seems my intent on getting you out upset his plans.” 

“We were moving down a hallway--” Grayson stopped, his eyes widening, “Oh, Dames I’m sorry. I was the worst wasn’t I?” 

Damian tilted his head, “What do you mean?” 

“I kept seeing Bruce, and for some reason I was mad at him.” Grayson ran his hand through his hair, “That was you, right?” 

“You were not too much trouble.” Damian shrugged, “In fact you may have helped prevent Crane successfully sneaking up on us again. In the end, Brown saved us both.” 

He wanted to ask if Grayson remembered the actual confrontation, but at the same time Damian was not sure he wanted to know. He almost squirmed, but held back. Robin did not squirm. 

“Thanks for coming after me.” Grayson said, reaching a hand out to Damian. 

After a moment, Damian took it. 

“I am glad you are okay.” he said, “I--did not like seeing you injured.” 

“I bet. You sounded pretty angry.” 

Damian wasn’t sure how to respond. He tapped his heel on the wood under his foot. 

Grayson squeezed his hand, “It was sweet, you threatening him.” 

“You--” Damian spoke before he thought about it. 

“I?”  

He swallowed, “You did not think I was serious, right?” 

“You promised me you wouldn’t kill, right? I believed you then, and now.” 

Damian nodded, “Of course. He should not have hurt you.” he added, again losing the words before he thought about them. 

Grayson slipped his hand out of Damian’s to reach up and brush it through Damian’s hair. 

“You either.” 

“Tt, do not be so sentimental. It is foolish.” 

There was that smile again, “I think I have the right to be sentimental. My baby brother and basically little sister came running to my rescue.” 

Grayson reached for Damian’s hands with both of his, “In fact, I’ll be a little more sentimental.” he pulled Damian forward, “Join me? I’m tired and I don’t want to be alone. Plus I doubt Alfred’s going to let me trek upstairs until at least tomorrow.” 

Damian rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be tugged forward, “Fine.” he relented, “but only because Robin must make sure Batman rests properly.” 

[silver-strands]

Silver & Golden | Chapter 1

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger

Genre: Angst, Smut, Post-War

Word count: 3373

Warnings: Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Eventual Explicit Smut, Forced Marriage, Dysfunctional Relationships, Possessive Draco Malfoy

Summary: Hermione Granger has Draco Malfoy figured out. She doesn't believe his carefully created façade of redemption and atonement that has the rest of the Wizarding society bewitched. After one reckless night ends up in her becoming the new Mrs. Malfoy, she's forced to reconsider everything she thought she knew about the enigmatic man who guards his secrets like a dragon guards its treasure.

Weekly Updates. 

When it rains, it pours.

Hermione should have been aware that things almost always never go the way she plans them to, what with all she’d been through in her teenage years. She’d finally started to believe that the post-war life she had carved out for herself might be different. A nice boyfriend, even nicer friends and a job at the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures straight out of Hogwarts.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

She’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop for years now. And it had. Her long-time boyfriend and life-long friend had broken up with her in a spectacularly humiliating and public manner. Ron’s tongue down Astoria Greengrass’s throat at a ministry gala last weekend celebrating the expansion of the DRCMC - Hermione’s department! - had been plastered over the gossip pages of all newspapers and society magazines. She’d thought nothing could be worse than enduring the pitying glances and whispered words wherever she went. Silly her, she thought public humiliation, her boyfriend’s betrayal and everyone being privy to her carefully constructed life imploding in her face would be all she would have to go through.  

Of course not.

Hermione glared at two matronly witches whispering behind their hands as they surreptitiously eyed her. When they noticed her scowl they scampered down the corridor, their old-fashioned robes swishing behind them. It had been close to two months and it seemed like Britain’s wizarding society was still not over the entertainment Hermione’s situation provided them.

She wondered what they would think if they knew what she had learned from Healer Abbott five minutes ago while expecting nothing more than a diagnosis of the common stomach bug. If they could only read the rolled up scroll she was gripping so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

This was different than the other hundred problems currently plaguing her. This was personal. Something that all the others witches and wizards, healers and staff currently milling about all around her in the lobby of St Mungo’s second floor would not have dared to imagine could happen to Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age, one-third of the Golden Trio, about to become head of Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, essentially the most driven and ambitious witch in all of Britain.

No, nobody would imagine that she was capable of jeopardising her entire career and future goals in such a clichéd manner, all by herself.

Wait, that wasn’t true. She scowled as memories of gossamer soft hair beneath her fingers, an icy grey gaze trained on her lips and a chiseled pale torso languidly moving above her assaulted her mind, crumbling her resolve to not think about a certain platinum blond who had tipped Hermione’s world on its axis that fateful night.

In more ways than one, she thought as blood rushed to her cheeks.

Not wanting to spend one minute more in the place which had delivered the news of her doom, she steadily moved towards the fire-places lined for floo-travel from St. Mungo’s, dreading going back to her corner office at the Ministry.

How was she supposed to meet the eyes of all her colleagues and friends knowing what she knew? How was she supposed to carry on like nothing had changed when her whole life had?

Green flames died down behind her as she stepped into the Ministry’s main atrium, keeping her head down and hoping no one would stop her. Quickly snagging a relatively empty lift, she almost breathed a sigh of relief as she arrived at her level without incident.

She just needed time to herself. Time to regroup and compartmentalise her thoughts, come up with the best solution to this new problem which eclipsed everything that had transpired with Ron a few months back.

With renewed resolve she stepped out of the lift and looked up.

Her heart seized in her chest, missing a very telling beat at the sight of the tall, platinum blond wizard silently nodding at whatever her mentor and DRCMC head Helena Hornby was enthusiastically gesticulating about.

His face was blank and impassive and if she didn’t know better she’d think he wasn’t paying a lick of attention to whatever Hornby was so excited about. But she knew better.

Nothing slipped his notice. He was the bane of the senior members of the Ministry and the Wizengamot. She’d seen him throw their own words - said during tipsy socialising at various Ministry events - back at their faces with a barely suppressed air of haughtiness at various meetings and conferences where he lobbied for the Malfoy Estate and Holdings. He was a clever conversationalist. If he was listening to someone speak with a vacant expression, he was either cataloguing every word to memory or they were boring him to death. There was really no way to tell.

Hermione almost stumbled as she hurriedly hid behind a potted Flutterby Bush beside the lifts. Fortunately, it wasn’t in bloom, she didn’t need her newly sensitive nose assaulted with heady scents, no matter how pleasant.

She held her breath as Malfoy’s head briefly turned in her general direction as the plant shook and quivered at Hermione’s close proximity. Hornby clutched his forearm to get his attention back.

Malfoy stiffened and deftly shook off the tall woman’s hand with pursed lips. Hermione almost sniggered as he tried to suppress his annoyance. She would have rolled her eyes, but she had become entirely too familiar with the peacock dancing and preening many witches (and some wizards) attempted in Malfoy’s presence, trying to get his attention or start awkward conversation that always led to them asking him out and him turning them down.

Her mouth twisted in a grimace. Her Department head, who was happily married, was no exception to the charm of the deceptively pleasant and attractive persona her school bully now went about wearing. After the war, he had turned his public image around 180 degrees and many contributed it to his parents looming influence and legacy no longer shadowing him. Lucius Malfoy was serving life in Azkaban and Narcissa Malfoy had decided to shift to the Malfoy estate in France to get away from the shunning glances and vitriolic words of the rest of the Wizarding society.

Everyone had thought that the Malfoy heir would follow after his mother, but he hadn’t. He had defied everyone’s expectations with his actions.

Thoughts of Malfoy’s miraculous redemption fled her mind as she noticed a branch of the Flutterby nearing her stealthily. She shuffled back, inwardly cursing whoever thought putting a pot of the most unsuitable plant in the Ministry’s cold interiors would be a good idea.

Fortunately, it looked like Malfoy had finally had enough of whatever Hornby was talking about as he started to turn towards the row of lifts, probably making some excuse to leave. Hermione couldn’t hear much from her crouched position.

Let it be said that Hermione was afraid of no-one, she just did not want to deal with what she had learned that morning without forming a plan of action first.

She felt a slight tickle under her nose and she hastily slapped at the branch which had sneaked under face, but not before her nose twitched and a loud sneeze resounded throughout the lobby. She froze, her hands snapping up to cover her mouth.

She looked up, her eyes widening

Malfoy was watching her with bemusement, his head tilted to the side. “What are you doing Granger?”

Hermione scrambled to stand up with as much dignity she could muster after getting caught hiding behind a plant. She brushed off her sensible black skirt, her nose rising in the air as if nothing out of ordinary had happened.

She sniffed. “I was just checking if the Flutterby was in bloom.”  

“Right," drawled Malfoy, eyes glinting with amusement as he watched her stiffly walk towards Hornby. Her department head gave her a confused look.

“You were eavesdropping. Clearly something you’re not good at.” His tone turned mocking. “Who would’ve thought.”

Hermione whirled around to glare at him. “I wasn’t—“

Her words died in her throat. Malfoy was eyeing the scroll of parchment in her right hand which she hadn’t even realised she was crumpling under her tight grip.

The scroll bound by a lime green ribbon signature of all paperwork from St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.  

Hermione reflexively moved both her hands behind her back, her left hand clutching her right wrist in her best appropriation of a casual stance.

He glanced up impassively, giving her a terse nod before striding towards an open lift, not waiting to hear whatever explanation she might have come up with for eavesdropping on him and Hornby.

“What was that all about?” Hornby muttered, frowning at Hermione.

Her mentor was a tall woman in her mid-thirties with auburn hair and kind brown eyes. Hermione liked her. Most of the time.

She shrugged, changing the subject smoothly. “What were you and Malfoy discussing? Anything important that I need to know about?”

Hornby smiled, her eyes lighting up. “I was just reminding him about the meeting scheduled before lunch today. His presence at a HEPA meeting is going to send a strong message to all the other departments. They’re gonna take our draft legislation seriously or risk getting on Malfoy’s bad side.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched as Hornby talked about her most ambitious project as some sort of joke which could only be legitimised through a rich lobbyist’s sponsorship. House Elves (Protection and Advocacy) Bill  or HEPA for short was the defining idea of Hermione’s short career, conceived when she was just a school girl shaking donation boxes under other students’ noses for S.P.E.W. After five years working at the ministry, her idea for Elfish reform was finally getting somewhere.

“Why do we need his sponsorship again?” she asked curtly. “It’s not like the bill is envisaging House Elf freedom. It’s simply outlawing Elf abuse and allowing them a chance to be represented by the ministry in legal disputes.”

Hornby gave her that patient look which always gave Hermione the impression that even though her mentor clearly admired her intellect, she thought Hermione was still a little wet behind the ears.

Usually Hermione didn’t mind it, always eager to learn more about the psyche of the upper echelons of the Wizarding society, but in this context, where her school nemesis was involved, it rankled.

“We are essentially asking for house elves to be categorised as legal entities capable of taking their masters to the Wizengamot through a Ministry representative in extreme cases. That is bound to cause an uproar, Miss Granger.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “Never mind the fact that we have had to limit this option to a few exceptional situations and House Elves are not likely to come forward and demand justice anyway, most witches and wizards will not see eye to eye with the DRCMC on this.”

Hermione sighed, reminded of the uphill battle in front of her. She had gotten a bit distracted with the recent developments in her personal life. Her desk was piling up with statistical reports and legal research she had to review and proposals she had to draft for the exact purpose of making witches and wizards see eye to eye with them on this bill.

Hornby continued. “Wealth matters, Miss Granger. No matter how much we want the system to work purely on the basis of good morals and righteousness, if people don’t see their own advantage in these kind of things, they don’t care much for it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “And that’s where Malfoy comes in.”

They were familiar enough with each other that Hornby didn’t mind Hermione’s cheek. “He has the galleons.” She shrugged, folding her arms. “And the connections.”

Hermione scowled. “That itself is a travesty.” She shuffled her medical report from one hand to the other. “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you at the meeting before lunch.”

With a nod of farewell, Hermione entered the archway that led to her department. The main hall contained the small cubicles for entry level workers and beyond that a series of equally sized boxed walls comprised the individual offices.

Hermione dodged interdepartmental memos as she made her way to the one north-east corner of the building. She loved her office. She only had one office neighbour directly to her left. An aged man who worked for the Office of Misinformation. She’d learned that he was long past his retirement age but still refused to actually retire. Hermione appreciated his hard work, as well as his penchant for being quiet and un-obtrusive.

As soon as Hermione entered she set about making some tea to calm her stomach. Waving her wand to start on boiling some water in the kettle kept on the side table, she took out her favourite green tea and a chipped mug Ginny had gifted her for Christmas two years ago which she only ever took out of its hiding place in the drawer when she was alone. The mug was a rather unfortunate consequence of Ginny’s lewd sense of humour and her awareness of Hermione’s aversion to Quidditch.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the looping picture of a broomstick flying on the porcelain surface before the spell “Reducio!” flashes in bold black letters and the broomstick shrinks, flying straight beneath the long skirts of an unsuspecting witch who widens her eyes.

