#voldemort isn't back...right?

[sharkinatimeloop]

[monsterblogging]

"I know JK Rowing is a terrible person but her books are so good-"

You sure about that?

I mean, just for a start, have you taken a good look at her fantasy creatures lately? A whole bunch of them are straight-up based on malicious and dehumanizing stereotypes about actual people.

Remember the werewolves? And being a werewolf was made into a kind of metaphor for having AIDS?

And you know how AIDS was first associated with gay men? And how conservatives back in the day were claiming gay men were preying on children in order to convert them to gayness?

Remember how Fenrir Greyback preyed on children in particular? Yeah, she put that subtext in there. She was an adult in the 90's. She knew damn well what she was doing.

Remember the house elves? Remember how most of them loved to serve and needed to have a home and a master or else they just wouldn't know what to do with themselves?

Did you know that's literally what slavers in the American South said about the Black people they kept enslaved? Go look up the happy slave myth.

Do I even need to get into the goblins and the antisemitic tropes they're based on? No, folkloric goblins were not gold-hoarding bankers waiting for their chance to stab humanity in the back.

"But the characters are so good!"

Are you kidding me?

Most of her characters are pretty one-dimensional, including Harry. Her idea of making a morally complicated character is giving a tragic past to a bully. Numerous characters are little more than stereotypes. (Looking at Fleur right now.) Literally anybody, including you, can easily make dozens of characters just as good, if not better. (It doesn't exactly take a lot of character designing skill to go, "hey, actually, having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay to bully children" or "hey, maybe I should not base a character on the first stereotype that pops into my head.")

"But the rest of the worldbuilding!"

Sorry, but her worldbuilding is just as basic as her characters. Magical castles and secret passages are stock tropes. Magical people who keep their true nature secret from humanity is the premise of pretty much every White Wolf TTRPG. Most of her fantasy creatures are just common European fairy tale and folklore creatures with shitty stereotypes projected onto them.

I'm not saying "basic worldbuilding bad." I'm saying, you could do just as good, if not better, with minimal effort.

Also there's her magical bioessentialism, where only Harry's abusive blood relatives could provide him with supernatural protection from Voldemort. Rowling thus effectively declared that non-biological family isn't quite real family, and that abusive biofamily can give you some essential thing that a loving, supportive family that isn't related to you just can't.

The Hogwarts houses are one of the most insidious elements of her worldbuilding. The idea of being sorted gives you a little dopamine hit because wow now you have a li'l niche where you belong!

But the actual function of the houses and sorting system and the House Cup is teaching children to see each other as rivals, and ensure that the most toxic views of the upper class get passed on to every new batch of kids sorted into Slytherin.

Hogwarts effectively prepares children for a dystopia where magic serves to distract its citizens from how nightmarishly awful it is. Economic inequality is so bad that people like Arthur and Molly Weasley can barely afford to put their kids through school, casual sadism is just an accepted norm in everyday society, and non-humans are second class citizens. Rowling sorta acts like she thinks this is a bad thing with certain lines she gave to Dumbledore, but in the end, her special boy protagonist becomes an auror; IE, a defender of the status quo. So.

If you've never seen it, Lily Simpson's video goes into even more detail on how the worldbuilding of Harry Potter is actually incredibly fucked up, and how it betrays small-minded attitudes on Rowling's part. There's no separating the art from this artist, because Rowling's rotten values pour out of nearly every page.

Yes, there are many things in Harry Potter that evoke feelings and inspire people, but there's absolutely nothing in it that this series has a monopoly on. You can find those same experiences in much, much better media.

[megwritesriddles]

Tightening the Knot ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Reader is captured at the end of the war as the Death Eater's celebrate their victory. She is told she is to marry Tom Riddle, but can't figure out why he'd want her or why she isn't trying harder to escape…

Tags: Forced marriage, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, DarkLord!Tom Riddle, Set after a vague Wizarding War, Not canon or timeline compliant, Voldemort wins, Reader is a member of the Black family, Enemies to lovers (?), Imprisonment, Implied age gap (but i was thinking of it as like 10 years at most, again, not timeline compliant).

Word count: 2.6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This was based on a request that I changed a bit to make myself more comfortable writing it (e.g. making the age gap smaller but vague enough so you can imagine whatever you like while you read it). Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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It wasn’t what you would picture as a prison. The plush furnishings, grand windows and monumental bookcases suggested an atmosphere of comfort and luxury, but make no mistake, this palatial room was your holding cell. The order had fallen, and the writing had been on the wall for some time now, however, there was no giving up in the fight against evil, so they fought until the bitter end. You were one of the lucky few still alive after the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts, although you hardly felt lucky given the circumstances. You stared at the ridiculously ornate, but admittedly beautiful, wedding dress hung in the small walk-in-wardrobe across from your bed, wishing it would light on fire from the anger in your gaze alone. But of course, it doesn’t. You have been stripped of your magic, your wand is who knows where and your room is enchanted to allow no magic inside it, all to prevent your escape.

Why he chose you, you can’t understand. Sure, you were from a well-established pureblood family with a deep history as he’d explained to you the one time you’d seen him since your capture, but there were many girls like that for him to have his pick of. You were angry and defiant, you didn’t wish to bend to him, you spoke back and you lashed out when he tried to touch you. Why would he choose that over, say, your relative Bellatrix, who seemed to constantly be vying for his affection and shared your heritage? Throughout the war, you had constantly found yourself facing against him. He had even commented on occasion that it was always you in his way. Perhaps, this was merely his final revenge.

“I don’t even like you!” you’d protested, sitting across from him at the grand dining table of the Malfoy or Nott or Lestrange manor, whichever of his snivelling followers house this was, shackled to the tall-backed, velvet upholstered chair.

“You do,” he’d smiled smoothly, sipping his red wine, eyes drinking you in with something like amusement. “You think I’m handsome, you can’t deny that,” he added with a smirk. Your cheeks bloomed red and you scoffed, looking down at your shackled hand, the other free to allow you to eat. He’s right, you can’t deny it, you’re aware of his skill at legilimency and you’re sure he has watched a few of the dreams you’d had since you’d got here and been told you were to marry him a few weeks ago. Filthy dreams about what your wedding night might look like, how rough he might be with you or how gentle. Later that night, a dream of him bending you over this very dining table, unaware of how close he had been to really doing so. Avoiding his eye, you continued.

“That is hardly enough to base a marriage on,”

“I have known marriages based on less,” he mused. “You will like it more than you think,” The smile that followed those words stirred your stomach in a way you don’t wish to try to interpret.

The wedding is a few days later. The decor in the manor is much darker than the decor for a usual wedding might be, feeling more mournful than anything else. It fits your mood, although from what you gather it’s merely an aesthetic consideration for the death eaters that put the event together. Your dress is beaded in intricate designs, black beads twisting around a white silk base, painting a design of thorns and roses across the fabric that almost reminds you of chains. Beautiful chains. How very fitting. Your veil is black, as is the bouquet of roses you are given to carry down the aisle. You wonder who designed everything, it was beautiful, presumably one of the death eater’s wives who had an otherwise unused eye for aesthetics. Bellatrix, the only relative you have around, is the one to walk you down the aisle, holding your arm oppressively the whole way. She is clearly bitter that she is not in your shoes, but still eager to please Riddle, who waits, standing tall and proud in front of all his death eaters in a pressed, pitch-black suit.

When you reach him, he slides his arm around your back and holds you tight, making sure you couldn’t possibly leave if you tried. He’s never touched you before, his hand is cold, large and imposing, making you want to lean in and away all at once. You are not asked to recite any vows or to say ‘I do’, the decision has been made for you. Once Riddle has agreed that he will take you as his wife, he turns you toward him by your waist and lifts your veil carefully, tutting at your unhappy expression underneath. He cups your chin and tilts your face up, leaning down to kiss you to seal your marriage. The kiss is forceful and possessive, but despite yourself, you lean in just a little, heat shooting through your veins as his lips press to yours. He is handsome and powerful, and as much as you want to resist, as much as you hate all he stands for, your body is weak. His fingers tighten into your dress, gripping the small of your back. You know what it means. You’re his now. 

Riddle keeps you held captive at his side throughout the reception as he talks and drinks with his followers. You can tell from the way they glance at you at his side, that they are as confused as you are about why he chose you to be his bride and not one of the many willing girls and women amongst his followers, but have clearly been told not to dare question his decision. Trying your best to distract yourself, you play with the wedding ring on your finger. A thin serpentine silver band winding around your ring finger, inset with emeralds and black star sapphire. Once again, you wonder who might have picked it out for you. Surely, not Riddle himself? To your surprise, Riddle also wears a wedding band. A plain one with a subtle carving of a serpent, complimenting yours without being anywhere near as ostentatious. It’s a surprise that he would want to advertise himself as being married, you hadn’t expected it, but you aren’t sure what to make of it, so you don’t dwell. At least the food at the beginning of the reception had been delicious, and the cake your favourite flavour, decorated with the same thorny patterns as your dress. 

You find yourself incredibly annoyed to stand around and listen to these men talk and laugh, wanting to retreat to your room, despite knowing what will follow. It’s your wedding night, and Riddle made it clear that he expects you to comply with traditional wedding night activities with him. At first, you were angry and disgusted, but now you just feel like you want to get to it as soon as possible, only to get it over and done with. His ever-present hand on your waist or lower back doesn’t help this feeling. Finally, once he is also sick of listening to his followers' drivel, he guides you out of the hall in which the wedding was held and up the stairs, not towards your quarters, but his own. You’re tense as you walk, knowing what is drawing ever closer and closer. His hand softly rubs your waist as he escorts you, presumably trying to ease a little of your tension, not wanting your apprehension to ruin his wedding night. 

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, which was somehow even larger than the one in the room you’d been staying in, you watch him loosen the tie at his neck, pouring himself a little champagne. 

“Want any, darling?” he smirks, sipping the drink, his eyes roaming the flattering figure your dress gave you. Part of you wondered whether you should drink to numb the experience, but all the same, you wanted your faculties about you. You shake your head silently and he shrugs. “Later then,” Once his drink is finished, he comes to sit beside you. You stiffen as his cold hands gather up your hair and move it out of the way, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your back. He waits a moment before popping the first clasp on your back. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your muscles tighten, drawing in a breath. “You’re surprisingly willing, I told you that you’d like this more than you thought,” he ponders aloud with a hint of teasing, continuing to pop the clasps down your back. “I almost miss the fight,” he slips the sleeve of the dress off of your shoulder and bites down gently on the bare flesh. “Almost,”

The feeling of the cold air of the room meeting your skin sends a fit of shivers through you, the fabric of the dress pooling at your waist and baring your breasts to the air, your nipples hardening to peaks in an instant. Riddle hums, watching like a hawk over your shoulder, his hands caressing your skin just beneath your breasts, drawing yet another shiver from you. He slowly bites up and down your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, to leave behind small possessive marks. His warm chest presses to your bare back, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against your skin, his suit jacket shed much earlier in the evening. 

“What has you so willing now, darling? You were so�� incensed before,” he taunts, just gently brushing his thumbs on the underside of your breasts, his breath tickling your neck. 

“I just want to get it over with,” you mumble, observing as his large hands move across your skin. He chuckles.

“I’m sure,” he hums, clearly not believing you. You wouldn’t believe you either. “Be a good girl and stand for me,” Very hesitantly, and fighting against several tonnes of pride, you rise to your feet, jolting as he gently eases your dress down over your hips, taking caution not to rip the dress or damage the beading. Once it passes the swell of your hips, it falls easily to the ground, leaving you in only a pair of panties. You remain facing away from him, too sheepish to turn. His fingertips trace the edge of the material on your hips, down to your rear. You twitch away from his touch and he tuts. “Come now, you’re only prolonging this,” he gently grips your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands skimming over you as he twists you around and lays you down against the pillows. Staring up at him, you notice a disconcerting predatory look in his eyes, despite the otherwise uncharacteristic softness in his expression. Even more bothersome is the way your stomach flips upon seeing it. He crawls up the bed to loom over you, a smirk decorating his handsome face. “Such a pretty picture you are, my beautiful bride,” he husks, leaning down to nip at your pulse point. You close your eyes. Bride. You couldn’t believe that word was real. This time, you feel the bite of his teeth and you know he’s leaving a proper mark. A whimper leaves your throat despite your reservations and you feel him grin against your skin, pleased to have evidence of your enjoyment of this, despite your performative protestations.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him withdraw from you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and the clank of metal as he reaches for his belt. Your thighs clench as the reality of what’s coming washes over you properly. Despite everything that you know should have you running for the hills, you are curious, too curious for your own good. So curious that when you feel his fingers hooking into the fabric of your underwear and beginning to softly tug downward, you wordlessly lift your hips and allow him to bare you to his gaze. He growls softly, presumably noticing the arousal that has gathered as he spreads your legs. 

“You don’t like me, darling?” he scoffs, repeating your words from a few days before.

“No,” you murmur. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, which makes you part them obediently and clench around nothing. He notices your reaction instantly and gives a smug laugh.

“You are a terrible liar,” he purrs, placing his thumb on your tongue. “I think you like me very much,” he watches, enraptured, as you suckle on his thumb for the briefest of moments before you collect yourself once more. 

“I do not,” you protest weakly, finally opening your eyes to look up at him again, but you know you aren’t remotely convincing. “There is a difference between liking and lusting,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I suppose that is true, I’ll give you that,” he hums, using his now moist thumb to come down and begin gently circling your clit, drawing a ragged gasp from you. “You don’t like me, but right now, I reckon all that matters is lust, don’t you, darling?” Your head falls to the side as you avoid his knowing gaze, breaths coming short as he continues his intoxicating circles, the sensation enhanced by how worked up he has you. Your hips squirm lightly and he just seems to find it entertaining. You hear the rustle of fabric once more but pay it no mind, eyes fluttering shut at the syrupy pleasure he’s providing you.

You shoot up in surprise when you feel him prodding softly at your entrance, your eyes flying open to meet his. He shushes you gently, pushing you back down to lie and despite yourself, you go. His thumb never stops circling, making you more compliant than usual. He’s hot and hard against you and it makes you moan. It’s awful to realise just how badly you want him to press inside.

“You knew it was coming, just relax, we don’t want it to hurt, do we?” he soothes with his slightly patronising tone, but you just give a shaky nod. “There we go, you can be so good when you want to be,” he coos. After a few more calming circles on your clit, he’s pressing inside of you slowly. Your eyes roll back and your lips part, your walls fluttering as you do your best to accommodate him. He shifts, looming over you even more, propping his hand at the side of your head to support his weight. 

His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, growling in pleasure, finally inside of you like he has wished to be for so long. All those years of your infuriating scheming and fighting, only to end up a whimpering mess beneath him in your marital bed. The grin that graces his lips is downright devilish. He has you where he wants you, completely, rocking his hips a few times to draw those rousing mewls from your lips once more. Your hand grips his arm, the cool metal of your wedding band digging into his skin. Finally, he has you here and you’re willing, no matter what you assert. The sinful pleasure he’s giving you feels like sweet revenge as he begins to fuck into you properly, hips slamming into yours, slick sounds filling the room, claiming you entirely, consummating your marriage. The marriage you had claimed not to want, but never once tried to disrupt as it happened.

“You know what I think, darling?” he grunts, you don’t answer with anything other than a cry of pleasure as he angles himself to thrust even deeper inside you. “I think you do like me, and you will forever, whether you want to or not,”

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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

xoxoxo

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Hi! I just have to know- will there be a part 2 to Not Quite Poison? I absolutely loved it and the ending was amazing!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

AN: Much love <3 I am so sorry for the wait!

Not Quite Poison {pt. 2}

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Reader

Summary: How Barty came into the dark mark, making his way onto the right side for the wrong reasons.

WC: 20K

CW: this is Uhm.. not happy- not at all. Ambiguous ending. Not proof read, slight!stalker!Barty, obsessive!dark!Barty, the first 10k~ heavily mention the reader but she isn't physically there. Grammar and spelling mistakes. Barty gets kinda creepy at times. Slight Jegulily agenda if you pay attention. Voldemort- does mention the war, heavily cannon divergent, ambiguous ending.

Barty stood in front of the cracked and foggy mirror, the faint chill of the Crouch manor seeping into the room. The glass reflected a version of himself he barely recognized- tie slightly undone, shirt and robes pressed, and hair falling into his face in deliberate order. But none of that mattered. His attention wasn’t on his reflection.

It was on the photos tucked into the edges of the mirror, curling slightly from age and misuse. Polaroids, each imbued with movement and life. Pandora waved energetically in one, her hair a wild halo as Regulus stood beside her with a faint smirk. Another showed Dorcas and Evan laughing together, Regulus rolling his eyes in mock exasperation beside them. They were snapshots of stolen moments, pieces of a life that felt like his own secret treasure.

But one photo sat above the rest, pinned carefully at the center of the mirror’s edge. It was only slightly worn, its edges dulled from handling, but it was the one he couldn’t resist touching. You were in it, your smile soft and warm as you looked up at the camera- no, not the camera. At him. The movement of the photo revealed your mouth forming silent words, likely teasing him as you had been when he’d snapped it.

Barty’s lips curved into a slow smile, a rare, unguarded expression. He adjusted his tie absently- the way you had taught him, his fingers deft but distracted as his eyes stayed locked on your image. The rest of the world felt muted, the chill of the room, the weight of his family name, the suffocating expectations of his father- they all faded. 

He leaned closer to the mirror, watching the way your eyes flicked to the lens and back to him, like you couldn’t help but connect with him even through the photo. 

The other photos were carefully labeled in his neat, slanted handwriting. "Pandora, 1976," "Reggie & Dor, Hogsmeade." But your photo? 

It bore only one word, scrawled with a steady hand, both a promise and a confession: Soon.

Barty straightened, his grin softening but never fading as he tucked his tie into place. He lingered for a moment longer, his fingertips brushing the corner of your photo, almost like he was reaching for you. He didn’t say anything, but his mind buzzed with thoughts of you- your laugh, the sharpness of your words, the way you carried yourself like the world owed you everything and nothing all the same.

“Soon,” He murmured under his breath, his reflection smiling back at him like a man with a secret.

“Barty!” His mother’s voice, sweet and quick, echoed up the grand staircase, breaking through the quiet of his room. The chill seemed to deepen as her tone carried a faint edge of excitement. “Almost ready, dear?”

Barty sighed, his shoulders stiffening for a brief moment before he rolled them back, forcing his usual air of nonchalance to return. His fingers lingered on the tie one last time, tugging it into perfect place as his gaze flickered back to the photo.

You.

Still smiling, still teasing, still looking at him like he was someone worth the attention. Like he was someone free. For a split second, he thought he saw your lips curve, mouthing words he couldn’t quite hear but knew by heart: “Goodbye.”

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement at his own foolishness. “Losing it, mate,” He muttered to himself, though his voice carried no real conviction. With a deliberate motion, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, draping it over his shoulders as he turned toward the door.

He paused at the threshold, his hand brushing the doorknob as if something unseen was holding him back. His gaze flickered over his shoulder, back to the photo on the mirror. The light caught it just so, making your image shine in the otherwise dim room.

With a final glance, his voice dropped to a whisper, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don't wait up.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, his usual swagger returning to his stride. The door to his room swung shut behind him, but not before the Polaroid on the mirror caught a draft and fluttered faintly.

Barty descended the grand staircase with an air of practiced indifference, the polished marble underfoot reflecting the flicker of flames from the towering fireplace in the entrance hall. The heavy scent of his father’s cigars clung to the air, mixing with the faint notes of his mother’s perfume- something floral and delicate that always made Barty feel oddly grounded, even in the chaos of the Crouch manor.

His mother was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her sharp, hawkish eyes softening the moment they landed on him. “Your tie is a mess, dear,” She tutted, stepping forward to fuss with it before he could protest. Her hands moved with deft precision, undoing and retying it until it lay perfectly flat against his chest. 

Barty stood still, letting her work, though his smirk never faltered. “And here I thought I’d perfected it,” He teased lightly, his voice warm enough to draw a small smile from her.

“You’d perfect it if you cared enough. Merlin help whoever has been doing it for you,” She quipped back, smoothing down the front of his robes. She smirked softly up at his bewildered expression. He quickly corrected it. Her touch lingered for a moment, her expression softening further as she looked up at him. “Now, behave yourself tonight, Barty. The Blacks don’t tolerate nonsense, and you know how your father gets.”

As if on cue, his father’s voice boomed from the adjacent room, carrying the same air of authority it always did. “Bartemius!” He barked, stepping into view with his usual commanding stride. “Do you understand the importance of this evening? The Black family is powerful, and their influence extends far beyond-”

“Far beyond whatever petty scandal you think I’ll cause, I’m sure,” Barty interrupted smoothly, his tone playful but edging on insolence. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll be the picture of decorum.”

