#I've put it on my desk along with pictures of the two aunts I was named for

[carewyncromwell]

"I would heal what's broken -- Show this family something new! Who I am inside, so what can I do? I'm sick of waiting on a miracle, so here I go...!"

~"Waiting on a Miracle (cover) by Scott Shattuck

x~x~x~x

featuring Asa Butterfield as Tristan Cromwell and Dierdre Hall as Lane Cromwell (also Errol Flynn, Judy Garland, Colin Firth, Ioan Gruffudd and Jeremy Irons as Angus, Isabelle, Henry, Francis, and Charles Cromwell) // see the full Cromwell family tree here! // listen to Tristan's playlist!

x~x~x~x

The Cromwell Clan had lived in Scotland for many generations. It's unknown exactly when the very first magical Cromwells arrived in the Isles, though the first notable Cromwell on record was Pendragon Cromwell, back in the 14th century. Among his descendants, Pendragon was renowned for his talent in both Occlumency and Legilimency, as well as for being the first member to possess the distinctive "Cromwell blue eyes" that his family became associated with, despite many of them not inheriting them. To most everyone else, he was best known for wholeheartedly defending Nicholas Malfoy before the Wizard Council, after the man was accused of killing his Muggle tenants and blaming it on the Black Death. And this sort of dramatic split between public perception and familial perception of the Cromwell legacy is typical for many of its prominent members throughout history.

One of the most dramatic splits, of course, was the legacy of Charles Cromwell -- once leader of the magical terrorist organization R, which had terrorized the students of Hogwarts and certain family members in particular in the pursuit of the treasure inside the infamous Cursed Vaults. Charles Cromwell ended up dying in Azkaban only a few short years after entering it: a fate that his son and replacement, Blaise Cromwell, was quick to lament, but just about no one outside of the Clan did. In fact, for his estranged daughter Lane and her children Jacob and Carewyn Cromwell, it was a relief -- Jacob even expressed cold satisfaction upon learning that (in his words) "that old minger is three-feet under, getting eaten up by microbes and fungi, as is proper." After Charles's death, Blaise as Head of the Clan tried multiple times to heal the divide between the Clan and Lane's side of the family, to no avail, in large part because of his refusal to acknowledge the truth of Charles's cruelty.

One can therefore imagine that when Blaise's only son and heir, Tristan, reached out to his cousin Carewyn at work one day in the spring of 2008, it was a bit of a surprise. The request he made was even more of one.

"I need a historian -- a well-regarded one," said Tristan. "And from what I understand, Aunt Lane is one of those. I require her contact information, immediately."

He held out a hand expectantly. Cocking her eyebrows, Carewyn sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Tristan," she said seriously, "Mum has made it very clear that she wants no contact with the Clan. If I give you her address, then I know full well that it could end up in Blaise's hands -- "

"I don't intend to give anything to Father!" said Tristan impatiently. "I wish to go there to speak with Aunt Lane, at once -- as soon as work is over, time permitting..."

"What?! No!" Carewyn's almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed. "You most certainly will not."

Tristan looked incredibly offended. "Excuse me? She's my aunt! She's my family too -- I'm more than within my rights to see her -- "

"My mother is not the sort to take visitors at home, in large part because of the suffering she underwent at the hands of our family, which Blaise still fails to acknowledge," Carewyn shot back. "If you or any member of the Clan wishes to make contact with my mother, then you will speak through me."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Tristan barked. "I'm to be Head of the Clan, and I require an audience with your mother -- you cannot deny me -- "

"Watch me," Carewyn hissed dangerously.

She got to her feet, her hands both spread defensively across her desk. Her height was not at all intimidating in comparison to Tristan's -- he was such a bony, lanky sort that he towered over her, as well as the remainder of the Cromwell Clan, even at just 23 years old. Even so, Tristan seemed to recoil ever-so-slightly, knowing at once that he'd overstepped. His lips coming together, he bit the inside of his cheek and recollected himself. He sighed very loudly. Then at long last, he finally spoke again, much more quietly.

"...Father's not doing well."

Carewyn's brows furrowed.

"He tries to act like everything's fine -- can't let anyone see him as vulnerable, you know...but the Healers told him he has several polyps growing near his colon. They were caught early and the Healers plan to remove them this weekend..." Tristan swallowed. "...but I know there's a 'but' there that Father didn't tell me. I've studied the colon in about a dozen creatures, humans included -- colorectal polyps like that aren't just one and done. More than half of them can grow back in the span of three years...especially if you're the sort of person, like my father, to drink brandy at supper on the regular."

Carewyn considered this.

"...Then you think Blaise...?"

"Runs the risk of contracting colon cancer for the foreseeable future," Tristan said quietly. His blue eyes were downcast as he turned away.

Carewyn's expression lost some of its edge. However much she would never forgive Blaise for all the suffering he'd thrown at her and Jacob over the years and his consistent defense of Charles, she knew Tristan loved his father like no one else in the world.

"Tristan, I'm sorry," she murmured.

Tristan folded his arms behind his back, straightening his posture again as he looked at her out the side of his eye.

"I want Father to step down from his place as Head of our family early," he explained. "He needs to take care of his health, and he can't do that if he's still representing and looking after us in all matters. And I don't know how I'll succeed -- hell, if I could ever succeed in this -- if I have to take over completely on my own, after Father's dead, without him there to help me when things get tough."

Part of Carewyn wanted to reassure Tristan that he would be able to rise to the challenge if he had to. At the same time, though, she also had to admit, it was good that he was thinking ahead and planning for the future, not just waiting for things to happen. It was a rather mature and responsible thought process for someone who often came across as an insensitive, entitled brat.

"But if I'm going to convince Father I'm ready to take over," said Tristan, "I must have a vision for our family going forward. To do that, I need Aunt Lane's insight, as a historian and as one of our Clan's former members."

He reached into his high-necked Gothic Victorian dress robes and took out a healthy-sized red velvet coin purse.

"You may tell your mother that I will pay her upfront for her services, and that I shall treat her like any paying client. All I need is a consultation on our family history, with as much detail as possible. I've done all the research I can internally -- but I need a complete picture from the outside as well, if I'm going to conjure any sort of unifying vision for all of us going forward."

Carewyn considered Tristan carefully. She could see a memory of his long-fingered white hand trailing over an old tapestry of a family tree pass over the back of his eyes.

"You really want an outside perspective?" she asked skeptically. "I doubt Blaise or Pearl would much approve of that."

Especially if it involves anything outside of Charles's pureblood supremacist ideology.

Tristan scoffed. "Well, I kind of need to know what the stupid people say, if I have any chance of mending our family's reputation in the Wizarding World."

His own almond-shaped blue eyes then grew a bit sharper and more serious again.

"...Besides...if I'm going to do what Father hasn't been able to do and mend the rift between my side of the family and yours, I need to know what you lot think as well as what we think."

Carewyn slowly settled herself back into her chair, her lips pursed.

"What we think comes from lived experience and historical proof, not family dogma repeated ad nauseum."

Tristan scowled. After a moment, Carewyn gave a heavy sigh.

"I shall forward your request tonight," she said quietly.

Tristan's pale face lit up with both boyish glee and faint arrogance -- it was this that made Carewyn add sharply.

"I will not convince her in any way to agree, Tristan -- if Mum doesn't want to accept your money, you will have to go find another historian, and that's that."

Tristan didn't looked dampened by this at all. Instead he only seemed to smirk more happily than ever as he shrugged.

"Fine by me."

He turned with a movement that made his dress ropes sweep like a cape. He only paused briefly in the door frame so he could look back over his shoulder.

"Winnie -- "

"That's not my name," Carewyn reminded him curtly.

