#also @ orion i was tempted to write one for YOU

[lord-squiggletits]

An ask for hopefully fun distraction purposes: What are your favorite Megop dynamics to read about or play with when you write?

Since I'm an IDW MegOP enjoyer first and foremost, I really like fics that reverse the usual IDW MOP dynamic (Megatron goads, Optimus chases and reacts) and have Megatron be the one that has incredibly strong horny/obsessive feelings towards Optimus, while Optimus is the one that's more reserved and won't let Megatron get a taste of him until he feels the time is right aslkdlfjksd. I think, especially for IDW, it's easy to get caught up in how devoted Optimus is, in the way that Megatron is the center of Optimus' life both in terms of the war and in terms of making him the person he became, and that relentless belief in the best person Megatron can be. But I really, really like it when that dynamic is reversed: where Megatron is the one that's devoted to Optimus, seeks his attention, feels like he's an inseparable part of his life, etc. Compounded by the fact that the fandom as a whole tends to treat Optimus as a flat character and treats Megatron/whoever OP is being shipped with as more of an individual with depth, with OP just being a trophy husband basically

In general, it's really important for me to maintain their relationship with a push and pull dynamic and to be centered on mutual respect, whether that's through characterization, dialogue, or the usual PWP/kink dynamics. Especially when I get to play with it in the last case, fucking around with underappreciated things like dom bottom/submissive top, switching in general. I'm also a big fan (semi related to the first point) of emotionally constipated Optimus with Megatron being the emotional one trying to reach out. So like.... basically the opposite of what the most popular MOP dynamics are aksldfjlksdlkf

I haven't really written this outside of AEFMB (the BATB AU), but I think interactions between miner!Megatron and Prime!Optimus are suuuuper underrated. I know IDW MOP got canon Autobot Megatron + prewar Orion thanks to the Functionist Universe, but how come no one writes the other way around? It's so cool to imagine, especially since IDW is one of the rare continuities where Megatron began as the shy/unimposing/humble one and Orion/Optimus is a confident jock superhero who already has his own squad of outlaws (and, in the case of prewar M + wartime OP, a literal fucking army). Enough casting Megatron as the hardened/jaded veteran fighter with OP as the sheltered nerd. Give me some shit with OP being the more experienced one and M being the one who needs to come into his own to match him. (And yeah, TF One helped satisfy this urge lol)

Megatron being the Optimus apologist/going "I can fix him," whether it's good guy Megatron (a la MTMTE, Earthspark) supporting Optimus/not wanting him to go down a dark path, or whether it's evil Megatron going "I can corrupt him." Actually, MOP has WAY too little corruption arc action going on. I mean, I understand why, but what the hell is a hero/villain ETL ship without at least one moment where the villain goes "Join me, we would be unstoppable together, please we could basically be married and rule the universe." IDW MOP in particular doesn't have that pre-war friendship dynamic that would tempt M into giving such an offer to OP, but I like the idea of some scenario where M wants to offer anyways. Like I said in the first point, literally just give me a MOP story where Megatron is the one who's horny/desperate/longing for Optimus and Optimus is the skeptical, tsundere one that needs to be persuaded into it.

[cheshiresense]

Anon:

Fandom: Harry Potter (CLV kinda?)

Character or Ship: Hadrian from CLV, I love Hadrian/Orion but that might not work here so it's totally up to you!

AU/Trope: I'd love to see an AU where instead of the CLV dimension, Hadrian is sent to a universe still with BWL!Neville but more similar to canon. Maybe with Slytherin!Hadrian and Hadrian taking some of the other Slytherins under his wing? I just really like the idea of a world where the "good guys" win and instead of (or in addition to) Orion it's the Slytherins who need Hadrian in their corner. Doesn't have to be all of them, whoever you prefer writing is fine. I am also down for bashing if you need to work that in. Thank you!

Tags: CLV AU, Slytherin!Hadrian, Canonical Prejudices, Draco Malfoy Bashing, kind of?, tbh this is more or less how I see him in canon lol but I know he's a fan favourite so fair warning, he's not the CLV version here, at least not yet.

-0-

Author's Notes: Hello, it's been a while since I've worked on these. I think I mentioned before that my tumblr inbox got glitchy so I actually couldn't find the other 6 requests from the last batch of 10 you guys sent in for 5+ Headcanons. So I set up an airtable form instead and got someone to test it, and this was the one they sent. It works, so in the future, I'll toss out a new post with the form link for more requests, and maybe I'll get through them in a timely manner lol.

If you're not in the UraIchi server, then you might've noticed that I've sort of been MIA on the writing front for a while now, the last time I wrote and posted something was like back in May last year, and honestly I've been kind of tired and burnt out ever since, and real life is kicking my ass a bit, so when I do have spare time, all I feel like doing is reading fics or webnovels and sleeping. But the winter hols were a nice break for me, and I've started on a couple new fic ideas and added to some wips on and off over the past few months, so I'm slowly getting back into it, and this 5+ Headcanons prompt was one of the things I've been working on. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into posting fics soon.

ANYWAY, on to the stuff you actually care about: Slytherin!Hadrian, so basically amp up the hardened war vet and dial down the friendship magic XD Way back when I first started CLV, I did consider Slytherin for his House but it felt like everybody did that, plus the politics I would have to get into gave me a headache and I felt like I couldn't do it justice anyway, so I went with Hufflepuff. Slytherin does give me more options to play with a powerful Hadrian who has less morals about flinging that around to get what he wants though since he would be viewed as a halfblood at best and he'd need that currency to make sure nobody messes with him, especially if this universe is more canon than CLV (lbr, almost everybody is at least 50% nicer in CLV lol). So okay, let's give this a spin.

(AO3 Link Here -- I’ll add this to the collection fic on my AO3 to make it a round 15 but this one will be the last for that. If I do more, I’ll start a new fic.)

-0-0-0-

1.

Hadrian ends up being a Hatstall. He sits on the stool for a full seven minutes as the Sorting Hat sifts through his bloodstained memories with a silence so grim Hadrian is tempted to comfort it. Then it proceeds to send back memories of its own, the major points of recent Hogwarts history that would best help Hadrian fit in - Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived; an image of Hadrian's counterpart and an entire family still alive; Quirrell vanquished in first year, a basilisk slain and a diary that bled itself to death in the second, Remus teaching in the third but no Pettigrew in sight; Neville at odds with Potter, Gryffindors at odds with Slytherins, and Death Eater children who hadn't managed to come out of the last war as financially and politically secure as families like the Malfoys, subtly shunned for their parents' sins, while children from the Light side, the winning side, with parents who'd openly defied Voldemort, can do almost no wrong. On the surface, everything looks bright and happy. Beneath it, malcontent and despair bubbles and brews with hardly anyone the wiser, and those who are, are glad to look away.

The Sorting Hat offers no opinions of its own after it is done, only continuing on to extol the virtues of all four Houses while making an argument for why Hadrian would be perfectly suited for each of them in equal measure, before finally leaving the decision in Hadrian's hands.

"Even I cannot be certain where you would do the most good," the Sorting Hat tells him. "Nor do I know which House would do you the most good. There are many children in this school who could use a helping hand such as yours, and likewise, you too would benefit from the same. Who am I to decide which is more important? Perhaps it is most accurate to say that no matter where you end up, who you will help, and who you will allow to help you, a new future will unfold, one made possible only by your existence. Yours is a fate that demands change, Mr. Evans, for better or for worse. But when peril looms on the distant horizon, when our society insists on blind stagnancy, and its people have long stood divided, change is exactly what this world needs. Thus, I leave the choice to you. Where do you wish to go?"

Hadrian says nothing - thinks nothing - for a long deafening minute. The mounting whispers in the Great Hall are easy enough to tune out, and within the confines of his mind, the Hat too remains patiently silent.

The truth of it is - Hadrian is tired. Even now, in this moment, in this place, one year and an entire dimension and seven years away, he still feels like he does on most days— as if he's just walked off a battlefield at the end of one of those kinds of days that can break a man even when you think there's nothing left to break, yet still hyper-alert for the next enemy, the next fight, the next death, because he doesn't know how to do anything else, how to be anything else. On all the rest, of course, it feels as if he never left the battlefield at all.

He is tired, and he honestly doesn't feel like he's capable of helping anyone, not children, not the reflections of his loved ones, and certainly not an entire world that's rapidly revealing itself to be as stuck on a one-way train to hell as his original world had been.

He doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't know how to be one even after all these years, even when other people had always so desperately wanted him to be. A hero, until he'd proven unable to meet their expectations, and then he'd been their villain, right up until they'd needed a hero to stand in front of them again, and round and round and round they'd gone.

The only thing he could never be was just Harry, just himself, and now even Harry Potter is no longer his to claim.

But maybe that's not so bad, not when Harry Potter has always been more story than reality, a patchwork fairytale portrait of a boy, a man, a weapon, a sacrifice, stitched together by every hand except his own.

Maybe Hadrian Evans could be something different.

Gryffindor feels too much like repeating history, and Hadrian would rather not be forced to stare at the majority of those long dead to him day in and day out. Hufflepuff is too prone to crowding together for his liking, persistently eager to be friends with their own members even if they're quick to turn on those who aren't, and Hadrian doesn't think he can bear the overenthusiastic socializing that would require.

 Ravenclaw might be best, a House where even the most introverted can find a home if they have a thirst for knowledge, but at the same time, for a lot of them, once they latch on to a question unanswered or an opinion that doesn't fit their worldview, they won't let go until the question is exhausted or the opinion has conformed to what they consider acceptable, and Hadrian has too many secrets and no more patience to be what others what him to be to fit in with those sorts of people anymore. Besides, he's never quite forgiven that House as a whole. Marietta Edgecombe had been Ravenclaw. Quirrell and Lockhart and Trelawney had been Ravenclaws. Every single one of Luna's bullies had been Ravenclaws. He'd worked with members of that House over the years, taught them back when the DA had been up and running, and even been friendly with some of them beyond just Luna, but generally speaking, he has no positive emotions regarding Ravenclaw. He knows that he isn't being entirely fair, because Voldemort had been from Slytherin, and Pettigrew had been from Gryffindor, and the worst of the lot who'd spearheaded the damaging gossip and baseless accusations incriminating him - first for the Heir of Slytherin debacle in second year, and then the Cup nonsense in fourth year - had all been from Hufflepuff, but still, Ravenclaw simply stands out as that one House that holds no appeal for him.

That really only leaves one place he can go though, and Hadrian finds that he minds that a lot less than he once would've. Slytherin will have its own problems, him being a halfblood at best with a very obvious muggle surname, but Slytherins also respect power, and most of them have the sense to back off if they realize they're picking a fight with an opponent they can't beat. And once that's dealt with, Hadrian will most likely be avoided and left to his own devices, with only the occasional curse to his back to worry about. From a bunch of schoolchildren, that's a negligible issue.

In his head, the Sorting Hat chuckles. "Very well then. If you're sure, better be-"

"SLYTHERIN!"

But Mr. Evans," the Sorting Hat says in the seconds before it's removed from Hadrian's head. It sounds thoroughly amused. "Do not be so quick to underestimate your own heart."

And with that last ominous statement imparted to haunt him, Hadrian stands to lacklustre applause and makes his way to his new House as his tie settles into green and silver stripes.

The briefest of glances over the stretch of the Slytherin table tells him that none of the students seated where most of the fourth-years are gathered have moved to make room for him. That's fine. Hadrian would rather not be boxed in anyway. He takes a seat at the end of the table, smiles at the suspicious first-years around him, and then waits for Dumbledore's opening speech to finish so they can start the feast.

Fifteen minutes later, one treacle tart and a glass of pumpkin juice is all he can manage. He sips at some water for the rest of dinner even as he wishes it was something a lot more alcoholic. He speaks to no one, and no one tries to speak to him, although plenty of prying eyes and sneers of disdain find their way to him throughout the meal.

It makes him feel, Hadrian thinks with some humour, almost nostalgic.

Near the end of the evening, he thinks about going over to the Gryffindor table to find Neville, Ron, and Hermione. But he's in Slytherin now, so he doesn't know how they'll react, and after another moment of contemplation, he decides against it. Not much can embarrass him anymore, but he'd still rather not be put on the spot if the Golden Trio rejects his overture of friendship. It won't help his reputation in Slytherin either if he ends up making a spectacle of himself like that. There's plenty of time tomorrow to see how they'll feel about maintaining ties with a Slytherin without too big of an audience watching, and if they're against it, then, well, it's not as if Hadrian hasn't been living as a recluse over the better part of the past year anyway. He sees no problem carrying on exactly as he has.