His father’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leveled Barty with a glare that carried years of frustration. “You will not embarrass this family,” He said firmly, his voice low and cold. “This is not some juvenile gathering for you to treat as a joke. You’ll act like a proper heir.”

Barty raised a brow, his smirk sharpening as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “A proper heir,” He echoed mockingly. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

His mother shot him a warning glance, her hand resting lightly on his arm as if to ground him. “Barty,” she said gently, her voice cutting through the tension. “That’s enough.”

For once, he relented, letting out a quiet sigh. His father grunted in approval, muttering something about “finally showing sense,” before retreating into the next room to oversee last-minute preparations.

Barty turned back to his mother, his smirk softening into something genuine as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Don’t worry, Mum,” He murmured, his voice low but warm. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but there was a flicker of affection in her eyes as she shook her head. “You’re impossible,” She said fondly, brushing a hand through his hair one last time. “Go on, then. Charm everyone.”

“Oh, I plan to,” He said with a wink, straightening his coat with a flourish before stepping toward the front door. He cast one last glance over his shoulder, his grin firmly in place. “Love ya, yeah mum?”

“I love you too.” She sighed with a fond tilt of her head. Wincing when she lifted her fist to cover her lips, giving a particularly harsh cough into her hand.

Barty’s smirk faltered as his mother’s cough echoed through the entrance hall, sharp and brittle, like the crack of ice. Her fist clenched tightly over her mouth, and for a moment, her graceful composure wavered. The sight sent a flicker of unease coursing through him, and his easy confidence dimmed.

“Mum,” He called softly, his voice unusually serious. He took a step toward her, his sharp green eyes searching her face for any sign of reassurance. “That damned cough- how long has it been this bad?”

She waved him off with a weak smile, though her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Don’t fuss, dear. It’s just a bit of the winter chill. I’ll be fine.”

Barty’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t convinced. “It’s not just a chill,” He pressed, his voice lowering as he stepped closer. “You’ve been coughing like that for months. Have you even-?”

“Enough, Bartemius,” His father’s cold, commanding voice cut through the moment like a blade. The elder Crouch stepped back into the room, his presence as suffocating as ever. His gaze flicked briefly to his wife, but his expression betrayed no concern, only irritation. “Your mother is fine. Do not make a spectacle of this.”

Barty turned to his father, his smirk gone entirely now, replaced with something harder, more volatile. “Fine? Are you serious? She can barely breathe, and you’re sending her off like it’s nothing?”

His father’s lips thinned, his gaze narrowing as he stepped closer. “Do not question me, boy,” He said sharply, his voice low but brimming with authority. “Your mother is being well taken care of. Winky sees to her needs, and the best healers have already examined her.”

“Then why isn’t she getting better?” Barty shot back, his tone teetering on the edge of defiance. His fists clenched at his sides as he stared his father down. “Why does she look worse every time I come home?”

His father’s eyes blazed with unspoken warning, but before he could respond, the soft sound of shuffling feet interrupted them. Winky, the house-elf, appeared in the doorway, her large, watery eyes darting nervously between the two men.

“Master Bartemius,” She said hesitantly, bowing low before turning her attention to Mrs. Crouch. “Mistress, your room is ready. Winky will bring you some tea to help with the cough.”

Mrs. Crouch offered Winky a kind smile, though it was strained. She rested a hand lightly on Barty’s arm, her touch as calming as it had always been. “It’s alright, dear,” She said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Winky will take care of me. You have your evening to focus on.”

Barty’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack. He wanted to argue, to demand answers from his father, to do something, anything, to fix the wrongness of the situation. But his mother’s gentle squeeze on his arm stopped him.

Reluctantly, he nodded, his gaze lingering on her as Winky guided her toward the stairs. “Mum-” He started, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

She turned back to him, her smile as warm as it could be despite the pallor of her skin. “Go charm everyone, my darling,” She said, her voice faint but full of love. “You'll do great.”

As she disappeared up the stairs, Barty turned back to his father, his expression cold and unyielding. “She’s not fine,” He muttered quietly, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. “And you know it.”

His father didn’t flinch, his gaze as impassive as ever. “You will do as you’re told,” He said simply, brushing past Barty without another word. “And you will not embarrass this family.”

Barty watched him leave, his fists trembling at his sides, his mind racing with a storm of anger and helplessness. He looked toward the staircase, where his mother had disappeared, and the faint sound of her cough echoed faintly in his ears.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his coat, his smirk slowly returning to his face like a mask. “Soon,” He muttered to himself, the word heavier now, filled with a quiet, burning promise.

With one last glance toward the stairs, he turned and stepped out into the frosty night, his mind already planning his next move.

~~~

The sharp crack of apparition echoed in the chill of the frosty evening as Barty and his father arrived at the grand gates of the Black Manor. The towering estate loomed ahead, its gothic architecture bathed in soft, flickering torchlight. Every inch of the property was designed to intimidate and awe, a testament to the Black family’s legacy. The ornate iron gates swung open soundlessly as a pair of house-elves bowed low, ushering them inside.

Barty’s father strode ahead without hesitation, his posture as rigid and commanding as ever. Barty followed at a slower pace, his smirk firmly in place as his sharp green eyes took in the scene. The grand entryway was already buzzing with finely dressed purebloods, their polished masks catching the warm glow of chandeliers that hung like constellations above.

A house-elf approached, bowing deeply as it extended a silver tray bearing elaborately crafted masquerade masks. Barty plucked one with a flick of his fingers, the edges gleaming with silver filigree, and slipped it on with an air of practiced ease. The mask concealed just enough to meet the evening’s requirements but left his sharp features unmistakable.

“Remember what I said,” his father muttered lowly as they stepped inside. “Behave.”

“Always,” Barty drawled, his tone light, bordering on mocking. He didn’t wait for a response, brushing past his father and into the heart of the gathering.

The ballroom was a study in decadence. Rich, dark wood lined the floors, and the walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the Black family’s ancient lineage. Every detail, from the gilded accents on the furniture to the symphony playing in the background, spoke of old wealth and untouchable power.

Barty snatched a glass of sparkling champagne from a passing tray, tilting it back as he wove through the crowd with the grace of someone who had long ago mastered the art of mingling while detached. The wine was crisp and cold, doing little to drown out the lingering tension from earlier.

His eyes flickered across the room, scanning for familiar faces. It didn’t take long to find them. Near the grand windows stood Regulus and Evan, their masks impeccably chosen to complement their dark, tailored robes. They both exuded the kind of effortless control that came with knowing they were the center of their world.

Barty approached with an easy smirk, catching the tail end of Evan’s complaint. 

“...what does she even see in him?” Evan muttered, his voice dripping with disdain as he gestured toward the dance floor. 

Barty followed his gaze and found Pandora spinning in a slow, dreamlike circle with Xenophilius, her hair glowing like a halo under the chandelier light. Xenophilius was gazing at her as if she had just descended from the heavens, and Pandora, true to form, looked entirely unbothered by the attention of the room. Even with their flimsy masks, there was no mistaking Pandora’s ethereal glow.

“Pandora,” Regulus supplied in his usual flat tone. “She’s entertaining Lovegood.”

Evan snorted, swirling the dark liquor in his glass. “Entertaining? She’s throwing the whole bloody circus.”

Barty chuckled, his smirk widening as he clinked his champagne flute against Evan’s glass. “Maybe she’s tired of the same old crowd,” He suggested, his voice light but with an edge of cynicism. “It's a sad sight when a witch like her plays to the back row.”

Regulus arched a brow, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And you'd suppose there is much better here?”

Barty spread his arms in mock innocence. “More entertaining, at least.”

The conversation drifted, but Barty’s attention lingered on Pandora and Xenophilius. The carefree way Pandora laughed, the subtle glances Xenophilius stole, the way they moved as though the rest of the room didn’t exist- it tugged at something unspoken in Barty. Jealousy? No. Longing? Possibly. He drained the rest of his champagne, the burn sharp against the lingering weight of his earlier thoughts.

The scene stirred a memory, unbidden but vivid. 

You, standing just like Pandora now, on a crisp autumn day. Hidden away with him in the dark forest. The sunlight danced on your cheeks as you turned to look at him, mischief glinting in your eyes. “You’re staring,” You teased, your lips curving into that sharp smile that never failed to disarm him.

“Can’t help it,” Barty had hummed, his voice soft but steady, though his heart was pounding in his chest. “You’re a vision.”

You’d laughed then, light and airy, brushing his words off with a playful roll of your eyes. But the way you looked at him lingered- like he was the only person in the world who could keep up with you. You had hardly been seeing each other for a few months, and he could rightfully say he'd die satisfied.

The memory dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving a faint ache in its wake. Barty’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he masked it with a careless shrug, his eyes snapping back to Regulus and Evan.

“What’s the point of all this?” He asked, his voice louder now, cutting through the haze of his thoughts. He gestured vaguely to the room, to the glittering masks and the polished floor. “We all know these little gatherings are just an excuse for the old guard to pat themselves on the back.”

Regulus regarded him silently for a moment, his gray eyes unreadable. Then, his eyes flickered with amusement as he took a slow sip of his drink, letting the weight of Barty’s question hang in the air before answering. “Perhaps you’re just jealous,” He remarked coolly, his tone casual but pointed. 

Barty stiffened slightly, his smirk faltering for barely a moment before he covered it with a raised brow and a scoff. “Jealous?” He echoed, the word dripping with disdain. “Of what, exactly? Lovegood’s charming lack of awareness? Please.”

Regulus’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk as he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough that it carried an air of intimacy. “Not of Lovegood,” He cheeked smoothly, his gaze unwavering. “But perhaps of how effortlessly he can occupy someone’s attention. Someone who’s a bit... untouchable, wouldn’t you say?”

Barty’s green eyes narrowed, his easy charm flickering as he straightened his posture. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” He shot back, his tone sharp and defensive. But the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed him.

Evan, standing just to Regulus’s left, let out a bark of laughter that he quickly muffled with his drink when it echoed a little too loudly in the grand ballroom. “Oh, come off it, Barty,” He teased, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Everyone knows about your little Potter situation. Been obvious since, what- first year?”

Barty’s grip on his empty champagne flute tightened, the delicate glass threatening to crack under the pressure. “You’re treading on thin ice,” He muttered darkly, his voice low enough that only they could hear.

Regulus exchanged a knowing glance with Evan before continuing, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “It’s not exactly a secret, Barty. You’ve been positively tame lately. More reserved. Dare I say... domesticated?” He arched a brow, his words carefully chosen to needle Barty just enough. 

Evan snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Spending all that energy elsewhere, are you?” He quipped, his grin mischievous as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “Don’t tell me she’s got you wrapped around her little finger already. It's hardly been a few months.”

“Enough,” Barty hissed, his voice sharper now as his composure cracked. His smirk was gone entirely, replaced by a cold, dangerous edge that made both Regulus and Evan pause- if only briefly.

Regulus tilted his head slightly as he studied Barty. “Relax,” He mumbled, his tone smooth but calculated. “We’re only pointing out the obvious. It’s not like you’ve done much to hide it- from us anyway.”

Barty clenched his jaw, his sharp green eyes flicking between the two of them as he fought to rein in his temper. “You two don’t know the first thing about it,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous.

Evan raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face didn’t waver. “Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist,” He chuckled lightly, though his tone carried a hint of mischief. “Just saying, you’re a bit less... feral these days. It’s almost endearing.”

Regulus’s smirk returned, though his gaze remained as unreadable as ever. “Endearing isn’t the word I’d use,” He murmured, his tone thoughtful. “But... she does seem to have softened you. If only slightly.”

Barty didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he traded his empty flute with a new glass as an elf passed. Only then he drained the champagne in one swift motion before setting the glass down on a table with deliberate precision. “You two really enjoy the sound of your own voices, don’t you?” He prodded, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Evan chuckled, unfazed by Barty’s sharp tone. “Always,” He said with a wink, raising his glass in a mock toast.

Regulus remained silent, his piercing gaze locked on Barty as though he could see straight through him. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension hanging heavy between them.

Finally, Barty let out a breath, his smirk softening into something closer to resignation. “You lot don’t know half as much as you think you do,” He muttered, his voice quieter now.

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes- curiosity, perhaps, or maybe understanding. “Perhaps not,” He shrugged, his tone measured. “But we know enough. All I ask is you be careful with this obsession of yours- just because you have her now doesn't mean your recklessness can keep her.”

With that, Regulus turned away, his attention shifting back to the dance floor where Pandora and Xenophilius still spun in their carefree circle. Evan followed suit, though not without shooting Barty one last amused glance.

Barty remained where he was, his fists clenched at his sides as he stared down at the empty champagne flute on the table beside him. Their words echoed in his mind, each one striking a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

Because, as much as he hated to admit it, they weren’t entirely wrong.

You had softened him. And for all his bravado, all his sharp words and reckless charm, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when you were the one thing in his life that made him feel like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Barty watched the crowd with a mixture of disinterest and muted irritation. The edges of his smirk thinning with every passing second as he observed his father. 

The elder Crouch, usually so rigid and commanding, was making an embarrassing display of himself. His attempts at impressing the notable pureblood families were painfully obvious- his booming voice, the forced laughter, the way he stood just a little too close to Walburga Black and Orion as he gestured with exaggerated importance. It was pathetic. 

Barty’s fingers tightened to a fist. 

“Look at him,” He muttered under his breath, his tone edged with disdain. “Groveling like a damned house-elf for their approval.”

Regulus, who had returned with a fresh drink, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He simply followed Barty’s gaze, his expression as impassive as ever.

Evan, meanwhile, let out a low chuckle. “You’d think he was a Gryffindor the way he’s going on,” he quipped, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Does he ever stop to breathe?”

Barty’s smirk returned, faint but biting. “Not when there’s an audience,” he replied coolly. He drained the last of his champagne, the glass clinking softly as he set it on a passing tray. “Though I suppose someone has to make a fool of themselves tonight. Saves me the trouble.”

Evan laughed again, but Barty’s attention had already shifted. Across the ballroom, someone new had appeared- or at least, someone unfamiliar. Even beneath the gilded mask, the stranger exuded a quiet confidence that set them apart from the rest of the crowd. They moved through the room with deliberate ease, stopping to exchange words with all the right people: Walburga and Orion, the Rosiers, the Malfoys. Each interaction seemed to command attention without effort, as though the very air bent to accommodate them.

Barty’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. He noted the way his father, who had been so eager to ingratiate himself moments ago, now seemed to shrink in the stranger’s presence. The elder Crouch stood at a distance, his usual bluster subdued, his posture stiff.

Barty’s smirk widened, his earlier irritation melting into something sharper- spite, perhaps, or maybe just reckless amusement. “Well, that’s interesting,” He murmured, more to himself than to Regulus or Evan.

“What is?” Evan asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Barty didn’t answer. He was already weaving through the crowd, his stride confident and easy, his mask barely concealing the mischievous glint in his eyes. If his father was going to cower, Barty would do the exact opposite.

He approached the stranger with all the charm and bravado he could muster, his smirk firmly in place as he came to a stop just within their line of sight. “You’re making quite the impression,” He said, his voice smooth and light, as though they were old acquaintances. “I thought it only polite to introduce myself. Bartemius Crouch, Jr.”

The stranger didn’t speak, his red eyes locking on Barty’s with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the polished veneer of his charm. His gaze swept over Barty in a way that felt almost invasive, as though he were seeing beyond the finely tailored robes and cocky smirk. 

Barty raised an eyebrow, unfazed- or at least, pretending to be. “Not much of a talker, are we?” he quipped, his tone light and mocking. “I’ve got to say, you’re doing wonders for the mystique.”

Still, the man said nothing. Instead, he extended his hand, his long, pale fingers steady and deliberate. 

Barty hesitated for half a second, the silence unsettling in a way he wouldn’t admit aloud. But he didn’t back down. He never backed down. With a sharp smirk, he clasped the stranger’s hand in his own, his grip firm as if to assert dominance.

It was a mistake.

The instant their hands and eyes met, Barty felt it- a sharp, burning force slicing into his mind like a blade. His vision blurred, and his breath hitched as he tried to pull away, but the man’s grip tightened, unyielding and cold as iron. 

A searing pain lanced through his skull as the stranger’s presence flooded his mind. His memories flashed before him in rapid succession, too fast to grasp: flashes of childhood, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the taste of rebellion on his tongue. 

And then, abruptly, it shifted. 

The memories slowed, becoming clearer. There you were, comforting him in Diagon Alley, pushing him against a tree in the forbidden forest, kissing him in a broom closet- like you meant it. The warmth of your presence, the way you seemed to fill every space you entered, the way your voice lingered in his mind long after you were gone. 

The stranger’s smirk deepened, his expression dark and knowing. 

“No,” Barty growled through gritted teeth, his voice strained as he tried to push the man out. He summoned every ounce of willpower he had, but it was useless. The stranger’s grip tightened further, his fingers like a vice around Barty’s hand.

“She's rather beautiful.” The man spoke slow, deliberate as he stepped closer to Barty, lips hovering near his ear. “A blood traitor no less?”

Barty’s eyes snapped to the stranger’s hand as his grip tightened, the sharp edges of his smirk now gone, replaced by a look of thinly veiled fury. “Careful how you talk about her,” Barty growled, his voice low and venomous. The man’s words struck a nerve, twisting something primal and protective deep inside him.

The stranger tilted his head, his red eyes narrowing with amusement. “You misunderstand me, Bartemius,” He said smoothly, his tone dark and deliberate. “I’m not questioning your devotion. I’m simply questioning... how long you’ll be able to keep her safe?”

Barty stiffened, his jaw clenching as his mind raced. Before he could retort, the man released his hand, taking a measured step back and gesturing toward the far end of the ballroom with a flick of his wrist. “Come,” he said, his voice like silk, commanding without raising in volume. “We have much to discuss.”

For a moment, Barty hesitated. His sharp green eyes flicked to his shocked father. His eyes snapped to  Regulus and Evan, who were being ushered quietly out of the ballroom by their respective parents. Regulus looked tense, his usual calm veneer betraying a hint of unease. Evan’s normally sharp tongue was eerily silent, his gaze focused on the floor as he followed without question.

Barty’s attention snapped back to the stranger, his pulse quickening as he considered his options. The man’s words hung heavy in the air, and despite his usual defiance, there was an undeniable pull- an unspoken command he couldn’t quite resist. And after he had seen you? There was no way he was leaving without answers.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” The man added, his voice sharper now, cutting through Barty’s hesitation like a blade.

Reluctantly, Barty straightened his coat and followed, his smirk slipping back into place as he trailed the stranger through the opulent corridors of the Black Manor. His sharp eyes scanned the halls, noting how quiet it had become, the laughter and music from the ballroom fading with every step. 

The stranger led him down a winding staircase, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. At the base of the stairs, a heavy iron door loomed ahead, its surface etched with intricate runes that seemed to shift in the flickering torchlight.

As the door creaked open, Barty stepped into a dimly lit chamber, its stone walls lined with shelves of dark artifacts and ancient tomes. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning incense, the flickering light casting long shadows that danced across the room. 

Inside, the gathering was already underway. The Blacks, Malfoys, Lestranges, Averys, and Mulcibers stood in a loose circle, their faces carefully blank but their postures tense. Regulus was rigid, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he stood beside Walburga, who surveyed the room with a piercing gaze. Evan lingered near his parents- Pandora and Felix nowhere in sight, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet, watchful stillness.

Barty’s sharp gaze flicked to the center of the room, where the stranger stood with his back to the crowd. His dark robes seemed to absorb the flickering light, his pale hands resting lightly on the edge of an elaborate marble table. Slowly, he turned to face the gathered families, his slick black hair gleaming, his red eyes glowing with an unnatural intensity.

It was him. 

Voldemort.

Even in his most human form, Voldemort’s presence was suffocating, an overwhelming mix of charisma and malice that seemed to fill every corner of the room. His lips curved into a smile, cold and sharp, as his gaze swept over the gathered families.

“Welcome,” Voldemort said, his voice smooth and commanding. “It is rare to gather so many esteemed families under one roof. Tonight marks the beginning of a new era- a turning point for our world.”

His red eyes lingered on Regulus for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as Walburga stepped forward, her expression a mix of pride and caution. But then his gaze shifted, landing squarely on Barty. 

The air seemed to thicken as Voldemort studied him, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Ah, Bartemius,” he said softly, his tone laced with amusement. “The defiant son.”

Barty met his gaze head-on, his smirk sharpening into something more unstable. “And here I thought this was a party,” he drawled, his voice light but edged with steel. “You’ve got a funny way of celebrating.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room, several heads turning toward Barty with expressions ranging from shock to disapproval. But Voldemort merely chuckled, the sound low and dark. “I like him,” He said, his voice carrying an unsettling warmth. “Such fire. Such conviction.”

He stepped closer to Barty, his red eyes gleaming as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I wonder, though... will that fire be enough to protect the things you hold most dear?”

Barty’s smirk faltered, his jaw tightening as the meaning behind Voldemort’s words became clear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said evenly, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Voldemort’s smile widened, his gaze sharp and knowing. “Oh, but I think you do,” He murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous hum. “It’s written all over you, Bartemius. Your every thought, your every action- it all leads back to her.”

Barty stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides as his mind raced. He wanted to deny it, to push back against the weight of Voldemort’s words, but he couldn’t. The truth was too raw, too close to the surface.

Voldemort straightened, his gaze sweeping over the room once more. “Loyalty is a powerful thing,” He said, his voice louder now, addressing the entire group. “But it is also a weakness. Those who cannot control their attachments will find themselves undone by them.”

His red eyes flicked back to Barty, his smile turning razor-sharp. “I wonder, Bartemius... how far would you go to keep her safe?”

Barty’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the question pressing down on him like a vice. He met Voldemort’s gaze, his sharp green eyes blazing. “Farther than you’d ever understand,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

Voldemort chuckled, a low, sinister sound that echoed through the chamber. “We shall see,” he said simply, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

~~~

The room in Grimmauld Place was dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn tightly shut. Shadows flickered against the walls as the fire in the corner crackled weakly, doing little to dispel the chill that clung to the air. Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders trembled as quiet, restrained sobs broke the silence, his other hand resting on his forearm, fingers tracing the dark outline of the new mark branded into his skin.

