#too and I also suspect its what gave me magical thinking in the first place (not to say its always due to trauma just that for me it might

[entropy-sea-system]

Ok so. My in sys partner figured this out when I told them about my avoidance of personally having spiritual or religious beliefs (I have OCD and STPD and experience magical thinking) and I hadn't thought of it before but.

One may be avoidant of personally engaging in spiritual or religious activities or beliefs if they experience magical thinking.

Magical thinking is defined as "the belief that one's ideas, thoughts, actions, words, or use of symbols can influence the course of events in the material world" (from Encyclopedia brittanica website)

So magical thinking is when you believe causations or correlations between things that aren't necessarily rooted in actual consequences or possibilities. It's associated with some neurodivergences like schizospec (includes schizotypal pd, schizoid pd, schizophrenia, etc.) and OCD although anyone may experience it at some point. For example if you think unfollowing someone led to that person breaking up with someone. Or perhaps if you think that being jealous of someone led to them being injured in an accident.

Many superstitions and some religious and/or spiritual beliefs may literally have tenets that reinforce or include magical thinking (if you think this you will be punished for sin, 'step on a crack break your mother's back', etc.) . So if you're already prone to magical thinking, some such tenets or beliefs may make it worse (or it may also not, as not everyone has the same experiences).

This doesn't mean religion or spirituality is wrong(and this post is not antitheist or supportive of being antitheist or otherwise bigoted towards religions), it just means it can be difficult for some people to engage with spirituality and/or religion as a result of experiencing magical thinking.

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

"A place where sinners fall in love" sounds awesome

This is one I'm working on right now for a kiss prompt meme. @scottxlogan gave me two prompts from it (one of them was the Emma/Tony one that's already finished and posted up), but the prompt on this one is "to give up control. (any ship)."

It's a Frostiron fic that's pre-relationship that takes place on Asgard. They're dealing with Amora (Enchantress), who is, of course, on the tear because she heard that Loki and Thor are is back in Asgard with friends from Earth, and she naturally wants another shot at spelling him to fall for her. (She's relentless.) She also doesn't care who else she spells in the process with her love magic, especially as a distraction tool.

I haven't gotten up to the point that he's found Tony yet, but he has run into a spelled Clint and Bucky making out in an alcove (and of course, the results of the spell are going to actually last beyond the spell wearing out for those two). When Loki does find Tony, it's right after Amora's dropped a spell bomb on him, which Loki gets to have the fun time of dealing with.

Snippet:

It hadn’t taken Loki long to track down Clint and Bucky.  He almost missed them, but when he caught movement as he passed in the hall, he paused his single-minded pursuit of rescuing his Earth friends to inspect the alcove in the hall between two display tables bearing relief carvings of Thor’s paternal grandparents. 

“Who’s there?” Loki asked as he cautiously stepped closer to where the sounds – hmm, that sounds like moaning and heavy breathing – his hand raised and ready to strike with seiðr.  “Are you alright?  Are you –“ 

He jumped back, his eyes wide, hands still up but more to shield himself from what – and who – he found. 

“Oh!  Oh...oh I’m sorry,” he muttered at first and half-turned to offer the couple privacy while they...broke apart to face him. 

Clint was the first to open his eyes and speak when he and Bucky came up for air from the heavy kissing they’d been engaged in before the younger prince interrupted them. 

“Lokes?  Z’at you?” he mumbled, his words thick as if the kissing had thickened his tongue. 

“Yes, Clint.  It’s me.  I was looking for you two...and Anthony,” Loki answered and finally turned back as the two stepped from the alcove.  He cleared his throat and then looked closely at them. 

“We uh...we saw Tony a bit ago,” Bucky stumbled over is words, his brain feeling both muddled and on fire, and all he wanted to do was grab Clint again and continue doing what they were doing before Loki found them.  That, too, left him feeling muddled and on fire. 

Loki stepped closer to them, carefully as he could sense the magic still crackling off of them.  It wasn’t his magic, but he knew whose it was. 

“Where is he?  You two were spelled by Amora, and I suspect that’s why you two were lip-locked.  The spell will wear off, but I’m going to,“ Loki touched the both of them and a halo of his own magic surrounded them.  It wouldn’t remove the Enchantress’ magic from their systems; they would have to wait it out as he told them, but this would, at least, protect them from further harm, “there.  You two will be protected while the other magic runs its course.  I suspect you’ll be too distracted to help in the fight, so I’m going to send you to my mother for your safe-keeping.”

.

I don't know how long this one's going to be - not terribly long, I don't think. It'll sort of be the start of something for Loki and Tony, but Loki will be terribly worried about Tony's state of mind once the spell wears off.

Thanks for the ask!

[lagolepuri]

#6: Halcyon

“You could have made yourself easier to find, you know.” Hythlodaeus crested a grassy hill where he found Aletheia resting on a thick blanket, overlooking the water below. Her dark locks whipped fitfully around her in the wind.

“I thought my directions were specific enough,” she replied without lifting her eyes from the water.

“‘Meet me by the water where form itself forgets’ is specific enough in retrospect, but it’s unlike you to be so flowery and indirect.” Hyth surveyed their surroundings as he approached. “‘Come quickly,’ you also said, but we seem to be having a picnic. Are the sandwiches so near to spoiling?”

“Oh, come,” she spoke softly, “You’re beginning to sound like Emet-Selch.” She shifted herself to one side of the blanket and patted the ground next to her. “I’ve saved you a seat.” As Hythlodaeus took his place, Aletheia snickered darkly. “How did Hades bear to suffer the both of us when my mischief furrows the brow of even jolly Hythlodaeus?”

His friend’s demeanor gave Hythlodaeus pause. It was rare to see her so somber. “I fear my jesting has been misconstrued for scorn.” He gazed up at the Elpis sky, tumultuous with umbral wind. “Perhaps this foul weather infects us both,” he offered, then, when no reply came, he lifted his voice to ask, “On what adventure have you invited me today?”

“Bird watching,” said Aletheia, without a hint of mirth.

Hyth smiled with chagrin. “That was the urgent matter I rushed here for?” He was careful to make clear the hints of mirth in his own voice.

“At another lake, for another bird, it might have been a less urgent matter, but for this one you’ll never get another chance. You made it just in time, too. Look, it comes.”

Hyth craned his neck to see the lake of Lethe below them, its waters as rough and turbulent as the sky above them. A small, blue bird glided above the choppy waves and alighted on the crest of one. As it did, the wave itself dropped and rested. A ring of calm, clear surface surrounded the bird and grew, spreading stillness across the water until only in the distance could it still be seen trembling.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” A light came into Aletheia’s ruby eyes that Hyth had not seen since arriving. “‘Alkyone,’ Hermes named it. It seems to project peace and stasis into the aether wherever it rests. I suspected some light-based manipulation, but that doesn’t seem to be correct. I can’t determine the method of its effect. But it’s enviable nonetheless, don’t you think?”

“Remarkable indeed. But why do we find it here? I would have been excited to see such a concept cross my desk under the name of good Hermes.” As they watched, the little creature closed its eyes and seemed to go to sleep. Its form relaxed and its beak touched the beak of its reflection in the perfect mirror of the lake. Two birds seemed to be suspended in a vast empty space between the raging umbral storm above and its illusory twin beneath the water.

“Whatever his intentions were for this creation, it seemed not to meet his desires. So here it has come to rest, the first and last of its kind, and forget that it ever existed.

Hythlodaeus’s sharp eyes could already see the weave of the little bird’s being start to fray in the magic of the lake. The surface of the water trembled. “Did you not inquire further? What intentions did Master Hermes have that such a marvelous creation failed to meet them?”

Aletheia shook her head. “I didn’t inquire at all. Just observed.” She glanced sideways at her friend. “Nobody else knows I’m here. Came in through a back door. Better not to worry anyone by announcing myself.” Hythlodaeus scowled with concern, but did not interject. “When I return to the star,” she began, “I hope I can return as such a creature. Bringing peace and serenity wherever I alight. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

At that her companion smiled. “Is that not already the creature you are, Azem, the hero, Fourteenth Seat of the Convocation?”

“So you see me, perhaps. So I hope to be remembered. But I fear I’m coming to be known as more of a storm crow.” Hyth frowned and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Aletheia sighed and continued. “Suppose that unbeknown to you that tree over there began to fall towards you. I see this and shout to you. I run towards you, arms outstretched, but you are startled and bewildered. If I save you, you may piece together what happened and thank me, but that first impression, associating me with the danger never goes away.” She sighed again. “When I depart, yes, peace may be left in my wake, but when I arrive…people have begun to take me as a sign of coming danger and struggle and pain.” At the edge of the blanket, her sword gleamed silently in the sickly storm light. Below, the waters grew restless.

The two sat together in silence for a while as the Alkyone and its reflection unraveled on the water. Hythlodaeus, always so glib and full of cheer, wanted deeply to rally his dear friend from her gloom. He remembered the youthful Aletheia rapping on his window with a gangly Hades in tow and dragging them into the wilderness on fanciful adventures. The right words wouldn’t come. He could only put his arm around her and tell her that no matter what happened, her friends would continue to love her and carry her memory.

When the stormy sky vanished from the surface of the lake and dark waves took that place again, neither of them were there to see it.

[netmomplus]

“Picnics Aren’t Supposed to Go Like This” - Touhou Secret Santa 2022

Hi there @axcicos, I’m your @touhousecretsanta this year. I ended up writing a story, it’s mostly Kogaban/Kogabanki but features Koishi in an important role. I’ve never written Koishi before, but she seems really fun so I wanted to try it out, and hopefully you like it. ~~~ There was a place not too far from the Human Village where one could go to get just as much privacy as they could ever want. It was somewhere between the village itself and the Forest of Magic, and its proximity to the latter made most humans too fearful to venture too close. After all, dangerous monsters were said to lurk in those woods, and one false move could cause one to vanish as if they never existed. For a couple of youkai, however, it wasn’t an issue at all, especially since youkai didn’t typically eat each other. At least, one would think.

Case in point, said “couple of youkai” had decided to use this spot as a private place for picnics and such. It being a comfortably warm summer day especially made this a perfect spot to enjoy a bit of privacy. One was carrying the food in wicker baskets purchased from a store in the Human Village, while the other carried tea for the both of them. Conveniently for the tea carrier, she had a couple extra helping hands – or really heads – to assist in the endeavor.

“Kogasa,” complained the aforementioned youkai, one Sekibanki. “Can you please tell me why you chose literally right outside the village for our date?”

“Banki, I thought I made it really clear,” Kogasa responded, “it’s isolated, but it’s also outdoors. I specifically chose this spot because no one ever comes around here, you told me that was your only real criteria. Aren’t you tired of having all our dates in the back of my smithy?”

“Not really, it’s quiet there. And no humans can see us. That’s why I like it so much.”

“Banki, you sure complain a lot…”

With a sigh, Kogasa stopped at a point. There was enough space for the both of them to sit down with all of their stuff. Reaching into a basket, she pulled out a blanket and spread it out onto the ground below. She would then kneel down onto the blanket and place down the baskets, beckoning Sekibanki to do the same with the tea. Thankfully, Banki didn’t make much of a fuss as she did so.

“Thank you, Banki. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Kogasa looked down at the umbrella she was carrying. She scratched her head when she noticed the geta it was wearing… did she always have a geta there? She wondered if that would make sticking the umbrella into the blanket as a makeshift parasol more awkward, but she might as well give it a try anyway. Given that the umbrella was the other half of her being, she didn’t want to break anything, so after a deep breath, she shifted her hands along its shaft, hoping to get a good angle. She then lifted her hands in preparation, before thrusting them downward, and…

Voila! The umbrella was perfectly stuck right in the middle of the blanket. She gave a small clap in triumph, prompting Sekibanki to give a soft smirk in response.

“Bravo,” Sekibanki commented. “You stuck yourself into some dirt. Maybe you’ll grow leaves if we leave you for too long.”

“Hah, very funny. Imagine if we stuck one of your heads in the dirt. They don’t need to breathe, so they’d be fine. Do you think we’d get a tree of Bankis eventually?”

In response, Banki could only shrug.

“Me’s a crowd, Kogasa, what can I say-”

“Haha, yep, more than one of any person at any given time would be pretty weird.”

Both partners were greeted with the sound of a voice that neither recognized. Freezing up, they kept looking around, only to not see whoever the voice was coming from. At first both suspected it was the other trying to play a prank on them, but no, that voice was definitely too young and innocent sounding for either of them to pull off. Kogasa pulled her umbrella out from the blanket, while Sekibanki nabbed one of her spare heads and prepared to chuck it at whoever the voice belonged to.

“...whoever this is,” Sekibanki threatened, “if you don’t show up right now, I’m throwing this severed head at you.”

It did not take long for them to get a response.

“Well that’s just gross. Fine, but only because I don’t want a severed head thrown at me.”

Rather than make some kind of grand entrance, the individual in question simply walked into the girls’ point of view. She was… unmistakably a youkai, given the odd purple strands surrounding her and the orb near where her heart would be. The green hair and dress with a mustard yellow shirt was certainly a choice, fashion-wise, but that was hardly the issue here. The real issue was why this random girl was interrupting their date with quips to begin with.

“I just wanted to say hi, there’s no need for threats of violence.”

“T-this was meant to be private.” Kogasa’s voice broke into a stutter. “You can’t just interrupt people while they’re on dates like this.”

“Oh.” The green-haired woman paused. Despite it seeming like this would be where she would think about what was going on, both the others noticed that her stare seemed awfully vacant. Almost as if she wasn’t thinking at all. “Sorry! I’ve been bored. Nothing interesting’s been going on at that old temple, so I’m just walking around until I find something interesting.”

“...the old temple? Kogasa, do you know who this is?”

This prompted Kogasa to try and remember if, or when, she had met this girl before. She did frequent the Myouren Temple in an effort to surprise visitors, but she didn’t really pay attention to who was there and when. Still, something about this girl seemed familiar, like she saw her once or twice, maybe even had a conversation with her. Even with that though, she couldn’t really place it. She somehow both stood out and didn’t at the same time.

“...to tell the truth, Banki, if I have met her, then I can’t remember where, or when.”

“Oh jeez, you don’t remember? That’s okay, people forget me all the time, and that’s okay with me.” The girl stopped and tipped her hat. “I’m Koishi Komeiji. I’m a satori, but I’m sure you knew that already. Don’t worry, I won’t read your mind, I closed my eye so I can’t do that anymore.”

“O-oh, you’re a satori. Okay, uh, what a relief about the mind thing,” Kogasa chimed, adding an awkward laugh for a bit of levity. She then gave her trademark face, a wink with her tongue sticking out.

“I’m Kogasa Tatara, a karakasa-obake, but you can just call me an umbrella.”

“...Sekibanki. Just Sekibanki.” The redheaded youkai crossed her arms and huffed. “Rokurokubi, dullahan, whatever you want to call me… still a youkai.”

 “Nice to meet you both! I’m sorry for interrupting your date again, but before I get going, can I ask you two a question?”

Oh great, she wanted to ask a question before she left. This at least implied that she was leaving soon, right? That very possibility seemed to make Sekibanki feel some sort of relief. Just please, finally, let them have some proper privacy.

“Ask away then,” Sekibanki promptly said.

“How come you’re so obsessed with making this so private? It’s Gensokyo, I doubt anyone’s going to bat an eye at two ladies going on a date, right?”

That question was enough to give the couple pause. They both knew the answer to that in the back of their mind, but it was largely a slow race - maybe even an anti-race - to see who would answer first. Ultimately it would be Kogasa who finally spoke up.

“I-it’s actually… Banki’s preference. W-would you like me to elaborate on that for you, dear, or…”

“I can explain it.” Sekibanki took a sip of tea, then crossed her arms and sighed. “It’s simple, really. I don’t want humans knowing that I’m going on a date with a youkai.”

“I mean,” Koishi interrupted, tilting her head, “it’s kind of obvious you’re a youkai, though. You still have your other heads floating around you.”

Sekibanki looked to her side and saw that Koishi was right on the money. Not only did she have two heads floating about minding their own business, but she was still holding one like a projectile. She sighed.