Fate sent him here against his explicit permission but she sure as shit can't make him dance.

-0-0-0-

2.

Hadrian ends up shuffled into a dorm room with five very familiar Slytherins - Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. He gets the remaining bed that's presumably been empty since the others' first year, and a very pointed silence coalesces at his back as he starts unpacking his clothes into his wardrobe.

He ignores it. Instead, he absently begins a count of how long it will take for someone - he's betting Draco - to put their foot in their mouth first. He casts a glance at the floor-to-ceiling window next to his nightstand; like the Gryffindor dorms, the room is circular so everyone has a view to the outside, but here, instead of winds and open skies, it's lake water that shimmers against the glass, with the shadows of passing aquatic life flickering by. It's not bad, just different; the ambience of it is almost soothing.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Hadrian hangs up his winter cloak before moving on to his books. They each get a desk too, complete with a mini bookcase, which the Gryffindor dorms don't have. They have to do their homework on their beds or in the common room. How unfair. But at least Hadrian gets to benefit from it now.

Someone clears their throat again, louder this time. Hadrian smothers a twist of a smirk and bends over his trunk again to fish out his towels and toiletries. His more personal belongings can remain inside, although he'll have to ward everything to the nines anyway.

A displeased noise that comes out gilded with that distinctly familiar Dudley-esque whine of a child who's been spoiled since birth and has never known hardship reaches his ears, and then finally-

"Are you deaf, Evans?!" Draco demands, and oh, look at that, Hadrian wins the bet.

He straightens and turns, idly fiddling with a packet of quills as his gaze falls on the blond standing puffed up and bristling by the bed opposite Hadrian's on the other side of the dorm. He looks him over, looks at Crabbe and Goyle bracketing him with twin expressions of oafish scorn, looks at Zabini standing a ways away, watching the whole room with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, looks at Nott who doesn't look at anyone at all.

His attention returns to Draco, considering him for a moment longer before asking mildly, "Did you say something?"

Draco's cheeks flush pink even as he draws himself up and snaps, "You should at least have enough manners to introduce yourself!" His face narrows into a sneer, and Hadrian can almost predict his next words. "But I suppose even that might be too difficult for a mudblood to learn."

For a second, Hadrian wonders if he should tell him he's a halfblood. Then again, it doesn't really matter, and also some people consider halfbloods to be mudbloods too. And now that he thinks about it, the person he is in this world might actually be a muggleborn. But he was homeschooled so at least one of his fictional parents had to have known magic, right? Then again, they could've just been related to a witch or wizard but were muggles themselves. Who knows. Certainly not him since Fate couldn't be bothered to inform him.

"Evans, are you listening to me?!"

Hadrian blinks out of his thoughts. "Yes, I'm listening, what is it?"

Draco glares. His features are so… pointy at this age that the expression doesn't really carry the impact he's probably going for, but Hadrian figures it would be unnecessarily mean to mention it, so he doesn't. Instead, he quickly reviews everything Draco has said, and there wasn't actually a question anywhere in there, as far as Hadrian can tell, but maybe Draco really does want an introduction. Seems like a waste of breath though.

"Is there a point to introducing myself?" He asks. "Everybody heard my name at the Sorting. You even just used it so it's not like you don't know."

Draco splutters as if that wasn't what he expected Hadrian to say. He recovers after a moment and opts to glower harder instead, as if that would hide the way the pink in his cheeks is slowly turning red. Poor bastard. That's what you get when you have a pale complexion and fluster easily.

"Are you actually a mudblood then?" He demands contemptuously.

Hadrian honestly doesn't know, but he can't say that, so he volleys back, "Does Slytherin accept muggleborns?"

He knows they take halfbloods, but he can't remember any muggleborns in Slytherin, although if there are any, he doubts they would be willing to broadcast it, even if it means inventing a magical parent in their family tree.

"Of course not!" Draco refutes, sounding scandalized.

Hadrian can't tell if that's actually true, or if that's just Draco's own belief, but it does make things easier. "Then…" He shrugs. "If you already know, why are you asking?"

A beat of silence passes, then two. The red deepens in Draco's face as he hisses dramatically, "Are you mocking me?"

Hadrian suppresses a sigh. He probably is being too flippant for someone as high-strung as Draco, but it's still a far sight from mockery. He can definitely do better if he wants to taunt someone. Had his world's Draco been this easily riled up? They hadn't even really gotten into any exchange of insults yet. "I wouldn't say I'm-"

He stops.

Across the room, Draco has pulled out his wand, and when he realizes that Hadrian's broken off mid-sentence, the flush recedes from his face, and a triumphant smirk instantly takes its place instead.

"Since you've been sorted into Slytherin," Draco announces, raising his wand with a ridiculously showy flourish that makes Hadrian twitch with the desire to correct his posture. "You should know your place. Mouthing off to your betters is a good way to get cursed around here, especially when you're in the presence of someone like me." He sneers down his nose even as his chin tips up, all peacock proud. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Even the likes of your kind should've heard of my family." He looks smug, as if a mere surname can protect him from anything when it comes down to it. "You'll be staying here for the next four years, Evans, and I guarantee you'll have a miserable time of it if you get on my bad side. But today's your first day at Hogwarts, so I can be generous. If you apologize, I'll let you go just this once."

An expectant hush falls as Draco finishes his little speech. Hadrian doesn't say anything right away, still turning over the packet of quills in his hands, still waiting. When nothing happens after a good five seconds tick by, and the silence gradually becomes strained, Hadrian finally nods at Draco's wand, "So are you going to use that or not?"

The stunned look of outrage on Draco's face is gold.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Evans!" Draco snarls, jabbing out with his wand. "Oscausi!"

Hadrian has time to arch an eyebrow at the choice of a pseudo-silencing charm before he's flipping a quill into the fingers of his left hand. A swipe of his thumb leaves a chain of runes glittering along its shaft, and then he brings it up, catches the oncoming spell with the tip, and swats it aside with a flick of his wrist, all in one fluid motion. His right hand doesn't stay still either as his wand slides neatly into his palm, and a single wordless modified Expelliarmus darts out and attaches itself to Draco's wand.

The white light of the Mouth-Sealing Charm is sent soaring across the room, shattering against the door in a shower of harmless sparks, and in the heavy silence that follows, Hadrian smiles.

He thinks it's a very bland smile, if he does say so himself. At the very least, he's careful to not look too intimidating or too unhinged, the way he can sometimes get, if some of his dead friends were to be believed, back during the war. Nevertheless, it still makes Draco blanch white, makes Crabbe and Goyle shrink back, makes Zabini lean further back into a convenient shadow and Nott go utterly still from where he's sitting on his bed.

Hadrian glances down at the remains of his writing utensil, most of the barbs now burnt black. It was a regular quill after all, not exactly made to withstand so much magic. He looks back up, at Draco who has a white-knuckled grip on his wand, and with his own wand, he gives the other's a tug, just enough to make Draco's eyes go wide with something like panic, but not enough to actually disarm him and - considering the sheer amount of honed intent in the charm that even Draco can undoubtedly sense - most likely bend the wand's allegiance.

Hadrian holds it for a moment longer, and then lets go. Draco staggers back a step, jerking his wand down and reflexively pressing it into his chest as if he's trying to protect it, or maybe assure himself that it still belongs to him.

Hadrian tucks his wand back up his sleeve before stooping down to pick up the rest of the quills he'd dropped. The burnt one goes in the bin by his desk.

Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves. So Hadrian does.

"That took you almost five seconds," He begins almost conversationally as he opens a drawer to stash his remaining quills away. "From when you decided to fire that spell to actually firing it. And that's not even counting all the time you wasted saying the stuff before that, after you already took out your wand. It's stupid. When you draw with the intent to harm, you shouldn't give any warning at all. And the spell itself was slow. You should work on that."

He pauses, and there's still no response, which he supposes makes sense. He doubts anybody here wants to listen to him preach. He should just wrap things up since the plan is moving along so neatly.

"Anyway, this is pretty unfortunate," He switches gears and smiles again, as fit-for-public-polite as he knows how to be. It doesn't seem to make anyone feel better, but he also doesn't feel like he was that heavy-handed earlier, was he? Ah well, can't change anything now, and it's still in line with what he wants so it doesn't matter.

"I wasn't really expecting to make any friends since I know the average Slytherin's views on blood isn't exactly in my favour," He continues in light tones. "But I was hoping that we could at least remain on civil terms and get along as schoolmates, if only because we'll be living together for the rest of our time at Hogwarts. Since that doesn't seem to be possible anymore though, how about we just go with the simplest solution?"

Hadrian surveys the room and smiles some more. "You ignore me and I’ll ignore you. You attack me and I'll retaliate. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Everybody just needs to mind their own business, and there won't be any problems. That's fair enough, don't you think?"

His gaze settles once more on Draco. "Since you're the only one who's said anything so far, I'll assume you speak for everyone in this dorm. Draco Malfoy, right? So then, do we understand each other now?"

Across from him, Draco shivers imperceptibly like a rabbit caught at the wrong end of a predator's line of sight, but he also swallows and nods and gingerly puts his wand away. It looks like it costs him, but - at least for now - he seems both too shocked and too afraid to try anything else.

"Great!" Hadrian says cheerfully before cocking his head as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, right, one more thing."

He lets his smile fall away. Lets his expression smooth over into marble. And then he lets his magic flare, lets the pressure of it roll across the room like the black merciless depths of a storm-tossed ocean, lets it eclipse them all like death come to call, and then he brings it crashing down, not most of it, not even half, because he hasn't forgotten that these are children, that they're still young, and they can learn, they can be better, and Hadrian doesn't actually want to traumatize them permanently.

But he also remembers Draco - his world's Draco - telling him once, in a fit of aggravated exasperation during one of those times when they'd devolved into insulting each other's House traits yet again because they still hadn't understood what made the other tick, but they had also reached a point in their friendship where they'd started trying to, and kept trying.

"Slytherins respect power," Draco had said, not for the first time, but then he'd also added, for the first time, and haltingly as if he hadn't known why he'd had to explain it at all, "How else are you going to know they're worth your time? Or I guess worth befriending, in your Gryffindor terms."

"You don't decide whether or not to make friends based on how powerful someone is."

"Slytherins don't have friends. I only said friend because you're a Gryffindor and you don't understand anything else."

"Fine, you don't decide whether or not to associate with every single person you come across in your life based on how powerful they are either."

"Why not?"

"Why would you??"

"How else would you know they're strong enough to stand with you? Or competent enough to protect themselves? Power is a good starting line. If they're powerful enough, then they won't be afraid to face your enemies with you, and you can trust them to be capable of keeping themselves safe without having to keep an eye on them every minute of the day. Only brainless Gryffindors prefer doing things like throwing themselves in the line of fire and dying dramatically for each other and calling that a win. Let me tell you something, Potter - it's not a victory when you're forced to suffer a loss. You haven't won anything if you're not around to enjoy the aftermath. So the best allies must be ones who are powerful enough to not only achieve their goals but also survive them."

"…"

"Well, I will grudgingly admit that I didn't put quite that much thought into it when I was younger, but who did? …It's what I believe now though. Did I finally get it through your thick skull this time, Potter?"

After that particular conversation, Hadrian had understood a little better, even if he hadn't entirely agreed with it all. But he hadn't forgotten a single word, and Draco was right— as they are, these kids definitely aren't thinking that deeply, but Hadrian thinks that the core of it at least is the same. Slytherins respect power. And he has power in spades, so at the very least, he can make them respect him.

Of course, if that also happens to make them afraid of him, then, well, he was never aiming to be their friend or even ally anyway. So long as they leave him alone, it's fine.

He brings his magic to bear, allows the weight of it to fall and fall and fall, and he watches dispassionately as Draco goes grey, as Crabbe and Goyle's knees buckle, as Zabini flinches back like he wants to melt into the walls, as Nott curls into himself and may or may not have stopped breathing.

Hadrian catches Draco's eye, and doesn't let him look away. "I have no betters. Do I make myself clear?"

He'd spent half his life being beaten down by the Dursleys, told over and over that he was worth nothing, that he didn’t deserve food or clothes or kindness, that he was a waste of space and better off dead. He'd spent a good chunk of his Hogwarts career obliviously dancing to Dumbledore's tune, and then some more of it knowingly dancing to it because what else could he do with a target on his back. He'd spent over twenty years shackled to Voldemort, to his parents' legacy, to a war that had loved him a whole lot more than he'd ever loved it. And he'd been Fate's everything since before he'd ever even been born.