" -- thanks," Tristan finished without shame, smirking more broadly than ever. Then he cheekily jaunted out the door.

x~x~x~x

Lane took her time considering Tristan's offer when Carewyn contacted her via Floo about it. She took so long, in fact, that she ended up asking Carewyn to come over and sit with her over a cup of tea that evening so she could talk the matter out with her daughter. After an in-depth 2-hour discussion, Lane finally decided to accept Tristan's request.

And so the following day, Carewyn followed up with Tristan at his new corner cubicle at the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau on Level 4 of the Ministry. She found him hunched over his desk, his black bottle-neck table lamp casting dark shadows over his scrunched, pale face as he laboriously drew muscles and bones in white and red pencil over what looked like a beautifully detailed anatomical sketch of a dragon and muttered irritably under his breath.

"That complete ninny Farid -- giving me all this extra work to do hypothesizing the damn thing's wing structure, just because he's too bloody gutless to do some proper dissections..."

"Perhaps your friend thought that ripping a Welsh Green open just to get an inside look at its wing would rightly be considered 'overkill.'"

Tristan looked up to see his red-haired cousin standing beside his cubicle, her arms crossed. His pale, pointed face twisted into a smug smirk as he slouched back in his chair.

"Sikander is not my friend," he said arrogantly. "And I never said kill the specimen -- I'm sure there are plenty of dragon carcasses lying around any stomping ground people aren't determined to mess with. Female dragons kill their mates all the time, after laying their eggs...plenty of dragons get their wings ripped off too, in fights..."

"Charming," said Carewyn drolly.

Rather than pursue this line of discussion further, she leaned her arm on his cubicle to speak to him a little more quietly.

"Mum has agreed to meet with you."

Tristan's smugness faded, to be replaced with complete shock and (despite himself) relief.

"Really?"

"Yes," said Carewyn. "Meet me in the Atrium at 5 o'clock, and I'll Side-Along-Apparate you there."

Tristan blinked. "You're coming along?"

"Only to drop you off inside Mum's house," Carewyn said as she turned to go. "She doesn't want you knowing her address."

"Because she thinks I'll tell Father?" Carewyn could practically hear the resentful, sulky posture in Tristan's voice. "Honestly -- I already told you, I'm not telling him anything! Or do you think I'm lying? You know you can sense my thoughts, right?"

"I do," said Carewyn, "and yes, I know you're not lying. But Mum has become a recluse for a reason: she doesn't want anyone knowing her address, except for Judy, Jacob, and me. You should be glad Mum's all right with you visiting her home in the first place."

She smiled a bit wryly over her shoulder before walking off.

"Piece of advice: shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something. It's something your father has never learned how to do."

x~x~x~x

After work, Tristan met Carewyn in the Atrium, whereupon she Side-Along-Apparated him to Lane Cromwell's new, secluded cottage in Tintagel, Cornwall.

Tintagel was a quaint locale near the far western shore of southern Britain, best known for its castle being identified by Geoffrey of Monmouth as the residence of the legendary King Arthur. Although the village itself was prone to the predictable amounts of tourism, Lane herself had chosen a small cottage in the outskirts of town, hidden from view both by the bounding hills and some strategically placed enchantments, for optimal privacy.

It was certainly the smallest home Tristan had ever visited. He felt like the whole place probably could've fit inside the grand dining hall at Cromwell Manor with no difficulty. He was also startled by the strange smells that greeted his nose when he and Carewyn arrived.

"Mum, we're here," called Carewyn.

Tristan heard the quietest shred of a voice answer from the kitchen, but couldn't make out what it said. Carewyn, however, seemed to have no trouble making it out, for she turned to Tristan with her hands on her hips.

"All right, then, I'm off -- Orion's expecting me at home," she said in a business-like voice. "Behave yourself, Tristan."

Tristan scowled. "Don't treat me like a child -- I'm to be Head of all the Cromwells, soon enough..."

"Not of me, nor of Mum," Carewyn reminded him. Nonetheless she gave him a muted pat to his back. "Remember what I said before -- listen to her."

As she turned to go, she called over her shoulder.

"I'm going now, Mum! Love you!"

Once again, there was the very slightest quiet call back that Tristan could only partially make out as including "love you too," before Carewyn disappeared with a crack.

Tristan looked around the small cottage, his blue eyes narrowed.

What an absolute hovel, he couldn't help but think.

It was clean, he supposed, and it wasn't cluttered, but everything just looked so...worn. Not even old and historical, like the kind of grand tables and armchairs back at the Cromwell Manor -- just tired, used, and lived-in. The furniture was very slightly outdated, the couches had minor stains and were frayed at the corners, and there were claw marks and fur on just about everything. Every window was wide open and framed with white plastic blinds and wooden shutters instead of curtains, and rather than portraits, there were countless personal photographs on the walls that -- rather bizarrely -- didn't move.

It was weird how a space could be so quiet while still so full of sounds: muted steps on tiles, birds singing outside the window, wind rustling a wind chime, a muffled radio broadcast...nothing so unpolished and quaint ever echoed through the grand, endless halls of the Cromwell Manor.

"Mrrow."

Tristan looked down to see a skinny ginger tabby cat walking around near his legs, blinking up at him with bright orange eyes. The Cromwell heir stared blankly down at him.

"What do you want?"

The cat rubbed up against his legs, leaving fur all over Tristan's black trousers. Tristan couldn't help but smirk.

"Spreading pheromones, then?" he asked. "Reckon I'm in your space, so you've got to make sure you're asserting your dominance."

The ginger cat purred.

Tristan hesitated, glancing around furtively. Then, bending down, he actually reached out and tentatively ran his hand over the cat's head.

As much as Tristan had always enjoyed studying animal anatomy, he wasn't used to having any animals around, especially furry ones. The closest thing to a pet that Tristan had growing up was a fake dog skeleton that he'd dressed in a collar and an ugly Christmas sweater and called "Funny Bone."

"His name is Tigger."

Tristan only just barely made out the soft voice of Lane Cromwell that time, and it turned out to be because she'd silently ended up right behind him. He jumped back up to his feet, straightening up at once, as his still-blond, way-too-Muggle-dressed 63-year-old aunt put down a tea tray on the side table by the window.

Tristan cleared his throat, putting on his most detached affect.

"...Don't you mean 'Tiger?'"

"No -- he's named after a stuffed tiger from a Muggle children's book," Lane said amusedly.

Tristan's nose wrinkled at the word "Muggle." Although he'd been forced to work with people from less magical backgrounds through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, he'd still, true to all members of the Cromwell Clan, retained a distinct wariness of Muggles.

Tigger almost immediately wound around Lane's legs, and she stroked his back several times in return before she settled down in one of the armchairs (the one closest to the window) and indicated the other.

"Now then," she said, her voice as quiet as ever. "My Winnie told me that you had some questions about our family."

"Winnie" was Lane's nickname exclusively for Carewyn, same as "Blue Jay" or "Jay" was for Jacob. Lane's siblings Blaise, Pearl, and Claire, however, had co-opted her nickname for Carewyn without permission -- something that even now irked Carewyn to no end.

Tristan inclined his head respectfully before taking a seat. He eyed the chair confusedly when it compressed under him -- he was used to much stiffer chairs at home.

"...Yes. I aim to chart a direction for the Clan, as future Head. Unfortunately there are difficulties in our family that Father has had trouble addressing -- therefore I can't follow his example. And I can't go back a generation, or else I would be following Grandfather's example."

Lane's expression darkened visibly.

"Anyone foolish enough to follow Charles Cromwell's example in anything would deserve the unhappiness they'd receive for it," she said quietly.

