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thebardbullseye · 1 year ago

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“Philosophical and Personal Musings on the Wizard Stone and the Axiom of Proliferation” – An Essay and Divinations for Arc 3 of “The Wizard, the Witch, and the Wild One”

From the Desk of The Bard Bullseye

Happy Birthday, Worlds Beyond Number!

Spoilers abound! This is an essay discussing the actual-play podcast “The Wizard, the Witch, and the Wild One” from the fine folks at @worldsbeyondpod It is an expression of my analysis of and engagement with the content of the second arc of the show and also contains some speculation about future plot and current themes. These interpretations are my own, include some reflections on my personal philosophy, and are written in a mostly academic style of writing (be warned, it’s around 3,000 words!). If you do read through it, I hope you find my points interesting and thought-provoking regardless of whether or not any of it turns out to be true (and I have done my level best to adhere to the facts of the story thus far, with transcript pages and timestamps cited when available/applicable).

Abstract (TL;DR, or I ain’t reading all that, but I’m happy for you):

The Wizard Stone’s discovery that the Axiom of Proliferation is untrue has major implications for the overarching story and the direction of the next arc. Herein, I explore my reaction to this moment in Episode 19 and how my experience and own philosophy potentially align with Stone’s. Then, I examine the logic of her argument and its implications for the greater worldbuilding in Umora. Specifically, there is a fundamental problem with the way that wizards are using the lingua arcana that is affecting the link between the Spirit and the Mortal worlds (i.e., the “greater binding”), and this is leading to detrimental effects. This, I believe is ultimately what Grandmother Wren (and now Ame) and Coven of Elders (and possibly the Man in Black?) are concerned with, though they have come to vastly different conclusions about who is at fault and how to solve this problem, which are yet to be revealed in the forthcoming third arc (see footnote 5).

Introduction

Something has piqued my interest and scratched a deep philosophical itch for me in the second arc of “The Wizard, the Witch, and the Wild One.” While the first arc introduced the characters, explored ideas of ‘quest fever,’ and masterfully wove in lore and character motivations for reclaiming Eursulon’s sword, Wavebreaker, the second arc has expanded upon the characters and their relationship to the greater philosophy of the Citadel and Umora.

I don’t usually speculate where stories might go next or craft my own fan theories. Especially for ongoing projects (i.e. TV shows, actual plays, books in a series, etc.), I tend to be along for the ride, and I spend time analyzing the story being told and the characters within. And rarely do I put these thoughts to paper, at least not coherently; I am more likely to ramble endlessly to a friend or lurk on Discord for others’ opinions, chiming in occasionally. However, I have noticed some things brewing in this arc that I wish to discuss at-length and even speculate upon: my perspective and analysis of the philosophy of the Wizard Stone, and the possible implications for the forthcoming third arc.

I don’t often see myself in stories. Not to say that I don’t see myself or parts of myself represented in media: i.e. demographically, socially, politically, etc., but rarely do I find a specific character or character motivation that ‘snipes through the duplex door’ where I go “oh shit that’s me” or “I relate to this on a deeper level.” This happened to me in Episode 19, when Suvi is investigating the records of her mother’s early time in the Citadel: her expulsion from the College of Divination and readmittance to the College of Abjuration because she had accused one of her professors of “treason against magic itself.”

Upon her dismissal from the Citadel, Stone wrote a dissenting missive to the Archmagi of the Citadel regarding one of the three metaphysical axioms, the Axiom of Proliferation, and how this particular axiom “does not describe any actual truth of the lingua arcana, nor does it more broadly describe any facet of the greater binding” (Ep. 19, transcript p. 12). She goes on to posit that not only is it “pure intellectual technology,” but that its continued acceptance as fact is a “danger to the future of wizardry” and “[a] stain on the face of magic itself” (Ep. 19, p. 12). An axiom in this context is described as “simple… laws that are given to young wizards about broad truths of spell casting in general… that are true across spells [and], … different schools of magic” (Ep. 19, p. 13). That is, “the Axiom of Proliferation is essentially that the more times a spell is written down … the weaker the spell becomes” (Ep. 19, p. 13).

An axiom as defined in philosophy is a statement that is self-evidently true and serves as a starting point for reasoning. Therefore, any argument against its truth would call into greater question the philosophical foundation of the Citadel itself. If Stone’s claim that this was not a true axiom had not been dismissed swiftly and discredited, it is possible (though highly unlikely, given the power of empire) that this would have led to a redefinition of the philosophy of wizardry in Umora.

This is what struck me like a bolt of lightning while listening to this episode. I did almost this exact thing when I was in grad school!

Stone is… me? Faulty logic and its effects

As part of my master’s degree, I took a philosophy seminar on bioethics, which covered some polarizing subjects and more fringe points of view. Most of these topics cannot be directly studied or supported by scientific evidence, so the conversation and academic debate is largely conceptual or theoretical (i.e., conducting research to investigate these ideas have varying states of legality and moral acceptability) (see footnote 1). This course was excellent and a bit out of my comfort zone, but it challenged me to think critically about fundamental logic and accepted ideas that often go unexamined until they are taken to the extreme. At one point in the semester, we were discussing a particular topic and the current state of debate surrounding it. Immediately, I was perplexed by some of arguments made to justify it, and at first, I didn’t have the language to express why. Much like Stone, I found myself screaming (internally) “you’re all idiots!” or “you’re missing the point/the bigger picture!” or “that’s not how that works!” Essentially, I had arrived at the conclusion that if this idea were to be implemented broadly in society, it would likely have major negative ramifications, and furthermore, not even achieve the desired and purported effect that they were arguing for!

Eventually, I figured out what the underlying problem was: a logical fallacy inherent and unidentified within the current debate. Since scholars had just accepted the argument at face value and moved on, most of the debate was concerned with its future implementation or theoretical follow-on effects on individuals and society at large. I did find some existing papers that danced around the idea of fallacious reasoning (i.e., that the theoretical benefits were greatly exaggerated, if not a zero-sum game, or that the negative long-term effects may outweigh the short-term benefits), but none named it specifically or even examined the logical argument the entire debate was predicated on. So, for my term paper, I researched and wrote about this fallacy, and in it, I discussed how the discovery and acknowledgment of it would reframe the debate and perhaps even bring about reform to existing systems!

In the process of writing and researching, I felt incredibly isolated intellectually (this was also peak-COVID so that didn’t help either). Now that I had put the pieces together, it seemed quite obvious to me, but it was difficult to find supporting evidence or other similar arguments to mine (even if they weren’t breaking the logic down so specifically). Was this thing I had reasoned actually true? Why had no one pointed this out before? What if I’m wrong? What if they’re right and I’m a fool for daring to challenge them? What does my professor think? They’re an expert and approved the topic, so I know I’m not entirely off-base, but do they agree with me? I knew that if I wrote a strong, supported, and persuasive argument, that I couldn’t fail, but I deeply cared whether or not I was actually right. It was also probably one of the first times that I wrote with passion (and specific planning ahead of time!), rather than churning out yet another good-enough research paper (that I may or may not have written days ahead of the deadline or the night before).

Thankfully, unlike Stone, my fears that I would not be taken seriously, or worse, told that I was flat out wrong (and be silenced) did not come to pass—my professor agreed wholeheartedly with my argument that this fallacy is pervasive in the current literature. (Though I feel must disclaim that I still could be wrong in some other aspect of my argument, and that simply arguing the existence of a fallacy can be treacherous! In philosophy, no one ever has the only or complete answer—if they claim to, they are either lying or ignorant.) As part of the course, we did a mock peer review in class and my professor sent us further feedback on our papers after we submitted our initial draft of the term paper.

One particular piece of feedback stands out to me upon reflection and comparison to Stone’s experience and the philosophy of wizardry. It said something along the lines of ‘We think that is a very admirable and unique take on this subject. No one found any fault in your logic; however, it is important to consider the practical implications of identifying this fallacy.’ Point taken, of course, that the mere identification of a flaw in logic is not the end of the conversation—it is merely the start of a new discussion and opportunity to surface new arguments.

In my case, the identification of the fallacy was the concrete thing I felt I could verifiably yell about (academically) to explain why I disagreed so vehemently with current literature (and some truly wild propositions made by certain scholars). Of course, one should not commit the ‘fallacy fallacy,’ which is that simply pointing out a fallacy invalidates the argument. Instead, it was a means to discuss practical implications: some less harmful methods, some overlooked existing solutions, and to pull knowledge from other related disciplines that had not yet been considered because this fallacy had yet to be identified (see footnote 2).

The philosophy of Stone’s accusation of ‘treason’ and treatise to the Archmagi

In listening to and reflecting upon this episode and the conclusion of the second arc, I wonder if Stone felt similarly to me: that she had a fundamental disagreement with the way that wizards (and the Empire) conduct magic. I wonder if she learned about the Axioms and something didn't sit right with her, so she dug into the philosophy or history of it. Moreover, I find it particularly striking that her original specialization was divination. Although it has not been stated outright, I think it can be plausibly inferred that Stone divined some kind of knowledge about the fundamental ‘wrongness’ of current wizardry and the disastrous follow-on effects it would have. She may have been unable to fully convey her revelation in the moment, and so just shouted ‘treason against magic’ at her mentor. As was the case with me, the Axiom of Proliferation was just the most concrete thing that Stone could point at to explain herself.

But beyond my own biases and affinity for Stone, it follows that she may well have examined or done a proof on the Axiom of Proliferation which led to her discovery that the premise of the Axiom was false. Let’s examine the argument that Stone may have made (and the one that Suvi may have done a poor proof of, by her own admission). The argument is as follows:

All Axioms of magic describe a truth about the fundamental nature of magic

The Axiom of Proliferation states that the more times a spell is written down (proliferated), the weaker the spell becomes, which is a truth about the fundamental nature of magic.

Therefore, the Axiom of Proliferation is an Axiom of magic.

This can be simplified:

All A’s have property B

C has property B

Therefore, C is A

This does not necessarily lead to a false conclusion, and while the argument may be valid, it may not always be logically sound, see for example:

All people are mortals.

John is a mortal

Therefore, John is a person.

In the Citadel’s view, there is no flaw here, because they teach (and presume) that the Axiom of Proliferation is true in the lingua arcana. Wizards, of course, are known by their secrets, so it follows that in their philosophy of magic, they would have some kind of justification for keeping magic limited to the select few. But, if one of the premises is false (in this case, premise 2), then this justification is in jeopardy. It stands to reason that Stone must have had serious evidence to declare that premise false, and as she was studying divination, it was likely a vision or prophecy of some kind. Presuming she is correct, then it also speaks to her incredible intelligence (although she did not have the social grace at 19 years old to deftly navigate this accusation) (see footnote 3a).

Although (as far as we know), Stone did not make another public ruckus about the Axiom upon returning to the Citadel, I don’t think this caused her to abandon the belief that the axiom was erroneous. Upon her readmission, she joined the College of Abjuration, specifically studying “counterspelling, dispelling magic, [and] sort of metamagic, … the magic of magic itself” (Ep. 19, p. 11). This might seem to be an odd choice for a backup specialization, but Stone’s issue with the Axiom and metamagic are deeply intwined philosophical concepts, as metamagic is essentially the equivalent to metaphysics in our world.

Wizardry and the nature of magic in Umora

Wizards are defined in Umora to be people that can use a “language of magic” the “lingua arcana” to cast magic, and importantly, that “they believe [the lingua arcana] is the language the universe uses to understand itself,” which was only coined about 250 years prior to the present story (Ep. 19, p. 16). At the end of the first arc, Suvi discovers from her father’s notes that the reflexive indicative, which was taught to her as a necessary component of the lingua arcana, is in fact entirely unnecessary for spellcasting. And further, Stone also doesn’t use the reflexive indicative, which is demonstrated through her unique casting of Mending in the very first episode. It is unclear so far in the worldbuilding (to me, at least) if the lingua arcana is the language the universe uses to understand itself, or if it is a construct used by people to explain, communicate, and more importantly cast magic in Umora (much like math and science are ‘constructs’ that describe the nature of our world, though the fact that it is constructed does not mean it is not true). If it is the latter, then there is likely to be forces at work, be it the components of spell casting (such as the reflexive indicative), the casters themselves, or others yet to be revealed, that are manipulating and restricting the nature of magic in Umora (see footnote 3b).

Thus, I would posit that there is some issue in the way that the restriction of the lingua arcana is affecting the “greater binding,” which is “the theory of magic, that magic is the interplay between the Spirit and the Real—or the Spirit and the Mortal” (Ep. 19, p. 14). Essentially, the lingua arcana describes the nature of the relationship between the Spirit and the Mortal world, while the greater binding is the metaphysical link between them. Stone all but confirms this in her letter to the Archmagi, that if the issue is left unresolved, it would endanger the future of wizardry (Ep. 19, p. 12).

Other pertinent wizarding history and context

Stone and Soft were also part of a group called the Acadator, which was dedicated to rooting out corruption and bad actors within the Citadel. We don’t really know too much else about them, the exact specifics of their philosophy, or if they still exist as a group (given that Steel and Eiorghorain were members). There is also some history surrounding two early wizarding groups pre-Citadel, the Antivoli and the Accordati, that had a philosophical disagreement about accepting the help of the Saraz Imperium for building the Citadel (specifically related to the sharing of magic), which led to a civil war called the Cataclysm of Carrow (Ep. 19, p. 16). In terms of timeline, the lingua arcana was coined in 1423, the term ‘wizard’ was coined in 1456, the Cataclysm of Carrow was in 1467, and three years later, in 1470, the Erien (Citadel) was built. The current story with the three protagonists is taking place in 1670, so it has only been 200 years since the Citadel was created, and the lingua arcana coined only 47 years prior to that (in less than a human lifespan).

Further, the creation of the Irulian Desert, the Erien, and the Citadel is a destructive history—wizards razed a verdant forest and turned it into a hot, unlivable desert with a miles high glass tower at the center. Additionally, the Wizards of the Citadel pool their magic beneath the Erien in an ‘Aerith,’ into which they deposit magical reserves and draw upon its combined strength when in crisis (see footnote 4). Mechanically, we see Suvi ‘donate’ unused spell slots at the end of the day.

We do know that Grandmother Wren’s cottage is located on top of a source of great magical power and serves as her sanctum. Wizards also use the towers of the Citadel as their sanctums, and I believe the following is speculation, as I do not think it has been canonized yet, but it is possible that the Aerith serves a similar purpose as a source of great magical power that previously belonged to the Spirits that wizards alone now use and control. This control is the key difference that may be contributing to, or even causing, detrimental effects on the greater binding.

The Witch(es)’s and the Wild One(s)’s perspectives

Additional evidence to support this theory of the Aerith's origins and purpose comes in Episode 23, when Eursulon meets the Man in Black and discusses their opinions on mortals, particularly wizards and their desire for control. Specifically, the Man in Black states, “that tower is the handle of a knife plunged deep into the heart of this world, a heart that is responsible for… a murder to the world of Spirits” (Ep. 23, 0:09:45-0:10:07).

Later, in a flashback with Mirara and Grandmother Wren, Mirara argues that “the world has burned before” (perhaps in reference to the creation of the Irulian Desert), that “[wizards] cannot be allowed to do this thing” (still unclear what that thing is), and the coven must make some kind of decision before it is too late (Ep. 23, 0:58:46-0:59:00). Wren pleas for another option, points this out as a false dichotomy, that they must not “be forced to choose between one slaughter and another,” and they should work to find common ground and coexist (Ep. 23, 0:59:07-0:59:33). Mirara retorts that she could never imagine the day that she would see “the will of wizards debase themselves” (i.e., that wizards would ever lower themselves from their current position of power) (Ep. 23, 0:59:39-0:59:52).

Wren then asserts a key point that correlates directly with Stone’s perspective: “There is nothing I have seen in the world of Mortals or of Spirits that shows me that there is a path that is wrong to tread” or anything that proves the pursuit of wizardry as inherently wrong (i.e., the lingua arcana), only those who “tread paths hurtfully, with cruel intention” (i.e., those abusing the lingua arcana for political purposes and imperial gain) (Ep. 23, 1:00:08-1:00:28). Wren also questions Mirara’s stance of wizardry as “an abomination against the natural order of the world” (Ep. 23, 1:00:40-1:00:47). Mirara then challenges her to consider her point of view and insists that even Wren cannot deny that “the poison of wizards does not spread so quickly as to choke the life from this world” (Ep. 23, 1:01:03-1:01:09).

My pure speculation and fan theory:

From this conversation, I postulate that Mirara and the Coven has taken an extremist and doomed perspective on the harm that is resulting partially from the Axiom of Proliferation (and perhaps the Aerith as well), while Grandmother Wren took a reformist stance. This would put her and her position as the Witch of the World’s Heart at odds with whatever plan the Coven intends to enact. Given what we know of the Witch Class and the other domains of the Coven, their plan is quite possibly violent, retributive, and holds little to no concern for the Mortals or people of Umora.

The third arc will begin with Ame’s meeting with the Coven of Elders at the North Pole, where they will attempt to destroy her station as the Witch of the World’s Heart. For all of the reasons above, I believe this event will connect directly to Stone’s declaration of “treason against magic itself,” but I will just have to (patiently) wait and see (see footnote 5).