“Well, I don’t usually go around the Human Village with my heads around. My entire thing is living incognito, gathering information on the goings on inside that village, maybe using a head to scare people on occasion. If I blow my cover, no one would be willing to associate with me. And how am I supposed to work when no one is willing to give me information?”

“Oh! So you’re insecure about your social status! That’s okay, a lot of people are like that!” Koishi gave her a smile, even as she occasionally glanced at the basket of food. “Isn’t out here pretty hard to notice, though? Are you just that paranoid that someone will catch you?”

Sekibanki did not answer. Even as Kogasa gave her a knowing look, she remained silent for a good few minutes. So what if this random girl was right? She didn’t want to admit it! Despite that, she found that she was nodding her head anyway. It definitely wasn’t Koishi forcing it, just her stupid conscience working on its own.

“F-fine, fine. I am.” Sekibanki’s voice had an unusual level of snappiness to it. “I am worried about it. And I’m tired of complaining about it all the time, it makes me feel so dang entitled. So there, I’m being honest. You happy?“

“Well, I don't feel emotions really, so you’re asking the wrong person.” Koishi then turned to face Kogasa, who had been largely silent for the past several minutes. “Are you happy?”

“W-what? No, no I’m not happy to hear that. Why would I be happy that Banki’s upset?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you two should talk about it.” Koishi shrugged as she reached into the picnic basket and grabbed a sandwich. “Ooh, Western style food. For looking so old fashioned, you sure do have modern taste, miss umbrella!”

“W-wait, that’s not yours-”

“Thanks for the food, bye!”

“Hold on, get back here with that…!”

Despite both of their efforts, neither Kogasa nor Sekibanki could stop Koishi from escaping with the sandwich. After all, it seemed she had simply disappeared from thin air in the moments in between blinks. The only evidence that she had even been there was the fact that there was a missing sandwich to begin with. The group gave each other glances, deeply puzzled.

“Did… did that girl just show up to take our food?” Kogasa asked, tilting her head.

“...I think so,” Sekibanki admitted. Crossing her arms, she knelt back down onto the blanket. “Can we go ahead and eat what we have now? I’m starving.”

“S-sure, but uh…” Kogasa’s voice stammered as she sat down, sticking her umbrella back into the blanket. “Can we talk about what you said? And… perhaps I can offer my apologies?”

“...what is there to apologize for?” Sekibanki huffed, her mouth covered by her long collar. “I’m the one who was freaking out. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“N-no, I… I was the one who pushed this place. I really should have listened to you and looked for somewhere further out. I’m… I’m sorry for pushing you to do this. And for not taking your concerns seriously, especially. I shouldn’t have just called you a complainer like that.”

“...Kogasa, I…”

Both remained silent for a good minute, struggling to figure out how to proceed with the conversation. They both felt like there were things to be said, but none were quite sure what exactly those things were. It took a bit of action by Sekibanki to resume the talk, in the form of a hug. Even as she got uncharacteristically teary-eyed, her body language remained as cool as ever.

“Don’t get mad at yourself. Seriously, you don’t need that for yourself. I absolutely forgive you for the complaining comments, but don’t act like I’m blameless. I was overly concerned and whiny, I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“Banki…” Kogasa eventually broke from the hug and placed her hands on her lap, staring at the basket next to her. “I guess we… kinda screwed up this date both ways, huh…”

“...I mean, have we really started? Neither of us have even gotten to eat yet. Even if there’s… one less sandwich. You did pack an even number, right?”

“W-well, you’re right, I did only put an even number of sandwiches in the basket… but…”

“...but what?”

Kogasa then opened her eyes, before suddenly reaching up into her umbrella. Banki looked on, puzzled, until Kogasa eventually retrieved something that was stuck to the underside. There, she held a small item wrapped in paper, which she refused to hesitate in opening; as it turned out, it was another sandwich, which she held up with grandiosity. The fact that she’d managed to hide it so well and Banki didn’t notice clearly had the latter stunned.

“Behold, an extra one! I hope that surprised you!”

“The heck?” Banki blinked a few times. “Sure that surprised me. You had an extra? What were you planning to do with that extra?”

“Well, I was going to end with it, actually,” Kogasa explained. “We were going to split it in half, it was gonna be cute and everything. Shame what happened with the one that got stolen though.”

“Yeah, oh well. At least we got-”

Banki flinched when something suddenly hit her in the face, nearly knocking her head off of her neck. Kogasa gasped when the other girl came close to falling over.

“B-Banki, are you alright!?”

“Y-yes, I’m fine, but what the heck was that?”

The pair then looked to see where the object had landed. It was… it was another sandwich, landing perfectly on the blanket. There wasn’t a single bite on it, and upon lifting up each part, there was no obvious evidence of tampering. In fact, it looked exactly like the ones she had packed.

“Wait, is this… is this the one that girl stole?” Both girls looked around to see if they could find the original sandwich thief. Alas, they both struggled in the endeavor. No green hair, no yellow clothes, no hat, it was truly as if she had never been there. Deciding that it wasn’t worthwhile to try and continue the search, they settled back down and decided to begin eating proper.

“...I can’t believe I was planning to surprise someone with a sandwich,” Kogasa mused, “and then I wound up being outdone anyway.”

“There’s only so many ways to surprise someone with a sandwich,” Sekibanki said with a sigh as she took a bite, “and sorry to say, but the taste isn’t a surprise either. It’s great as always.”

“Ah well, I’ll take ‘great’. Let’s just enjoy our lunch already.”

And so the pair finally began their date in earnest. The remainder of the day proved far less eventful than that beginning, to both of their relief; sandwiches were eaten, the last one was split, and not a single other person interrupted them. Still, neither could say they weren’t at least glad they met that oddball, Koishi or something. Thief that she was, at least she helped facilitate a serious conversation between the two of them. They could most definitely be thankful for that. https://archiveofourown.org/works/43840969

[therealityhelix]

Shards of the Nexus: HatrVættr

Sympathy for a devil.

Song: Enemy-Mystery Skulls

@cardwrecks​ @captainbaddecisions​

He was a bramble in the spring thaw, too early to bloom, all soft new leaves and red thorns pointed outward. Approach with caution.

But...

This was what had them all so unsettled? This was the source of such hurt and fear, such concern, such silence? He was barely more than a child.

He was curled in on himself to seem tiny, a tumbleweed of onyx strands ready to blow away, and he looked up at her, the very picture of innocent bewilderment.

Cornflowers blooming on the side of a road, clinging tight to thin soil strewn with litter and salt. Tension tight piano strings, one snap away from sharp notes.

“Who are you?” A weak, warbling clarinet, hollow, lilting, tempting, leading.

“My name is Helix. Have you heard of me?” He shook his raven head. “Well, I'm friends with Swag. And YJ, and Puzzles too. And several other people I suspect we both know.”

There was an unwinding, a spooling out of sinew, a revelation of form. This body was built for strength, grace that showed through even in its crinkled state.

This was not the first body, not the first life. She did not know this shower of garnet and diopside, because he had been dead these past two years, his corner of the Nexus an empty space in the edge of her vision. A face cut out of a photograph.

This being, this Narci, was a wight. A spirit, returned from wherever it had once gone, to make a new place for itself here. All worlds were full of them. They resided in rocks, trees, and homes. They were people, animals, mushroom circles. Free willed entities, possessing their chosen homes through their own agency. He still wore the bracelets she had created to house him while this new body was being built specifically for him, a copy of the one he'd left behind. He was dangerous, a betrayer, untrustworthy, mad. Or so she'd been told.

It was one of the only things she'd been told. The Family had otherwise been strangely quiet about all this. One would think that the return of a lost brother would spark celebrations, joyful reunions. But the men who never shut up, their lips were sewn, like Loki forced to bear the ire of his own cleverness.

They were afraid.

And she had tried; she had gone to the Detective once Puzzles had dropped the news, once everyone had reacted like iron filings to the wrong end of a magnet. They had only said one thing to her.

“Do you know what it is like to truly fail?”

And she could find out no more before Jervis had chased her off. Nash would speak to no one, YJ was all a-fret, but still gave no straight answers. Even Arkham, who simply looked at her, no words needing to be spoken for them to know that they were, and would remain, on opposite sides of this.

She didn't even know what this was yet, but damn him, he was almost certainly right.

So, of course, she had gone to the Question Mark in search of answers.

And was flatly refused.

Startling, to say the least, because Swag never told her 'no'. But the twins had sat there, identical shaking heads, in complete accord for once, in saying no, please, don't you fuckin' dare-in futility, because they also knew she would go anyway.

“Just don't let him get his hands on you.”

That last, a warning from Unswag of all people, a man she knew would have blood up to his elbows that very moment if not for her. A warning from someone who knew.

It was so very wrong to see the Family-her family-in such disarray.

And so she had come, because of course she had come. And she had her chalk, and her tools, and her magic. She had come to assess if this was a problem that she needed to make Go Away.

But he was just a young man.

“You know Puzzles...is that why you're here? To visit him? He's never mentioned you. Do you have permission?”

“I come and go. It's something of an understanding between all of us. And I don't doubt he hasn't mentioned me. I'm not terribly important.”

Despite her role in helping Puzzles get this new body created, he had apparently seen fit to keep her involvement secret. But if Puzzles was as unsettled as the rest of them, neglecting to mention her might be his way of trying to keep her safe. He was complicated like that.

She crouched down to get on eye level, his Xerces blue stare coiled with viper caution. There was little curiosity there, unusual for his 'kind', just a wild, animal instinct to puff up.

“Then why are you here?”

“Personal curiosity. I wanted to assess the situation for myself, and also, I always greet new Riddlers when they show up. And maybe to annoy Puzzles just a bit. Don't tell him, but he's cute when he gets all bratty. But it's all right, I don't think he-”

“Don't talk about him like that!” the piano string snapped, its metaphorical twang mirrored by the hand that whipped out after her neck. The fingers met her shields, not with a crash, but with a simple cessation of forward movement. She could see him pushing, straining against the force that solidified the atoms around his hand, see him eventually give in and draw back.

“Oh my.” she said quietly. “You're really going to have to get a handle on that. But I guess I get it. You owe him a solid, right? For helping you out.”

“What are you? How did you do that?” the woodwind lilt was even meeker than before, as if he hadn't just tried to tear her throat out.

“I didn't come into this situation with nothing, darling. It's just that my weapons and armor are not as visible as most.”

“Then...I can't hurt you?”

She shrugged.

“It would take more than I think you can currently muster. Do you want to hurt me?”

“N-no. Not really. Just...just don't talk about him like that. He's better than us.”

She tilted her head. Us? She knew most Riddlers considered themselves to be on a higher level than everyone else, but this was the first time one had not considered themselves among that number.

“Than you? Are you not a Riddler too?”

“No! I mean...yes. But not really. I never earned it. I don't deserve it. They're perfect. I'm...broken.”

“Oh honey, are you really? It's okay, I might be broken too.”

“Broken and entering more like.” Puzzles said from the doorway, and she only jumped a little. “No, that was awful, I'm trying that again.”

“Good evening, Puzzles. As you can see, I was just-”

“Just doing what you do, I know. It's not that I haven't been expecting you to pop by, it's just that I'd thought this time you might wait for an escort. Don't know why I thought that, it's not as if you've ever shown an ounce of caution, but this might be, I don't know, a mitigating circumstance?”

You see, she mouthed to Narci, who scowled and reached out for her again.

“Narci.” Puzzles warned sharply. He drew back instantly.

“She's a liar.” he sulked. “She said she had permission to be here. And she called you a brat.”

Puzzles glanced down at her, lips pursed, and she lifted an eyebrow, daring him to deny it. He stepped closer to them, interposing himself to where he could get between them if necessary, crouching down to be on their level.

“She does have permission to be in my home. Mostly because no one seems to have any way of keeping her out. She is, however, a...friend. This is Helix, and I would like you to treat her nicely. She's...” He searched for a proper description. “Family-adjacent. She's one of those things that happened while you were gone.”

“I can't hurt her.” Narci said, still pouting a bit.

“That's the spirit.” Puzzles praised.

“No, I mean I can't. I really can't.”

Puzzles fixed Helix with a quizzical stare.

“Uh, well, he might have tried to touch me earlier. And found out he was unable to do so. So it's all fine! Nothing to worry about.”

Emerald eyes bored into her. Curiosity flavored the more or less good-natured irritation, and she knew this time she wouldn't be getting away without an explanation. Though not cruel by nature, Puzzles was a Riddler and, in his way, he'd draw the information out like a winkle from its shell.

And maybe it was about time he came to understand better what she was.

“Well...Don't try it again. She might not exactly be one of us, but she's earned a place. For instance...Do you remember Unswag?”

Helix frowned. Why would he bring that up? She still had very mixed feelings over what had happened there. Narci nodded, looking deeply uncomfortable. Unswag was one of those contentious topics, or at least, he had been once. Terribly dangerous, until she'd forced him to become something else. She hadn't meant for that to happen, but she couldn't change it now.

“Well,” Puzzles said. “She defeated him.”

“It was an accident.” she muttered, and Puzzles elbowed her as Narci's eyes went wide with awe.

“Yeah.” he continued. “Bested him so decisively that he doesn't even look the same anymore. Just remember that. She might not look like much-”

“Hey!”

“-but she's got the respect of the proper people.”

Narci still stared up at her like she was something unexpectedly amazing. He held his hands out, in supplication rather than aggression. Something, some little spark of his desperation reminded her so much of how lost she had once been. She dropped her magic shields and, ignoring Puzzles swift intake of breath, drew Narci into a careful embrace.

The boy froze for a moment, entirely unsure what to do, thawing slowly, his hands ghosting over her sides until they came to her hips. His fingers dug in suddenly, then he jerked, flinging her away into Puzzles waiting arms, and crumpled to the floor begging forgiveness. “I think he likes you.” Puzzles murmured into her ear. “Now get out.”

He shoved her into the hall and grabbed the doorknob.

“Wait!” Narci cried. “Can she stop me? If I...Can she stop me?”

Puzzles uncertain gaze flicked to the hall where he'd pushed her. She smiled gently back.

Artist: me

Artist: @miasmacaron​

Artist: @cardwrecks​

[kimothyroll]

Day 1

Day Total: +1 Theoretical & +1 Practical

1:  The Magician

Of course, eager to impress, and be accepted, as always,  the first thing I did following our welcome meeting, was to attempt master a new spell. The lesson guidance was just to prepare something small to showcase what we knew prior to coming and to highlight what strengths we might have.

After diligent practice and unwavering determination, I successfully mastered the elusive and powerful "Aetherial Chronomancy." This intricate spell allows me to manipulate the threads of time and glimpse into the past or future, offering a profound understanding of the temporal tapestry.

Trust me to try something ridiculously complex as my first task of the semester! I know I've been working on this spell but it's still really advanced! This could have gone really wrong and set a tone for the rest of my time there.

+2 Theoretical

Four of cups

Attempting to master Aetherial Chronomancy got me thinking about the consequences of magic. What if I had gotten myself, or worse, someone else, lost in time. Though perhaps if Oberon got lost for a period that wouldn't have been too bad!! I'm not sure yet what I think about that boy. He was really outspoken the whole class. Kinda reminds me of me a bit, and that's not necessarily a good thing.

I know this time it was ok, but I do need to be more cautious. Whilst I was successful this time, my pondering led me to reflect on the time where I didn't quite get it right. Back in Tranmere, following the passing of beloved resident, Elowen Runescape- My grandma- I decided, in all my youthful naiveite, that, despite not being know for the same green thumb and magical touch that Grandma brought to any and all nature, I would attempt to carry on her legacy by enhancing the community garden that she so lovingly cared for right until the end.

Fuelled by youthful exuberance and a touch of magical impulsiveness, my experiments took an unexpected turn. Instead of merely enhancing the garden, the magic imbued the plants with a heightened form of sentience. The once orderly rows of flowers and herbs gained a mischievous consciousness, resulting in a garden that seemed to have a mind of its own.

I feel so bad still! But I know Grandma would have found my…results…hilarious. I certainly gave her eyes a workout whilst she was alive! At least the residents love it. The garden, now playfully mischievous, has become a local legend, with stories circulating about flowers rearranging themselves and herbs seemingly responding to whispered secrets.