Tristan frowned uncomfortably. "Yeah, I reckoned your side of the family would think so. And truthfully, however well Father speaks of Grandfather, I don't have any interest in ending up in Azkaban for the rest of my life. So I need to go back further, if I'm to find any example of leadership for me to take inspiration from."

He fetched something shiny and gold out of the inside of his robes and held it out for Lane to take.

"I wanted to ask about Grandfather's parents, to start with. These are them, aren't they?"

Lane looked at the pair of linked, enchanted photographs -- one of an older gentleman with a thin mustache trying and failing to make eye contact and smile at the other portrait, that of a much younger and more glamorous woman who kept looking out of frame.

"Yes," said Lane, as she considered the portraits. "That's Angus Cromwell, on the left -- and her wife, Isabelle Selwyn-Cromwell, on the right."

"And Angus was head of the family before Grandfather?" presumed Tristan as he looked down at Angus's portrait. "What was his leadership like? Did Grandfather take after him? He -- "

It was only when Tristan noticed Lane was holding up a hand that he realized she'd been trying to talk.

"No," she reiterated for the third time, even if it was the first time Tristan had heard her. "Your great-grandfather was never Head of the Cromwell Clan."

Tristan's brows furrowed. "What? But how can that be, all of the eldest Cromwell men have been -- !"

He halted mid-word. Carewyn's words from before returned to his mind.

"Shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something."

Tristan quickly closed his mouth. Then, inclining his head respectfully, he held out a hand to Lane as if giving her silent permission to explain. Lane's expression seemed to relax ever-so-slightly, and she set about pouring out a cup of tea by hand, rather than with her wand.

"Your grandfather Charles," she said stiffly, "was not the eldest Cromwell son, in his generation. He was the youngest. Yet despite all odds, he convinced his grandfather -- Angus's father, Sinclair Cromwell -- to choose him as his successor...bypassing not only Sinclair's own son, but his older two grandsons as well."

Tristan's brows knit together tightly over his eyes. "I didn't know Grandfather had any brothers..."

Lane smiled a bit cynically. "That's unsurprising. Both of them died before I was born, so your father certainly never met them. He and I never even met Angus -- he passed away the year Claire was born. And Isabelle...well, she was an immature sort. I suppose she saw us more like china dolls my father was collecting than grandchildren she could share stories with."

She poured out a second cup of tea for Tristan.

"It's funny -- Isabelle was just as 'style over substance' as your grandmother Marilyn...and yet the two always detested each other. Perhaps that's a statement unto itself, though. Milk or sugar?"

"Oh, ah...both!" said Tristan. Tea was always prepared without either sugar or milk back at the Cromwell Manor, so the thought of having both was actually a rare treat that made Tristan grin mischievously despite himself.

Lane mixed both milk and sugar into Tristan's tea before handing the cup to him.

"Sounds like Great-Grandfather wasn't anything that impressive, then," said Tristan scornfully, "if he got passed over in favor of his own son."

Lane frowned slightly. "Mm, well, Angus had gotten a bit complacent. He'd ended up with a beautiful young wife and three exceptional sons without much effort...so I daresay he did what many men from wealthy households do: they got too comfortable and started to take things for granted. The eldest Cromwell son had always inherited the role of Head of the Clan before, so Angus expected he would as well."

"Hn..." Tristan said with a frown. Considering he himself had assumed the same thing before, he supposed it made sense that Angus had too. Even so, the boy still scoffed. "Whatever. Great-Grandfather still sounds like an idiot."

"He wasn't an idiot -- just privileged," Lane said mildly. "And admittedly there were a few unpleasant rumors surrounding his young wife and her many male admirers that Angus might've been a little more focused on squashing than on actively catering to his father."

Tristan's blue eyes flashed angrily. "That's a dirty, rotten lie! Father told me that people were just jealous of Grandfather and his talents, and that's why they tried to call him a bastard."

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt if people were leery of your grandfather's talent, especially for Legilimency and Occlumency," said Lane lightly. "But the rumors wouldn't have taken off the way they did, had your grandfather not looked so dramatically different from both his parents and his brothers. He remains the only one of them to have inherited the 'Cromwell blue eyes' that all of us have...a genetic oddity, for every single descendant of one man to inherit such a rare recessive trait."

Tristan crossed his arms. He didn't like this line of discussion at all. Yes, obviously the Cromwell blue eyes would have to be a recessive trait, biologically speaking, but no matter how odd it was that every single member of the Cromwell family starting with Charles all seemed to have the same eyes, it was sickening to consider his grandfather could've been a bastard, given those eyes via enchantment in an attempt to obscure that truth. It made Tristan feel illegitimate himself, in a way -- as if he hadn't been born and raised to take on the responsibility that he knew had to fall to him. That he was determined to take on, for the sake of his father and family...

Lane paused before she spoke again.

"...Would you like to see your grandfather's brothers? I have pictures of them."

Tristan blinked, but nodded. Once Lane had eased herself out of her chair, she crossed the room, Tigger at her heels. She took several framed photographs off of the library shelf and brought them over for Tristan to see.

"This here," she said, handing him the second-largest, "is your great-uncle Henry. He was the eldest son. He would've likely been your great-grandfather Angus's choice to succeed him, had Angus become head of the Clan. He was a Gryffindor alumnus, like your great-grandmother Isabelle -- athletic, broad-shouldered, and stoic...enamored with his family's history, honor, and the ideal of noblesse oblige."

"Sounds like he had a real stick up his arse," Tristan muttered sardonically against the rim of his cup.

Surprisingly, though, this actually seemed to amuse Lane.

"Most accounts I've read of Henry remind me of your aunt Pearl, growing up," she said with a tiny wry smile.

Tristan couldn't help it -- he snorted with laughter into his tea.

"Oh, Merlin," he said smugly, wiping his face on his sleeve, "if he's like Aunt Pearl, then he must've been insufferable!"

Lane smiled a bit more fully. "He was considered to be rather difficult to befriend."

She served out another saucer with just milk and put it down on the carpet at her feet for Tigger to lap at. Tristan considered Henry's detached, uncomfortably stiff posture. He did indeed look nothing like Charles -- his face was square like Angus's and he had very tiny eyes.

"Guess I can see why Great-Grandfather didn't pick him," Tristan said coolly. "Who'd want someone that uptight calling the shots?"

Lane's face grew more serious.

"Oh, that wasn't the reason Sinclair didn't pick Henry," she said with a sigh. "No, he wasn't picked because he was disowned."

Tristan was taken aback.

"Henry fell in love with a Muggle woman and secretly married her after she became pregnant. He wanted to provide for her, but he knew that if his family learned the truth, it would both put her in danger and give him no means to financially provide for her and their son." Lane's lips came together as she sipped some of her own tea. "Not that he ended up keeping it secret very long...your grandfather made sure of that."

Tristan frowned uncomfortably.

"...Well, it wasn't right that he did it, you know," he said defensively, "Uncle Henry, I mean. He never should've disgraced himself, saddling himself with a filthy Mug -- "

"He chose to financially support the woman and son that he loved," Lane said in such a quiet, cold voice that it was akin to ice. "However 'uptight' he might've been, that is worth applauding."

Tristan scowled. "I suppose you'd have to think so, given that you also married below yourself."

Lane raised her eyebrows very coolly before withdrawing to the kitchen, Tigger following promptly behind her.

Knowing he'd offended his aunt but way too proud to out-right apologize for it, Tristan tried to change the subject.

"...So Grandfather told the rest of the Clan about Uncle Henry marrying a Muggle, and that's why he wasn't picked as heir?"

"That," said Lane, "and the fact that he was dead, soon after."

Tristan's brows furrowed. When Lane returned to the living room, Tigger once again at her heels, she was holding a plate of pikelets and jam, which she also put down on the side table.