Footnotes:

(1) I am well aware that I am being quite vague and obtuse regarding this subject and what specifically I was researching. Mainly because a) that’s not really the point of these musings, this is just some background info and context to explain my philosophy which is already longer than I would like, b) it would be impossible to do justice to an overview of this complex subject in an essay about something that resonated with me in a D&D podcast (and which does not engage with that subject directly, at least not in this context), c) I’ve already written a paper on this subject and am not interested in regurgitating it here, and d) Nunya Binyess (i.e. I could still be wrong about this fallacy and I’d rather discuss WWW than start a tangential IRL philosophical or political argument on this forum).

(2) Though on a deeper level, I partially disagree with the idea that I needed to account for the practical implications of the fallacy within the paper. I disagree that when challenging the fundamental nature of something (e.g., an erroneous argument, a misinformed policy, or an unjust system), there must be an immediate remedy or solution offered up. In my philosophical opinion, once a fallacy like that is identified for something that we hold to be fundamentally true, we need to sit in that revelation and undo the thought processes created by the incorrect assumptions. You cannot flip a switch and suddenly reverse all of the justifications that have gone into supporting a flawed, ingrained argument. To undo a pervasive, incorrect fundamental idea that has been implemented, internalized, or proliferated, first it must be fully examined for all its flaws, rescinded, and only then do we start from square one and think about practical changes (in a perfect world, of course, I am fully aware that the world does not work this way). I do often wonder about this reactive nature in society to demand immediate alternatives and solutions when norms are challenged, though I recognize this is a result of different lived experiences and worldviews. After all, this reactionary nature is true in Umora as well, and the wizards of the Citadel “tend to be a lot more about praxis and practice” (Ep. 19, p. 14).

(3a) Perhaps Stone rolled a nat 20 on some kind of intelligence check for the vision, but rolled a nat 1 on her Persuasion check against Sleep!

(3b) There is another essay I could write here about the history of science and empire (another grad school course) and the reflection of this in the Imperium, its taxonomy, and the (anti)-democratization of knowledge, but perhaps another time.

(4) Something that occurred to me when piecing together the Erien and the Aerith was the similarity to Morrow’s derrick that harnessed Naram’s power in the first arc. Both serve similar purposes as well, of generating magic and magical items. It makes me wonder if it was intended for the derrick to be Morrow’s poor attempt at recreating the glory of the Citadel, or if this is just a happy coincidence/connection between the arcs.

(5) I do want to briefly acknowledge the nature of improvisational storytelling in this situation, and that anything can change, be clarified, canonized, etc. at any point. This is partly why I don’t like to speculate much myself, because I trust the creators to tell the story the way they want to and follow the paths that appear, without projecting my own hopes or prescriptions when I listen to their wonderful creation that has been crafted with such care. It is also why my theory in the end is limited to the meeting with the coven- truly anything could happen at the beginning of the next arc, and whatever I might come up with is likely less interesting than what will happen. (NB: There is nothing wrong with fan theories or head canons! It’s just not usually something that interests me!) I merely saw a connection and through-line that deeply resonated with me in this second arc and felt compelled to write about it. Also, Worlds Beyond Number and WWW is just so fucking great, and it truly astounds me that this story is so deep that I have somehow written a 12-page essay analyzing essentially a 20-minute segment of one episode. I pray to Enzo that there are no grievous errors or spelling mistakes, but I wanted to post this on WBN’s first birthday! 🧡

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acircusfullofdemons · 1 year ago

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help why did I get a tiktok sideshow calling out a "reality shifter" for keeping in violence when shifting ... they were going to call of duty too LMAO BABE THATS THE PLOT OF COD WHY ARE YOU MAD???? I'm sorry but "don't shift where killing takes place" is so brain dead they would not last an hour in the madd comm bye 💀

#luka.txt #this is literally so funny to me tho #like why are you getting mad at where this person is supposedly astral projecting to hello #also by that logic you cant shift to transphpbic wizard world either. so. checkmate dummy!!#im ssoooo tempted to comment . but i wont. i dont need that drama.#the shit shifters make drama about.....hilarious tbh #anyway! im going to go kill all my paras ily bye <3

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wotc-complaint-department · 4 months ago

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Free Will and Dick-termination

WotC trannies vs Determinism

#determinism #philosophy #cause and effect #Logic #Reason #mathematics #brave new world #magic the gathering #wizards of the coast #wotc #mtg art #vorthos #alesha who laughs at fate #alesha

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seriousbrat · 1 year ago

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to add onto that, i think lily’s skill for quick thinking and action in combat/high stress situations is severely understated. for example, halloween in 1981- when james tells her to grab harry and run, she knows they’re both wandless. she likely knows that by the time she gets to harry, james will be dead. but she also knows that if she makes it to harry before voldemort, harry has a better chance of surviving. she probably knew there was no time to grieve or contest, because that would most likely lead to them all dying for nothin. it’s not outwardly stated, but the implication of her quick thinking/action despite being in a life or death situation and also losing the love of her life is so amazing and i’d honestly love to see that explored more :D

Yeah I love this! We also see that James and Sirius look at her wand "warily" she's clearly a threat lol.

Harry is a character heavily guided by intuition and instinct (as opposed to Hermione, who represents the logical approach) and you can read that in Lily as well. She acts on instinct to protect Harry, her actions in SWM and Prince's Tale also read as very instinctive. She's good at potions, which I see as a very intuitive art, a "subtle science". Compare that to James being good at Transfiguration, which is associated with McGonagall-ish rationality, logic, pragmatism.

#Neville's gran fails Charms but excels at Transfiguration whereas he's the opposite which implies they require diff skillsets #for some reason i associate charms with emotion. and it's just kind of Wacky like it's not very logical #whereas transfiguration is the physics of the wizarding world imo.#lily evans #lily #idk where im going with the whole subjects thing lol im just thinking out loud

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falling-apart-burrito · 2 years ago

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A list of known jinxes, hexes and minor curses for the aspiring petty sorcerer by the burrito wizard

Pay it forward

5 minutes after every other voluntary step, the victim takes an involuntary step forward. This effect stacks.

Possible incantations (hand gestures not included):

Two small steps for man, another small step for man

A thousand miles and 500 more

You have arrived past your destination

#burrito wizardy #idk felt this was fun lol #at this point my brain makes up random ideas and the hardest part is to make them into a coherent post #im inclined to start mass dumping random ideas with no logic between them and leave for yall to sort it out #yes this book is horrible it doesnt tell you how to cast the spell #thats because the magic world uses far more lethal magic #this is for those lawful evil sorcerers out there #petty lawful evil sorcerers #could potentially modify it to be jumping instead of steps #imagine people walking further than they thought they would cuz of the curse #as long as they arent walking towards a cliff all is good #also i wanted to format the text better but idk how tumblr makes nice fonts so get stuck with default font i suppose #funny #lol #wizard #magic #curse #hex #jinx #petty #i wish these were real

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fannedandflawless · 29 days ago

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Magical Transport & Terrain: The Things That Should Not Be

We need to talk about the sprawling, perilous wilderness bordering the castle—a forest so infamous it's literally called Forbidden. And yet, it somehow doubles as the school's preferred disciplinary playground.

🌲 The Forbidden Forest: Hogwarts’ Most Reckless Detention Policy

Let’s start with the name—“Forbidden”—and immediately ask: why is it directly accessible from the castle lawn?

Students are sent into the Forbidden Forest for detention. As a punishment. At the age of eleven. Often unsupervised, or led by Hagrid and Fang, which is about as secure as a wet parchment barrier.

Inside the forest:

Acromantulas (giant, human-eating spiders)

Centaurs, who are hostile to interference

Dragons, yes—dragons—were temporarily kept in the Forbidden Forest during the Triwizard Tournament. Massive, fire-breathing beasts were contained in cages just a short walk from the school lawn. Because what’s a magical academic event without catastrophic risk?

Werewolves, presumed to roam freely

Unicorns, one of which was canonically murdered by Voldemort

Thestrals, only visible to students who have witnessed death (trauma not optional)

Grawp, Hagrid’s younger giant brother, who resides in the forest despite having questionable impulse control

Likely numerous other magical creatures that Hagrid may or may not have introduced, fed, or "accidentally adopted"—and unlike Newt Scamander, who kept his creatures contained in a magically expanded, structured habitat with clear care protocols and protections, Hagrid’s version is more free-range chaos than regulated sanctuary

Let’s also remember that Hagrid at one point had an entire menagerie of magical creatures spilling across the grounds—more than one Hippogriff, numerous blast-ended skrewts, and various questionable acquisitions. Most of these creatures were never seen again in later books, with no explanation of what happened to them. And based on Hagrid’s behaviour—like releasing Aragog into the forest—it’s entirely plausible he simply let them loose into the wilds. It was less a Care of Magical Creatures class and more a barely-contained magical farm leaking into the tree line.

And not to be forgotten—poisonous or aggressive magical plants, some of which may be semi-sentient or carnivorous.

"You’ve broken curfew. Into the forest, child."

Now, not to be dramatic—but while certain professors handed out forest detentions like candy with a death wish, Professor Severus Snape absolutely did not. Not even once. Not even close.

Let’s be abundantly clear: Professor Severus Snape—strict, moody, terrifying in seventeen languages—never sent a single student into the Forbidden Forest for detention. Ever.

Unlike certain other staff members (yes, Minerva, we're looking at you), who thought a late-night stroll into a lethal magical forest was character-building—Snape kept his detentions strictly within castle bounds. Preferably underground. Preferably involving caustic liquids.

When Snape dished out detention, it usually meant:

Touching something slimy and regrettable in a dungeon

Writing long, soul-draining essays on why magical mishaps are Not Funny

Cleaning cauldrons that may or may not have sentient residue

Being glared at for one solid hour while sorting flobberworms by viscosity

Not once—not once—did he say: "Ah, yes. You've misbehaved. Into the murder-forest with you."

Because here’s the truth: Snape liked control. He was not about to outsource his revenge to a tree. Or worse, to Hagrid.

Even at his pettiest, Snape was precise. He didn’t endanger students for the drama. He inflicted guilt, not injury. He curated humiliation like a one-man art gallery.

So no—he didn’t hand students over to the forest and hope they'd stumble into Merlin-knows-what just to prove a point.

And that, ironically, makes him—tragically—one of the more responsible adults at Hogwarts.

And just to remind you how completely unhinged this system truly is... Let’s return to Exhibit A: sending first-years into the murder-forest after curfew. With lanterns. And Hagrid. And Fang (aesthetic, not effective).

Because naturally, if you’ve broken school rules, the best response is to drop you into a magical wilderness filled with centaurs, werewolves, and man-eating spiders. Hogwarts once sent Harry and Draco—both first-years—into it after dusk for detention. With a lantern. And Hagrid. And Fang (who, clearly, is unhelpful). That’s it.

And somehow, no one has launched a formal complaint—or inspected this forest’s wildly unsupervised population. The decision remains one of the most absurd examples of Hogwarts’ disciplinary logic.

🐴 Thestral Carriages: Silent Flight, Zero Safety

Let’s now take a ride—literally—on the invisible Thestral-drawn carriages used to ferry students to and from the train station.

Key issues:

The Thestrals are invisible to most students, which means first-years (and many others) believe they’re being transported by driverless, levitating carriages.

There are no seatbelts, no guards, no harnesses, and no barriers on the sides.

The terrain is rocky and forested, often damp, and the carriages are pulled by skeletal death-horses with wings.

No brief safety explanation. No magical tether. Just vibes.

“Hop on, children. Ignore the potential 30-foot drop.”

And if that wasn’t enough:

The carriages navigate through fog, darkness, and rain, without lights or magical beacons.

No mention of spell cushions, protective enchantments, or even a simple "Hold on."

🧠 Lingering Logic:

The same school that won’t let students enter the kitchens without a password has no problem launching them into the night in invisible, unguided carriages through a monster-filled forest.

Welcome to Hogwarts. Sign this waiver in blood.

⸻

Hogwarts Security Issues: The Safest Place? Really?

Sirius Black Vs The Wards: Why Death Eaters Weren’t Invited To Tea

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bootleg-nessie · 2 years ago

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Rating band names based on their accuracy:

(I keep updating this list so check back later)

The Beatles: 3/10. None of these people are beetles, they’re just a bunch of fruity guys from Liverpool with matching haircuts

(Edit: changed from 0/10 to 3/10 because John Lennon beat his wife)

Pink Floyd: 4/10. There is not a single person named Floyd in the band, but some of the members do arguably look kinda pink

Nirvana: 10/10. Getting high and listening to Nirvana is roughly what I imagine actual nirvana to be like

Foo Fighters: either 0/10 or 10/10. I have never seen foo in real life so either they’re pretending to fight a problem that doesn’t exist or they’re doing an absolutely fantastic job of fighting it

The Eagles: 0/10. Same as the Beatles, there is not a single eagle in this band. The name is misleading and we have all been lied to

Queen: 6/10. Partial points for Freddie Mercury

Led Zeppelin: 0/10. I don’t think any of these guys have ever even seen a zeppelin, let alone one made of lead. A lead balloon would crash faster than my hopes and dreams

The Rolling Stones: 3/10. There is not a single stone in this band. Some points added because I’m pretty sure they rolled quite a few

U2: 0/10. Despite what the name says, I am not a member of this band

Metallica: 9/10. Naming a metal band “Metallica” is like naming your dog “doggy”

Red Hot Chili Peppers: 2/10. These guys are not chili peppers. They’re not even that hot, let alone red hot

Guns N’ Roses: 0/10. How the fuck could a gun or a flower play music

Backstreet Boys: ?/10. Depends entirely on their current given location

Simon and Garfunkel: 10/10. No notes

The Doors: 1/10. Jim Morrison is kinda shaped like a door tho

Chicago: 4/10. The number of people in this band does not come even remotely close to the population of Chicago. Points added because it originated in Chicago

Earth, wind, and fire: 2/10. This is even more innacurate than Chicago. Points added because wind instruments were often used

Def Leppard: 3/10. There is not a single leopard in this band. Some of the members are probably kinda deaf by now tho

The Beach Boys: ?/10. Accuracy depends entirely on location

The Black Eyed Peas: 6/10. Not sure what the hell an ‘eyed pea’ is but the black part is pretty accurate

Imagine Dragons: ?/10. Depends entirely on whether or not they’re thinking about dragons.

Cage the Elephant: 1/10. Why would you do that. Let the elephant go

Green Day: 0/10. They’re not even green

The Police: 0/10. There is not a single cop in this band

KISS: 5/10. I’m sure they probably kissed sometimes

The Monkees: 0/10. Are you fucking kidding me

We Butter the Bread with Butter: 8/10. I can’t verify this but I have no reason to suspect that they’d lie. Butter seems like the most logical thing to butter bread with

King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard: 0/10. I got really excited about the concept of a lizard wizard only to be let down. My disappointment is immeasurable

They Might Be Giants: 5/10. I googled everyone in this band’s height, the tallest guy’s only 6’1 so I wouldn’t exactly consider him a giant. Then again, I can’t really argue because the claim was only that they MIGHT be giants

The Presidents of the United States of America: 2/10. None of these people are Joe Biden nor are any of them former presidents. This is incredibly misleading. I’m pretty sure “Lump” was written about my first girlfriend tho so I’ll give them a point or two

Gorillaz: 2/10 Not quite but we’re kinda close genetically so I’ll give them partial credit

The Killers: ?/10. I have no way of verifying if they’ve actually killed before but the fact that they’re not in prison tells me probably not

The Offspring: 10/10. These guys are definitely somebody’s offspring

Arctic Monkeys: 1/10. They are neither monkeys nor are they from the arctic

Thirty Seconds to Mars: 1/10. It takes WAY longer to get to mars than that

Beastie Boys: 8/10. They’re pretty beast on the guitar

Jimmy Eat World: 1/10. Slow the fuck down Jimmy, you’re biting off way more than you can chew

Hole: 9/10. One point deducted because I’m pretty sure they had more than one hole

Rage Against the Machine: 10/10. They did exactly that

Alice In Chains: 0/10. This is illegal. Let Alice go

The Band: 10/10. This could not possibly be more accurate

Nine Inch Nails: 1/10. I can’t find any good pictures of their feet but from what I can tell their fingernails definitely aren’t nine inches long

Bush: ?/10. Not quite sure about this one, felt uncomfortable asking

The Who: 2/10. I’m not dealing with this “Who’s On First” bullshit

Radiohead: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a radio for a head

Queens of the Stone Age: 0/10. This band should be called “five random dudes from the modern era” but FRDFTMA is a bit of a mouthful

Soundgarden: 2/10. Sound does not grow in the garden

Sonic Youth: 5/10. They’re not exactly youth anymore but the sonic part checks out

Talking heads: 8/10. There’s more to the band than just a bunch of disembodied heads but the heads do tend to talk

The Cranberries: 0/10. Decent music but I only added them so that the Beatles and Freddie Mercury weren’t the only fruits on this list

The Wiggles: 8/10. They do tend to wiggle a lot

Blue Man Group: 10/10. Yep!