Some days, he wonders if he even knows what freedom is anymore. Or if he's ever known at all.

But one thing he is sure of is that he will never passively tolerate anyone controlling what he can or cannot do ever again.

Draco whimpers something like agreement, like deference, like surrender, and- that's enough. Hadrian reels it all back, all his magic hidden away again, and in the dizzying wake of its abrupt disappearance, Draco collapses, barely catching himself and his dignity with the edge of his bed. Crabbe and Goyle do crash to the ground, while Zabini has to steady himself against his nightstand, and Nott sways like he might faint.

Too much, Hadrian thinks distantly, and tries to feel bad about it because he really hadn't meant to go that far, but his lines in the sand have also long since blurred away beneath a tide of blood and corpses.

Mostly, he just feels tired, and it has nothing to do with his displays of magic tonight.

He breathes. Turns. Grabs a towel and his underwear and pyjamas and pretends everything's fine. It is fine, now. He's gotten what he wanted. "It's getting late. I'll shower first. Won't be long."

And then he's exiting stage right, straight into the bathroom, and it's a relief to close the door behind him.

Of course, that sentiment is one that's shared by probably every single person in the room.

-0-0-0-

3.

Theo is awake before anyone else the next morning. Or at least he thinks he is because he usually is. But everybody's curtains are drawn, and after last night, he doubts anyone was able to sleep right away, if at all, with the exception of their new roommate.

Hadrian Evans. Great Merlin, where had this person even come from? Even just the memory of his magic - vast and endless and utterly uncompromising - pressing down on them like the sky had fallen on their heads, makes his hands want to shake all over again. For a long, suspended, suffocating moment that could've lasted an eternity, Theo could've sworn he was going to die last night. And the most terrifying thing is that he is absolutely certain that Evans hadn't even been trying that hard.

Evans had radiated enough raw power to force all of them to their knees if he'd really wanted to. But he'd held back. He'd only given them a glimpse, just enough to warn them off. The rest of his magic had been out of reach, but present. It was there, reined in and waiting, but the shape of it and the depth of it had felt… unfathomable, as if it had no limits.

And that doesn't even account for the spellwork he had done. Theo had recognized the Disarming Charm, but last he checked, the average Expelliarmus only deprived a wizard of their wand. A more powerful one might send the target flying and even knock them out, but he's never heard of one that can… threaten to disarm your opponent at your leisure and - if Theo wasn't mistaken - force the wand to forsake its owner. Everybody knows that that's always a possibility in a real duel; if you win and take your opponent's wand, then that wand might not work for its owner anymore. But most of the time, you have to mean it, you have to set out with the intent to do it, the buildup of magic in the duel itself gives that intent a foundation, and there has to be an actual possibly life-threatening conflict of interest between the parties too, a real enmity that even last night - however excessive the exchange - shouldn't have qualified. Squabbles between students just don't count. If it did, with the Disarming Charm being taught in school, there would be a lot more students in need of new wands. The only way Theo can rationalize it happening anyway is that Evans must've been strong enough to compel the wand itself to leave its owner.

Pity he hadn't gone through with it in the end. Evans is powerful, but he's also… Theo is hesitant to call him soft, but if it had been Malfoy, if it had been Blaise or even himself or pretty much any other Slytherin, they would've done it. He's unsure of why Evans hadn't.

And then there had been the thing with the quill. Theo can't even explain that, and he'd mulled it over for half the night. He has the… incidental fortune of occupying the bed closest to Evans', so as soon as Evans had ducked into the bathroom last night, and the others had been distracted with pulling themselves together and possibly trying not to wet themselves, Theo had chanced a swift peek into Evans' wastebasket.

It really had looked just like any other regular quill, one that'd been burnt completely black and missing most of its barbs, but it had been a quill. He'd been tempted to open Evans' desk drawer to check the other quills, but - with Evans' ultimatum still ringing in his ears - he hadn't been that suicidal, so he'd refrained. But from what he could recall, the pack it had come from had looked just like the mass-produced writing utensils one could find in any stationery shop in Diagon Alley.

Whatever he'd done though, he had made it look like child's play. A quill and a Disarming Charm, so fast that Theo could've blinked and missed it. Could someone like that really have remained in obscurity all this time? Evans had apparently been homeschooled up until now, and they haven't even attended their first class yet, but by anyone's definition, after last night, he can't claim to be anything less than a prodigy.

It's… unbelievable. And not even because of any of the blood purity ideals that Malfoy likes to preach about. Theo doesn't think much of muggleborns or halfbloods, but he also doesn't think much of most purebloods, so he's fairly certain it's not high society prejudices that's driving his disbelief. It's just… He's never met anyone - not even his father, and Merlin knows Theo's been afraid of him for as long as he can remember - as effortlessly powerful as Evans had shown himself to be, and he doesn't understand how nobody has heard even a whisper of a rumour of this boy before he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

Someone like him shouldn't exist. Or perhaps there has been one, and that had been how the Dark Lord had made so many people bow at his feet or cower in their homes, but Theo had never met him in person, and so all he has is Evans' example to draw from. And not a single witch or wizard whom Theo's ever met could compare.

Has Evans just been hiding himself? Maybe his family hid him before they deemed him ready to face the rest of the world, and he's certainly proven that he can hide it when he wants to. But what kind of family can bring up this kind of wizard? Evans is only fourteen. None of them had thought him anything special before he'd revealed exactly how wrong they were. And he probably wouldn't have done even that much if Malfoy hadn't immediately taken a go at him, always so obsessed with making sure everyone knows he sits at the top of the food chain.

Well, he certainly doesn't anymore, and if Theo hadn't been caught up in the confrontation last night just like everyone else, he would've been tempted to applaud the spectacle of Malfoy being taken down a peg or ten. Before Evans' arrival, Theo was the one Malfoy liked to take jabs at every few days, and it was only partly because he'd had a halfblood mother. The Notts could've been said to be respectably rich once upon a time, but after the war had ended, with his father's political clout being almost nonexistent and most of their extended relatives either dead or in Azkaban, they'd been easy pickings for the Aurors. His father had escaped prison time with the Imperius excuse and some bribes, but that hadn't prevented multiple raids on their home and a hefty list of fines that had left their vaults near-depleted. And what little fortune they have left is reserved almost entirely for Theo's father's alchemy obsession that's more often focused on illegal research topics than not, as well as his black market dealings, although neither of those at least is widely known, or who knows if they would even have their ancestral manor left after the Aurors were done with them?

Malfoy loved reminding him of almost every one of those things as often as he could, and the most absurd thing is that - more than being born from a halfblood mother or poverty or loss of prestige - Theo's pretty sure Malfoy's biggest reason for disliking Theo is because Theo had refused to follow him around like Crabbe and Goyle back in first year.

So here they are now, and after three years, Theo had more or less become inured, not to mention it wasn't as if Malfoy only bullied him, or even bullied him the most - nobody could top that list while Potter and Weasley were around to fight for first place on it - but it had still been annoying and stressful because Theo was the only one who had to share a dorm with him. Considering the Malfoys' standing in society however, all he could ever do was stay silent and bear with it.

Admittedly, he'd been a little happy when Evans had been sorted into Slytherin, because between Theo and an unknown halfblood-at-best with no allies and no significant family background to speak of, the perfect prey in every way, Malfoy would definitely enjoy targeting the latter more, and even if the blond ponce still came after Theo, it would at least take some of the pressure off of him.

Now… well. That will still probably pick back up sooner or later, but Theo resents it less when he thinks about how it will take at least a few weeks before Malfoy will be able to strut around again after last night's humiliation. And also…

He thinks again of last night, of how Evans had basically smacked Malfoy down like he was nothing more than an unruly upstart getting above himself, and of that quiet oath too - I have no betters - and it hadn't even been pride or arrogance or superiority, only stone-cold certain fact.

He thinks of the fear he'd felt, but behind that, beneath that, more than that, there had also been nothing less than a breathless, heady, wondrous sense of reverence that had settled itself behind his ribcage, in his lungs, in the sudden hungry swell of curiosity that he'd just barely managed to lock behind his teeth, and it had only grown stronger after a night of fitful sleep.

He wants to see that magic again. He wants to know what else Evans can do.

And most importantly, he wants to know if he can do it too.

-0-

Ten minutes later, Theo hears Evans pull his bed curtains back. Very cautiously, he twitches his own curtains open half an inch to watch Evans get up, stretching languidly and scrubbing a hand through his messy black hair before gathering up his toiletries and a change of clothes. Like this, he looks completely normal, nothing at all like someone who could flatten all five of his roommates with a thoughtless flex of his magic. Even his eyes are just green now, no longer glowing like the light of a Killing Curse.

Of course, then Evans waves a hand at his window curtains, which obediently sweep open in response, and… yes, why not? Wandless magic seems par for the course for Evans, even if Theo has only ever heard of a handful of seventh-years capable of some very basic wandless spells if they concentrate hard enough.

Evans leaves for the bathroom as if casual uses of wandless magic is an everyday occurrence for him, and only after the door has closed does Theo let himself relax.

Evans had never even glanced over, but somehow, Theo thinks the other boy had known he was being watched anyway. But he'd said nothing, hadn't even given any indication that he'd noticed, let alone minded. Theo still isn't sure why he'd let Malfoy off so easily yesterday - because on hindsight, when it came down to it, all Evans had really done was scare them and scare Malfoy most of all; despite the verbal abuse and even the Dark charm Malfoy had shot at him, Evans hadn't actually hurt any of them in return - and Theo doesn't get it but maybe part of it is just because Evans doesn't take offence easily.

It seems unwise to Theo to not at least dole out some injuries as a reminder when that offence had been as insolent as Malfoy's, but perhaps Evans has his own measure of such things. Besides, Malfoy's known to say worse. Theo's looking forward to what happens if Malfoy forgets himself and says something even more loathsome. It's not impossible. Malfoy has been unchallenged since he came to Hogwarts. He's used to saying and doing whatever he wants, even to the upper years and those outside his own House. Most people ignore him when they can and indulge him when they can't, or otherwise manage or placate him with their own methods, but the one thing no one has ever done is tell him no, tell him to stop and make it stick. Potter and Weasley tend to give as good as they get, what with how short their tempers are, but they're louder and more obvious about it, so they get caught more often, which just makes them even angrier, so it never actually feels like they win, even when Malfoy doesn't either. Certainly, no amount of lectures or point loss has managed to deflate his ego.

But now there's Hadrian Evans. Theo doesn't need a second demonstration to know that Malfoy is outclassed in every way, but funnily enough, Malfoy himself might need it.

Theo eyes the bathroom door for a moment longer before finally getting up himself. He's barely set his feet on the rug before Blaise - in the bed on Theo's other side - also whips open his curtains, looking far more alert than he ever has this early in the morning.

For several seconds, they stare at each other in silence. And then - because he isn't sure if the other three boys in the room are awake yet - Theo pitches his voice even lower than usual and says, "He said Malfoy spoke for us."

Blaise blinks twice, and then something like distaste curves up at one corner of his mouth. "I heard."

Theo nods. They're on the same page then. Neither of them is particularly keen on this opinion that Evans has regrettably formed, Theo because of obvious reasons, and Blaise because he's Blaise.

Blaise has always been strange. He's the type who gets along with everyone and gets along with no one. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone - biased Gryffindors aside - who would say a bad word about him, but they'd probably have to think a while if you asked them to describe something of personal significance about him too. It's not that he's average - he's never failed a class, and he's especially good at Potions - but for all that he can carry a conversation in a way that makes everyone feel comfortable and included, and he could probably talk rings around a politician without making them feel stupid, he also never lets anyone close enough to actually get to know him. He's approachable, but only when he wants you to approach him. He's generous with his smiles, but sometimes, it feels a little like he's laughing at you. He might say something condescending or spiteful to you one day, but he has the kind of charisma that makes you forget that the very next. People might call him friend and invite him over for a chat or a game of chess, but most don't make any attempts to go beyond that. And if you know what to look for, as Theo has learned to do, you would realize - Blaise views the world like it's one big boring joke, and his estimation of most of the people in it is probably somewhere around the level of dancing clowns.

Theo doesn't mind. The two of them aren't friends either. They're also not enemies though, and occasionally, they can be allies, but only when Blaise feels like it. Sometimes, the other boy will distract Malfoy from messing up Theo's potion in class or launching yet another diatribe on all of Theo's deficiencies, but Theo will never ask him to because he has nothing to repay Blaise with.