"Henry was found in the local river a week after he was disowned by the Clan. His reputation had been destroyed with the whole of Wizarding society at that time, to the point that no one at the Ministry or otherwise would hire him. Without any means to support his family, Henry fell into such despair that he drowned himself. Or at least, that's what the common consensus was. The investigation was haphazard. It wasn't as bad as the one into Francis's accident, but still, it was far from detailed."

Tristan frowned. "Francis?"

Lane indicated the smallest picture.

"Francis Cromwell. He was your grandfather's second-eldest brother."

Tristan squinted. It was considerably blurrier than the others, since the subject kept moving, but his pale, smirking, dark-eyed face was framed by a mane of black hair.

"His hair's as almost as messed up as Jacob's," Tristan said cheekily.

Lane blinked in surprise and considered the picture. Then she actually laughed: it was a very hushed, stifled sound.

"Well, no, Jay's always most resembled his father -- but I suppose, yes, there is the slightest resemblance..."

Lane smiled down at the picture of Francis as she helped herself to a pikelet, spreading some jam onto it with a knife.

"Uncle Francis was my favorite to research," she admitted. Tigger jumped up beside her on the armchair, curling up against her leg. "He was a Hufflepuff alumnus, same as Angus, but he was the most interesting of the brothers. Certainly not academic by any means, but he was still widely considered to be resourceful, creative, talented -- a true jack of all trades. He was Vice President of the Gobstones Club and a capable cook. He captained the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for a term after their original captain fell ill of Dragon Pox, and he ended up winning his house the Quidditch Cup that year. He studied French, German...even Gobbledegook, so as to better haggle favorable loans with Gringotts' goblins. Not to mention he was a conductor for the Frog Choir his entire school career. He even briefly worked as a magical creature assistant for Newt Scamander while he worked at the Ministry of Magic."

Tristan's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yes," said Lane eagerly. "Oh, and his artwork. Francis was absolutely exceptional with a pencil."

She paused, her eyes drifting back to the side table.

"...In fact...this was one of his."

Lane finished off the pikelet before reaching out for the last, largest framed picture, which had been face-down on the table. When Tristan took it from her, he was surprised to find not a photograph like the others, but a framed and very detailed pencil sketch of a handsome young man with chiseled features, a dark mustache and beard, and incredibly piercing, light-colored, almond-shaped eyes.

"Do you recognize him?" asked Lane. "That's your grandfather."

Tristan was bowled over. "That's him?!"

He looked down at the sketch again. Even though it wasn't enchanted, it was amazing just how sharp the young Charles's eyes were -- almost as if they were looking right through Tristan, at that very moment. It made the Cromwell heir twitch a bit in his seat despite himself.

"He looks so...young," he said awkwardly. "All the pictures I've seen of Grandfather are of him when he was older."

Lane seemed to empathize with Tristan's discomfort. As she took the portrait back, she regarded the pencil sketch with notable detachment.

"I know. Your uncle Francis sketched that in the summer of 1940, when your grandfather Charles was freshly 22."

As old as I am, Tristan noted. That knowledge felt really weird.

"It was an engagement present," Lane continued as she put the portrait back down on the side table, "to commemorate his engagement to the newly graduated Slytherin Head Girl, Marilyn Bulstrode. Francis told Charles he also intended to draw one of Marilyn to complete the set, once he could convince her to model for him."

Lane's eyes grew a little smaller as her hand absently scratched at the side of Tigger's neck.

"Not that he got the chance. While working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Francis recruited Charles -- the best Legilimens he knew -- to help him deal with a wild Wampus cat he'd been asked to recapture from a Dark wizard who'd been collecting dangerous magical cats off the black market. With his younger brother's help, he succeeded -- but the Wampus cat, after seemingly being safely contained, went wild and not only got loose of its cage, but also let several other wild cats loose in the melee...including a Nundu."

Tristan's eyes widened in shock.

"A Nundu's breath is poisonous enough to take out a whole town!" he said. "How did Grandfather -- ?"

"Oh, your grandfather reacted fast enough to Apparate to safety," Lane said very curtly. "Francis, for some reason, did not. There's still a lot of question about why. But your great-uncle was smarter than people gave him credit for -- he materialized a Bubble-Head Charm around his head, which saved his life. What he didn't predict, though, was just how noxious the Nundu's breath is at close proximity, even when it can't be breathed in through the nose and mouth. And most unfortunately, Francis had sustained several deep cuts on his arms and legs while trying to contain the Wampus. This resulted in the toxins in the Nundu's breath making it into Francis's blood stream...poisoning his limbs from the inside-out."

The anatomist in Tristan was macabrely fascinated, but he'd just taken one of the pikelets from the plate and spread some jam on it so he could try it. To his surprise, it was really tasty, and he got so distracted with spreading some more jam on it and gobbling it up that he neglected to articulate any of the demented questions going through his head.

"Your great-uncle was taken to St. Mungo's, but it was too late," said Lane. "He ended up paralyzed from the neck down -- unable to move and in excruciating pain."

Tristan winced. "Ooh. So that's why Great-Grandfather passed over him?"

Lane nodded grimly. "Your great-uncle languished in St. Mungo's for the next five years, after that. Your great-grandparents did visit occasionally, from what I understand...but after his accident, and especially after Charles took over, Francis was largely brushed aside by the Clan. He was seen as an embarrassment, rather than an asset. Regardless of his talents -- regardless of how well-liked he'd been at school by his classmates and how much potential he'd had...in St. Mungo's, he was seen solely as an invalid, and therefore not worth anyone's time."

Lane looked down at the blurry photograph of the smirking young man again grimly.

"In fact, that photograph is the only one I've ever been able to find of Francis. A witch who'd looked after him in St. Mungo's before her retirement sent it to me, when I reached out to her by owl. She said she'd retrieved it from a box of belongings he'd kept on his bedside table, after he passed away."

Tristan finished his second pikelet, licking the jam from his fingers. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly cleaned off his hands with his handkerchief before he reached out to take Francis's picture again.

He looked determined, actually. His black hair was messy and his shirt was ripped, and yet his collar was fully buttoned, his posture was straight, and his pale, pointed face was fearless. Almost as if he was ready to take on any challenge thrown his way.

Lane tilted her head slightly, watching her nephew look over his great-uncle's picture.

"You know..." she said thoughtfully with a slight smile, "...I don't think Francis looks very much like my Blue Jay at all. I really think he looks more like you."

Tristan looked up at her in surprise. He then looked back down at the photograph of Francis, which smirked up at him, and he saw his own smirking reflection in the glass of the frame.

"...Hm. Reckon he looked a lot uglier after his accident."

Lane cringed visibly at the off-color humor, but Tristan pressed on, undeterred.

"You said Uncle Francis worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, right? D'you reckon there might be some additional information about him in their files?"

"Possibly," granted Lane. "Or, at least, there may be files he worked on -- the Ministry wasn't as good at filing work under individual people back then, since such efforts were often collaborative. And since Francis was never Head of the Department, a lot of those such files might be filed under the men he worked under."

Tristan smirked. "Well, then, I shall require as much information as you can give me about the chain of command at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the 1930's, while Great-Uncle Francis worked there!"

Remembering himself, he then cleared his throat and added,

"...For pay, of course. Name your price."

Lane smiled wryly, her hand running over the purring Tigger at her side. "My standard rate is a Galleon an hour. To unearth a bit more about my favorite uncle, however...I may be willing to halve that -- provided I get first dibs on any photographs or sketches of Francis's that might be recovered?"

Tristan smirked broadly from ear to ear. "It's a deal!"