Weezer: 5/10. They all look like they definitely have asthma

Limp Bizkit: 3/10. While the visual image of baked goods playing the guitar is hilarious, Fred durst is not a biscuit. Points added because he probably has erectile dysfunction

Stone Temple Pilots: 0/10. None of these people are accredited as being licensed to pilot anything, much less an entire stone temple. Stone temples don’t need pilots anyways

Wasted Youth: 8/10. I guess it really kinda depends on how you frame it but yeah, they probably wasted a lot of it

Them Crooked Vultures: 3/10. These are people and not birds but Dave Grohl’s posture is kinda bad and John Paul Jones is so old that his neck kinda looks like a vulture’s so I added some points

Audioslave: 0/10. Slavery is illegal

Traveling Wilburys: 4/10. Sure, they traveled a lot but not a single one of those lying bastards was named Wilbury

D12: 6/12. There were only 6 people in this band

NWA: 10/10. I’m a little too white to safely comment on this one but I’d say they nailed it

Jet: 1/10. A real jet would be way too loud

Goldfinger: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a finger made out of gold

No Doubt: ?/10. I can’t really be too sure how Gwen Stefani felt but I think it’s probably a safe assumption that she had some doubts

The White Stripes: 3/10. I bet if you stripped them down naked and made them stand shoulder to shoulder and squinted really hard they’d probably look more like white stripes

Screaming trees: 3/10. They scream occasionally

Garbage: 2/10. I think they’re being a little harsh on themselves, their music isn’t THAT bad

Butthole Surfers: 5/10. Not even gonna touch this one

Megadeth: 3/10. To be fair, some of the former members are dead but only a little amount of death, not mega death

Dead Kennedys: 2/10. Last I checked Kennedy was still dead but neither he nor his clones are members of this band

Cake: 0/10. The cake is a lie

Cracker: 8/10. Most of them are

Tool: 7/10. I don’t know much about their music but they sure look like tools

Counting Crows: ?/10. Is this what emo kids do instead of counting sheep? Accuracy depends on whatever bird they happen to be counting at the moment

Dave Matthews Band: 10/10. It certainly is

Oasis: 1/10. Their music is the opposite of an oasis

Blur: 2/10. They are not that fast

Barenaked Ladies: 0/10. If I wanted to be this disappointed I’d reestablish a connection with my biological father instead

Meat Puppets: 10/10. Technically, aren’t we all?

Live: 8/10. Apparently they still do live shows but I deducted some points because I’ve only ever heard their music on Spotify

ABBA: 9/10. I’m still not giving any points to Guns N’ Roses but that’s mostly out of spite

5 Finger Death Punch: 8/10 I guess it probably depends on how hard you hit them but this seems to be the usual amount of fingers to punch somebody with

All American Rejects: 9/10. They’re all rejects from America so I don’t really see any issue with this

T. Rex: 0/10. Even if any of these people WAS a T. Rex I don’t think their arms would be long enough to play their instruments

Free: 0/10. Unless you steal their music, in which case it becomes a 10/10

The Strokes: 3/10. To my knowledge, none of them have had a stroke but I still added a few points because the name was probably accurate for other reasons

The Smashing Pumpkins ?/10. Another thing I have no way of verifying but this seems like a waste of perfectly good pumpkins

Therapy?: ?/10. The hell are they asking me for? I don’t know their medical history

Twenty One Pilots. 0/10. There’s only two of them and neither is a licensed pilot

Finger Eleven: 0/10. Leave the poor Stranger Things girl out of this

Fall Out Boy: 9/10. I conferred with an expert on this one who confirmed that they are in fact boys who had a falling out

Cream: 8/10. Considering this was the OG supergroup I’m sure a lot of people did in fact cream when their music came out

Edit: humans aren’t fucking monkeys. Stop saying we are

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cutehoons02 · 2 months ago

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A sweet poison

Special 1000 followers!!!

Harry Potter series Jake pt

*pairing: pervy ravenclaw Sunghoon x popular slytherin Girl

*trope: opposites attract

*synopsis: Y/n, a cunning, spoiled, and provocative Slytherin, constantly clashes with Sunghoon, a brilliant and cynical Ravenclaw, who is irresistibly drawn to his complex personality. Despite the tension between them and their mutual attitude of defiance, an intense chemistry emerges beneath their banter. Their relationship evolves into a game of power and attraction, where provocations become a battleground, fueled by passions that are never fully expressed. Y/n, always in control, challenges Sunghoon to push past his limits, while he struggles to maintain his cool, but fails to do so completely.

*tags: A lot of tension, Hoon is slightly shy and the protagonist a bit spoiled, a lot of kisses, make couple as prefects of the castle at night, power games, degradation, masturbation (m. hidden room of the castle) unprotected sex (don’t horny) (f. masturbation) suckers, fingering, dirty talk, obsession, pet names (vipers,princess) (hoon,hoonie) +18, confession of their feelings

(English is not my native language)

Being a Slytherin in 2025 had become, for many, almost a trend—a label to flaunt with pride — all smug smirks and loosened ties around stiff collars but you weren’t like them. Your name carried weight.

Your surname whispered in the corridors of Hogwarts, came with a heavy legacy. Daughter of one of the last Pureblood families still loyal to the old magical aristocracy. Not the polished, flashy kind fit for magazine covers, but the real kind — the kind that had shed blood and cast spells to protect their name... and that of others.

Your father was in Azkaban. He had protected the Malfoy family — and not only them. He made forbidden deals, hid evidence, and buried names.

He wasn’t a Death Eater, but… he’d come damn close. And you?

You wore that burden like an emerald choker: heavy, uncomfortable, but devastatingly beautiful.

You couldn’t care less about people’s blood status — if someone studied at Hogwarts, they deserved to be there. Period but you'd never stoop so low as to say it out loud.

Not when your Slytherin aura — cold, elegant, untouchable — was such a convenient way to keep people at bay… and keep eyes on you from those too scared to get close.

The boys wanted you. The girls… either feared you or desperately tried to be near you. Real friends? You could count them on one hand. Maybe half.

And then there was him.

Park Sunghoon. Ravenclaw. Muggle-born. One of the brightest — most dangerously intelligent — wizards of his generation. Hoon didn’t believe in Houses. He didn’t care for appearances — he believed in results, merit, and reason over instinct. He looked at you the way someone looks at a particularly annoying problem — an equation that refused to make logical sense. You were brilliant, sure. But too… theatrical. Too seductive. Too moody. Too everything.

And yet, he couldn’t look at you. There were days when he’d stare from across the room, thinking you wouldn’t notice. But you did. You always did. Because he hated you — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The truth?

He wanted you. Worse — he couldn’t get you out of his head.

And you knew it. Oh, you knew.

Every time you walked past him, you left behind a trail of perfume and poison. Every time you sat near him in the library, just to throw him off.

Every time you dropped a razor-sharp comment in class, and caught that twitch of a smile on his lips — the one that said only one thing:

This girl is driving me insane.

He hated how perfectly dramatic you were. You loved how hard he tried not to notice and while everyone at Hogwarts kept on with their lives — botched potions, flying brooms, half-cast spells — the two of you were there two opposite poles. Two Houses at War and yet, all it took was a look, a silence held a second too long, a whispered fight in a forgotten tower and the world stopped making sense.

The magic hall was one of the oldest in the castle. Tall, gothic, with faded tapestries on the walls, embroidered with the entwined symbols of the four Houses: the lion, the snake, the badger, and the raven.

Floating candles flickered in the air, casting a warm golden light that spilled across faces, neatly pressed uniforms, and the excited murmurs of the students.

You walked in as you always did — with that graceful step that wasn’t trying to draw attention… but always did.

The muffled sound of your shoes on the ancient floor almost seemed to set the rhythm of everyone’s breathing.

You sat in the Slytherin section, back straight, gaze sharp.

Everyone was talking — about Quidditch, the ever-trashier Muggle Ball, or checking if the Headmaster had arrived yet.

But your eyes, went straight where they shouldn’t have. There they were:

Heeseung — all lion pride and cocky grin. Next to him, T/L — his sister, a textbook Hufflepuff, kindness written across her face and sunshine in her voice. Sunoo, beaming as always and then… him.

Park Sunghoon.

Blue and black uniform, perfectly crisp.

Broad shoulders under his cloak. Long legs folded with that obsessive precision. His hair, thick and styled, always looked just a little tousled — like he’d fought a storm and come out victorious on purpose. You leaned against the desk with poised elegance, fingers laced.

T/L caught your eye and smiled warmly. You returned a faint nod — your rare, sincere way of saying “Yeah, I see you.”

And that’s when you noticed it — Hoon’s flushed cheeks.

The moment he saw you'd seen him, he looked away with a clumsy shift and pretended to adjust his tie. And you? You laughed — quietly, inwardly. Every time, the same story… those cheeks. That boyish flush. He always said it was the cold… sure. Cold ears, cold wrists, cold neck.

If you caught him jerking off thinking about you, he’d say he was “training against chronic irritation.”

Pathetic.…Adorable. But pathetic.

You didn’t even have time to tease him properly — you already had a few sharp lines ready on your tongue — When the great doors opened.

The Headmaster entered, and silence fell like a spell.

His voice, as every year, was slow, deliberate, and heavy with the solemnity only Hogwarts could conjure.

-Prefects, students, welcome to the next stage of the Conjunction Project- he began, hands clasped behind his back. -As you know, this exercise is meant to encourage inter-house collaboration…-

The speech went on, but the hall felt like it was holding its breath.

The duets. Mixed-House pairs, assigned for missions, studies, and exercises.

Two whole months and unless someone was hospitalized with dragon fever, the partners wouldn’t change.

-No exceptions,- the Headmaster added. -Except magical impossibility or illness. I trust that’s clear.-

He looked down at the parchment and began reading names. Each pair sparked groans, giggles, or sighs of resignation.

Until— Park Sunghoon… and Y/n L/n.-

Silence cracked the room for a second too long. Then came the whispers.

The stifled laughter, you turned your head toward him. He rolled his eyes in slow, theatrical disbelief and you smiled — that slow, sharp, challenging smile of yours, with just a touch of venom.

Of course.

Of course, this had to happen. As if it wasn’t enough having her voice in my dreams and her legs in my head. Two months. Two fucking months with her. With that tongue that only knows how to provoke, and that smile that makes me want to shut her up… and not with a spell,

Sunghoon thought.

It was 8:50 PM when you stepped out of the pool. Your hair is still damp, your skin carrying the scent of lavender salts and calming spells. You’d indulged a little too much in the prefects’ private sauna — one of the very few privileges in the castle that made you feel treated the way you deserved.

By 8:57 PM, you were still on the other side of the castle. At exactly 9:00, the astronomical clock in the heart of the tower struck with a solemn, echoing dong. At 9:02, you were running — cloak fluttering behind you, your shoes still a little wet in your rush. And by 9:06, you saw him.

Hoon was already there, standing at the entrance of the North corridor in the East Tower, bathed in the flickering light of an enchanted torch. His blue-and-black cloak perfectly in place, tie tight, expression unreadable… and his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. Living cliché, you thought. You approached with a confident step, a smirk playing on your lips. “Already checked the ghosts of the tower, or just practicing your patience on me?” Your voice was smooth, with just the right dose of poison. Hoon looked up at you with a huff. “You’re late.” His tone was sharp, precise — almost surgical. “Your first patrol. Congratulations, Y/n. You managed to turn duty into a spa-diva drama performance.” You let out a soft laugh and stepped even closer — your cloak parting just enough to reveal your bare legs under the uniform, your wand tucked into a garter you wore purely for vanity. “Oh, Hoonie…” you whispered, tilting your head. “Don’t tell me you’re flushed with rage again.” You reached out and theatrically brushed your fingers along his warm, blushing cheek. “You know, if you want to join me in the sauna, you just have to ask. No need to fake the fury.” Hoon clenched his jaw and took half a step back, throwing you a dark look. “It was the cold. You know, that thing that exists outside your cloud of perfume and narcissism.” His tone was sarcastic, biting but behind that stiff mask, you saw it. You always saw it — the red in his cheeks, the slightly quicker breath, the way he couldn’t look at you for more than three seconds without turning away. You followed as he started walking, those long legs moving quickly down the corridor. “What’s wrong, Ravenclaw? Running away from me?” You teased, following at a slower, more deliberate pace — a graceful glide. “Or are you afraid that if you slow down, you’ll, I don’t know… notice the sound of my footsteps behind you a little too much?” He lit the path with his wand, snapping out a curt “Lumos,” and without turning around, shot back: “The only sound I notice is your ego entering every room three minutes before you do.” You laughed. Quietly. Seductively. You walked behind him like a shadow — but with the elegance of an ancient charm.

What a challenge. What a damn walking riddle. He wants me. I see it. I feel it. But every time, he hides behind his bookish logic — and I love every second of this war. He’s playing. As always. And every time — every damn time — I catch myself thinking about that mouth… even while fending off Dementors during training.

Two months. Two. Whole. Months. What the hell did I do to deserve this divine punishment wrapped in a school uniform?

You walked up to him as you continued down the dark corridor.

“Hoon?”

“Mhm?”

“You forgot to check behind that statue. There could be a Boggart… or worse… a student breaking curfew.”

He half turned.

You were too close — eyes locked on his, your breath brushing against his skin, and you bit your lip.

“You should check, you know. It’s your duty… Prefect Park.”

And you walked ahead, this time without another word but his ears were still red.

How is it even possible that someone who looks like he was sculpted by a god is too boring to give him a single flaw?

That straight, sharp nose — so unlike your own. You had a slight bump, and that difference annoyed you… and excited you at the same time.

His moles, scattered across his face like secret little constellations. You knew exactly where they were, by heart.

Thin lips, but slightly full, like they were always about to tell you something he’d never say.

Or kiss you — but only if you deserved it.

His hair was thick, dark, just messy enough from the November wind.

And those shoulders. Those damn broad, straight shoulders.

Lean, defined body — nothing flashy… but you knew what was under that uniform.

That image was still burned into your mind — him in the prefects' pool. Shirtless, water dripping from his neck, running down his chest, and stopping where eyes weren’t supposed to look.

But you had looked. Oh, you’d looked perfectly.

That’s exactly when he turned abruptly and pointed his wand at you — not threateningly, but just enough to make you raise an eyebrow.

“You should be checking the corridors, not counting my moles.”

His tone was cynical. Tired. Irritated.

You smiled. Slowly. Poisonously. Your signature move.

“Honestly, I find your constellations much more interesting. It’s November, after all. No sane person’s out at night in this cold… except for the two of us.

One because he’s a control freak, and the other because… well. Just look at this luck.”

Hoon clenched his jaw.

“Being a prefect isn’t a privilege to strut down corridors like it’s a fashion show. You have duties, Y/n.”

“Oh, Hoonie… such seriousness. Are you saying you don’t like it when I look at you?”

You stepped a little closer.

“Because you can pretend all you want… but your cheeks, sweetheart, are literally screaming ‘look at me again.’”

“It’s because of the cold.”

“Of course it is. And I’m a Hufflepuff with a heart of gold.”

The bickering went on like that the whole patrol.

You teasing him, him snapping back — sharp responses, always with that barely-contained nervousness that betrayed everything he refused to admit. Pure tension. Loaded silences. Steps were taken too close. Glances that lasted one second too long. Until the shift ended.

You walked together toward the common rooms, and when you reached the entrance to Slytherin, you turned for one last jab.

“So chivalrous. Walking me right to the serpent’s lair. Should I be moved?”

Hoon looked at you with steady eyes and a flat voice.

“I do this for everyone. You’re not special, Y/n. You’re just like the others.”

You stared at him for a second. Silence. Then, with a half-smile:

“Ah. Then it must be a real problem… that none of those other girls make you lose your mind like I do, right?”

He clenched his jaw. His eyes — for a second — lit up with something that wasn’t just sarcasm anymore.

Something darker. Something far more wanting. But he said nothing. Just a cold: “Goodnight.”

And turned away, his cloak brushing against his ankles as he walked off — with that damn perfect stride.

It had been two weeks since patrols with Hoon started, and every single night had been its kind of chaos — all silent steps and poisonous words.

One night, you’d found him in the middle of a corridor with his shirt open, locked in a duel with a fleeing wizard (spoiler: he took him down in one move).

Another time, you two ended up hiding behind a statue to avoid Peeves, and you fell on top of him — hands on his chest, heart in your throat.

Other nights, it was just silence, and you found yourself walking too close, breathing him in, imagining things that had nothing to do with patrolling.

But that night, you were on time.

You’d spent hours in the Common Room, hunched over scrolls, books, and vials.

Amortentia had almost melted your brain — not just because of how complex the potion was, but because of what it meant.

The love potion. The one that smelled like your deepest desire.

You stretched slightly as the evening cold sliced through the air like a thin blade. Fingers frozen, lips chapped but your eyes were all on him.

Hoon was there, leaning against a stone wall, with that usual Ravenclaw scarf wrapped around his neck.

Tired eyes, messy hair, pale skin kissed by the cold.

How do you always look so annoyed… and so fucking gorgeous at the same time? you thought.

He noticed you looking. Again. He shot you a sharp look.

“Can you not stare like you’re trying to read my mind?”

“Aww, are you nervous tonight?” you giggled. “Afraid I’ll find out that beneath all that Ravenclaw perfection, you’ve got a soft heart?”

He scoffed, gripping his wand tightly.

“No. I’m afraid you’ll freeze me solid with your gaze. You’ve got a Basilisk effect.”

You walked for a few minutes, stairs creaking beneath your steps, until your voice broke the silence:

“Have you studied Amortentia?”

“Obviously yes. Not all of us spend our time staring at people or brewing random potions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you heard mine didn’t turn out right, huh?”

“Oh, word got around.” He turned with a half-smile.