It works for them. Blaise does what Blaise wants, and even Malfoy can't control him. Theo is secretly envious of that— with the Zabinis' seat of power in Italy, it means they don't have that much clout in Britain, and yet nobody messes with Blaise, not even the few who don't buy into Blaise's charm or simply hate him because he's a Slytherin. Not even Malfoy messes with him, and even Theo can't tell if it's Malfoy's self-preservation instincts kicking in to ensure that he isn't about to go insulting someone with a black widow mother like Blaise's, or if Malfoy genuinely hasn't noticed that Blaise doesn't respect him at all no matter how pleasant his words can be. Honestly, when it comes to Malfoy, there's a decent chance of either option being true.

With all that in mind though, it's not a surprise that Blaise isn't pleased with being slotted in as one of Malfoy's lackeys, especially by someone as impressive - or, as Blaise might put it, entertaining - as Hadrian Evans has swiftly proved himself to be.

"It's fine," Blaise says next, rolling out of bed to get ready for the day. He's already regained his typical lazy slouch, as if he hadn't been just as terrified as the rest of them last night. His eyes slide to the bathroom, then away, unreadable but more focused than Theo's ever seen them. "We live in the same dorm, and we'll attend at least most of the same classes. He'll see soon enough that we don't share the same opinions as Malfoy."

Theo watches him dig into his wardrobe. "And then?"

"Then?" Blaise tips a more familiar look of knowing amusement at him. "Then you do what you want, and I'll do what I want, and at the very least, we'll have the good sense to not throw ourselves straight onto a hippogriff's talons like dear Draco."

Theo smothers a snort and rises to his feet. Neither he nor Blaise take Care of Magical Creatures, but everybody had heard of Malfoy's idiocy last year. The phrase "my father will hear about this!" had reached a record high by winter's end. Not much had come of it, not when Hagrid had had the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore championing him. Even Lucius Malfoy would - and had, more than once over the years - find it difficult to contend with the British wizarding world's vaunted war heroes when they join forces. In the end, Hagrid could continue teaching so long as he did it alongside a second professor hired by the school, and even the hippogriff got to live. Malfoy had not been happy, and he'd made sure everybody knew it too, but at least he'd also whined less about it once Slytherin House had learned to snigger about it where he wouldn't hear.

But 'throwing oneself onto a hippogriff's talons' had become rather popular vernacular ever since, subtle enough that even Malfoy couldn't call anyone out on using it without embarrassing himself, but funny to everyone who understood, and nobody could even say who'd started the phrase. Theo's money would be on Blaise though.

The bathroom is spelled so that nobody outside can hear anything when the door is shut, but they can hear the lock click open just fine, and almost in tandem, he and Blaise both immerse themselves in picking out their outfits for the day as if it's a task that requires every last bit of their attention.

Evans walks out. True to his word, he ignores them completely, neither greeting them nor sparing them a glance as he moves back to his section of the dorm. Theo watches him out of the corner of his eye as the boy folds his pyjamas away before proceeding to pack his bag. He catches a glimpse of an Ancient Runes textbook, and his mind abruptly flashes back to the quill. But… that can't be right.

Evans shuts his bag, pulls on his robes, and toes on his shoes. Like this, there's something vaguely familiar about him that Theo can't place right away, and the thought is gone again as Evans slings his bag over his shoulder and strides for the door.

He still doesn't look at any of them, and he's gone from the room a moment later. They might as well have been empty air.

Theo's fingers tighten around the shirt he's holding. Somehow, he-

-doesn't like it.

-0-

Malfoy gets up two minutes after Evans is gone, moving around with an exaggeratedly unaffected sort of poise that makes Theo want to roll his eyes. At least the blond doesn't try to make conversation until Crabbe and Goyle wake up as well.

Evans aside, Theo is the first out of the room, as per usual, although this time, Blaise accompanies him up to the common room and out of the Dungeon. It takes no time at all to arrive at the Great Hall, and this early, most of the four House tables are still empty of students, although more and more are gradually drifting in in groups of threes and fours.

Unlike the other Houses who like cramming into whatever space they see, Slytherins are more political about it. The end seats are left to the outcasts or first-years who don't know better yet, while the midway point of the table is typically reserved for the most influential students, such as those with the best grades or the largest range of social connections or the strongest family background, or some combination of the three. And everybody else arranges themselves between the two extremes accordingly. The only time that changes - from what Theo has heard - is when someone is so magically powerful that they can overwhelm everyone else. Then it doesn't matter what grades or connections or background they have because magic is respected most of all, although they would usually have some qualifications in those other areas. But either way, they would be given reigning place of pride in the middle with their chosen followers around them, and everybody else would sit where they're told to sit, regardless of their accomplishments.

Someone like that hasn't come along in fifty years though, not since the Dark Lord was still at Hogwarts.

So it's jarring to see Evans seated at the very end, furthest away from the High Table, with a book open in front of him and a steaming mug in one hand, but Theo supposes it shouldn't be. He's newly transferred in, and a halfblood besides, so he probably doesn't know about the traditional seating arrangement, and since it's still just the second day of school, it's not as if anybody else outside their dorm knows that Evans is anything but the unfortunate fourth-year with a muggle surname sorted into Slytherin, so he really can be considered an outcast.

Theo exchanges a look with Blaise before tentatively taking a seat at their usual spot a few feet away from the halfway point of the table. It doesn't feel right to… go over Evans' head like this, but it's not like they can really do anything about it at the moment. Theo in particular is technically sitting above his station, but his family is still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, no matter how far it's fallen, and he gets decent grades in almost every class. He's also on friendly terms with Blaise, and the fact that he shares a dorm with Malfoy is a double-edged sword. Malfoy has the status to sit near the middle ever since he was a first-year, and it wouldn't look very good for him if he's seen completely spurning a Nott in his generation. So Theo is largely left alone so long as he looks like he's nominally part of Malfoy's group during mealtimes.

Theo spends the next five minutes sneaking sidelong glances down the table. Blaise does the same, and neither of them is obvious about it so nobody comes up to ask them any questions. Other Slytherins begin filing in, and more than one wrinkles their nose or sneers when they pass Evans, as if they've smelled something repulsive.

Theo has to make an effort not to wince every time it happens. Blaise watches with a shallow smirk hitched across his face and something cold and callous and thoroughly amused in his eyes.

By the time Malfoy - with Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him - sits down across from them, about half the table is full, plates of breakfast have started appearing, and Evans still hasn't looked up from his reading.

Malfoy - much less subtle - shoots something sulky and resentful with just a dash of fear down the table and mutters, "Doesn't even know how to sit properly."

Theo really does roll his eyes this time, although he makes sure to do it down at his scone. Before anyone can say anything else though, Evans unexpectedly straightens, his attention finally lifting from his book. Malfoy immediately stiffens as well like he thinks Evans had heard him from all the way down the table, which Theo wouldn't put past Evans's ability but also doesn't think that Evans thinks that Malfoy is worth that effort to eavesdrop on.

Evans looks around, but not at any of the Slytherins. He cranes his head over one shoulder, seems to catch sight of whatever he's looking for, and gets up, shutting his book and tossing it back in his bag. Then he's making his way across the Hall, past the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, straight over to the Gryffindor table that's only partially filled at the moment but is also hosting the Golden Trio, who had just come down for breakfast.

 Evans stops a few feet away, and Longbottom, Weasley, and Granger turn to face him. What Theo can see of their expressions indicate that they're surprised and a little wary, but they also seem like they know each other. They converse about something, Weasley makes some exaggerated hand gestures, Granger smacks him, and then Evans says something else that makes the Gryffindors burst into laughter, startled but bright.

And then Evans moves forward and-

-sits down.

At the Gryffindor table.

Longbottom and Granger are smiling, and even Weasley - with his hatred for everything Slytherin - seems fine with it, going back to plating more food for himself while passing some sausages over to Evans.

In Theo's peripheral, Malfoy's face has lost so much colour that he could pass for a ghost. Theo can't tell if he's just that offended or if he's actually managed to comprehend the fact that he's already alienated possibly the most magically powerful student at Hogwarts from Slytherin House, to the point where that student doesn't even want to eat at the same table as them, and classes haven't even started yet.

Theo can't tell, nor does he care, but if he'd ever needed any more reasons to despise Draco Malfoy, this would be it.

He averts his gaze from Evans, even if the mere thought of him preferring a bunch of Gryffindors - and those Gryffindors at that; the only ones worse would be Potter's lot - over his own House is… grating. But staring isn't going to win Theo any favours and might just tick Evans off. Besides, there are plenty of others who have noticed a Slytherin sitting with Gryffindors, and they're staring enough for ten of him.

He starts on his breakfast. School has just begun. There's plenty more time in the future to observe Hadrian Evans.

-0-0-0-

4.

Within the space of a week, Theo is cautiously pleased to find that he shares all nine classes with Evans. The core subjects are mandatory of course, but in addition to Ancient Runes, Evans also takes Arithmancy, both of which Theo is also studying, and after three weeks, he gets a slightly more detailed picture of what Evans is capable of.

In class, Evans doesn't stand out, or at least not in a way most people would notice. He doesn't take the initiative to answer questions posed by the teachers, and his spells and potions aren't particularly dazzling when they're assigned practical classwork.

But every time a professor calls on him, Evans always answers correctly. Every time they have to practice a new spell, Evans doesn't clamour to be the first to show off, and he isn't the one who produces it with the most eye-catching burst of magic, but when he's asked to show his progress, he always does it exactly the way the teacher demonstrated it at the beginning of class. Even in Potions, all he does is work discreetly in the back corner on the Slytherin side of the room. He never finishes early, but he also never finishes late, never failing to turn in a textbook-perfect potion ten minutes before class ends, and a couple times, Theo catches Snape watching Evans with an inscrutable expression after the boy quietly hands in yet another flawless potion.

After three weeks, Theo can conclude that while Evans doesn't deliberately dumb himself down, and in fact is performing spectacularly across the board, he does it in such a reserved, inconspicuous manner that even most of the professors probably aren't going to notice until they've graded a good few months' worth of homework and tests.

He does it for every subject. Every single one, except Ancient Runes, and Theo is convinced that that's less because Evans didn't try, and more that… well, some brilliance just can't be hidden.

In the third week, when Babbling hands back their first assignment - Acceptables and Poors all around of course; some days, Theo isn't sure if he wants to strangle Babbling or himself, just to put himself out of the misery that is attempting to understand anything their Runes professor says - she holds Evans back at the end of class, and half the students snicker like they think he's in trouble or did so badly that even Babbling can't stand it, and it's the best joke they've ever seen. But two days later, some papers that Evans has left out on his desk while he's off doing something else, probably with his Gryffindor buddies, catch Theo's eye while he's on his way to his own desk. More specifically, the symbol of the Department of Magical Education stamped on them catches Theo's eye, and after some very hasty and very undignified neck-straining and squinting from a prudent five feet away, he more or less understands.

Babbling hadn't held Evans back because he was doing badly. Babbling had held him back because he was doing so good he would be sitting his Ancient Runes O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams on the twenty-third of October.

Three minutes after that revelation, Theo's still sitting somewhat dazed in his chair when Malfoy returns, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. The blond also spots the papers on Evans' desk and - after suffering day after day of, in Malfoy's increasingly belligerent opinion, being disgraced by Evans due to all the time he was spending with Gryffindors, and even three of the ones Malfoy hates most - practically lights up with a malicious sort of glee at the opportunity to get a little revenge.

He seems to have already forgotten that first night's lesson, and it hasn't even been a month yet. Sometimes, Theo is honestly baffled by Malfoy's Sorting into Slytherin. What ambition is there in a boy whose solution to everything in life is to fall back on his father and surname and family money? What cunning is there to speak of when he so often acts without even considering the option of leaving himself a way out, just in case his taunts and schemes backfire on him one day?

Or perhaps the real mystery is how he's managed to go this long without anyone telling him that the world won't always bend to his demands.

"O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams?" Malfoy says loudly as he wanders over to read the papers. He scoffs. "No matter how much magic he has, there's no way that's possible. He's just a fourth-year. And a halfblood! I bet he paid Babbling to sign him up for them. Everybody knows she's not all there so Evans wouldn't even have to pay her a lot to persuade her."

Theo flicks a glance at Blaise, who'd brought up the rear, a few seconds behind Malfoy, and had entered on near-inaudible footsteps in time to witness this latest snowballing disaster. The taller boy's lip curls, and his next words come out in such a nonchalant drawl that it takes a moment for Malfoy to register the bite of them, "Why would he do that though? He's not you."