Barty sat on a worn chair by the fireplace, elbows resting on his knees, his sharp green eyes fixed on Regulus. His shirt was untucked, his tie discarded and forgotten on the floor. There was none of his usual bravado or sharp wit. For once, he looked exhausted- every ounce of his energy focused on Regulus, who seemed barely aware of the world around him.

Evan paced near the window, his footsteps soft against the worn rug. His expression was tight, jaw clenched as he stole glances at Regulus before shaking his head and resuming his pacing. Finally, he stopped, turning on Barty with a glare that carried as much confusion as anger.

“You’re an idiot, Crouch,” Evan spat, breaking the tense silence. His voice was low, but the sharpness of his words echoed in the small room. “I’ve seen you reckless, sure. I’ve even seen you stupid. But this? This is a new level.”

Barty’s head snapped up, his expression darkening instantly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he shot back, his voice rising, though his sharp tone was tempered by the sight of Regulus shaking on the bed.

Evan gestured angrily toward Regulus. “This! All of this! Regulus had no choice. His mother would’ve killed him if he’d refused. My father would of crucio’d me. But you? You didn’t have to do it, Barty. No one was forcing you.”

Barty stiffened, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He pointed a finger at Evan, his voice cold and edged with fury. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like I wasn’t forced,” he growled, stepping closer. “You heard what he said. You saw him.”

Evan didn’t back down, his jaw tightening as he jabbed a finger back at Barty. “Oh, I know exactly what I saw,” He said, his voice sharp. “You saw a threat to her. And instead of doing the smart thing- literally anything else- you let him mark you like some lapdog.”

“Shut your mouth,” Barty snarled, his fists clenching at his sides.

Evan’s laugh was bitter and humorless. “You’re not denying it,” he said, shaking his head. “Every bloody move you’ve made since second year has been about her. She doesn’t even truly know you. Her family hates you, for Merlin’s sake! And now you’re tied to him- forever. For what? Some girl who wouldn’t look at you twice if-”

“Don’t you finish that sentence,” Barty snapped, his voice dangerously low. He took another step forward, his green eyes blazing with a mix of rage and something far more vulnerable. “You don’t know the first thing about her.”

Evan scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s there to know? You’ve been reckless, selfish, and stupid- real stupidity, Barty, not your usual charming kind- the kind you use to hide your genius- in the name of protecting a girl who wouldn’t want this!”

“Don’t act like I don’t know that!” Barty shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his frustration. His fists trembled at his sides, and for a moment, the firelight caught the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. “Don’t you think I know what I’ve done? What I’ve sacrificed?”

Evan opened his mouth to respond, but Barty cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “He already knew, Evan. About her. About everything. He didn’t have to say her name- I could see it in his eyes. If I hadn’t done it, she’d be a pawn. He’d find a way to destroy her, to use her, just to punish me.” His voice shook, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I made a choice. I’ll live with it.”

Regulus’s quiet voice broke through the tension like a whisper in a storm. “You shouldn’t have done it,” He murmured, his words trembling as he finally looked up from his hands. His gray eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks pale and damp with tears. “You didn’t have to.”

Barty turned to him, his expression softening, though his voice remained firm. “Yes, I did,” He said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He crouched beside Regulus, resting a hand on his shoulder. “If I didn’t, it wouldn’t just be me paying the price. You know that.”

Regulus’s gaze dropped back to the mark on his arm, his fingers trembling as they traced the outline. “What happens when she finds out?” He whispered, his voice barely audible.

Barty hesitated, the weight of the question hanging heavily in the air. He glanced at Evan, who was watching him with a mixture of anger and something closer to pity, and then back at Regulus. Finally, he stood, his jaw tightening as he straightened his posture.

“I still saved her,” Barty said quietly, his voice steady. “That’s all that matters.”

The room fell into silence again, the fire’s soft crackle the only sound. Evan shook his head, turning back toward the window with a frustrated sigh. Regulus curled further into himself, his hands covering his face as he tried to muffle the quiet sobs that escaped him.

And Barty stood there, his fists clenching and unclenching as he stared at the floor. His mind was already miles away, picturing your face, your soft smile, the way your eyes seemed to see straight through him. He didn’t know what you’d say when you found out- or if you’d ever forgive him. But one thing was certain.

He���d do it all again. For you.

~~~

Returning to school after winter break wasn't the hard part. Facing you was.

It was hell to lie to you, especially when everything has just been getting good. If he said he wanted to tell you, he'd be lying. He knew he should; he knew you had a right to know the danger he was now apart of, but that ever arrogant and cocky part of him assured him it wasn't something he would have to worry about.

Because he was Bartemius Crouch Junior. Only rivaled in intelligence by Lily Evans- the brightest wizard of his age. He knew what he was doing, and even in his anxieties, he told himself above all else he needed to keep you safe. 

But he was still as much himself as he ever would be. He couldn't help but indulge in you.

The castle was quieter than usual, the last traces of the winter chill lingering in the air as students trickled back after the holidays. Barty leaned against the doorway of the empty boys' dormitory, his sharp green eyes trained on the frost-lined window across the room. His tie hung loosely around his neck, his uniform rumpled as though he’d thrown it on in haste. But that was a front, like everything else these days. The chaos of his appearance was deliberate, a way to distract from the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface.

He hadn’t seen you since before the break, not properly. Brief glimpses in the common room or the Great Hall weren’t enough. They never were. And now that you’d agreed to meet him- alone- his pulse was racing in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

The door creaked open, and there you were, framed by the dim light of the corridor. You slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind you. Your eyes found him immediately, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re a mess,” you teased lightly, your voice carrying the warmth that had kept him sane through countless sleepless nights. “Didn’t anyone teach you how to tie that thing properly?”

Barty grinned, stepping forward to close the distance between you. “You did, actually,” he murmured, his voice low and playful as his fingers toyed with the edge of his tie. “But I seem to forget every time you’re not around to fix it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the way your smile widened. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous,” you replied, reaching up to undo the messy knot. Your fingers brushed against his chest as you worked, and Barty inhaled sharply, his grin softening.

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you glanced up at him in surprise. He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just beneath your jaw.

“Barty,” you chided half-heartedly, though your voice wavered as his lips trailed down the column of your neck. “You’re impossible.”

“Am I? Tell me about it.” He murmured against your skin, his grin returning as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Or have you just forgotten how much fun I am when we’re alone?”

Your laughter filled the room, light and melodic, and Barty felt the tension in his chest ease for the first time in weeks. He moved to kiss you properly, capturing your lips in a way that was both soft and desperate, as though he were trying to make up for every second you’d been apart.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as the kiss deepened. Barty’s grip on your waist tightened, and without breaking the kiss, he guided you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let out a soft gasp as he lowered you onto the mattress, his weight settling over you.

“Missed you so much,” He murmured between kisses, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve no idea.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I missed you too,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over the faint shadows under his eyes. “What’s going on with you, Barty? You’ve been… different.”

The question sent a jolt of panic through him, but he masked it with a crooked grin, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Different? Me? Never,” he teased, his tone light. “I’m the same charming git you’ve always adored.”

Your brows knit together, but before you could press further, he silenced you with another kiss, pouring every ounce of longing and frustration into it. His hands roamed up your sides, his touch gentle but insistent, and soon the only sounds in the room were the rustle of fabric and the muffled sighs that escaped your lips.

It didn’t go further than that. It never did. Not because the desire wasn’t there, but because Barty couldn’t bear the thought of letting you see all the cracks in his carefully constructed facade. This- just you, just him, just this moment- was enough. It had to be.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones as he studied you. “You’re perfect, you know that?” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “What a romantic,” you teased, though there was no mistaking the affection in your tone.

“You make me that way.” he replied, his grin softening as he leaned in to kiss you again.

The sun had long since set, plunging the room into soft shadow. The lone candle on the nightstand burned low, its golden light flickering uncertainly across the walls, casting fleeting glimpses of the intimacy shared within. Barty lay beside you on his narrow bed, his body curled protectively around yours. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb tracing slow, deliberate lines as if committing every detail to memory. His other hand rested on your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into your skin- not to possess, but to ground himself, to remind him you were real.

His green eyes softened as they fixed on you. There was a kind of rawness in his expression, a vulnerability he never let the rest of the world see. The weight of the war, of his family, of all the lies he carried- it all seemed to melt away in your presence. In this space, there was no Voldemort, no Crouch manor, no mark on his arm. Just you. Just this moment.

And Merlin, he thought, you were stunning. The way the candlelight danced across your face, your lips curved into a faint smile- it was almost too much for him to bear. His chest ached with a quiet, desperate sort of love, the kind he’d never admit aloud because to say it might ruin it. You deserved softness, honesty, all the things he could only give you in the silence of moments like this.

“What are you smiling about?” You teased, brushing your nose against his, your fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck. The gentle tug of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he exhaled softly, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before finding yours again.

“You,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection. His thumb paused on your cheek, pressing lightly as his smile deepened. “Thinking about how breathtaking you look right now.”

Your laughter was soft and warm, filling the small space between you like sunlight breaking through a cloud. “You’re such a sap,” you teased, but your tone was tender, your own gaze brimming with affection.

“Only for you,” he replied without hesitation, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. But there was nothing lazy about the way he watched you- intense, as if the weight of his world rested entirely in your hands.

You kissed him then, slow and soft, and Barty let himself get lost in it. He tightened his hold on you, his arms wrapping more securely around your frame as though he could somehow hold you closer than skin allowed. The desperation seeped through him, the way his lips lingered on yours, the way his hands mapped the curve of your waist. You were his anchor, his reprieve, his reason to keep fighting against the tides threatening to drag him under.

But then your lips began to trail down his jaw, feather-light and slow, leaving a line of soft kisses along his neck. He let out a quiet sigh, tilting his head slightly to give you more access, his fingers threading through your hair. He was wholly yours in this moment, every wall he’d built around himself crumbling beneath your touch.

And then your hand slipped beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

The moment your fingertips brushed against the raised, rough skin on his forearm, Barty’s entire body went rigid. His breath caught, and his heart thundered in his chest. Panic surged through him, sharp and consuming, as if the world had suddenly tipped sideways. 

You froze, your touch tentative as your brow furrowed. “Barty,” you murmured, your voice soft but edged with a quiet dread. “What’s this? Did you get a new tattoo?”

His heart dropped. He should have prepared for this, should have thought of an excuse, should have done something other than lie here like an idiot and hope it never came up. His green eyes snapped open, the warmth in them vanishing as his hand shot out to catch your wrist. He gripped it firmly but not harshly, his touch trembling slightly. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended. “Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

But you didn’t let it go. You never did. You tilted your head, searching his face for the truth he was so desperately trying to hide. “Barty,” you said again, your voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “Show me.”

He never knew pain as intimately as he knew it that night. When you left, closed the door on him and a chapter of his life he never wanted to end- he didn't know what to do. He spent hours, early into the daylight just wondering how he could properly gravel for your forgiveness. 

He knew it was stupid. Regulus told him. Evan had told him. Pandora warned him. Dorcas had walked away.

So, he wandered.

Barty's footsteps echoed down the quiet corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower, the early morning light filtering faintly through the frosted windows. He wasn't thinking about where he was going. Having wandered aimlessly in what seemed to be a never ending circle, his legs numb down to their calves. That familiar exhaustion pangs- the aches powerful as ever. Every thought was consumed by you- your expression when you saw the mark, the pain in your voice, the way you had turned and walked away without looking back.

He had been through countless battles- against his father’s expectations, against the oppressive rules of his world, against the looming shadow of Voldemort. But this? This felt like defeat.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, his head tipping back as he exhaled a shaky breath. The smirk he so often wore was gone, replaced by an emptiness that reflected in his sharp green eyes. “You’ll understand,” he muttered to himself, though the words rang hollow. “You have to.”

Barty’s pacing resumed, his frustration and desperation bubbling to the surface. He had never been good at waiting, at sitting still, and the gnawing ache in his chest made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams. He wasn’t even sure what he would say to you- how he could explain the choices he had made, the things he had done. All he knew was that he had to try.

You, in all for fire and passion, had taught Barty things he never thought possible. You taught him a world so far separated from his own he never saw it to be truly real; and the consequences of his daydreams were crashing down through his pride and arrogance. 

You showed him patience.

You showed him kindness.

You showed him something he never knew he could believe, that someone with his father’s blood running through their veins could love. 

Not in the way he loved his friends. Not how his father claims to love his mother. Not how his father claimed to love himself. A love so terrifying he would drop his soul at Voldemort's feet a million times over if it meant you would never have to know what it meant to meet heartbreak. But he brought you to that door. He brought you to that fall and did all but shove you in. 

Was this it?

With all of the time in the world it wasn't something that crossed his mind. That it could feel like he was being torn from his chest, torn from his rib cage and left to watch his heart beat outside of him. Knowing you were the one it was going to ruin him further. What was left of his humanity if you weren't their to witness it?

He was an actor playing brave. A crow imitating a lion's roar- if just to shield himself from reality. That he was nothing more than hollowed bones before you and you had turned away. Calling him out for what he truly was. A coward.

Barty was snapped out of his melodrama when he felt a sharp shove against his shoulder. Barty barely had a chance to process the shove before he was slammed back into the cold stone wall. His sharp green eyes snapped to the source, narrowing as he found himself face-to-face with James Potter. James’s hazel eyes were blazing with fury, his glasses slightly askew from the force of his push. Sirius stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the same wall, lighting a cigarette like this was any other morning. But the hard set of his jaw betrayed the tension he was trying to mask.

~~~

Years passed, and the boy who had once been sharp-tongued and reckless, who laughed at the world’s absurdities and sought refuge in fleeting pleasures, was gone. War had hollowed him out, his wit and charm replaced with a cold, calculating precision. Bartemius Crouch Jr. had become everything his father had ever wanted- and feared- master of cruelty, a weapon honed to deadly perfection in Voldemort’s service.

But even as he climbed the ranks of the Death Eaters, even as his name became a whispered fear among those who resisted the Dark Lord, there was a part of him that refused to die. A part that clung to a single memory: soon.

You, standing in the sunlight, your laughter echoing like a melody he couldn’t forget. You, touching his face with a softness he didn’t deserve. You, walking away, your tears falling like shards of glass that had embedded themselves in his heart. Every attempt he had taken to open his chest and run his bunt nails across the organ most at fault for his weakness only buried them deeper. As if a reminder of what would always be too far from his reach. A love so violent.

The meeting had been brief, but its impact lingered in the cold air of the chamber long after Voldemort’s crimson eyes had burned into Barty’s. The Dark Lord stood before him, his presence oppressive, his serpentine features bathed in the dim green glow of cursed fire.

“You come to me with a request,” Voldemort said, his voice a silky hiss. “How unusual, Bartemius. It is typically I who gives orders.”

Barty knelt before him, his head bowed low, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “My loyalty to you is absolute, my lord. I have proven that time and again. But I seek… a guarantee.”

Voldemort’s laughter was low and chilling, a sound that reverberated off the stone walls. “A guarantee? How quaint. What is it you fear?”

Barty lifted his gaze, his green eyes cold but resolute. “If the war turns against us- if there are sacrifices to be made- I ask only one thing. Spare her. Spare her.”

The air grew heavier, as if the magic itself recoiled at his words. Voldemort tilted his head, studying Barty with a curiosity that was far more dangerous than anger. “You would make a deal with me, Bartemius? A deal for a blood traitor? A girl who abandoned you?”

Barty didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

The silence stretched, and then Voldemort stepped closer, his red eyes boring into Barty’s. “You should know better than most, Bartemius, that attachments are a weakness. They cloud the mind, dull the edge of a blade. I have warned you before: those who cannot control their attachments will find themselves undone by them.” 

Barty met his gaze without wavering. “Then I will accept the consequences, my lord. But my loyalty is yours, as long as you promise her safety.”

The Dark Lord’s lips curled into a cruel smile, his pale fingers brushing against Barty’s cheek like a mockery of affection- reminded of another onyx haired folly who kneeled before him with a similar request of his own. 

Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement, his pale lips curling into a cruel smirk as he loomed over Barty. The chamber felt colder, the green fire casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to reach for Barty like phantoms.

“Watching her,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a silken mockery. “Such a word hardly does justice to the devotion you’ve shown, does it, Bartemius?” His tone dripped with derision, his serpentine features etched with dark satisfaction.

Barty’s jaw tightened, his green eyes locked on the floor, unwilling to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. He didn’t respond. He knew better.

“Oh, do not deny it,” Voldemort continued, leaning closer, his presence suffocating. “I see everything, Bartemius. The way you slip away, cloaked in shadows, to steal glimpses of her life. The way you linger at the edge of her world, savoring the scraps of her existence like a starving dog. The way you indulge in the very idea of her- her name, her memory, her scent. You cling to her like a drowning man to driftwood.”

Barty’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. Still, he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not when every word Voldemort spoke was a truth he’d buried deep within himself.

Voldemort’s smile widened, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “How deliciously human of you, Bartemius. To be undone by something so… trivial. A girl who has cast you aside, who would recoil in horror if she saw what you’ve become. And yet you kneel here, groveling for her life.”

Barty’s head snapped up then, his sharp green eyes blazing with defiance. “I would do anything to keep her safe,” he said, his voice low but steady. The words were a declaration, a challenge.

Voldemort tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of feigned curiosity. “Anything,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “How noble. How foolish.”

He leaned closer, his red eyes narrowing as he studied Barty with a dark intensity. “Tell me, Bartemius,” he purred, his voice cold and cutting. “Do you truly believe she is worth it? This girl who has banished you from her heart and her mind? Who has turned her back on you without a second thought?”

Barty didn’t flinch, his voice unwavering as he replied. “Yes.”

The air seemed to vibrate with the weight of the single word, the defiance in Barty’s tone hanging between them like a challenge. Voldemort straightened, his lips curling into a smile that was both amused and sinister.

“How very predictable,” Voldemort said softly, his voice dripping with disdain. “Love has made fools of greater men than you, Bartemius. It is a poison, a weakness that festers and rots until nothing remains but regret and ruin.”

He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Barty with a cold detachment. “But I am not without a sense of humor,” he continued, his tone almost light. “Very well. I will grant your request. She will be spared- so long as you remain useful to me.”

Relief flickered in Barty’s eyes, but it was short-lived as Voldemort’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“However,” the Dark Lord added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “know this: her life is a gift that I give, not to her, but to you. A reminder of who holds the power in this... arrangement. She lives because I allow it. And if you falter, if you fail me even once, her safety will be the first thing I take from you.”

Barty bowed his head, his voice steady but strained as he replied, “I will not fail you, my lord.”