“I’d bet your beloved would smell like… let’s see… mist, moldy moss, and maybe even a hint of aromatic agony.”

You stopped.

No laughter. No teasing. Your gaze went ice-cold.

“Real funny, Park. He didn’t answer right away. He looked at you.

Then took a step forward — but you turned and started walking again, ignoring him. The silence grew thick. Almost solid.

Hoon followed you, but said nothing.

“Y/n—”

“Don’t.”

“It was just a joke. Don’t be childish.” You stopped dead in your tracks.

“You know what all of you are?” Your voice trembled — but not from the cold. “You all think you’re so clever. So superior. But you don’t know shit about me.”

He said nothing.

“To you, I’m just the daughter of the guy in prison. The pretty Slytherin — spoiled, easy to hate. But have you ever wondered what it’s like to carry that crap with you every single day? At Hogwarts, people talk. Always. They never forget. And they think they know you just because of your last name.”

Hoon looked at you. His expression had changed. No more sarcasm. No more coldness. Just something more human. More real.

“I…”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

“If you want to make fun of me, go ahead. But at least do it properly.

Not with that cheap sarcasm. And next time you bring up Amortentia, remember: Not everyone gets to smell something beautiful. For some of us… it just smells like loneliness.” And you walked away.

Leaving him there — alone, confused… and with a strangely heavy heart.

The Potions classroom was wrapped in a pulsing dimness, lit only by the flickering flames beneath the cauldrons and the pearly shimmer of the potions in progress.

Professor Slughorn, as enthusiastic as ever, clapped his hands and announced,

<Well, everyone, today we’ll test your true skills: each of you will brew Amortentia without the aid of books. Rely on your memory and your talent.>

After an hour of careful focus, mixing rose petals, Ashwinder eggs, and Moonwater, most of the students had completed their brews.

Professor Slughorn moved through the classroom, scrutinizing each cauldron with a practiced eye.

Next to you, T/L — Heeseung’s sister and your friend — leaned over her cauldron to smell her potion. A sudden flush bloomed across her cheeks.

“So?” you asked in a teasing whisper, smiling mischievously. "What do you smell?”

-N-nothing in particular,- she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Liar,” you grinned. “You turned red like an apple.”

T/L lowered her gaze, flustered.

-Alright, alright… I smell vanilla, rain, Quidditch field grass, and… freshly baked bread.-

You burst into laughter.

“Those scents only remind me of one person in this class — Jake Sim, Gryffindor’s top flirt. His list of conquests is longer than Fantastic Beasts.”

-Shh! Shut up!- she hissed, shooting you a glare while trying not to smile.

Professor Slughorn approached your station, inspecting your potion with interest.

<Excellent, Y/N,> he said with a pleased nod. <Your Amortentia has the perfect mother-of-pearl sheen, and the vapor spirals beautifully. Flawless work.>

He smiled and added,

<Now, lean in and tell me what you smell.>

You bent over the cauldron and inhaled deeply.

But… nothing. No scent reached you. No familiar fragrance. No unfamiliar one. Just… olfactory silence.

Professor Slughorn looked at you, puzzled.

You shook your head, confused. “No, Professor. Nothing at all.”

He furrowed his brow, thoughtful. <Interesting… Very interesting. Perhaps your mind is too focused to let the emotions flow. Try again, Y/N,> he said gently, though his eyes already held that shade of pity that made your blood boil.

You took a deep breath and leaned in again, eyes closed, letting your thoughts drift.

You searched for something happy.

A moment. A face. Summer at the lake, with your grandmother teaching you the charm to keep water cool in jars.

Your first successful spell.

A quiet evening in the Slytherin common room, with rain tapping on the windows and green light pulsing on the walls. But still… nothing. You inhaled deeply. Still nothing. You opened your eyes and gave a small shake of your head.

The classroom was filled with whispers.

“Maybe she’s too bitter to feel love.”

“Of course — look at that snake face.”

“She needs a potion to feel something, not just smell it.”

“Love can’t be bought — not even with that last name.”

You backed away from the cauldron. For the first time, you lowered your gaze. Not out of shame. Out of rage. That strange stab in your chest hit harder than you expected. You felt T/L’s warm hand lightly brush your back, followed by the gentler touch of Sunoo.

And then—

'Well, no surprise,' came a fake-cheerful voice. It was Jace Roswell — a boy you’d dated for a couple of weeks.

'I mean… you’re the daughter of a convict. You don’t just inherit the blood, right? You inherit the emptiness too.'

Total silence. Your hand closed around your wand. Your eyes — two green blades, ready to curse him where he stood but before you could speak, another voice cut through.

Cold. Sharp. Poisoned like a dagger dipped in bitterness.

“Stupefy!”

Jace was hit full force, tongue paralyzed and body jolting backward like he’d been shocked. His notes scattered across the floor — along with his pride.

Hoon lowered his wand slowly, his eyes locked on Jace.

“Funny,” he said, voice calm and deadly. “For someone so mediocre at Potions, you sure have a big mouth.”

Professor Slughorn turned in alarm — but it was the look in Sunghoon’s eyes that silenced everyone. And then he looked at you. Really looked at you. Not with the usual scorn or exasperation. This time, he looked at you like someone seeing something fragile… or something powerful that had just cracked. But you stood up tall. You left the classroom without a word.

And Sunghoon remained there, wand still in hand, staring at the door you had just closed behind you.

You fled the classroom like you could outrun that burning emptiness inside you. It wasn’t just anger. It was frustration. It was that cursed fear — the fear that maybe you were like that: unfeeling. Empty. Forever the daughter of a man they whispered about — a ruined legend. No one wanted to see you. Only the mask. The bloodline. The shadow and that damned scent of Amortentia you no longer even wanted to find.

You climbed up, to the Astronomy Tower. No one dared set foot in that place, especially not in the forgotten side classroom — too ancient, too cold for the faint-hearted. But you weren’t faint-hearted.Casting the spell to unlock the door was a reflex. The portal creaked open and shut behind you with a sharp snap. The stone was cold beneath your palms. The broken windows let in the light like a knife, slicing through the darkness.And yet, you weren’t alone. A sound behind you — soft but deliberate — made your jaw clench.

“You have no right to follow me,” you hissed, not turning around. “And certainly not to defend me in front of everyone. You’re the first who thinks I’m incapable of loving anyone.” Your voice came out acidic. Sharp. Poisoned. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He never did.

“Why does it bother you so much that someone treats you like a human being?” You spun around and stormed toward him, shoving him hard against the wall. The stone echoed from the impact his expression was ice but his eyes… his eyes said something entirely different.

“You’re pathetic,” you spat, face close to his. “You act like some perfect little Ravenclaw, but the moment I raise my voice, you come running after me like a puppy. It’s almost cute.” His jaw tensed. “And you act like a wounded child who lashes out just to avoid feeling exposed.” You let out a laugh. Low. Disbelieving. “See? You’re a walking contradiction, Sunghoon. Rational, perfect, distant — and yet here you are, chasing me up here just because you can’t stand the thought that someone said something to me… something you might’ve thought yourself.”

He stared at you for a long moment. His gaze dropped — briefly — to your lips, then came back up. “This loser, as you call him, is the only one today who had the guts to tell you you’re not alone. Even when you’re too proud to realize it.” And in that moment, something snapped. As if every word, every insult, every stolen glance in the corridors or during late-night patrols had finally reached its breaking point.

You kissed him.

It was impulsive. Rough. Angry. Your hands gripped the collar of his uniform and your lips crashed against his in a kiss that held nothing sweet. It was fire and defiance. It was revenge and hunger.

It was confusion — and… he responded with the same raw intensity.

His hands found your waist — but it wasn’t domination.

It was needed. A need so pure it made you tremble and yet, when you finally pulled apart, his eyes were cold again as if he’d just realized what had happened.

“Careful, Y/N,” he whispered, voice low and edged. “You might find out Ravenclaws can burn too.”

And you, with a bold, wicked smirk, shot back: “And you might find out Slytherins have a heart but only for those who earn it.”

As you kissed again, his hands gripped you with urgency, and you pushed him back onto the old, worn-out settee wedged between the walls and the dark windows of the tower. The floorboards creaked beneath you — but you didn’t care.

You straddled him, with the venomous elegance of someone who knows exactly how much control they hold.

Your hands took his face as you kissed him again — hungry as if that touch could wash away the bitterness in your mouth.

You bit his lower lip — intentionally.

He let out a low groan. You smiled. Fierce. Dangerous. “Really? You whimper at that, Hoon? I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be good at enduring… pain.” His pupils dilated as he stared at you.

“You’re a damn viper.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” You traced a nail along his throat — following the rhythm of his breath.

“Much better than sweetheart, darling, or princess. I’m not sweet, Hoon. I’m poison.”

“I’m starting to notice,” he murmured, voice low — with a crooked, defiant little smile, somewhere between awestruck and undone. You grabbed his cloak and yanked it off with purpose.

Then your fingers closed around the zipper of his hoodie.

With one firm pull, the heavy blue-and-black fabric slipped off his broad shoulders, revealing a fitted black tank top underneath.

Your gaze dropped to his chest — the sculpted lines of a lean, toned body beneath all that Ravenclaw rigidity.

“Well, well… who would’ve thought? Underneath all that top-of-the-class tension, there’s a body built for sin.”

He opened his mouth to reply — but you didn’t let him. You leaned in, kissing his neck — slow, deliberate — leaving behind small, growing marks.

Your teeth grazed his pale skin, your mouth sucking just enough to leave proof, one kiss at a time and every time you bit, you saw his skin bloom red like temptation, and inside, you felt something like pride.

Because tomorrow… tomorrow, he’d wear your marks — the marks of a Slytherin’s sin. Sunghoon held his breath, then whispered near your ear:

“They… might hear us…” You lifted your head just enough, your eyes locked onto his.

“What’s the matter, little Raven? Afraid someone might find out the golden boy moans while a Slytherin is marking him like he’s hers?”

He shut his eyes for a second, gritting his teeth.

“Merlin, you’re unmanageable.”

“No,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m irresistible. And you… you’ve fallen.”

You kissed him again — slower this time, deeper — while his hands slid up along your thighs beneath your uniform. It was a power game.

A battle of breath, of tension, of who would give in first. But neither of you wanted to surrender. Neither of you could. Not yet.

His hands trembled slightly beneath your lifted skirt, fingers hesitant — like he still thought he could stop this.

Adorable.

“What’s wrong, golden boy? Top of the class go mute the second he brushes against a wet pair of panties?”

He didn’t answer. His cheeks flushed, and that usual air of superiority vanished — replaced by something far more interesting:

Confused submission.

Without waiting, you took his hand and carried it exactly where you needed it. "You have studied forbidden spells, ancient formulas, and advanced potions… and yet you tremble at the thought of making me enjoy. How ridiculous you are." He inhaled slowly but did not back down. His fingers moved under the lace of your now-soaked panties and your horny, slow, hesitant cunt. When he touches you, moan loudly. Wet. Hot. Open. Just for him. "Look what you're doing to me, Ravenclaw…" he whispered against his mouth. He stuttered, kneaded with shame and desire.

"You like it, don't you? Make me like this. Feel my thighs tremble under your fingers. You want it as much as I do." His finger slipped into it, and your body reacted with a visceral tremor. You huddled over him, enjoying the way his control crumbled. "Shut up … please…" he muttered. "If they hear us…" You stopped for a moment just to smile. "That would be perfect, my love. Imagine someone coming in and finding you like this: with two fingers inside a Slytherin and your flap ready to explode." He gasped, almost moaning. And he sank another finger.

"Oh, fuck…" hissed, squeezing your thighs around his hand. "You're good, you know? A perfect guy who knows where to touch me. Who would have thought." "Y / n … you … you're fucking my hand…" he stammered with his eyes half-closed, his breath short. "Yes. And I will until you make me come so hard that I can't walk to the Common Room." His thumb moved-accurate, damn perfect. He began to tease your clit as you felt bloated with pleasure like a storm about to explode. Every time he pumped his fingers inside your poor cunt you would moan and he would bite his lips so as not to moan at the sight of you getting his fingers fucked and riding on them like it was your favorite thing.

"Faster," hissing through his teeth. "Let me enjoy it, Ravenclaw. Do something useful in your perfect life." His fingers sank, his thumb turned, and you couldn't take it anymore. You grabbed His hair, forced him to look at you as your body stretched. "I'm coming…" you said, but it was already too late. Pleasure swept you into a warm, slimy, pulsating wave. And he stood there beneath you, his fingers inside, his face upset, confused … excited like I've never seen him before. "Look how small you are," you told him while still breathing hard. "You made me enjoy with your fingers as if it were your mission. Maybe you should write it in your thesis." "Y/n… I…" he stammered, still with wet fingers. "Shhh," You put a finger on his lips. "Don't talk," you said as you kissed again.

That night, you weren't looking at him. For the past month, it had become almost a reflex: your eyes shifting to Hoon as soon as he entered the room, his flawless gestures, that voice always too calm, too sharp. But not this time. This time, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, your elbows at a distance from him, your mind elsewhere. And he felt it. He sensed it. It was like a sting to his pride. "Strange, Slytherin…" he whispered as you walked through the castle. "Tonight, you're not trying to seduce me with your gaze. What's going on? Don’t you notice your knight who defended you in front of everyone?" He said it with that half-irritating, sarcastic smile of his, the one only a Ravenclaw too clever for their own good could have. But you didn’t laugh. You slowly turned to him, your eyes as hard as marble.

"Funny. Still on about that? Even though you defended me, everyone thinks I’m incapable of loving anyone. And you know what? Maybe they’re right." He stiffened. He didn’t expect that. Not from you. He tried to say something, but you didn’t give him space. "And maybe you think so too, Hoon. No matter how much you pretend to be above it all… you let what they say about me influence you. You’re cynical. Fucking cynical." Hoon’s eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything. He took a step. Then another. And suddenly, his hands were on your hips. He shoved you against the wall with enough force to take your breath away. His face was very close.

"You don’t know anything about me." "Oh, I know far too well," you retorted, lifting your chin in defiance. "Your face is an open book, especially when you play the know-it-all. You know what people say, Hoon? That you’ve got a crush on me." He snarled through gritted teeth. "You’re arrogant. Superficial. And spoiled. You think you’re invincible just because people are afraid of you. But you’re just a broken little girl, hiding the emptiness behind lipstick and that bitchy attitude." You felt your heartbeat quicken. Not with anger. With something far more dangerous. "Go on, Ravenclaw. Tell me again how much I disgust you. Let me show you how much I get under your skin, while you're the first to chase me and want my body, maybe even my mind." "Under my skin?" he hissed. "You're a fucking toxin. You get inside me and ruin me. And yet here I am. Still on top of you."

He was about to kiss you. Maybe to yell at you. Maybe to implode. But it didn’t happen. The sound of footsteps broke the tension. Three prefects from other houses rushed toward you, visibly agitated. -Hey! Stop it right now, what the hell—" 'It’s not the time!' one of them intervened, worried. 'Three first-year kids are missing. We need to find them immediately. They might have gone into the Forbidden Forest.' You and Hoon exchanged a glance, still heavy breaths, the wall still warm against your back, his hands still firm on your hips. No one spoke. But something had changed and suddenly, the night had grown much darker.

The wind blew harshly against your cloaks, wet with snow, slicing at your cheeks like icy blades as you all moved in silence, wands raised, along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Detection spells floated through the air, one after another: Homenum Revelio, Point Me, Lumos Maxima… but nothing. No response. No trace. There were ten of you, and the professor split everyone into pairs. Naturally, you got paired with Hoon.

He walked ahead, stiff, silent, as if the cold didn’t touch him. You followed a few steps behind, wand clenched in your fist, steps careful, mind crowded. Every time a branch snapped or the snow rustled oddly, you instinctively moved closer to him. Until, without even noticing, you were practically pressed against his back.

“Using me as a human shield, Y/n?” he said without turning around, his voice as cold and sharp as ever.

Then, the scream. Shrill. Agonizing. It didn’t even sound human.

You grabbed his wrist without thinking. Hard. Your frozen fingers on his warm skin.

“Now’s not the time to be a smartass,” you growled. “There’s a child out there screaming.”

He looked down at your hand gripping his wrist like it was the only real thing in the middle of that blizzard. He swallowed hard. His jaw clenched violently. It was below freezing. But you… you were too close. Too warm. Too much.

“Your touch makes less sense than a Muggle in a Charms class,” he muttered, trying to hide the fact that he was practically burning up under his cloak.

Then you both screamed. At the top of your lungs.

No response. Just the storm. And then… a red light in the dark.

You ran. Fast. Brooms forgotten behind you. The light pulsed through the trees, flickering like an alarm.

And when you reached it— A young Gryffindor boy. Trapped. And in front of him… a five-headed beast. Towering. Twisted. Screaming. Its jaws gaping, drooling, circling the boy like a trap from hell.

“Minus 200 points to Gryffindor for being a monumental idiot,” Hoon said, unflinching.

“Are you insane?” you snapped. “Who gives a damn about points?! He’s in danger—we have to save him!”

Hoon scoffed. “Of course. Let’s reward stupidity, as usual.”

But despite the words, he raised his wand. “Fulgari!”

The spell’s glowing tendrils wrapped around one of the heads… but the creature reacted by tightening its body around the boy, who screamed, voice cracking: 'I don’t want to die! Help! Please!'