Malfoy flushes an unflattering shade of red. "Zabini! That's not funny!"

Blaise's insults are always taken as jokes. Theo thinks that's the only way Malfoy can weather them, because he doesn't truly dare to cross Blaise, so even if he does know better, he still has to feign ignorance.

"It can't be possible," Malfoy repeats, turning back to the papers. "Otherwise, why hasn't he said anything about it? If it were me, I'd let everyone know! Obviously, he knows he'll fail, so he doesn't dare to spread it around."

Theo tries to wrap his mind around that logic, fails, and gives it up as a bad job.

"Then, why is he taking them?" Crabbe suddenly pipes up, blinking with a befuddled air in Malfoy's direction.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Obviously, Crabbe, it's to impress the Boy Who Lived. You've seen how Evans is constantly fawning over Longbottom." And there's the jealousy leaking into his voice even as it strengthens as if he's gaining confidence in his conjecture the longer he speaks. "He's still just a vulgar halfblood with subpar upbringing after all. He needs political connections if he wants to make anything of himself in our world. And Longbottom's a soft touch, and an idiot besides at everything that isn't digging in the dirt. Just trying to take the exams is probably enough to make him think Evans is a genius."

He takes another step forward, almost hovering over the desk now, childish spite tarnishing his features. "Let's see what the rest of Slytherin thinks of this. We are in the same House so Evans should look for support from real purebloods. I'll help him out."

Malfoy reaches out, and Theo goes still, staring, avid and unblinking.

(Greedy.)

Hadrian Evans does not disappoint him.

Malfoy's hand lands on the papers, and it's as if a miniature explosion takes place. There's no warning as the desk ignites with enough interlocked, interwoven, bloody intricate runes to send anyone reeling. It blankets the entire desk in layers of circles and lines and eye-watering spirals, before even those disappear in a blaze of brilliant silver light that pulses once before bursting outward and knocking Malfoy clean off his feet.

Malfoy screams as he's sent flying across the room in a tangle of flailing limbs and flapping robes. Coincidentally - or not? - he lands on his bed in a graceless upside-down heap, the bag he's still wearing smacks him in the face, and the momentum tumbles him straight over the far side of his bed and onto the floor with a final muffled thump that cuts Malfoy's shriek to a yelp.

The light disappears, along with the runes. The room goes eerily quiet, and for a long moment, nobody moves.

It's Blaise who reacts first.

He laughs.

It's enough to snap Malfoy out of his stupor. The blond scrambles to right himself, pushing to his feet, fury and humiliation writ large across his face as he opens his mouth to shout, "Shut up, Zabini! Wait until my father hears about this! Evans will regret-"

There's a clatter. The door opens.

Malfoy shuts up so fast Theo wouldn't be surprised if he bit his tongue.

Evans steps inside, and then stops. He looks around, looks at his desk, looks at a still dishevelled and increasingly pallid Malfoy, and then he shuts the door behind him and heaves a very deep sigh.

"Seriously?" He asks in rhetorical tones. "I just went to borrow a library book. I couldn't have been gone for more than thirty minutes."

Nobody says anything. Evans sighs again before striding over to his desk. He raises a hand and combs his fingers through the air— or perhaps something only he could see, and that's proven correct as a runic array shimmers into existence, swirling together before reshaping itself into-

-a memory.

Specifically, it's a replay of everything Malfoy had said and done as soon as he'd gotten within three feet of Evans' belongings, complete with sound and colour. It's basically a pensieve without the pensieve or the removal of memories to supply it.

Theo wants so badly that his teeth ache with the leashed desire to ask a million questions immediately.

Patience, he reminds himself.

"Hm," Evans says once the memory's run its course, and the runes wisp away once more. Theo is both surprised and not when the other boy proceeds to pull out his chair, sit down, and dig out his library book, clearly intent to continue his work.

Behind him, Malfoy seethes, and before he can think better of it, or he simply doesn't think, he barks out, "Do you think you can treat me this way, Evans? Do you know who my father is? When I tell him about this-"

"Tell him then," Evans interjects, leaning back to slant a cool look at Malfoy. "Tell him you tried to steal my things, and my wards tossed you onto your bed, and the only thing it really bruised was your ego. Or you can lie and make up something that would make you more of a victim, and big bad mudblood Hadrian Evans bullied you terribly. What's the worst that could happen? Expulsion?" He huffs a laugh, and as far as Theo can tell, the thread of mirth that laces the sound is astonishingly sincere. "Malfoy, I don't actually care. I don't need Hogwarts."

He really doesn't. Worse comes to worst, which other school would be daft enough to not scoop him up if they see what he can do with runes? And that's not even getting into everything else he can do. Any school would accept him in a heartbeat and then laugh themselves to tears if Lucius Malfoy actually managed to get him ejected from Britain's sphere of influence on some trumped up charges just because his son went crying to him. Besides, since Evans had been previously homeschooled, he could always just return to that as well.

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does that a couple times, eyes wide in his face like he's never met anyone who has stonewalled him this way, who has challenged his authority so directly, more than once, and yet remains utterly unintimidated and untouchable.

Evidently, he never has.

Evans regards him for a few seconds more before sighing once more. "I thought I was clear enough that first night, but apparently not. When I say 'attack', I don't just mean with a wand. All my things are off-limits unless I say otherwise, so if I were you, I would keep my hands to myself. You don't want to know what my wards will do to you if they sense intentions worse than just petty theft. I hope you won't forget again."

He holds Malfoy's faltering gaze for a moment longer before turning back to his books and papers. Malfoy stumbles back a step as if he's been physically released, and he looks like he wants to pitch a temper tantrum but also doesn't dare. In the end, he storms out of the room without even straightening his robes or smoothing back his hair, and nobody tries to stop him or go after him, not even Crabbe or Goyle, who've both retreated to their beds, shoulders hunched, almost bowed, angled almost in Evans' direction.

Evans is already poring over his library book though, quill in one hand, inkwell set out, fresh parchment beside it. It's clear he's done interacting with the lot of them.

Theo almost lets it go, as he has every other time he wants to speak to Evans, to ask him questions, to know. He's already biting his tongue and swallowing down the words and opening his bag to fish out his homework.

Except-

It's been three weeks. Theo can be patient when he has to be, but more and more, it's… starting to feel like he doesn't have to be. He's had an entire childhood's worth of practice at dissecting emotions, at looking at a person's face and words and actions and taking all of them into account to figure out how they really feel, if they're angry at him or upset with him, if they're about to lash out even when they're smiling, or if there's still time to appease them even if they look like they're about to go for their wand.

Evans is harder to read than most, but at the very least, Theo can tell that he doesn't get angry often. In fact, there's only ever been that one time, that first night, and even for most of that incident, Evans had only acted to secure his own safety in their dorm once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to leave him alone otherwise. None of it had been driven by rage, not even when he'd nearly drowned them in the undertow of his magic over that particular handful of words Malfoy had jeered at him. And ever since then, Evans hasn't done anything except go about his business while ignoring theirs. That went for the rest of Slytherin too, and even some students in other Houses who don't like the fact that he's a Slytherin. Sometimes, they make snide remarks, usually behind his back, sometimes within his hearing range, and to a man, every student in their House has openly shunned him since he went to sit with the Golden Trio that first breakfast, but Evans has never given them a second glance, or really even a first glance, not out of anger or embarrassment or distress, and certainly not out of any desire for them to accept him, which just seems to offend them even more. But Evans is simply… indifferent to it all.

 Most importantly, as much as Theo has been able to conclude, Evans isn't prone to violence. He always seems calm and easygoing when he's with the Golden Trio, and quiet the rest of the time. And from the very beginning, he's never done anything to harm any fellow Slytherins, not even Malfoy. Even his wards seem to have some kind of function worked into them that would rate the level of threat first and only respond with the same degree of damage.

Actually, not the same— if Malfoy had been caught taking another Slytherin's documents without permission, important or not, it wouldn't be too much even if they cursed his hands in return. They probably wouldn't, because it's Malfoy, and people are used to being more lenient with him, but normally, even Malfoy wouldn't do something that gauche anyway. No matter how much they've spoiled him, his parents have at least taught him pureblood etiquette. He's never even tried to rifle through Theo's belongings.

 Admittedly, Theo had committed a slight faux pas as well when his curiosity had prompted him to read those Ministry forms, even if they were laid out on Evans' desk - unintentionally seeing them in passing was fine but the polite thing to do would've been to keep walking - but at least he hadn't been stupid enough to get too close, let alone put a single finger on them. Malfoy really only has his own poor impulse control to blame for going too far yet again, and Theo has every right to judge him for it.

 Although since it was Evans, Malfoy had probably categorized him as someone who doesn't deserve a pureblood's courtesy.

Even then though, Evans hadn't retaliated with anything more than the ward equivalent of a watered down Knockback Jinx, which is basically a common prank amongst rowdier students. Malfoy's pride had - once again - been hurt, but nothing else, even when it would've been Evans' right. And he hadn't gotten angry this time either.

Of course, Theo isn't foolish enough to think Evans isn't capable of violence when he wants to be. If he's pushed far enough, Theo is certain that the other boy could and would inflict some significant damage that would at least end with a visit to the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it was his magic, the relentless weight of it that said it wouldn't hesitate to crush them if they proved themselves a real threat. Or perhaps it was Evans himself, who looks at Malfoy after each stunt like he's putting up with a recalcitrant child that he has to go easy on because said child is too young to know better, except the detachment in his gaze also says that he's weighing Malfoy's age on a scale and waiting for the day his youth will no longer be able to compensate for his actions.

Frankly, Theo hopes that day will come soon. But that's his pettiness talking, and Malfoy in general is none of his concern. What Theo really wants is to learn all those things for himself. Well, not all, he's more than self-aware enough to know he's nowhere near as powerful as Evans, but some of those things - the spellwork, the runes - surely those things can be taught to others even if they don't have incredible amounts of magic? Even if it's slow-going and difficult, Theo isn't afraid to work for it.

So long as he learns even just a little of what Evans knows - and he clearly knows so much, knows the things that can actually be useful in real life - then perhaps, one day, maybe even before he graduates Hogwarts… escaping his father won't be a fool's hope anymore. And if there's a chance that he can do that, then no matter how exorbitant the price Evans names, Theo would be willing to pay it, even if it takes him the rest of his life to honour the debt.

But nothing's going to happen if they're not even on speaking terms. It's been three weeks. Already three weeks. Only three weeks. Maybe it really is still too soon, but at the very least, Theo doesn't think Evans will do anything worse than say no.

 At his back, he can feel Blaise's eyes on him, but he doesn't turn around.

 "Is that-" His voice doesn't crack, thankfully, but it comes out croakier than normal, giving away his nervousness. He bites back the urge to hex himself and tries again. "Is that taught by the time we graduate?"

 Evans… doesn't react, doesn't even look up. For several tense and increasingly awkward seconds, Theo thinks maybe the other boy will just continue ignoring him, or maybe he even thinks Theo is speaking to one of the others, not him.

 But then he writes something down and flips a page of his book, and then he raises his head and shifts away from his desk to face Theo.

 It's a little daunting, to suddenly have that piercing bright green regard aimed straight at him, but there's also no hostility that Theo can see, and that settles some of his nerves.

 Evans looks at him, then frowns, then asks in return, blunt, but amazingly, willingly enough, "You mean the wards?"

 Theo nods carefully, making sure he doesn't look too eager or too demanding. Masters of their trades are always rightfully reticent about their knowledge and skills to anyone who isn't their own mentor or apprentice, unless they're a teacher. Evans may not be a master signed and sealed and authorized to practice, but nobody who can write the exams at fourteen can be considered an amateur.

 Evans shrugs. "I haven't exactly flipped through the Ancient Runes syllabus of every year so I can't really say. If it continues at the same pace as third-year and fourth-year though, then probably not. You'd maybe get to the point of basic wards, but not much more than that. Compound wards like these-" He raps his knuckles against his own desk. "-put crudely, requires the use of runic coils to weave together multiple basic arrays, on multiple levels, in varying sequential order depending on how multifaceted you want the wards to be. It's not that difficult once you start getting some practice in, but from what I hear, you guys don't even begin practical work until after your O.W.L., which… I don't really get, but maybe Hogwarts is big on theoretical learning. But yeah, at that rate, I don't see how you could be constructing something like this by graduation."

 Theo's head is spinning. He didn't understand… anything in that summary except perhaps a general idea of "basic arrays". It's rare for him to feel so stupid.