+1 Theoretical

Page of Swords

Our next lesson of the day is combat training. I find it interesting that there is such a focus on combat. What is it that they are expecting to happen? I don't mind because it's all skills to add to my repertoire but, right now at least, I don't find the thought of it as interesting as learning new magic (thought I suppose, if I think about it, that probably stems from a fear of failure- I can't stand the thought of losing a duel). 

Today were are analysing combat strategies, of course my mind wanders. I think I've come up with (in my opinion) an ingenious tactic. I named it "Temporal Mirage". Leveraging my mastery of Aetherial Chronomancy,  this tactic involves utilising the threads to time to create illusory duplicates strategically placed across the battlefield. The duplicates mimic my movements with precision, disorienting and confusing opponents. I really want to try this out!

+1 Practical

Justice

The second I had a chance to explore, I did.  I came across a "hidden" chamber- honestly, I suspect that nothing happens by accident. I would not be surprised if the whole court is setup like a giant escape room with puzzle and secrets everywhere you turn. Anyway, I digress.

I the chamber I discovered a potent artifact that I suspected could greatly enhance my magical abilities. However,  further investigation revealed the artifact to also be a guardian preserving the magical balance of the school. Faced with a moral dilemma, I grappled with the choice of personal gain versus upholding the magical sanctity of The Midnight Court. I know that I will struggle to fit in, and wielding such power could give me an edge, but ultimately, I would never take any actions to upset the balance, particularly this early on in the year.

-1 Theoretical

Five of Wands

The final lesson of the day started off as an introduction to the upcoming terms learning, we were put into groups and given the task of considering what "type" of magic would best solve the problem our groups were given.

Unfortunately Oberon was assigned as one of my group members. Another girl, Celestia, was in my group along with a few others. That girl is a godsend and it feels like fate that we were put together.

We started off by considering how best to approach the task with everyone stating their specialisms. This soon descended into a debate on the merits of certain types of magic over others. Honestly, I don't think any are superior and don't really have a specialism yet, but everyone was asking me my opinion and trying to get me to answer. It was so overwhelming, I began to question whether I was wrong for not mastering one "type" over another. Am I not actually as good as I think?

Oberon was making it so much worse with his certainty. Bur Celestia, the absolute star, noticed how overwhelmed I was and diverted the group's attention away from me and back onto task, whilst simultaneously ensuring I was ok. I really hope we can be friends. I need someone like that in my corner.

-1 Theoretical

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 63: Hair

After the war, after his eighth year at Hogwarts, after training to be an Auror, after quitting that soul-sucking job, and after accepting the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, Harry started to let his hair grow out. It wasn’t intentional at first, not really, he was just unbelievably busy teaching. But after a few months, his hair, which had always had a mind of its own, had grown long enough that the wavy-curls brushed his jaw.

He'd looked at himself in the mirror one morning and heard his Aunt Petunia's voice in his head, scolding him and telling him that only girls had long hair. He told that voice in his head to fuck right off and kept growing his hair out.

Not that it mattered what anyone else thought, but nearly everyone had said that his hair suited him. The exception, as it so often seemed to be, was Draco Malfoy. It wasn't as that the Potion's Professor had said outright that he didn't like Harry's hair, but his eyes were always slightly narrowed as though his hair was doing something offensive just by existing. Harry couldn’t understand it.

It all came to a head one afternoon, Harry was in the staff room grading papers and generally minding his own business, when Malfoy marched in and plopped down a pile of his own parchments on the table to mark, “Do you mind if I work here, too?” he asked.

"Not at all," Harry said, gesturing to the place Malfoy had already decided to occupy. He looked down and marked his place on the paper he was struggling through before looking up at Draco and pushing his hair out of his face.

Draco rolled his eyes and gave his head a little shake.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, very clearly looking at Harry’s wild curls.

He sighed, “Out with it.” It had been a very long day, in Harry’s defense, and he just couldn't take another minute more.

“It’s nothing,” Draco insisted, even as his eyes flicked over to where Harry’s fingers were toying with the ends of a strand of hair.

“What have you got against my hair, Malfoy?”

(Read more below the cut)

“Oh, it’s back to Malfoy is it?” he asked, voice light and teasing. “I haven’t got anything against your hair,” he repeated.

“Come on," Harry urged, "You think because your hair is cut short and is always a perfect quiff that it’s better than mine?” Harry asked, and he knew it was childish but he couldn’t stand Draco thinking mean things about his hair for one more instant. “Do you think I look like a girl?”

“What?” Draco asked, sounding startled. “Of course I don’t think you look like a girl. What are you even saying? My father always had long hair, if you remember,” Harry flushed, knowing that was indeed the case. “And while my hair does, as you said, always look perfect,” he added with a smirk, “Your hair is very nice as well. Very healthy, the curls suit you.”

Harry felt his neck grow warm at the compliment, “Then why are you always glaring at it?”

“Because you’re always fussing with it. When you’re anxious or grading papers, it seems like it’s in your way and there are a million things you could do with it so it wouldn’t hassle you so.”

“Like what, cut it?”

“No, don’t be an idiot,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“Then what?” Harry muttered, petulantly pushing his hair out of his face once more.

“Like a plait, or a bun, a twist, a half bun even. There are also a myriad of products that could help you.”

Harry chewed on his lip, shoving his curls back behind his ear and thinking about what the other man was suggesting.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered. "Here," he snapped, standing up and moving around the table near Harry.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked.

Draco's fingers slipped into his hair, "Trust me."

I do. Harry thought as Draco's fingers started weaving through his hair. It felt surprisingly nice, actually, and Harry found his eyes drifting shut.

"There," Draco said and Harry opened his eyes to see that he'd conjured a mirror and was holding it up for Harry to look into. He'd braided part of his hair back, clasping the hair that was always in his face and pulling it back into a barrette while the rest remained down around his shoulders.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"No problem," Draco replied carelessly as he sat back down to grade papers.

Harry went back to marking his own and they graded in silence for quite a while until Harry spoke up, "This is actually pretty nice."

"Hmm?" Draco hummed, scratching out something a student had written and writing a note in the margins.

"Having my hair back," Harry replied.

Draco looked up at him, giving him a little smile, "You have perfect hair for braids and buns, lots of volume."

"This would be good for teaching," Harry mused, "Especially on days like tomorrow when I have my older students practicing dueling."

"I could stop by in the morning before breakfast," Draco offered, "put it in a braid or something?"

"I wouldn't want to impose-"

"It's no imposition," Draco interrupted. "Honestly, I'll be glad not to watch you fiddling with it all day."

-----

And so began their tradition of Draco stopping by Harry's rooms before breakfast. Harry made coffee for both of them and they enjoyed the quiet together while Draco did something with Harry's hair.

How he would do Harry's hair each morning was always a mystery but every day when he showed him the finished result, something warm and pleased unfurled in Harry's chest.

After about a month of this Draco asked him one morning, "What's your hair care routine like?"

Harry shrugged, eye's closed as Draco's fingers worked through his curls, "shower, shampoo, conditioner," he replied. "Every other day usually."

"That's it?" he asked.

"What else is there?" Harry replied, too relaxed by the way Draco's fingers were moving through his hair to get worked up by his indignant tone.

"Potter, do you know what I did while you were training to be an Auror and all that nonsense?”

“Err? Your potions proficiencies?” Harry ventured.

“Well, yes, obviously,” he said as he tucked some hair up into what Harry suspected was becoming an elaborate bun at the base of his neck. “But I also developed potions for a beauty company. Especially potions for healthy hair.” Harry felt a hair pin sliding into place, “when Minerva offered me this position I almost didn’t take it. I had several offers from businesses who wanted to fund my research and allow me to build a brand for them.”

"Really?" Harry asked. "I didn't know that."

"Yes," he replied, "And you are literally killing me. We're going to start doing weekly conditioning masks for your curls. Spa night," he demanded. "Every Saturday."

"Alright," Harry agreed.

"I'll bring the hair care and skin care supplements."

Harry hummed, "Alright. What should I bring?"

"Dinner."

-----------

So they did. Spa nights on Saturdays and Draco every morning to do something different with his hair, and he loved every moment of it.

Harry had never been a morning person but for the first time in his life he found himself looking forward to being awake and out of bed each morning. He was happy and his hair seemed to be, too.

It seemed impossible, but Harry's hair had grown and grown and grown in the past five months since Draco had started all of this. His wavy curls reached halfway down his back by this point and Draco never seemed to tire of coming up with new ways to do his hair.

One warm Sunday afternoon in May, Harry invited Draco for a picnic and Draco had given him a pleased smile and said yes.

They found a quiet spot on a hill and ate lunch while they chatted and laughed as they watched students goofing around and generally just having fun.

"Merlin," Draco laughed as a group of second years rolled down the hill, sending up puffs of dandelions in the wind, "Were we ever that young."

"Honestly?" Harry asked, glancing over and tossing the curls that Draco had left loose over his shoulder, "I don't think so."

Draco frowned at him, "Even before you knew about Voldemort?" he asked.

Harry laughed and looked at the kids who were skipping rocks over the lake, "Especially then."

Draco moved to kneel behind him, taking down the part of Harry's hair that he'd put up earlier that morning, "Tell me about it?" he asked softly.

He hummed, "Not much to tell, really," he replied.

Draco's fingers started at the hair just above his right temple, "Tell me anyway?"

"Well this," he sighed as Draco started braiding, "Would never have been allowed. Long hair was for girls."

"Pfft," Draco huffed.

Harry smiled, "they," he swallowed, the words still somehow causing him bitter grief, "they didn't want me."

"What?"

"Just," he shrugged, "They had their own child and I was just a burden dumped on them. I wasn't allowed to be a child, I was there to do chores and not get in the way. Everything about me was wrong from my skin color, to my hair, to my eyesight, to my accidental magic."

"That's horrible."

"Yeah," he agreed, "But it was a long time ago. And I turned out alright."

"You did," Draco affirmed and Harry saw him pluck a flower from the grass beside them.

"Were you allowed to be a kid?" Harry asked.

"Sort of." Harry saw flowers zip past him and into Draco's outstretched hand. "There were things that were befitting of Malfoys and things that weren't. Anything that was appropriate for an heir of a noble pureblood house was fair game."

"Draco?"

"Mmhmm?" he hummed.

"It's been nice defying my childhood with you."

When Draco spoke he could hear the smile in his voice, "Likewise, Harry." He tied off the elaborate seven-strand braid he'd been working on and put it over Harry's shoulder to show him to flowers he'd woven in.

"Beautiful," Harry murmured, brushing his fingers over the array of flowers.

"Yes, you are," he replied.

Harry's gaze snapped up to find Draco watching him closely. "There's another way that I'd very much like to defy my upbringing with you," he ventured, clinging to every shred of Griffyndor bravery he'd ever possessed.

"Oh?" Draco asked with a little smile.

He nodded and reached out to cup Draco's cheek in his palm, "Can I kiss you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Draco replied, leaning in and pressing his lips to Harry's as he buried his fingers in Harry's hair.

And if several groups of students caught sight of the two of them kissing on the hill, well, no one was surprised.

-----------

ahhhh! Sorry friends. This one got a bit out of control. I was just feeling a lot of feelings about Harry having long hair.

Side note, if anyone feels inspired draw Draco doing Harry's lovely flower braid (and I'm not saying it has to be @pato-roldnart but I'm obsessed with your art) I'd love that more than anything.

AHHHHH pato-roldnart did the thing! Look at this GORGEOUS art. I'm in love, please go look at it!

Anyway! I hope you guys enjoy it even though it's long! <3 Thanks for the prompt anon!

Day 62: Clothes | Day 64: Shower

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

"Tom Riddle effectively destroys the country from the inside out, which I believe was his true goal the entire time" (c) wait a second, so you think that he wasn't going to really take over or anything, just destroy the fuck out of w britain?

I have avoided this ask long enough.

I’ll start by saying that asking me about Tom Riddle is like staring down into a bottomless rabbit hole. We could travel down that path, but it is a dark and perilous journey, and by the end of it I will come out looking like the Mad Hatter.

It also requires a few prerequisites that you’re just going to accept as true (or else got off the crazy train here).

We know very little about Tom Riddle or Voldemort

What we do know of Tom Riddle comes to us from suspect sources

I’m just going to go out there and start with the basis that Tom is not crazy

Elaborating a little on number 1. We never actually see much of Tom Riddle or Voldemort directly. He’s a bit like Thanos in the MCU, or Palpatine in the first two movies of the Original Trilogy, he’s this looming threat that we pass by and glimpse every once in a while but never really get quality time with.

Generally, Voldemort makes an appearance in a moment of crisis.

He and Harry fight over the philosopher’s stone for Tom’s very survival. He and Harry fight over the diary for Tom’s very survival. He resurrects himself with Harry as a witness. We get those very strange dreams from Voldemort’s perspective (half of which we later learn are fabricated).

None of these really lend to our, or Harry’s for that matter, understanding of Tom Riddle. There’s too much going on, it usually happens far too fast, and there’s usually something Tom Riddle desperately wants or needs that eclipses all other concerns or else he has an audience.

This is part of the reason we get those Halfblood Prince pensieve lessons: Harry knows nothing of Tom Riddle and doesn’t understand him at all.

Which leads us, of course, to number 2, most of what we know about Tom Riddle comes from Dumbledore. I’ve talked about this before, so I won’t spend much time on it, but Dumbledore has a very clear agenda in relaying these memories to Harry. Dumbledore already has strong suspicions of what objects are horcruxes and where they’re located, he already has Snape as a very reliable agent to continue work when he’s gone, his job here is to convince Harry there is no path but suicide. And that involves portraying Tom Riddle as the most evil man who ever eviled, was born eviler than the antichrist, and will die eviler than the antichrist. 

Now, does this make Tom necessarily good or bad? No.

However, it does mean when Dumbledore tells us things like, “See, Harry, an impoverished child was upset when I lit all his belongings on fire! What a monster!” (especially given that, in a similar situation, Harry thought it was hilarious when Hagrid gave Dudley a permanent physical deformity and Harry was told he was an angel child) we should take it with a very large grain of salt.

Right, so, with all that backdrop what I’m getting at is that a) we can’t take Dumbledore at his word b) even if we could he could be wrong c) Harry doesn’t have the introspection to be able to figure himself when a or b is happening. I won’t elaborate on this last much, suffice to say that Harry’s world is very black and white, divided into the camps of those who personally like him and those who don’t.

So, why do I think Tom’s goal was not to rule the wizarding world but instead to destroy it?

A few things.

First, there are so many easier ways he could have ended up ruling the wizarding world. More, even when he effectively does rule the wizarding world in book seven, he takes very strange actions so that he’s never directly in power.

Second, I never really bought Tom’s racism. It’s too convenient and too contradictory with his backstory.

The second first, because we’re going out of order today. I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t believe Tom had minions early and I think he was effectively treated as a muggleborn (see here and here) until he took on the Voldemort persona many decades later. I’m hard pressed to believe someone as intelligent, angry, and proud as Tom Riddle would willingly believe and accept he was inferior to the likes of Abraxas Malfoy. More, even if he wished he was a halfblood, I think the evidence of him being muggleborn would be stacked too high against him to deny even to himself (and when he finds out it’s not true, he has maybe a month or so before he realized that he’s the bastard son of a squib). 

And it’s just so convenient. All the people with the power, with the money, who are itching for a cause against a threat that doesn’t really exist believe in blood purity. Ergo, Voldemort shows up suddenly espousing over the top blood purity rhetoric (rhetoric that directly clashes with his “there is only power” philosophy at that). 

In other words, I think Tom Riddle gave himself a line that he knew would get him places very quickly.

And now for the first. For a guy who has had the entire country in the palm of his hands twice, one time taking it over in a bloodless coup, he’s really big on causing collateral damage and really small on actually doing the ruling thing.

The first wizarding war, Tom Riddle as Voldemort has the backing of the heirs of the most prestigious and wealthy noble houses save a select few. These are people with seats in the Wizengamot, which has a frightening control over the government itself (including the minister of magic). I imagine, in 1980 had Tom Riddle wanted to be elected as Minister of Magic, he would have been elected as Minister of Magic. If he wanted a friendly face in office then he probably could have made that happen to.