If anyone other than Ginny had given it to Hermione, she would have clobbered them over the head with it.

Tea in hand she sat down behind her desk with a sigh, going over the  disastrous morning in her head like a movie reel.

Waking up tired and annoyed after a day of meetings and draft revisions of HEPA while avoiding inquisitive glances and words in the cafeteria and the corridors, finding out that Witch Weekly had published another piece about her and Ron in their “Trouble in Paradise” section of their society pages. Which also happened to have a picture of Draco Malfoy leaving an Opera House in Paris with a long legged blonde on his arm.

That had been enough to put Hermione in a foul mood but then her stomach had decided to act up again for the fifth time that week and because her own remedies had failed her she’d finally scheduled an appointment at St Mungo’s.

Then everything had crashed and burned around her.

Hermione burned holes in the crumpled parchment on her desk with her eyes.

She was pregnant. And she knew for a fact that it wasn’t Ron’s child, not that would have been any consolation. Her relationship with her school friend was also currently on the way down the drain if she didn’t do anything about it soon.

Her priorities had shifted though, and as her mind so helpfully supplied the image of Malfoy’s cold eyes just a few minutes ago, she began to comprehend the daunting task ahead of her.

That night had meant nothing, just a way to get back at Ron for kissing the younger Greengrass girl in front of half the British wizarding society. Malfoy had been the only one who had followed her after she left the ballroom with deadened eyes and her cheeks on fire, Harry had pulled Ron away to no doubt give him a piece of his mind and Ginny hadn’t been in attendance that night.

Afterwards she had wondered if Malfoy had only followed her because he didn’t trust her wandering by herself in his manor. He hadn’t been sympathetic or pitying when he found her in an empty study, just asked her if she’d like something stronger than the glass of champagne she’d been clutching in her hand. She’d agreed and as they shared a bottle of the finest firewhiskey in front of the fireplace in silence, something reckless took over her. She’d reached across the couch and grabbed his shirt to pull his mouth down to hers.

Later she’d convince herself that it had been the firewhiskey, but she knew better, she’d been entirely too sober when she kissed him. Too sober to blame it on anything else but her need to feel those full lips on hers, to run her fingers through silver strands that created a halo around his head in the moonlight filtering in from the tall window, and to finally satisfy a forbidden curiosity that she’d kept close to her heart since fourth year at Hogwarts.

A curiosity that had strayed too far from innocent teenage musings over the years.

But the worst part was, even now that she was facing the consequences of acting on her forbidden desires, she knew that that one night had done nothing to douse the fire of the depraved thoughts that came to her deep in the night, when she was all alone.

No, that one night had only served to add fuel to the flame.

Putting her mug down with a thunk on the desk, she reached up to massage her temples as she felt the familiar pressure of a stress headache beginning to form.

When she had rejected Ron’s marriage proposal at their favourite restaurant close to three months ago, she hadn’t known that one refusal would snowball into events that would forever change her life. She berated herself for telling him no in front of the whole restaurant, she should have accepted and then gently let him down in private. Then Ron wouldn’t have felt vindictive enough to return the favour and she wouldn’t have ended up in Draco Malfoy’s arms of all people.

Then she wouldn’t be carrying the baby of her school bully.

She didn’t know where it had all gone wrong. She vaguely remembered casting a contraceptive charm after they’d hurriedly divested their clothes just enough to allow him to thrust into her and erase all thoughts of precautions from her mind. Maybe she hadn’t been precise enough. Contraceptive charms weren’t always foolproof anyway.

She’d been uncharacteristically careless and now she was paying the price.

A thought popped into her head, replacing despair with anger.

She wasn’t the only person responsible for this, Malfoy could also have been more careful that night.

He could have refused her advances.

For all that he went about displaying his superiority and for all his vows in school that she was filthy, he hadn’t objected once to sex with her. Where was all his pure-blood nonsense when it was needed. Short term embarrassment at his rejection would have been better than this.

Apart from her, Harry and Ron, everyone else believed that he had changed for the better. His countless charity drives, reparation efforts and ministry donations, as well as his tendency to be behind all the post-war reconstruction efforts as a sponsor aided that public perception. He made frequent appearances at society events and funnelled galleons where they were required in the Ministry to clear the negative reputation his father had acquired for the Malfoy name.  

She didn’t buy that he had genuinely changed. Even though she had testified for him, believing that he didn’t deserve an Azkaban sentence was different from believing that he would shed his blood supremacist prejudices that easily.

Malfoys gravitated towards power, they didn’t rest until they got what they wanted. She wouldn’t put it past him to adopt a pleasant, progressive veneer to do exactly that.

Hermione got up as her stomach twisted for the second time that day. She didn’t have any of the nausea calming potions listed in the parchment atop her desk so she settled for taking deep breaths till the sensation passed.

No matter what she thought about Malfoy, she needed to tell him. Although her Gryffindor morals and passionate self-righteousness had evened out as she’d aged, she still had some tenets she stuck by. The thought of keeping the information that she was pregnant with his child from Malfoy didn’t sit right with her. No matter what she decided in the end, as the father he deserved to know about it.

As she took another deep breath her resolve hardened. She would tell him. Today. After the meeting. She would ask him to lunch and she would tell him.

[phis-corner]

How about #34 and #9 on the fluff/angst list?Ship is yours to decide

34- “Please don’t do this.” 9- “You meant too much to me.” | Platonic Timari

Note: reverse robins au, where Tim was the one captured by Joker instead, choosing to take his own life instead of break under torture. Marinette, having given up LB post Hawkmoth’s defeat, chooses to take up her dead brother’s mantle after seeing Bruce spiral. She is also Bruce’s biological child in this au.

I got reaaaally into reverse robins, and this is the result. 

TW: suicide mention

Her father and Alfred are being increasingly shifty about the Red Hood, abruptly stopping conversations when she enters the room and changing the subject when she brings up the mysterious man who’s been picking off the corrupted people in this city.

So she makes a plan to look into it in her own time, carefully watching and observing to find a free time slot, and seizes the opportunity.

Dad is at a WE meeting because Lucius threatened him with no gadgets for a month if he didn’t show again, Alfred is asleep (because he is actually human, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary), and Damian is in Bludhaven with Jon, both working their respective day jobs as an officer in the BPD and a journalist.

Marinette silently logs into the Batcomputer, bypassing the security on Hood’s file with a little help from Oracle (hey, Steph was being kept out of the dark too, and they were both curious.)

She reads the basic information, and scrolls down to the DNA section.

Her blood runs cold when she sees the information listed there, because how can it be a match?

He’s dead.

Dead.

Captured by the Joker, tortured near the breaking point, before taking his own life with a shard of broken glass to preserve their secrets.

She watched them lower his body into the ground. Watched as his friends and family stood there, under the clear blue sky, which seemed too pretty for such a terrible day.

Watched as his teammates broke down around his grave, as Bruce’s face crumpled when everyone else is gone.

Watched Damian, two weeks later, finally show up and leave a single purple hyacinth, kneeling in front of the headstone and tracing the letter with a single finger, head bowed, before leaving. 

She searched up the meaning of the flower. I am sorry, please forgive me.

She mourned him.

Mourned a brother, so kind and intelligent, who never really knew how much he meant to all of them.

She has her own suspicions about how he was captured in the first place, but pointing fingers would do more harm than good.

Her father spiraled again, after he died.

She didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to introduce a new Robin, and slowly let the world forget about the second. Robin should have died with Tim.

But Batman will not stop, and as long as he keeps fighting, he’ll need a Robin to hold him back.

Marinette dons the costume, two months after they bury him, and tries to forget that this uniform, his spare, still smells like him.

She’s wearing a dead boy’s clothes.

Alfred helps her make a new one after that first night.

Eventually, he does accept her as Robin. He trains her harder than he did both Damian and Tim.

She pushes through.

And now, four years later, there’s evidence proclaiming that he’s alive.

Alive, and on a killing spree, weeding out Gotham’s corrupt at the very center, strategically taking people out to topple the system.

A laugh escapes her, even as her shoulders shake with tears, because the methods are so familiar, so Tim, that she doesn’t know how she didn’t notice earlier.

She asks Jason to cover for her that night. 

He agrees without any questions, seeing the serious look on her face. Marinette has never been more grateful for the boy she and Dad found stealing the tires of the Batmobile.

After Batman leaves (Robin is benched until Red Hood is taken care of, whatever that means), and she pretends to go to bed, she opens her closet and pushes against the hidden panel in the back wall, revealing a spare uniform.

Robin escapes out her window, even though she knows that Alfred will have been alerted by the window opening.

Too bad for them, though, because she removed all the trackers except the emergency beacon, which can only be activated from her side.

The Red Hood is elusive, but she knows his tricks. She keeps up with him as he turns corner after corner, jumps from building to building, until he stops on the roof of Wayne Enterprises.

“Robin.” He says, helmet filtering out any signs that it’s her brother underneath. “But you’re not really Robin, are you? You’re wearing a dead boy’s clothes.”

She can’t help it, she flinches at how casually he speaks of his own death.

“Tim.” She tugs at the uniform, which has never fit right, despite it being tailored to her exact measurements. “What happened to you?”

“What happened? I died, that’s what happened.” The helmet comes off with a click and a hiss of air, and then it’s just her brother, older, eyes violent green, face twisted into a sneer. “I went off to follow the lead on the Joker myself, since Big Bird shut the door in my face and told me it wouldn’t amount to anything, got myself captured, and ended my own life to preserve their secrets. But you should know all of that, Replacement.”

The nickname is like a dagger to the heart. “I never wanted to replace you, the same way you didn’t want to replace Damian.” She says steadily, staring straight into his eyes even as her heart skitters frantically. “I was keeping Robin’s legacy alive.”

“Robin should have died with me.” 

“You know as much as I do that Batman needs a Robin, and Batman would not stop fighting as long as he lives.” She replies. “I never wanted to be Robin, Tim. It’s been four years, and it still feels like it doesn’t fit. But there was nobody else to do it, no one else to bring him out of that spiral.”

Tim is silent for a moment, so she continues.

“Come home, Tim. Please. We’ve all missed you so much. Dad isn’t the same anymore. No one is. We can be a family again.”

“Don’t you see, Marinette? I was never meant to be Robin, either. I was just that one annoying kid who wouldn’t leave Bruce alone, the one who blackmailed him into letting a second Robin out onto the streets. Even after I moved in, I was just that one kid who never really belonged, the outsider trying to insert himself into a family, pretending that Bruce cared for me as much as he did his biological children. Bruce only allowed me to stay in the Manor because I knew his secret. Damian made no effort to hide his disgust around me. You- you were the only one in that house who treated me like an equal.”

He draws a gun and points it at her, and she hears the safety click off. “But you’re Robin. He shouldn’t have made another child Robin. He should have said no, let the legacy die.”

“Tim,” She pleads. “Please don’t do this.”

Something in his eyes waver for a moment, fading to blue, before they harden into acid green again. “You meant too much to me. Let’s see if you mean enough to Batman too, enough for him to arrive on time.”

The gun goes off with a bang, and she feels the bullet enter through a crack in her armor, burying itself in her torso.  The pain is nothing new, but overwhelming all the same as her entire body seems to be on fire.

The last thing she does before everything goes black is calibrate the beacon to send the signal to Nightwing only, before smashing the button with all her remaining strength.

I hope Flamebird gets them here on time.

There are two reasons why she chooses to send it to Nightwing, and Nightwing only. One being because Damian doesn’t know that Tim is alive, and despite everything, he deserves to.

The other?

She doesn’t trust her father to make it.

permanent tags

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[thewidowsghost]

The Unknown Muggleborn - Chapter 20

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

"And you, (L/n)," Malfoy leers as (Y/n) crosses the shop after Harry. "I'm astounded you didn't go in for the attention. That seems to be your focus at school."

"Leave her alone, she doesn't want attention," says Ginny. It is the first time she'd spoke in front of (Y/n); she's glaring at Malfoy.

"(L/n), you've got yourself a girlfriend!" drawls Malfoy. Ginny goes scarlet as Ron and Hermione fight their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart's books.

"Oh, it's you," says Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he is something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry and (Y/n) here, eh?"

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," retorts Malfoy. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."

Ron goes as red as Ginny. He drops his books into the cauldron, too, and starts towards Malfoy, but (Y/n) grabs him by the back of his jacket, looking rather bored.

"Ron!" says Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. "What are you doing? It's too crowded in here, let's go outside."

"Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley." It is Mr. Lucius Malfoy. He stands with his hand on Draco's shoulder, sneering in the same way.

"Lucius," says Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," says Mr. Malfoy. "All those raids . . . I hope they're paying you overtime?"

Mr. Malfoy reaches into Ginny's cauldron and extracts, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a new copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. "Obviously they have," Mr. Malfoy says, looking surprised. "Hmm, I wonder, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard of they only pay you enough for one lousy book."

Mr. Weasley flushes darker than either Ron or Ginny, and (Y/n)'s eyes flash silver.