One of the heads lunged at you both, growling. You raised your wand, ready to fight. But Hoon stopped you with a hand against your chest.

“Go. Now. I’ll distract it.”

“Not a chance,” you growled back. But he didn’t listen.

“Expulso!” he shouted.

The creature staggered, and for a moment, it looked like it might retreat. But then… another head burst from the black mass of its back, snarling with rage, its red eyes locked solely on the two of you.

The snow seemed to freeze in midair.

You and Hoon exchanged a look. He was tense, sweating despite the cold, but his voice was steady.

"Hope you studied, Slytherin. Because this time… we need real magic.”

'Use a Patronus!' the boy cried out, tears streaking his face, voice broken.

You and Hoon exchanged a quick, tense look. The monster’s heads screeched and writhed around each other like frenzied snakes. The snow was falling heavier now, mixed with hail. The cold clung to your eyelashes.

“It’s too dangerous for you! We wouldn’t even manage a moth,” Hoon hissed, eyes locked on the creature.

But without thinking, you stepped forward, raising your wand with both hands. “Expecto Patronum!” … Nothing. Just wind. Your voice vanished into the void.

Panic tightened in your throat. But you shut your eyes. You searched for something. A thought. An emotion. And there it was—Hoon, back in class, defending you in front of everyone, unafraid of judgment. That moment when you realized that behind all the sarcasm and coldness, there was something more. He didn’t just see you as the loud, brazen Slytherin. He saw a girl who felt things. Who had her own fragilities.

“Expecto Patronum!” you shouted again, heart pounding like a drum.

A light ignited. Green and blue. It pulsed. Boiled. And then it burst.

From the snow and the glow, a shining, majestic serpent and a proud-eyed raven rose into the dark sky, spiraling together in a whirl of colored snow. They danced around the monster, striking. Its roar faded into a high-pitched screech—then silence. Gone. Only the ragged breathing of the boy remained.

You turned. Hoon was staring at you, mouth slightly open, eyes wide in disbelief, his lips caught between sarcasm and admiration.

“Don’t comment,” you panted, throwing him a look. And for once—he didn’t.

You rushed to the boy and wrapped him in your arms, trying to give him all the warmth you no longer had.

'I’m cold… but… your Patronus was beautiful,' he whispered, wide-eyed. “Thank you, little Gryffindor,” you murmured. “You made it too.”

A second later, a flash of light— And the Headmaster appeared before you with a sharp snap, his cloak rippling from residual magic.

-Incredible,- he said, looking at you and Hoon. -A joint Patronus. Haven’t seen one in… decades. Well done, both of you.- Then, turning to the boy with a sterner tone: -You risked your life tonight. From now on, you stay away from any path with trees. Understood?-

When you tried to Side-Apparate with the others, your wand trembled in your hand. Nothing. No effect.

“Perfect,” you muttered.

“You burned through too much energy,” Hoon said—without sarcasm, for once. “You’re insane. Don’t bother. Come with us.”

“No, you go with the Headmaster. I’ll… take a broom. Or walk. I’ll be fine.”

“Walk? With that thing still out there?” he growled. “Do you have blood in your brain or just snow?”

The Headmaster, calm as ever, raised a hand. -You’ll rest here. The Forest owes you something, tonight.-

And from the white trees, a small wooden cottage appeared—steep roof, chimney already smoking. A soft, golden light glowed from its windows.

You and Hoon looked at each other for a moment, then— You ran. Side by side. No words. Just warmth. Into that safe little pause in the world.

As soon as the door shut behind you, the sound of the storm vanished. The little cottage felt suspended in time: warm wooden walls, a thick rug laid out before a crackling fireplace, a bench stacked with folded blankets, and a faint scent of tea and oak in the air.

You pulled off your cloak, hands slightly trembling. Hoon did the same, silent, shaking the snow from his hair. He glanced at you and ran a hand down his face, like he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Then he burst out: “Are you completely insane? You just… cast a Patronus. A joint one, at that.”

“Yeah, and I also saved your ass, the kid’s, and mine. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t kill you,” you shot back, crossing your arms, challenging glare locked on him.

He laughed—short, sharp, but not cruel. “You know that trying to cast it without being sure it would work could’ve knocked you out—or worse, right? But of course, the Slytherin princess had to shine.”

“Shine?” you scoffed. “Right, sorry—next time I’ll let you play the misunderstood hero while I blend into the damn wallpaper.”

Hoon eyed you, dark gaze narrowing with that look you knew all too well. He was about to pounce. And he did.

“That Patronus though. Green and blue? A serpent and a raven?” He paused, then added with that pointed tone: “So… what are we saying? A blend of you and me? Tragic. Romantic. Arrogant.”

“It wasn’t a blend,” you huffed. “It was just… powerful. You had nothing to do with it.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling in that infuriating way only he could—sharp, precise, lethal. “Oh really? Shame. It looked… kind of intimate. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell me something?”

“Yeah. That you’re a loser,” you muttered, stepping toward him with venom in your voice.

“Says the girl who grabbed my wrist in the snow like I was her favorite comfort blanket.”

“That was so you wouldn’t die, you idiot.”

“Admit it. You like making me worry.”

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but didn’t notice he’d already closed the gap between you. In a second, he pushed you—gently but firmly—against the wall, one hand at your waist, the other brushing your cheek, caught between provocation and something rawer.

Your heart slammed in your chest. The fireplace’s heat. His breath on your skin.

“You’re unbearable,” you whispered.

“Right back at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

And without giving you time to reply—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was a collision. All teeth, shallow breath, and desperate hands.

His body pressed hard against yours, your back against the wall, the world outside drowned out by everything you’d never said.

Sunghoon kissed you like he’d been waiting forever.

It wasn’t sweet. It was real. Raw.

You responded instantly, hands gripping the fabric of his cloak, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t even know you had.

He moved you back—toward the cottage’s small kitchen table. In a flash, you were sitting on top of it, the surface cold beneath you, his body warm and solid between your legs. He tugged at your lower lip with his teeth, and you let out a soft, broken moan, stolen right from your lungs.

His hands were everywhere—warm, certain—and when he gently bit your lower lip, a moan escaped you, more a hoarse whisper than an actual sound.

“Oh, look who’s moaning now,” he murmured against your mouth, wearing that arrogant smirk you knew all too well.

“Shut up, Park,” you shot back in a low, loaded voice. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

You grabbed his thick cloak and tossed it to the floor, your lips finding his again—hungry, desperate. There was no space for anything else. Just hands, bodies, breath.

Your fingers slipped beneath his heavy sweater, brushing over his warm, flawless skin. “This needs to go,” you whispered, voice low and shameless.

“You can,” he replied, but his eyes held that familiar flicker—somewhere between surrender and craving.

You pulled it up by the hem, slowly, savoring every inch you uncovered. And as you did, your eyes dared him. “How many times have you dreamed of this, huh?”

He let out a low growl. “Shut up.”

You chuckled, pleased. You peeled off his second layer too, leaving him in nothing but a fitted black tank top that clung to his pale skin and highlighted the sculpted shape of his arms.

“Spread your legs,” he said, in that deep, rough voice that made your insides tremble.

You obeyed. And he moved in, closer, more real. His body pressed against yours, the difference in height only adding to the tension, thrilling and undeniable. You tilted him toward you slightly, your hands locking around the back of his neck with quiet insistence.

You started kissing him there, just below his ear, then down along his jawline. Your lips found the curve of his neck—hot, eager—and you sucked, leaving a mark.

Sunghoon let out a soft moan, low and involuntary. “Merlin... Y/n...”

“What?” you whispered against his skin, with a wicked smile. “Can’t handle a little real human contact?”

He opened his eyes, trying to stay composed. But you could see it, feel it—every word, every touch, you were pulling him apart piece by piece.

“I hate you,” he murmured again, but his voice shook.

“Oh yeah? Then come and prove it.”

His hands dove into the edges of your coat, and with one swift movement, he slipped it off your shoulders. His eyes stayed locked on yours, but when his hands slid under your Slytherin sweatshirt, his gaze darkened—sharpened. He yanked it off with a single pull, leaving you in nothing but that fitted emerald-green tank top… the one that seemed designed to tempt him.

"Slytherin to the last layer?"he provoked you, a raised eyebrow and dangerously low tone. "Even panties?" "Maybe," you replied with a sassy smile. "But if you want to know, you'll have to find out for yourself." He looked at you as if you were playing with fire — and maybe it was true. But he did not back down. "You really are a little nightmare dressed in silk," he hissed, still approaching. He leaned over you and his lips came back to your neck, this time slower, hungrier. He sucked it, nibbled it, as if he wanted to brand you. And when a groan escaped from your lips and your fingers caught in his hair, he came off for a moment, his eyes lit with a brazen desire.

"Tomorrow you will have purple marks everywhere, princess," he whispered, her voice hoarse. "We are magicians, Park. I'll hide them in two seconds."

"Don't you dare even think about it," he retorted in a darker, more possessive tone. "I want them to see each other. I want everyone to know exactly where I kissed you and that you are mine, my little viper." And he returned to your neck, sinking with a new determination, as if thirsty. He sucked your skin as if it were nectar, as if every inch had a spell just for him. Your groans filled the room, broken only by the sound of your heavy breaths.

Then he lowered himself, slowly, and his eyes rested on your chest. The tank top had lifted, allowing a glimpse of the soft curves that the bra, a little too tight, was trying to contain. His lips rested light above the cups, and he kissed you with an unexpected, almost adoring sweetness.

"Can I take it off?" he murmured, his forehead against your chest. "You can," he whispered, his voice broken with desire. His hands barely shook as he grabbed the hem of his tank top. He slowly took off your tank top, and his eyes darkened as he looked at you. His hands, still cold from the frost outside, slipped under your bra. He unfastened it with precision, and the moment he fell, your breasts were free, sensitive skin stretched by the air and attention of his eyes.

"Sensitive, huh?"he teased you, with a half-smile on his lips. You grabbed him by the collar of the tank top. "Bow down, Park. And suck.» He gave you a look that promised chaos. "You can just give me orders, huh?» Yet he obeyed. He leaned over, his hot lips touching one of your strained buds, then his tongue began to rub him flat. You felt yourself melt, a groan rolled out of you, broken. Then he just used his teeth, and your body strained.

"Hoon!"you screamed, his name rolled out of his lips like an escaped spell. "Always so responsive?"he teased you, his voice hoarse while with his other hand he drew you to himself even more. His hand closed on the other breast, with firm, hungry movements. "You're meant to be touched like that, you know?"he muttered, kissing and nibbling. "So soft. So ... mine."

"Don't say these things," you admonished him, trying to control you, but it was useless. His lips, his hands, were erasing all logic.

It came to you instinctively — you stuck a hand under his black tank top and pulled it up. He just came off your breast, a trickle of spittle shining on his lips. Your eyes rested on his toned, pale, almost unrealistically defined chest. You bit your lip, unable to hold back that little gesture. "You haven't seen anything yet, witch," he whispered, before stooping back, your bodies now closer together, your breasts brushing against his bare chest. They both groaned softly upon contact. "When I saw you in the prefects pool..." you whispered, " I wanted to jump on you." He looked up at you, surprised but amused. "And why didn't you?" You shrugged your shoulders with feigned innocence. "Maybe I wanted to make you suffer a little." "Cursed..." he growled quietly, and returned to kiss your breasts with even more desire, as if the confession had ignited something in him.

He continued to tease you, his mouth soft and careful on your breasts, until his lips began to descend slowly along your belly. Every kiss was like a spark that ignited you all, and you moaned, unable to hold back. "So receptive..." he muttered with a grin, his voice deep and hoarse. "Typical spoiled little princess."

"Don't let a Ravenclaw command me," you replied, lifting yourself up and looking him straight in the eye. "Not even if he has a language like yours." He laughed slowly, but in his eyes there was a new hunger. And you, with an instinctive move, unfastened his belt. His eyes just smiled as you did it. The pants slid down with a rustle, and you whistled softly at the sight of the black boer

"I thought you were more shy," he whispered. "And I thought you were less ... gifted," he retorted, touching it through the fabric. You felt him tense, hard. And you looked at him with a satisfied smile. "It's a pity that he always remains a poor Ravenclaw loser." He clenched his jaw, his eyes turned on.

"Watch how you speak, Y/n" But you still approached, his hands on yours even as yours drew him more forcefully to you. His forehead leaned against yours, and for a moment there was only silence, only breath. Then, slowly, with curious and determined fingers, you stuck your hand under the edge of his boxer. You felt his erection, the way his body reacted, the warm and alive skin under your hand.

"You're really ruined, Park." He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched, holding back a groan. "And I bet you're bad, too. It would take a hand of mine in your jeans you’d be wet" You admonished him with a smirk, but you tightened your grip a little, enough to make him moan — a deep, almost broken sound. "... little viper..." he muttered, his voice a thin thread between pleasure and torment. You giggled, dropping his boxer

"I don't think I'll last long..." he confessed with a restrained growl. You got even closer, your voice a whisper in your ear. "Then do it. Show me how much I ruin you." sunghoon was literally ruined. What he had dreamed of for months-perhaps since you launched your first poisonous joke in the Prefects ' corridor-was now real. And with your hand moving slowly against his cock, he could no longer think.

He slightly grabbed your shoulder, looking for an anchor point to reality. Hi voice trembled. "Y/n....i'm coming.."

"I know," you whispered with a devilish grin, accelerating the pace and barely squeezing. He sprinted forward, a restrained groan that became a growl. "You're a little viper."

"And this viper is making you look like a loser, Park." It was the end. One last, hoarse moan and yelled your name, your head bent back, your body contracted. His forehead leaned against your shoulder as he barely trembled, his breath broken.

His abdomen, the clear line of the V, was marked by the pleasure you had just caused, little pearly and slimy filaments ripped through his shiny abs and then he bent over, still panting, and whispered something in your ear — sweet words, but laden with desire, broken by his own astonishment. They made you vibrate inside. You, without saying anything, picked up with a finger the most noticeable trace of his sperm and, looking straight into his eyes, slowly brought it to your mouth. You sucked it with malice. "You are sweet, "you said," but slightly salty."

"You're sick," he muttered, halfway between the amused and the ruined. "And you're in love," you replied, laughing, gracefully stepping down from the table. You took him by the wrist, with your usual Slytherin confidence, and dragged him to the bed in the middle of the little house in the woods. "The principal really created a work of art. Ideal for couples to do smutty things."

He chuckled, but upon hearing the word couples, his heart skipped a beat. You didn't realize it — or maybe you did, but you didn't say it. You let yourself fall between the pillows with a naturalness that would make even a Veela pale. Your breasts moved slightly as you settled down. You looked at him with feigned impatience. "And you? What are you doing standing there?" Sunghoon shook his head, a smirk on his lips, still stunned by you. "You are impossible."

"And yet you are still here." He moved, climbed over you, with almost reverent slowness, and for a moment there was no more bickering, no game, no war. Just him and you, skin to skin. Sunghoon's dark tufts fell untidy on his forehead, damp with sweat and desire. You extended a hand, touching his cheek with your fingers, soft and slow, as if you were trying to memorize every line of his face. Your eyes were half-closed, loaded with something beyond provocation: a shred of vulnerability that you almost never showed.

He paused for a moment to look at you-as if he could not believe that you were really there, under him. Then, with that cheeky half-smile you knew all too well, he began to descend again, kissing every inch of your skin. When he got to the edge of your pants, he said nothing. Only the metallic sound of the zipper sliding down spoke for him. He whistled softly. "Fiery red panties, huh?"he said, raising an eyebrow. "And then you accuse me of being a pervert."

"Shut your mouth, Park," you admonished him, trying to sound superior. But your tone trembled a little.

"Open your legs."

"No."

His eyes became darker. "Stubborn to the last. Classic from Slytherin." And without waiting, with glacial calm and strong fingers, he opened them to you. His big hands wrapped around your thighs, slowly pushing them outward as you cast a poisonous glance at him. "I knew," he muttered.

"The whole scene." Then he lowered his head and began to kiss the skin of your inner thigh. Soft, quick bites marked his path, igniting every nerve beneath the surface. Every now and then he would stop and look at you from under his eyelashes, as if studying your reactions like an ancient spell. And when he got to the center of you, he said nothing. Just one kiss, one, full, slow. A groan escaped from your lips before you could stop it, and your back involuntarily arched. Sunghoon stopped, satisfied.

"And tell me now," he whispered against your skin, in a hoarse voice, "who is the loser, princess?" His fingers grazed the thin cloth, finding you exactly as he expected. He looked at you defiantly and triumphantly.

"Completely wet. For me." Then he bent over again, and your eyes lost all focus — you could only see his dark hair, his head between your thighs, and you could only feel the slow, firm pace with which he was tasting you like you were the only thing in the world. Your breath broke, a groan rose from your bowels, and his name escaped you like a prayer and a curse. "Hoon…" His tongue was a forbidden temptation. Every movement, precise and darn slow, made you falter as if a spell ran under your skin. He drew little eights with his tip, as if he wanted to draw your name on him-and you, with your lips ajar, groaned quietly, babbling his name like a supplication.

"H-Hoon ... what... what are you—"

"Shut up, viper," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and sharp. "I've never heard you so... true." And without warning, he slid a finger into you. A slow, exploratory motion that made you arch your back against the pillows. Your body reacted before you could even fight back.