More than even this though, by this point, Tom had already won. By having control over the majority of the Wizengamot he owns the government. He’s done, it’s over, it’s finished, and many of the characters admit as much which is why Harry Potter was such a miracle. So why all the seemingly random, exceptionally pointless, terrorism? 

One answer is that Voldemort is crazy bananas. And sure, I guess we can go with that, except for someone insane he’s oddly effective and very consistent. 

I believe Tom was systematically destroying the very foundations of the country through its core aristocratic families. Within a few short years Tom decimates the Black family, it goes from having five heirs to none, and while some of this isn’t Tom’s fault he does take care of quite a few of them. He brands Lucius for life, while Lucius rises high in politics he never escapes the stigma of being a known Death Eater and in the end cannot escape the consequences for his actions. The Malfoy family is very nearly destroyed by the end of the series, had Draco died in the Fiendfyre. The LeStrange family, presumably decimated as well.

More, this is mostly me headcanoning, but I imagine Tom fuels an extremism that the Wizarding World had never contemplated. I imagine, previously, anti-muggleborn sentiment was probably fairly rampant among purebloods. Oh, some were very pro-muggleborn I’m sure, but I think most were fairly “eh” on the people and felt they were a drain on society (such as requiring constant funding for the obliviation department).

However, when Diagon Alley starts getting blown up every other week, when muggleborns start being tortured and murdered, when purebloods who aren’t anti-muggleborn enough are being tortured and murdered, this starts wigging people out in a way they’ve never wigged out before.

By the time we get to Harry Potter’s canon, it is now only a minority that are anti-muggleborn, and they’re perceived as raving lunatics. Nobody wants to be grouped with these people. Which, just goes to show, how much Voldemort rattles the wizarding world in a very small amount of time.

Then there’s Deathly Hallows, rather than become minister himself Voldemort installs a puppet minister. He shows no signs of wishing to change this and instead does things like destroy the sorting hat (which again shakes the very foundations of the wizarding world as whta will we do if we don’t know who’s a Gryffindor anymore?!)

So, where is this ramble going?

Given the results we see, that more than any others it seems to be the purebloods and often Tom’s own followers that suffer colossal losses, I think Tom’s actions are, in part, a means of vengeance against the entire damn wizarding world (but especially the purebloods).

He makes fools of these people, brands them as his slaves, and has them participate in the most over the top ridiculous rituals (the cloaks, the masks, the entire theatrics of it feels like Tom got drunk one night and planned this whole thing out). He destroys them entirely, and better, enables them to completely destroy themselves and the country they believe they’re trying to save.

Basically, I think by the time the series begins Tom is fueled by a nihilist rage that knows no bounds. But dammit all, the wizarding world is going to burn.

[labarch]

Witch Hats and Prejudice Part II

<-- Part I

Olruggio, my love, my man, I’m sorry your proposal to Qifrey in chapter 40 didn’t go as you hoped, let’s sit down and discuss your workaholism, temper issues and saviour complex, yes? Yes. It’s couple therapy time at last, we’ll have a look at Qifrey and Olruggio’s relationship and at chapter 40 in particular through the following points:

-Panelling in the Orufrey conversation in chapter 40

-Prejudice and power imbalance in Qifrey and Olruggio’s interactions

-Help as a collaboration between equals (spoiler: they haven’t made it to that stage yet)

-What Olruggio wants from Qifrey

 Panelling in the Orufrey conversation in chapter 40

The conversation in chapter 40 is never framed as a happy reunion. If we reuse the analysis of the panels from Coco and Qifrey’s conversation I made in my previous post, we find the same markers of unease between Olruggio and Qifrey. Most of the panels are narrow, and get darker and darker as night falls. Qifrey and Olruggio rarely share a panel, and even when they do, they rarely make direct eye contact: Qifrey looks down, or Olruggio walks away from him, or they are curled in on themselves or standing on a slope at different eye level. For a while Qifrey is up in the air and mostly talking to himself. Oh yeah, and there’s a hat that gets in the way at some point.

It gives the sense that they are having two separate conversations, and that they never truly achieve the connection that we saw between Qifrey and Coco. On top of that, while the conversation is supposed to be about comforting Qifrey and earning his trust, Olruggio never manages to get a smile out of him, except for wobbly, miserable little grimaces. So what’s going through both of their heads, and why are they failing to meet halfway?

The chapter has an outward pull to it. The scene takes place on a slope that leads away from the atelier. The chapter opens with a herd of dragons flying away and into the night. Then Qifrey takes flight to look into the distance, while giving a very contradictory speech about how fulfilling yet dull his life is here, how happy yet trapped in an illusion he feels. He has to hold on to his cape as it flaps in the wind. It brings those dragons back to mind, like they are a metaphor for the side of him that wishes to escape. Qifrey’s migration season is just starting folks, it’s a confusing time for him okay.

In contrast to Qifrey looking ahead into a dark wilderness, Olruggio in this chapter is almost always looking back. He walks away from Qifrey to talk to him over his shoulder, or he looks back towards the atelier. In the only scene where he faces Qifrey full-on, the past is so present on his mind that he de-ages them both. It’s interesting, because it adds a caveat to his pledge of listening to everything Qifrey has to say: he is not so much trying to adapt to Qifrey’s new situation as he is trying to bring them back to the childhood stage of their friendship, when they were always together and kept no secret.

This whole looking ahead / looking back dichotomy brings me back to the mentality of the Great Hall, a society obsessed with keeping itself in an insulated bubble, wrapping itself in good intentions and noble ideals, and ignoring its own inner darkness and complexity. Qifrey, because of his inability to be content and stay in place, threatens that delicate balance. That sends the other witches around him into such a state of panic and outrage that even those who genuinely love him end up lashing out at him with uncharacteristic brutality.

Prejudice and power imbalance in Qifrey and Olruggio’s interactions

I have described in my previous post how vicious and oddly personal Beldaruit got in his attacks against Qifrey in chapter 36, but you can make the same case for Olruggio, especially since the two scenes run in parallel. There is something excessive about the violence with which Olruggio confronts his friend. For one, he is choosing a hell of a time to do it: the girls are safe, there is no urgency to press Qifrey for answers right this instant – except if he is hoping to shock Qifrey into honesty while he’s disoriented. Qifrey has just woken up from a three-day coma; he is half-naked in a place Olruggio knows worsens his nightmares; his scar is exposed; he is half-blind because Olruggio has taken his glasses; Olruggio is literally an angry dark blob looming over him. I’ve often heard it say that Qifrey is manipulative towards Olruggio, but in return Olruggio isn’t above using intimidation tactics against him, consciously or not.

There is also the staggering lack of empathy of the approach: what started this whole thing is that Olruggio learnt about Qifrey’s impending blindness. And his knee-jerk reaction was to attack Qifrey about it. Like, um, my dude, your friend almost died, he is going to go blind and lose his job, you wanna try being sensitive about it? (Note that Qifrey running after the Brimhats didn’t trouble Olruggio that much at first: after his interview with the Knights Moralis he is mainly concerned with “getting his story straight with Qifrey”; it’s only later on, when we see him staring at the glasses he’s just repaired, that he starts voicing his doubts about Qifrey’s intentions). He may be right to suspect that Qifrey is hiding things from him, but there’s a pretty big leap between “you are keeping secrets” and “you are wilfully using your own child as bait”.

This whole suspicious climate, that makes Olruggio jump straight to the ugliest conclusion possible, is once again a feature of the Great Hall mentality. The mind of a person who has been in contact with forbidden magic is forever corrupt, and his actions are forever suspect. Had Qifrey been anyone else, he would probably have been given the benefit of the doubt for losing track of his students while he was, you know, extremely concussed and suffering from blood loss. Interestingly, Olruggio’s concern – whether, when faced with a chance to go after the Brimhats, Qifrey would choose his quest over his students’ safety – is addressed as early as chapter 22: after an instinctive movement to rush into danger, Qifrey pulls himself back and takes measures to keep Coco and Tetia safe, and even plans to call Olruggio and the Knights Moralis as reinforcements to help rescue the others. Then he gets hit in the head by a giant snake golem, and the rest is history.

In general, Beldaruit’s and Olruggio’s accusations that Qifrey is using Coco as bait without caring for her wellbeing just don’t hold up. First, all the attacks by the Brimhats so far have occurred in completely mundane, teaching-related settings with other adults present (at the stationary shop, or during an exam), so pushing blame onto Qifrey clearly comes from prejudice rather than evidence. Second, if Qifrey’s sole aim was to get clues on the Brimhats, he would pressure Coco into taking the Librarian test as early as possible, but we keep seeing the opposite: he encourages her to take breaks and to enjoy her training rather than be laser-focused on her goals. Hilariously, out of the two tests Coco passed so far, Qifrey gave his approval for none, thinking it was too early for her (extra-hilariously, Beldaruit is the one who speed-ran Coco through her second test). I’m just saying, if Olruggio hasn’t noticed any of this and can’t take it in consideration before bringing out the accusations and threats, maybe he’s not doing that good a job as a Watchful Eye.  

Another thing about this climate of suspicion, added to the power imbalance between Qifrey and Olruggio, is that it prevents them from having a healthy fight. Olruggio invokes his duties as Watchful Eye to berate Qifrey whenever he steps out of line, but when Olruggio lets his temper carry him too far and misuses his own power (when he drags Coco out to the Knights Moralis even though she had already been officially accepted as an apprentice in volume 2, or when he accuses Qifrey of using Coco as bait in volume 7 without proof), Qifrey never criticises him for doing so. It’s not that he is shy about speaking up to power – he is more than happy to yell at Beldaruit and Easthies when they mistreat his students. But when it comes to Olruggio, Qifrey is compelled to shoulder as much blame as he can, and seems almost afraid of saying anything negative to him.

It would have been justified for Qifrey to start chapter 40 by getting mad at Olruggio for his earlier accusations: Olruggio had been insensitive, unhelpful and completely out of line. But instead Qifrey pretty much encourages Olruggio to attack him again: from his “I thought you might be mad at me” to frantically denying that Olruggio might have ever done anything wrong. In return, there is something defensive in Olruggio’s delivery during the “I’m angry that I wasn’t someone you could trust” segment: he walks away from Qifrey as he gives the non-apology, and it comes out sandwiched between criticisms of Qifrey for being reckless and a long speech of Olruggio praising himself, and how everything would be alright if only Qifrey behaved himself and relied on him more. It’s an issue that this old distribution of roles is so well-entrenched between them, with Olruggio as the golden student and Qifrey as the eternal problem child.

Qifrey’s exaggerated gentleness and praise towards Olruggio participates in the feeling of wrongness that weighs on chapter 40. The memory erasure scene is framed like a kiss, and Qifrey keeps complimenting him even after sending him into an unnatural sleep. It would come across as condescending and manipulative, except for how fervently Qifrey seems to want to believe that Olruggio is perfect, and that any dysfunction in their relationship has to come from him.

Qifrey, focused as he is on his own dark secrets, is utterly unwilling to see any darkness in Olruggio. It makes sense when you consider that Qifrey has also been absorbing the prejudices of the Great Hall: he thinks very little of himself, and has probably been looking up to Olruggio as a moral compass ever since Olruggio took him under his wing as a child. He must also comfort himself with the thought that, when/if his quest drags him away from the atelier, Olruggio will be a perfect teacher for the girls. Having to come to terms with Olruggio’s flaws must be terrifying to him. But what about Olruggio’s perspective in all this?

Olruggio is an example of how even those who materially benefit from an elitist, close-minded society are damaged by it in some way. He grew up in the Great Hall as a bright-eyed, idealistic genius, and even as an adult he clings to the principles of that society like a mantra: “bring the blessings of magic to the people”. He is successful and respected by his peers, popular with the nobles and well-liked among the commoners. Yet somewhere along the way he became a ragged, workaholic hermit.

I have mentioned in previous posts that I suspect Olruggio of grappling with his own, deep-seated fear of being unwanted and left behind. He betrays that fear in the way he is attacking Qifrey: his concerns about Qifrey’s treatment of Coco aren’t based on evidence, and underneath that veneer he is mostly complaining that Qifrey is neglecting him. “Be straight with me”, “Don’t lie to me”, “You wouldn’t even tell me about it”, “You took her as a student without a word to me first”. There again, Olruggio is being a bit hazy on how far his influence goes as Watchful Eye: from what we know, Watchful Eyes are meant to ensure that students don’t get mistreated, but they don’t get a say in who teaches whom: it’s the disciples who choose their masters. Olruggio grumbling about Qifrey adopting more and more children behind his back is cute when we treat them as a couple. But from the perspective of their professional relationship, Olruggio is claiming the right to veto Qifrey’s students and take them away from him without any evidence of abuse.

The problem is that Olruggio is very bad at expressing his feelings without using his job, and therefore his authority, as a crutch. It’s endearing when he uses it to explain away his gifts to the girls (“I just want them to test a prototype”) or his marks of affection and care (“Drying your hair so you don’t catch a cold is part of my duties as Watchful Eye!”). However, it adds a layer of threat to his arguments with Qifrey, because he is constantly dangling that authority over his head, even when he is urging Qifrey to trust him. In his more agitated moments, it turns into a one-man good-cop / bad-cop performance (“Step out of line and I’ll report you” / “Why won’t you confide in me? I’m your best friend!”). Sure, he is willing to side with Qifrey against the Knights Moralis when he deems it appropriate, but here’s the catch: Olruggio gets to decide where the line in the sand lies, and that line seems to shift depending on how hot his temper is flaring at any given time.

It’s no wonder their conversation lends them in a dead-end when it is so one-sided. Thourghout the manga, and in volume 8 in particular, the author explores the idea that help should be a collaborative effort between equals, that encourages both parties to grow and learn more about themselves. Trying to unilaterally “save” someone is almost guaranteed to miss the mark and come across as condescending; it might even cause further harm.

Help as a collaboration between equals

Therefore, Qifrey and Olruggio can’t really come to any connection unless they make it clear that they are helping each other, not just endlessly acting out their roles as the golden student who knows all the right answers, and the problem child who must be saved from himself.

Aside from the framing, help as an equivalent exchange is the other key difference between chapter 40 and Qifrey and Coco’s dialogue earlier in the volume. In order to counter Coco’s doubts and growing self-hatred, Qifrey reinforces everything he admires about Coco: from her social skills and capacity for teamwork to her practical skills and her straight lines. He reminds her of all the things that she achieved so far. He also strongly hints that her fight is his fight, too, and that they should hold onto hope for each other’s sake. Finally, he makes a (pretty dramatic, unnecessarily literal and definitely unsafe, but still awesome) leap of faith by letting her decide what direction she wants to take next. His support isn’t conditional on Coco making the “right” choice, but freely offered. In return, Coco makes a display of saving Qifrey as well, saying she wants him right by her side while she figures out her path. The rescue itself is symbolic (it would actually have been safer for Qifrey to go back on his own), but Qifrey’s gratitude is genuine, because Coco made him feel valued, irreplaceable, just as Beldaruit and Olruggio were making him doubt his place as a teacher.

By contrast, Olruggio’s speech of friendship contains a grand total of ONE compliment, served in such a back-handed way that it sounds almost like a warning: “To Coco, you are a good teacher, so don’t betray that trust”. This is weighted against a slurry of criticisms about Qifrey’s recklessness, and heaps of self-praise. Olruggio is making a case for why Qifrey needs help and why Olruggio is best-qualified to deliver that help, like he is making a sales pitch to a client. It’s probably not a coincidence that Olruggio is remembering his successful bout of diplomacy in chapter 39 as he gears himself for his conversation with Qifrey. Olruggio, look, I get that you have more faith in your professional persona than in your regular self, but you can’t talk to your best friend like you are doing customer service, it just doesn’t work that way.