Even though Harry and Hermione knew it is probably useless, but they grab onto the back of (Y/n)'s shirt, straining to hold the girl back.

"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," Mr. Weasley growls.

"Clearly," says Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to (Y/n), who is holding Ron back, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who are watching apprehensively. "The company you keep, Weasley . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower -"

There is a thud of metal as Ginny's cauldron goes flying: Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks come thundering down on all their heads; there is a yell of, "Get him, Dad!" from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley is shrieking, "No, Arthur, no!"; Draco is squealing as (Y/n) twists his arm back - the girl having moved faster than the others had seen - (Y/n) pushing the arm up closer to Draco's shoulders; the crowd stampedes backwards, knocking more shelves over; "Gentlemen, my dear, please - please!" cries the assistant, and then, louder than all -

"Break it up, there, break it up -"

(Y/n) turns her gaze on Hagrid, who is wading towards them through the sea of books. (Y/n) lets go of Draco's arm, but not before shoving him forward; Draco stumbles, falling face first into a pile of books. In an instant, Hagrid had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip, and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. Malfoy is still holding Ginny's Transfiguration book. He thrusts it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

"Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -" pulling himself out of Hagrid's grip, Mr. Malfoy pulls Draco from the ground and sweeps from the shop.

"Yeh should've ignored them, (Y/n), Arthur," says Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he straightens his robes. "Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everybody knows that - no Malfoy's worth listenin' ter - bad blood, that's what it is - come on now - let's get outta here."

The assistant looks as though he wants to stop them from leaving, but he barely comes up to Hagrid's waist and seems to think better of it. They hurry up to the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury, and a contented smirk on (Y/n)'s face.

(Y/n)'s friends look at her, amazement in their eyes. Last they knew, (Y/n) didn't know any martial arts or anything of that nature. Something must've changed for her over the summer, Ron thinks.

"A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in public . . . what Gilderoy Lockhart must've thought -" Mrs. Weasley scolds her husband.

"He was pleased," says Fred. "Didn't you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from teh Daily Prophet if he'd be able to work the fight into his report - said it was all publicity -"

But it is a subdued group that heads back to teh fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the Weasleys and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder.

. . .

"Hermione?" (Y/n) questions her sister, (Y/n) and Hermione having joined Ginny and Neville in one of the carriages in the train.

"Hmm," Hermione says, looking up from one of her Gilderoy Lockhart books.

"Is that a flying car?" (Y/n) asks and the other three in the compartment dash over, looking at the blue Ford Anglia flying through the sky beside the Hogwarts Express.

"That's my dad's car," Ginny says, looking away shyly as (Y/n) turns her green gaze on youngest Weasley.

"Ron and Harry are so dead," (Y/n) mutters and Hermione nods, going back to her Lockhart book.

. . .

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, the blue Ford Anglia hits the thick tree trunk and drops to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam is billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig is shrieking in terror, a golf-ball-sized lump is throbbing on Harry's head where he had hit the windshield; to his right, Ron lets out a low, despairing groan.

"Are you okay?" Harry says urgently.

"My wand," groans Ron in a shaky voice. "Look at my wand -"

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip is dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

Harry opens his mouth to say he is sure they'd be able to med it up at the school, but he never even gets started. At that very moment, something hits his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hits the roof.

"What's happen -?"

Ron gasps, staring though the windshield, and Harry looks around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they hit was attacking them. Its trunk is bent almost double and its gnarled boughs are pummeling ever inch of the car it could reach.

"Aaargh!" says Ron as another twisted limb punches a large dent into his door; the windshield is now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seems to be caving. "Run for it!" Ron shouts, throwing his full weight against his door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Harry's lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch. "We're done for!" he moans as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car is vibrating — the engine had restarted.

Word Count: 1288 words

Taglist:

@big-galaxy-chaos

[rainybookshop]

That’s No Way to Treat an Heirloom

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry x Draco

Words: 3,759

Read it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749431

Everything would have been different if Harry hadn't gone to return Malfoy’s wand the same day that Lucius Malfoy was sent to start his fifteen-year sentence in Azkaban.

Of course, Harry isn’t aware of this at the time, as he makes his way up the Malfoys’ stupidly long drive one surprisingly cool Thursday afternoon in August.

A daintily dressed house elf answers the door within three seconds of his knock and, though she must be, she shows no sign of being surprised to see him.

“Mister Potter,” she chirps with a polite incline of her head, her large ears bobbing slightly. “I is called Ipsy, how may I be helping you today?”

“Er,” Harry begins, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt and wondering, for the millionth time, why he didn't just Owl Malfoy's wand back to him. “I have something to return to Mal – er, Draco, if he’s here.”

There’s a muffled crash from somewhere below, and Ipsy narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly.

“Master Draco is being here,” she begins resignedly. “But Master Draco is being unavailable to see guests at the moment. But Ipsy can be taking Mister Potter’s item and giving it to Master Draco at a…” she falters slightly “…a more prudent time.”

Harry’s opening his mouth to reply – and wondering why, exactly, he’s reluctant to accept her offer – when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps and Malfoy appears at the top of the illustrious staircase leading down to the lower levels. He’s impeccably dressed, right down to the leather loafers on his feet, but his blond hair is also ruffled slightly, there’s a pink flush to his pale cheeks, and the – no doubt ludicrously expensive – jumper he’s wearing is rumpled, the dress shirt underneath it carelessly untucked.

“Potter,” Malfoy exclaims in surprise, slightly louder than necessary, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry catches Ipsy’s frown.

“Malfoy,” he replies, as the other boy joins them in the entranceway and crosses his arms. “I, er, have your wand, to give back,” he explains.

Malfoy sways, just slightly, and Harry narrows his eyes as a thought occurs to him.

“Malfoy,” he begins, “are you drunk?”

“Mister Potter is being able to leave now,” Ipsy begins, but Malfoy waves her off.

“That will be all, Ipsy,” he says, sounding perfectly condescending despite the slight slur Harry can now make out in his words, and she vanishes with a pop that manages to sound disapproving, somehow. “And no, Potter, I am not drunk,” he spits out, attempting futilely to smooth down his hair. “I have just been indulging in some of Father’s Firewhiskey on acc – hic - account of him being shipped off to Azkaban today,” he finishes, and Harry feels his stomach clench at the words. “Now, are you going to give me back my wand or just stand there gaping like a fish?” he demands, holding out an elegant hand imperiously, although the gesture is rather undercut by the way he seems to be having trouble focusing on Harry’s face.

The words are out of Harry ‘s mouth before he can stop them. “Do you want company?” he asks.

Malfoy stares at him incredulously. He looks like he's tossing around a number of undoubtedly scathing replies, but what he comes out with is, “Can you even hold your alcohol, Potter?”

Harry chooses not to point out the irony of that question as Malfoy none-too-subtly leans against the wall for support. Besides the handful of pub nights he’s had with Ron and Hermione this summer and the horrifically bad hangover he had after the older Weasley boys took him out for his birthday last month, he isn't really one for drinking, but the thought of leaving Malfoy alone in this state makes guilt coil uncomfortably in his stomach. So he squares his shoulders, meets Malfoy's gaze, and gestures for him to lead the way.

***

Harry's already questioning the wisdom of his decision when Malfoy leads them into what is clearly Lucius Malfoy's study, which is cold enough to make Harry shiver despite the fire roaring in the grate. Portraits of peacocks, the Malfoy family crest, and a large shelf of clearly illegal potions ingredients - including what looks disconcertingly like a set of dismembered house-elf feet - adorn the walls, while an oversized, ebony Victorian desk takes up one half of the room. Malfoy sprawls in an elegant tangle of limbs on an enormous leather sofa Harry's certain certain costs more than the Dursley's entire house, next to a three-quarters full bottle of the most expensive bottle of Firewhiskey that Harry has ever seen. Malfoy Accios 2 crystal goblets from somewhere- judging from a disembodied yelp above them, probably from the kitchen - pours them both a generous helping with surprisingly steady hands, and raises his glass sardonically.

"To my father," he drawls, and Harry winces internally at the way Malfoy's voice cracks slightly on the last word. "May he rot in Azkaban," he finishes bitterly, clinking his glass with Harry's and taking a generous swig. Harry follows suit and immediately feels his eyes water as it burns down his throat. He scowls when his vision clears to reveal Malfoy regarding him smugly, eyes completely dry.

"To your father," Harry begins. "May he never hear about this."

Malfoy stares at him in shock for a moment before huffing a disbelieving laugh, glancing over at Harry and trying vainly to bite down on a tiny, rueful smile.

"Hear hear," Malfoy adds, leaning over to clink his glass with Harry's again.

***

Harry’s been surreptitiously adding water to Malfoy’s glass in addition to snagging most of the Firewhiskey to himself when Malfoy’s not looking, but while it’s allowed Malfoy to stop hiccupping, it also seems to have had the unintended effect of rendering Harry rather tipsy, as well. Which has inexplicably resulted in the two of them sitting on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s study, giggling and making increasingly insulting impressions of Filch. Malfoy's jumper has been abandoned in a crumpled heap on the floor, he keeps gesturing emphatically with his hands, and Harry thinks he might be staring at him, just a little.

It's just - he's never seen Malfoy like this, relaxed and open and smiling, and he's feeling comfortably tingly and warm, the sharp taste of the Firewhiskey lingering pleasantly on his tongue.

"Students out of bed!" Malfoy cries, in a crude but astoundingly accurate imitation of Filch, shaking his free hand in mock-rage. "STUDENTS IN THE CORRIDOR!" he roars, affecting an exaggerated eye-twitch that has Harry doubled over with laughter. "I think he might cry if I finish school without him ever having the chance to hang me from the ceiling by my thumbs," Malfoy adds thoughtfully, sending them both off into giggles again.

Harry's dimly aware of the fact that he can’t seem to stop staring at Malfoy’s mouth, and he’s not sure how, but they seem to be sitting closer together than they were just a minute ago.

"I might have taken that over our detention in the Forbidden Forest in first year," Harry says honestly, and Malfoy nods in agreement, his gaze fixed on Harry. He isn't sure why, but the room suddenly feels hotter than it was a moment ago, and when Malfoy licks his lips, Harry can't stop the way his gaze drops to his mouth.

Harry’s pretty sure he’s about to kiss Malfoy, here, tipsy from Firewhiskey in his father’s study, and he feels a surprising lack of horror about it. Maybe, he thinks as he reaches up to cradle Malfoy's face in one hand, maybe he’ll just panic about it later. And maybe, he tells himself as Malfoy exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the contact, maybe later he’ll remember that the idea of him being attracted to Malfoy is equal parts ridiculous and wrong. Maybe, he thinks, staring into grey eyes that look scared and vulnerable and the tiniest bit hopeful, maybe this is all due to the Firewhiskey and it doesn’t mean anything at all that his heart is beating wildly in his chest and he suddenly can’t seem to breathe. And then it doesn’t matter, because Malfoy sways towards him, just slightly, and Harry can’t help but lean forwards and kiss him.

Malfoy holds absolutely still for a moment before tentatively kissing back, tasting of Firewhiskey and Fizzing Whizbees and, inexplicably, chocolate frogs. Then Harry presses closer, and Malfoy tangles one of his hands in Harry’s hair, and all of a sudden they’re kissing so enthusiastically Harry’s head is spinning.

He feels like he’s drowning. It’s nothing like kissing Cho - honestly though, being cried on mid-snog is an experience he'd really rather not repeat - but it’s not exactly like kissing Ginny either. That was a euphoric rush, high off of Quidditch victory and a moment of bravery and then elation that the girl he fancied seemed to want him right back. This is – an electric current he can feel all the way down to his toes, a head rush he really doesn’t think has anything to do with the Firewhiskey, and the realization that this might be the stupidest, most reckless, most brilliant thing he’s ever done.

At some point, Malfoy has climbed onto his lap and stuck his tongue in Harry’s mouth, and Harry doesn’t even realize he’s undone the first couple of buttons on Malfoy’s shirt until Malfoy pulls back, a questioning look on his face.

Harry really has no idea what to do here. He thinks maybe he’s crossed some invisible line, because snogging your long-time rival after consuming a large amount of Firewhiskey is one thing, but undressing them is probably a lot harder to explain away when you’re sober. But Malfoy just exhales a shaky breath, fixes Harry with a piercing gaze that suddenly looks a lot less hazy, and asks, “Are you sure?”

Harry has no idea how to answer that. He’s never done this before, and there are about five hundred reasons why he thinks Malfoy is an arrogant, pompous git, and another five hundred why this shouldn’t be happening. But he can’t take his eyes off the few inches of pale chest Malfoy’s open shirt has exposed, or the dark pink flush that’s crept into his cheeks, and he can’t ignore the way his lips won’t stop tingling. So he nods, once, twice, and pulls Malfoy back in.

He clumsily works his way through the rest of Malfoy’s buttons as Malfoy insistently tugs Harry’s t-shirt over his head, and Harry can't help but groan at the feeling of skin-on-skin contact. Then Harry leans down to press open-mouthed kisses to Malfoy's neck, relishing in the way Malfoy melts, and he moves to tug Malfoy down on top him, but Malfoy promptly freezes.

