#Hufflepuff!OC

[cherryria]

Of fears and friendships (Ominis Gaunt x Original Female Character)

The much needed conversation after the “Crucio Accident”. English is not my first language therefore I apologise in advance for any mistakes. Marion sat on a cold floor of the Undercroft, leaning against the wall and trying in vain to stop her tired body from shaking like a falling leaf. It was an awfully long day and surely a strange adventure she would not desire to relive again, as the severe pain from the Cruciatus Curse still lingered in her bruised limbs.

The Hufflepuff could not quite comprehend why she was not spending this much needed alone-time in a safety that the Room of Requirement eagerly provided, yet she once again found herself in a familiarity of the Undercroft. Which, to be honest, did not seem that welcoming now. As if it was forever intertwined in her soul with the image of Sebastian that right now could bring only worries and fear to her mind.

Marion attempted to clear her head of all thoughts, rather concentrating on the warm and tingling sensation of ancient magic flowing through her veins. It seemed to numb the physical pain a little bit but unfortunately could not calm the aching of her heart. It simply could not push away the image of hurt on Sebastian’s face when she declined his help, leaning on a rather worried Ominis instead. It was all too much for her little Hufflepuff heart, too suffocating and incomprehensible, and frightening.

As the tears started to cloud her gaze, Marion suddenly heard the footsteps coming down the stairs and reluctantly turned her head to the old staircase. To her utter surprise the girl witnessed Ominis carefully making his way in her direction.

“I can tell that you are here”, he delicately stated, stopping not far from her tired figure, “Your breathing is way too loud”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ominis”, the Hufflepuff tried to make her voice sound as cheerful as possible, “I did not expect you to visit the Undercroft tonight”, she paused, unsure what to say next, “If you want to be alone, I can go…”

“Actually, I was hoping to find you, that is why I came here after convincing Sebastian to finally have some sleep”, the softness in Gaunt’s voice made Marion smile a bit, “I wanted to make sure that you were in an acceptable condition”.

“I am fine, thank you, Ominis”, she could not tell a greater lie, moreover, the Hufflepuff perfectly understood that the boy would not believe her, but she simply could not find the words to explain every thought and emotion that was running through her mind.

“I may be blind, Marion, but I am not in any way, as you may suspect, stupid”, he chuckled.

The girl took a moment to examine her friend’s tired features, his melancholic gaze, and then she remembered…

“I am truly sorry about your aunt”, she whispered softly, fighting the urge to either hold out her hand to a grief-stricken Ominis or start sobbing from the realization of how awful and lost he might have felt right now.

“I simply cannot believe my ears”, Gaunt sounded almost indifferent, although his voice could not fool her, “You have been struck with a Crucio and somehow still possess the ability to trouble yourself with my feelings”, he smiled sorrowfully, “Oh, what a true Hufflepuff you are!”

“Do not worry about me, Ominis, I can handle my pain”, Marion made a weak attempt to stand, but her body immediately betrayed her, forcing to once more press her back against the wall and painfully exhale.

Her friend stayed silent for a moment, contemplating something, then still without a word sat down beside her, leaving the Undercroft silent for a few moments.

“In fact, I wanted to thank you for protecting me”, the Slytherin boy said, making Marion glance at him with utter confusion, “I understand that it was you who convinced Sebastian not to pressure me any further about casting the Cruciatus Curse”

Marion’s lips formed a shy smile.

“He was just acting irrational and, I dare to say, quite ignorant about the situation. I am sure in his heart he understands how unpleasant that topic must have been for you”

“I am afraid Sebastian thinks that casting Crucio is of the same moral difficulty as opening the locked doors with Alohomora”, pensively admitted Ominis, “His mind is now clouded with finding the way to Anne’s cure, even if it means leaving everything else in ruins”.

“I have heard the rumors of you Slytherins being very determined in achieving your goals”, Marion looked at her friend with a sorrowful expression she was glad he could not see. She knew how deeply the boy despised anyone’s attempts to pity him.

“As you could have witnessed today, my aunt was not an exception to this rule…”

“Ominis…”, she whispered in horror, but he brushed her off.