The help that Olruggio offers leaves no room for Qifrey’s input: once Qifrey has confided everything and laid himself bare, Olruggio will pick apart “where he needs the help” and “when he is about to do something stupid”, and either support or stop him as he judges appropriate. It reinforces Qifrey’s inferiority complex and interiorised guilt, by implying that his moral compass can’t be trusted. It also places the blame for Qifrey’s rash actions solely on his lack of judgement, rather than on having to grapple with complex, life-threatening situations and being caught in a pincer between a terrorist group and an oppressive system. There’s no mention that the definition of what’s “lawful” and “responsible” and “just” has gotten a bit messed up lately, and that Olruggio himself has had to compromise with his duties to cover for the kids. Olruggio fakes confidence in his capacity to fix everything, and pretends that things can go back to the way they were, but it would have been more honest of him to ask Qifrey to work with him so they can form a united front to face their new, complex reality.

Instead, by claiming that he is helping Qifrey out of a sense of duty, as Watchful Eye and as a friend, Olruggio reinforces the feeling that Qifrey is a burden to him. This gives Qifrey more incentive to keep his friend away from his investigations, and to see himself as expendable. In that light, since their friendship brings Olruggio so much trouble and so few benefits, betraying him and stealing the memories that relate to Qifrey’s secrets start to look like the lesser evil.

The only way that the conversation in chapter 40 could have gone well is if they both freely admitted to needing each other. However, it is too early in Olruggio’s character arc to be honest about his own feelings and worries. And it is too early in Qifrey’s character arc to see past his own self-loathing and recognize that his “perfect” friend also needs support and guidance. Yet, when they do, it is hinted that Olruggio can draw inspiration from Qifrey, and help Qifrey in a more meaningful way by highlighting how Qifrey matters to him, letting them reach this stage of true collaboration.

What Olruggio wants from Qifrey

I think Olruggio is repressing a sense of disillusionment about his work, the fairness of the system, and his usefulness as a witch. We see glimpses of his anxiety in chapter 39 notably. While he says that his true role is to help the commoners, circumstances keep reminding him that like it or not, his main function is decorative. He gets dragged in on short notice to be yanked around by petty nobles and arrange light shows at weddings; he has to act in secret to help the destitute, and even then can only do so much before the rules of magic society get in his way. So far he manages to keep his head above water, using his talent for diplomacy and showmanship to keep the nobles appeased, and finding small, creative ways to help commoners without breaking any law. But it leaves him with the feeling of being trapped in an increasingly constraining role, and is slowly pushing him towards a burn out.

He seems to feel a kinship with princess Mia, who like him is used as a tool in petty squabbles between nobles. He even metaphorically puts himself in her shoes: after likening her situation to being trapped in the spotlight in a dance she doesn’t want, he applies the same metaphor to himself and his inability to act outside the narrow constraints of witch rules, of being constantly watched and judged. And then, adorably enough, Olruggio actually brings Qifrey into the metaphor. He muses that Qifrey, who has gone against established rules before, might be the key to escaping that dance.

For all that the “problem child” / “star student” dichotomy has been weighing on Olruggio and Qifrey and warping their friendship, there is a flip side to it as well. As a prodigy who always pressures himself to perform perfectly (to the point where he will work himself to a zombie-like state and then hide behind a mask to look perfect and pristine in front of his clients at parties, Olruggio no), Qifrey provides a chance at escapism. For all that he berates him for causing trouble, Olruggio seems to fondly remember their old adventures. It’s possible that he valued the opportunity to do rebellious, forbidden things without having to jeopardise his reputation. His fear of being left behind by Qifrey is then also a fear of losing his hope that, when the pressure of being the perfect witch becomes too much to bear, Qifrey will be there to break him free.

In summary, Olruggio wants Qifrey to be his rebellious prince who breaks him free from the ballroom, and we respect him for it. Qifrey had his reasons for not being able to confide in him, and they both have a lot of character development to do before they can reach a stage of actual collaboration and trust. But I don’t dispute that taking his memories was a dick move. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.  

[guynamedultimax]

An analysis of the Brawl Stars Trios

I’ve ordered the Brawl Stars “canon” trios with some specifics.

-There is always, in every trio, a Leader. The straight man of the group or the one who is more inclined to lead the other members.

-After the Leader, there’s the second member. I don’t have a name/category for the second member aside from the fact that in the majority of the trios it’s the *other* human character. Let’s just call them the Right Arm.

-The third trio member is most of the times the one with the quirkier design, the one who isn’t human. There are exceptions to the third member always being the quirky one (sometimes they’re the Leader, sometimes there isn’t a quirky Brawler in the trio, I’ll explain myself properly in each trio’s paragraph). The quirky brawler is usually the sidekick of the trio, so I’m just gonna call them the Sidekick.

The game is focused around 3v3s so I suspect that, when Paul and the rest of the Brawl Stars devs came up with the game’s lore with Starr Park, they chose to retcon some info and details about Brawlers so that they’d better fit with each other and form actual groups that co-exist in the Environiments. However, I think some Trios were planned from the start to be there in some way or form. But I’ll explain myself better with each trio. Note that I’m not gonna explain why each Brawler is in its Trio, for that stuff I suggest you watch the Brawl Theory video about the Trios that KairosTime made AND any interview he (or other Youtubers) had with the Brawl Stars dev team regarding the game and its lore, or just go on Paul’s Twitter/Tumblr pages @|pawchaw, he isn’t at Supercell anymore (works for Bandai Namco ever since like 4-5 months now but he’s fine!). I’m just gonna explain the placement and mayyybe discuss a bit about the Brawlers’ personalities? Idk let’s just move over to this perfectly normal analysis of the Starr Park Union of Distressed Employees trapped in a time loop.

The trios are ordered based on the rarity of the first brawler that shows up in the game’s order.

WILD WEST RANGERS: Shelly is the Leader. This one is pretty obvious because, between her and Colt, she is the one who is less focused on being too pretty for pain and just jumps into action. This means that Colt is the Right Arm and Spike is the Sidekick. It’s interesting to note how at the start of the game’s beta Shelly was treated as a bandit and was called Shotgun Shelly. Perhaps you could say hanging around Colt (who is a sheriff) reformed her? Anyway stop making Spike creepy. He’s a good boi. He just wants an hug. Last I checked they don’t have their own environiment yet, or does the one they added back in Season 6 count?

SHAMAN TRIBE: The first trio to NOT have one Sidekick, but rather two. Bo is obviously the (adoptive, given what we’ve seen in the Investor Video) father of Nita and Leon, who are brother and sister. The only thing that’s unknown about these two is which of them is the older one, but seeing Leon’s voice line “Don’t make me get Nita!” it’s very likely he’s the younger one. Funny, you’d think the older of the two would be more responsible instead she just eats spaghetti without a fork. Also, back in the beta they explained Nita summoning Bruce as her collar actually being magic, but now that we’ve shifted to a full-blown Theme Park with a mashup of genres and ideas that is inspired (mostly) by the 70s, I wonder how do they explain her powers...actually scratch that, it’s proably exposure to whatever gave the other Brawlers powers too. They don’t have an environiment either and I have my own doubts about them ever getting one.

RETROPOLIS GANG: It’s interesting to note that even before we’ve become fully aware of Starr Park, this trio was already set in stone when Bibi released. You obviously have Bull as the Leader (he owns the big ass diner that is the most important place in all of Retropolis), Bibi is more of a Right Arm in the sense that she isn’t a walking, talking assassin crow. Crow being the Sidekick is only because he isn’t human (at least in my eyes). There are a few questions I still don’t get about the Brawlers anyways, like: Is the car bumper ride owned by Bibi? What’s Crow’s job in Retropolis? And how much old are these three anyway?

JUNKER FAMILY: Living in Pam’s Scrapyard, this trio has probably the job of fixing/reordering/thrashing stuff in the Park. Pam being Jessie’s mother was probably the first actually confirmed relationship in the game back in the beta. It was probably hard to come up with a third Trio member for Paul, but making a robot nanny with a floating explosive camera was probably the only thing I was not expecting by him. Jessie being a kid makes me wonder when did Pam actually give birth to her...it probably was a bit before the Park got shut down because she’s around Nita and Leon’s age most likely. Small trivia not many probably know: Pam didn’t build Nani, she salvaged her according to Paul. Probably from one of the generic Robo Rumble bots that shoots the Nita-like projectile.

ARCADE CITY TRIO: They don’t really have a moniker or something, but I just like to call them Gamers because Brock (the Leader) has a ROCKET LAWNCHER with gamer buttons on it, Rico (the Right Arm) is a pool bot (in the sense that he owns a ballpit for kids in case his projectiles didn’t tip you off) and 8-Bit (the Sidekick with anger issues dare I say) is a, uhm, how do I put this, walking talking arcade machine. You know, those things where you played GAMES back in the 80s. Another small trivia not many of you know: It’s most likely 8-Bit was inspired by the arcade machines from the failed Rush Wars game from Supercell. Actually, I think it was confirmed, but I’m not sure. The fact that at least two Trio members like to brag about being pros is funny, that’s typical competitive gamer behavior.

GEM MINERS: Being the oldest means you have more experience (despite being a fuckin’ pyromaniac), which would also explain why Dynamike’s the Leader of his Trio. (Does the canary have a name btw?). Jacky being the Right Arm is mostly explained due to her not being the one with the annoying Spongebob-esque voice and not being a mining robot. Carl is, naturally, the Sidekick.

PIRATE CREW: You’d think Darryl was the Leader since, according to Paul, the ship is called “Darryl’s Ship”, but his behavior as a Totally Legit Pirate makes me think it’s more of Penny’s job, with Darryl and Tick being the Sidekicks. Also I want to take a moment to say GOD Penny looks so emotionless in-game. She needs new face animations and voicelines, I swear to god.

MORTUARY MONSTERS: Considering all the shorts we got with Mortis (ESPECIALLY the one with Frank) and knowing Emz is Mortis’ niece, it’s pretty easy to say Mortis is the Leader, Emz the Right Arm and Frank the Sidekick.

THE DEAL WITH STU: What the hell is Stu’s trio supposed to be? A circus trio? Stuntmen? When are we gonna get the second member so we can have a small idea of what is this trio’s role in the park? This guy’s not really that much of a mystery but his design philosophy being similiar to that of Rico makes me think he’s either the Right Arm or the Sidekick of the Trio. If he’s the Leader then you’d need someone with less bolts and screws than him to be part of the Trio.

BANDSTAND PERFORMERS: Brawlers with a Mexican Theme. Methinks Amber isn’t cut for a leader role due to lighting accidentally on fire literally anything, and with El Primo being El Himbo and their environiment LITERALLY BEING CALLED POCO’S BANDSTAND, I’d say Poco is the Leader, Amber the Right Arm and Primo is the Sidekick.

SOUTHERN/WILD WEST SHOPKEEPERS: It’s amazing how we have THREE Wild West trios in here, and Piper (Leader) and Barley (Sidekick)’s felt a bit forced when Byron (Right Arm) got added but the placement is justified as it feels like Byron has this aura of the kind of person who knows everything that’s happening around the park. He is probably even aware of the actual mess regarding the closing down of Starr Park but I’m not so sure about it.

PLANT(?) TRIO: Or, longer name, The Trio That Studies Nature. Bea was originally introduced as Rosa’s assistant so OF COURSE she is the Right Arm and Rosa the Leader. Sprout being the Sidekick was something pretty obvious from his design (plant inside a machine) and from the Twitter artwork that was dropped when he released. Not really related but...are Rosa and Bea...y’know? I’d be very happy if it’s true. Notably they still don’t have an environiment.

GIFT SHOP STAFF: After the Bandstand Performers ANOTHER Trio where the character with a Sidekick design is the Leader. But methinks Griff is quite the irresponsible and lazy boss, like a reverse Mr. Krabs who just LOVES to waste money. Colette and Edgar are technically both Right Arm/Left Arm but I’m more curious to know, like with most if not all of their Brawlers, how old are they, or rather the age gap between them and how do the two of them know exactly what is Brawl Stars. It’s almost as if they weren’t in the Park back when stuff went down...if we didn’t have Colette in the Investor Video I would’ve said they were actual game players but they aren’t. I’m starting to think that age might not be an issue with these characters if they’ve been trapped in a time loop for a long time now.

CASTLE COURTYARD KNIGHTS: If their job is keeping the Castle cleaned up and not a mess, MAN they really do a bad job. Ash is most likely the Sidekick of the Trio and Grom the Right Arm with a severe issue with children and teaching, which means they don’t have a leader yet, and due to Ash being a Knight and Grom wearing an Executioner outfit and being a Tower Watchman...I think it’s safe to say the next Trio member, as the LEADER of the CASTLE, might be a King. Perhaps even inspired by the Clash ones. I wonder what’s the deal with Grom’s teaching past though, and if whatever happened, it happened in Starr Park...

BAZAAR SHOPKEEPERS: The only thing that unites these three is the fact that they all sell stuff at Tara’s Bazaar. Considering the name of the Environiment and their designs, it’s safe to say Tara is the Leader, Sandy the Right Arm and Gene the Sidekick. I am still not sure if Gene’s anger is stuck inside Lampy (yes, that’s the lamp’s name) or if the lamp is its own thing, separate from its djinn.

SUPER CITY HEROES: Wow, Supercell really said “let’s not finish this trio we started two years ago” and then they dropped Meg. You’d think Meg is more fit for the Sidekick role since Surge and Max are kinda the actual heroes here (Max being a bit less expert in the business) but Surge’s design makes me more inclined to think he’s the Sidekick (to Max at least, Meg might very well be their Mission Control, or in Ned Leeds’ words, the guy at the chair).

SNOWTEL STAFF: I really feel bad for Gale (the Right Arm) and Lou (the Sidekick) for working under what’s literally the coldest employee of the Park right before Griff. Back when Mr. P was released I was like, his number one fan, I loved the dude but then Edgar happened, then Buzz happened, and then Fang...starting to see I have a very close-range preference with Brawlers huh.

STARR FORCE: Probably the only Trio of which we know all three members despite the third not being out yet. Colonel Ruffs (the Leader, obviously), Kit (Shelly’s mutated cat, not out yet, might not even be their name but they’re the Right Arm obviously) and the bestest of bois Squeak (the Sidekick). I wonder if Skins are actually canon, if so you’d think the Starr Force would be bigger considering they have Colette and Bull on their side.

GOLDARM GANG: Belle was announced as the Leader of her own Trio and I’m pretty sure AT LEAST one of the Brawlers will be her child, if not both of them. The questions that still stand are: Is the Season 6 environiment JUST for her Gang? or is it for all three Wild West Trios?

VELOCIRAPIDS STAFF: At the time I made the above image I forgot the place Buzz works to is known as the Velocirapids. Considering the Water Park theme it’s safe to say we’re gonna get a new member of the Trio every summer for the next 2 years and the next two are most likely humans or human-looking. Buzz being a lifeguard also makes me think he is the Leader of his own trio. Also, HUG HIM. HE’S A GOOD BOI. OBEY THE RULES. STAY HYDRATED.

BRAWLYWOOD STAFF: One thing I’d love to point out is that Lola was retconned between her debut and the recent update to being an aspiring actress to being part-actress and part-tour guide of Brawlywood. I’m pretty sure she’s the Leader of the Trio because Fang’s just a kid at the end of the day and he’s most likely the Right Arm here. Which means the final trio member is gonna be a Sidekick one.

There ya have it. Stay hydrated. This is normal, yadda yadda when are we getting Dani Piper, Ryan Mortis and Paula Jessie in the game I swear to god. Or even better, throw the Investor from the video in as a Brawler, that’d be HILARIOUS.

[spooky-nerd]

I Wrote an MSR Christmas Fic in September, Sorry

Christmas comes but once a year, or so he’s been told. Which means that he has 364 days (at least) to strategize. And yet, he never quite manages to be able to escape it.

He’s come close a small handful of times. A mere brush with victory followed by crushing defeat. In 1971 he was hospitalized with appendicitis on December 24. Unfortunately, the hospital gave out little teddy bears with santa hats that year to all of the children. In 1994, he tried lying low in his apartment, but Mrs. Sanders from across the hall had dropped off a fruitcake wrapped in red and green paper with a ridiculously frilled bow. The fruitcake had tasted horrible, but then that had been comforting, because he has never had a fruitcake that didn’t taste horrible and would find the very idea to be unsettling to say the least.