"I am absolutely not lying down on this carpet," Malfoy mutters as he stands, tugging Harry up with him.

Malfoy eyes the colossal ebony desk speculatively, and Harry - he has a bad feeling about this. It's not like Lucius Malfoy would ever find out, but he can't help thinking it might be bad form to be snogging the son of a man who tried to have him murdered at least a dozen times on top of said man's desk, which looks like it might actually be older than Hogwarts.

But then he looks over at Malfoy, who's perched himself on the edge of the desk, pale skin gleaming in the firelight. He lifts one eyebrow challengingly, daring Harry to follow, and Harry's helpless to do anything but surge forward to kiss him again. They fall backward in a tangle of limbs, and Harry's certain he's going to have a horrific bruise on his knee from attempting to clamber onto the desk and undo Malfoy's trousers at the same time, but between the way Malfoy arches up when Harry kisses over his pulse point and the intoxicating feeling of Malfoy raking his fingernails down his back, Harry can't find it in himself to care.

Harry’s pretty sure he’s about to shag Malfoy now, here on Lucius Malfoy’s desk, of all places, and his only thought at this point is he hopes he won’t be absolute rubbish at it.

(Judging by the litany of increasingly inventive swear words that pour out of Malfoy's mouth, he isn't).

***

Harry's still lying next to Malfoy on the desk, catching his breath and sending a silent prayer of thanks that the ancient wood is a lot stronger than it looks, when Malfoy sits up and pokes him - painfully - in the ribs. "Malfoys do not sleep anywhere but in a bed,” Draco informs him in what Harry assumes is supposed to be a lofty tone, and takes hold of his arm.

When they arrive in a gigantic, ostentatious, and admittedly gorgeous bedroom, Harry whirls around to face Malfoy accusatorially. “What the fuck, Malfoy? We could’ve been splinched!”

Malfoy shrugs unapologetically. “It’s not like I’m going to get splinched by Apparating in my own house,” he retorts, heading straight for the elegant, King-sized bed. Harry’s opening his mouth to counter the ridiculousness of that statement – he’s heard enough about Apparition accidents from Percy to last him a lifetime, honestly – when he takes in the sight of Draco, naked and waiting for him under a mountain of luxurious-looking sheets, and wisely shuts up.

If Malfoy pretends - badly - to accidentally snuggle Harry in his sleep, well, it's not like he minds.

***

Harry’s woken up a few hours later by several too-bright rays of harsh early morning sunlight, with what promises to be a horrible headache beginning to pound at his temples. His muscles ache, his throat is raw, and he’s so entangled with both Malfoy and the sheets he’s pretty sure he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

The thing is, though, is that for all he feels like he might have actually died and come back a second time, he doesn’t really want to move. Not when Malfoy has a pale, surprisingly strong arm wrapped snugly around him and a long leg tossed carelessly over his, and not when Malfoy's so close Harry can see the tiny, pale freckles that are scattered across his cheekbones.

Then, of course, Malfoy yawns sleepily, opens his eyes, and promptly goes tense with what seems to be poorly-concealed panic.

“Potter,” he begins, and Harry tactfully ignores the way Malfoy’s voice cracks on his name. “Um,” he continues, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around himself defensively, “I expect there’s no need to discuss this, yes?” he asks stiffly, gaze fixed determinedly in his lap.

“Er,” Harry begins, feeling both rather groggy and exceptionally wrong-footed.

“It was just the Firewhiskey,” Malfoy continues, apparently ignoring him. “We were reckless and drunk and…” he pauses once, swallowing. “And it was a mistake. So I’ll just go and take a shower, and you can get dressed and…” Malfoy nods once to himself and makes to get up.

Harry’s not entirely sure what he wants to happen, exactly, except that this feels stilted and awkward and he was rather enjoying the coziness of a few moments ago. And it feels wrong to just – leave, and write it all off as a drunken indiscretion. He has no idea what the protocol is for the morning after with the boy you thought you hated your entire life and, it turns out, have probably also been madly attracted to the entire time, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t it.

It’s also glaringly obvious that Malfoy hasn’t looked him in the eyes once this morning, and suddenly Harry can’t stand it.

“Malfoy,” he blurts out, but when Draco finally, finally looks at him, Harry finds that any of the words he might’ve said dry up in his throat. He gazes helplessly for a second at Malfoy’s guarded expression, at the way he’s got the sheet wrapped around him as though Harry hasn’t already seen everything under it, at the bruise that stands out almost obscenely just below Malfoy’s collarbone, and then he’s moving before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.

Harry leans forwards to place a sloppy kiss on Malfoy’s lips, clacking their teeth together in his haste and nearly missing his mouth entirely, and he abruptly pulls back in mortification. Malfoy stares at him for a moment, grey eyes wide and mouth open, before he makes a desperate noise in his throat and lunges across the bed to kiss Harry again. They fall backwards in a tangle of limbs, kissing hungrily and carelessly shoving the sheets out of the way, awkwardness and hangovers forgotten.

***

When he wakes again, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of Ipsy hovering at the foot of the bed and looking positively gleeful. She snaps her fingers and Draco stirs into reluctant wakefulness at the sound before yelping and pulling the sheets up over the two of them.

“Ipsy! For Merlin’s sake,” he squawks, but she waves him off, ears flapping imperiously.

“Mistress Narcissa is requesting that Mister Potter and Master Draco be joining her for brunch,” she informs them with a hint of smugness. As she turns to leave, she adds off-handedly, “And the Mistress is asking that Mister Potter and Master Draco confine any future recreational activities to Master Draco's bedroom."

Malfoy wordlessly drops his face into his hands, and Harry gulps. After taking a deep, fortifying breath, Malfoy Accios them their clothes, and they dress in silence; Harry tries futilely to pat down his hair, and they share a commiserating look of dread. He isn't scared of Narcissa Malfoy, exactly, but he does have the feeling that he's in for a rather severe talking-to, and the way Malfoy's face has paled isn't exactly inspiring confidence.

He and Malfoy descend the wide marble staircase to the dining room with the air of condemned men walking to their doom.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Narcissa greets them from the head of a long table that's set with an array of sumptuous-looking breakfast dishes. "Do sit down," she adds, as two house-elves silently pull out the two chairs closest to her.

Harry slides awkwardly into the high-backed chair, pulling a pristine white linen napkin into his lap and trying not to look alarmed by the sheer amount of silverware on either side of his plate.

“That will be all, Ipsy,” she adds, and the house-elf’s gleeful expression slips slightly before she nods and retreats, ears flopping dejectedly. The other two house-elves follow soundlessly, leaving the three of them alone in the opulent dining room.

There’s a moment of rather strained silence. Then Narcissa nods almost imperceptibly at the various plates in front of them, and Harry takes a fortifying breath, studiously avoids Malfoy’s eyes, and helps himself to some tea and scones. Before he can reach for the sugar bowl, Malfoy passes it to him wordlessly, taking the milk for himself and sliding the fresh-squeezed lemon juice across to Harry in the same movement. Taken aback slightly, Harry’s can’t help but stare at Malfoy, who bites his lip and abruptly busies himself with his breakfast, the tips of his ears stained a vivid pink.  

“I trust you slept well?” Narcissa asks innocently, bringing Harry back to the present moment. Harry chances a glance over at Malfoy, who still appears to be fascinated with his cup of coffee, and groans internally. Trust him to just leave Harry to fend for himself.

“Er, yeah, we did,” Harry responds without thinking, and then immediately wants to punch himself. Futilely trying to ignore the flush rising in his cheeks, he asks, “And you?”

“Oh, just fine,” she responds demurely, although Harry has the very distinct impression, despite her well-rested appearance, that she isn’t quite telling the truth. He takes a bite of his scone and fervently hopes that Narcissa’s bedroom is located on the opposite side of the Manor from Malfoy’s.

“How is Aunt Andromeda?” Draco asks, attempting a lofty tone and missing by about a mile.

“I was visiting my sister yesterday evening,” Narcissa explains for Harry’s benefit. “She’s well,” she adds, and this time a small, genuine smile graces her face. “She has her hands full with your cousin Teddy - he managed to turn the tips of his hair blond by the end of the night.”

“Did he?” Harry asks delightedly. “Last time I was there I could swear he was making his hair stick up more than usual."

Malfoy sniggers into his coffee and then tries to cover it up with a cough. Narcissa’s lips quirk up slightly at the corners, and for a moment there’s a more companionable silence as they all dig into a meal that could rival even the most lavish of the Hogwarts feasts.

Then Narcissa takes a delicate sip of her tea and focuses sharp, crystal-blue eyes on Harry again.

"And how did you find Draco's wand?" she inquires politely, and Harry nearly chokes on his tea. "Were you able to perform spells adequately?

"Oh - er, yes. Actually," Harry responds, trying to pull himself together. "It worked nearly as well as my old one - loads better than Hermione's, and I think I might've set something on fire if I tried to use Ron's again."

"Did it now?" Narcissa responds neutrally, and though her face is as impassive as ever, Harry gets the distinct impression that she's trying not to smile.

When Harry glances over at Malfoy, there's a hint of pink high in his cheeks, but he just continues eating his scones with an effortless grace Harry will never hope to emulate.

A minute later though, he feels Malfoy's foot come to rest tentatively on his own under the table, and this time it's Harry who has to bite down on a smile.

The remainder of breakfast passes without any other mortifying incidents - although Harry has a strong inkling, based on the amused smirks Malfoy’s been sending him, that he hasn’t used the correct spoon once. Then Narcissa insists on seeing him out, Malfoy trailing slightly behind and making an admirable attempt at a nonchalant expression.

"We'll be seeing you soon, Mister Potter," she tells him, and although her tone is courteous, Harry gets the distinct impression that it's not a request he can refuse.

But, glancing over at Malfoy - who hasn't stopped blushing once all morning, who is funny and clever and captivating when he's not being an absolute prat (and maybe even when he is), and who kisses him with a kind of desperation that suggests he's been thinking about it for years - Harry can't say that he wants to.

[hrmionie-grngr]

Summary: Hermione meets Malfoy, and discovers he isn’t quite as she expected. 

A/N: Yay, some Hermione/Malfoy interaction !

Chapter 1

Healer-in-Charge Pye's face was serious on Monday morning, as Hermione took her seat in the chair in front of his desk. He had never been so serious about an assignment before, and the gravity of the situation gave Hermione pause.

"Thank you for accepting the assignment, Hermione," Pye started. "I'm glad I can rely on you to put aside your personal feelings in the interests of the patient."

"You know I'm dedicated to my job, sir," Hermione replied. "But there's no animosity between Malfoy and I, hasn't been for a long time."

"Good." Pye peered at her for a moment, before turning his gaze to the folder that sat on his desk in front of him. Writing in the top corner pronounced, Malfoy, Draco Lucius. "This is going to sound like a very strange story, Hermione."

"My life has been a strange story, sir," Hermione smiled.

Pye smiled grimly, and nodded. He handed the folder to Hermione, and gestured for her to open the folder.

She glanced through the papers in the file quickly, saving the less important information for a closer read later.

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Case File: No. 214597

Name: Malfoy, Draco Lucius

Date of birth: 05/06/1980

Malady: Unidentified

"Unidentified malady?" Hermione asked, brow furrowed.

Pye sighed. "Unfortunately so," he answered. "He was first admitted ten months ago, about a week after New Year's. He'd attacked a colleague unprovoked, but couldn't remember anything of the fight or why he'd started it. He was admitted for amnesia, but the Healer in charge of him couldn't find any reason why."

The details seemed to match the story Harry had told her, so Hermione nodded.

"So his superficial injuries were healed, and he was dismissed," Pye continued. "Then, a month later, he was admitted again." The Healer In Charge's brows furrowed. "His mother had found him in a state of deliria. He was talking to himself, cowered in a corner of his room at their home…She attempted to placate him, and he attacked her."

"Did he remember that?"

Pye shook his head. "He was admitted to the Dylis Derwent Ward for monitoring, and screening tests were performed, for jinxes, hexes, malignant spellwork. Nothing was detected. There's nothing that could explain why he was talking to himself, or why he has these amnesiac episodes."

Hermione glanced down at the file again.

Symptoms:

Random and recurrent episodes of amnesia, in which violent behaviour is displayed

Frequent headaches

Patient claims there is a voice in his head, and often converses with it

"These symptoms have continued?" she asked.

"Yes," Pye confirmed. "The amnesia episodes, the violence, that doesn't come very often, only once in a while. But the headaches are constant, and he is adamant that there is a voice in his head that won't go away."

"A voice in his head?" Hermione raised a brow. Pye cocked his head, just as sceptical as she was.

"His violent episodes make him too dangerous to be dismissed," Pye said. "But we have no clue what could be causing them. No leads."

Hermione was silent. Incurable indeed.

"Come," Pye said, standing up. "I'll take you to see him."

Hermione followed him along the corridors of the Fourth Floor.

"Are we not going to the Dylis Derwent Ward, sir?" she asked, noticing their surroundings.