“I realized a long time ago that something had happened to her”, the boy admitted with a slight tremble in his voice, “Aunt Noctua would not have left me otherwise, as she indeed understood how painful and lonely it was to be different in our family”, it seemed that he was trying to collect his emotions, “To be honest, I have always wondered how her son can be so contrasting to her, so cruelly and maniacally endorsing the family traditions…”

“She has a son?”, Marion repeated weakly, “He might miss her a lot”

“Oh, Marvolo is more than happy with spending time with his father and the pure-blood maniacs I am proud to call my parents”, the venom in Ominis’s voice startled the girl, bringing the desire to soothe her friend’s pain, to make him see he was not alone…

“Ominis, I…”

“Do you think we are going to lose him?”, suddenly asked the Slytherin boy, turning his head to the direction of her quiet voice. He did not have the need to continue his explanation, as Marion immediately understood the root of his worries,  “To be honest, I can barely recognize him lately”

“Sebastian is one of the brightest wizards I have ever met, and I want to believe his mind will not betray him”, it was truly her heart’s desire – to continue believing in Sebastian’s sanity.

“He needs to understand, Marion, that it is Anne’s life, and only she has the right to decide what to do with it”, Ominis sighed and tiredly closed his eyes, “She is my dear friend, I care about her deeply, as she is to me the sister I have never had. Yes, I must admit, Marion, I am very afraid of losing Anne but I realize that we must listen to her desires and not to our troubled minds…”

The Undercroft went silent, the air thickened with sorrow and grief. Marion knew how little Ominis tolerated the unwelcomed touching, and still the Hufflepuff could not stop herself from gently covering his hand with hers.

“You will not lose Sebastian, I promise”, she said, her voice barely a whisper, “We will accompany him on his journey, and we will not let him slip into madness”.

The boy froze, feeling the sudden warmth of Marion’s hand, but did not move away from it. Ominis seemed to have realized the uneasy tone of their conversation, since he awkwardly cleared his throat and turned his silver gaze to her.

“I am so dreadfully sorry you had to listen to my whinings”, he noted, “It looks like this late hour went to my head”

“Well, I must say it is better with you here”, Marion confessed, “I do not feel so strikingly lonely”

“Don’t be a stranger, Hufflepuff”, Ominis chuckled softly and squeezed her hand a little, “I am afraid you will never feel lonely due to the astonishing company of ours”.

[incorrectquotesharrypotterv]

Theo: I cut my finger

Y/n: I can kiss it, so it'll get better

Theo: That works?

Y/n: Yeah, my mum used to do it when I was little

*later*

Theo: I need you to punch me in the mouth

Draco: Fucking finally

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

[noelles-legacy]

Attention all Hogwarts Legacy MCs!

I am starting an MC Sleepover! Everyone is welcome!

To participate just Reblog with an image, drawing, or even a sleepover story with your MC to THIS post

Sharing and “nominating” others is definitely encouraged! I would like as many peeps at this sleep over as possible!💜💙

I look forward to seeing everyone’s MCs in there pjs! 🌙✨

Edit: you do not need to be tagged to participate! Plz do not feel left out if you haven't been tagged, you are still welcome to come!!!

[winterssecrett]

MORNINGS BY HIS SIDE | DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY

ღ Draco Malfoy was a dream, and being able to sleep with him was a dream come true.

Or at least that's how Y/n saw it.

The curtains of the boy's room were open and a few rays of sun started to kiss the pale and soft skin of the Slytherin prince. In Y/n’s mind, he looked gorgeous, with his hair made a mess on top of the pillow, and his lips slightly open showing his calm breathing. God, she couldn't ask for anything else in life.

Sometimes she wondered how she had gotten so lucky.

Moving her eyes from her boyfriend's frame she turned around to look at the clock, it was 06:50 in the morning and they had classes at 08:00, the boy's alarms were gonna start sounding in a few minutes and she knew she was gonna get teased for being once again in Draco's bed.

But how could she not be there? If the boy begged her to stay every night cause he was used to not sleep alone.

Blaise's alarm started to sound annoying everyone in the room, Draco mumbled something in his sleep before hiding his face in his girlfriend's neck, he didn't feel like waking up, and no one was gonna change his mind.

“turn that shit off Blaise or I swear to god I will shove the clock in your mouth and make sure it comes out of your ass”

Mattheo wasn't the nicest person in the mornings, or ever, but they were all used to it by now. Theo moved his head to the other side of the room and let out a huff.

“non riesci nemmeno a dormire, lo so, per l'amor del cielo” (you can't even sleep now for fucks sake)

The noise stopped and Blaise locked himself in the bathroom, Draco started moving again, and Y/n left soft caresses on his back.