Twice he has nearly managed to avoid Christmas altogether. An almost impossible feat, and a coveted one amongst those who bemoan the holiday like he does.

He is not a grinch, as some would suspect, and his heart is not withered and cold. He does not have a propensity for stealing presents from under trees, and he has never once uttered the words “bah, humbug!”. He just does not care for Christmas.

This had come as a shock to Scully during their first year of partnership. She had whisked into the office on December 23rd in a cloud of merriment, smelling like peppermint and humming festively. “So, what are your Christmas plans?” she had asked innocently.

“Well, I’ll probably microwave some popcorn and watch Plan 9 From Outer Space,” he had said in complete seriousness. In spite of his delivery, she had laughed. Probably at the absurdity of it, which likely was obvious to outside observers, he had realized then. And yet, his world-weary soul had lacked the energy to care.

“You’re serious?” She had dropped the smile, and in its place was that frown of disappointment that he was rapidly becoming acquainted with. For some reason, he had felt a bit sheepish.

“Yeah, I’ve just never been one for the holidays.”

“But Mulder, it’s Christmas,” she had said, her incredulity ratcheting up impossibly higher.

“Oh I know, Scully. Trust me, I know. 104.9 started playing Christmas music in October. My building super put up tinsel in all the hallways on November 1st. I’ve been visually assaulted by this holiday on every street corner since the day after Black Friday. I know it’s Christmas. I just don’t really care.” He had shrugged, in case the rant came off a little too harsh. Not that Scully was easily intimidated. He was quickly beginning to learn that too.

She had shrugged, already poised to drop the subject. “Alright. Enjoy your popcorn, then.”

He had smiled. “Thanks, Scully.”

She had paused, turned back to him. He had gotten a whiff of peppermint again, and wondered if it was a new holiday perfume, or just the everyday magic of her. “You know, November 1st is a little early for tinsel.”

Looking back, it is possible that he had begun to fall in love with her then.

* * *

In the four years that Scully has been his partner, he has discovered that she has exactly one flaw: she loves Christmas. The music, the food, the gifts, the decorations, she eats them all up with a little festively-adorned spoon. At his request, she had refrained from stringing lights up in the office, but in exchange, he is forced to accept one Christmas gift from her each year.

Of course, he isn’t a monster, so every year, he buys her a present, too. Usually something quite ridiculous and useless. Their second Christmas together, he had bought her a mug depicting the entire cast of General Hospital. “It made me think of you,” he had said, to which she had raised an eyebrow and smiled, sliding her own present across the desk to him with false demureness. He had given her a suspicious look and ripped into the gift with exaggerated zeal, just to make her laugh. With delight he had pulled out a tie with little green aliens and flying saucers.

“Scully,” he had said, completely smitten. She had smiled and shrugged. He had decided that is was possible he didn’t hate gift exchanges as much as he had previously thought.

* * *

On December 23rd, 1997, he walks into the office and she is not there. It is not a surprise to him, but it is a blow nonetheless. She should be here, bringing him hot chocolate in addition to his morning coffee, placing a gift on his desk wrapped in ribbon so clinquant and overwhelmingly jubilant that it makes his eyes hurt. She should be here, making him dislike the holiday less and less with each passing moment. And if she can’t be here, he should be there with her. He calls Skinner and tells him he is taking a personal day. He does not explain further but he does not need to.

“Okay. Tell her I said Merry Christmas,” Skinner says.

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

* * *

Within an hour, he is at her doorstep with a hazardously overstuffed plastic grocery bag, a six-foot spruce that is growing heavier by the minute, and a gift wrapped in paper that had been sparkly at one time but has now transferred all of its glitter onto his coat.

It takes her a worryingly long time to answer the door. But she does eventually, looking completely drained, a sweater wrapped around her thin frame. She is cold all the time now and she never complains but it has not escaped his notice. She looks exhausted, but it stops his breath how beautiful she is all the same.

She is surprised to see him. Even more shocked by the one-man window display he has become.

“Mulder? What are you doing?” Confusion, but also a smile in her voice that he can see glittering in her eyes, too.

“I thought I’d bring the party to you, Scully.” He is still a little out of breath, but he smiles, and finally she laughs, melodic and joyful. She lets him in.

* * *

With the muted tones of Bing Crosby playing smooth and unobtrusive underneath, he makes them hot chocolate, dons a Santa hat, and gets to work decorating her tree. She sits on the end of her couch nearest him and opens up the little boxes of colorful Christmas ornaments, handing them to him one-by-one with delicate care. He gets tangled more than once in the Christmas lights, each time extricating himself in a flurry of limbs and curses. It’s worth it to hear her laugh. He wants to close his eyes and listen to the sound and pretend everything is okay.

When he is finished, she holds out her hands wordlessly and he helps her stand up. He wraps an arm around her and they lean against one another, admiring the finished tree. He wonders if she knows it means so much more to him than just a nice gesture. Her grip tightens around him in a brief hug.

“Mulder,” she says softly. “I don’t even know what to say. You really didn’t have to do all this.”

They are quiet for a moment. Bing Crosby sings that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. He finds that he agrees.

“I wanted to, Scully. I wanted to be here. The office doesn’t feel right without you,” he says. “Besides, you would’ve done the same.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You hate Christmas.”

“No I don’t.” She looks up at him and he meets her gaze. “I don’t.”

* * *

Exactly one year later, she is safe and whole and mulling over a file, tapping an absent beat on their desk with her pencil. He bounds into the office, over-laden with a diverse assortment of ridiculous Christmas paraphernalia. He dumps it all on the floor in an unceremonious heap, shakes the snow out of his hair, and tosses her a goofy smile.

“Hey, Scully,” he says, out of breath. “Wanna help me deck the halls?”

When they are finished, the office has never looked more unprofessional. They couldn’t be prouder of themselves. Before she leaves for the night, she gives him his gift and a kiss on the cheek. Also very unprofessional, as is the alarming rate at which his heart is beating. It’s just about the only thing he can think about over the holidays, and that in itself brings clarity.

* * *

Her hand is icy where it settles atop his on the steering wheel. He risks only a brief glance in her direction. ‘It’s really coming down out there,’ he had said obligatorily about thirty minutes earlier, squinting into the critical sliver of light their headlights were slashing through the dark flurries of snow.

“Let’s stop for the night,” she says. He nods and gets off at the next exit without question.

They find a motel down a nearly deserted back road that makes them both touch the concealed weapons at their hips just for comfort. The attendant wordlessly accepts their cash and slides them a key.

“You know what’s messed up?” he says as he flops onto the bed after a cursory inspection for suspicious stains.

“What?” she says, rooting through her bag for their toothbrushes. 

“I don’t even know where we are.”

She sighs, a weary sound that he has gotten used to hearing in the months they’ve been on the road. Almost four months now.

“We are somewhere in the southern part of Kentucky. That’s all I know.”

“Scully,” he begins, the word absolutely riddled with guilt.

“Mulder, stop. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” They’ve had this small scrap of conversation several times. He keeps waiting for her response to change but it never does.

Silence except for her continued rummaging. Then, a triumphant “Aha!”

He peeks out from under the arm slung across his face. “What-“ He stops at the sight of her wearing a santa hat and holding a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper and held together with duct tape. She smiles and inclines her head triumphantly. The hat tilts adorably and the little pompom falls in front of her face. He laughs in spite of everything. In the spirit of the season, she joins him.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

He shakes his head, in awe once again. “I love you.”

* * *

In an unremarkable house, in an unremarkable room, in an unremarkable chair sits a man. He is unremarkable in some ways and remarkable in others. He is holding in his hand a two-inch long replica of a Louisville Slugger that has been made into a keychain. A gas station trinket, unremarkable in some ways and remarkable in others. He turns it over in his hands and cannot help the smile that spreads across his face. It takes him back to a motel on a snowy night in southeastern Kentucky, and he has a mind to stay there awhile.

She walks in at that moment, wearing the most hideous sweater he has ever seen. After a moment of stunned silence he lets out a loud gut laugh. She smiles, spreading her hands in a silent ‘ta-da’. The sweater is red and green, and knit into it are alternating rows of Christmas trees, presents, wreaths, some colorful blobs that inexplicably might be potted ferns, and a pair of kissing reindeer, both of which have antlers.

“You look horrible,” he says, still chuckling. “I love it.”

“I found it at a Goodwill.”

“An ironic name for a store that would sell such an act of violence.”

She laughs. “I’m thinking of adding it to my regular rotation. I could get you one, too, and then we could match.”

“Well, people in town already think we’re crazy. Maybe it’s time to start leaning into it.”

She heads to the kitchen to make the hot chocolate, and he puts his hand in his pocket for the thousandth time that day, touching the small box like he’s afraid it will disappear. While she putters around the kitchen, he stares at the winking lights of their Christmas tree and gathers his thoughts.

Within minutes she is back with two steaming mugs filled much too full, sloshing dangerously. She sips a little out of both of them, burns her tongue, and hands him his. The mugs are hot. She pulls her sleeves up until only the tips of her fingers are peeking out and holds the mug that way. He watches the entire scene, completely enamored.

She throws herself onto the couch with a sigh and it is a Christmas miracle that she does not spill any of the hot chocolate on that horrendously festive sweater. He settles down next to her and sips gingerly from his mug, contemplating the mystery of those reindeer.

“Is it a misunderstanding of deer anatomy or a political statement, do you think?” she says, clearly reading his mind. He makes a mental note to open up an unofficial investigation into how she keeps being able to do that.

“All I know is it’s my favorite thing you’ve ever worn.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

“I am curious about those potted ferns, though.”

“Is that what they are?”

They wait there together, sipping and talking about everything and nothing until the hour whittles down to nil and the clock strikes midnight, Christmas Day. He puts an arm around her shoulders and marvels at the way her head fits so perfectly in the crook of his neck. He presses a kiss onto the top of her head.

“Merry Christmas, Scully.” He whispers it like a treasured secret.

She turns to kiss him. “Merry Christmas,” she whispers back. Then she is up, grabbing his presents. She is eager for him to see one of them, and has been carrying the secret of what it is around with her for weeks. She hands it to him first, and he makes a show of opening it agonizingly slowly. She rolls her eyes and shoves him gently until he picks up the pace.

“Oh wow, Scully,” he says softly when he pulls the tissue paper aside to reveal a vintage restored Polaroid camera. “Thank you. This…wow.” He runs a hand over the glossy surface appreciatively, and then points it at her. “Say cheese.”

Within moments, the photo of her completely unprepared and squinting painfully at the sudden flash develops.

“Ugh,” she giggles.

“I’m keeping it.” He slips it into his pocket before she can snatch it away. His knuckles bump the small box, and he swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

He retrieves the gift from under the tree and watches her open it. “Oh, Mulder,” she says, pulling the typewriter out of its box. He’d had to place an anonymous ad in the paper for that one. They had decided at the beginning of their life on the run that they would use only the most basic technology, which meant burner phones and nondigital alternatives. “It’s beautiful.”

It is. It’s an Underwood, glossy white, impeccably maintained. He’d paid a small fortune to a very old man for this one. They had met in a public park. He had paid in cash. The man had brought it in an old shoebox inside a brown paper grocery sack. The whole transaction had felt vaguely illegal. The man had looked at least 100.

“Thank you.” She gives him a hug. She smells like hot chocolate and peppermint. It reminds him of a Christmas many years ago. A conversation about why he didn’t like Christmas. Oh how things have changed.

“Actually, there’s one more thing,” he says when she pulls away. She raises an eyebrow. She hates to be outdone, especially on Christmas. Incredulity turns into disbelief when he pulls out the small box.

“Mulder,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with unshed tears when he gets on his knee in front of her, and if he’s going to make it through this, he cannot look at her.

“Scully, I-“ his voice catches immediately. He clears his throat. “I know that the past few years have been…well there’s no words for it. You are the only thing that has gotten me through. You’ve been there Scully, since the beginning you’ve been there and I- I can’t imagine my life without you. I want so much more for you. You deserve so much more, and I…I wish that I could give you more. But this is all I have to offer, Scully. This is everything I have. I want to grow old with you and, and love you and support you and laugh with you until the end of time. I promise to be faithful. I promise to have your back and to be there for you always.” He takes a shaky breath. “Dana Katherine Scully, will you marry me?”

He looks into her eyes, and he sees everything there. The love and devotion that had started small and fragile and had grown into something ineffably strong. He cannot imagine a life without this woman. Bing Crosby’s voice floats quietly over from the record player, singing about having a merry little Christmas. He wants a life with her, a thousand more little Christmases just like this one, filled to the brim with ridiculous, garish holiday cheer. She takes a deep breath, the words that will determine their future poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes. Of course I will.”

- - - - - - - -

Note: Btw, I wasn’t lying about that sweater

[lazywonderlvnd]

Hi, if you are still taking prompts; A magically powerful Harry not noticing that his magic does things to make Draco happy. This can be pre-relationship or established relationship. Like it starts of with his tea being exactly as he likes and always the right temperature. Then evolves to rooms changing colour or weather changing or people being unable to invade Draco’s personal space due to an invisible barrier or something ridiculous. Btw Draco doesn’t notice as well.

anon.....you really killed me w this one. i’ve been so emo over this wyugeahrwiw might end up writing smth longer tbh bc this concept is literally the only thing that matters to me!!!!!!! i hope u enjoy i had so much fun with it ❤️❤️❤️

“Harry, you do it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“We’re fucking watching something, Draco!”

“So just pause it!”

Harry grabs the pillow on his lap and slams it onto the sofa next to him. Hermione can see dust rise in its wake. He pauses the telly. 

“Are you doing it?” Draco asks hopefully. Harry scowls at him. 

“Well you won’t shut up until I do, will you?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen and Draco sits there looking smug.

“It’s kind of sick how you get off on bossing him around,” says Ron, his tone one of simple observation. His fingers are idly playing with Hermione’s hair, but she doesn’t think he notices he’s doing it. 

“If I’m not mean to him a few times a week I break out in a rash, Weasley,” Draco says blithely. “Besides, he makes it perfectly. I don’t know how he does it, it’s always exactly the right temperature and sweetness and all that. I s’pose his years as a house-elf for those Muggles gave him plenty of time to perfect the art.”

“You’re a twat,” says Ron. “And my mum makes tea better than him.”

“Well you’re just a pitiful little mummy’s boy, aren’t you, Weasley? We can hardly trust your opinion.”

“Hark who the hell’s talking,” Ron scoffs. “Least I’m not twenty-three and still calling my mum ‘mummy’ like the world’s biggest bloody ponce.”

Draco splutters but before he can retort Harry’s coming back into the room hovering four cups of tea that float placidly to each of them. Draco looks exactly like a satisfied cat as he takes his and Harry drops back down onto the sofa next to him. Not too close, but certainly not too far, either.

“Literally exquisite,” Draco declares after he’s taken a sip. Ron rolls his eyes.

“It’s just tea, Draco,” says Harry, and he grabs for the remote to turn the film back on. “You’re such a demanding little brat. Merlin’s fucking tits.”

But Draco looks happy and Harry looks suspiciously content as well. Ron turns to her and makes a silent gagging face. Hermione snorts and puts a finger to her lips. They’ve decided not to say anything yet.

*

“Wasn’t this place a lot … uglier last time?”

“What?” Harry says absently. He’s not listening — he’s got all his attention zeroed in on a stack of parchment he’s holding. They’d only barely dragged him along to lunch; earlier the captain of the English National Team had apparently owled him a great number of brand-new Quidditch plays and required Harry’s extensive thoughts and notes before their next practise, which was tomorrow morning. 

“Uglier,” Draco says emphatically, and Ron mutters something she doesn’t catch. “Remember? The walls were that tragic egg-yolk colour.” He shivers. Hermione thinks it might have been an honest-to-god shiver of revulsion. She also thinks she knows what’s happened, even though the extent of it surprises her.

“Maybe someone heard you whingeing and changed it,” Ron apparently can’t stop himself from saying with a snigger. Hermione elbows him hard and he shoots her a glare, mouthing, he doesn’t know!