"Park, I -" you tried to admonish him, but it was useless. He smiled, looking up just a second, his eyes lit up by something wild. And then, with a bold gesture, he brushed your center with his teeth. A light bite, calibrated. But it was enough to make you completely lose control. You screamed his name, fingers intertwined in his hair, looking for a foothold in reality.

"I bet you can get another one, right?"he whispered with a mischievous note. "Show me how good you really are."

"Yes..." you answered, in a broken voice. The second finger joined the first, and began to move with increasing pace. His eyes peered at you, hungry, and when you moaned louder, lips ajar and body trembling, he giggled. "Who is more beautiful, princess? Me ... or my fingers ruining you?» You bit your lip, not wanting to answer. Slytherin pride was hard to bend, even now. And he stopped. He left you there, suspended, a moment from the abyss. "No ... continue, Park!" He degraded you, in a low, provocative tone, but his gaze barely trembled. And when you gasped: "You are beautiful. And ... good at everything,"

he smiled for real, with a flash of triumph and a shadow of sweetness in his eyes. "I know," he replied. But his tone, this time, was less cold. More sincere. Almost amazed. "And you ... are my worst spell." His touch was fire. Every movement of his fingers inside you sent you into orbit, and despite the severed breath, you could not hold back the words. You yelled his name like it was the only spell that could keep you alive. Your hands were now lost in her hair, pulling them with force with every wave of pleasure that passed through you. He didn't stop. In fact, he seemed hungrier, more determined. He looked at you with those icy eyes that were now burning, and his voice, hoarse and confident, stuck in you.

"Come for me, Y / n ... I want to see you collapse. I want to know that no one can make you feel that way. Nobody but me." His words were the spark. Your body strained, the pleasure exploded like a liberated curse, and you let yourself go completely — trembling against his mouth and fingers. He did not look away even a moment, as if he wanted to stamp that moment in focus in the mind. When he stood up, he had the look of someone who has just won a war. He kissed you slowly, forcefully.

He gnawed at your lip as if he still wanted to taste you. "You know too much good," he muttered against your mouth, and the tone had something dangerously sweet. You barely moved, rubbing against him — your body still shaken, but eager for more. You felt his cock against you, still encased in his boer Your eyes rested on him and, in a bold and mischievous tone, you teased him: "All this ... because of a Slytherin." Sunghoon threw a fierce look at you, jaws clenched.

"Shut up." But you laughed slowly, enjoying the tension you had ignited. You pushed your hips against him and his breath broke. His body reacted instinctively, as if it had been enchanted by you all along. "Do you really want it?"he whispered, in a voice so low that it almost sounded like a threat. "Because if I sink into you now... there will be nothing left to hide. I'll take everything."

You looked at him, his pupils dilated, his heart in his throat. "Then do it, Ravenclaw. Take."

The only thing you really felt was him. Hoon. Every inch of his body pressed against yours, and every slow but deep push made you gasp, scratch, seek more contact, more friction. More than him. "Look how you take me..."he hissed at your throat, biting your skin as if he wanted to leave his signature there, indelible. "So tight, so wet. Is that what you want? To be used by me as a good, dirty Slytherin?"

"Yes..." you moaned, your voice almost broken with pleasure. "Yes, Hoon, please..." He lifted your leg, bending it against his side with controlled force, and sank back into you with a jerk that made you scream, your head falling backwards against the wall.

"Well" Another push, deeper.

"Do you feel how full your fucking pussy is?" Another one.

"You like it, don't you? Being fucked by one who treats you like a spoiled princess."

"I am..." you stammered, unable to lie. "My Slytherin princess version slut," he growled, grabbing your chin to make you look him in the eye. Cold eyes, precise. Calculator. But now, they were just burning for you.

"I bet you dream of being bent over a bench in empty classrooms. To enjoy me in the aisles while you're still wearing that damn green tie." Every word was a slap to your pride, but instead of breaking you, it made you shiver more. "Do you like it when I tell you that you are worth nothing but to be fucked? That behind that queen face of yours is only you, hot, trembling, hungry for me?"

"Yes ... Yes, Merlin, Hoon ... make me yours..." He pushed you even harder, making you moan louder and louder. One hand on your throat, to squeeze slightly, while the other crept between your bodies to touch you. Two experienced, cruel fingers brushed the spot where you were most sensitive, and you screamed without restraint. "Hear how you scream..." he hissed, excitedly. "I bet the owls in the woods are wondering who is the little slut who is taking me so well."

"Only you ..." you moaned. "Only you make me like this..."

"Damn, Y/n, you're made for this," he grunted, his thrusts faster and faster. "To be taken like this. Destroyed so. From me. From a Ravenclaw who never believed in anything but control. Look what you got me to do." Hoon's blows became fiercer, his breath more labored, and you could no longer hold back. The pleasure mounted inside you like a storm, and the scream escaped from your lips before you could even control it. "Hoon-I'm ... I'm going to—"

"Come for me." His voice was a hoarse order, full of lust and domination. "Make a mess. Dirty all this bed, so the headmaster is an idiot if he thought that leaving us alone in this little house would not lead to this." He smiled, kissing you hard as he continued to push into you with measured brutality.

"A bed, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen..." he laughed, panting ,"...like I didn't want to fuck you on all surfaces." It was at that moment that you screamed his name, trembling as the orgasm overwhelmed you with a power that emptied your breath. Your body clasped around his, and your legs snapped like traps around his waist. But he did not stop. Not yet.

"Look how tight you are ... still," he hissed, his voice now broken by the pleasure that approached even for him. "I make you mine, for real now. I want you full. Full of my cock and cum, you little snake."

"Hoon... no - not inside..."

"Shut up." His voice became dark, dirty with desire. "You are mine. And I want to fill you. Until you drip on everything you touch." He took you with deep, raw blows, until his breath broke against your skin. And then, he came. Hot, heavy, inside you. You felt his body shake against yours, his fingers clasping your hips as if he wanted to carve you into the flesh. His cum trickled slowly down your thighs, as you both gasped in the dark load of moans and sweat. He came off slowly, with his last breath still against your chest, then dragged you with him to the bed still disheveled. He grabbed you by the side and pulled you against his chest, sinking his face into your neck, as if that contact held him anchored to reality.

One of his hands lazily moved towards your face, long thin fingers caressing your cheek still reddened. You, still half distraught with pleasure, let yourself go on his chest, setting your head against his. "Little viper..."he whispered with a tired smile. "I don't know if I want to strangle you or marry you."

"I hate you..." you murmured at him, a smirk on his lips.

"Mmh. Lie. You're obsessed with me." He gave you a slow kiss behind the ear.

"And you from me."

The next morning, the world outside the little house felt muffled. Snow was falling slowly, silently, and the crackling of the fireplace was the only sound filling the room. You woke up to the lingering scent of burning wood in the air and Hoon’s warm body wrapped around yours.

His bare skin against yours was a silent reminder of everything that had happened just a few hours earlier. His slow, steady breathing made his chest rise and fall gently, and you nestled against him a bit more, as if that simple movement could somehow let you stay there forever.

You lifted yourself slightly, carefully, trying not to wake him. You looked at him—really looked at him.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, allowing you to take in every detail: the long lashes, the slightly parted lips, the faint crease between his brows. And then, his moles. The ones you had memorized long ago, like a secret map meant only for you.

Your hand moved on its own, without thinking. Your fingers brushed lightly over the small mole beneath his left eye. Then the one on the bridge of his nose, just above the curve. The tiny one on his cheek. And finally, the one beneath his ear, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.

“Mmh…” he murmured sleepily, a half-groan in his throat. “Still tracing my moles? Haven’t you gotten tired of mapping my face like you’re trying to decode some ancient script?”

You smiled softly, not stopping your touch, and your eyes met his—still a bit drowsy, hazy from sleep.

“I’m just cataloging you, Ravenclaw… Don’t they serve some kind of purpose? Like little stars placed just right to be studied.”

“Studied, huh?” he chuckled, his voice rough and deep. “Or worshipped?”

“Don’t get cocky.” You rolled your eyes, but your gaze had softened more than you intended.

He stretched lazily, then moved closer, fingers tracing idle lines across your back.

“My viper’s going soft… should I be worried?”

“She’s just sleepy,” you murmured.

He gave a half-smile—the one he saved only for you. The one that said nice try, I see right through you. Then his voice dropped, a bit more serious now:

“Do you think that from now on, when you smell Amortentia, you’ll catch my scent?”

Your heart skipped a beat—subtle and sudden. You looked at him, your fingers drifting back to the mole beneath his eye.

“If I start smelling old books, wet moss, and… mint tea? Then I’ll know who to blame.”

He smiled again, this time more softly.

“And I’ll always smell that scent your skin carries after you’ve spent hours teasing me. The one that reeks of trouble.”

taglist: @stwrlightt @hearts4cheol @lovenha7 @in-somnias-world @heeseungxo @luvyeni @jayjw16enxp @jvngwni @jooniesbears-blog @gguk-n @cloudykim @enhaverse713586 @stormy1408 @jakesw82 @misssparklyprincess @bamguetismee @jaylajakey @arclviie @strxwbloody @steddie-steddie @jungwoosbaey @laurenmia65 @tasnemluvs @lovellydisaster @simj4k3 @numnommz @sspidermanss @vixialuvs @smlbch @xylatox @ikeulove @nishikio @ancnymcnzjy @sofiafromvenus @kayjiguki @annovaz @kkamismom12 @forrds @inishij @amortenha @sunnysidesins @isagistar @schniti-is-in-the-house @nyxiebabyyy @rubylace @petalsofink @asteriscoverde @azzy02 @sievenderz @reading-wh0re

Rebblog and comments are appreciated

#enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen fanfic #enhypen drabbles #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon smut #park sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen scenarios #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hyung line #enhypen headcanons

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moonlightcycle571 · 7 months ago

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Rock of Eternity Getting Offerings because they deserve it

I like to think that whenever there’s a magical artifact that needs containment, Billy just… takes it. Here is how it started.

Billy, after defeating an evil wizard: so… what do I do with the Staff???

Solomon: it cannot be kept in the world of man, it’s far to dangerous. You must destr-

Achilles: NEW LAMP

Hemrmes: YESSSSSSSS

Hercules: WAR TROPHY

Solomon: that is highly irresponsible, we cannot keep highly volatile objects for ‘the aesthetic’

Zeus: the burning violon

Solomon:

Solomon: well some decor never hurt anyone.

*and*

JL, after a long battle: Finally the foe has been vanquished! Now to find a secure place to stor-

Marvel, yoinks it and yeets it in a portal: done

Everyone present: w h a t

*or*

Amanda Waller: -thus the proof we need to detain you for breaking into secure government location and theft of a classified artifact

Marvel: *points to the screen* that’s not me

Waller: that’s litterally you in a French beret and a fake mustach

Marvel: I don’t know who that is, but they do look dashingly handsome. And look like a Gustavo. Probably a French mime who failed mime class and left on a journey of self discovery.

Waller: you can’t be serious

Captain Atom, fuck the government rn: I don’t know, Cap doesn’t have a mustach

Batman: the mime theory seems like a pretty sold theory to me

Several people (heroes, civilians, villains and all in between) telling Cap was with them as the time at the crime, each of them being vastly different.

Waller: this mf secretly a mass manipulator???

*or*

Cap, fighting in a museum:

Hermès: Ooh I know this pendant. Super magical, super cool.

Cap, on instinct, puts in pocket dimension to put it on the Rock:

Flash: … did I witness a theft????

Wether the pendant was actually magic or just a shiny jewel Hermes wanted is up for interpretation.

Anyways that’s how whenever he finds magical artefacts or books or whatnot, he just puts them in the Rock of Eternity. It’s a logical solution, as it serves as a place to safeguard and examine, and maybe purify some objects to use later.

The Wizard is so done. It started off as ‘dangerous artefacts to be relocated when a suitable place is found’ but then it became the go to storage and all the stuff just stays.

Thé Rock in the other hand, loves it. Getting more and more offerings by their new champion really shows how loved they are. It’s has been way too long since they got any offerings and new additions, so the newest champion giving them plenty of nourishment / stimulation is as if they are being spoiled.

Billy, brings an ancient cursed crown:

Wizard: another one???

Rock, already pushing Wizard aside: FOR ME!!!! TYTYTYYTY OH MY ME YOU ARE GOING TO LOOK SO CUTE WOTH THIS HOLD ONE LET ME JUST REPLACE THE MAGOC WOTH MINE

Five hours later Billy is chilling in one of the thrones with his new crown and one of his magic cape to match.

In conclusion, Billy is like a cat bringing a mouse in the house, except the mouse is actually a rubix cube that sometimes turns into sushi.

Yes Billy did bring a magic rubix cube that makes sushi when completed. Now I kinda want sushi ngl

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #dc #captain marvel dc #too lazy to tag properly #rock of eternity #Billy’s a street kid he has no qualm just taking stuff #Solomon says it’s for the greater good #man can’t be trusted with these #absolute power corrupts absolutely #hermes wants the bling

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marlynnofmany · 4 months ago

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Five minutes later, the adventurer is gone and a Mysterious Wizard is bringing the bandit back from the dead.

Wizard: "There we go, good as new! Nice work with the stick."

Bandit: "I don't think I can keep doing this, boss. I saw visions of my ancestors getting eviscerated by the dragon who that armor came from. It hurt every time."

Wizard: "Oh, silly me; I forgot the amnesia spell. There we go."

Bandit: "Huh, I must have dozed off. Who goes there? Where's my stick?"

Wizard: *off to make more wolves*

Probably the hardest part of living in a video game universe would be that a large portion of the population is constantly dying because they insist upon trying to fight random adventurers to the death and losing

#makes sense to me #worldbuilding #video games #wizards #always blame things on wizards with dodgy morality #it's always logical #anyways this totally counts as my microfiction for the day #and of course now I want to write more about this world #February Fiction Fight

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sunseed-fandump · 4 months ago

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The Tarot from the new trailer has me FLIPPING OUT (Sorry for the shitty screenshot) I was already making an analysis on the previous cards we got, but THIS has really got me doing backflips in my head because of the implications.

Let me explain.

First off, have you noticed that one of these cards is not like the others?

The first card, Strawberry Cookie, is in reverse. She is on the major arcana card XII - The Hanged Man. When the Hanged Man is in Reverse, it represents Delays, resistance, stalling, indecision, stagnation.

"The upright Hanged Man encourages you to pause for a moment and see things from a different perspective. Reversed, this card can show that you know you need to hit the pause button, but you are resisting it. Instead, you fill your days with tasks and projects, keeping busy and distracting yourself from the actual issue that needs your attention. Your spirit and body are asking you to slow down, but your mind keeps racing. Stop and rest before it’s too late. The Universe will only dial up the volume if you ignore it, and as a result, you may end up crashing. So, as soon as you hear the call, clear your schedule and make the space so you can tune in and listen."

Next we move on to Gingerbrave's card: 0 - The Fool.

In the Upright Position, the Fool represents new beginnings, innocence, spontaneity, a free spirit, and adventure.

"To see the The Fool generally means a beginning of a new journey, one where you will be filled with optimism and freedom from the usual constraints in life. When we meet him, he approaches each day as an adventure, in an almost childish way. He believes that anything can happen in life and there are many opportunities that are lying out there, in the world, waiting to be explored and developed. He leads a simple life, having no worries, and does not seem troubled by the fact that he cannot tell what he will encounter ahead."

Finally we have Wizard Cookie's card: I - The Magician.

In the Upright position, the Magician symbolizes logic, desire, resourcefulness, willpower, intelligence, skill, and manifestation.

"When you get the Magician in your reading, it might mean that it's time to tap into your full potential without hesitation. As a master manifestor, The Magician brings you the tools, resources and energy you need to make your dreams come true. Now is the perfect time to move forward on an idea that you recently conceived. The seed of potential has sprouted, and you are being called to take action and bring your intention to fruition. The skills, knowledge and capabilities you have gathered along your life path have led you to where you are now, and whether or not you know it, you are ready to turn your ideas into reality."

So what do these 3 cards mean together? Well, we have someone who is stagnating, who is stuck and unable to move forward. But they go through a rebirth - an epiphany - and start on the path of a new journey. And on that new path they unlock their full potential.

This is Pure Vanilla Cookie's story in the next update in a nutshell!

Sorry for the sorta long post, i just wanted to geek out about this since I love love love it when Tarot is used as a narrative device :)

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #wizard cookie #gingerbrave #strawberry cookie #crk spoilers #spoilers #cookie run spoilers

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s-lorelei · 4 months ago

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I personally feel like Harry Potter is one of those franchises that's been practically corrupted by its fandom.

The fandom should respect the author, but doesn’t.

The fandom has people in it who say:

"I don't trust JKR with her own Intellectual Property."

"She doesn't know anything about the Marauders. The world and characters belong to us now."

"She would just make all the Marauders straight, white, and cis." (Not everything has to be gay? Wtf)

It's HER story. None of you children (or adults with immature minds) have any right to say that she doesn't know her characters. If she hadn't written them in the first place, you'd have nothing to do, would you? There would be no wolfstar or jegulus or marauders era to begin with.

And you guys do understand that Regulus is fucking dead, right? James and Lily got married. Remus and Tonks had Teddy. Sirius was too focused on the delusion that he thought he got his best friend back (through Harry) to give a shit about Remus. Evan Rosier was never important to the plot. Lily is actually an important character. "Pandora" Lovegood doesn't exist in the books (her name is never mentioned except on Pottermore), and, no, she isn't Evan's twin so stfu. Marlene McKinnon is mentioned once (and it's implied that she married a man). Y'all can't even get Dorcas Meadowes's name correct.