Pye shook his head. "He's been moved to the Janus Thickney Ward," he said. "Spell Damage is our best guess right now, and it certainly seems permanent enough to warrant a room there."

Pye stopped for a moment at the entrance to the Ward, to inform the Healer sitting in the entry booth of Hermione's new assignment, so that she would be able to make her future visits to the Ward without being questioned. After that brief pause, Hermione followed Pye down a secluded corridor, to a door at the very end.

With a muttered good luck, Pye opened the door.

Hermione wasn't sure what she had expected. Perhaps a frail, pale Malfoy, cowering in the corner of the room. Perhaps a Malfoy who was delirious and muttering to nothing in particular. Certainly not what she was seeing now.

Malfoy was sitting up straight in his bed, reading, of all things. And though he did look a little worse for wear, he seemed to be as healthy as one can expect. His face might have been gaunter than it was, but still held its aristocratic edges, and his hair, while not styled as usual, was the same platinum blonde she remembered. His pyjamas weren't the Hospital-issued lavender ones, but pale grey pyjamas - silk, by the way the sunlight gleamed on the folds.

"Granger?" His tone held surprise.

"Malfoy," she greeted, walking into the room.

She looked around the room; it seemed comfortable enough, far from a cage. Sunlight streamed through the window on the wall opposite the door, and the room was nicely furbished, for a hospital room. His bedhead stood to the left of the window, the low bedside table beside it fitting comfortably underneath the pane. As she glanced to the wall opposite the bed and the window, she saw that he even had his own separate bathroom.

Malfoy may be a patient, but he was a privileged one.

He eyed her lime green robes with a raised brow, placing his book onto his bedside table. "I didn't know you were a Healer."

She shrugged as she walked across the small room towards his bed. "I haven't been here long, only two years."

He smirked, the familiar sight unsettling Hermione even more. Wasn't he meant to be delirious?

"Well, you can't blame me for not noticing," he said now. "I was far too busy with my Auror job to notice you."

Despite his perplexing sanity, the familiar banter eased her, bringing her back to the last of their days at Hogwarts. There was his insult, as always, but she knew that they had stopped being meant as offence a long time ago. There was his bite, but with none of the venom. She pulled up a chair beside his bed. "Still self-absorbed, I see," Hermione smirked back. "As always."

"But would you rather I be any other way, Granger?" Malfoy snarked.

She spared a glance at the small stack of books on his bedside table, the only thing gracing its pale top. Her hand itched to straighten the haphazard pile, but she stopped herself. They seemed to be the only thing that was distinctly Malfoy in the room, even the messiness of it, the only thing making it feel more like a dorm room and less like a hospital room; she couldn’t bring herself to take that away.

"So, what are you doing here?" Malfoy asked. "I wouldn't have pegged you for one of my visitors."

"I'm your new assigned Healer."

Malfoy raised a brow. "What, they ran out of people to fix -"

His face crumpled suddenly, and he cried out in pain. Hermione jumped, watching in alarm as he clutched his head.

"Malfoy, what's wrong?" she asked hurriedly. She approached him, a hand extended hesitantly, but suddenly, he hissed in a low, raspy voice, "Go away."

Hermione jolted back.

"O-Okay," she stuttered, about to walk backwards and out of the room, but then Malfoy spoke up again.

"Not you," he whispered. He turned to her, his face set in a grimace, but seeming like he was in less pain now. "I apologise, that…that wasn't me."

Her training kicked in, and she immediately pulled out her wand, casting some pain relief spells over Malfoy.

"Is that better?" she asked, anxious.

"No, pain relief spells don't work on this," he answered.

Hermione frowned, never having encountered such a situation before.

"Don't worry," Malfoy added. "It'll go away."

Unsure what else to do, she settled for Conjuring up a glass of water and handing it to him. He took the water gratefully.

"What do you mean, it wasn't you?" she asked.

Malfoy glanced at her for a second, before taking a deep breath. "It was…the thing," he said. "The voice in my head. It's just…angry, I guess, now that you're my assigned Healer."

Hermione stares at him in silence, mouth slightly agape. Malfoy let out a wry laugh.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me," he said. "None of the others did. If anything, you should be flattered." He pulled himself upright again. "It's scared of you. Maybe you can get rid of it after all."

Hermione struggled for a reply, but before she could, a knock sounded at the door. They both turned to see Hannah's face poking through.

"Hey, Mione," she said. "We need you. Emergency Ward."

Hermione nodded. As she walked out of the room, she glanced back, to see Malfoy still in pain, but grinning wryly at her.

"You alright there, Hermione?"

Hermione started. "Sorry?" she said to Hannah, who was looking at her strangely.

Hannah shook her head, going back to her case file for her current assignment. As with every Monday night, they were scheduled to be on the night shift at the Emergency Ward on the Fourth Floor, but it was a quiet night, and Hannah had taken to studying her current assignment.

"You've been quiet all night," Hannah said.

Hermione glanced down at the blanket in her hand. She had been meticulously making every bed in the Ward, tidying every bedside table and making sure everything was in its assigned place. It calmed her, to know that at least outside of her mind everything was in order. But she had been doing it with movements like those of a robot, or an animated puppet. She seemed to be mindless, she knew, but her mind was far from idle.

"Sorry Hannah," she said. "It's my new case. It's… tougher than I anticipated."

She walked over to Hannah and sat in a chair nearby.

"You know I'm always happy to help." Hannah smiled, before going back to her own file.

"Thanks, but I think I need to gather my thoughts about all of it first."

For the next while, they each sat in comfortable silence, each studying their assignment. Hermione pored over Malfoy's case file, brief as it was.

Malady: Unidentified

Symptoms:

Random and recurrent episodes of amnesia, in which violent behaviour is displayed

Frequent headaches

Patient claims there is a voice in his head, and often converses with it

Proffered remedies:

Pain relief spells, administered during periods of intense headache

Shocker Spells, administered during violent episodes

Private room with safety precautions in place

Investigation into possible causes of violent episodes and possible remedies underway

Malfoy was delirious then, to have claimed a voice in his head. That, or insane. Only insane people had voices in their head.

But try as she might, she couldn't get that image out of her head. The image of him smiling at her, in pain.

The Emergency Ward kept Hermione busy all Tuesday, but it gave her time to think. Malfoy may be crazy, but that pain he experienced was real, and it was her job, her duty, to make that pain go away.

It was barely light outside on Wednesday morning, when she made her way to his room.

"You're back," Malfoy said as she walked in. "I was expecting a new face to walk through that door. Thought you'd given up like all the others."

"In all the years you've known me, Malfoy, have I ever been the type to give up?" Hermione asked. The air in the room felt musty and heavy, so she crossed the room and opened the window. Fresh, cool air flowed through. "The day I do that is the day you become humble."

Malfoy let out a soft chuckle. "What are you talking about? I'm the most humble person you've ever met." Turning back to him, Hermione rolled her eyes, but was glad to see that the fresh air had helped lift the pallor somewhat from his face.

She crossed the room again, and settled on a chair beside his bed, taking out a roll of parchment and a self-inking quill. "Now," her voice took on a professional tone, clinical, almost. "These headaches, like the one that occurred on Monday when I was talking to you."

"Yes?"

"How often do they occur?"

He only stared at her sceptically for a moment before answering. "Everyday. Almost constantly."

Her eyes furrowed as she wrote on the notebook. "How intense are they?"

"For most of the time, it's…mild enough to be dismissed but intense enough to be annoying."

She grimaced sympathetically. "Most of the time?"

"They usually become more intense just before a…just before I become violent."

"Right." She paused her scribbling for a moment, hesitating. "These amnesiac episodes." She glanced at him somewhat apologetically, noticing the darkening in his eyes. Somehow, though, he seemed to understand that she didn't mean to be crude or offensive, she was simply being straightforward and doing her job. "Is there a pattern to when they occur?"

He thought for a moment.

"Not quite," he said. "They're kind of random. I never know when. Well…the headaches are always more intense before. And…" he glanced at her quickly. "And the voice starts talking to me."

Hermione's hand paused in its scribbling, but only for the briefest of moments.

"Thank you," she said finally, closing the notebook. "I know they've given you pain relief spells for the headaches, but they're not helping much are they?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"Hopefully I'll be able to come back with something more helpful."

With that, she headed for the door, feeling for the first time since she walked out the same door on Monday, that she had a purpose.

All through the day, when she wasn't busy on shift, she worked on the potion. The small library in the Hospital had the right texts that she could research for the right ingredients - mandrake root, dittany leaves, salamander's blood, all known for their curative and painkilling properties. The potion gave her something to throw herself into, something to challenge herself with. Based on her research and studies, she developed a method to the brewing, written neatly onto a piece of parchment that she kept on her at all times.

Boil wine

Add salamander blood - stir 5 times counter-clockwise

Leave for an hour

Stir 3 times clockwise

Add dittany leaves - stir once clockwise, then once counter-clockwise

Leave for 24 hours

Then add mandrake root

Leave for 20 minutes, then finish with counter-curse to Bogey Curse

The brewing put her back in a methodical, analytical mindset. Malfoy was clearly a complex case, perhaps with more than one problem, and it was clear it wasn't one she could solve overnight. She had to approach this step by step, solve one problem at a time. First, she had to fix his headaches; after that, she'd worry about the amnesiac violence, and whatever else was ailing him.

She had made a promise, when she started Healer training, to help ease pain and preserve life. Malfoy was no different, and she'd be damned if she couldn't ease his pain, too.

[buttsonthebeach]

Prompt - how did Lucius feel when he heard Ashara might be dead? How did he feel about seeing her in the Fade?

ANON. ANON. You are my new best friend. Anyone who reads/asks about Reckoning is my friend. Thank you for this! I was so thrilled to get a prompt request for Lucius and for Reckoning.

Pairing: Past Lucius Talvas x Ashara Lavellan (OC x Solavellan child OC); current Lucius x Rhea (OC x OC)

Rating: Teen because Lucius swears once

Note: Contains spoilers for chapter five of Reckoning. And angst. And pining.The morning after he returned from his latest trip to Vyrantium, Lucius woke late, cursed himself for a lazy fool, and had to rush to clean his teeth and comb out his hair and rifle through his wardrobe for something clean to wear. He should not have scheduled the meeting with the dwarven emissaries from Kal-Sharok so close to his trip. Maevaris told him as much. But his suppliers in Vyrantium only had so much of the stone he needed for crafting runes, and he preferred to inspect it himself rather than trust someone else, and it was a chance to present his proposal to the guild of printers there, and it was a stroke of luck that the emissaries were willing to see him at all, given their busy schedules and imminent return to Kal-Sharok -

“And won’t you want to see Rhea right away when you return, anyway?”

His heart did lift, remembering Mae’s teasing words before he left. It was a feeling that was half nervousness and half anticipation. Rhea did seem sad when he said he would be away. He did think of her on his journey. They wrote to each other. He wrote to her the day before returned, asking if she would be able to meet him for dinner that evening. Surely there was a response waiting for him now.

His hair combed, his teeth cleaned, a fresh robe found folded (crumpled) in his wardrobe, he headed out. Sure enough, there was a note waiting in the box on his door.

Lucius -

If a busy man like you has time for me in his schedule, how can I refuse? I will meet you at the restaurant near the theatre, where we ate last time.

Yours,

Rhea

Again, the lift and flip in his chest. Nerves and anticipation. He thought of that meal, their first time dining alone, without Mae or her husband or Rhea’s brothers or any of their other acquaintances accompanying them. That was how they met after all - in that shifting tapestry of Minrathous society, those parties and dinners and dances. The restaurant was an extension of that - austere, refined, fashionable. Expensive. The men who waited on them were human, not elven. Of that Lucius was glad - even if the only reason they chose humans rather than elves was likely to show how expensive it was, so fine they could afford the finest help, and not because of any lofty beliefs. He avoided the restaurants where every server had pointed ears, and bruised arms.

On his long walk to the Magisterium, where he would meet the emissaries, he played back that dinner again, remembering the red of Rhea’s lips, the way she covered her mouth with her hand when she laughed. She was pale and light-haired like Mae - there was some distant family connection he could never remember - and the wine they drank brought a deep flush to her cheeks. She flushed again when he put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the restaurant. They’d walked along the well-paved and well-lit streets near the restaurant and talked about their experiences in their respective Circles - his in Vyrantium and then in Minrathous, hers in Qarinus - and then there was a lull, long enough that he started to flex his hands nervously, that he wondered if he ought to touch her, or suggest something else they should do.

“I should go,” she said finally. “I have an early appointment to go to the docks with my brother. There’s a new ship he wishes to purchase and he wants a second set of eyes.”

She’d tilted her face up to him and stood close enough that Lucius knew what she wanted - and even though his heart beat faster, he still hesitated. This was a first. His first kiss with Rhea. His first kiss in almost a year.

He did kiss her. And again, when he went out on the ship with her and her brothers and several of her acquaintances a week later. Each one was short and sweet. She stepped away from him when they were done, so their bodies no longer touched.