Harry would usually be the one to take the lead and get them a table when all four of them go out to eat together but today he’s too wrapped up in his Quidditch plays, so Ron steps forward and does it, which makes Hermione’s chest flutter pleasantly. He’d blush down to his bones if she ever said it aloud but he’s quite capable of being a leader in Harry’s absences. 

“Whatever happened,” says Draco pointedly as they’re led to their table, “it’s a great bloody blessing, I was genuinely unsure I’d have the mental fortitude to survive another assault like that on my delicate senses. And, I mean, this —” he gestures to the walls, which are now an admittedly pleasing dark teal above a white trim “— is stunning. It’s my favourite colour.”

“Is it? So weird they picked your favourite colour completely by coincidence,” Ron says, and Hermione elbows him again. Draco notices nothing and neither does Harry, although he does finally set the plays aside once they’re seated at the table.

“Are you complaining about the wall colour again?” he asks drily. They would both be extremely displeased to know they sound like an old married couple. Draco snatches haughtily at the paper napkin on the table and unfolds it to place over his lap. The first time he’d ever done this at a regular, decidedly not upscale restaurant Ron had taken it upon himself to spend the entire meal adopting a posh accent to match Draco’s and saying things to the waiter like “Don’t you have crystal?” while holding up a glass cup full of Pepsi and then commenting “These aren’t real silver, you know” after making a show of inspecting the titanium utensils. 

“I can complain about hideous design choices if I want to,” Draco tells Harry with his nose in the air. “Thankfully they’ve rectified it this time.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Hermione sees two employees talking, one of them gesturing at the wall with utter bewilderment. She doesn’t point it out.

*

“Twelve o’clock,” says Ron, nodding past Draco’s shoulder. “Some bloke staring you down hard, Malfoy.”

Draco looks excitedly behind him, but what Hermione takes more notice of is the way Harry’s face falls a little. She can’t help but wonder if he even realises it’s happened. She’s almost certain he’s aware of his feelings for Draco even though he still hasn’t said anything to her (and she’s been waiting months now, the effort of holding her tongue growing only more difficult by the day, and she knows Ron’s always seconds away from shouting at him) but she doesn’t think he knows how obvious he is. Draco doesn’t seem to know either, but she thinks that’s because Draco feels exactly the same way. She’d have called them morons, but she remembers too well how long it had taken her and Ron.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” Draco hisses, turning back around with a scowl that makes Ron laugh and Harry perk up again a little bit. “He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks.”

“Now, now,” says Ron, “mustn’t judge books by their greasy covers.”

“Then you go shag him if you think he’s so fit.”

“Maybe I will,” Ron says airily, as if he really is considering it, and Hermione can’t help chuckling and kissing his cheek. Then his expression changes to one of wicked amusement, which makes all of them look round to see the bloke coming their way. Hermione glances at Harry to find that — oh yes, he looks flustered and vaguely upset.

“Hullo,” says the greasy bloke to Draco as he comes up beside him at their table. He’s really not terrible-looking, but if she’s learned anything about Draco in the last couple years it’s that his standards amount to models and Harry Potter, so this man has almost no chance.

“Hello,” Draco drawls, reminding her fiercely of his younger self at Hogwarts. “I’m not interested.”

“Right little narcissistic bugger, aren’t you?” the man says. And now, finally, he’s begun to look as revolting to Hermione as he’d done initially to Draco — a repellent personality can do that. “Maybe I just wanted to come and have a chat.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at any of the rest of us?” Ron asks, sounding halfway between amused still and a little put off.

“Can you leave, please?” Draco interjects, cringing away from the man encroaching slowly on his personal space. And suddenly, as he looks on the verge of antagonising Draco further, he shifts his feet and slips, landing right on his bum with a yell of surprise. All four of them get to their feet to see, but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid or even slimy food for him to have tripped on.

“The fuck ...?” the man says, getting back to his feet. But when he moved towards Draco, he only slips again, on absolutely nothing at all. Something clicks and Hermione looks at Harry: he seems as confused as anyone else (if obviously pleased).

She looks at Ron then, who catches her eye and lifts his brows like he’s thinking the same thing.

Draco’s suitor gets up once more and steadies himself, looking a bit dazed. Some deep animal instinct seems to tell him to stop trying, and with a wary glance at Draco he finally leaves.

“Well that was a bit of a fucking scene,” says Harry. Draco, coming out of his own startled daze, laughs.

“Yeah,” Ron says sarcastically, “wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

*

“I really thought it was going to rain,” Draco mopes where he’s standing at the window. It’s grey outside but it definitely doesn’t look like rain and Draco appears so upset about it that Hermione actually feels badly, even though she’s quite glad for the clear weather. 

“Just shut the curtains,” Ron suggests from his place on the floor. He’s sorting through Harry’s collection of VHS tapes, trying to decide on a good Halloween movie. Not that he’s ever seen any of them, and Hermione suspects he’ll end up choosing whichever cover he likes best.

“It’s not the same!” Draco wails. “The thunder and lightning is all part of it, you uncultured pillock! The atmosphere is all wrong.”

“It’ll be just as good when we shut off all the lights and draw the curtains,” she assures him, but it doesn’t remove the look of disappointment from his face. It’s a pouty sort of thing that echoes the brattiness of his youth; she imagines a five-or-six-year-old Draco giving his parents similar looks when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

 At that moment the front door opens and Harry walks in carrying two grocery bags, one of which contains alcohol, which Hermione can tell by the way the plastic is bulging around the cans.

“The fuck are you all doing here?” he says by way of greeting.

“You said eight o’clock, fuckhead,” Ron tells him without looking up. “But it’s fine, I’ve had time to pick a film and Malfoy’s had time to moan about the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“I wanted a storm!”

At that exact moment, a flash of lightning lights up the sky behind Harry where he hasn’t even closed the door yet. Seconds later a downpour begins, and then there’s a rolling crash of thunder.

Hermione’s eyes widen and once more she finds Ron’s gaze, who looks about as shocked as she feels. Draco, meanwhile, has his hands over his mouth and looks like a child on Christmas morning.

For the first time since his magic had begun picking up on Draco’s wishes and granting them of seemingly its own accord, Hermione sees Harry look suspicious. He peers behind him at the storm suddenly raging outside his house before slowly closing the door. When he turns back he looks directly at Hermione, who looks away quickly.

They set up the food Harry had gotten — all kinds of Halloween-themed sweets — and once everyone has their drinks (“Make mine,” Draco tells Harry, “you do it best”) and is comfortable on the two sofas in the room (Harry and Draco are, as usual, as close to each other as they can get without actually touching) they start the movie: The Thing, which Harry swears is one of the greatest horror films of all time.

Funny thing is, an hour and a half into it she looks over and, with a jolt, realises the two of them are kissing half-covered beneath a blanket. She elbows Ron, who positively beams when he notices.

“Fucking finally, dear sweet Merlin,” he whispers, the sound muffled by the continued rain and thunder. “I nearly hit him upside the head when he made it rain, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shh!” Hermione hisses, though she’s smiling. “They’ll hear you. We’ll rag him about it tomorrow.”

A soft sound of laughter comes from the other sofa that Hermione identifies as Draco’s, and when she risks another peek after a moment she sees that Harry has a hand on Draco’s jaw, and that he’s smiling.

[choicesarehard]

I keep my streams about Wolf Bride light-hearted. It’s been a hell of a year, and I think we all need a space where we can laugh together. But part of responsibly consuming problematic media is being aware of where it fails. And that’s why I think it’s important to talk about Morgan, and Wolf Bride’s troubling depiction of blindness. 

Morgan is one of the first Love Interests in Choices to have a canon disability. She is representation many players with disabilities, like myself, are eager for. But like any form of representation, writing a blind character requires research. A quick google search will lead you to numerous visually impaired voices who outline the tropes and stereotypes that harm their community. Wolf Bride has included nearly all of them. 

signal boosts are appreciated

Not All Blind People Wear Sunglasses

Morgan is shown wearing dark sunglasses from the moment she appears on screen. And there are certainly blind people who wear sunglasses — particularly those who (unlike Morgan) can still perceive some degree of light and dark, and experience painful light sensitivity. But no context is ever giving for Morgan’s use of sunglasses. In fact, they aren’t even addressed for four chapters. 

[ID: Two screenshots from Chapter Four of Wolf Bride. The first features a text box over a forest background, and reads “You glance at Morgan, and are surprised to see the dark glasses still covering her eyes.” The second features a labeled image of her sunglasses, placed over a black background, with a selectable button that reads “What does Morgan look like without these?”] What follows is a scene Pixelberry could have used to provide insight into an assistive device the sighted community may not be entirely familiar with. They could have touched on degrees of visual impairment, or why some blind individuals need dark lenses while others don’t. They could even have explained that for some individuals with visual impairments, dark lenses make tasks like reading or navigating dimly lit spaces harder.  Instead, and far more troublingly, MC is given the option to ask Morgan not to wear them anymore. And depending on your choice, the book is coded to remove the sunglasses from her sprite in future scenes. This reduces an assistive device to a fashion choice, something our MC can wish away if they don’t find it attractive. And that isn’t okay. 

Unusual Eyes

[ID: Two side-by-side screenshots from Chapter Four of Wolf Bride. The first features a text box placed over a forest background that reads “With a start, you realize her pale eyes aren’t looking at you, aren’t seeing you, aren’t seeing anything.” The second features Morgan’s sad sprite in the same forest setting, and a text box that reads “...I’ve been blind since birth.”] Morgan has a customizable sprite. But regardless of the ethnicity you select for her, she is depicted with pale blue eyes. And that troubles me. Because the stereotype that all blind individuals have cloudy, distorted, or unusual eyes is pervasive and harmful. 

Even when it isn’t tied to another harmful trope — the blind character as mystical seer or psychic — this stereotype create an expectation that blindness is something that always manifests in a visible way. And for millions of blind individuals, that isn’t the case. 

And while cataracts, trauma to the eye, and corneal infections can all cause the clouded effect most of us recognize from media, none turn your brown eyes into blue.  Heightened Senses

Another common stereotype in media is the blind character who’s remaining senses have become heightened as a compensatory mechanism, often to a supernatural degree.

[ID: Two side-by-side screenshots from Chapter Four of Wolf Bride. The first features Morgan’s surprised sprite in a forest setting and a text box that reads “I guess I sort of...feel things. Like the place on my cheek where the branch blocked the wind.” The second features Morgan’s neutral sprite in the same forest setting, and a text box that reads “I can smell the dew on the leaves, and the moss on the bark. Can’t you?] Individuals with visual impairment may learn to rely on their other senses to navigate the world around them. But they do not suddenly gain the ability to sense the location of a branch based on wind patterns, or to accurately throw a dart at a carnival game ballon based on its smell. 

[ID: Two side-by-side screenshots from Chapter Eight of Wolf Bride. The first features a text box placed over a carnival background that reads “Pop! Pop! Pop! Three darts fly through the air, striking their targets.” The second features the white MC with straight blonde hair. Her sprite is surprised, and beneath it is a text box that reads “So you did that by smell, too?]

This trope may seem harmless — after all, it gave us Daredevil, a beloved blind superhero — but it contributes to the unachievable expectations we often place on real-world individuals with visually impairments. And that isn’t fair. 

Of course, we all suspected Morgan’s abilities were due to something other than heightened senses. And that in and of itself is a problem. 

Magical / Supernatural Abilities

To the surprise of no one, Morgan exhibits these unusual abilities because she is a werewolf. But choosing to give a blind character magical abilities should only be done after asking yourself some challenging questions. As visually-impaired Tumblr user @mimzy-writing-online explains:

Your blind characters don’t need a magical ability that negates their blindness. [Ask yourself why it’s so important to you to give them one]. If it’s because they can’t do all the things you want them to do without it, then should you really have written them as blind in the first place? 

And that’s the thing. Morgan isn’t actually written as a blind character, not when it counts. Morgan shoots bullets with accuracy, runs through unfamiliar terrain, and navigates moving objects with ease. She doesn’t use common assistive devices like canes or screen readers. Her sunglasses are discarded at MC’s request. The scientific papers that fill her research facility are not digitized for accessibility or written in braille. 

Even her dreams, which should be reflections of how she perceives reality, look identical to Bastien's — which makes no sense for someone who has been canonically blind since birth. 

[ID: Two side-by-side screenshots from Chapters Five and Eight of Wolf Bride. The first features a scene from Morgan’s lucid dream. Set in a glamorous hotel, it includes visual details like twinkling lights, and patterned carpets. The color is tinted a grey-blue and the exposure on the image has been increased to an unnatural level. The second features a scene from Bastien’s lucid dream. Set in a forest, it shares the same tinted and over-exposed qualities as the first.]

Her blindness isn’t an integral part of her character. Instead, it’s a narrative device, paraded in front of the reader when it can further a central — and deeply disturbing — plot point. [content warning: discussion of discrimination and child abuse / abandonment ahead]  Morgan Was Left to Die Because She Was Blind 

And Jesus, what a plot point it is. In Chapter 11, we learn that Morgan was left to die in the woods because she was born “wrong, sickly, blind.” But the only canonical disability or illness she is ever shown to have is her blindness. 

[ID: Three side-by-side screenshots from Chapter Eleven of Wolf Bride. The first two feature the white MC with straight blonde hair’s shocked sprite in front of a forest background. The first text box reads “I don’t understand...” followed by two dialogue options “Why was Morgan abandoned?” and “Is that what you do to full moon babies? Kill them?” The second panel’s read box reads “Just because she was blind?” The third panel features  the old woman Noemi’s sad sprite, placed over a forest background. Her text box reads “If we know an infant will not survive, it is best to let it die quickly.”]

I...am frankly having a hard time thinking through the screenshot-induced fury to make a coherent argument here. To imply that blindness is an impairment so limiting that death is the only foreseeable outcome? That being born blind somehow makes a child “wrong”? The ignorance and prejudice shown in this scene is staggering. 

But equally troubling is the response of the main characters to this revelation. Yes, in fiction, bad people sometimes do bad things. But Noemi isn’t shown to be a bad person. Neither is Bastien, who knew what his pack had been guilty of in the past, and even seeks to justify it to a limited degree. 

Most shockingly, Morgan herself, who in the second screenshot below has just overheard that she was left to die as an infant because she is blind, isn’t angry or upset. She’s almost apologetic, still seeking a place within the pack. 

[ID: Two side-by-side screenshots from Chapter Eleven of Wolf Bride. The first features Hispanic Bastien’s sad sprite in front of a forest background. The text box beneath him reads “It doesn’t happen often, Clara, but...” The second features white Morgan’s sad sprite in front of the same forest background. The text box beneath her reads “I didn’t mean any harm. Especially after...what I just overheard.”]

By introducing the idea that a child born blind cannot survive, let alone thrive, without superhuman abilities, and then failing to soundly and thoroughly refute that idea through the characters we identify with, Pixelberry is unintentionally perpetuating the same false beliefs that have led to real-world instances of infanticide for centuries. And that isn’t okay. 

I don’t know where Pixelberry will go with the story from here. Perhaps in today’s chapter some of these concerns have been addressed...but I doubt it. In the meantime, I’ve also written to their support staff to express my deep concern and disappointment in the treatment of Morgan’s character. And I’d encourage you to do the same. 

Will I continue to keep streaming Wolf Bride? For now, yes. My VIP subscription is already paid for, and frankly, I want to see Morgan’s arc through. I guess the small part of me that was excited for the representation is still hopeful the narrative can be corrected. 

But I’ll be adding a content warning at the start of each stream for ablism, and that’s something I never thought I’d have to do.  Screenshots courtesy of CrimsonFeatherGames on Youtube

[thora-jane]

Twin-Way Mirror Pt. ii

Series Summary: You've been friends with the Weasley twins since your first train to Hogwarts, but as the three of you start your 6th year, you start to question if your feelings go beyond friendship.

Summary for Pt 1: After recalling how you first met Fred and George, you finally arrive at the burrow and reunite with your favorite twins.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 2,196

female!reader, 2nd person POV

You can remember the first time you met Fred and George clearer than any memory from your muggle life. You had sat down in an empty train car after getting a talk from your parents about how “this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for your poor grades in the past,” and all of the anxiety of having your world blown open was starting to get to you. The train was about to pull out of the station when two boys with brilliantly red hair swung open that door to your coach.