[strange-dreams-are-made-of-these]

I can't seem to get him out of my head recently, and with the wonderful suggestion from @ironstrange1991, I would like to present to you some headcanons I have on Supreme Strange/838-Strange with the gn!reader.

He has kept most of the people in his life at arms distance after becoming the sorcerer supreme. He was still close with Christine, but their relationship was never the same after his accident.

When Stephen created the Illuminati with Reed Richards, he knew that they had to be selective when it came to the people that would be working in the building. Not only were doctors, scientists, and engineers needed; they also needed people to work on the clerical side of the business.

Stephen, Reed, Peggy, Maria, Blackagar, and Charles were always busy with superhero duties and projects within the Illuminati. It was Susan Richards' idea to interview and pick assistants for the team.

Susan saw potential in you. She was a people person and was known for seeing right through people (She can turn invisible after all). She could tell that you were serious about your work, and your references were outstanding.

She put you with Stephen Strange, MD, and PH.D. Sorcerer Supreme.

The beginning of your partnership was rocky. He treated you as a glorified coffee runner and errand boy. One day, he had been harsh on you. Stephen was having an off day, and when you arrived to his office a minute late with his coffee he insulted you up one side and down the next.

You burst out in anger at him, yelling that you were the only one who put up with his demands and attitude. Nobody else would be willing to listen to his every complaint and not comment back, or how after all of these weeks you still showed up to work determined to make his day as smooth as possible.

After realizing what you had done, you left the building. You were too ashamed of yourself, having yelled at the most powerful being on the Earth over luke warm coffee and missed placed reports.

You never planned on going back to the Illuminati Headquarters until you realized you didn't clear your desk off before leaving. there were pictures there that were important to you along with an old knick-knack your aunt gave you when you were a child.

You returned the next day to the office, the normal time you would normally get there. You figured you would have at least ten minutes to get everything and leave before Stephen Strange would show up.

To your surprise, you found Stephen sitting in your office chair. There were two cups of coffee sitting on the desk, one with his name and the other with yours.

I've never been the most enjoyable person to work with. I want to apologize

You sat in the chair that faced your desk, Stephen remaining in your seat. The two of you conversed the entirety of the morning discussing how both of you had strengths and weaknesses the other had. The both of you slowly nursing the coffees.

After that explosion, the two of you seemed to be working better. In fact, Reed Richards had commented often to Stephen asking how he had a better assistant than he did.

Stephen would give you gifts on your birthday and for major holidays. He took note of what you liked, and stalked your social media to find any hobbies or interests of yours.

You always commented on how incredible the gifts were or how they were too nice to accept.

He would tell you how you deserved them. After all, you had to put up with his attitude and demanding schedule.

Your co-workers would stare at the two of you, and make remarks amongst themselves trying to figure out if you were just working for him or if you were also sleeping with him.

You didn't know about these comments until you attended a staff party. You went by yourself, joining the rest of the personal assistants. they were a good group of friends to have, it was the aids around the office that often stirred gossip.

They approached your group, a couple of them obviously drunk. "We know you're sleeping with Doctor Strange. You need to drop your act and give that position up to somebody who actually works and deserves that position."

You stared at the woman who approached the group. You didn't have to explain yourself to them, but you could not risk Stephen finding out your professional relationship with him had been a hot topic of gossip.

That was when you felt an all too familiar presence stand behind you. That and you say the fabric of his Cloak resting a few inches above the floor. "So what if we were sleeping together? Our productivity times and outcomes succeed those of Dr. Richards."

He watched as the woman's body language began to shrink, taking a step back toward her friends. "If I were you, i'd choose my next words very wisely."

The group ended up leaving, mumbling to themselves as the sulked back to the bar. You had turned around, seeing your friends had left. No doubt they left when Stephen came along, not many people tended to stay around when Stephen was there.

"That was nothing, I swear." You told him, hoping it did not make him upset.

He looked at you, briefly shaking his head. "They were bothering you, no need to apologize."

Stephen then asked you to leave with him, finding the staff party dull and lifeless. The two of you ended up at the Sanctum Sactorm where you had your own little party with Masters Mordo and Wong.

The next morning came, and you felt like you were hit by a bus. As your vision cleared up you realized you were not in your own bed. Looking to your side, you saw Stephen sound asleep. His bare chest was exposed, the both of you covered in a bed sheet. You spotted your clothes mixed in with his just past him on the floor.

Ah great, now those rumors were true.

[albertasunrise]

It's Yours - Chapter 1

Summary: You and Javier have been sleeping together for almost two years but after his name was leaked by the papers, he is sent home for investigation. You remain behind with Steve to catch Escobar but when he’s finally dead, you decide to go after the man you’ve fallen for. You don’t like what you find when you finally reunite with him.

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy 18+

Relationships: Javier Peña x Reader

~

Your nails dig into the strong muscles on his back as he thrusts his hips at a maddening pace, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he chases his release. It was your last night together and you weren’t going to let him go without feeling him one last time and he couldn’t leave without one final taste of you. Pulling his head back his dark, lust-blown, eyes lock with yours and he lets out a primal growl as he feels your walls start to tighten around him.

‘You going to cum for me?’ He asks, in a low tone as he angles his hips so that he’s hitting that toe-curling spot over and over.

‘Yes.’ You moan ‘Fuck.’

You cum hard, screaming his name as tears leak from the corner of your eyes and you pull him right along with you. He collapses beside you, chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath and you chuckle as you roll onto your side to look at him. You both remain silent for a short while, revelling in your post-sex bliss as the sounds of the city drift through the open window.

‘You need to quit smoking.’ You say as you place a loving kiss on his shoulder.

‘I think you may be right Hermosa.’ He replied with a breathy laugh as he turned his head to look at you 'But I don't need to start tonight.' He sniggers as he lights one and takes a long toke, blowing the smoke away from you.

‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’ You ask, smiling sadly at him.

‘A little after 12.’ He replies, turning his head back towards the textured ceiling.

‘Do you need a lift?’

‘Murphy’s driving me.’ He replies coldly, not looking at you as he speaks.

‘Right.’ You roll out of his bed and start to collect your clothes, grabbing his attention.

‘What are you doing?’ He asks, his stomach sinking at the sight of you getting ready to leave.

‘Getting dressed so I can go home.’ You state plainly as you scan the floor for your shirt ‘Isn’t that how it works? We fuck and then go our separate ways?’

‘Can you stay?’ He asks and you look at him in surprise ‘Just for tonight.’ He paused as he gave you a wounded expression ‘Please.'

‘Okay.’

You left early in the morning, taking one last glance at his sleeping form before turning to leave. You knew it was wrong of you to just go, but your heart was aching at the knowledge that he was leaving you and you had to stay behind to finish what he's started. He deserved to see this to the end. Sure he'd made mistakes but he made them for the right reasons. Sometimes you have to do bad things to catch bad people as he would say.

~

One month later…

Staring up at the departures board you see your flight listed just below Murphy’s and you glance at your partner who stood at your side, watching you curiously.

‘What Murphy?’ You grumble as you let out an exasperated huff.

‘You’re going to Texas?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you felt like a change or because that’s where Javi is?’

‘I have family there. I have a ton of leave to take so decided to visit them.’ You lie, shrugging your shoulders ‘Since my parents died, my aunt and uncle are the only family I have left.’

Murphy looks away guiltily. You’ve fooled him. Good.

'What will you do when you get back to Miami?'

'Hold my wife and daughter.' He states as he smiles at the thought of them 'I've missed out on so much.'

'Connie loves you, Steve. She'll be overjoyed to have you back.' You say sweetly as you give him a genuine smile.

'I hope so.' He replies, giving you a slight nod.