As Lucius mounted the hill towards the Magisterium he paused at a cart selling pastries and stood for a moment in its shade, looking up at the grand building, thinking of that day on the ship, of the restaurant, of the party where he met Rhea. He turned the other way and faced the spire of the Circle where, until two years ago, he’d lived. He thought of the boy he’d been there. So frightened and alone, so ill-prepared for the cutthroat competition of trying to gain a patron, trying to make a life for himself. It was all behind him. His life was moving forward in new and exciting ways. His theory that electric runes could be used to power various machinery, like printing presses, were gathering traction and support. He was having dinner with Rhea that evening.

It didn’t feel the way he thought it would. Having all the things he wanted when he lived in the dormitories at the base of that spire. He wasn’t elated. He was - content, he supposed. He tried not to prod the feeling too hard. He finished his pastry, and he turned and continued making his way up the hill.

When he reached the Magisterium, it was buzzing with activity - more so than the last few times he’d been there, and certainly far busier than it should have been first thing on a dreary morning. His neck prickled. The faces of the couriers and servants were harried, and the few magisters he saw had knit brows.

“We should have known,” one said. “This sort of thing is in the blood. What did they think would happen when they gave the rabbits a country of their own?”

“We may be able to spin this to our favor. Argue that this is why the Lucerni’s latest elven bill of rights is ludicrous.”

Lucius’s heart that had lifted so high twisted now. Enasan. They were talking about Enasan. What happened?

“Lucius?”

It was Claudia, her dark eyebrows high with shock. She was staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. Her arms were full of books and scrolls.

“Well met, Claudia. What’s going on here?”

Now her eyebrows fell, and her dark eyes, too.

“You haven’t heard. When I saw you there, I thought you must have. I was going to come find you this afternoon and tell you… and then I saw you and hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

Lucius thought of his trip from Vyrantium. The speed of the public coach. How tired he’d been, how he had not listened to the gossip or asked for news whenever they stopped and changed horses.

“What happened?” he asked, even though he felt the knowledge growing inside his stomach, heavy like a stone. Something happened with Enasan, and if Claudia had planned to go out of her way to find him and tell him about it…

“Come with me,” she said.

People parted for Claudia, even though she was almost comically short, and only a junior member of the Magisterium, really more of a clerk for Dorian Pavus than anything else. Still, Lucius felt like his much longer legs had to work hard to keep up with her brisk pace. Or maybe it was only that his heart was beating faster as the knowledge, the fear, grew and grew.

“Is it Ashara?” he asked the moment they reached the little antechamber that served as Claudia’s office.

Claudia put down her books and her scrolls. Carefully. Slowly. Neatly. Then she finally met his eyes and there was grief in hers.

“Yes.”

Then she told him of Clermont - Ashara and the immigrants her group was tasked with escorting, and the Orlesian guards who stopped them. The Orlesian guards who were burned alive by a spell powered by Ashara’s own blood.

And Ashara was nowhere to be found.

He felt sick.

He sat down.

Ashara was missing. Feared dead.

Ashara could be dead.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

“Two or three days ago. Word only just reached us. Orlais is calling it an act of aggression by Enasan.”

“That’s absurd. Ash wouldn’t - couldn’t -”

Claudia sat down in her own chair, on the other side of the desk from him. She straightened one of the scrolls. She slumped, a little. It was unlike her.

“Well, she could. You and I were both at the temple that day. At Skyhold when we saved Ellana. We both know what she’s capable of.”

Lucius winced as he always did at the memory. Ashara and her unearthly blue eyes and the two voices speaking as one from her mouth, and the cold fury with which she - no - the ancient elven spirit possessing her tried to kill them. How she was able to relive memories of blood magic rituals so vividly that she could explain how to perform them - even if her father was ultimately the one who did.

“That wasn’t her,” he said. “Whatever it was - it wasn’t her. And Solas fixed her.”

Claudia shrugged, and sat forward in her chair. She ran a hand through her short black hair.

“As far as we know. But do we really know what happened that day?”

Another memory, this time of the crunch of new snow under his feet, and Ashara at his side, nervous, and then elated, as she said that she wanted them to be together, no matter the distance that separated them. And the words she said before that - there are things I can’t tell you. Not because I don’t want to - because I want to keep you safe.

But still. Still. This was Ashara. Ashara. Her name rang in his mind again and again and again like the Chantry’s call to mass. It was the only word he could think now.

“Do you really think she did this?” he asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

Claudia sighed. “No. Not really. I believe that she killed them. I believe that she may have used blood magic to do it. But I don’t think it was unprovoked. Something is going on here. We spoke to Ellana through the crystal last night. She’s in Orlais now, trying to get to the bottom of it.” She gestured to her neatly stacked books and scrolls with another weary sigh. “I’m looking through some documents for Dorian now. This is a disaster for our newest bill to promote elven rights. I have so much support to salvage now -”

“Is that honestly what you care about right now? Ashara is out there. She could be dead. And you’re worried about some bill? Do you care so little for her?”

Lucius’s anger came on him sudden and hot the way it always did. He did not get angry often. He was disoriented. His whole body felt too light and too rigid all at once. His heart hammered, a counterpoint to the melody of her name in his mind.

Claudia sat up straight now, her usual impeccable posture. She put both her hands on the table, like she might stand at any moment.

“Where was all of this care and concern the last two times she was in Minrathous, Lucius? Because if I recall correctly, I am the one who has always made time to see her. I am the one who saw her the night before she left for that damned town.”

Lucius’s anger always went quickly, too. Claudia’s words pricked him right in the lungs. Deflated him entirely.

“And what would you have me do, anyway? It would take weeks to get to Orlais. Ellana is already there. Her father is no doubt combing the Fade for her every hour of every day. What can you or I do except pray to the Maker that she is safe?”

He thought of telling her how long he prayed to the Maker to make his brother breathe again, to bring his parents back. How hollow every prayer since then felt. He looked away instead.

“I care for her too. Maybe not quite the same way you do. But I may have lost one of my dearest friends, Lucius. I’ll be damned if I also lose the chance to improve the lives of thousands of her people.”

There was a raw note to Claudia’s voice now - one he had not heard before. She kept her emotions close. But when he looked at her, he could see her fear and heartache as plainly as he felt his own. On impulse, he reached out and put his hand on top of hers. She squeezed it, and offered him a small smile. He withdrew his hand.

“Why were you here, if you didn’t know?” she asked him after a pause.

For a moment, even he couldn’t remember. Then he did, and he did not even feel a jolt of anxiety at the thought that he was late. He was thinking of the last time he saw Ash. When had it been? How many months ago? What had their parting words to each other been?

“I have a meeting with emissaries from Kal-Sharok. I want to employ some of their enchanters in crafting my new runes. Perhaps they will be less expensive than the ones I spoke to from Orzammar, since they will not have to travel so far.”

“You should go, then. I am sure they are very busy.” They both rose, and Claudia walked him to the door. She paused in the entryway. “If I hear anything - you will be the first to know.”

“Likewise.”

The emissaries from Kal-Sharok were stoic, suspicious women. Lucius knew this. He also knew that he was not a charismatic man, that he was too shy and polite to draw others out of their own

shell. He’d been preparing himself mentally to be brighter, cheerier, more confident when he met with them. He even felt that process was easier than it had been in the past. He was more confident. He was Lucius Talvas, Laetan, yes, but a Laetan with his own flat and his own money, and a talented mage with his own theories and his own plans for the applications of electrified runes - and he was kind, and he cared for others, and he deserved the good things in his life.

Sitting there, across from the dwarves from Kal-Sharok, he couldn’t connect to that feeling again. He could only picture Ashara bloodied and dead on some field in Orlais.

He didn’t think his presentation went that badly. He didn’t think it went well, either. He didn’t care. He walked back out of the Magisterium and stood on its stone steps looking at the ancient, hazy sprawl of Minrathous and he still thought only of her.

He could not remember the last time he saw her. Not clearly. Claudia was right. He had avoided her the last two times she was in town. He could admit that now. Things with Rhea were new then. He didn’t know what to say to her about them. Even now the thought wrenched his heart. He wanted more than anything to turn a corner and see Ashara standing there, and yet if he did, he would not know how to tell her about Rhea. I have kissed someone else since the last time I kissed you.

But he had seen her before Rhea. Not even that long before they met. Why couldn’t he remember where or when? Had they gone to watch Claudia debate another junior member of the Magisterium? No, that was the year before. Was it that brief lunch on the outskirts of the city? How had they parted? He could not remember. He returned to his flat in a fog and stood there, listless, lost, staring about as if that would help him remember. Did he make it clear to her before she went that he would not have the life he had now if it had not been for her? That her belief in him - her warm, constant love - were the first seeds of that confidence that brought him here?

His eyes prickled. He wiped them. He went to his room.

His memory of the last time they saw each other might have been strangely vague, but there was one memory that would not dim. He stood there in his too-quiet flat and he could still picture her exactly as she was the morning after they made love for the last time - the moment their relationship was truly over. She was awake before him, of course. Sitting up on the bed, the covers around her waist, bare above them. Her back was to him. And for a moment in his bleary, half-awake state, he just looked at her. He did not move or make a sound. He just looked at her, and tried to memorize the exact curve of her back, and tried to tell himself that this was the last moment he would ever love her. That his love was something he could box up and put in a drawer in his bedside table.

If I never see her again - if I never see her again -

He couldn’t finish the thought. Not standing there remembering the cloud of her beautiful curls and her freckled shoulders like it was yesterday. Not while he could still picture the soft, sad smile she gave him when at last she turned and saw he was awake, and it was really over.

It was really over. It was.

The fog had lifted somewhat by the time he went and met Rhea at the restaurant. In its place was a biting anxiety, a tenseness in his shoulders, an uneasy buzz in the mana pooling in his body. The noise of the city - the Sopporati merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horses, the whoosh and crackle of spells - grated on him. His heart did flutter at the sight of Rhea. Her gold and silver gown, which left her shoulders bare. The sheen of her hair by the magelights in front of the restaurant. Her smile. She was the accomplished daughter of an Altus family, and she smiled at him, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, the orphan Laetan with only modest prospects. He was lucky.

Was Ashara?

“You look tired,” she said. “Was your journey difficult?”

“Yes,” he said. He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her perfume was soft and floral. She squeezed his arm and looked up at him, smiling again for no reason at all, while they waited to be seated. She was a quiet person, like him. Before his trip to Vyrantium he was beginning to feel the kind of comfortable silence settle in between them that he so cherished in his friendships. Now it felt oppressive. He wanted suddenly to go home - or to Claudia, who would understand what he felt. He had not told Rhea about Ashara. She was under no illusions that she was the first woman he’d been involved with, of course - but there had been no reason, no need for specifics. And to tell her now - his own heart aching with words he did not want to admit even to himself -

“I take it you hear what happened with Enasan? My mother was called into an emergency session of the Magisterium just for it.”

Void take him. He would not be able to escape it.

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s awful. I hope they get to the bottom of it soon.”

“Yes. It seems exactly like the sort of thing that Orlais would do.”

Rhea blinked, taken aback. “You assume the fault is Orlais’s?”

“You assume the fault is Enasan’s?”

The server brought them their first course - salads. Rhea immediately began picking at hers.“I don’t really assume anything now. Everything is so murky,” she said.“The fault must be Orlais’s. What does Enasan stand to gain from antagonizing one of the largest empires in Thedas?” Lucius was aware that his voice was perhaps too urgent, too heated. He could not stop himself. He hated that feeling. He felt sick looking at his salad now.Rhea’s hazel eyes were narrow with concern and confusion. “You feel very strongly about this.”“I feel strongly about any injustice. The elves have always been treated monstrously by our people. This is just another example.”“You’re not wrong.” She seemed nervous now. She twirled her fork in the mound of rich, dark greens. “The truth will come out, I am sure.”This was his moment to tell her. He was not only upset by the injustice but by the thought of blue eyes that might be closed forever. But how? How could he when there was a feeling he didn’t want to name in the back of his mind? Claudia was right. He didn’t care for Ashara the way she did. He thought again of her sitting in his bed that last morning. Then he looked at Rhea. Her shoulders were bare too. She was intelligent and worldly and she blushed whenever he complimented her. He was lucky. His hand tightened on his fork.“The mage involved. Ashara Lavellan. I know her. We were - are - close. We were lovers.”Rhea had a bite of salad halfway to her mouth. She paused, and put it down. She folded her hands carefully in her lap and sat still and straight. It was a trained posture. He wondered if they’d made her balance books on her head when she was a young girl.“I ended the relationship a year ago. We - wanted different things in life. But we have remained friends, and thinking of her out there - alone and frightened - or hurt -”Rhea’s stayed still and straight. Her eyebrows were lowered, and her lips were puckered, and she was a perfect picture of concern.“I see. I am sorry that you are so worried for your friend.”Looking at her, wondering if she was actually sorry, wondering what she was thinking now, if telling her was the right thing to do, he missed Ashara with a pain that blinded him. He missed how every thought, every feeling she had flitted across her face like clouds over the sun. He missed the way words tumbled from her mouth one after the other, how he could trace the workings of her mind in them, how she grew embarrassed that she was so easy to read, that she always said everything that was on her mind, and he missed the softness of her forehead under his lips when he kissed that embarrassment away.He missed Ashara.There was another word there, a shadow enveloping “missed.” One he did not even want to name in the privacy of his mind.