The amount of canon-divergence absurdity in fanon culture is appalling.

...

Name mention counter (in the books):

Marlene McKinnon: 1 (twice if you consider "the McKinnons" as a mention)

Pandora Lovegood: 0

Evan Rosier: 1

Dorcas Meadowes: 1

Grant Chapman: 0 (because he is an OC/self-insert)

Mary Macdonald: 1 (in a flashback)

...

Like- there is absolutely no miniscule amount of evidence that Wolfstar could've ever been anything other than old friends. I wish you guys could see that and stop making up plots and delusional headcanons. (And just because headcanons are what "you believe/think about a character" doesn't mean they don't have to be logical and actually fit into the canon story, so I don’t wanna hear it.) 🙄

And before you tell me "if you don't like it then don't read it"— I don't "read it." I don't read ATYD or Crimson Rivers or Art Heist or whatever other fics are out there that you've decided is canon now. I read the real story, y'know, the seven, very much canon, books. And I was gonna read ATYD, but once I found out how y'all treat it as the Holy Grail of the 1970s Wizarding World, I decided it wasn't my cup of tea because I want to read a fic that is canon-compliant, that doesn't push every hot character into a gay relationship, that doesn't have explicit sex involving minors, that doesn't have self-inserts..

Thanks for reading all this if you did.

(This is me venting because I hate so much of fanon and I'm about to crash out.)

If you don't agree or have nothing nice to say about this post, move along and kindly do not engage. Thank you.

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jacquitries · 4 months ago

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In This Life and The Next | J.P.

You were Harry Potter’s best friend, but loss drove you to steal a Time-Turner which accidentally trapped you in the past — before Harry, before the war.

You swore to keep your distance, but James Potter makes that impossible. The past wasn’t meant to hold you, and falling for him was never part of the plan. And yet you did anyway.

(Due to popular demand, I have made a part 2 as well haha. You may read it here.)

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The weight of the past clings to you like a ghost. You were the hidden fourth member of the so-called Golden Trio, an irony that never ceased to amuse you. A Slytherin among Gryffindors, careful with your image, wary of the ever-watchful eyes of your housemates. Most never associated you with them—not in the day-to-day sense—but when the battles came, you were there.

Until it all fell apart.

Fifth year was meant to be another battle fought in the shadows, Another war where your role remained unseen, unnoticed.

But the fight at the Ministry of Magic exposed you. Your parents saw the truth. Saw where your loyalty truly lay as you stood beside Harry, wand raised, defying everything they had tried to make you be.

And then Sirius was gone.

Harry was shattered. You had already lost Cedric the year before, now you had lost Sirius too; and the war had only just begun.

You should have been smarter. You should have been careful.

But in the deafening quiet of loss, desperation clawed at your throat. And so, the Time-Turner was yours.

Or it had been. Before Filch’s mangy cat caught a whiff of your presence, Before the old squib’s voice rang out like a death sentence, Before you turned too quickly, and the fragile magic of time cracked beneath your fingertips.

A light, too bright to comprehend. A force, too strong to fight. And then, silence.

When you wake, the air is wrong. It’s thinner, richer, Like Hogwarts itself has taken a breath it hasn’t in years. Your body knows before your mind does.

The halls stretch before you, Unchanged yet entirely foreign. Time has unraveled, and you with it.

Dumbledore. You need Dumbledore.

Your feet take off before you can even process, A silent incantation for speed, A wish against all logic that this is just a dream. A terrible, cruel trick of fate.

Then, four figures round the corner. Books clutched in their hands, laughter bright as the sun—

You don’t have time to stop. And neither do they.

Impact. A tumble of limbs, parchment scattering like autumn leaves, And suddenly, you are staring into a pair of hazel flecked with gold. Obscured behind glass, but still shining. Still burning.

He’s beneath you, startled and wide-eyed, chest rising, breath mingling with your own. For a moment, the world tilts. And then you remember where you are.

You shove yourself up, heart hammering, muttering a curt, "Sorry." A flick of your hand, a rush of raw magic. Every book, every page, lifts into the air, Falling back into their arms as if nothing had ever happened.

"How—?"

You don’t stay to hear the end of the question. Their voices chase after you, stunned, breathless.

"Wait!" "Come back!"

But you are already gone, racing towards an office where a wizard waits. The gargoyle shifts with a whispered password— Sherbet Lemon. And then—

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle with quiet understanding, A knowing smile curving his lips as he watches you catch your breath.

"To whom," he says, voice like an old melody, "Do I owe the pleasure of meeting?"

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

You sit across from Dumbledore, his piercing blue eyes studying you with the quiet patience of a man who has seen far too much. There’s no point in holding anything back. You’ve learned the hard way that the old wizard always knows more than he lets on. So you lay it all out—the Ministry, your parents, the Time-Turner, the light, the fall through time. Everything.

He listens without interruption, nodding in places, steepling his fingers as he considers your words. When you finish, he reaches for the remnants of your shattered Time-Turner. His expression turns grave as he turns it over in his palm.

“This,” he says, “is beyond repair, at least by conventional means.”

You swallow hard, gripping the arms of your chair. The weight of his words settles over you like a stone. You had held onto the hope, however slim, that fixing it would be a simple matter. That there would be some ancient magic, some forgotten spell, something that could set this all right. But Dumbledore’s voice leaves no room for false hope.

“Other Time-Turners exist, of course,” he continues, “but using them while already displaced in time could be… catastrophic. It is a risk we cannot take.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

Dumbledore smiles gently. “For now, you will remain here. You must be cautious. The future you know is still in flux. If we are to find a way to send you back without unraveling the very fabric of time, it will take patience and great care.”

You exhale, trying to keep the panic at bay. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“You will be a student,” he says simply. “Blend in, keep your head down, and trust that I will do my utmost to find a way forward for you.”

He pauses, then adds, “You are, as it turns out, approximately twenty years early. Voldemort’s influence is growing, but war has not yet darkened these halls.”

The knowledge does little to comfort you. The storm is brewing. You’re stuck in the past, an era on the cusp of war. And the people you know—the people you love—are either mere children or not even born yet.

“To help you adjust, I will have the fifth-year Slytherin prefect assist you,” Dumbledore says, rising from his seat and moving toward his fireplace. He tosses a handful of powder into the flames, calling out, “Evan Rosier.”

You recognize the name instantly. A Slytherin. A future Death Eater. A name written in blood and war.

Moments later, a tall, dark-haired boy steps into the office. He carries himself with an easy confidence, his sharp eyes scanning you with curiosity before flicking toward Dumbledore.

“Ah, Professor,” Evan greets, his voice rich with charm. “How may I be of assistance?”

Dumbledore gestures toward you. “Miss Y/L/N is a transfer student joining us rather late in the year. I trust you’ll help her find her footing?”

Evan turns his full attention to you, flashing an effortless smile. “Well, well. A new face in Slytherin. Don’t worry, darling, you’re in good hands.”

You eye him warily, but there’s no hostility in his gaze, only amusement. You nod, allowing yourself a small, relieved smile. Whatever else he may become, right now, he’s your best chance at surviving this timeline.

The next morning, Evan proves to be as good as his word. He introduces you to his friends—pureblooded Slytherins with sharp smiles and sharper tongues. They are polite but distant, willing to accept your presence without prying into your past. A blessing.

You settle into the routine easily enough. Classes are familiar, though your mind often drifts. You don’t need to listen; you’ve already learned all of this. Instead, you lose yourself in thoughts of how to return to your own time.

You barely notice the group of Gryffindor boys across the room at first, though they certainly notice you. They whisper amongst themselves, occasionally glancing in your direction.

“She’s not in any of our classes,” one of them murmurs.

“Must be a transfer,” another says. “Or a Ministry kid.”

“Doesn’t look like she belongs with the snakes.”

The dark-haired one with glasses tilts his head, studying you as if trying to place if he has seen you before. The one beside him, lounging with an easy smirk, murmurs something you don’t catch, his expression amused. Another, quieter boy watches you with a thoughtful look, while the last fidgets in his seat.

It’s only when Professor Slughorn calls your name that you snap out of your daze.

“Miss Y/L/N, perhaps you’d like to share with the class how one might enhance a Draught of Peace?”

The answer comes to you instantly, your voice steady as you list the ingredients and the precise modifications required to strengthen the potion’s effects. The class falls silent. Even Slughorn looks impressed.

“Well done, well done!” he exclaims. “Such advanced knowledge! You must have had an excellent education before coming here.”

You nod absently, but your attention shifts to the boys, who are now watching you with more interest than before. The smirking one nudges his friend, saying something under his breath. You don’t care enough to wonder what.

Over the next few days, you begin to notice one of them more than the others. The black-haired one—the one with the smirk. Every time you pass them in the halls, he calls out to you.

It starts as playful comments, harmless teasing, but soon it shifts to outright attempts to get you to talk. You ignore him. You never try to learn his name.

Eventually, they corner you in the courtyard, cutting off your escape with easy grins and folded arms. You tense, but they don’t seem hostile—just insufferably persistent.

“So,” the smirking one drawls, tilting his head, “are you going to tell us your life story, or do we have to guess?”

“I prefer my privacy,” you say coolly.

The quiet one studies you with careful curiosity, while the smallest of them shifts nervously on his feet. The one with glasses leans against a pillar, watching you with barely concealed amusement.

“Fair enough,” he says. “At least tell us your name.”

You hesitate. There’s something familiar about two of them—the smirking one and the quiet one. A nagging feeling at the edge of your mind, something just out of reach.

“Only if you tell me yours first.”

The one with glasses grins. “James Potter.”

Your breath catches.

“Sirius Black,” the smirking one adds.

“Remus Lupin,” the quiet one says with a polite nod.

“Peter Pettigrew,” the last one murmurs.

The names hit you like a stunning spell.

James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Peter Pettigrew.

The Marauders.

Something clicks into place. You stare at them, your mind racing. You were supposed to keep your head down. Lay low. Follow Dumbledore’s instructions.

But looking at them now, knowing what’s to come—the war, the betrayals, the deaths—an idea takes root.

Maybe you can change things.

Maybe they don’t have to suffer the way they were meant to.

Maybe you don’t have to let history repeat itself.

You step forward, closing the distance between you, and this time, when you look at them, you allow yourself to truly see them. The boys they are. The men they will become.

And then, you smile—your brightest, most dazzling smile, the one that catches them off guard. The one that makes Sirius falter, James’ confidence flicker, Remus’ breath hitch, and Peter’s ears burn red.

“My name is Y/N,” you say, offering your hand to Sirius but letting your gaze sweep over all of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

For a moment, they’re stunned into silence. Then, Sirius recovers first, a slow, intrigued smirk curling on his lips as he takes your hand.

“Oh,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “this is going to be fun.”

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The Marauders welcomed you into their world with open arms, though not without reason. Your talent in spellcraft and potions—your effortless way of turning theory into something tangible—left them in awe. Sirius, ever the audacious flirt, found your sharp tongue amusing; Remus, the quiet intellectual, respected your mind; Peter admired you from the sidelines. But James... James was something else entirely.

Among them, it was James you understood best. Perhaps it was the echo of a friendship once sacred in another life, or perhaps it was something far more complicated. There was an unspoken rhythm between you, a seamless give and take that made you forget, if only for a moment, that he was meant for someone else. That he had chosen a different ending to his story.

There were moments—fragments of time suspended between heartbeats—where you could swear he felt something for you. The way his gaze lingered a second too long, the way his laughter softened when it was only for you. But you never let yourself believe in those fleeting instances. You knew better. You knew James Potter belonged to Lily Evans.

You watched as he continued his pursuit, his flirtation with her a daily ritual. And though Lily rejected him time and time again, James never faltered, never seemed wounded by the refusals. He laughed them off as if they were nothing more than a game. It was strange—how his persistence never wavered, how he seemed entirely unbothered by her dismissals.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Evan Rosier was a puzzle in his own right. You had grown close despite the lines that should have kept you apart. He did not fit the mold of a Death Eater, at least not in the way you had always imagined. He questioned your loyalty to the Marauders but never pressed. He was observant, though—far too perceptive for your liking.

"You act as if he's untouchable," Evan mused one evening, his voice low. "As if you've already decided how this ends. But tell me—did he ever say you couldn't touch him? Or is it that you've never even tried?"

You scoffed, shaking your head, unwilling to engage in his mind games. "It doesn’t matter. He belongs to Lily."

"And yet, you watch him like you wish he didn’t."

You ignored him. But his words lodged themselves into the cracks of your resolve, and for weeks, they lingered.

Then came the morning everything changed.

James had asked Lily to Hogsmeade again, only to be met with the usual rejection. But this time, she laughed, saying, "The only way I’d say yes to you is if Y/N says yes to Sirius."

A joke. A meaningless quip. But Sirius, ever the performer, turned to you with a smirk and asked for a date to Hogsmeade.

And to the Great Hall’s utter shock, you said yes.

Sirius blinked, stunned, before breaking into a delighted grin. James choked on his water. You paid it no mind.

"Are you serious?" James asked, voice strained.

You smirked. "No, he is. But yes, I’m serious."

Sirius, unable to contain his excitement, immediately turned to Lily. "There you have it! A double date it is!"

James looked... lost.

His easy confidence, the unshakable bravado he always wore like armor, faltered. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around his goblet. For the first time, he seemed unsure. Caught between surprise and something else, something unreadable.

"You’re joking," he said, but there was no laughter in his voice.

You tilted your head. "Do I look like I’m joking?"

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, clapping James on the back. "Looks like Evans is finally giving you a chance, Prongs! And all it took was a little friendly motivation."

James barely reacted. His grip tightened around his goblet, knuckles going white. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something, wanted to protest, but the words never came.

You took a sip of your pumpkin juice, pretending the way he stiffened didn’t make your chest feel unbearably tight.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The day of the Hogsmeade trip arrived, and an unsettling feeling crept into your chest. To see James with Lily—it made you feel sick. You couldn’t do this. You weren’t meant to be part of this story, not like this.

So you asked Evan for a favor.

When the Marauders arrived at the courtyard, Lily was already there, nervously smoothing her robes. James had taken longer than usual to get ready that morning—Sirius had noticed. James had asked too many questions. Questions about you.

Evan approached them, hands in his pockets, looking wholly unbothered. "She’s not coming," he said simply. "Feeling under the weather. Told me to pass the message."

James went rigid. "What do you mean, not coming?"

Evan shrugged. "What I said."

And then, before anyone could react, James was gone, his feet carrying him toward the castle without a second thought.

Lily stared after him, stunned. Sirius exhaled slowly, exchanging a knowing glance with Remus. "Well," he muttered. "That explains that."

In the hospital wing, you lay in bed, feigning sleep, when the doors slammed open. James stormed in, eyes wild, chest rising and falling as if he had just run the entire way.

You blinked. "James?"

He let out a breath, as though only now allowing himself to breathe. "Are you okay?"

"It’s just a bug, James. Madame Pomfrey’s already on it." You studied him, confused. "What are you doing here?"

Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out—raw, instinctive.

"Because you're more important."

Silence.

His own words seemed to catch up with him, his breath hitching as the weight of them settled between you. But then, as if steadying himself, he said it again. Quieter this time, but with even more certainty.

"You're more important."

The world stilled.

Neither of you moved, neither of you dared to break whatever fragile thing had just shifted between you. But then, without another word, James pulled up a chair and sat beside your bed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And just like that, the Hogsmeade trip was forgotten.

The words he had spoken still hung in the air, unanswered, undeniable. But neither of you spoke of them. Not yet.

And so, you spent the day together, in quiet understanding.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The air between you and James had changed. It wasn’t obvious, not something others would immediately notice, but you felt it in the way his gaze lingered just a moment longer than before. In the way his teasing remarks had softened, uncertainty peeking through the cracks of his confidence. In the way your pulse stumbled whenever he brushed past you along the halls, warmth radiating from where his fingers barely touched your sleeve.

You never spoke of that night.

Never spoke of how his voice wavered when he said your name, or how the weight of his words still hung in the air between you, suspended in time, unresolved. But it was there. In every sidelong glance, in the way he hesitated before speaking, in the uncharacteristic silence that followed moments when he should have been boasting, laughing, filling the space with his usual bravado.

Instead, there was hesitation. A quiet uncertainty that made him different from the James Potter everyone knew.

And then one evening, as you lingered in the library, the candles burning low and the soft rustle of parchment filling the quiet, James leaned in, voice lower than usual, almost hesitant.

"Come with me tomorrow night. Just us."

His words were simple, but they carried weight. There was no teasing lilt, no playful grin—just James, asking, waiting.

And because he looked at you like that, like you were something precious, something worth waiting for, you found yourself saying yes.

The smile that broke across his face was unguarded, wide and bright, and for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself enjoy it.

You spent the next day preparing, carefully picking out what to wear, ensuring you looked your best without making it obvious you had tried. Before heading out, you ran into Evan, who gave you a knowing look the second he saw you.

"It's not what you think," you said quickly, adjusting your cloak as if that would somehow make your words sound more believable.

Evan only hummed, crossing his arms. "You need to stop bullshitting me. And yourself."