You look at the departures board again and see that your flight's terminal is nowhere near your partners so you turn to Murphy and prepare to say goodbye.

‘It’s been a pleasure Stevo.’ You say with a smile as you hug him tightly.

‘Don’t be a stranger.’ He replies, giving your arm a friendly squeeze.

‘I won’t.’ You give him one last hug and then head your separate ways.

'Say hi to Javi for me.' He shouts over his shoulder and you can't help the smile that crosses your lips.

When you finally reach your gate, you take a seat on one of the thinly padded benches and pull out the address Javier had given you on your last night together.

‘This is where I’ll be.’ He’d told you ‘You know… If you wanted to come to see me.’

You’d chuckled at that and told him you'd consider it... Then you’d left early that morning before he’d even woken up because you hadn't wanted to face saying goodbye to him. You’d regretted that move but knew he wouldn’t have cared, you were just fucking after all.

The flight was long and you weren’t able to sleep a wink, your leg shaking nervously the entire time. They'd served the in-flight meal but you couldn't eat a bite, the smell making your stomach turn. When you heard the captain announce that you would be landing in Laredo airport you feel your pulse quicken, palms starting to sweat as your nerves got the better of you. It was late when you landed, gone 11 pm by the time you made it out of the airport and so you decide that you would find a motel for the night and drive to Javier’s father’s ranch in the morning. You rent a car at the airport and drive around the unfamiliar town until you find a semi-clean looking hotel, the vacancy sign flashing in the dim light of night.

‘That’ll be 100 dollars for the night with breakfast included.’ The lady at the desk states, passing you a key with a large wooden tag attached, 101 carved onto it.

‘Thank you.’ You reply as you give her a genuine smile ‘Is there anywhere around here that’s still open where I can get something to eat? Just had a long flight and the plane food made my stomach roll.’

‘There’s a bar down the street.’ She replies ‘Does the best nachos you’ll ever taste.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

You make your way to your room, dropping off your luggage before heading to the bar the girl had mentioned. It was painted a dark red, a neon sign flashing ‘Open’ hanging in the window and you push open the door and make your way inside. Taking a seat at the bar you raise your hand to grab the barman’s attention, smiling as he approaches you.

‘Not seen you here before.’ He says as he smiles at you and you can’t help but notice how attractive he is.

‘I’m visiting some family.’ You reply ‘I hear the Nachos here are the best around.’

‘You heard right. Can I get you an order of those?’

‘And a beer.’ You finish as you give him a genuine grin and he gives you a wink before going off to give the kitchen your order.

You let your eyes scan the bar. It’s fairly busy for a Wednesday night. Mainly men scattered around the various tables and booths, a few women in small groups giggling as they sip their cocktails and you suddenly feel lonely, but the feeling disappeared when your beer is placed down in front of you.

‘So, how come you’re here alone?’ He asks as he leans against the bar polishing a glass.

‘I only landed an hour or so ago.’ You reply as you sip at your beer ‘Noting it’s a favourite of yours yet you’re finding it bitter.’

‘And is there a boyfriend in the picture?’ He asks and you can’t help but blush.

‘There’s a guy.’ You reply, taking another sip of your bitter beer ‘But he’s not my boyfriend. Not sure what we are if I'm honest. We kinda had a -friends with benefits- situation going on but I fell for him. They never end well eh?’ You chuckle and he responds in kind.

‘Shame.’ He replies as he gives you a cheeky grin ‘Would love you take you out.’

Your nachos arrive and sure enough, they are the best you’ve ever had. You chat to the barman, learning all there is to know about Lurado. You talk for a few hours before you inevitably have to leave.

'If things with that guy don't work. Feel free to call me.' States the barman as he hands you a scrap of paper with his name and number on it.

'I will.' You reply as you suck on your bottom lip.

When you get back to your room for find yourself emptying your stomach. You put it down to being jet-lagged and decide that sleep will help but when you wake up in the morning you find yourself hugging the toilet again, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin as you lean against the tiled wall. You brush your teeth and head down for breakfast but every smell that greets you makes your stomach turn and you soon find yourself sprinting for the toilet again but all you can do is heave, your stomach completely empty now.

‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’ You asked yourself as you rinse your mouth and face with water.

Then your mind starts to go over the facts. Your tastes have changed, smells are making you sick.

‘I can't be… can I?’ You ask yourself as you count back the days since your last cycle and your breath hitches.

You're two weeks late.

You practically sprint out of the motel, remembering that you’d seen a pharmacy down the road. You buy a pack of tests and make your way back to the motel, taking it a little slower as the Texas sun beats down on you. You happen to peer into a diner as you approach it and your heart stops when you see who’s sat by the window, smiling at a woman sat opposite. You stop dead in your tracks. Your heart in your throat, stomach twisting in knots as you watch him laugh at something she says whilst he strokes his thumb over her knuckles and he looks at her the way he used to look at you. A server comes to speak to the woman he’s with and he looks up and out of the window, his eyes then locking with yours. You don’t realise your crying but he can see it and his brows furrow as he tilts his head slightly. You can’t look at him a moment longer. You have bigger things to worry about and so you will your legs to move, practically sprinting down the sidewalk to get away.

‘Hermosa?’

You stop dead in your tracks but you don’t turn to face him. You’re shoulders shake as your sobs wrack your exhausted body.

‘What are you doing here?’ He asks and this makes you turn to face him.

‘Seriously?’ You spit, eyes red with tears ‘You should get back to your date Javier.’

‘Hermosa wait.’

‘Don’t you dare call me that!’ You growl ‘You don’t get to call me that. Not now.’

'You left me.' He states and you feel your anger explode.

Without another work you storm towards the motel, stopping by the front desk and asking if you’re able to extend your stay another night. You pay her and sprint back up to the room, pulling out the tests and heading into the bathroom. You're angry because he's right. You did leave him but as you look down at the box of tests in your hands you decide that this is more important right now. You need to know. So you follow the instructions and you pee on two of them, deciding that it's better to be safe than sorry and you place them facing down beside the sink, watching the minutes tick away on the clock opposite the bathroom door. You wait the five minutes it states on the box and turn to look at them, your hands shaking as you close your eyes and flip them over. Taking a deep breath you crack your eyes open and let out a sob at what you see.

Both of them are positive.

A million and one thoughts go through your head. You’re panicking as you think about what to do. Do you tell him? It’s his after all. You’d not been with anyone since he’d left. You sit there and stare at the tests, allowing your mind to think about the future. You growing round with Javier’s baby and you feel a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. What if he doesn't want it? What if he's serious with that woman? You don't want to be a homewrecker. Do you want to keep it? Are you ready to be a mum? You ponder all of these things for a long while as you stare and the two sticks of plastic in your hands. Yes. Yes, you are ready.

‘I’ll tell him.’ You say to the tiny being inside you ‘If he doesn’t want anything to do with you then that’s fine. We’ll be okay on our own.’ You pause as rest your hand on your stomach 'He's a good man your dad but he's complicated. Never one for settling down yet despite us not being an official couple he remained faithful to me for two years and I was to him.'

You shower and brush your teeth, needing to remove all evidence of your rough morning and head out a little after midday. Hopping into your rental car you pull the address out of your pocket, fingers brushing against the positive test you’d decided to bring and causing your heart to skip a beat. You sat there for a moment and imagined what they might look like. Would they have his expressive brown eyes and golden skin tone? Or would they have yours? Shaking your head you start up the car and pull out of the parking lot, following the signs for the area stated on the slip of paper on your lap. His father’s ranch is surprisingly easy to find. It sits a few miles outside of town and you feel your heart race as you make your way down the dusty drive. The house is a decent size. It's well kept with one large truck parked out front. To the left are some stables, two horses grazing in the field beside it and the nicker and whinny when they see you hop out of your car and head towards the house. You let out a shaky breath as pluck up the courage to knock on the door, your stomach doing somersaults as an older man answers and studies you for a moment before he speaks.