“Always bothering us” He murmured sleepily making her laugh

“We have class in an hour” she reminded him softly “We have to get ready”

The blonde shook his head in -no- “I have DADA on my first period, Snape can go suck my father's dick”

“Draco!” Y/n scolded, hearing Mattheo cracking up from his bed

“Sorry love” he quickly said, leaving a kiss on her lips “Why don't we stay here, just you and me, we can sleep a little bit longer and then have Dobby bring us breakfast to bed”

His proposal, his voice, his caresses on her waist, everything was making her say yes. How could she not? It was Draco Malfoy.

“Okay, fine,” Y/n told him watching a smile a pear on his face “But this is the last time”

The blonde nodded rolling his eyes, he started leaving kisses on her cheeks and then along her jaw and exposed neck.

“Fuck, I could never get tired of this”

She let out a laugh “I know, Dray, I know”

Blaise finally came out of the bathroom and Theo was quick to get up with his towel in hand ready to have a shower. Mattheo on the other hand walked to the window and pulled out a cigarette.

“Want some, Y/l/n?”

Draco didn't even let her answer.

“It's not even eight in the morning, Riddle, leave my girl alone”

She just smiled “Go back to sleep, babe, it's still way too early for you”

[spotted-mooncalf]

Garreth: *stirring cauldron* MallowSweet

Mc: MallowSweet *hands to him*

Garreth: Horklumps

Mc: Horklumps *hands to him*

Garreth: Hand

Mc: Like…my hand…? *holds out hand* why do you need this?

Garreth: *intertwines their fingers* Moral support incase this blows up.

[moonstruckmoony]

Sneaking friends into the Room of Requirement 👀 Guess what each of them are saying/thinking?

[syaolaurant]

Because I'm falling into that artblock abyss again and don't have anything new to upload for a whole week so ... Here are some of my full background watercolor/goauche paintings hehe ~~

I've just noticed I used warm colors a lot in my paintings. I think it's because of the school setting 😅

Which one is your favorite?

[monyokami]

Beatrice and Clora (My Mc/ Oc with @choccy-milky 's Mc)🐉

I hope you like the drawing, it's the first time I draw someone else's character. Thank you very much for your permission

[ashdashcrash]

winter at hogsmeade ☃️✨

[speedysart]

Kisses

At first, a fleeting brush with his fingers over her skin, the nervous beating of their hearts til their lips meet in a soft kiss. They didnt dared to move an inch, afraid to ruin the moment. Scared to hurt the other.

But that moment grew over the years. They had to be near, feel the warmth and love of the embrace and passionate kiss. Knowing that their future was right in their arms, forever.

[cherryria]

My Hogwarts Legacy lore

I realised that I need to introduce my original characters a little before posting any following stories. First, our MC – Marion McKinnon.  A Hufflepuff pure-blood witch. Her mother: Ophelia Greengrass – currently having a career as a guest professor in Ilvermorny. Father: Darius McKinnon – a curse-breaker. It was to believe that Marion was a Squib due to her inability to provide even small outbursts of magic when she was little. Her parents realized, however, that it was most likely due to Marion witnessing the magical “accident” involving her grandfather. Her magic healed itself when Marion turned 15, leading up to the events of the story. Second, the original character I completely adore – Catherine Blacksmith. A Ravenclaw Prefect and a pure-blood witch, although her grandfather from the father’s side is a muggle. She is a daughter of Horace Blacksmith and Helena Diggory. Her paternal grandmother was a Headmaster’s aunt, Cassiopeia Black, although when she decided to marry a Muggle, Elbert Smith, she was completely cut out of the family tree. She is friends with Marion, Ominis, Amit and Garreth, and brings a wonderful addition to the dynamic of the story.

[incorrectquotesharrypotterv]

Y/n: I don’t really like people, but you’re okay, I guess.

Theo: I'm your boyfriend.

Y/n: Huh, so that's why.

Theo:

[wrongcog]

I was super inspired by this little comic by @choccy-milky!!

Clora took the death of Sherlock personally.

I love the idea of Clora setting up the Hogwarts official "Keep Sherlock Alive" club, and poor Siobhan isn't aloud to join! Her name brings back painful memory's for them all.

But I hope you like my little take, it was fun to play with a different style, and another hairstyle for Siobhan!

Siobhan @wrongcog

Clora @choccy-milky

[vvatari]

[limonnitsa]

lda sees where it's coming 😵‍💫

I had a silly brainrot in my head based on @choccy-milky 's Seb and my HC one bc "oh so ENTP and ESTP in one room, what can be so bad about it?" And, well, EVERYTHING

Both troublemakers, both don't respect any authority in general, but the first one is good at understanding abstract conceptions, the second one's still smart but more practice-oriented and has a "social butterfly" energy.

They're a mess...