 Evans is still watching him, and he doesn't seem impatient for their exchange to be over, or irritated that it's taking place at all. He looks like he's waiting for Theo to reply, so Theo hurries on to keep the conversation afloat.

 "So you didn't learn Runes following the Hogwarts curriculum when you were homeschooled," He surmises. "Does that mean the standards here fall short of the international schools?"

 It wouldn't be the first time. Britain's educational requirements have been growing more and more lenient for years. Correspondingly, their elective options have also been reduced to four due to budget cuts and lack of interest in anything harder than petting animals and making up death predictions. Every year, more second-years choose to sign up for Care and Divination than they do Arithmancy or Runes. It's one reason why the number of incoming students has been gradually declining and consists of more muggleborns than purebloods. Foreign schools are strict about accepting any children outside of their designated countries, but those in Great Britain and Ireland who want better for their kids and can afford the higher prices tend to prefer sending them to one international school or another instead of Hogwarts.

 But Evans shakes his head. "I wouldn't know that either. I didn't really follow any official curriculum when I was learning." He pauses a beat, like he's thinking about how much to reveal, or even why he's revealing anything, but then he seems to decide it doesn't much matter. "The person who taught me was a bit… unconventional about it. He was a very good teacher, but he wasn't actually a teacher with the degree and whatever else you need to be a Ministry-approved professor, so he didn't really care about following some checklist of what a student attending a magical school was supposed to learn. Plus he was kind of a genius at runes. Ward-cracking and disassembly in particular since that's what he majored in - he was a Curse-Breaker - but he was pretty good at almost everything else too, which meant he found the basic stuff pretty boring. So when he taught me, and he realized I didn't have any trouble getting the foundations down, and I could mostly keep up even when he skipped ahead to more advanced stuff, he basically ended up just jumping between the subjects he liked most, filled in any gaps along the way, and gave me free rein to research whatever I found interesting. And whatever topic I picked was the one he lectured on, or helped me look up if it was one of the few areas he didn't know much about."

 His expression turns wry, if only for a moment. "Apparently though, according to Babbling, that means there's nothing left for Hogwarts to teach me. But I don't know how I would compare to students in other schools."

 He finishes and falls silent. It's the most he's said since that first night, and it's clear as day that whoever this Curse-Breaker tutor was, Evans respects him a great deal, great enough to ramble on about him to a roomful of near-strangers, and considering what he'd had a hand in molding Evans into, he deserves every bit of that respect too.

 Theo envies it. He is oft a creature of envy, and it hollows him out a little more every time it rears its head, but he's resigned to it. He wonders why Hogwarts can't have a teacher like Evans' instead of the whimsical mess that is Babbling, who can never get through a single class without her train of thought wandering away like an untrained dog off its leash.

 "Then," Theo continues, carefully neutral, carefully watching for any signs of displeasure on Evans' face. "Once you pass your exams, will you simply have an extra study period slot? Or will you be required to attend another elective?"

 Evans blinks at him. "The first, I think. I might see if it's possible to take an owl-distance university course or something, but spare time in my day isn't bad either."

 "Then," Theo forges on, watching as Evans's mouth twists a little, like he knows that this is what Theo has been aiming for from the beginning. Theo can't tell if he disapproves though - he doesn't think so - and it's too late to divert his course anyway. "What do you think about tutoring?"

 Evans cocks an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything for several anxiety-inducing seconds, just scrutinizing Theo with a face blank enough to rival Snape's when he bothers to stop sneering. The quill in Evans' hand taps-taps-taps against his desk before the boy swings around in his chair completely to face Theo.

 "Tutoring," He repeats. "You want me to tutor you in Ancient Runes?"

 And at least he doesn't sound derisive, nor does he put any particular emphasis on any part of that question. It does make it harder for Theo to gauge how he should respond though.

 "Yes," He confirms, because straightforward seems to be what Evans prefers. He thinks, briefly, of including Blaise, but he doesn't actually know if Blaise would like tutoring as well, and even if he does, Blaise can ask for himself. Theo isn't that charitable, and Blaise might even take offense if he tries to be.

 "I can compensate you for your time," He adds, because he's poor by pureblood standards, but not so poor that he can't afford decent education, especially with the nest egg he's been secretly building on the side since he turned eight and realized his inheritance was only going to get smaller at the rate his father was drawing from it for his… extracurriculars. His seven years at Hogwarts at least have already been paid for, robes and supplies and even some pocket money included, because even Silas Nott isn't going to let his son go into public at even more of a disadvantage than he already is. So as long as Evans doesn't ask for a huge sum of money, or even if he does, and he's willing to take part of that payment in favours, then Theo should have enough from his own funds to cover the cost.

 Evans leans back in his seat and doesn't say anything about payment. Instead, he looks almost puzzled as he asks, "Why do you need tutoring though? Even if you want to learn stuff like this," He motions at his desk. "I wouldn't be able to even start teaching you how until you got at least the basics down, and that's what Hogwarts teaches, so is there any point in getting more of the same lessons from me?"

 For a moment, even Theo can't come up with a way to say 'yes, because Babbling can't teach worth a damn, and I don't actually know how I passed last year but I definitely won't this year with the way her lectures keep getting lost somewhere between class and Atlantis every bloody week' but in more polite terms, if only because Evans might not appreciate anyone badmouthing her since she's obviously the one vouching for Evans' qualifications in order to let him take his exams so early.

 Fortunately, Blaise has no such compunctions.

 "Have you seen the way Babbling teaches?" The other boy enquires in his usual lackadaisical tone, just aggrieved enough to sound invested, but mild enough to leech the provocation out of it. It also gives Blaise a foot in through the door, drawing Evans' attention to him without making it seem as if he's interrupting.

 Theo glances behind him at where Blaise is now lounging in his own desk chair, emptying his bag of textbooks and papers even as he glances over to meet Evans' gaze, and his expression has eased into an invitation to commiserate over Babbling's questionable teaching methods. All of it is designed to look casual and cordial, to keep this fragile first exchange lighthearted, if also full of a resigned sort of exasperation, funnelled together in order to lower Evans' guard.

 And it seems to work too, like it does with everyone Blaise turns his charms on. At the very least, the way Evans' mouth quirks in response looks reflexive enough to be genuine.

 "That's fair," Evans concedes, a wry sort of humour suffusing his voice. "She's not the best at… staying on topic."

 Theo has to suppress a snort, but something of it must show on his face anyway because Evans' eyes snap back to him, and a moment later, a quicksilver grin flits across the other's face, bright in a way that lights up his whole face, and perhaps Blaise will have to try harder after all because Theo realizes that this is what genuine looks like on Evans.

 "Okay, I get why you might want a tutor," Evans acknowledges. "But isn't there anyone better for that?"

 Theo blinks at him. "Better than someone who's ready to take his exams in a month?"

 Evans' eyebrows go up briefly, and something in his eyes sharpens. "No. Better than someone who's a halfblood orphan in Slytherin, stuck in a one-sided grudge-match with a pureblood brat who has all the maturity of a toddler and isn't going to be very happy if his friend starts hanging around the guy he wants to curse into the Hospital Wing."

 Orphan? is Theo's first thought, followed by, I wish Malfoy was around to hear that. But all of it is superseded by a defiance that bursts out of him before he can curb it, "We're not friends."

 Evans waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Slytherins don't have friends. What I mean is-"

 "No," Theo says, wincing internally at how he'd cut Evans off mid-sentence. "I mean, we aren't friends. Normally, we aren't even civil acquaintances most days."

 Evans eyes him for a long moment like he can hear all the things Theo isn't saying. Theo's pretty sure Evans doesn't know about his family's circumstances - How would he? Why would he even care to look it up? - but he seems to be able to glean at least the gist of it in a single glance because he seems to accept it easily enough, and the next thing he says is, "Alright, but that doesn't change the fact that he's still not going to be happy about it."

 "Good," Theo says, once again before he can stop himself, and with more relish than he should convey. Even if he's often thought that anything that made Malfoy unhappy was a good thing, he's certainly never expressed it out loud. He doesn't know what's come over him, only that there's something about the way Evans is watching him, patient and without judgement, that makes him… bolder than he normally would be.

 And since he's already opened his mouth, he might as well keep going.

 "So long as you're willing, I don't mind what other people might say," Theo says as firmly as he knows how to be. "I need to raise my grades for Ancient Runes before I take my OWLs next year or I'm never going to pass. I would appreciate any tutoring you can spare the time for." He hesitates, but only for a beat. "If you want, in addition to monetary compensation, I can also snub Malfoy at dinner somehow. And you would know it wouldn't just be some show we put on either. Malfoy doesn't have it in him to be humiliated in public, even as a stunt."

 It's far more outspoken and far more audacious than Theo is accustomed to being, and he can feel Blaise's eyes on him again. But he gets the impression that if he doesn't put his cards on the table - that he really does want to learn from Evans, that it's his main motivation, even if it isn't the only one - then Evans might think Theo is playing some kind of trick on him, possibly on Malfoy's orders, and that's the last thing Theo wants him to believe.

 Besides, this is also an opportunity. Theo had been resigned to living under Malfoy's temperamental rule for the duration of his Hogwarts career. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be doing more of the same as an adult, after all. Considering the difference in their social status, Theo would still have to bow his head, and jump when told to jump, and remain courteously - or at least forbearingly - deferential in front of Malfoy whenever they see each other. At least this more childish version at school is giving him plenty of practice for the future.

 But now, there is Hadrian Evans, whose existence no one had expected and no one thus far can control, who isn't afraid of Malfoy, whom Malfoy is afraid of instead, and Theo honestly can't see that changing. Of course, the real world is very different from some squabbles between teenagers, and Theo has only known Evans for less than a month. But… call it instinct. Even if one day the Malfoy family can really make it so that Evans can no longer live well in Britain, Theo gets the sense that the other boy would rather up and move to a different country than ever submit to anyone.

 People with inborn power like Evans won't bow. They don't know how to.

 And if Theo can get even a fraction of that protection that openly siding with Evans might earn him, then the choice is obvious. He's long known that he isn't powerful enough or ambitious enough or even brave enough to stand on his own. That in order to thrive, or even to simply live a satisfactory life, it would be best to choose someone's shadow to settle in. Preferably, that someone would be willing enough to leave Theo alone most of the time and wouldn't ask too much of him, but he already knows he wouldn't be able to get that from his father or Malfoy.

 Then, there's no point clinging to either of them. Before, there had been no other choices, and between his father and Malfoy, Malfoy was the better bet, though it wasn't as if the blond ponce could've gotten him out from under Silas Nott's thumb either. But at least being - loosely - affiliated with Malfoy would, in the future, offer Theo some protection from his father's obsessive tendencies. It wouldn't do for one of Malfoy's circle of acquaintances to disappear under mysterious circumstances after all.

 Now there's a new player on the field. Of course, Evans probably doesn't see himself as one, and wouldn't care even if he knew. But that doesn't change the fact that his shadow casts a long and looming line, and somehow, it feels more like a refuge than anyone else's Theo has ever come across. Evans might not be willing to protect him, if only because he would have to make himself known to do so, and if there's one thing Evans has shown over the past few weeks, it's that he much prefers staying in the background. But even if he isn't willing to protect Theo, at the very least, he can teach Theo how to protect himself. So, Theo might as well take his chances with Evans, and the first step in doing that is to make it very clear to all and sundry that he's throwing his lot in with the halfblood Slytherin transfer.

 He hadn't quite been prepared to go this far when he'd first decided to speak to Evans today, but doing things by half measures doesn't bode well for him either. Prevaricating or at least being vaguer about his intentions might leave him an extra hand to play, a way to retreat in case associating with Evans becomes too dangerous one day, but no one likes a fence-sitter.

 In Slytherin, every decision is a power play, whether it seems like it or not. An insignificant word or action might result in large consequences that aren't always obvious until the waves and ripples have settled. And Theo's never been much of a gambler, preferring safety over potential riches. But the things he can learn from Evans are too tempting to pass over. Put in plain terms, he's technically using Evans as a means to an end, which no one in Slytherin wouldn't approve of, but for a good chunk of this House, Evans' blood would definitely outweigh any usefulness he might have, especially since he hasn't publicly proven himself in any way at all. And the way he spends all his free time with Gryffindors hardly helps.

 Still, it's a risk Theo's willing to take. And now the Quaffle is in Evans' hands, and all that's left is to wait for his answer.