Voldemort’s laughter echoed through the chamber, cold and mirthless. “We shall see,” he said, his red eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “We shall see.”

~~~

The Potter Manor loomed in the moonlight, a quiet fortress against the chaos of the world beyond. Barty crouched in the shadows just beyond the property line, his sharp green eyes scanning the grounds for any sign of movement. The wards around the manor pulsed faintly, an almost imperceptible hum in the still night air. Breaking through them would be tricky, but not impossible. Not for him.

He’d spent weeks planning this. Weeks of arguing with Evan and Regulus, who’d both told him it was reckless, idiotic, and entirely predictable. To stay hidden, stay safe, wait on Dumbledore’s word before revealing themselves. But he had spent weeks of pacing, of running scenarios through his mind until they blurred together, all leading to this moment. If Regulus could act foolishly, could risk his life for a bloody necklace, in the name of love- he could too. He could almost hear Evan’s dry voice in his head: “You’ll get yourself killed over this. Over her.”

Maybe he would. But Barty had never been one for caution.

He rolled his shoulders, drawing his wand from the holster at his side. The wards were impressive, layered and intricate, but Barty wasn’t the brightest wizard of his age for nothing. He murmured the incantation under his breath, his wand tracing precise, deliberate movements. The magic buzzed against his skin as the wards flickered, then shimmered, leaving a narrow opening just wide enough for him to slip through.

Barty exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips as he straightened. “Still got it,” he muttered to himself, tucking his wand away. His heart pounded as he moved swiftly toward the manor, his footsteps silent on the frost-covered grass. Every shadow felt like a threat, every creak of the night amplified in his mind, but he pressed on. He had to.

The manor was just as it was days ago: grand, imposing, and utterly devoid of warmth. The windows glinted like cold eyes in the moonlight as he approached the side entrance. He pressed his hand against the ancient stone, muttering a soft Alohomora. The lock clicked, the heavy door swinging open just enough for him to slip inside.

The silence inside was deafening. Barty’s sharp green eyes darted around the darkened hallway, his hand brushing the wand at his side as he moved deeper into the house. He knew the layout by heart, every twist and turn, every creaky floorboard that could give him away. He’d never admit why. 

You weren't home yet, he knew that. You would be out, somewhere between here and the heart of London, allowing Remus and his loyal mutt to lick your wounds. To shower you in the attention you deserved; it happened every month. 

The air in your room was heavy with stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of Barty’s cloak as he stepped inside. His sharp green eyes darted around, taking in every detail like a thief cataloging stolen treasures. He closed the door softly behind him, his hand lingering on the worn brass handle before he turned to face the room fully.

It was smaller than he’d imagined for someone with your spirit, but it felt... intimate. Lived in. The faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, subtle and familiar, wrapping around him like a ghost of your presence. He inhaled deeply, his chest tightening as the ache in his chest grew sharper.

His boots barely made a sound against the plush rug as he crossed the room, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed against the edge of your desk, tracing the worn wood where years of use had smoothed the surface. Quills and parchment were scattered haphazardly, alongside an open book marked with a ribbon. He didn’t look at the title- he couldn’t bring himself to. It felt like prying, even for him.

Instead, his gaze moved to the bed, the center of the room, and something primal stirred in him. The duvet was slightly rumpled, as though you’d thrown it off in haste that morning. The pillow bore the faintest indent, a shadow of where your head had rested. His breath hitched, and he found himself moving closer, his chest tightening with every step.

He hesitated, standing at the edge of the bed, his fists clenching at his sides. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. Knew that stepping into this space, touching these pieces of you, was a line he shouldn’t cross. But he couldn’t help himself.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against the edge of the duvet. The fabric was soft beneath his touch, and the scent of your perfume was stronger here, mingling with something uniquely you. It made his head swim, his grip on reality faltering for a moment as he let himself sink into the feeling.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned down, his face hovering just above the pillow. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and the scent hit him like a spell- intoxicating, comforting, overwhelming. It was almost too much, a cruel reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he couldn’t let go of.

Barty’s jaw tightened as he straightened, his hand gripping the bedpost for support. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, the storm of emotions threatening to swallow him whole. Get it together, he thought bitterly, raking a hand through his hair. You’re here for a reason.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, his fingers betrayed him, reaching out to trace the edge of your pillow, the line where your head had rested. His touch was light, almost regretful, as though he were afraid to disturb the memory of you. 

“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and bitter. The sound barely broke the silence of the room, but it felt deafening in his ears. He straightened abruptly, stepping back from the bed as though it had burned him.

He turned away, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to pull himself back from the edge. But the damage was done. The scent of you lingered in his lungs, the feel of your presence etched into his skin. He wanted to hate himself for it- for the way his obsession consumed him, for the way he clung to every scrap of you like a lifeline. But he couldn’t.

Because even now, as he stood in your room, surrounded by the echoes of your life, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d looked at him once. Like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t the monster he’d become.

The room was dark, save for the faint silvery glow of moonlight streaming through the curtains, painting the walls in cold shadows. Barty crouched in the corner, his sharp green eyes trained on the door, his breath quiet and measured. The faint scent of your perfume still clung to the air, wrapping around him like a ghost, making his chest ache with a longing so sharp it bordered on pain.

His fingers itched to touch something- anything that belonged to you. He had resisted so far, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but it took everything he had. His eyes drifted back to the bed, the faint indentation on the pillow where your head had rested the night before. He wanted to crawl into that space, to feel the warmth you left behind, to lose himself in the memory of you.

The soft creak of the stairs snapped him out of his reverie, his body tensing instinctively. His heart leapt into his throat as he heard the faint sound of your footsteps approaching, each one measured and deliberate. You were home. 

Barty’s breath hitched as the doorknob turned, and the door swung open. There you stood, silhouetted by the faint light of the corridor, your features softened by the glow. His chest tightened as he drank in the sight of you, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts he couldn’t untangle. 

You didn’t see him. You moved with the ease of someone who thought they were alone, stepping inside and locking the door behind you with a quiet click. Your wand was set on the bedside table, your movements efficient but unhurried. 

He watched, silent and still, as you turned toward the window, your hands reaching for the heavy curtains. The moonlight illuminated your face, catching on the delicate curve of your cheek, the faint furrow of your brow. You looked tired, worn down, and the sight of it made something in him twist painfully. He hated that you felt this way- hated that he couldn’t be the one to fix it.

You turned your back to him, and instinct took over. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he moved. His hand shot out, clamping over your mouth, the heat of your skin searing his palm like a brand.

You reacted instantly, your body jerking against his hold. He felt your muscles tense, your sharp intake of breath, the fight that surged through you. Before he could say anything, before he could explain, you threw your head back with a force that stunned him.

The crack of your skull against his nose was sharp and jarring, pain exploding across his face. His grip faltered, and he staggered back, a groan tearing from his throat as blood began to trickle between his fingers. 

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice rough and muffled as he pressed a hand to his nose. He leaned against the wall for support, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. "Star, that's twice now. Are you always this violent, or am I special?"

Your wide eyes locked on him, your breath coming in shallow gasps. He saw the disbelief in your expression, the way your body trembled with a mixture of fear and fury. "No," you whispered, shaking your head as if trying to dispel the sight before you. "No. You’re- You’re supposed to be dead."

The words cut deeper than the blow to his face, but he forced a grin, blood staining his teeth. "I think we should talk," he said, his voice low, laced with something almost pleading.

The way you looked at him, as though he was a ghost- something you couldn’t decide whether to fear or pity- made his stomach churn. He had imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand, but never like this. Never with you looking at him like he was something monstrous.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost gentle. “I’m alive.”

But the way you stepped back, your hands trembling at your sides, told him that wasn’t enough. And for the first time in his life, Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t know how to fix it.

~~~

Your heart was throbbing at the rate of a hummingbird. What could you do? What would you do? How did he get in here? How did he pass the wards? He watched your eyes dart to the bedside table. He let out a low sigh, almost annoyed, as if he had thought this through a million times over.

“Star..” He warned carefully but you didn't think to heed any warning, running over to try and retrieve your wand. He didn't move, didn't stop you, as you grabbed the beautifully carved wood and held it out to him. The line was clear; no further.

But Barty never listened.

He stepped closer, slowly inching close and allowing the wand to press to his chest. As if begging you to do it- strike him down- because you were the only person who could bring upon his downfall. Could break him down in ways no one else could, and seeing you again, seeing you look at him with nothing but fear in your eyes, it was all the same. Immeasurable pain.

Some people trace scars. When they appear on the flesh of loved ones cherished beyond belief. Running the soft pad of their finger along the marks that were not made by them. Some would even bring their lips to the bundled and protruding skin as if a kiss could ease them into tender health. Promoting its repair.

But the look in your eyes was like watching your fingers curl inwards. Unbeknownst to you through ignorance or arrogance that he mirrored onto you it didn't matter. It was feeling your nails break into the skin, reclaiming his wounds as ones to remember you by, no one else. 

There was no bandage, there was no healing. Just a repeated daggering that left him on his knees in prayer to any higher being that you would forgive him. That you would see mercy for him.

If not that, then dagger him to something unrepairable. Something only you could recognize the madness behind. Your design.

You trembled, and his eyes softened, slightly as his hand ran over your wrist as it held the wand. “Barty-” You warned and he gave a low sigh, as if you saying his name physically affected him.

Barty’s lips quirked into a weak, almost self-deprecating smile as his fingers brushed your wrist. His touch was featherlight, as though he were afraid that the smallest pressure would cause you to shatter. “Say it again,” he whispered, his voice rough, almost raw. “My name. Say it again.”

You flinched at his words, at the sheer vulnerability in his tone. He looked at you like he was dying and you were the reaper, like you were the last thing tethering him to whatever humanity he had left- or ready to take him away from it. And for a moment- just a moment- you faltered. Your grip on your wand trembled, and the air between you felt impossibly heavy.

“Don’t,” you managed, your voice shaking but firm enough to keep the distance between you. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me-” Your words broke off, caught in the tangle of emotions that constricted your throat. You couldn’t finish. Not with him standing so close, with his sharp green eyes piercing through every wall you’d tried to build.

He tilted his head, his expression softening into something unrecognizably tender. “Don’t make you what?” He murmured, stepping even closer, until the tip of your wand pressed more firmly against his chest. He didn’t stop. He didn’t flinch. “Hate me? Forgive me? Love me again?”

Your breath hitched, and Barty caught it. He always did. His smirk wavered, his lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned in, just enough that his voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t hate me,” he said, his tone laced with certainty. “You can’t.”

The tears stinging at the corners of your eyes betrayed you, and you cursed yourself for the way your chest ached at his words. “You don’t know me,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Not anymore.”

Barty’s smile faltered, his expression flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Pain? Desperation? All of it. “I know you better than anyone,” he replied quietly. “And I know I don’t deserve it, but I need you to hear me. Just this once.”

Your grip on your wand tightened, your knuckles whitening as the tremor in your hand betrayed your composure. “Barty,” you warned again, your voice stronger now. “I swear to Merlin, if you take one more step-”

But he did. Of course, he did. He always did.

“I won’t stop,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. His hand slid up your arm, carefully, deliberately, until his fingers brushed the edge of your wand. He gently pushed it aside, though his touch was more a suggestion than a demand. “Not until you know. Not until you understand.”

“Understand what?” You snapped, anger finally breaking through the cracks of your composure. You stepped back, creating a sliver of distance between you, though your wand remained at your side, trembling. “That you lied to me? That you made me believe you were someone you weren’t?”

“I never lied to you,” Barty said, his voice sharp but not unkind. He stepped closer again, closing the distance you’d tried to create, his green eyes blazing with something fierce, unrelenting. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”

You scoffed, the sound bitter as it escaped your lips. “That’s not better, Barty. That’s not-”

“It was to protect you,” he interrupted, his voice rising just enough to cut you off. The words were urgent, desperate, spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “Everything I did- everything I became- it was all for you. To keep you safe.”

“Safe?” you repeated, your voice cracking as you glared at him. “From what? From you?”

“No,” he said immediately, his voice firm. “From them. From him.” His hand rose to his sleeve, and in one swift motion, he pushed it up to reveal the dark, jagged mark etched into his forearm. The Dark Mark.

Your breath caught, your chest tightening as your gaze locked onto the cursed symbol. The sight of it sent a wave of nausea rolling through you, and you stumbled back, your free hand flying to your mouth. Reminded of the night you found it, the pain of knowing the man you loved had sworn himself to a monster.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice breaking as he reached for you again. “Don’t look at me like that. Please.”

You shook your head, tears streaming freely down your cheeks now. “You chose this,” you choked out, your voice thick with betrayal. “You chose him. You chose them.”

“I chose you,” Barty said, his voice trembling but resolute. He dropped his sleeve, his hands falling to his sides as he stepped closer again, his green eyes burning with intensity. “Every choice I made, every risk I took- it was all for you. To keep you out of their reach. To keep you alive.”

You stared at him, your heart warring with your mind, every emotion crashing into you all at once. Love. Hate. Pain. Longing. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” you said finally, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “You don’t get to destroy yourself and call it love.”

The words struck him harder than any spell ever could. Barty’s shoulders sagged, his breath hitching as he struggled to find the right words. But there weren’t any. There never were.

“You were my everything,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You still are. And I don’t know how to stop loving you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his confession hanging between you like a fragile thread, ready to snap.

And then, for the first time, you didn’t look away.

“What do you want from me, Barty?” You asked, your voice breaking. “What do you want me to do?”

His chest rose and fell as though breathing itself had become an effort, and for the first time, you saw just how deeply cracked his facade was. This wasn’t the boy who had charmed his way into your life with a grin and a joke. This was someone breaking apart before you.

“What do you want from me, Barty?” You asked again, your voice cracking. “What do you need me to do? Because I can’t keep doing this.”

He hesitated, his lips parting as though the words were caught in his throat. Finally, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers trembling. “I need you to listen,” he said softly, his voice rough. “Just… listen.”

You didn’t lower your wand, but the strength in your arm faltered. “Fine,” you said, your tone hard but brittle. “Talk.”

Barty took a cautious step closer, testing the fragile space between you. “He’s got eyes on you,” he murmured, the words weighted with urgency. “Voldemort. Now that he thinks I’m gone, there’s nothing stopping him from... from- ” His voice broke off, his teeth clenching as he struggled to continue. “From using you. Hurting you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t lower your wand. “Why?” you demanded, your voice sharp. “Why would he care about me? I have nothing to do with him or his war.”

Barty hesitated, his jaw tightening as he avoided your gaze. “Because of me,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “Because... he knows.”

Your heart sank, the room spinning as his words settled over you. “What does he know, Barty?” you demanded, your voice rising as panic seeped in. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Barty snapped, his frustration flaring. He ran a hand through his hair again, his movements agitated. “He saw it. In my mind. The moment we met. He knew about you before I could even- ” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “He knew everything.”

You stared at him, your grip on your wand trembling. “And you let him? You let him see me?”

“Do you think I had a choice?” Barty shot back, his voice rising. His green eyes burned as he stepped closer, his desperation bleeding through. “You don’t know what it’s like, Star. You don’t know what he can do. He doesn’t just ask for loyalty- he takes everything.”

Your mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with a sickening clarity. “And that’s why you took the mark,” you murmured, the realization hitting you like a blow. “You didn’t do it for him. Or the war. You did it for me.”

Barty’s face twisted, a mix of guilt and defiance flashing across his features. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “It wasn’t just for you. It was for Evan. For Regulus. For all of us.”

“Don’t lie to me, Barty,” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger and grief. “Not now. Not after everything.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he exhaled shakily. “Fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. He saw you. I did it for you. Because I thought... I thought if I could keep him away from you, if I could make him think I was loyal, he wouldn’t... he wouldn’t touch you.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening as the weight of his confession settled over you. “You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you said, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to destroy yourself and call it love.” You repeated

Barty flinched, his green eyes glistening as he took another step closer. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t lose you. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the tears stinging at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You already lost me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “The moment you chose him, you lost me.”

Barty’s breath hitched, his hands trembling at his sides. “I never stopped loving you,” he said, his voice raw. “Not for a second. And I know you still- ”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice sharp. “Don’t say it. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

For a moment, Barty looked like he might argue, like he might push further. But then he stepped back, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “For everything.”

The tears spilled over now, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that even after everything, part of you still ached for him. “You should go,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”

Barty nodded slowly, his green eyes locking onto yours one last time. “I’ll protect you,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Even if you hate me for it.”

And then he turned, disappearing into the hall and leaving you struggling out in open water. He obeyed you, not out of fear, but out of feelings you were sure he didn't quite know anymore.

~~~

The morning crept in through the curtains far too soon, dragging the remnants of another sleepless night with it. Your body ached with exhaustion, every muscle heavy with the weight of your restless mind. Barty’s words echoed endlessly in your head, each one a thread in a web of fear and confusion that left no room for peace. The silence of the room pressed in around you, thick and suffocating.

A soft rustle at the window broke through your haze. Blinking, you turned your head toward the sound, your heart leaping when you saw a familiar figure perched on the sill. The owl was regal, its feathers sleek and chestnut brown, with intelligent golden eyes that seemed to hold secrets of their own. You recognized it immediately- it had once belonged to your father before he passed it on to James.

“Still taking care of them all, huh?” You murmured, forcing a faint smile as you slid out of bed. The owl hooted softly, extending its leg with a delicate flourish, the parchment tied securely with a ribbon bearing Lily’s familiar touch. 

Your fingers trembled as you untied the letter, smoothing the folds before sinking onto the edge of the bed to read.  Only to hear your family owl flutter its way over to perch on your nightstand, as if to comfort you.

My dearest Bam, 

First of all, don’t you dare scold me for calling you that. I know you will. You always do. But it's better then writing out Bambi, isn't it? I guess I've written it anyway.

I need you to come to the Burrow in a week. I'll send Remus. Dumbledore has requested all the Potters be there, and yes, that includes you. Don't ask- I haven't a clue.

I told James, of course, and now he’s stress-pacing through the living room like a caged lion. He’s muttering about plans, protective wards, and Merlin knows what else. You know how he gets. Sirius is egging him on, naturally. I’m tempted to hex them both just for some peace and quiet, but that would probably just encourage them.

Now, onto more important matters- I miss you. I miss our late-night chats in the Gryffindor common room, our stolen hours in the library when we swore we were studying but mostly just gossiped. I miss sneaking into the kitchens with you-Remus- and giggling like children when the house-elves indulged us. It feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Merlin, we're old now.

Speaking of nostalgia, Harry had his first broom ride last week. James insisted on letting him try it without any help, and you can imagine how that went. He was fearless, of course, but I nearly fainted when he wobbled mid-air. He’s fine- better than fine, actually. He’s already got James convinced he’s the next great Potter Seeker. Merlin help us all. Mark my words, if Sirius brings him Quidditch gear next I will not be responsible for what I do to him.

He keeps asking when you'll visit next. Well, as much as a tiny still developing human can ask anything coherent. He's been pulling down your picture frames and bringing them to James. Like he does with his toys, pointing and grabbing at them before James waves his wand and they appear in front of him. I wonder if he thinks bringing the frame to James enough times, he'll magically make you appear next.

Enough of that, I'm already watery eyed.

Promise me you’ll be good, alright? Or at least try. I know you better than anyone, and I know you’ll do whatever you think is right, even if it’s reckless. Just remember that we love you. Always. 

Take care of yourself, Bambi. We’ll see you soon.  

All my love,  

Lily 

The parchment trembled in your hands as you read and reread Lily’s words, each line feeling like a small dagger pressing into your chest. The warmth of her affection radiated from the letter, but it was bittersweet- filling you with longing and an ache so deep it felt like a chasm you could never cross.

Your gaze drifted to the family owl perched on the window sill, its soft coos filling the silence of the room. Your hand absentmindedly ran over its feathers, seeking comfort in the familiar presence. 

A part of you wanted to crumble under the weight of the letter, to curl up and let the tide of emotions wash over you until there was nothing left. But you couldn’t. Not when you knew that in a week, you’d be surrounded by the same faces you’d worked so hard to avoid. The thought of stepping back into that world- one you had once belonged to so effortlessly- made your heart clench.

You tucked the letter carefully into the drawer beside your bed, as though hiding it could also hide the feelings it unearthed. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you sank back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Memories of Lily’s laughter, James’s boisterous teasing, Sirius’s sharp wit, and Remus’s steady presence flooded your mind. 

You had been running from them.

You rarely spoke to James or Lily, but you allowed Sirius to come every Friday to take you dancing with Remus. Even then, you were reserved. And some Fridays, the order owned them not you.

But next Friday, you would belong to the order two. And what was the best next step? Tell people about Barty? While there was still a mole in the mix? Who could you trust to be honest with? And what was this meeting about?

You were scared.

Guess you'd have to learn later.