His words hit harder than you expected, giving you pause. But you shook it off, refusing to let them settle.

James was waiting for you.

And when you arrived at the Astronomy Tower, you found that he had set up a candlelit dinner, the soft glow casting golden light over the stone walls. He had put effort into this, into making this night something memorable. And it was.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. He made you forget, even if just for a little while. But James could always read you, and when your laughter quieted, when something flickered behind your eyes, he noticed.

"It’s nothing," you said, shaking your head.

James studied you, his expression softening. "That’s not true. I see it. And I want to understand because…"

A breath. A hesitation. Then, quieter, steadier:

"Because I’ve fallen in love with you. Irrevocably. Helplessly. In a way I never saw coming and can’t seem to stop."

His words stole the air from your lungs. You were stunned, frozen in place, but then—

Then he moved, slowly, hesitantly, closing the distance between you. His hand was warm when it brushed against yours, his gaze flickering to your lips, seeking permission. And you let him.

Until you couldn’t.

Until the memories crashed into you like a wave—memories of Harry, of the stories, of everything that had been written and everything that was meant to be.

You pushed him away.

James staggered back, eyes wide, hurt flashing across his face. "I—sorry, I didn't mean to—was that too fast?"

"No!" You rushed to say, your hands trembling. "It's not you, James. You’re perfect. It’s just… I can’t have you."

Confusion twisted his features, and he took a step closer. "Yes, you can. Because you already have my heart."

Tears burned at the edges of your vision. You shook your head. "James… I need to tell you something. The truth."

And so you did. You told him everything.

That you were from the future. That history had already been written, and that in it, he was meant to be with Lily Evans. That you were never supposed to be here, in this time, in his life.

He believed you. He believed you were from the future, but what he couldn’t believe was that he would ever choose Lily over you.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I don’t care what’s supposed to happen. I don’t care what some other version of me chose. This me—the me standing in front of you—can’t imagine any future that doesn’t have you in it."

"You have to," you whispered. "Because we were never meant to be."

You turned to leave, but James caught your wrist, his grip desperate. "Please," he pleaded, voice breaking. "Don’t go."

"Let me go, James," you whispered. "Please."

And the moment he saw the tears in your eyes, he did.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

When you returned to your common room, Evan was waiting for you. He didn’t ask what happened. He just pulled you into his arms, and you let him, burying your face in his shoulder as the weight of the night crashed down on you.

Fifteen minutes passed before he finally spoke.

"Dumbledore asked for you."

Your breath hitched. You knew what that meant.

You freshened up, steeling yourself for what was to come, and went to Dumbledore’s office. He greeted you with kind eyes, telling you that the way back was ready—but that you had a few days to say your goodbyes if you wished.

But you hesitated.

"What if I stayed?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Dumbledore studied you, thoughtful. "The laws of time travel suggest that what has happened before will happen again," he mused. "But in your case, I am not certain. Perhaps the previous timeline would cease to exist. But tell me—are you truly willing to leave the people you once knew for the ones you have now?"

And there it was. The question you had been avoiding.

Because if you stayed, Harry might never exist. And that was something you could never risk.

"What happens to everyone here when I leave?" you asked instead.

Dumbledore sighed. "I suspect they will forget you. As if you never existed."

Your heart clenched, but maybe… maybe that was for the best.

You swallowed. "Then let's get it over with."

You twisted the Time-Turner. The world spun, magic crackling in the air, and when it stilled, you were back in your rightful time—twenty years later, in Dumbledore’s office.

He stepped out, his gaze falling on you with quiet understanding.

"I take it my past self was of some help?" he asked.

You nodded. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you remember me? From twenty years ago?"

Dumbledore's smile was sad. "I’m afraid I do not."

And with that, you knew.

James had forgotten you.

Sirius. Remus. Even Evan. None of them would remember.

But you steeled yourself. You had made your choice and you need to find out if he made it out alive. If all of them made it.

So you turned away and went to find Harry.

Because now, after everything, you needed to see him more than ever.

The Great Hall buzzed with idle chatter and the occasional clang of cutlery against plates. The ceiling mirrored the grey clouds above, a prelude to a storm. You walked through the long tables, your steps slow, measured, yet drawn forward by an unseen force. And then you saw them—Harry, Hermione, and Ron, their familiar forms hunched together in easy conversation over a half-finished meal.

Your lips parted before you could think. "Harry."

He looked up at the sound of your voice, eyebrows raised in a question he never got to ask. You closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, wrapping your arms around him before he could say a word. He stiffened for only a second before his arms came around you, warm and firm, holding you as if he knew, somehow, that you needed this more than words. It was the feeling of coming home after a long journey, of stepping inside to a crackling fireplace and a cup of hot cocoa waiting on the table. A safe haven in human form.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. Really look at him.

And what you saw sent a tremor through your bones.

He had his mother’s eyes—there was no mistaking that. But the rest of him…

His jawline wasn’t his father’s. His nose was longer, sharper. His cheekbones more defined, the shadows cast upon them a different kind of familiar.

"Is that really you?"

He gave you a lopsided smile. "In the flesh."

But he could sense something in your expression. A flicker of unease, a question you hadn’t yet found the courage to voice. He glanced at Ron and Hermione before turning back to you. "Let’s take a walk."

You barely registered Hermione’s inquisitive gaze or Ron’s mouth opening in protest before Harry had already abandoned his half-eaten lunch. You followed him, feet moving on instinct, the weight in your chest growing heavier with each step. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched endlessly before you, silent save for the distant echoes of moving staircases and portraits whispering in the background.

For a while, you simply walked, letting the quiet settle like dust on old memories. Then, Harry spoke first.

"Are you okay?"

You exhaled. "It's been a long day."

Your eyes flickered to him again, studying him, mapping his features like an unsolved puzzle.

"Harry… is it truly you?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. "Yes. Of course, it's me. What makes you thing otherwise?"

Your fingers lifted before you could think. You traced them over his face. His cheekbones, his jaw, the slope of his nose. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He knew you needed to do this. And so he let you.

"You look different," you murmured. "Except for your eyes. You still have—"

"My mother’s eyes," he finished for you, a knowing glint in his gaze. "Yeah, I know. Everyone in my family, including my own mum, never shuts up about it."

Your breath caught. "Your family? Your mom?"

He blinked at you as if you’d just asked if the sun still rose in the east. "Yeah. You just saw her last holiday break when you visited me after spending Christmas with your family."

The world tilted beneath your feet.

His mother was alive.

Your stomach twisted as memories crashed into you, clashing, overlapping, rewriting themselves in real time. It was like two versions of history were vying for dominance in your mind, forcing their way into the cracks of your consciousness.

"Your dad is…" The words left you unsteady, a whisper in the storm.

Harry’s response came easily, like it was common knowledge. "Snape."

Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled at your sides. He must have noticed because he chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "Ex-husband, actually. Mum was smart enough to leave him."

Your mind was a tempest now, an unrelenting tide pulling you under. And then, a name burst from your lips before you could stop it.

"What about James?"

Harry’s brows furrowed. "James? You mean my godfather, James? I see him from time to time at reunions, but he's busy being a big-shot Auror."

You didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Confusion? Grief for something that no longer existed—or had never existed at all?

Harry watched you, his expression shifting to something softer, more understanding. "We’re having a reunion this summer at Sirius’s place. If you’d like to come… I could ask my mum."

You hesitated. Did you want to see him? The James Potter you remembered wasn’t this world’s James Potter. He wouldn’t even remember you.

But you knew it would eat you alive not to go.

So you swallowed the lump in your throat, steadied yourself, and nodded.

"Yeah. I’d like that."

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The reunion was in full swing by the time you and Harry arrived, and almost immediately, the whispers began.

"Harry finally brought a date," someone chuckled.

"They look good together, don’t they?" another murmured.

You and Harry exchanged an amused glance. It had started the moment you walked in together—an assumption neither of you bothered to correct. Secure in your friendship, you merely laughed it off, neither confirming nor denying.

But beneath the surface, your mind was elsewhere.

Would he come?

Harry, perceptive as ever, noticed the way your fingers tightened around your drink, how your laughter was a little too light. The first time he had ever seen you nervous.

"Do you want me to ask?" he offered gently.

You hesitated but nodded.

Harry approached a group deep in conversation and, ever so casually, asked, "Is James coming tonight?"

They exchanged uncertain glances. "He’s working a big case," one said. "Not sure if he’ll make it."

Your stomach dropped, but you forced a smile when Harry returned. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. His presence alone was comforting, the quiet support you needed.

The night went on, the hum of conversation, clinking of glasses, and bursts of laughter filling the space. But there was no sign of him.

"Why is it so important that you meet him?" Harry finally asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you possibly explain? You fumbled for something—anything—that made sense.

Then the commotion by the door stopped you cold.

A familiar voice carried over the crowd, casual, teasing, exasperated. "Alright, alright, I know I’m late. Give me a break, will you? I was—"

And then you saw him.

James Potter.

He was older now. A few grey strands peppered his dark hair, and a faint stubble lined his jaw. But it was still him.

Your James.

The room faded into a distant hum as you watched him greet old friends, his easy grin slipping into place like no time had passed at all. You overheard their teasing about his lateness, his quick-witted defense, but your world had narrowed to the man in front of you.

Harry nudged you forward. "Come on. Let’s get you introduced."

Your feet felt heavy, reluctant yet desperate. James and Harry shared a warm reunion, a firm handshake, a clap on the back.

"James, I’d like you to meet someone," Harry said, stepping aside. "This is Y/N."

Your heart pounded as James turned to you. His gaze settled on yours, searching, assessing. He was trying to place you, to sift through the emotions flickering in his eyes. You extended a hand awkwardly, suddenly feeling small.

"It’s nice to meet you," you said softly.

James took your hand, his grip firm, steady. He didn’t let go right away. Neither did you.

He was still watching you. You could see it—something was gnawing at him, something he couldn’t name.

In the background, Harry continued speaking, singing your praises. "Y/N’s the most talented witch at Hogwarts right now. Top of her class, brilliant at—"

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because James was still looking at you, trying to figure out why this meeting felt like something more. And you couldn’t bear it. You dropped your gaze, staring at where your hands were still clasped.

The moment was broken when Lily’s voice cut through the air.

"James! There you are!"

She breezed into the space between you, drawing his attention. The ease with which she called him, the familiarity, was enough to cement reality in your mind.

James didn’t remember you.

The truth hit you harder than expected.

You let go of his hand, stepping back as he was pulled away. Your vision blurred, the weight of memories clashing with the present.

Harry saw it all. Without hesitation, he was at your side, murmuring quiet reassurances, letting you lean into him just enough to ground yourself.

What you didn’t see was James, glancing back at you from across the room, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted.

Something about you lingered in his mind like a half-remembered dream.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The night wound down, guests filtering out in slow waves.

You had resigned yourself to silence, lost in thought, when you felt someone approach.

James.

"Harry, can I steal her for a moment?" he asked.

Harry gave you a quick, questioning look. You swallowed thickly and nodded.

Once alone, James exhaled, shifting his weight. "Have we met before?"

Your heart lurched. "Why do you ask?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "It’s just—" He ran a hand through his hair. "You feel familiar."

A sad laugh escaped you as you turned toward the window. The moonlight caught your profile, casting shadows over your features.

James stiffened.

His breath hitched, his eyes darkened with realization. He didn’t understand it fully—not yet. But he knew.

It wasn’t just unknowing familiarity.

It was yearning.

For something—or someone—he hasn't met. Or perhaps forgotten?

He took a step back.

He shouldn’t be feeling this.

A shaky exhale, then a quick excuse. "I—I should go. I’m needed elsewhere."

Before you could say anything, he turned on his heel and left, leaving you standing in the dim light, aching with the weight of a history he no longer remembered.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

The party had ended, leaving behind only echoes of laughter and the remnants of shared memories. You followed Harry back to his home, where Lily welcomed you with a warm smile. The night air was cool, and exhaustion clung to you as you settled into the makeshift sleeping arrangement—Harry sprawled on the floor, and you curled up on his bed.

Then, a sudden, frantic banging at the door shattered the silence.

Harry bolted upright, his glasses askew as he looked toward the source of the noise. You were already reaching for your wand, but Lily was quicker. She had already made her way to the door, her expression sharp with concern.

"James?" Lily's voice held both surprise and unease as she took in his disheveled state. His eyes were bloodshot, his breaths uneven, like he had been running or crying—maybe both.

"Where is Y/N? Is she here? Now?" James demanded, his voice raw with urgency.

Lily hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. That was when James saw you, standing halfway down the stairs, your grip tightening around the banister.

Without a word, you motioned toward the door. "Let's talk outside."

Lily and Harry exchanged glances before Harry whispered, "Are you sure?"

You nodded, stepping past them and out into the quiet night. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving you alone with James.

He was restless, shifting from foot to foot, his hands clenching into fists and then releasing, like he didn’t know what to do with them. You had never seen him like this—not James Potter, who had always carried himself with unwavering confidence.

Then, he spoke.

"I remember. I remember everything."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought your heart had stopped.

He took a step closer. "You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you."

You let out a hollow laugh. "That's because, for me, it hasn't even been a few weeks."

His jaw tightened. "You left without saying goodbye. You left me in the worst possible way."

You swallowed thickly. "That night... Dumbledore found a way to send me back."

“Did you have to leave right then?” His voice was hoarse, a man grasping at something already slipping through his fingers.

You hesitated. “…No.”

He closed his eyes, as if bracing himself.

“I could’ve stayed longer, but—I thought I had to leave before I let myself… feel things I shouldn’t.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, softer, he said, “I never recovered from losing you.”

You blinked up at him.

Then, James exhaled, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Ever since that night, it felt like something was missing. And I never recovered from it. So I buried myself in my studies and work, trying to forget. But now I know why nothing ever felt right."

You blinked rapidly, trying to suppress the wave of emotions crashing over you.

"The me in that timeline," he continued, "would never have chosen anyone else. And even when I did forget about you... I still didn’t choose anyone else."

His words cut deep, leaving you breathless.

He took a step forward. “Tell me the truth. You and Harry—is it something serious?”

You shook your head. “No. We’re just… good friends.”

Relief flickered in his features, and suddenly, he was unwavering. “Then I won’t let you go again.”

You turned away. “James, we can’t. The age gap—”

“I don’t care.”

“You have an entire life here—”

“You are my life.”

The conviction in his voice undid you. Your resolve crumbled as you finally met his eyes. He stepped closer, hesitated, then cupped your face gently.

“No matter what timeline,” he murmured, “the James standing in front of you will always choose you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you whispered, "And this Y/N would always choose you, too."

Then you kissed. Soft at first, hesitant, as though testing the waters of something that had been building for years. But then it deepened—urgent, desperate, two lost souls colliding at last.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Summer had arrived, bringing with it long days spent with James—wandering through familiar streets, exploring new places, and simply existing together in a way you never thought possible.

Then, one afternoon, while strolling through Diagon Alley, you bumped into Evan Rosier.

He was with his family, looking every bit the composed pureblood he was known to be. James tensed slightly beside you, his Auror instincts kicking in. It was clear he had no desire to associate with Evan, but he knew how much the man had meant to you in another lifetime. So, against his better judgment, he stepped forward first.

"James Potter," he introduced himself, tone even.

Evan gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. "Ah. The Auror." His lips curled slightly. "Never thought I'd see the day."

James smirked. "Yeah, well, life’s full of surprises."

Then Evan turned to you, eyes narrowing slightly. There was something almost searching in his gaze, a flicker of familiarity that had no place being there. He studied you for a beat too long, as if trying to place a memory that didn’t exist.

"And you are?"

You met his gaze, unfazed. "Y/N."

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his stance did—curiosity tempered by something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. He hummed, as if testing the weight of your name on his tongue, then let out a soft scoff. "Thought you had better taste."

James scoffed. "Charming as ever, Rosier."

Evan barely acknowledged him, still watching you with that unreadable glint in his eyes. Then, after a moment, he smirked. "Should’ve figured you'd be the type to steal from a crib."

James blinked. "Sorry—what?"

You rolled your eyes. "He's calling you a cradlerobber, James."

James made a noise of offense, looking at you. "Oh, come on, that’s—okay, you know what, I walked into that one."

Evan looked mildly amused at the exchange, but there was something else now—a quiet intrigue, like an unsolved puzzle. He glanced at the bookshop behind him, then back at you. "Tell me, Y/N—since you clearly have some sense—what do you make of the modern takes on alchemical theory? Half these so-called scholars claim they’re making breakthroughs when all they’re really doing is rewording old work."

You raised a brow. "Depends. Are we talking about research in controlled magical reactions, or are you about to go on a rant about how no one's lived up to Paracelsus?"

That actually made him pause. And then, to your surprise, he chuckled. It was quiet, almost reluctant, but genuine. "Alright. Fine. You have my attention."

His wife groaned. "Oh, Merlin, please don't encourage him—he won't shut up about it for hours."

You grinned. "I wouldn’t mind hearing him out over tea."

Evan studied you once more, that flicker of something unspoken still lingering in his expression. He didn’t understand why he was drawn to the conversation, why you felt oddly familiar—but he didn’t question it either. Instead, he simply nodded, the closest thing to approval you’d probably ever get.

"Tea, then."

Addresses were exchanged, and as you and James continued down the street, you found yourself smiling.

Fate, it seemed, had a way of weaving people back into your life—not as they once were, but as they were meant to be.

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