‘Can I help you?’ He asks, his accent much like Javier's Must be his father You think to yourself.

‘I’m looking for Javier Peña. Is her here?’ You asked, your voice shaking as you speak.

‘He’s up by the river mending fences.' The man states 'Follow that track up... You can't miss him.’ He states and you nod your thanks before getting back in your car.

'You're her aren't you?' He asks, stopping you dead 'He mentioned that he'd seen his partner from Columbia in town this morning. Also mentioned it wasn't a pleasant reunion.' You turn to look at him as he sizes you up 'He was broken when he left to fix those fences. You best not be going up there to break him more.'

'That's not my intention.' You state and he nods before heading back inside.

You get back into your car and make your way down the road you were told to follow and sure enough, you see Javier. He's adorning the same shirt he’d been wearing this morning, his signature yellow aviators tight jeans. He looks up when he hears the sound of tires on gravel and watches as you exit your car. His eyes follow you as you step towards him, gaze locked to his. He removes his shades as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing and you finally you come to a stop opposite him, your heart thundering so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

‘What are you doing here?’ He asks coldly with a stoic expression.

Your mouth moves but no words leave your lips. You think long and hard for a few moments about what to say to him but decide to cut straight to the chase. You need to get it out there.

‘I’m pregnant Javier.’ You state plainly as you pull out the positive test from your pocket ‘I'm pregnant and it’s yours.’

~

Chapter 2

[final-girl96]

Radioactive Spider Bite

Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: language, vilonce, muture content? Maybe later on?, jealousy, death, idk its marvel... slow updates.

A/N: please don't be rude. Feed back is welcome but be kind. If there is any little details you would like to change to fit your style and personality please do so. This will also be on my WATTPAD along with all my other stories. This begins with Civil War when Peter comes home to find Tony Stark there. It will go to Homecoming, Infinity War, End Game, Far From Home, and then when No Way Home is out and I watch it the story will continue as long as there is a new movie with Spider-Man.

Word Count: 1122 words

Captian America: Civil War

Chapter Two

Mr. Stark walked over to Peter's desk. "Whoa, what have we here? Retro tech, huh?" He said. "Peter's a nerd," I said. "Hey! I am not," he said pushing me a little. "Thrifty store? Salvation army?" Stark asked Peter. "Uh, the garbage, actually," Peter said. "You're a dumpster diver?" Mr. Stark asked bluntly. "Yeah, I was... anyway, look, um, I did not apply for your grant and either did y/n..." Peter said but was cut off. "Ah-ah! Me first," Mr. Stark said loudly. "Okay," Peter said.

"Quick question of the rhetorical variety," Stark said holding his phone up. A screen projected from it showing Peter or "Spider-Man swinging by a guy on his webs. "That's you, right?" He asked. "Um. No. What do you... what do you mean?" Petet stammered. "Yeah," Stark said flipping his phone as another video came up. "Look at you go," he said. "Wow! Nice catch. 3,000 pounds, 40 miles an hour. That's no easy. You got mad skills," Mr. Stark said and brought up another video. "And this... this is both of you," he said. The video showing Peter and I swinging together the day he was showing me how the web-shooters worked just in case I changed my mind.

Peter had his stupid suit he made on and I have black leggings and a tight long sleeve black shirt with my hair up in a ponytail and a simple black mask that went over my eyes. I had my arms around his neck and my legs wrapped around his waist while his one arm was securely around my waist. He had been talking to me and explaining everything step by step. I squinted at the stilled frame and shook my head. "Nope. That... that is not me," I said and looked at Mr. Stark. "Really? And I guess this isn't either?" He asked showing another video of me swinging by myself. I shook my head "nope. Nope, definitely not me," I said.

"That's... that's all you YouTube, though, right? That's where you found that? Because you know that's all fake. It's all done on the computer," Peter jumped in. "Mmm-hmm," Stark hummed. "It's like that video. What it is?" Peter said looking at the projected screen in front of us as Stark looked around. "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Oh, you mean like those UFOs over Phoenix?" Stark said as he took a broom handle and pushed open the crawl space door on the ceiling. Peter's suit falling out on a rope. "Oh, what has me here?" He said. Peter jumped in front of him and grabbed him. Turning his back he shoved it into his closet.

"Uh..." Peter let out leaning on the wall nodding his head. I sat on his bed and flopped back laying down. "Awkward," I said and Peter glared at me. Mr. Stark walked over to him. "So. You're the Spider-ling. Crime-fighting spider. You're Spider-Boy? And you're what? Spider-Girl?" He asked. "No. I'm y/n," I said and rolled my eyes. "Spider-Man," Peter said crossing his arms. "Not in that onesie, you're not," Stark said. "Ha!" I snorted out laughing at that. "It's not a onesie," Peter said and walked over to pick the broom handle up. "I don't believe this. I was actually having a really good day today, Mr. Stark. We didn't miss put train, this perfectly good DVD player was just sitting there... and Algebra test, nailed it," Peter said now standing by his desk. "I'm pretty sure I failed it," I said sitting up.

"Who else knows? Anybody?" Mr. Stark asked. I and Peter shook our heads. "Nobody," we both said. "Not even your unusually attractive aunt?" Stark asked. "No. No. No! If she knew, she would freak out. And when she freaks out, I freak out," Peter said. "That's true he does," I said looking at Mr. Stark who was sitting on the end of the bed in a chair. "You know what I think is really cool? This webbing," Mr. Stark said and threw the little thing he had the webbing at Peter who caught it without looking. "That tensile strength is off the charts. Who manufactured that?" Stark asked.

"Peter did," I said. Mr. Stark raised his eyebrows as he looked over the suit. "Climbing walls, how you doing that? Adhesive gloves?" He asked. "It's a long story. I was..." Peter started but stopped cut off by Stark. "Lordy! Can you even see in these?" He asked holding the goggles up to his face that were attached to the suit. I bit my lip so I wouldn't laugh as Peter glared at me. "Yes. Yes. I can," Peter said taking it away from him and putting this in the small closest. "I can see in those. Okay? It's just that when whatever happened, happened... It's like our senses dialed to 11. There's way too much input, so they kinda help me focus," Peter said.

"You're in dire need of an upgrade. You too," Stark said looking at me. "What? No!" I said but he ignored me. "Systemic, top to bottom, hundred-point restoration. That's why I'm here," he said and leaned against the wall. Peter sat beside me on the bed. "Why are doing this? I gotta know, what's your MO? What gets you outta that twin bed in the morning?" Stark asked. "Me. I get him outta bed," I said. "And you, why don't you do what he's doing? Why are you Spider-Girl?" He asked.

Peter looked at me and looked back at Mr. Stark. "Because..." he stammered a little. "Because I've been me my whole life, and we have had these powers for 6 months. I read books, I build computers. Yeah, I would love to play football, but I couldn't then, so I shouldn't now," Peter said. I forward my eyebrows he never told me exactly why he was doing what he was. "Sure, because you're different," Stark said. "Exactly. But I can't tell anybody that, so I'm not," Peter said. Stark looked at me then and raised his eyebrows. I sighed knowing I wasn't getting around this at all and I was going to have to explain why I wasn't out there with Peter in so ridiculous suit fighting crime.

"I'm not a genius like Peter is. I can barely pass my classes. I wouldn't be passing them if it wasn't for him. I'm more street smart and I'm artsier than him. I take pictures and draw and I don't draw pretty things, I draw dark messed up things. Peter follows the rules and I don't. So what business do I have out there saving people's lives?" I said looking down at my hands.