~~~

The familiar crack of Apparition left you dizzy, but as the quirky silhouette of the Burrow shimmered into view, a sense of calm enveloped you. Its crooked floors and impossible towers defied logic yet promised the safety and warmth you’d been missing for months. The mismatched windows glowed golden against the cool evening sky, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the soft rustle of the garden. You glanced at Remus as he steadied himself with his cane, the faintest hint of amusement on his face.

“Don’t let Molly rope you into shelling peas,” Remus quipped, his tone dry but playful. 

“I’ll take a chore over watching you sulk in a corner,” you retorted, the light in your eyes softening the jab. 

The moment you stepped through the door, the Burrow’s chaos welcomed you. Molly’s sharp voice called from the kitchen, “…and if you two so much as breathe near those pastries-” followed by the muffled laughter of Fred and George. Arthur’s chuckle drifted from the sitting room, the newspaper in his hands quivering as he fought to keep a straight face. The air smelled of herbs and roasted chicken, spiced with a coziness that made the tension in your chest ease.

Sirius was the first to notice you, his bark of laughter echoing through the room. Before you could react, he wrapped you in a bear hug that left you breathless, his leather jacket cool against your cheek.

“About time, Bambi,” Sirius grinned, his stormy eyes glittering. “Just have to get ol Albus to get you outside that house, huh?”

“Sirius, you’re crushing me!” You wheezed, though the laughter bubbling in your chest betrayed you.

“Good.” He pulled back slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he scanned your face. “Someone’s gotta remind you that there’s more to life than brooding.” He winked before ruffling your hair and stepping aside for the next assault.

James bounded forward, his grin wide enough to light the room. “You look like you’ve been through the wars,” He teased, pulling you into a warm embrace. “I was this close to just picking you up on my broom.”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back, though your smile mirrored his.

“You’re lucky I didn’t leave you on the doorstep,” James added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Molly made pie, and I’m not sharing.”

Before you could retort, Lily appeared, her arms wrapping around you like a blanket of comfort. “Ignore him,” She murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Her soft perfume, floral with a hint of vanilla, wrapped around you as she stepped back. “Harry’s over there,” She said, gesturing to a wicker basket by the hearth.

Your heart leapt at the sight of the tot. His bright green eyes locked onto yours as you approached, his chubby arms reaching out as if he recognized you. Lifting him into your arms, you marveled at how heavy he felt, how much he’d grown. His giggles drowned out the room’s noise, pulling a smile to your lips that you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Miss him, don’t you?” Peter’s voice startled you. He leaned casually against the wall, his smile tight and fleeting.

“I do.” You admitted, cradling Harry closer. “He’s gotten so big.”

Behind you, Remus chuckled softly, his gaze flickering between the chaotic twins and the steaming kettle on the stove. “Be careful.” He murmured as he passed. “They’ll have you doing dishes if you’re not quick enough to disappear.”

The twins erupted in mock outrage at something Molly had said, darting past you and narrowly avoiding a hex she threw their way. Arthur peeked over his paper, his warm eyes crinkling as he muttered, “Boys will be boys.”

The house itself seemed alive, its wooden beams creaking with the rhythm of laughter and footsteps. A cuckoo clock on the wall chimed cheerfully, its tiny bird flapping its wings as if to join the fun. In the corner, a knitting needle clicked furiously away on a half-finished jumper, abandoned but determined to finish its work. The scent of molasses and butter floated in from the kitchen, promising a feast.

Sirius plopped onto the couch beside you, his arm slinging casually over the backrest. “I’ll trade you one Harry cuddle for a slice of pie,” He offered, waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re insufferable,” You muttered, but you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“I learned from the best,” He cheeked with a grin, gesturing toward James, who was now teasing Lily about her perfectly sliced carrots. 

“And they are the same size! By the time you're done, Molly will have finished the roast!”

“Eff off Potter.”

“No can do, Potter.”

You gave a small laugh at their exchange and relented, handing Harry over to his god father and leaning slightly into his side as Harry cooed out at the disturbance. He reached for you still, making Sirius gasp in offense. 

He held Harry up dramatically, looking into his tiny, chubby-cheeked face with mock outrage. "Et tu, Harry? Betraying me for her already? And here I thought I was your favorite."

Harry babbled something unintelligible, flailing his little arms in a way that made Sirius grin even wider. “That’s right,” he said. “Tell her she’ll have to fight me for you.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching out to gently stroke Harry’s soft, tufty hair. “You’re too much.” You scoffed, though there was no hiding the affection in your voice. 

“Much to love,” Sirius quipped, cradling Harry in one arm while dramatically gesturing to the room with the other. “That’s what they all say.”

“Sure, Pads,” James called from the kitchen, his voice muffled but dripping with amusement. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sirius turned to you, feigning a wounded look. “See what I deal with? You’re my only ally in this house of betrayal.”

“Careful, Black.” You teased, leaning closer with a smirk. “You’re starting to sound like a drama queen.”

He gasped, clutching Harry to his chest like a damsel in distress. “How dare you? In front of my godson, no less!”

Harry giggled at Sirius’s antics, his tiny fingers tangling in Sirius’s hair. You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it startling you. It felt so easy here, so natural, as though the weight of everything you’d been carrying had lifted just for a moment.

Across the room, Lily smiled warmly at the scene, her hands busy stirring a pot on the stove. “You’re good with him,” she called softly, catching your eye. 

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “He’s an easy one to love.”

The warmth in Lily’s expression deepened as she turned back to her cooking. “He is.”

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Molly emerged with a flurry of activity, her wand directing plates and utensils to the dining table. “Dinner’s almost ready, everyone! And no-” she pointed sharply at William and Charlie, who froze mid-sneak toward the cooling pies. “you may not have dessert first.”

“Worth a shot,” William muttered, retreating with a grin.

As the household settled into a rhythm of setting the table and filling glasses, Remus appeared at your side, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. His sharp gaze swept the room, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he took in the bustling scene. 

“Feels a bit like the old days, doesn’t it?” He murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You nodded, your chest tightening with bittersweet nostalgia. “It does. I almost forgot what this kind of chaos felt like.”

Remus’s smile grew, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “Sometimes it’s good to forget. Just for a little while.”

Before you could respond, Sirius leaned over, handing Harry back to you with exaggerated care. “Here’s your little prince, m’lady.” He mused, bowing dramatically. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to defend my honor against Potter in a round of ‘who can eat the most Yorkshire puddings.’”

“Is that even a real game?” You smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“It is now,” James called from the table, already rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. “Lily, make it official.”

“I’m not indulging this,” Lily replied, though there was a fondness in her tone that betrayed her amusement. “Molly, you can't allow this.”

“I'll make more.” Molly tutted as Lily gave a scandalized laugh.

Sirius shot you a wink before bounding off, leaving you holding Harry as the chatter of the Burrow surrounded you. For a moment, you let yourself soak in the warmth of it all- the laughter, the clatter of plates, the way Harry��s tiny hand curled around your finger as he gurgled contentedly. Just turned one, what a milestone.

Remus stayed beside you, his quiet presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. “You look like you’re exactly where you need to be,” he said softly, his gaze steady and kind.

You glanced down at Harry, then back up at Remus, and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true. 

“Now.” He chuckled, tilting his head to the table. “Let's eat, yeah?”