“Thank you,” Lucius said. “I worry that I won’t be good company tonight, as a result. I am sorry.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let us talk of something else, then. I want to hear about your trip to Vyrantium, and your meeting with the dwarves from Kal-Sharok. Do you think they will agree to help you manufacture the runes? And did the seneschal in Vyrantium agree to put your proposal for powering their printing presses with your runes before the guild of printers?”

Lucius did not want to talk. Long conversations in noisy places were draining on a good day, when he was full of energy and looking forward to them. His lungs were heavy now. He took a deep breath anyway, and began.

Rhea kissed him when he helped her into her carriage at the end of the night. It was a short, delicate kiss. It left no impression on his lips, or in his chest. He was distracted. Every other time he’d kissed her it had given him a little thrill. It was natural that he was preoccupied. That he felt helpless. If only there was something he could do from all the way in Minrathous - something to help Ashara, if she was out there, to assure her that she was not alone -

He could call to her.

Neither of them had the money for sending crystals like Magister Pavus had, but Ashara was a somniari, and she had taught him how to reach out to her in the Fade.

“It’s like music,” she told him once, lying next to him in bed. They’d pressed their palms together and were studying the difference between their hands. Her long, narrow fingers against his thicker, blockier ones. He would have made a bad printer, if his family had survived, and if he had not been a mage. “I can hear different songs when I’m in the Fade, and I can go to them. Tonight, I’ll teach you a song that will be just ours, and when I hear it, I’ll know you want to see me.”

“I always want to see you,” he’d said, and he’d kissed her, and they’d forgotten about songs for a while.

What she meant by a song was really more of a hum, or a vibration, at least to him, although she claimed to hear the melody. It reminded him of the way he could sift through different energies pouring across the Veil when he cast a spell, how he could tell fire from ice, except he couldn’t feel this energy in his body. It was only in his mind. If he became aware that he was dreaming, and willfully ignored everything the Fade tried to show him, and recalled the sound she’d taught him, eventually it would fill his whole mind, until there was nothing else. Just that constant, pulsing hum.

He focused on nothing but that hum for days.

He went to Dorian Pavus’s house several times, and to Claudia’s flat, hoping for news. They spent a sad, silent dinner together, the three of them, joined later by the Iron Bull.

“She’s fine,” Dorian kept blustering. “It’s impossible that she’s otherwise. She is a talented mage, and a smart girl, and the Maker would not do this to Ellana.”

“Andraste preserve her,” Claudia murmured at his side.

Lucius wished that he still believed in the Maker.

He chose to believe in the song instead.

Every night he focused and focused and focused and waited for that moment when the Fade would ripple and melt and change and she would be with him and everything would be suddenly, vividly real around her. But he was no somniari. It was hard work. He woke each day more tired than the last. The news coming from Orlais was not good. He had not heard from Kal-Sharok. He did not have the will or the energy to work on any of his projects. Rhea had gone out of town, back home to Qarinus, to present some of her own research on how Force magic could propel various vehicles. She wrote to him, and he wrote back.

He started to relax the hum in his mind when he slept. Ashara would not want him to run himself ragged. Not for her sake. It became a secondary focus as he dreamt, after avoiding the various temptations of the Fade, and of his own mind (wealth, power, bringing his parents and his brother back, desire demons that he turned from immediately before he could see their faces). It was Rage that finally got a foothold in him one night. He dreamt of the harbor, and the cart where he liked to get salted fish to snack on, and every time he tried to order it, the peddler would only give him flowers, and the lucid part of his mind knew that the peddlers was some hapless spirit of the Fade doing its best to play its part in a world it barely understood but fucking Void, he was sick of things that didn’t work and sick of a world that didn’t make sense and sick of feeling helpless and afraid and all the things he’d felt since he was a thirteen-year-old orphan who’d watched his only brother die and -

And Ashara was there.

Like a wave breaking on the shore.

The flowers were gone. The skewer of salted fish was in his hand. He could smell the salt of the sea. And she was there, standing in front of him, brown hair and freckled cheeks and soft, full lips.

“Ash,” he said. His name for her. The way she’d first introduced herself. The first teasing joke they shared. “It worked. I’ve tried every night since Claudia came and told me you were missing. I am so - so -”

He wanted to hold her.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her and not let go. She stood there, looking at him with pain in her eyes, and he would have given anything in the world to make that pain disappear. For a moment that feeling worried him - was she another trick of the Fade, a demon who would seduce him into giving himself up because he thought it might ease her suffering? But - no - each freckle was where it should have been, and the same curls fell loose from the ribbon that tied her hair back. She was as hasty in the Fade as she was in waking.

He loved her.

It was clear as glass there, in the Fade.

He loved her.

“I’m sorry I worried you. I - it was true about the blood magic. I had to. And it damaged my connection to the Fade until now.”

“I don’t care what you did to survive. I’m just happy you did.”

He meant every word, and he wondered if she sensed that. If she knew, too, what he was thinking. He loved her. It didn’t fill him with fear or regret. It was a simple statement of fact, like looking at a cloudy day and predicting it would rain. He loved her, and he could not change that, any more than he could change the color of his eyes, or bring his brother back from the dead.

They walked through the dreamy version of Minrathous she constructed, and he was in a daze of relief, and he did not even have to question or fear his love for her until she mentioned Rhea. And then he had to pause, reign in, consider. He’d ended things for a reason. He loved her, yes - but she was bright and talented and full of adventure and an endless desire to learn more about the world around her - and he could not follow where she wanted to go. He needed stability, a legacy - he had no family that would catch him if he failed, not like her.

But -

“Well, I’d love to meet her when I go back to Minrathous next. Though I suppose I don’t know when that will be.”

Lucius tried to imagine Ashara and Rhea meeting when she said that. How would Rhea react to Ashara, with all of her energy and her utter lack of well-bred poise? The next time Ashara was in Minrathous, would he and Rhea even be involved anymore? His every thought of her felt gray and thin in that dreamy yellow sun.

And if he and Rhea were not involved anymore - if, perhaps, Ashara had changed, or if he himself had -

These were thoughts he needed to examine when he was awake, under a colder sun.

And he needed her to be safe and whole and alive when he was done.

“I would be sad not to see you in Minrathous again,” he said. “But above all, Ash - stay safe. Please? If you have to stop working for Vir’anor - if you can’t travel through Orlais for a while - then don’t. Don’t push through just because you want to.”

She furrowed her brows. She was so fierce, so unafraid, even now, already prepared to argue. Then she looked away with something like shame in her eyes, and his heart ached. They were standing at the crest of a hill, looking out over the city. Well, she was. He was looking at her.

The rest of their conversation was fuzzy in his mind when he woke, but her presence was so real that he reached out his hand in the bed, half expecting to find her there. He sat there a while, bathing in the relief that she was alive, and turning the thought over and over again in his mind. He loved her. He loved her.

But he’d put that love in a box once before, and put it carefully aside, and that was what he would have to do know. She was hundreds of miles away, and she was on her own journey, processing what she had been through - what her country would likely soon go through. She did not need the added complication of his own feelings. He would be there for her, whenever she needed him - but as a friend. It was the right thing to do.

So he lay back in bed, and closed his eyes, and thought again of the profile of her face as she stood on the crest of that dream-hill. Her perfect nose and her angular jaw. He let himself love her a half hour longer. Then he got up to start his day.

[vampykitty-kun]

Should Learn To Just Stay Home

Rating: M

Characters/Pairing: Bruce/Jason (can be taken one-sided or as mutual), Bruce/Selina, Tim/Kon. Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Harleen Quinzel, Lucius Fox, Vicki Vale.

Word Count: 2343

Notes: Pre-New 52, canon compliant. Nothing graphic relationship wise. Implied daddy kink. Jason's mostly being a little shit trying to get a rouse out of Bruce in public while he's trying to be "Brucey" for the gala fundraiser. Destruction of a loved vehicle. -x-x-x-x-x-x-

He should have stayed home.

Or better yet, he should have been out on patrol.

The past week had been a terror he never wished to repeat under any circumstances, and he was still wondering deep down whether the entire city had been plotting his demise together, or if he truly was just that unfortunate in his luck by all natural means.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Despite popular belief in Gotham, Bruce- Batman, was in fact only human. Though he was adamant about his refusal to admit so, sometimes after a particularly grueling week of leading a double life he found himself utmostly exhausted, and asking himself the timeless question of “what is my life?”. Alfred and he had strong disagreements over what qualified as overexertion and stretching oneself too thin, but really, who would understand his personal daily limits better than himself? Certainly not Alfred's judgmental eyebrows...

But at the present Bruce was truly willing to admit defeat.

The past week had been a terror he never wished to repeat under any circumstances, and he was still wondering deep down whether the entire city had been plotting his demise together, or if he truly was just that unfortunate in his luck by all natural means.

Not only had it managed to snow in September, causing a city wide panic in which everyone flocked to the stores to fight over groceries, and countless vehicular accidents- most notably Dick's. His eldest's flying Batmobile of choice had dramatically skidded off the rooftop Damian and he had landed on, sliding on the black ice neither boy had been able to see, and ultimately the car had been a total loss. Their cars were sturdy, but not fifteen story drop sturdy. Batman and Robin had ejected their seats and had landed on the slick safety of the roof, surviving to watch the metal crumple in on itself as it hit the pavement with a sickening screech. He had arrived to retrieve them only to find Dick in an utter state of shock still gaping down at his baby's remains in the street below and Damian awkwardly offering a consoling palm on his mentor's shoulder as he mourned the loss.

Never mind that they could fabricate a second one... Dick had always been especially sentimental...

Then of course Victor had to come out of the wood work to celebrate the abnormally early winter wonderland- oddly enough not caused by him, nor the other cold based rogues the League dealt with (he had so been hoping to place the blame on something other than nature), and that had been a catastrophe to contain. A word he used loosely when faced with over seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in property damage downtown...

Of course such events only managed to get the other local rogues fired up and in a festive mood, and not two days after several buildings became ice sculptures, a riot broke out within Arkham, and several escapes somehow managed to occur. One of these days Bruce was going to revolt and uproot the entire staff, before hand-picking his own employees for payroll, while letting Lucius and Tim work out a security system that was true to the word overkill. He was getting awfully tired of various levels of workers taking bribes, being controlled via drugs, poison and/or pollen, and shapeshifters managing to fool other guards. He and Gordon had bonded over this very topic just a month prior over rooftop coffee, glares, and exasperated sighs. Jim truly needed a vacation.

The escapees this go around? The Riddler, Penguin, and Ivy were the only heavy hitters, accompanied by several less worrisome inmates. He was relieved that none of the more volatile rogues had managed to make a get away.

Was it wrong to be happy that he was unable to find any trace of the three? Perhaps. But quiet rogues enjoying their freedom in hiding was far better than three rogues having escaped to wreak premeditated havoc on the city. In time they would each come out of hiding on their own and he would inevitably pick them up then. Instead, he managed to recover ninety percent of the other various inmates that had escaped along side them within seventy-two hours, even with other things keeping him preoccupied.

Other things like Harleen leaving Damian strung up like a piñata with a pair of cat ears and a tail added to his ensemble while he pursued Selina four blocks over. Somehow he shouldn't have been surprised when they looped back around and the blonde was gone. Even more so when Selina snapped a few photos of his son with her phone, cooed, then licked her way into his mouth, arms draped around his neck. He certainly should have anticipated the small dagger that ended up lodged in the meat of his shoulder while she gracefully leapt away- with his dignity, and he wrenched the blade back through the torn kevlar. If he took photos of Damian discreetly before cutting him down he rationalized that his son was better off none the wiser.

Alfred promptly framed one.

Damian began the 'silent treatment' with both of them for the betrayal...

Then came the security hack at Wayne tower. Nothing of any value had been accessed, mostly due to Tim's alarms and quick maneuvering, but the fact that anyone had had the audacity to attempt a break through had Tim snarling as his agitated strokes abused his poor keyboards, and Bruce had left the young man's office shaking his head, not wanting to touch that with a ten foot pole. Barbara had informed him hours later that Tim had found the source of the intrusion, and several cups of coffee later he had not only fixed the systems so it could never be re-attempted, but that Tim had decimated the party's systems beyond recovery in a fit of tech. vengeance that had left him smiling contently- but with a tick to a brow. Bruce had not wanted to see the feed from Oracle's conversation with him, but of course Barbara was cruel, and he was certain the shudder that had gone through his body seeing the teen's face was going to repeat and haunt him for weeks.

No one ever touched Tim or Barbara's system's twice.

On the sixth night of the week he was subjected to the gala fundraiser from hell. Mandatory- or so Alfred and Lucius insisted, Bruce was certain at this point that they merely enjoyed to see him suffer humanity. He perhaps could have tolerated it, he had countless times before, if the boys had managed to maintain proper human civilian behavior throughout the night instead of bringing chaos- or if they had merely stayed at their respective homes.