[almightytallestvoldy]

Aaaaand it seems I didn’t upload Voldemort’s birthday picture from last year either.

“So here we are again. Another new year, and another New Year’s Eve spent celebrating Voldemort’s birthday for me. It’s one of three times in the year (now instead of two, but we’re yet to see the fruit of that labor) where I FORCE myself to make absolutely SURE that I do a piece of art. When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for this year’s picture, I remembered the one major Harry Potter (Voldemort specific, actually) event that took place this year; Harry Potter ALBUS POTTER and the Cursed Child.

(Skip the Italics rant to get on to the art description)

While I have no idea if the general populous even accepts that entry as canon, particularly because of some literally IMPOSSIBLE things in it, and I myself found a great deal of anger and disappointment in the installment, there were a few shining points of wonder and glory, one of those being, imo, our new addition, Delphini Diggory RIDDLE. This is one of those things I’m referring to. There is NO WAY she could exist, at least as stated. No one was aware of her existence, despite the fact that she was apparently born in Draco Malfoy’s house and to his aunt Bellatrix. You’d think that’d have been a detail that would’ve been mentioned when Harry, Ron, and Hermione were captured and in the Malfoy Manor, or, you know, something Draco would’ve known about. So there is no way that’s a true thing. But one thing that definitely comes to mind is the fact that Delphi herself didn’t even know of her own heritage, and didn’t find out until Rudolphus Lestrange somehow managed to get the information to her. Personally I believe it was a final act of loyalty to Voldemort to make sure his child knew her background, and a final act of loyalty to his wife to make that child believe she was Bella’s. I have serious doubts that Voldemort would ever mix his genes with anyone so annoying or mentally unstable. I’d have to see some serious explanations and background of the build up or whatever before I’d buy that noise. But all the same, I love Delphi. I love her sooooooooo much. She, Albus, and Scorpius were the only good things about that toilet paper roll they called an official next installment. I love her for multiple reasons. First and foremost, she validates even the possibility of my own OC’s existence. Secondly, she’s almost an exact carbon copy of her. Delphi is certainly more unstable (which would be the only thing that would make me believe that she’s Bella’s), but that aside, their motivation and behavior are pretty much identical. Delphi’s speech towards the end of the book was almost word for word something that my Vivian had said in various RPs and fanfics. It’s hard not to love a character that I have both already gotten attached to through my own writings, and that puts egg on everyone’s face that ever made fun of me for my idea. Yeah, it’s still a pretty Mary-Sue-ish idea, but now it’s a CANONICAL Mary-Sue-ish idea. I’d like an apology from all those people that judged it so viciously, thank you very much. I’ll pass out numbers, and then you can all line up and I’ll call you to the desk.

ANYWAYS, my heart goes out to Delphi, almost as much as it does to Voldemort himself. She just wanted to know her father, who’s known no earthly love or affection that we’ve ever been privy to. She, too, has spent her life alone and neglected. She was raised in such a way that I know would absolutely enrage Voldemort. She never even went to Hogwarts! She was robbed of the experience he treasured above all others! Of social interaction! Of a standardized, varied education! It’s just the ongoing injustice of the Riddle family. And then they had to go and have her kill somebody and vilify her, too, when this could’ve been a chance for redemption after the massive negligence from virtually every character in the series. Seriously, I could argue a case for everyone, don’t get me started.

So basically now that I’ve got that off my chest, I’ll get back to the actual art. For a while, I considered doing a picture of just Voldemort and Delphi. I wanted to grant them both some respite from their cursed lives. Like, if in just one universe, somewhere out there (which is to say, my cathartic art), that they could be together, and on Voldemort’s birthday, I just thought that would be great. But why even stop there? If I’m talking about my own universe that I have created (now along with @blissomquisling as well), why not include my own OC, who just gained a sister? Or her mother for that matter? Well, the simple answer is that I could think of no reason why not. It seemed wholly appropriate for an updated family photo.

Without further ado:

Left: Delphi. I used the only picture of her that seems to exist for reference: https://goo.gl/images/6CTKAf I tried to make her seem very content at realizing her fondest ambition.

Top-Center: Vivian. Anyone who’s followed me closely for years will recognize my second oldest OC. She’s positively delighted for this influx of family that all love her father. It’d just been her and Nagini for so long. Obviously their ages don’t actually reflect well together. Delphi was apparently born some time in 1998, while (default) Vivian was born in 1980.

Center: I don’t think I really need to say who that is. He’s really having a hard time processing all of this positive attention. But HE was the one foolish enough to believe he could get away with sitting alone on a LOVEseat in a room full of people who LOVE him. Come on, tho, really … He kinda likes it.

Back: Nagaini, of course. You know, I never remember a very clear description of her, other than a massive snake. I wanted her to look real, but not plain, so … greyscale python? Yup. Sounds legit. She’s like the family dog. Everybody loves Nagini.

Right: Nova. This is the other that requires some explanation. As my friendship with @blissomquisling grew, so too did our interests together. Voldemort and the injustice he suffered has always been a great passion of mine, so eventually she started to participate as well. Her oldest OC, Vanessa, is a demi-goddess/the goddess/the embodiment of love itself. Back YEARS ago when FaceBook had that Sims Social game, I made Voldemort for my profile, and she made Vanessa. Through absolutely no bidding of ours, Voldemort was immediately attracted to her, which made perfect sense, as anyone who meets Vanessa falls in love with her as a side effect of being love incarnate. Over the years, it kind of just kept happening. We had them both in Sims 2, and they were drawn to each other. We had them both in Sims 3, and they were drawn to each other. We had them both in Tomodachi Life, and … they were drawn to each other. (They’re actually one of my happiest married couples now LOL). The explanation for this now is that Voldemort sought the power of love, as he claimed to Dumbledore in one of the memories in Halfblood Prince. He had stated that his search had been unsuccessful, and Dumbledore came back that he’d probably been looking in the wrong places. But in our canon, he had in fact located this goddess of love in his wide search of the world for rare magics and hidden powers. He couldn’t help but be attracted to her, but the clincher was that love, being like a force or even an actual, quantifiable thing like a gas or liquid, would be attracted to places where there is less (or none) of itself. That being said, she found this terrible blunder of human kindness, charity, and understanding (someone who had received virtually none of these) fascinating, as well as something that needed correcting. She told him that she would be born to a mortal body, and that they would meet again when she did and what signs to look for. She didn’t know when this would come to pass, however, and the high levels of emotion and endorphins and the like usually make encounters with her dreamlike. By the time Voldemort came to Dumbledore to request the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, he had come to believe that the encounter had not been real, and felt somehow more betrayed and abandoned than before. At least until sometime in the 1970’s when he met Nova on a trip to France.

While residing in the 70’s, she still won’t give up a lot of her 60’s trends, such as her gogo boots, and short bob. She was actually very young when she re-encountered the Dark Lord, but she was not intimidated by him, and immediately struck up friendly conversation. He found her so curious and charming that he kept visiting her. She loves him unconditionally, even if she doesn’t condone all of his actions.

Ugh. I wish I could go on about her forever. She is so delightfully quirky and bizarre. She is seriously one of the greatest characters I have ever had the pleasure of interacting with. But I’m sure by now pretty much everyone has lost interest by now. This is getting into the realm of being more for my own records than anything.

FINALLY

The Loveseat: The horrible 60’s - 70’s pattern is based off of “that couch everyone had.” Yes. You’ve had it. I'VE had it. We’ve all had it. Nova has it. So Voldemort has it, poor bloke.“

Original Posting: https://almightytallestvoldy.deviantart.com/art/Voldemort-s-90th-Birthday-Another-Family-Photo-654695329