“Mhm.” You mused and pulled Harry closer to your chest. Smiling as the toddler fell asleep the second you hit your seat between Peter and Sirius. As if last night never happened.

~~~

The warm chatter of the meal eventually faded as the last of the plates were cleared. Molly, ever the matron of order, bustled about with a flick of her wand, sending dishes to the sink where they began scrubbing themselves. The sound of forks and knives being charmed into their proper drawers blended with the soft hum of conversation as everyone settled into a comfortable post-meal haze.

Harry, still nestled in your arms, snored softly, his tiny chest rising and falling as he slept. Sirius had returned to his spot beside you, grinning smugly from his victory over James in their self-made pudding contest.

"I told you, Potter," Sirius drawled, stretching his arms behind his head. "There's no defeating me when it comes to food. Or charm. Or- well, anything, really."

James scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “I let you win, Black. Lily told me not to embarrass you in front of Harry.”

“Likely story,” Sirius quipped, tossing a sugar cube at him.

The energy in the Burrow began to shift. The cheerful chaos mellowed into a quiet murmur, and the adults started to exchange glances that carried weightier thoughts. The air thickened, anticipation weaving its way through the room like an unspoken spell. You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, cradling Harry as he slept against your chest, his tiny hand clutching a fold of your robe.

Sirius tapped his fingers idly against his arm, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He’s late.” He muttered under his breath, glancing toward the door.

“He’s Dumbledore,” Remus mused calmly, though his hand tightened slightly around his cane as he leaned back in his chair. “He’s always late, and it’s always for a reason.”

James glanced at Lily, who was tidying up near the sink, and gave a pointed look. She sighed, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and flicking her wand to send the rest of the dishes to the sink. “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s move to the livingroom, yeah?”

As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from the front of the house. The sound startled Harry awake, and his sleepy whimper drew a protective reflex from you, soothing him with quiet whispers as the others stood.

Dumbledore entered the room moments later, his presence commanding yet serene. His bright blue eyes swept the room, lingering briefly on each face before landing on yours. “Good evening, everyone,” He greeted warmly, his voice carrying a calm authority that settled some of the tension.

“Evening, Albus,” Arthur said, rising to shake his hand. “I hope your journey wasn’t too troublesome.”

“Not at all, Arthur,” Dumbledore replied, his gaze flickering to you and the sleeping Harry. “I see we have young company.”

You felt everyone’s attention shift toward you, and you carefully handed Harry to Lily, who had stepped forward to take him. “Thank you,” she murmured, brushing her son’s hair back before retreating to the other room to settle him in his crib.

Dumbledore motioned for everyone to sit, and Molly hastily brought over a fresh pot of tea, her hands fluttering nervously. “Would you like some, Albus?”

“No, thank you, Molly,” he replied kindly, taking his place at the head of the table. “Time is of the essence tonight.”

Lily reentered the room just as Dumbledore spoke, her expression soft but slightly guarded as she took her seat beside James. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered simply, glancing toward the closed door to reassure herself.

The room fell silent as everyone waited for him to speak. Dumbledore’s gaze moved across the table, his usual twinkle dimmed with the weight of the news he carried. “It is with a heavy heart,” he began, “that I must inform you of Voldemort’s latest focus. James, Lily, and Harry have been targeted. As for your current hide out.. it has been uncovered.”

A ripple of tension swept through the room, but Dumbledore held up a hand to forestall interruptions. “The protections we’ve worked tirelessly to create have been completed. The blood ward surrounding your next safe house is now fully functional. It is imperative that you move there immediately.”

James straightened in his seat, his expression hardening with determination. “We’ll go tonight,” he said firmly, looking to Lily for confirmation. She nodded, her hand finding his under the table.

Dumbledore turned his gaze to you, his expression softening slightly. “And you, my dear. It seems he is not stopping until the entirety of the Potter bloodline is destroyed.”

Your heart clenched as the words sank in. You carefully fluttered your eyes closed. Placing your hand over your side, as if not looking at anyone would protect you from leering eyes. You heard a sharp breath fall over the table and felt Sirius reach for you on instinct, grabbing your arm a bit rough.

Dumbledore gave you a small nod, his expression filled with sympathy and sorrow. “The new safe house will protect you three,” He reassured. “The wards are among the strongest ever created. However, you must not leave its boundaries until further notice. Voldemort’s reach grows stronger every day.”

“And my sister?” James started and leaned forward in his seat, when your eyes finally braved the crowd and landed on him, you saw his flushed cheeks. His desperate eyes. Only to Dumbledore to hold his hand up, as if to say arrangements have been made.

The room fell into a heavy silence as everyone absorbed the gravity of the situation. Molly’s hands twisted in her lap, her usual warmth subdued by worry. Sirius broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “We’ll keep them safe, Albus. Whatever it takes.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. “I know you will, Sirius. This being said.. there is the matter of where this information comes from.”

You felt Sirius reach over and place his hand softly on your hand, squeezing it as he made eye contact with James from across the table. Everyone waiting on bated breaths.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, his fingers steepling as he addressed the group. “The information we’ve uncovered is… credible. But I must warn you, the sources of this intelligence are not without their complications.”

James frowned, his hand tightening around Lily’s. “What does that mean, Albus?”

“It means, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore replied carefully, “That three individuals have offered us this crucial information. Their identities may be… difficult for some of you to accept.”

You felt Sirius tense beside you, his posture straightening as though bracing himself for impact. His fingers still gripped yours, his hold both grounding and protective. Across the table, Remus leaned forward, his hazel eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion.

“Who are they?” Sirius asked, his voice steady but laced with an edge.

Dumbledore gave a small sigh and lifted his hand. With that, the door opened and everyone was made to watch as three figures stepped in, in large cloaks hoods. Gasps filled the room as the figures lowered their hoods, revealing the faces that had long been presumed lost to time and war. 

Standing in the doorway, with a defiant smirk tugging at his lips, was Barty, his sharp green eyes flicking to yours immediately. Beside him, the ever-elegant Evan Rosier, his pale complexion stark against the dark folds of his cloak, stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze assessing the room with a subtle air of amusement. And on the far left was Regulus Black, his face calm but his silver-grey eyes shadowed with a weariness that spoke of battles waged both out and within.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Despite the pain in your chest and the shutter that ran through you. Your eyes, like everyone else’s, landed on Sirius. The eldest Black son was silent, his expression one of horrific shock. No one noticing how James seemed to stiffen or how Lily covered her mouth with more then just shock in her eyes.

You expected him to shout, to yell, to toss a chair or two, but your breath was taken from your throat when he stood up so quickly his seat toppled over. 

“Mate.” James warned in a stern tone.

“Pads.” Remus huffed, only to watch as Sirius crossed the room quicker than anyone could stop him. Regulus winced and prepared to be struck, only to have the wind knocked out of his lungs as Sirius engulfed him in a hug. Nearly knocking them both over as he buried his face in his younger brother's hair. 

“Pads…” James’s voice softened, unsure of what to say. 

Regulus was caught off guard, his arms hanging limply at his sides for a moment before hesitantly lifting to return the embrace. His movements were stiff, almost unsure, but the faintest flicker of relief passed across his usually stoic features.

Sirius’s voice broke the silence, muffled against Regulus’s shoulder. “You bloody git.” He choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought you were dead.”

Regulus closed his eyes, his own voice steady but low. “I almost was.”

Sirius pulled back slightly, his hands gripping his brother’s shoulders as he scanned his face, as if trying to assure himself that Regulus was really there. “You absolute prat.” He muttered, though the words carried more affection than anger. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Thinking I lost you?”

Regulus flinched under Sirius’s intensity but held his gaze. “I didn’t have a choice.” He defended quietly. “I had to make them think I was gone. It was the only way to get out.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like the anger might break through after all. But then he let out a shaky breath, his hands falling away as he stepped back. “You could’ve told me.” He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “You could’ve… I would’ve helped you.”

Regulus’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks in his otherwise composed demeanor. “I…” His voice cracked and he quickly cleared his throat. “I wasn't aware you would… my apologies.” He coughed into his fist and fixed his posture, his voice heavy with regret. “Regardless I didn’t want to drag you into it. You’d already done enough to protect me when we were kids. I couldn’t ask you to risk more.”

The tension in the room shifted, the charged atmosphere replaced by something quieter, heavier. Sirius nodded slowly, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he looked away, his emotions still raw and unguarded.

It was Barty who broke the moment, his voice dripping with impatience as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Touching as this reunion is, we don’t exactly have time for tea and biscuits. The Dark Lord isn’t going to pause his plans just because the Black brothers are having a moment.”

Sirius turned on him so quickly that Barty actually stood up straighter, his smirk faltering for just a second. “Shut your mouth, Crouch,” Sirius snarled, his eyes flashing with barely-contained fury. “You’ve got no right to be here. No right to-”

“Enough.” Dumbledore’s calm yet firm voice cut through the tension, his gaze sharp as it moved between Sirius and Barty. “They are here because they have information vital to your safety. Whatever personal grievances you may have will have to wait.”

Sirius’s fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing, his jaw tight as he returned to his seat. The room remained charged, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone. His hand going for yours and squeezing it tight, eyeing Barty with a clear threat. Barty’s eyes just stayed on you.

Evan Rosier stepped forward next, his movements languid and unbothered as he glanced around the room with a faint smirk. “Always the dramatic one, aren’t you, Black?” He drawled, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “Some things never change.”

“Shut it, Rosier.” Lily snapped, glaring at Sirius as he threatened to open his mouth again. “Both of you.”

Sirius’s hand tightened on yours until you turned your palm over and your fingers intertwined. His focus was clearly shifting to Regulus, his emotions warring between relief and frustration.

Regulus shifted uncomfortably under his brother’s lingering gaze but turned his attention. “Albus.” Regulus spoke carefully and the older wizard waved his hand. 

“Do as you must.”

Regulus nodded and turned to Barty, and for once, when you saw him, his eyes drifted right past yours.

“Evan?” Barty mused and cocked his head to the side. “Do you like these seating arrangements?”

“Not my favorite, I have to say.” Rosier smirked and you saw shuffling in your peripheral. Turning, your eyes fell on a nervous looking Peter, who tried to move out of his seat. 

“Peter? Are you alright?” You asked softly and he glanced at you, as pale as a damned ghost.

“Let's fix it Evan.”

“Of course, Crouch.”

The room was heavy with tension as Peter fidgeted in his seat, his nervous energy radiating outward like a beacon. His pale, sweaty face darted between Regulus, Evan, and Barty, who watched him with an air of casual cruelty that made your stomach churn. The faint smirk on Barty’s lips, the lazy confidence in Evan’s posture, and the calculating glint in Regulus’s eyes- it all felt too deliberate, like a game already decided before it began.

“Peter, mate,” Barty began, his tone almost sing-song as he tilted his head. “Why are you so jumpy? We’re all friends here. Aren't we?”

Peter’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, his voice breaking as his gaze darted to Sirius for support. “I-I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?” Evan echoed, his voice low and laced with mockery. He stepped closer to Peter, his movements smooth and predatory, as though he were circling prey. “Is that what we’re calling treachery these days? Nothing wrong?”

Regulus didn’t speak, his gray eyes cold and unflinching as they locked onto Peter’s trembling form. His silence was louder than words, and it carried the weight of judgment.

Sirius stood abruptly, his hand still gripping yours as his stormy eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?” He snapped, his voice sharp and cutting through the room like a whip. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“Oh, we’ll say it,” Barty drawled, his smirk widening as he leaned back against the wall. His sharp green eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before he turned his attention back to Peter. “But I think actions speak louder than words, don’t you?”

Evan’s smirk mirrored Barty’s as he stepped closer to Peter, who was now visibly shaking. “Let’s show them, shall we?” Evan said, his voice a low murmur that carried a sinister edge.

Peter’s eyes widened in panic, and he shot up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste to back away. “You’re mad,” he stammered, his voice high-pitched and trembling. “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

But he didn’t get far. Regulus moved with startling speed, his wand flicking out in a smooth, practiced motion. “Petrificus Totalus.”

Peter froze mid-step, his body locking in place as he teetered, then fell back into the chair with a heavy thud. His wide, terrified eyes darted around the room, pleading silently as sweat dripped down his face.

Evan leaned over him, his smirk gone, replaced with a look of cold disdain. “This won’t take long,” he murmured, gripping Peter’s arm with surprising strength. With a sharp tug, he rolled up Peter’s sleeve, exposing the pale, trembling flesh of his forearm.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just pale skin, glistening with sweat. But then, like ink bleeding through parchment, a dark, jagged mark began to emerge, etched into Peter’s skin like a brand. The skull and serpent twisted and writhed, as though alive, mocking the room with its sinister presence.

Gasps filled the room, Lily’s fell from her mouth as her wide eyes locked onto the mark. Sirius staggered back a step, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. James stood frozen, his hazel eyes dark with a mixture of shock and fury.

“No,” Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible as his eyes darted between the mark and Peter’s frozen, terrified face. “No. You can’t- this can’t-”

“It can,” Regulus said, his voice cold and steady as he stepped back. His gray eyes met Sirius’s, unflinching. “And it does.”

Barty straightened, his smirk firmly in place as he clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and jarring in the stunned silence. “Well,” he drawled, his tone light and mocking. “I think that clears things up, doesn’t it? Your little rat here has been leaking your secrets to the Dark Lord.”

“No,” Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous as he advanced on Peter, his body trembling with rage. “You lying, spineless-” He lunged, but James grabbed him, pulling him back with surprising strength.

“Stop, Sirius,” James said, his voice tight with fury as he held his friend back. “Not here. Not now.”

Sirius struggled against James’s grip, his eyes blazing with fury. “Let me go, Prongs. Let me-”

“No!” James snapped, his voice rising as he pushed Sirius back. “Think, Pads. Just think.”

Your breathing was shallow, your vision blurring as the weight of everything crashed down on you. Betrayal from Peter, the looming threat of Voldemort, Barty’s presence- it was too much. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in around you as your chest tightened.

The tension in the Burrow was palpable, the charged atmosphere crackling like lightning in a storm. Peter’s frozen body remained stiff in the chair, his panicked eyes darting from face to face as though pleading for someone to intervene. Moody had stood quietly for most of the reveal, his magical eye twitching and whirring in his socket, tracking every move. But now, his grizzled face was set in a grim expression, his scarred hands gripping the back of Peter’s chair.

“All right, that’s enough gawking,” Moody growled, his voice cutting through the murmurs and gasps of the room. He yanked Peter upright by his collar, the smaller man letting out a muffled whimper against the binding spell. “This rat’s coming with me. We’ll see what he spills when we squeeze him tight enough.”

“Moody,” James started, his voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. “Make sure he-”

“I know,” Moody snapped, his gaze flickered toward James. “He’s not slipping away.” With a rough tug, he began to drag Peter toward the door, his limp body scraping against the floor.

As the door closed behind Moody, the room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Peter’s betrayal and the newest additions settling like a heavy fog. Sirius stood still as a statue, his chest heaving as he glared at the spot where Peter had been. His grip on your hand was almost bruising, and you felt every tremor of his barely-contained fury.

Your heart raced, your breath shallow as you tried to calm yourself. You felt untethered, the world around you spinning out of control. Every pair of eyes in the room seemed to burn into you, their scrutiny suffocating.

And then, of course, he spoke.

“Well,” Barty drawled from his spot near the wall, his voice calm and unbothered as though nothing had happened. “That was dramatic. Bit of a show, wasn’t it?”

Sirius’s head snapped toward him, and before anyone could stop him, he lunged. “You smug-”

“Don’t,” James barked, stepping between them and pressing a firm hand to Sirius’s chest. His hazel eyes burned with a warning as he shoved Sirius back. “Not now.”

Barty’s smirk widened, his green eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched the scene unfold. “Touchy, aren’t we?” He remarked, his tone dripping with mockery.

“Say one more word, Crouch,” Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous, “and I swear-”

“Enough!” Lily’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. She stood with her arms crossed, her usually warm expression hard with fury. “All of you, just stop.”

The room stilled, but the air remained electric, charged with unspoken accusations and simmering rage. You stood frozen in place, your pulse thundering in your ears as you tried to process everything. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Barty move.

He stepped forward with a deliberate ease, his sharp green eyes locking onto yours. His smirk was gone, replaced by something colder, heavier. Your breathing sped up.

James noticed, and before Barty could take another step, he slammed his shoulder into him, forcing him back with enough force to make him stagger. “Stay the hell away from her,” James snarled, his voice like steel.

Barty straightened, brushing off his robes with an almost lazy motion. He met James’s glare with a calm, calculated expression, but his eyes flicked back to you, cutting through the room’s tension like a knife. “I wasn’t talking to you, Potter,” he said evenly, his voice carrying an unsettling weight.

Sirius was already moving again, but Remus caught his arm, holding him back with surprising strength. “Don’t,” Remus said quietly, his voice low but firm. 

Barty ignored them all. His attention was entirely on you. His sharp features were illuminated by the dim light of the room, his green eyes blazing with intensity. When he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“I’ll protect you,” He whispered, his tone steady and unwavering, as though making a solemn vow before the entire room. “Even if you hate me for it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. His gaze didn’t waver, his presence like a storm that refused to be ignored. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an apology. It was a promise. A threat. A declaration that no one could mistake.

James lunged again, but this time sirius and Remus both held him back. “You bastard!” James snarled, his voice raw with rage. “Stay away from her!”

But Barty didn’t flinch. His eyes remained locked on yours, as if daring you to respond, to refute him, to try and push him away. The weight of his words settled over you, twisting your stomach into knots as you struggled to breathe.

“I don’t need you,” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm enough to carry through the room. “I don’t want you.”

Barty’s smirk returned, faint and humorless, as though your words had no effect. “I see.” he said simply, his tone maddeningly calm. “Seems you'll hate me.”

[wisteria-lodge]

I was trying to pin-point the place where the narration switches from "Malfoy / Draco Malfoy" to just "Draco"

(because at some point it does, he's 'Draco' in the epilogue.)

And I found some interesting stuff.

~ The book consistently uses 'Draco' during scenes that feature Lucius, or sentences that mention both Draco and Lucius together. This makes sense - up until Book 7 Lucius is "Mr. Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy" in the narration... and you don't want a "Malfoy" and a "Mr. Malfoy" in the same scene, that's just confusing.

(this is also probably why Voldemort calls all his Death Eaters by their last names during the graveyard scene... except Lucius. We're still firmly in Children's Lit, and if Voldemort had started addressing one of his Death Eaters as 'Malfoy' ... somebody would have gotten confused and thought that Draco was somehow there.)

~ The first scene that really commits to "Draco" in the narration is the opening of Book 7, where Voldemort is holding court in the Malfoy dining room. It's told in third person omniscient, and even though Lucius isn't doing much... it's a scene about Voldemort taking his wand (and his power) away from him. So there's a fun mis-match between the detached /objective narrator, who calls him "Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy," and Voldemort... who calls him "Lucius." The way the scene is written is telling us that he's being disrespected.

Draco is called "Draco" in this scene so we don't confuse him with his father... but maybe there's also a little implication that "Draco" is the most neutral thing to call him, and he's only "Malfoy" through Harry's eyes (ie the "Harry filter.") Still, using his first name like this during such an emotionally charged scene does have the side effect of bringing us a little emotionally closer to the character - especially during Charity Burbage's death, which is a beat that doesn't have anything to do with Lucius.

“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore. (...) “Avada Kedavra.” The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.

~ The bit where Draco tortures Rowle is the first time when Harry's narration uses "Draco" (in a scene that has nothing to do with Lucius.) We actually watch the switch happen:

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes. (...) Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

~ He's "Draco" all through the scene in Malfoy Manor... and of course he is, Lucius Malfoy is massively important to that scene. But since by now we've had a little moment of "Draco" from Harry, and from the narration (and he's "Draco" during the whole bit with the prisoners in the cellar, which Lucius isn't there for...) I think that this writing choice (unintentionally?) implies... an emotional connection from Harry, that wouldn't be there if his narration stuck to "Malfoy." Like here are two sentences that I think would read very differently if Harry's narration used "Malfoy" instead of "Draco."

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

~ Harry calls the wand he uses to defeat Voldemort "the hawthorn wand" a couple of times... but MOSTLy he thinks of it as "Draco's Wand." Including at like, the moment he's actually defeating Voldemort:

Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!”

I think the Doylist reason for this is to help the reader understand the (pretty confusing) chain of events that leads to Harry being the master of the Elder Wand.... but in the moment, that's a ton of emotional weight for Harry to be giving the name "Draco."

~ There is this interesting little moment where Harry calls Draco "Malfoy" out loud... but "Draco" in his head:

“Not [your wand] anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?” “My mother,” said Draco.

So it seems we've got a little conflict going. Maybe Harry doesn't have the same relationship with Draco that he used too... but is a little uncomfortable letting Draco know that. Actually, the only time Harry just calls him "Draco" in dialogue is when... he's talking to Voldemort.

“I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago.”

(draco behind a pillar having an out-of-body experience because really potter? did you HAVE to phrase it like THAT?)

~ Interestingly, Harry's narration switches back to "Malfoy" during the Fiendfyre scene. This might be to make Draco more of an intentional pair with Crabbe and Goyle ('Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle' is a construction the books love.) Or maybe it's to reflect Ron and Hermione's perspective? Backpedal a bit on the implied Harry/Draco emotional closeness? Because... lemme just show you what this scene looks like if I swap out "Malfoy" with "Draco"

Draco saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good. “Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry [Ron] and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Draco clambered up behind Harry. Draco was screaming and holding Harry so tightly it hurt.

~ And then, in their last real interaction, the names are all over the place:

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused. “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled.

All I can think here is that it's "Draco" when the narration is focusing on Harry's experience... and "Malfoy" when it's focusing on Ron's.

[theavantgardette]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Constricted Suburbia | Harry J. Potter

SYN: 4 Privet Drive isn't the best place to spend a summer's break in. The girl next door to him begs to differ.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Harry is upset, incredibly so. Harsh winds blow outside, muffling the sounds of Dudley's TV as it turns itself off in the room upstairs. Summer has been a right tosser, and it was going to continue being this way until Uncle Vernon can shut his fat mouth and suck it up.

Aunt Petunia isn't any better — succumbing to Dudley's insistent nagging as it convinces her to make Harry do the dirty dishes instead of her son, the piles adding onto each other as the hours pass quicker than they persist. He wishes to Merlin or whoever listens that he could use magic somehow. Maybe they'll legalize it next year; if only Fudge wouldn't fuss too much about whatever Dumbledore is doing.

For the upteenth time since he started washing the plates, Harry nudges his glasses upright with the back of his wrist, the sleeves of his surfer's shirt that Ron's mum gave him soaking wet with soapy dishwashing water. The TV downstairs buzzes along; it was the weather girl with the big hair that Uncle Vernon was quite fond of. It always ticks Aunt Petunia's stinger like a loud brass. While the presenter talks Harry's ears off, the big man of 4 Privet Drive resumes to snore asleep on the couch.

Harry cannot fathom how the anger inside of him intensified each year he returned to Privet Drive. It's like a demon's taken space inside of him, colonizing his lungs and heart, leaving no room for good conscience. It convinces him that nothing, and it presses that absolutely nothing is of any good in this grey, constricted suburbia.

Strange, but perhaps after what loveliness he's been exposed to in Hogwarts and around it only made the cruelty of 4 Privet Drive much more intolerable as time passes; or perhaps it was Voldemort's presence. Antagonizing him, consuming him, becoming him until he was nothing short of a cursed child—

A pretty girl is outside the window.

Harry tilts his head, blinking once and twice. He fixes his glasses once more, leaving a spot of detergent water on the bridge of his nose. It was a bicycle — sure, it was — but riding it was a girl. No, a woman. A young woman. Perhaps his age, maybe a year older, he couldn't really tell. She brings along magazines and cards, parking her bicycle just sideways across their lawn. Aunt Petunia will blow a fuse.

Nothing, absolutely nothing is of any good here.

Harry shakes the thought away. His gaze ticks from the living room, then back outside. He guesses she's be gone by now, but her curious form waits outside — alone, determined. He doesn't know what she's aiming for. It's a gloomy afternoon and no one is out.

Footsteps emerge downstairs, and Aunt Petunia's orders for her husband resounds as a shrilling noise across the hardwood floors. Harry winces, covering his ears with the insides of his flannel. He rinses his hands, turning the sink of afterwards before heading out to the front lawn.

⋮

"You shouldn't be here," Harry said through gritted teeth, hurrying towards her after he locks the door behind him. The cold air hit him like the Knight Bus on a swerve, and he wonders how she can withstand such a tempreature in only a dress and a cardigan.

She crosses her arms, eyes deadset his way, "Why?"

"It's— my aunt—," Harry's words constricted as she faces him.

Her eyes are a deep pool, scorching with magic-made fire; her hair twirls around like inklings as the wind blows through them. He doesn't recall her ever attending Hogwarts. She cannot be a muggle.