They shoved their way inside and introduced each other without a second thought before making themselves comfortable. One of them made a joke about how quiet you were. 

“Blimey, Freddie, you’d think she’d seen a ghost!”

“Nah Georgie, I think she’s seeing double!”

“How could she be seeing double, you’re the only ugly one here!”

That got you to chuckle, and the two of them got the biggest smiles on their faces. After you introduced yourself, and explained that you didn’t know much about what was happening, the two of them sat beside you and explained everything they knew about their world.

Not long after their world became your world, and Fred and George were with you to explore every step of the way. You were overjoyed when you got into the same house as them, and they were overjoyed that you were one of the only people to tell them apart (George had a few freckles a little ways behind his ear, Fred didn’t).

Much to people’s surprise, for as close as you were to them, your record was far more spotless, having barely served any detentions in all your six years at Hogwarts. You were also one of the few people in their lives they hadn’t tried to pull a prank on. 

You however, also noticed that you were one of the only girls in your year they hadn’t flirted with. Which, you didn’t think should bother you, but something about the way they would try to charm nearly every other girl they shared classes with left some sort of sour feeling in your heart that you couldn’t quite place.

Actually you could place it. You knew exactly how you felt about them, but were too bothered by the implications to think about it. They were your friends. They’re twins. And the very thought of liking both of them at the same time made you feel a tad uneasy. Of course, you didn’t think of them as the same person, yes they both looked the same (and Merlin, was that look special), but Fred was more open, he was the one to initiate the trouble. George however, was a little softer, but that didn’t stop him from tying up all the pranks with the most Weasley-Twin bow to insure utter destruction. And (as much as you hated to know this) the way they flirted was a bit different. When Fred flirted with a girl he wanted the whole room to know, he was loud, he would charmingly tease them from the other side of the room, he’d make a girl freeze up and blush, smiling behind her hands. When George flirted, he would make sure he had the girl’s attention, leaning in close, not breaking eye contact, talking in a quiet voice he knew she would listen to. God, it infuriated you to have to sit and watch either one of them flirt.

You paused, sighing as you realized you messed up a stitch on your current project; a crocheted Lion hat. You promised the boys you would make one and wear it to each of their quidditch matches, you even told them you’d enchant it to roar when Gryffindor scored a point.

Pulling out the past few stitches, you put your hook through the loop and started over again. You couldn’t stay mad at the twins. It wasn’t like they cared for you like that, anyways. And besides, what good was it fussing over two handsome young men not liking you when they were already your friends?

***

You could feel a yawn work its way up your throat and out of your mouth as you looked out the window. Mrs. Weasely had enchanted the car to drive on its own now and she had dozed off behind the wheel a while back. The stars were starting to come out and fields whizzed past your window. Off in the distance you saw a faint light from what you assumed was the burrow. You and the Weasleys had been friends for years, but you had never actually gone to the burrow. You’d been offered to come and visit in the past, but your parents had always insisted you come home for the winter and summer holidays.

The lights approached faster, and soon enough the car began to slow to a stop in the drive by a house that looked like it could topple at any second. Actually, it looked a bit like two or three houses stacked on top of eachother. Undoubtedly held together by strong magic, you assumed. 

Mrs. Weasely awoke with a jolt, “Good heavens, I must have fallen asleep,” She smoothed out her hair, turning around with an embarrassed smile as she surveyed the back seats, “(y/n), could you wake up Ron and Harry?” You nodded, and her smile warmed “That’s a good girl, I’ll go inside and put the kettle on, dinner shouldn’t take too long,” She left the car, and Hermione twisted her way around the front passenger seat to whack Ron on the head with a copy of the paper she was reading.

“Oi!” He awoke with a snort, waving her hand away, “bugger off, would ya? I’m up already!” The two of you girls laughed as you nudged Harry’s side and he lazily blinked his eyes open with a confused whine.

“C’mon, would you mind helping me get my stuff inside?” you asked, getting out of the car and lugging your trunk out of the back and carefully lifting up Eros’s cage. Stroking his beak through the bars and letting out a chuckle, he looked up at you with his large, yellow eyes. “That ride wasn’t too difficult for you, was it?” You asked, not expecting an answer as you opened his cage, “Go on then, all this open sky should be good for us, right?” You smiled as you watched him flutter out of his cage and off into the night. He was a smaller owl (Northern Saw Whet, according to the lady that sold him to you) so his cage wasn’t too much of a tight fit, but the suburbs didn’t provide the best place for him to really get out and stretch his wings.

You turned around to place the empty cage on top of the trunk, half expecting either Ron or Harry to be there and help you. But the two of them were still tiredly stretching out by the car door. What you did notice though, were two tall figures running out from the house, waving their arms excitedly and shouting your name as they got closer.

You dropped your yarn bag and ran towards them, smiling as you collided into a hug with one of them. It was dark, so you couldn’t quite tell which twin you were hugging, but you smiled nonetheless, “I missed you,” You laughed as they messed up your hair.

“I missed you too, we wanted to come pick you up but-”

“-Mum thought we’d burn down your house or something,” The other twin finished solemnly, a few steps behind the first, “We promised to only keep it to any shrubbery in the front yard, but apparently that didn’t cut it,” he sighed, mouth twisting into a smile through the dark, “now where’s my hug, (y/l/n)?” 

You chuckled and held out your arms, but didn’t expect him to take a running start before picking you up off the ground and spinning you around, not really putting you down. You let out a little yelp between laughs as he swung you over his shoulder and started walking back to the house.

“You’re not going to put me down, are you?” You asked as casually as you could, trying to play this off as if it were a normal occurrence. There wasn’t a time when either of them picked you up like a large sack of flour, so you attempted to maintain composure as you were jostled around from your place over his shoulder.

“Not a chance,” He replied with the same nonchalant tone, or at least as nonchalant as one could be with a sixteen year-old slung over their shoulders.

“Fair enough,” you sighed, “I don’t suppose we could go back for my bag?” You asked, craning your neck to look back at the car as Ron and Harry watched you and seemed to visibly groan before Hermione picked up your bag and Eros’s cage, turning to them and saying something before walking behind the tree of you from a ways away, “Oh nevermind they’ve got it. So, how have you two been faring?”

“Splendidly, although it has been rather dull over here with no one to show their support in our financial and entrepreneurial endeavours,” the one walking beside you sighed.

The one carrying you added on, “And we were quite curious about that muggle candy you promised us, I don’t suppose you have any for your favorite twin?” 

“Oh of course, which one of you is George?” you asked, hoping they couldn’t see the smirk on your face.

The one holding you up gave an exaggerated gasp and stopped in his tracks, “You foul woman! Not only can you not tell us apart but you have no favoritism for the one who holds you? I have a good mind to drop you right now!” He declared, letting his arm drop from holding your legs as he lurched forward, causing you to slide from your spot on his shoulder and making you scream. 

You thought you were going to fall, but he caught you again, this time he was holding you in front of him with both arms. For a second, your face was squashed into his shoulder, but once you were able to catch your breath and recover your nerves, he looked down at you in his arms with a devious smirk.

“Only joking, I am George. And as your favorite twin I would never drop you like that,” He gave a joking wink before Fred smacked him on the back of the head. You looked up at him for a moment unsure of if you were blushing, and if the darkness would hide it if you were. 

After a moment’s pause you suspected might have been too long, you stated as calmly as you could, “Oh I never said you were my favorite,” you smiled innocently, “I was just wondering which was which.”

At this, Fred cackled, and George let out a fake roar of rage before he took off running, you still in his arms, “I’ll show you. You creature, I thought you were my friend! Betray me for Freddie?! How could you! After all I’ve done for you!” Fred picked up his own pace, going further and making it into the house much faster than the two of you.

You had to wrap your arms around his neck to keep from falling as he ran past Ron, Harry, and Hermione, who had since gotten nearly to the house. George ran through the doorway sideways, not putting you down despite your protests until he ran to the livingroom and dropped you unceremoniously onto the couch and into Fred’s lap, “There, now you can give all the muggle sweets to your favorite twin, you despicable wench!” He cried, trying to hold back laughter.

“George, I never said Fred was my favorite twin, either,” you corrected, biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling.

Now it was George’s turn to cackle as Fred shoved you out of his lap and onto the floor, “Wicked demon! Keep your stupid muggle candy and quit playing with our hearts!” It was then that Mr. Weasely put down his book (not that he had been reading it since the three of you barged in), and leaned forward to ask as politely as he could.

“Pardon me but did you say muggle candy?”

“Do none of you have manners?” Mrs. Weasely scolded from the kitchen doorway, “The poor girl had to pack in a mad dash and sit in a car all afternoon, then you drag her in like barbarians and start poking and prodding about muggle life! Let (y/n) have a moment to get herself settled, my goodness!” She sighed, wiping her hands on her apron before smoothing her hair and smiling at you, “(y/n), dearie, you’d better wash up for dinner,” she turned to the twins and let out an exasperated sigh, “As for you two howler monkeys, you’d better show the lovely lady up to her room. And please,” she added “let her walk on her own two feet?”

[written-in-knife]

MC with tics (All Characters)

I was ticking at work and thought of this! I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else do one of these, so I figured I’d do one. Remember, everyone with tics has different experiences and these are mostly based on mine, this isn’t meant to be offensive in any way to anyone. And this is my first headcanon post! Hope you like it!

WARNING: Tic mentions, mostly vague descriptions of tics, mentions of self harm during tic attacks

--

Lucifer

He tries his best, he really does

Tries very hard to treat you like anyone else no matter what you say or do

But sometimes he just cannot ignore a tic

He knows you can't help when and what you tic

But that doesn't stop him from at least lecturing you now and then when you say the wrong thing at the wrong time

"I understand you cannot control your tics, but you cannot say Lord Diavolo has large breasts when he is in the room!"

Knows he can't help very much during a tic attack, especially if he's busy, but will immediately get someone who can help if you need it

Will check up on you afterwards, whether you want to talk about it or want a distraction from the fact that it happened, he's there

Reminds you his office is open for you if you just need a quiet place to go at any point

Mammon

Made fun of you when you first showed up

He feels awful about it now but your tics still make him laugh sometimes

And does get annoyed by the clicking and whistling sometimes

He's alright to go to during a tic attack

He'll try his best to make sure you don't hurt yourself and provide distractions

And he will absolutely wait it out with you the whole way through

Appalled when you tell him he can just leave you alone during attacks

"What? Do ya not want help from the GREAT MAMMON?"

Actually terrified to leave you by yourself during attacks, but will very reluctantly leave if you insist during one

Will defend you to the death, literally if he has to, if someone is making fun of you

Leviathan

I headcanon him as having anxiety based tics that flare up when he's stressed or excited

The two of you "call and respond" with your tics so often the others will separate you if you're not in either of your rooms

You have absolutely developed anime based tics because of this boi

He's one of the best, if not the best, to call when you're having a tic attack

He makes sure you're comfortable and brings fidget items and distractions and will try his best to gently stop you if any of your tics inflict self harm

May have to leave though if your tics start triggering his own or vice versa

Will gift you fidget items that have helped him, most of them are anime themed, of course

Satan

He read up on tics when Lucifer told everyone you had them

Knew partially from Levi, but since he mostly keeps to himself, he didn't look into the finer details

He knows in theory what to do and what not to do

But this boy is absolutely not into it at first

You best not be near him when he's already pissed off or reading

Your clicks and whistles when he's trying to read irritates him to the point where he will relocate himself out of the HoL if he has to just to finish a chapter

He tries his best not to take it out on you, he knows you cant help it, but he has snapped at you a handful of times

Will absolutely pass you off to someone else if you start having a tic attack

But will check up on you when its over with a cup of tea and an apology

Asmodeus

Has a love-hate relationship with your tics

Most of the time he finds them great, some of them are hilarious and you gave him permission to laugh if they're funny and no one is getting hurt

Other times you say something about him that he doesn't like

Or you end up hurting yourself! And neither of those will do.

Tries his best to help during tic attacks but he doesn't really know what to do

Will try to follow your instructions but will probably end up calling for help from someone else or just waiting with you quietly nearby

You have developed lots of tics because of him including "I love you" and "Your hair is shit"

Like I said, love-hate relationship.

Beelzebub

I headcanon him as being the brother whos closest to Levi, so he's way more used to it than the others

He's the one most likely to copy your tics. Not to be mean, just because some of the noises you make are fun and he likes them

Will immediately stop and never do it again if you ask him not to though

Sweet sunshine boy tries his hardest to help during tic attacks but doesn't exactly know what to do

If any of your tics inflict self harm during an attack he will just try to hold you to make you stop

Will be the quickest to apologize if he triggers a tic

Will also be the quickest to come to your defense if someone is making fun of you at RAD

No matter how much he reacts or responds to them, he's probably the least bothered by your tics and is the easiest to hang out with

Belphegor

Another one who absolutely was not into it at first

He tries his best not to react to your tics but sometimes he's tired or irritated and your tics just annoy him

He will just silently remove himself from the room, even if you're the only two in that room

Is very glad to find out you don't tic in your sleep and it won't interrupt your shared nap time

He will also pass you off to literally anyone else during a tic attack

But he will leave his pillow with you during it

When you find him after the attack to return his pillow, he demands cuddles and a nap because you probably need one right? You deserve one, anyway.

Absolutely delighted when he discovers a tic that annoys Lucifer and will very subtly try to trigger ones he knows will set the eldest off

Diavolo

He find you absolutely fascinating

Asks so many questions about your condition, why tics happen, what they feel like, why you can't control them, how many humans have tics

You were very cautious about being around him when you first arrived at the Devildom, you didn't want to embarrass yourself or Lucifer

Until you had a wild new tic during a visit with him

Asmo had asked you what you thought of Lord Diavolo

And your tics responded for you with "he's got some tig ol biddies"

You thought Lucifer was going to pop a blood vessel

Luckily Diavolo did not know what "tig ol biddies" were

Unluckily he kept asking Lucifer to define the phrase for him

You got a hefty lecture that night

But Diavolo finds you delightful and that’s what counts, right?

Barbatos

Is the least concerned about your normal ticking

No matter what you say, what sounds you make, what gestures you make, what you do

As long as you're not hurting yourself, he will absolutely just treat you like everyone else

Doesn't even have to ask which phrases are tics and which aren't, he just knows

Was around for the "tig ol biddes" tic

You only saw it for a split second, maybe it was a trick of the light, but he cracked an amused smile at it

Another good one to go to if you're having a tic attack

He'll make you comfortable and bring you anything you need, but he won't stick around, he has work to do

He'll check in on you though, call for someone if you want, and be there for you once its over

Solomon

Other than Levi, understands the most about tics

He's lived in the human realm for a long time, you can't tell me he hasn't encountered other people with tics

Is the most likely to jokingly respond to your tics

"Your hair is shit!" "Then pay for my haircut."

Will offer magical assistance (experimental) to lessen your tics

Will immediately call Simeon if he even suspects a tic attack coming on

He'll wait it out with the two of you, but he doesn't want to try to help you by himself

Has some real snarky comments for anyone making fun of you at RAD

Simeon

Would be the least concerned about your tics if it weren't for the cussing

As an angel, he's almost required to clutch his pearls and give you a look when he hears some of the colorful phrases that come out of your mouth

He doesn't say anything since he knows you can't help it

Another good one to go to if you're having a tic attack

He will absolutely get you anything you need and make you as comfortable as possible

Very patiently waits it out with you and comforts you when you get frustrated

Had a moment of internal panic when you developed one of Levi's TSL tics

Luke

Has nearly as many questions as Diavolo; what are they, why do they happen, how long have you had them, why do you say that

Needs Simeon supervision to be around you, just in case

Gets his ears covered a lot, but still ends up asking what some of your more… explicit phrases mean

After a long time of being friends with the young angel, he finally convinced you to bake with him, despite your insistence that it was not a good idea

But you both had a lot of fun with it! Even with the mess the two of you had to deal with afterwards!

Your hands were clean, it didn't matter too much that you dipped your finger in the batter and dragged in across his forehead while saying "Simba"

Didn't get the reference anyway, which did prompt a good movie night

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

���Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.