 Of course, if Evans says no, then Theo can only hope Blaise is feeling magnanimous today and won't go spreading this little story around. Then again, there's Crabbe and Goyle too, and they'll definitely tell Malfoy, so it will get out either way.

 Such is Slytherin, where the only shared secret you can trust to remain a secret is when all other parties are dead.

 In front of him, Evans only raises his eyebrows for a moment before amusement quirks one corner of his mouth. "Well you don't have to go that far."

 Theo can't tell if the other boy understands the implications of publicly cutting ties with Malfoy, but he's relieved to hear it anyway. He'd do it if it's a condition Evans sets, if only to alleviate any concerns Evans might have of being played, but it's not as if he wants to do it. He would happily see Malfoy humiliated any day of the week, but Theo is at heart an introverted person. Open confrontation of any kind will always make him uncomfortable.

 Evans studies him for a while longer as if weighing his sincerity. Eventually, he says, "I'm not opposed to tutoring. Actually, I'm already doing that for Hermione every Wednesday and Saturday. Adding one more doesn't make much of a difference. It's just that I don't love tutoring so much that I want to do it more than twice a week. So," He smiles, and this time, his expression is one of a sharp sort of curiosity. "If you want me to tutor you, then you'll have to be okay with Hermione. And I don't just mean tolerating her presence enough to sit at the same table as her. I mean if you say one bad word about her blood, I'll take that as an attack on me and react accordingly. Understand?"

 Theo blinks once, twice, digesting that ultimatum with something like disbelief because- "Is that all?" And then, because it couldn't possibly be that easy, he hastily tacks on, "How much would you like to be paid?"

 Evans blinks back at him, looking like he's re-evaluating Theo on the spot. Then he makes a dismissive gesture and says, "I'm not short on money. Also I don't make Hermione pay so it wouldn't be fair if I made you pay." He sits back with a finality that starts bringing an end to their conversation. "Wednesdays and Saturdays, 4-6pm in the library. I know we share all the same classes so that shouldn't be a problem for you. Showing up isn't mandatory, you can just come whenever you want, and I'll tutor you in whatever you need help with. My only condition is that you treat Hermione with basic respect. Of course," His mouth twists into a strange smile. "That goes for her too. And her friends if they happen to stop by."

 Theo has to suppress a grimace at that, but it's mostly out of reflexive distaste. Even if Weasley starts flinging insults, he's sure he's heard worse than anything a Gryffindor could come up with, and his tolerance is high, so it doesn't much matter whether Evans can prevent it or not. Actually, it's already pretty novel that he would try at all. This is by far the easiest and weirdest deal Theo has ever been offered, which only makes him that much more suspicious, but Evans also adds no other terms, so Theo is forced to conclude that this really is all Evans wants from him.

 The sheer unfairness of what each party is bringing to the table is jarring. Does Evans not understand what's happening here or is he seriously willing to offer up his time and knowledge on a silver platter at basically no cost?

 Part of Theo wants to ask again, to make sure Evans really doesn't want anything else, but since they've come to this point, even if Evans were to ask for something in the future, Theo would have no obligation to give it. It's admittedly somewhat uncomfortable, to receive so much in exchange for giving back so little when he wasn't even the one manipulating Evans towards this outcome, but at the same time, wouldn't he just be stupid if he keeps pushing the issue? Complaining about not having to spend any money or owe any favours seems rather counterproductive, and even though Theo is willing to pay for a chance like this, that doesn't mean he wants to if he doesn't have to. Of course, he supposes it isn't very honourable of him to not at least insist on some form of compensation, but that's why Theo isn't a Gryffindor.

 So then.

 "Very well, I agree to your terms," Theo says, letting himself relax a bit more when Evans' expression doesn't change. And because even a Slytherin should acknowledge genuine goodwill, he shoves past his own discomfort and manages, if a bit stiffly, "Thank you, Evans."

 Evans makes a face that's something left of embarrassed. "It's just tutoring, you don't have to be so formal. Besides, you're still the one who's going to have to put up with Malfoy pitching a fit once he finds out."

 Theo almost shrugs. That's not anything new. He might have to field some curses hurled his way once other Slytherins realize he's no longer under Malfoy's "protection" and is seen spending time with a halfblood, but it's not as if he has no way of protecting himself from most spells that a student can get away with using in public at Hogwarts. He already has a few family wards set up around his bed too, so Malfoy can't get to him while he's asleep, and the only time he spends in the Common Room is when he's crossing it to leave the Dungeon or return to his dorm, so his Housemates aren't likely to be able to corner him there either. So long as he's careful, he'll be fine.

 Blaise's voice cuts into his thoughts, speaking this time with the lightest touch of concern seeping out from behind a thin veil of indifference that would've fooled even Theo if Theo didn't know the way Blaise can change his approach like he's changing clothes depending on his assessment of the person he's talking to. "You sure you don't need to ask Granger first before letting a Slytherin join your tutoring sessions? She might not be too happy to have Theo there. And her friends definitely won't."

 Evans' attention shifts again, and as with Theo, his gaze is neither friendly nor hostile, but it's different all the same in a way Theo can't quite name. "Is that my problem?"

 The room is quiet for a beat.

 Evans smiles, careless, casual. "I'm the one doing the teaching. Who I teach should be up to me, shouldn't it?"

 Blaise stares, unblinking, hands finally gone still. "Aren't those Gryffindors your friends though?"

 "Sure," Evans agrees. "Still doesn't mean they get to tell me what to do just because they're biased against Slytherins." He shakes his head. "I doubt it'll be much of a problem though. Like you said, they're my friends, and aren't I a Slytherin too?"

 Nobody says what Theo is certain they're all thinking— that in many ways, Evans isn't anything like your average Slytherin.

 (And in others, Evans is the very epitome of one, but the Golden Trio probably doesn't know that, do they?)

 "Are you saying other Slytherins are welcome in your tutoring sessions then?" Blaise says next, and it's the most straightforward Theo has ever seen him, skipping at least three prevarications and five backhanded compliments that Theo could've sworn Blaise would normally include just because he doesn't know any other way to speak. Apparently not.

 Except Evans' response is to huff a breath that sounds like laughter, except not in any way they've heard before, not as amicable, and Theo sees Blaise's smile grow a little fixed.

 If they were in the business of distributing vices, then excessive hubris would undoubtedly go to Malfoy, but only because Blaise doesn't have the same reckless self-defeating habit of flaunting what he has everywhere and retaliating like a rabid lapdog the moment he feels slighted, the latter of which is helped along by the fact that he doesn't hold many people in high enough esteem for them to offend him. After all, you wouldn't get mad if a ghost or a goblin or even a house-elf - as unlikely as that is - is rude to you, would you? At most, you'd punish the latter and move along with your day. And for those who do register enough as people in Blaise's eyes, well, Blaise far prefers retaliating when the other party least expects it.

 It's the same now, in the way Blaise blinks twice rapidly but doesn't otherwise react. Of course, since this is Evans, he won't be able to retaliate later either, not with any kind of success, so it's doubly impressive that the other boy manages to keep his pride nailed down and tucked away.

 "You know," Evans says lazily, mirth or perhaps mockery gleaming in his eyes. "You could just ask. Take a leaf out of Theo's book; it wastes less time."

 Because even Blaise's straightforwardness needs to take a stroll or two around the block first, and apparently, Evans had caught onto that possibly since the first time Blaise had opened his mouth since this conversation began.

 Blaise's lips thin, but after a moment of no doubt weighing the pros and cons, he shrugs gracefully like it doesn't sting and asks, "Then, may I join your tutoring sessions, Evans? I would also appreciate some assistance with my Ancient Runes studies. Of course, I will abide by the terms you've set as well."

 Theo listens and wonders just how much self-control those three sentences took. Before today, he hadn't even known Blaise was capable of it, and the fact that he is, for this, actually says a lot more about his regard for Evans than Theo had realized even just a minute ago.

 At least Evans doesn't make it harder for Blaise than that.

 "Sure," The other boy acquiesces with the air of a predator sitting back on its haunches. "On your own head though."

 At this, a trace of a smirk - his real one, beatific in its cruelty, instead of his regular fit-for-public one - cuts across Blaise's face for the span of a heartbeat. "No problem."

 Evans levels another long look at him before shaking his head with another twist of a smile. "Okay then. We're all good now?" He looks from Blaise to Theo and even spares half a glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before nodding, satisfied. "Fantastic. Back to work for me."

 He spins back around to face his desk, reaching for his quill, and the rest of the day passes as usual, without another word traded between them, even when they all get up for dinner. Malfoy comes back shortly before that, stalking over to his section of the dorm with the mulish single-minded intensity of someone unwilling to even acknowledge Evans' existence, although that probably won't last once he finds out what Theo and Blaise have agreed to.

 Later, in private, Theo remarks to Blaise, "I didn't expect you to care so much about your Ancient Runes grades."

 Blaise slants an indecipherable look at him even as a shallow smile stretches the width of his mouth. "Who wouldn't care about their grades when someone's offering to help raise them for free?"

 It's a rhetorical question and answers approximately nothing, but Theo wasn't expecting anything of substance anyway.

 Besides, when it comes down to it, he supposes it's not so surprising that Blaise can also see which way the wind is blowing, hard enough to tell anyone with decent enough instincts that a major shift in power is imminent.

 And no one likes a fence-sitter.

 -0-0-0-

 5.

 Hadrian would like it to be known that he isn't quite sure how he's gotten to this point in his life.

 Well, that's a lie, he sort of knows, or at least he can pinpoint all the decisions that got him from Point A to Point B, but he supposes he just wasn't expecting a couple Slytherins whom he'd always assumed - even back in his original world - were just Malfoy's lackeys in school, to commit, and commit hard. They hadn't even participated in the war on either side, as far as he was aware— Nott had died relatively early on under mysterious circumstances, and Zabini had by all accounts returned to his home country. To Hadrian, they'd been little more than faces in the background that he'd never even exchanged five words with in total before coming to this world.

 But within the first week after they've asked to join his tutoring sessions, Nott and Zabini - Slytherin/Pureblood Rule Number Who-Knows-What: you can't use someone else's first name until you're invited to - make it really fucking obvious who they're… supporting? Have sided with? Because Slytherin is a nest of brewing factions and shifting alliances and political doublespeak and even a couple blood feuds, and this is precisely why Hadrian doesn't want anything to do with this House.

 Except apparently, agreeing to tutor Nott and Zabini means he's… joined the power struggle? Formed his own faction? Decided to vie for in-House supremacy and possible world domination? Who knows because Hadrian sure doesn't, and he's determined not to know, because surely if he just continues doing his own thing, it'll become clear sooner or later to all and sundry that he has no interest in fighting a bunch of schoolchildren over whatever they think he wants to fight for.

 It's just that he can't quite do that either, because not even three weeks after Nott and Zabini start joining him in the library every Wednesday and Saturday with a wary but accepting Hermione, something that translates to them moving their seats to sit with him in class and - when they can make it look natural, if still deliberate - walking with him in the hallways, the displeasure and animosity in Slytherin House reaches breaking point.

 It's not as if Hadrian hasn't already been the target of multiple hexes and curses from his own Housemates. He's a halfblood who hangs out with Gryffindors— it's to be expected. But so far, the spells have always been in the realm of reasonable, ones that might make him trip down the stairs or rip his bag or screw up his potion, and he's been able to block or avoid them all, so he'd figured it wasn't that big a deal. He'd put the fear of a Horntail in Malfoy early on because he has to live with the berk, and he doesn't much feel like returning after a long day of classes just to have to butt heads with him every single time. But he basically has no intersections with the rest of the House, so he just hasn't bothered paying attention to any of them.

 Then, perhaps rather suddenly, Nott and Zabini are there, not so much orbiting him as they do hover from afar. But they join his tutoring sessions, and they're serious about learning from him, listening earnestly and asking questions and even checking out the books he recommends they read if they have time. There are holes in even the most simple of their fundamental knowledge of Runes - Babbling, read a how-to book on teaching for Merlin's sake - so Hadrian has to more or less start from the ground up, as he had with Hermione, but both of them quickly prove themselves more than intelligent enough to keep up, and they're startling enthusiastic - by Slytherin standards - about everything he teaches them. Nott is more obvious - more ravenous - about it, but even Zabini - who likes to pretend he's only there for the novelty of it or something and therefore tends to play up a laidback sort of indifference - never fails to complete the optional exercises Hadrian writes up for them once a week.