She raises a brow, "If you don't have a good reason to hold me back, leave me be. I'm only selling cakes."

"Did– did you just say 'cakes'?", Harry asks, brushing off how stupid he sounds.

She smiles in excitement, handing him a piece of paper, "I sell desserts. You should try them. They're pretty and sweet, sort of like your eyes right there."

Harry chokes on his own spit. He clears his throat, his face burning red before laughing, a nervous vibration from the back of his mouth. At this, she inches closer to him, intrigued with his sudden vulnerability.

"I was talking about how, y'know," she softly gestures to them, looking up a bit his way, "they're green, like my mint cookies."

The corner of Harry's mouth lifts to a smirk; both smug and caught off guard by the compliment. He leans against the mailbox, but slips and puts his hand behind his neck instead. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle.

The girl handed him a box and introduces her name.

"I live at 12 Privet Drive," she points a straight road across, but Harry can only see how soft her skin looks in the dress she wears, "just around the corner."

"Yeah," Harry nods profusely, speaking faster than his brain can think, "yeah, twelveth. Heard of it. Feel it. Sure, yeah."

She laughs at his antics. Merlin, he was on fire.

"You'll be here all summer?" she asks while giving a flyer to Mrs. Figs, the old broad with the dead husband living across Uncle Vernon's house.

Mrs. Figs complimented her 'sweet smile' before resuming to walk her tortoise, Spectacle, to the suburb's park. Harry shrugs, toying with the cardboard of the cookie box,

"I'll be back to school quite soon."

"Oh yeah?" she lilted, "me too."

This is his chance.

"I'm Harry," he mentions, and she shrugs.

"I've heard."

Now it's his turn to be surprised. How come she recalls his name when he hasn't seen her yet?

An empathetic shade paints her eyes, "Word goes around, you see."

"Yeah," Harry says, a lump lodged in his chest, and by a spontaneous courage, he risks his facade to ask, "you believe them?"

She scrunches her face, shaking her head. It's so simple. It's so... delightful, to be believed. She doesn't think he's crazy.

Uncle Vernon calls him from inside, an utterly humiliating action as his yells echo against the walls of the other homes across Privet Drive. The girl winces, gazing away from the scene. He hates that man.

"I'm sorry," he says, wanting to do more than just verbally utter his apology, "please, I— do you usually come here every day?"

"Yes," she says, the determination returning in her eyes. She hands her pamphlet to a passing little girl on her tricycle, but her attention was on Harry, "I'll be here. Same time, if things go well."

She might just be what keeps him living until Summer break ends. He'll keeps his promise. He will. He has to.

Harry returns indoors to a dusty room, no one to hold, no one to talk to.

Nothing, absolutely nothing is of any good in this grey, constricted suburbia.

He hopes tomorrow will come sooner than usual.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

⋮

comment if you want to be part of my Hogwarts fic taglist! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Can we talk about Harry having leadership thrust upon him in Deathly Hallows, please?

Like, I know he had a leadership role with the D.A. and with the Quidditch team to a lesser extent and he was always the leader of the Golden Trio, but I kinda want to talk about the flavor of leadership the wizarding population thrusts on him and how Harry is essentially the "promised king"/Jesus during DH. Like, there were 2 quotes specifically that really stood out to me, and I kinda wanted to talk about them even though I mentioned some of the points I bring up here before (if not in the same post in this way).

Like, I talked before about Harry's charisma and how others seem to see him, but there is something about the reverence he gets in DH, that makes me feel things.

I talked in the past about how Harry is the defacto leader of the Golden Trio when shit gets dangerous, and the D.A. treat him like the leader since fifth year:

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” said Hermione. “Harry’s leader,” said Cho at once, looking at Hermione as though she were mad, and Harry’s stomach did yet another back flip. “Yes, but I think we ought to vote on it properly,” said Hermione, unperturbed. “It makes it formal and it gives him authority. So — everyone who thinks Harry ought to be our leader?” Everybody put up their hands, even Zacharias Smith, though he did it very halfheartedly. “Er — right, thanks,” said Harry, who could feel his face burning.

(OotP, Ch18)

But, the rest of the WW kinda treat him like that too, even when he's a young child. Even in book 1, Harry isn't really seen as a person; he is a saviour, a public figure, a beacon:

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. [...] Harry shook hands again and again — Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

(PS, Ch5)

His time, his body, his existence isn't seen as his own — it's everyone's. It's why the Prophet keeps writing about him like they do, it's why everyone feels comfortable to stare and whisper about him to his face. It's why no one (in the wider population/school) is really concerned when Harry faces danger (like the tournament) — because he's Harry Potter. He isn't just some child, he's The Boy Who Lived.

And Scrimgeour and the Death Eaters all understand the political threat he could pose, if he was inclined to it, ad the asset he could be:

“It would give everyone a lift to think you were more involved, Harry,” said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. “ ‘The Chosen One,’ you know . . . It’s all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening. . . .” “But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,” said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly, “won’t that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry’s up to?” “Well,” said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, “well, yes, that’s partly why we’d like —” “No, I don’t think that’ll work,” said Harry pleasantly. [...] “I don’t want to be used,” said Harry.

(HBP, Ch16) - I love how smart Harry is here. He has that Slytherin cunning when he wants to. He sees right through Scrimgeour and plays him so well.

“That’s certainly part of it,” said Lupin, “and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you—the Boy Who Lived—were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you.

(DH, Ch11)

And Dumbledore purposely set him up for this position. Everything Dumbledore did, giving Harry the credit for his misadventures at school, putting him through fifth year in the public's eye only to come out as the Chosen One the ministry prosecuted unrightfully (because Dumbledore planned for that. He positioned Harry with him and set the stage for when he lores Voldemort to show himself). Harry was set up to be seen as a saviour to the Wizarding World. To be the symbol and Dumbledore's successor in the public eye.

The instructions Dumbledore left for the Order to follow before his death fit this goal too (Remus implies it at least). He sets Harry as his successor, whether Harry wanted it or not:

Lupin hesitated. “I’ll understand if you can’t confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission.”

(DH, Ch11)

“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?” “I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ’The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.” [...] “And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly, “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.” Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears. “Nearly always right,” she repeated.

(DH, Ch22)

They back him up in spirit, they resist in small ways, but none of them is waging a war, not yet. Everyone, adults and teens, is waiting for Harry's order to start the real fight. They are waiting for Harry to lead them into battle. The Order is literally just focusing on hiding and keeping its members alive and hidden until Harry's orders:

“What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asked Seamus. “What’s the plan?” “Plan?” repeated Harry. He was exercising all his willpower to prevent himself succumbing again to Voldemort’s rage: His scar was still burning. “Well, there’s something we—Ron, Hermione, and I—need to do, and then we’ll get out of here.” Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looked confused. “What d’you mean, ’get out of here’?” [...] “I sent for her,” said Neville, holding up the fake Galleon. “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows.” [...] “We’re fighting aren’t we?” said Dean, taking out his fake Galleon. “The message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight! I’ll have to get a wand, though—”

(DH, Ch29)

That's insane.

Like, all these people were readying for a fight, they were prepared for months. Neville led a whole underground resistance on his own, Kingsley led the Order in hiding and kept the idea of Harry alive, he goes on to become the next minister — but neither of them really does anything on their own. At least nothing big. They don't help the muggleborns in the Ministry, they can rally people, but not in their own right. Like with Hermione and the D.A., Kingsley and Neville are rallying people around Harry.

And all their preparations and machinations are just waiting for Haryr's word. Just waiting for the king to give his general (Neville) the word to rally the troops — because this is what happens at the end of DH.

I specifically want to talk about this quote:

The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things. Good luck, Harry wherever you are. If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you! Long live Harry Potter.

(DH, Ch17) - Quote number 1 that really stood out to me.

"Long live Harry Potter"

Like, this line stood out to me. This is a "long live the king" sort of line that's so on the nose. And I know as a Fandom we call Harry a war symbol, but I don't think we really talk about it. and how much Harry is aware of it, and somewhat accepts it, because he has no choice.

About how the WW truly hinges their salvation on this 17-year-old kid. How Harry just being alive is a sign of resistance.

How when he arrives at Hogwarts, everyone is convinced he's there to lead a battle. Adults look to him to tell them what to do:

“Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer. Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle—It’s me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less, not now—”’ not now he knows I’m attacking Horcruxes. Harry finished the sentence in his head. “You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated with a look of dawning wonder. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height. “We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this—this object.” “Is that possible?” “I think so,” said Professor McGonagall dryly, “we teachers are rather good at magic, you know. [...] “Harry, what’s happening?” said Lupin, meeting him at the foot of the stairs. [...] “They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Harry said. “We’re fighting.” There was a great roar and a surge toward the foot of the stairs, he was pressed back against the wall as they ran past him, the mingled members of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and Harry’s old Quidditch team, all with their wands drawn, heading up into the main castle.

(DH, Ch30)

Everyone turns to Harry to tell them what's happening and what to do. McGonagall, Lupin, and everyone else who was called to the battle arrived because of Harry. They were ready to fight and die to end Voldemort, but they were only willing to take the risk because Harry told them they had a chance. Because they had faith in Harry.

If they believed they could do it without him, they wouldn't have waited. But they waited for Harry's order. He didn't even need to tell them anything beyond: get the innocents out and fight. He didn't force anyone to do anything; he didn't really order anyone — they are just willing to follow him to a crazy degree.

And Harry doesn't like it, but he knows how to lead people and stay calm under pressure; it's what he does because he never allows himself to show weakness. Harry is looked at by adults way more experienced than him because Dumbledore told them "Harry would know what to do". Harry was thrust into this position and is crumbling so badly but no one except Ron and Hermione see it... and even they don't see it all.

They try to help, and get him to get help from others:

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who murmured, “I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, we need them.” And when Harry looked unconvinced, “You don’t have to do everything alone, Harry.” Harry thought fast, his scar still prickling, his head threatening to split again. Dumbledore had warned against telling anyone but Ron and Hermione about the Horcruxes. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew up, and Albus. . . he was a natural. . . Was he turning into Dumbledore, keeping his secrets clutched to his chest, afraid to trust? But Dumbledore had trusted Snape, and where had that led? To murder at the top of the highest tower. . .

(DH, Ch29)

The message is against Dumbledore's secrecy, that trusting and asking for help is good... But in the end, Harry is alone. He is much more similar to Dumbledore than he wants to be. He accepts the position Dumbledore set him up for. When he faces death, he leaves Neville with a mission, just like Dumbledore:

“No,” Harry lied easily. “’Course not . . . this is something else. But I might be out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort’s name, Neville? He’s got a huge snake. . . . Calls it Nagini . . . ” [...] But he pulled himself together again; This was crucial, he must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make sure there were backups, others to carry on. Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still knew about the Horcruxes; now Neville will take Harry’s place. There would still be three in the secret.

(DH, Ch34)

This above section kills me. Because it is exactly what Dumbledore did (except Dumbledore chose the position, Harry didn't). Harry, as much as he dislikes it, is a leader; he knows people, he understands he can't show weakness, and that there are things he has to do alone. He knows he needs contingencies, that he needs to lie... He is a leader when push comes to shove, always was.

What's insane to me is that Harry is this wise, and has this understanding of sacrifice at 17! Sure, Dumbledore understood all of these things too, was as politically savvy as Harry (well, a bit more), as charismatic and as good of a liar, but we (and the Wizarding World) saw him like that when he was over 100 years old! Even when he fought Gridnlewald, he was 64 (he was born in 1881). Harry is so young for all of this. When Dumbledore chose to die for the mission, he was 115, Harry was 17.

I just... Harry, man. He's so mature because he never got to be a childhood in the first place.

(I think, like Dumbledore, if Harry asked to be Minister (which he would never), the WW would say yes)

And, like Dumbledore, Harry is alone in his position. The position of a figurehead is a lonely place. You keep secrets, you lie, you can't show weakness. And even if Harry had Ron and Hermione (which Dumbledore didn't), who cared for him and knew him and his struggles, and loved him as just Harry, at the end of the day, he is alone. The Wizarding World looked to him. When they arrived at the RoR, everyone looked to Harry. They were happy to see Ron & Hermione, but it was Harry who carried their hopes.

And when he walks to face death, he does it alone:

The castle was empty. He felt ghostly striding through it alone, as if he had already died. The portrait people were still missing from their frames; the whole place was eerily still, as if all its remaining lifeblood were concentrated in the Great Hall where the dead and the mourners were crammed. [...] The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just the two of them.

(DH, Ch34)

And then, again when he faced Voldemort after he came back from the dead:

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help.” Harry said loudly, and in the total silence his voice carried like a trumpet call. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.” [...] They were still moving sideways, both of them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other, and for Harry no face existed but Voldemort’s.

(DH, Ch36)

Harry's strength of character kills me. I love him, and he didn't deserve any of it. Nor did he ask for it. But he felt it was his responsibility — his duty. Dumbledore taught him that he can only count on himself and Dumbledore's plan, and this is what Harry does, regardless of all his doubts about Dumbledore — because he doesn't have a choice.

The other scene in Deathly Hallows really hits home the Jesus/"long live Harry Potter" bit for me, is this one:

Harry could not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived, the reason it was over at last—

(DH, Ch36) - Quote number 2 that really stood out to me.

I know he died and came back; there are plenty of religious allegories when it comes to Harry and his story, but I care more about the Wizarding World & Harry's reaction to it than the actual symbolism itself in this post.

Because this mirrors the first time Harry arrives at Diagon Alley. People flock to him (a saviour — not a person, the Boy Who Lived — not Harry), to try and touch him. Like just being in his proximity could be their salvation. Harry is someone who sacrificed everything (both unwillingly and willingly) for them — his childhood, his studies, his parents, his godfather, his happiness, his health, his life — but they don't see the sacrifice for the most part. They don't see Harry when he's tired or crying because Harry learned long before he arrived at Hogwarts to hide his pain, that no one cared if he cried.

I just love how empty "long live Harry Potter" is. He is their saviour, the promised king who would return to save them when they need him most. He is Jesus come back from the dead, he is King Arthur returned, he is the Boy Who Lived — he is everything except just Harry.

And Harry doesn't complain because when did that ever help him. He lets everyone try to reach out to him because he understands on some level (since he's 11) that he unfortunately isn't just his own. That he was never just Harry. (mentioned it a little here)

(One of the other things that bother me about the epilogue is that it ignores all of that. Like, I can't imagine the Wizarding World acting normal about Harry anytime soon after DH. They were never normal about Harry, and after he came back from the dead and defeated Voldemort again, you're telling me people would treat him like he's any other celebrity? Like, he is The Boy Who Lived Twice, and you're telling me people would be normal about that? After they practically worshipped this poor kid for a whole year, maybe more, depending on how you count?)

[pha55ed]

War is Over || F1/F2

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: none

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, max, ollie, paul, pepe

summary :: the 2024 is finally over, which means they get to come home and finally relax with you

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

Skiing sounded terrifying for you. The risk of injury, the freezing cold, not being to control your movements, all of it seemed so scary. But Carlos peer-pressured you into it, which you couldn't be more grateful for. Although he's already experienced, almost at a pro's level, he still waited for you and taught you everything he knew.

There was no embarrassment in it either. He was so gentle and understanding when teaching you, always holding your hand, tucking your hair back into your cap, and cleaning your visor. It was hours filled with giggling at your mistakes and Carlo's poorly worded explanations.

But in the end, you managed to get the hang of it slightly, only doing small ramps and gliding around. He's never been prouder. He starts filming you like a facebook mom and he WILL 100% post it on his story.

Charles Leclerc | 16

Being so busy with driving makes him unable to do what he really loves, which is piano. So once it's Christmas time, he has get back his skills. But even though piano is usually played solo, he always tries to add you into it.

Either by letting you sit right next to him and sing the lyrics. Or letting you play the right-hand notes while he does the left-hand notes. He's very passionate about his music, always going into long rants about the musical choices he made and his biggest inspirations.

You can't help but just admire his nerdy-ness. It's so fun to hear the calming piano and his long rants, which helps you sleep. Which he doesn't even get mad at, instead he just drapes a blanket over you and continues playing.

Lando Norris | 04

Winter isn't something Lando wants to experience often. Of course, he loves to go snowboarding or watching the snow fall, but his comfort comes from the sun. So when the season ends, he's instantly telling you to pack your bags and prepare for an Australian "winter".

Which is perfect, since that's Oscar's hometown. So now you're stuck in Australia with your dumb ahh boyfriend and Lily's not-as-dumb-boyfriend. But you don't mind, it's great to get a bunch of double date time, discuss the grid drama, and more. Lily is basically your sister, you're almost more excited to see her than you are to see Lando.

But of course, he'll go back home to London with you so you can meet his family and have the true winter experience. He'll play in the snow, make an unbelievably disproportionate snowman, and possibly,,, just maybe,,, make a drawing in the snow with pee...

Oscar Piastri | 81

Christmas time means it's time for him to be his real self: a professional bed-rotter. Going out is so tiring for him, and he's sick of it. So prepare for weeks on end of just staying indoors, cuddling, ordering take out, and debating over movies.

Even though you're staying indoors mostly, it's never boring with him. Mainly because he has awful movie opinions. For example, he watched "Home Alone" with you, only to root for the kidnappers to take Kevin... Or when he was rooting for Voldemort to kill Harry just to thicken the plot.

Truly awful ideas, but you love debating them and hearing his logic behind it. Despite being drama free on the grid, he can't help but love the drama on screen. So, once you're done with every Christmas movie: it's time for Love is Blind, Love Island, and more shitty TV shows with even more shitty opinions.

Max Verstappen | 01

Racing was fun for Max, of course it is. But so is just staying home and being able to be a normal person. He really enjoys having time to himself just to think and enjoy the peace and quiet before he's forced to be back into a world filled with cameras, mics, and more.

So you two just do domestic tasks. Like grocery shopping, picking Christmas gifts, cooking together, and more. It's simple, but he loves it to death. There's been so many times throughout the season where he just wanted to call in sick so he could do something chill with you.

The only con is that he's an awful cook... And awful for grocery shopping... And he's not up to date with the kids,,, and picks the most awful gifts...

But thank god you're there to help! You'll be there to laugh at his stupid mistakes and help him do better, which he loves.

Oliver Bearman | 87

Family is one of the most important things to Ollie. He's who he is because of his family, so be prepared to be with his family almost every single week. Although it was scary at first, his family greeted you with open arms.

His sister loves you and gets to be girly with you. You go shopping with her and talk about the gossip at her school. His brother and you both team up to bully Ollie and prank him. His mom is so sweet and always treats you like her own daughter, giving you the best dinners and gifts. And his dad is so caring towards you, being more protective of you than Ollie.

It makes Ollie start to feel like HE'S the in-law instead of you. But he never complains, instead he's so grateful to have you. He couldn't ask for anyone better.

Paul Aron | 17 <3

You know those dumbass shirts at Walmart that say "Eat, Game, Sleep, Repeat"? That's the exact moto Paul lives by, but except it's training instead of gaming. Which means he's never had the chance to be able to fully relax. Even during summer vacation, he would sneak away to go to the gym or even fucking sneak a hand-grip onto the plane. This man is ADDICTED.

So you help him calm down, which is very needed. You take him to do all the fun stuff that he should be doing. But you know he's very concerned for losing his abs and muscles, so you make sure to make it a physical activity.

This means going to ice rinks, walking for miles in winter-themed towns, and even trying most aggressive ice sports. Things like skiing, snowboarding, and even hockey. Although you're not good at all of them, Paul is there to help.

Despite him just starting these sports too, he's already a pro at it. So now it's a time filled with giggles and laughs as you try all of these new activities together.

Pepe Marti | 21

It's well known by everyone that Pepe is one of the very few drivers in university. So this winter break is used by him to not only study, but also catch up with friends. You and him get to experience and cozy winter, filled with cuddling, procrastinating on homework, and hanging out with friends.

You hangout with not only his university but of course, the trio. Christian and Sebastian are so fun to hang around with and they're super sweet to you. It's as if they're your brothers who annoy the shit out of and Pepe.

100% Chris is the oldest sibling, Pepe is a middle child, and Sebs is the annoying youngest. You guys all mess around by playing stupid games, screaming karaoke, riding carts in Target, and more. Just a true college experience with the nicest people ever.

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

[aethon-recs]

This Week (x2) in Tomarrymort (8 – 21 November 2024)

Hello! We have three multi-chaptered fics finishing this week, highlighted below. In addition, I made a rec list for Tomarrymort Necrophilia Fics 💀🤍 in support of the Tomarrymort Necro Fest hosted by @magical-menagerie-server, which kicks off in January.

Completed Fic:

Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89 (M, 47k, complete) Age catches up with everyone. The infamous serial killer Voldemort now spends his time reading newspapers and making trips to the local library in search of a new crime novel. But one day he makes an interesting new acquaintance that shakes his quiet life and rekindles old flames and unknown desires. What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries (M, 17k, complete) Harry is sold at auction to a man who is clearly in some kind of disguise - Lord Riddle isn't as charming as he looks, and the way he looks at Harry... A Regency AU inspired by the magnificent artwork of @stolenviolet. If I were you by @onehitpleb (E, 9k, complete) It is 1945 and Tom is eighteen, freshly graduated, and working a non-reputable job as a store clerk in Knockturn Alley. Somehow, he grows attached to the worst sort of person - an idiot.

In addition, a recap of the author notes from last week! (Please feel free to add some extra context to your fic update in the reblog, such as a little bit about the chapter(s) updated, and I’ll throw it in the update for next week!)

A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight (E, 70k, WIP) “As for the new chapter of A Simple Request, Harry tries and (unsurprisingly) fails to keep his personal life private. Some are having the time of their life, some others, not so much. Lifts can take you up, but going down is more interesting.” Wish by @sri-verse (E, 3k, WIP) “Wish is set after Harry's fifth year where he gets the ownership of Bellatrix's vault along side the Black vault. Looking at a gold goblet, he remembers his childhood wish of buying a gold cauldron and brings back Helga Hufflepuff's cup with him to fulfill that desire, unaware that he has freed the horcrux living in it.” To the Hilt by @izharmilgram (E, 28k, WIP) “To The Hilt is a royal arranged marriage au featuring nontraditional a/b/o, political schemes, ancient greek and abrahamic religion references, feral harry potter, and lots of power play and worship. It's neither only tomarry or only harrymort, but tomarrymort—meaning the core relationship is Tom/Harry/Voldemort. This includes Tom/Voldemort.” we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee (M, 50k, WIP) “The consequences of Harry's Time Travel seem inconsequential, at first. Until they stare right back at him with vicious eyes. There's trouble brewing in every direction, and the Future is not as certain and set in stone as one might think.” Time Stumbler by @wintumnly (T, 102k, WIP) “Harry is stuck in 1937 and spends the holidays with almost-eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. On the first day of Christmas, they both anxiously wait for Tom's Hogwarts letter together. Fluff, humor, and Tom Riddle is not good with feelings." 7 by @moontearpensfic (E, 44k, WIP) “Harry goes back in time to raise Tom AU: the boys discuss what might have happened to make Voldemort go to "sleep."” Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 22k, WIP) “Harry corrupts Tom AU: Tom and Harry celebrate Christmas--and something more! Your Wish, My Command by @moontearpensfic (E, 8k, WIP) “Hinny adopts Tom AU: Tom finally gets Harry to crack. 🔥”

*

Tomarrymort One Shots and Completed Fic

Complete | Chapters 8 and 9 of Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89

Complete | Chapter 6 of What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries

Complete | Chapter 4 of If I were you by @onehitpleb

Complete | Chapter 19 of Sits the wind in that quarter by @mosiva

One Shot | To be Imagined by @cyandenial

One Shot | god's hands by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | bad behaviour by @milkandmoon-ao3

One Shot | two ways of being: the noun & the verb by cycloalkane

One Shot | set my soul on fire by @wynnefic

One Shot | Beach Episode by @crowcrowcrowthing

One Shot | First Duel by @being-luminous

*

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fics

Chapter 12 of Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse

Chapters 7 through 11 of in the silence by @satflesk22

Chapter 4 of friend of the devil (a friend of mine) by @shyinsunlight

Chapter 15 of Embryo by @cannibalinc

Chapter 4 of As It Begins by @duplicitywrites @moontearpensfic

Chapters 7 and 8 of Stygian by @crowcrowcrowthing

Chapters 15 through 17 of Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear

Chapter 1 of the night is cold in the kingdom by @girl-with-goats

Chapters 5 and 6 of you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria

Chapters 131 through 134 of Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis

Chapters 1 and 2 of Small Mistakes by Crisis_Brewing

Chapter 5 of Hit 'N Run by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 11 of Days always end in sunsets by @d00medbythenarrative

Chapter 25 of Time Stumbler by @wintumnly

Chapters 8 and 9 of Venom or Valor by @lightningant