He should have stayed home.

Or better yet, he should have been out on patrol.

Three hours in he had begun to pray for catastrophe to end the event.

Dick was tipsy, and had already demonstrated a back-flip for a small cluster of awed wealthy teens and was moving on to more elaborate acrobatics by the time he had managed to make his way over to the group and scruff his eldest, dragging him away from a chorus of boos. After planting him at a table where he would hopefully settle down Bruce had returned to reluctant mingling.

He was half way through his fourth tumbler of seltzer, playing the boozed playboy, when suddenly an arm far from feminine had skirted around his waist, joined by a chin resting on his shoulder. Before he could turn to face who he had wrongly assumed was a newly mobile clingy Dick, the arm around his waist shifted until a firm hand slid to his thigh and squeezed sensually. One of the ladies in from of him squeaked at the sight and he froze.

“That suit makes you look delicious... I should come to these more often, Daddy.” Jason- whom Bruce hadn't the slightest idea how he had managed to get in to the event, purred behind him.

Unfortunately not quiet enough for it to go undetected by the gaggle of ladies around him. Ladies who were now in various states of shock, amusement, arousal, and disgust.

With the week he had been having he should have known better than to be comforted by an utter lack of Red Hood and/or Scarlet. Really, why had he taken that as a good sign? Why had he been praying for catastrophe?

Pure idiocy, that's why.

“Broooose, I haven't seen you in weeks!” he had pouted, scraping stubble across his cheek as he nuzzled Bruce despite the look of mortification on his face. “I've missed our play-dates so much, don't you love me anymore, Sir?” Jason had huffed, corners of his mouth twitching.

He could smell the whiskey on the man's breath but he also knew well enough that Jason was far from plastered. This was intentional and thought out.

Of all the things that could have happened it was quite honestly the last way he had thought that this night would have gone. He could only imagine the thoughts going through the ladies' heads at such a display. Making matters worse he managed to look in the right direction at the right time just fast enough to catch Vicki Vale's very interested approach and he pried himself out of Jason's grasp none too gently.

“Now now Jay, I think you have had more than enough to drink...” He chuckled, hoping the grin not reaching his eyes was passable enough for their audience. “We'll discuss this thoroughly at a time in which you can be properly embarrassed by your behavior...” He snipped, and the Hood only rolled his eyes with a smirk.

“I look forward to it... gonna punish me, B?”

Bruce was sure he was going to have an aneurysm. The migraine was already forming.

Much to his relief Alfred appeared just as he was reaching a fetching shade of purple.

“If you would follow me, Sir, I will deposit you at your home. Ladies, I do home you forgive this young man. I assure you that he will be most embarrassed come morning about being so handsy. Sweet lad did an apprenticeship with Master Bruce a few years ago...” he trailed off, and Bruce watched as the majority seemed to accept the butler's explanation for the scene.

Jason however looked put out over the end of his fun, and reluctantly allowed Alfred to herd him towards the main entrance to the hall.

Bruce gave a nervous laugh once they were out of sight, and glanced over at Vale to see a look of fury on her face, before turning back to his ring of guests.

“Now ladies sorry for that awkward interruption- he really is a sweet boy, just in a rough patch... friends with my boys these days, seems he's harbored a crush...” He cleared his throat, straightening his suit jacket.

And that was that.

Only he should have most definitely called it a night after Alfred's departure.

As though Jason's surprise groping tipsy appearance had not been shocking enough, it certainly hadn't turned out to be the most awkward event of the night.

No, Vicki had managed to miss out on quite the story of groping, and had been out for blood.

His sons were far too careless outside their suits and clearly wanted him grey and wrinkled.

Because before he could even be aware of the situation, Vicki was on top of Tim- or to be more accurate, Conner Kent was on top of Tim, and the teen was very unaware of the audience they held while the half Kryptonian pressed his back into the hall's wall and kept his mouth distracted.

Bruce himself only stumbled upon it by chance- taking a breather from the crowd, and was too late to prevent Vale's hovering and most importantly of all, his son being macked on by Clark's.

When this had developed he wasn't sure, but he was quickly beginning to regret letting Tim spend so much time alone with the buff teen for so many years.

Alfred truly was the better parent. He deserved all the awards. Bruce himself was hopeless.

Although too late, he cleared his throat pointedly and Kent promptly put several feet of distance between the two of them, leaving Tim panting against the wall- where he managed to focus long enough to look up at the woman in horror.

He knew his fate was sealed. That was punishment enough. Bruce remembered fondly the Tamara Fox situation. The boy knew he was screwed.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“I'm heading home to bed... we'll discuss this development after I've gotten a good amount of rest. Be home before midnight.” And with that he had left Tim to handle the situation by himself.

He only managed half undressing before he was asleep face first in his sheets.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Bruce woke with a groan and flaming death in his retinas. He shifted, jamming his face beneath his pillow as Alfred tsked.

“I thought perhaps you would like a morning update of the boys...” The elder man chuckled fondly.

Bruce only whined and burrowed deeper into the Tempur-Pedic mattress.

“Before sundown they're your sons...” he muttered, muffled by the down pillow.

“While I must congratulate Master Dick and his Disney movies for that reference, I recommend taking a look at this morning's newspaper. That Vale woman is simply just ghastly...” he huffed, smacking Bruce's hip with the rolled newsprint.

The man stiffened and poked his head out reluctantly.

“She had hours, just hours to get things into print and managed it...” He groaned, turning over as he unfolded the mess that was sure to be his life.

And it was.

Front and center on page one was Tim pinned to the tacky wallpapered wall with a tongue down his throat, giant bold print offering explanations for Tim and Tam's called off engagement, affairs, Tim's supposed shame over his sexuality, and much to Bruce's horror, mentions that the apple might not have fallen too far from the tree given the much younger man seen in Bruce's company last night that had been awfully bold in his affections.

He could just die.

Bruce moaned as he returned to smothering himself with the pillow.

Alfred only laughed as he pulled the curtains closed once more and exited the room.

What was his life?

[readbookywooks]

The Death Eaters

Voldemort looked away from Harry and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cats, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great snake, which had slithered back into sight and was circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh. Wormtail's robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. "My Lord..." he choked, "my Lord...you promised...you did promise..." "Hold out your arm," said Voldemort lazily. "Oh Master...thank you, Master..." He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. "The other arm, Wormtail." "Master, please...please..." Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail's left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail's robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo - a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth - the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail's uncontrollable weeping. "It is back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it...and now, we shall see...now we shall know..." He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail's arm. The scar on Harry's forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail's mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. "How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?" He began to pace up and down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face. "You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father," he hissed softly. "A Muggle and a fool...very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child...and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death...." Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass. "You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was....He didn't like magic, my father... "He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born. Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage...but I vowed to find him...I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name...Tom Riddle...." Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave. "Listen to me, reliving family history..." he said quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental....But look, Harry! My true family returns...." The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward...slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort and kissed the hem of his black robes. "Master...Master..." he murmured. The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle's grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered. "Welcome, Death Eaters," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years...thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening. "I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench or guilt upon the air. A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare to step back from him. "I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! and I ask myself...why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?" No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm. "And I answer myself," whispered Voldemort, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment .... "And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living? "And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort...perhaps they now pay allegiance to another...perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?" At the mention of Dumbledore's name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them. "It is a disappointment to me...I confess myself disappointed...." One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort's feet. "Master!" he shrieked, "Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!" Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand. "Crucio!" The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses around....Let the police come, he thought desperately...anyone...anything... Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping. "Get up, Avery," said Voldemort softly. "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years...I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?" He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob. "You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don't you?" "Yes, Master," moaned Wormtail, "please. Master...please..." "Yet you helped return me to my body," said Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. "Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me...and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers...." Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand's wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Wormtail's bleeding wrist. Wormtail's sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder. "My Lord," he whispered. "Master...it is beautiful...thank you...thank you...." He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes. "May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail," said Voldemort. "No, my Lord...never, my Lord..." Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the man on Wormtail's right. "Lucius, my slippery friend," he whispered, halting before him. "I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius....Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay...but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?" "My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -" "And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius....You have disappointed me....I expect more faithful service in the future." "Of course, my Lord, of course....You are merciful, thank you...." Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough for two people - that separated Malfoy and the next man. "The Lestranges should stand here," said Voldemort quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me....When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us...they are our natural allies...we will recall the banished giants...I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear...." He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them. "Macnair...destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide...." "Thank you, Master...thank you," murmured Macnair. "And here" - Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures - "we have Crabbe...you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?" They bowed clumsily, muttering dully. "Yes, Master..." "We will, Master...." "The same goes for you, Nott," said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyles shadow. "My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful -" "That will do," said Voldemort. He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there. "And here we have six missing Death Eaters...three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return...he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever...he will be killed, of course...and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service." The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks. "He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friend arrived here tonight.... "Yes," said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry's direction. "Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor." There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy's voice spoke from under the mask. "Master, we crave to know...we beg you to tell us...how you have achieved this...this miracle...how you managed to return to us...." "Ah, what a story it is, Lucius," said Voldemort. "And it begins - and ends - with my young friend here." He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of them. The snake continued to circle. "You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?" Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. "You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in the attempt to save him - and unwittingly provided him with a protection I admit I had not foreseen....I could not touch the boy." Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry's cheek. "His mother left upon him the traces other sacrifice....This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it...but no matter. I can touch him now." Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the finger away and continued addressing the Death Eaters. "I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman's foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah...pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost...but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know...I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal - to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked...for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it. Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without the means to help myself...for I had no body, and every spell that might have helped me required the use of a wand.... "I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist....I settled in a faraway place, in a forest, and I waited....Surely, one of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me...one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body..., but I waited in vain...." The shiver ran once more around the circle of listening Death Eaters. Voldemort let the silence spiral horribly before continuing. "Only one power remained to me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals - snakes, of course, being my preference - but I was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic...and my possession of them shortened their lives; none of them lasted long.... "Then...four years ago...the means for my return seemed assured. A wizard - young, foolish, and gullible - wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I had been dreaming of...for he was a teacher at Dumbledore's school...he was easy to bend to my will...he brought me back to this country, and after a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan failed. I did not manage to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. I was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted...thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter...." Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters were quite motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed upon Voldemort, and upon Harry. "The servant died when I left his body, and I was left as weak as ever I had been," Voldemort continued. "I returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not pretend to you that I didn't then fear that I might never regain my powers....Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour...I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess...and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had become of me...." One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice. "And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost abandoned hope, it happened at last...a servant returned to me. Wormtail here, who had faked his own death to escape justice, was driven out of hiding by those he had once counted friends, and decided to return to his master. He sought me in the country where it had long been rumored I was hiding...helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way. Wormtail has a curious affinity with rats, do you not, Wormtail? His filthy little friends told him there was a place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided, where small animals like themselves had met their deaths by a dark shadow that possessed them.... "But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it, Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the very forest where he had hoped to find me, he foolishly stopped at an inn for some food...and who should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a witch from the Ministry of Magic. "Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail - displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him - convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her...he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams...for - with a little persuasion - she became a veritable mine of information. "She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She told me many things...but the means I used to break the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and when I had extracted all useful information from her, her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair. She had now served her purpose. I could not possess her. I disposed of her." Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless. "Wormtail's body, of course, was ill adapted for possession, as all assumed him dead, and would attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor wizard though he is, Wormtail was able to follow the instructions I gave him, which would return me to a rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be able to inhabit while awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth...a spell or two of my own invention...a little help from my dear Nagini," Voldemort's red eyes fell upon the continually circling snake, "a potion concocted from unicorn blood, and the snake venom Nagini provided...I was soon returned to an almost human form, and strong enough to travel. "There was no hope of stealing the Sorcerer's Stone anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality. I set my sights lower...I would settle for my old body back again, and my old strength. "I knew that to achieve this - it is an old piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight - I would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of them was already at hand, was it not, Wormtail? Flesh given by a servant.... "My father's bone, naturally, meant that we would have to come here, where he was buried. But the blood of a foe...Wormtail would have had me use any wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any wizard who had hated me...as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted Harry Potters blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago...for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too.... "But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy's future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy's protection as long as he is in his relations' care. Not even I can touch him there....Then, of course, there was the Quidditch World Cup....I thought his protection might be weaker there, away from his relations and Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of a horde of Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to Hogwarts, where he is under the crooked nose of that Muggle-loving fool from morning until night. So how could I take him? "Why...by using Bertha Jorkins's information, of course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy's name was entered into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure that the boy won the tournament - that he touched the Triwizard Cup first - the cup which my Death Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore's help and protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is...the boy you all believed had been my downfall...." Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face Harry. He raised his wand. "Crucio!" It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end...to black out...to die... And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort's father, looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters' laughter. "You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me," said Voldemort. "But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini," he whispered, and the snake glided away through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood watching. "Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."