Chapter 21 of Outrunning the Villain in You by @zenyteehee

Chapters 6 through 8 of To the Hilt by @izharmilgram

Chapter 9 of Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3

Chapter 2 of Infinite by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 2 of Prizefighter by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 8 of Fetters of the Damned by @sc0rpiflow3r

Chapters 13 and 14 of Hole in the Wall by tomrddle

Chapters 23 and 24 of Learning to love by @l-archiduchesse

Chapter 13 of He Who Shall Not Be Changed by @moontimefilter

Chapter 17 of Last Son of Black by @treacleteacups

Chapter 6 of Dreams Beyond Blood by @hikarimeroperiddle

*

[hprambles-blog]

The more you think about it, the more the HP books reads like an extremely slow-burn Tomarrymort fic, just one that lost its nerve near the end and backed out with a cop-out ending. You can dress it up however you like with talk of “good vs evil” but strip it down and you've got the bones of an obsessive, deeply intimate connection between Harry and Voldemort that feels more romantic tragedy than epic hero's journey.

From the very beginning, Voldemort isn't just the villain, he's the defining presence in Harry's life. He marks him, haunts his dreams, pulls him into visions and quite literally becomes a voice in his head. That's not just a rivalry, and not even a psychological thriller. That's emotional entanglement. Voldemort is obsessed with Harry, in a way that borders on (or fully dives into) the kind of possessiveness you only really see in fic tropes — “If I can't have you, no one can” but make it Horcrux-core.

Well, Harry, for all his hatred, he can't stop thinking about Voldemort either. He studies him, tries to understand him, talks about him constantly and ultimately chooses to sacrifice himself for him — not to save Voldemort, sure, but to end the loop they're both caught in. It's weirdly poetic. It's romantic in that Shakespearean and doomed kind of way. Their fates are entwined so tightly that no one else, not Ron, not Hermione, not Ginny (poor Ginny) can even come close to matching the sheer narrative intimacy they share.

But then the narrative just starts doing its own thing. Instead of leaning into the dark, compelling symmetry of Harry and Voldemort, two broken boys shaped by prophecy and abuse, mirroring each other in terrifying ways. It rushes to wrap things up in a neat, normal epilogue with kids and broomsticks and smiles.

HP is a Tomarrymort slow burn with a deeply unsatisfying last chapter. One that forgot its own themes and shied away from the twisted beauty it had right in its hands.

So I saw someone commenting about HP being a Tomarrymort fic the other day, now I'm just running with the headcanon and writing on top of it.

🌼

[metalomagnetic]

Are there any tidbits or pieces of lore from the It runs world that exist in your head but won’t make into the story? If so, any favourites?

On Halloween, those that wish to be visited by dead loved ones, can put certain candles and herbs in their window, that would allow the spirits to enter the house. Because the veil is thin between the worlds, the spirts can interact somewhat with their surroundings, only for that night. If a witch or wizard are very good at seance, they can even have conversation with the spirits.

(I had a whole thing about Sirius doing this ritual for his dad, when he was 20. He also reminisced about times in his childhood when way too many dead Blacks would visit Grimmauld and cause havoc, but Sirius used to find it funny.)

The forest in Albania where Voldemort fled to (and hid the diadem) isn't exactly random; it is said that it used to house a terrible witch, that it was made a prison for her, and even if she died, long ago, the forest is still cursed, and so not many wizards dare to enter it. The muggles that go there die, too, so the locals have always known to avoid it. When Voldemort first went there, as a young man to hide the diadem, he met a witch that was fleeing justice and they remained in communication for years.

Voldemort can, indeed, speak to dragons, since they are serpents, but he cannot control them. Snakes are always submissive to him, they are drawn to the blood gift of his family, but dragons can only understand him. As a young man, his arrogance made him believe he could control a dragon- he was wrong and still has some burn scars on his shoulder, though he covered them with tattooed runes. Of course, he killed the dragon in question, and kept its heart and horns as trophies- they are in the torture cabin, as all the other trophies.

There was a Black woman that married a Gaunt, back when the Gaunts were still doing alright. Centuries later, old Sirius considered reaching out to the Gaunts for another marriage, because the Gaunts have Parseltongue, a gift he wanted for the Blacks, and because they are pure (in a way not even the rest of the world knows, but old Sirius knew), yet once he saw the current condition of the Gaunts he changed his mind. Ironically, old Marvolo wouldn't have agreed either, because he does not consider the Blacks pure enough (he, like old Sirius, had access to certain knowledge the rest of the world had forgotten). But, for a brief second in time, there was a slim possibility for Merope to be married off to Arcturus.

Voldemort killed Mr Burke for robbing his mother. (this also happens in my one shot 'the customer is always right).

Dumbledore had a crush on old Sirius, when they were back in school.

Orion once killed a man for dancing with Walburga; he didn't tell her about it, she had to read the dude died over a newspaper, at breakfast. She raised her eyes from the paper, shocked, met Orion's cold gaze and neither said a word, as Sirius and Regulus were fighting with food inches away.

Orion and Cygnus once killed a man because he was inappropriate with a sixteen year old Bella. Only Abraxas (who was needed to hide the proof), Druella, Bella and Andromeda know of this. Abraxas told Lucius, when he was courting Andromeda, so the boy was terrified to even kiss her, and Andromeda would mock him about him, called him spineless and kept trying to tempt him into it. Even later, when he was engaged with Cissa, he refused to kiss her or hold her hand until the day they married. It was however, a very short engagement, so he didn't have to wait too long.

[ncoincidences]

What would absolutely, irrevocably, break Sirius Black?

Considering canon, he can survive:

The death of his best friends. It causes him immense grief, which he channels into rage. Still, he manages to track down Peter pretty quickly (whether that says less about him and more about Peter's evasion skills is yet to be determined, but considering Peter managed to evade detection or even suspicion for 12 years, I'd like to give him some credit).

12 years of Azkaban, i.e. 12 years of mental torture by dementors who pull out his worst memories to the front of his mind (indicating he has incredible resilience of mind and willpower)

a year back inside his childhood home, which brings out the worst in him — but he manages to remain cheery for the kids, as seen during Christmas time. if we take a moment to consider that his memories of Grimmauld Place would've haunted him in Azkaban as well, returning back to the place is like salt and lemon on the wound, and would further enhance his memories. Leaving him in worse mental health.

living on the run and hiding in caves - to be in survival mode AND still have your full attention on your godson speaks even more about his mental strength, PLUS, he would have been so bored but he chose to abandon the tropical beach dream and return to give Godfatherly advice <3

CONCLUSION: Nothing (nearly) can break Sirius.

But, I have a few suggestions.

Returning back to Azkaban. Perhaps during OOTP he's caught again, and arrested without trials because the Ministry is too busy worrying about Voldemort to give out the Dementor's Kiss yet. He's already at his worst. Returning back would mean he failed Harry. It would bring his ghosts back to life.

Losing Harry. He's whom Sirius risks everything for.

Harry hating him. Don't get me wrong... Harry adores this guy. But what if... Harry's letters lessen. Misunderstandings. Sirius concluding that maybe he just isn't the right godfatherly figure for Harry.

Becoming bed-ridden. Hear me out. Not being able to fight is his source of annoyance during OOTP, BUT, what if he isn't able to do basic tasks? Now, he's a liability. He has to be taken care for. He can't physically protect Harry or fight against those who hurt him. Add that to being stuck in Grimmauld Place. I think he'd go incredibly sullen, and if it's for a prolonged period of time AND Harry has to be at Hogwarts - he'd be in a really low mood.

Stuck in Grimmauld Place with Harry. I know Harry thinks about begging Sirius to live with him instead during Umbridge's reign at Hogwarts, but it really would be a bad fate for the two of them. While initially they'd feel better at getting to be close to each other, the boredom and despair would drive them up the wall. Sirius might feel guilt at Harry not being able to complete his education (if that were the case). They'd be bored out of their minds. Sirius wouldn't want Harry to see the worst of him and would retreat away. Sirius would hate that Harry is spending his teen years at the worst place imaginable in his eyes, and blame himself for it. Additional slightly crack idea:

Turns out, his parents didn't die. They were just taking a few years off in the Italian countryside. What are a bunch of freaks doing in their house?

If you have more suggestions, feel free to drop in! Plus, if you'd like to use these as prompts, tag me with whatever you come up with <3

[wisteria-lodge]

Since we’re talking patronuses: how do you think Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny’s work? I’ve always thought they (Especially Hermione’s) were a bit random.

Hermione's Patronus is an otter because JKR's favorite animal is an otter. It really isn't any deeper than that.

If I were going to give them all new Patronuses, and bounce off my head canon that I was using for Draco, that your Patronus doesn't represent *you,* it represents what *protects* you... lets see.

What protects Luna is her ability to retreat inside herself when things get rough. It doesn't matter how terrible her situation is, the beautiful world in Luna's head will keep her sane, hopeful, and joyful. That's how she survived inside the Malfoy dungeons, and actually managed much better than Olivander did. So, I'd give her an animal that reflected that, like an armadillo. Cute, gentle, and armored. Alternately, if I wanted to give Luna a Fantastic Beast (seems a pity not to...) I think it would be nice to give her an occamy. Like the occamy, Luna expands to fill whatever situation she's in. She can be small enough to stay out of trouble, or so huge and expansive that she can see answers no one else can, and show up when no one else will.

Ginny I think gets a phoenix. What protects her is the way she can be be hot, fiery and in-your-face... but also re-invent herself, when she sees something isn't working. (Harry isn't working out right now? Cool, let's date around and do something else.) I also think that the phoenix from the Chamber of Secrets would have really stuck with her. She spent that year being extremely vulnerable, putting herself at risk, putting Harry at risk... but here comes a phoenix to bail her out. I think that's core-memory enough to make it into a Patronus.

I want to go a similar route with Hermione. Her worst year was Year Three - she's working herself into the ground, she has no friends, she's stressed and out-of-control, she tries to help Buckbeak but it doesn't work. She misses this huge threat (Scabbers) that was under her nose the whole time. But Crookshanks picks up the slack for her. He's her companion, and he had the right idea about Scabbers and Sirius the whole time. I think she would have found that SO comforting. So that's why I think her Patronus would be a kneazle. They look like regular cats except for a few magical details, so they have a foot in both worlds the way she does. They're also very, very clever, and Hermione's brain is the main thing that protects her.

Ron was actually really hard, because the thing is I don't think he feels protected a lot of the time. The central experience of being Ron is - I don't feel prepared for any of this, but I showed up anyway. He doesn't feel protected within his family, half the time he's the one protecting his friends, and he doesn't have as much faith in his own abilities as Hermione does. I would actually have it be that Ron is the one person on this list who can't cast a corporeal Patronus in Book 5, and we wait until Book 7 for the reveal. And here's my kind of crazy idea. I think that Ron's Patronus is a spider, or even an acromantula. Because you know what really protects him, in Book 7? What allows him to back-talk Voldemort? It's this bone-deep knowledge of - Cute. I've seen worse.

And I actually think like a giant terrifying spider would communicate that pretty well.

[iamnmbr3]

I read someone say that Harry only paid more attention to Draco due to how he was an abuse survivor and therefore perceived Draco as a threat and when he didn't like book 7, he barely paid him any mind.

I personally get why they'd think that, but I disagree because Harry doesn't display the same behavior towards anyone else, not even Voldemort who's arguably the bigger threat, or even Snape.

The most Harry obsessed over Snape was, if I remember correctly, in book one. After that he held a grudge, but it was never rhe level of intensity and obsessive behavior he had towards Draco.

If it was about threats, he'd perceive more people in the same regard but he doesn't, but I'd like to read your thoughts on this.

Yeah. To each their own interpretation but personally I totally agree with you. I think that the relationship between Harry Dudley (pre-series and in the early books) or Snape and James and or even Ron and Draco is much more clearly victim and bully. Harry and Draco have a hostile and aggressive rivalry, but the dynamic is more equal and doesn't read to me like a bully and victim but more like two people who don't get alone and are actively hostile to each other (though Draco is absolutely the instigating party and the one in the wrong).

Harry never changes his behavior to avoid Draco like Snape does to avoid James or Harry does to avoid Dudley. He's remarkably comfortable with Draco getting all up in his space - which is notable because Harry isn't a touchy person.

And he's not afraid of Draco, ever - even when he probably should be. Like take this bit from book 6.

The whole reason Harry is spying on Draco (on the surface anyway) is because he suspects him of being a Death Eater on a mission for Voldemort. (Which he is 100% right about). And he's not afraid of being caught eavesdropping on a Death Eater's plans? Not even a little? I can't imagine him feeling this way if he was listening in on Wormtail or Bellatrix. And even when he says he doesn't want to be discovered he describes the threat as "a group of unfriendly Slytherins" rather than singling out Draco - the person he has had an aggressive rivalry with for 5 years and who he currently suspects of being a DEATH EATER. It's like even when all logic tells them to hate and fear each other they can't manage it. Because Draco also never acts fearful of Harry, even when he probably should - post Sectumsempra incident for example.

(Also interesting here that Draco sends the others out before attacking Harry - which protects him from any of them going to far. It also shows that Draco isn't worried about Harry attacking him first. He even turns his back on Harry to pick up his wand. Even though again you'd think he'd be suspicious of someone he doesn't get along with lurking in his compartment under an invisibility cloak. They know each other so well).

Even after Draco attacks Harry (after saying some pretty sketchy things that further support Harry's Death Eater theory) Harry is angry but not upset. His heart isn't pounding. He isn't thinking in relief that given that Draco is a Death Eater he's lucky it wasn't worse. No. this is his reaction:

And even the anger fades. By the time he arrives at Hogwarts he is filled with rage at...Snape....for humiliating him on the way into the castle. And when he gets a chance to test out some Prince spells he targets Filch and Crabbe and never tries to get revenge on Draco for attacking him. It's wild.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

hi! Who do you think was the most special person for Sirius? I love your analysis

James. No question.

Okay, now more seriously: Hi, thank you so much!

But yeah, it was James and later Harry, but Harry was never James in Sirius' eyes. I think I talked about it a bit in various posts in the past but I low-key think one-sided Prongsfoot (as in Sirius was in love with James) is canon. There isn't like, much textual evidence, it's mostly a vibe thing, so I consider it a canon-based headcanon more than a proper theory, but I think there's something there if you want to read into it.

I kind of wanted to make a post about it for a while, so this ask is as good an excuse as any:

So, I want to start by saying James and Sirius are not normal about each other. Their friendship is kind of insane and it's mutual. There's a reason in PoA whenever someone talks about them they forget Remus and Peter and just talk about James and Sirius and how inseparable they are:

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?” “Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!”

(PoA)

Their names are on the same breath for all their teachers & Rosmerta. So much so, that they had to place them in separate detentions. Not that it helped because these two found a way to not be separate for even a second:

This is a two-way mirror. I’ve got the other. If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions.

(OotP)

They literally couldn't spend an hour apart from each other when in school. I completely understand why you "never saw one without the other".

Every photo they took, they took so they were flush next to each other at the center of the Mauraders:

With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father; his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin

(DH)

He was the best man in James and Lily's wedding, right there next to James the whole wedding:

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day. There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there ... that must be him. Their best man ... Harry had never given him a thought before.

(PoA)

Sirius was Harry's godfather and as I mentioned here, it appears Sirius lived with James and Lily when they were married before they went into hiding. JKR stated Sirius & Lily were living on James' inheritance — not Remus who couldn't get a job, not Peter who didn't get an inheritance from Uncle Alphard — Sirius.

When Sirius had enough of his family at 16, he went to James. It's always James for him. He probably felt he was able to leave his family because he knew he could go to James.

Sirius' plan with the Secret Keeper switch was that everyone would think he was the Secret Keeper so they'd torture and kill him and he wouldn't be able to tell them anything. His plan was to die for James, Lily, and Harry. Sirius didn't think he'd survive the first war if Voldemort really wanted to get to the Potters and it was worth it for him. Because James, Lily, and Harry would be safe, and he expects everyone else to do so too:

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!” “THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black. “DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”

(PoA)

Lily was well aware of how codependent James and Sirius were:

James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell—also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much.

(DH)

She knows that Sirius can talk James into things she can't. She knows how inseparable these two are and how important it is to Sirius to be on Harry's birthday, as she comforts him about it in her letter. I think Lily was more consciously aware of the insanity that was James and Sirius than either James or Sirius. I mean, it speaks volumes that Lily feels the need to write Sirius to talk sense into her husband becouse she knows it would work and that Sirius would do it. Because I'm sure the moment Sirius saw this letter he made the time to come over because it was for James. And Sirius would die for James in a heartbeat, without a second thought. Becouse, yes, it is how his loyalty works, but there aren't many people Sirius Black is loyal to to that degree. Even though he says he'd die for Peter, I don't think he'd do it as quickly and as readily as he would for James or Harry (after all, he makes fun of Peter in SWM in a way he'd never dare to when it comes to James).

When Sirius talks about James in the books, there is so much reverence. The same reverence Snape has for Lily and more. James is on a pedestal on which he can do no wrong in Sirius' mind — and it might've been that way when James was alive too, if perhaps to a lesser degree.

“He kept messing up his hair,” said Harry in a pained voice. Sirius and Lupin laughed. “I’d forgotten he used to do that,” said Sirius affectionately.

(OotP)

When talking to Harry about James' negative traits and behavior with in OotP, Sirius is incapable of seeing James in a negative light. While Lily disliked James' cruelty (I think she was fine with the arrogance somewhat, contrary to what she says), Sirius loved James' cruelty becouse it was James. (Sirius is probably also a crueler person than Lily, but that's a different matter). But Sirius isn't willing to see any faults in James' behavior or traits. James is a good person and his best friend and he knows, objectively, that James did bad things, but he would rather call it being an "idiot teenager" than what it was. Like, this fandom talks a lot about Snape putting Lily on a pedestal, but what about Sirius with James?

James could murder someone in cold blood in front of Sirius for no reason and Sirius would start making excuses for him on why he was actually right to do so. ("no auror, see, this was actually completely justified and the right thing to do!")

“Look, Harry,” said Sirius placatingly, “James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other, it was just one of those things, you can understand that, can’t you? I think James was everything Snape wanted to be — he was popular, he was good at Quidditch, good at pretty much everything.

(OotP)

(I love that while excusing the bullying he sings James' praises, I can just hear the 'good-looking' he isn't saying out loud)

And even when he confesses they were berks for what they did, he spreads the blame on all of them:

“I’m not proud of it,” said Sirius quickly. [...] “If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you mean,” said Sirius. [...] “Well . . . I thought he was a bit of an idiot.” [Harry] “Of course he was a bit of an idiot!” said Sirius bracingly. “We were all idiots! Well — not Moony so much,” he said fairly, looking at Lupin, but Lupin shook his head.

(OotP)

Sirius doesn't blame James without blaming all of them. And, he continued to justify James as he said it. (I'll add Remus is doing just as much to defend James and excuse all of his behavior, so it's not just Sirius)

“She didn’t know too much about it, to tell you the truth,” said Sirius. “I mean, James didn’t take Snape on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did he?”

(OotP)

I wanted to note this above quote because it's interesting to me. Yes, it's Sirius not minding James' behavior again, but I find it interesting that James didn't reform completely and hides it from Lily, but not from Sirius — never from Sirius. Kind of goes with how in the letter Lily mentions how James is trying to act strong in front of her, but he probably wouldn't in front of Sirius. Their friendship was just the most important connection to both of them. James keeps secrets from Lily, the love of his life, but not from his best mate Sirius who lives with them.

(Also the "took Snape on dates with Lily" made me think James had Sirius hide nearby on at least one date with Lily to help him out and Lily, obviously, caught them. Either as Padfoot for moral support or sitting in the bushes with the two-way mirror as James holds his under the table at Madam Puddifoot's)

Sirius outright says himself James was the most important person to him:

Sirius frowned at Harry, who was still looking unconvinced. “Look,” he said, “your father was the best friend I ever had, and he was a good person. A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.”

(OotP)

I also think Sirius had zero experience pre-Azkaban, contrary to some fanon (at least in real relationships, I can see him having a few one-night stands, but not many). I mean:

With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius give James the thumbs-up. Sirius was lounging in his chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed. 

(OotP)

Harry instantly notes how hot Sirius is and how he is getting girls' attention, and yet, Sirius only has eyes for James. He doesn't notice the girl (or any other) because he's looking at James. This is practically text at this point (mostly joking, but also, not really).

And Sirius' fixation on James started from day one, from the moment these two met:

“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” James asked the boy lounging on the seats opposite him, and with a jolt, Harry realized that it was Sirius. Sirius did not smile. “My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said. “Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all right!” Sirius grinned. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

(DH)

Sirius and James just met, the train barely even moved out of the station, and Sirius was upset at the possibility James wouldn't like him now because of his family history in Slytherin. It's the opposite reaction Harry had to Draco about the "wrong sort of wizard" where Harry would rather be disliked by an arrogant berk, Sirius wanted James to like him. Sirius wants James to like him so much that when James says he thought Sirius was "all right", Sirius jumps at the opportunity to prove why James should like him because he won't be a Slytherin like the rest of his family.

I low-key think this conversation affected Sirius' sorting. I think that, loath as he is to admit it, Sirius has some Slytherin characteristics, he has the cunning, the arrogance, and try as he might, he is still, so clearly, a rich pureblood from the House of Black. And he acts it. I think he was a borderline sorting and the hat took his preference. I can see young Sirius going "not Slytheirn" the same way Harry did (I like the mirroring). I think he considered that before, I think Sirius' started drifting from his family before, but I think James' words really cemented it to him.

and, just look how Sirius is with Harry. Listen, I'm the first person to jump to Sirius' defense when anyone claims he sees Harry as a James replacement — he doesn't. But Sirius' devotion to Harry (which is insane, I mean, he lived in a cave and ate rats for months, he returned to his family home which he both loathes and misses becouse it'll help the Order keep Harry safe) is an extension of his devotion to James. Sirius would do anything for Harry becouse he'll do anything for James. He sees Harry as his own person, I don't think he treats him the way he treated James at all, but his love for Harry and loyalty to him is tied to his love for James. James is the initial connecting tissue.

This post was a bit more of a rambly one than a proper essay, but I think the point comes across.

[wingedhallows]

i was a kid ; harry potter

pairing: harry potter characters ( no particular pairing ) | 0.6k words plot: molly seems to forget that war happened before prompt: "i was a kid" authors note: i love molly, really, but i've alway wanted to yell at her in that one scene in order of the phoenix. so, here u go (also the dialogue isn't accurate to the movie)

navigation

Your hand clasped the cup of firewhiskey for dear life. It’s been fifteen years, yet it felt harder than before. You were ready to fight and give your life just like fifteen years ago you’re ready to do that again, of course, but your body reacted differently. Your mind was plagued, plagued with nightmares, with images of death and so much more.

You were on the edge when Lily and James died, when Sirius was locked up for something he didn’t do. All of that just swam around in your head once more, while you sat at this table. 

“There’s something coming, something bigger.” Sirius spoke. Your hands began to become clammy, your eyes closed as you kept quiet. You knew that he was back, stronger than ever. You knew what that meant, of course.

“Then I want to be a part of it, I want to fight.” Harry spoke, chair squeaking as he leant over. 

You were seated between Sirius and Harry. Your breath quickened. You were just like him in the past. Impulsive, you all were. You had sprung to your feet that night, a smile on your face as you almost begged Albus to make you a member.

You wished he had turned you away. Harry on the other side needed to be a member, he was the prime target, you’d protect him. Those kids were in danger and if you could protect them you would.

“There you have it.” Sirius spoke. Your breathing began to speed up, if more was possible right now, your hands held the cup so tightly you might dent it.

The anger cursed through you as Molly huffed and protested. Your head became light, as you pressed your eyes shut. They weren’t there when it all came together, when members died left and right. “Y/N.” You could hear Remus, his eyes on you.

“Enough, they’re just kids.” Molly interrupted and that was just too much. You scoffed, a chuckle leaving your mouth.

“Kids.” You said, face in a sour snarl.

You lifted yourself off the chair and looked at the people in the room. Your eyes focused on Molly.

“You think Voldemort cares if they’re kids?” You said, the room uncomfortably quiet. 

He hadn’t cared then either. 

“You think just because they’re kids, they won’t be murdered?” 

Molly frowned at you and placed a hand on your arm, you shook her off.

“Y/N, please.” Your face held nothing but disgust. 

“This is war, Molly. People die when they don’t know shit, they get murdered. No matter if they’re kids or not” Molly sighed and tried to get a hold of you.

“They’re just kids, they shouldn’t have-”We were kids too!”

You said, a bit louder. No one said anything, too stunned by your outburst.

“I was a kid.”

You whispered as a tear made its way down your face, features twitching in sorrow. “I was a kid when war struck.” You paused to bring a hand to your chest, eager to stop your heaving.

“I was a kid when I was tortured. When-When My friends were murdered, when Sirius was locked up for something one of us betrayed us for, when all hell broke loose.” Molly gasped, hand grabbing at a chairs rest.

Your eyes found hers as you gulped, pushing the emotions back. Sirius and Remus looked at you, tears in their eyes. It had struck all three of you, so hard, all those years ago.

“So don’t tell me they’re just kids.” You paused before grabbing your cup and chugging the rest of your firewhiskey down. 

“It doesn’t matter what age you are when war strikes.”