 And outside of the tutoring sessions, it's like they've decided that being tutored by him means that he's now their new Malfoy or something. Not that Malfoy was their Malfoy before, if Hadrian had understood Nott correctly, but they'd at least acted like they were part of Malfoy's groupies. Now they've done a one-eighty, and it's not as if they follow him around all the time the way Crabbe and Goyle do with Malfoy, honestly if you don't count classroom and dorm room, they're not even around him half the time, especially Zabini, but when they are around, when they move their cauldrons next to his in Potions class despite working separately, when they go down to breakfast with him despite splitting off at the entrance, when they trail behind him back to the Slytherin Dungeon after a tutoring session, they're so damn conspicuous about it that they might as well be waving neon-bright signs above their heads.

 In contrast, they don't even sit next Malfoy during mealtimes anymore, much to the blond's increasing red-faced ire that vaguely resembles a Silenced teakettle on the brink of boiling over. But now they sit at the end of the Slytherin table, which Hadrian has gradually gathered that that's not a good thing, but he doesn't know how to fix it either, and neither Nott nor Zabini seems to mind.

 They also talk to him now, not often, not just in private, and not just about Runes, although that does still take up the majority of their conversation topics, if only because they don't know each other that well yet. But in their dorm or in class or in the library or in the halls, sometimes, Nott would say something completely normal, like whether or not he owns an owl or if he's noticed Snape's increasingly intent attention on him or if he's found the secret passageway connecting the Dungeons to the sixth floor yet because climbing six flights of moving stairs isn't what anyone would call a good time. Zabini on the other hand prefers sharing obscure gossip that even most of Slytherin isn't aware of, sordid little secrets like whose parent has a mistress (or three) on the side that will very likely cause an inheritance problem down the road, who killed a cousin over the summer due to jealousy but has done a decent enough job of covering it up as an accident because said cousin had been the heir apparent, and even who had to go to Pomfrey for an Abortion Charm just last week but will likely have to break her betrothal contract - and consequently have her magic bound, as per the terms of said contract - in the future anyway because there's no hiding the loss of her virginity from the olde family magicks no matter how frantically she searches for a way.

 To the former, Hadrian responds the way he would if Neville or Ron or Hermione were to ask him similar questions. To the latter, he says, "You have serious issues, Zabini."

 Nott never smiles, but his body language is a little less closed off and his eyes look a little less hunted with every random conversation they have. Zabini is almost always smiling, and in response to Hadrian's incredulity, he only laughs like it's the grandest joke he's ever heard.

 They grow on him, is the thing. One's probably abused at home, and the other is honestly half a psychopath already, and Hadrian shouldn't care but he's always had a bit of a soft spot for broken people, people who don't quite fit in no matter how well they fake it, people who remind him of himself. And the war he'd survived had only served to destroy what little compunctions he'd ever had about getting too close to dangerous things.

 So they grow on him, day by day, and half a month in, the other Slytherins apparently can't handle it anymore.

 Hadrian's just coming back from dinner. Nott and Zabini are with him, having joined him once he'd bid Neville, Ron, and Hermione goodnight. They're halfway across the common room when Hadrian catches movement in his peripheral, and he has half a second to decide what to do, to abort the reflex to go for his wand, to cancel the shield ward sparking at his fingertips, to pivot around on the spot and abruptly swing himself right into Nott's personal space, which means Nott immediately puts on the brakes, and - behind him - Zabini has to do the same.

 Hadrian senses more than feels the curse that grazes the back of his robes and splashes against the far wall between a pair of suspiciously empty armchairs in an area that's normally a popular hangout spot. There's no sound, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way it oozes a sickly viscous purple that puddles to the ground and eats straight through the carpet before finally evaporating into nothing.

 He doesn't turn his head, doesn't challenge anyone into a duel the way his hands are itching to do. Instead, even before the spell disappears, he's already asking, "Did you copy down the Potions assignment from today? I just remembered I forgot."

 In front of him, Nott's turned three shades whiter, and he's already pale-skinned to begin with, so he obviously recognizes the spell. Zabini clearly does as well if the way he's gone gargoyle-still is anything to go by.

 If they'd continued walking, that curse would've hit Nott right in the ribcage. His left ribcage.

 A beat of silence passes. Then Nott takes a breath and answers in a voice that doesn't waver but is even more inflectionless than usual. "Yes, I wrote it down. I can show you."

 "Cool, thanks, let's go."

 Nobody else speaks, nobody even moves, as Hadrian leads the way back to their dorm.

 Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle aren't back yet so they have the room to themselves. As soon as the door is shut, Nott almost slumps onto his bed, hands shaking. Zabini pulls out his chair to sit, a smile hooked at one corner of his mouth, but absolutely nothing about the rest of him says amusement.

 (Slytherins don't have friends, and Zabini doesn't seem to know how to have friends, but Nott's probably the closest to one that his disposition will ever allow.)

 Hadrian looks from Nott to Zabini and back, and then he asks, "Who was that boy? The one surrounded by that group by the fireplace."

 The one who'd fired the spell. Don't think just because a bunch of students were arranged in front of him that Hadrian had missed the way his arm had moved, the jab of a wand, the blossom of light at its tip before the curse had flown across the room. Did they think he was blind?

 Nott blinks up at him, features still pinched. It's Zabini who answers, soft as silk, "Malcolm Avery, seventh-year."

 Hadrian takes a moment to digest that, to press that face into his memory before filing it away for later. He focuses on his roommates again instead and presses on, "Has this sort of thing happened before?"

 Because even if they're spending time with him, Nott's an old pureblood name, isn't it? And Zabini is Zabini, and everybody's heard of his mother. Even if they're shunned a bit, jeered at a bit, even hexed a bit, any serious assaults should only be aimed at Hadrian, right?

 Well, apparently not. That curse earlier had been a much Darker cousin of the Bone-Vanishing Spell, a variation on the more public-friendly Bone-Breaking Curse. If Hadrian hadn't seen it coming, if he hadn't stopped Nott in time, that thing would've not only shattered the left half of Nott's ribcage but also stabbed the resulting fragments directly into the nearest organs before dissolving into the bloodstream as a lethal poison— in this case, it would've been the heart and a lung. Nott would've been dead in under a minute, drowning in his own blood in extreme pain, and it's a tossup if even Hadrian would've been able to save him.

 Zabini - unsurprisingly - shakes his head. For all that he doesn't have an old bloodline to rooted in Britain, he still has enough family clout to grant him a strong backing. And that's not counting his own means of protecting himself. Hadrian had actually gotten the feeling very early on, from the moment they'd had their first conversation, and he'd only been proven right as they'd gotten to know each other a little better— Zabini has all the best traits of a quintessential Slytherin. And thereby also all of the worst. Magic-wise, Hadrian can overpower him in a second, but that's why Zabini knows not to make an enemy of him, knows how to bend and stretch and profit while he's at it. He doesn't need anyone to protect him.

 Nott on the other hand doesn't reply right away, and when he does, it's an evasive, "Spells like that would be an instant expulsion from Hogwarts, especially coming from a Slytherin, and from a seventh-year, they'd go straight to Azkaban. There are portraits all over the school. I'm not stupid enough to wander into places where there aren't any."

 Hadrian aims a flat look at him. "That's not what I asked."

 Nott purses his lips and stares at his lap. Hadrian waits him out.

 "…They've tried cornering me," Nott finally admits, grudgingly, almost resentfully. "There's no avoiding a couple areas with no portraits. But they never used a curse this Dark before, and I've always been able to slip away."

 Hadrian swallows the first three things he wants to say, to shout, because at his core, he likes to think he has a long fuse, but when someone crosses his line in the sand, his temper has always been explosive and violent, which won't help here.

 Besides, hadn't he more or less told these two to handle the consequences of letting him tutor them on their own? Even if they weren't Slytherins and actually had the mind to reach out for help, they probably wouldn't have come to him after what he'd said, so he has no one to blame but himself and the fact that he'd underestimated just how deep some Slytherins' senseless hatred runs.

 So he breathes through his first instinct, his second, his third, and then he pushes off the desk he'd been leaning on in favour of pulling out parchment and ink and the appropriate books.

 "Alright, come here," He beckons, spreading everything out on his desk. "I'm gonna teach you a Fourfold Rebounder Ward so you can wear it on you from now on. The variation I'm thinking of has a chameleon element, so it'll be both strong enough to deflect a curse on the level of the one from earlier and also camouflage it when it's bounced back at whoever attacked you. It's based off of intent too, so it won't act up in a scuffle or a practice duel or something, the other person has to really want to harm you with deadly intent, so keep your guard up for other stuff, and honestly, this should just be for emergencies, you should still try to dodge it because it's not good to grow overly dependent on stuff like this. I'm confident the runes won't fail when I'm the one making it but your reflexes will get rusty if you get lazy. It's a bit- okay, a lot more difficult than anything you're learning right now, but I'll do most of the work, you just watch and provide the magic at the end, and once your foundation is a bit more stable and we can move ahead to more interesting things, I'll come back to this first so you'll be able to learn how to do this yourselves one day."

 A long silence follows. Hadrian looks up. Neither of his roommates has moved. "What's wrong?"

 Another few seconds tick by. It's Zabini who gets up first, an odd smile on his face, one that Hadrian's never seen before. But all he says is, "Nothing's wrong. I was just hoping if we waited a bit, Malfoy will get back in time to see what we're doing and finally keel over from high blood pressure."

 Hadrian snorts with laughter. "Get over here. If that really happened, we'd be the ones who'd have to waste time carrying him up to the Hospital Wing."

 Zabini's expression says that that wouldn't be his problem but he only smirks and saunters over to Hadrian's desk with his chair. When they both turn to look, Nott is already on his feet as well. He doesn't say anything, but he looks steadier, and he's watching Hadrian with a strange gleam in his eyes that makes them look almost feverish.

 They settle down around him, eager - by Slytherin standards - to learn in a way that reminds Hadrian exactly why he likes to teach.

 He gets to work, explaining each step even though he knows most of it is going over their heads. That's fine though; for now, these wards just need to protect them properly, and in the future, he'll teach them how to protect themselves.

 -0-

 Of course, things aren't over just like that, because Hadrian's temper is an explosive and violent beast, and the only things that's changed from when he was still a teenager is the fact that he's gotten a lot sneakier about it as an adult.

 They aren't friends. But Nott and Zabini are his roommates and his students and kids that he's starting to genuinely care about, and nobody gets to walk away scot-free after fucking with the people under Hadrian's care so long as he's still alive to do something about it.

 Malcolm Avery is seventeen anyway. That's an adult by any magical community's measure, which means Hadrian doesn't have to hold back.

 It takes a week. A week of slipping out after curfew and eavesdropping on conversations, of finding out what the seventh-year's next practical Potions class will be working on and scanning all of Avery's belongings to see what Dark spells he's been mucking about with, and finally of filching Avery's cauldron for an afternoon while he's in class and replacing it before he returns to his dorm.

 When it happens, Hadrian isn't even in school. Even if he were, it wouldn't matter because he'd made sure to time everything just right, and all the fourth-years - and most of the rest of the student body too - are already in the Great Hall waiting for lunch to be served. Seventh-year Potions is in the morning block, and Avery always goes overtime when there's a practical.

 Hadrian isn't even in school, sitting his Ancient Runes exams at the Ministry all day instead, but he certainly hears all about it when he gets back that evening.

 A few minutes before noon, a silver doe Patronus comes bounding up from the dungeons with an urgent summons for Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Nobody hears what is said, but the three staff members rush off even as the food begins to appear, and nobody hears from them again until half an hour later when whispers start going around about Healers from St. Mungo's being called and one Malcolm Avery being carried out the front doors on a stretcher because his condition is too unstable to be transported through the Floo. The professors don't really tell them anything except that there was a Potions accident, but - as these things do because the rumour mill at Hogwarts is healthier than ever, and there'd still been a few other seventh-years in class with Avery at the time - everyone more or less knows what happened anyway by the time afternoon classes start. Potions is cancelled for the rest of the day, because no one else was injured but Snape was too busy furiously documenting what had happened after running multiple diagnostic spells over the remains of Avery's cauldron to teach. Also, he has to submit said documentation and a Pensieve memory to the Aurors investigating the accident, which doesn't exactly say great things about his mood, so nobody's unhappy about being able to give Potions a miss.

 Apparently, Avery had been using his cauldron to make other potions - banned potions - in his dorm room. His roommates had been willing enough to keep mum and even give him a hand, and the book he'd been learning from had been found in his trunk. Thankfully, he hadn't managed to make anything too terrible yet, and his failed attempts hadn't managed to kill anyone, but he also hadn't cleaned his cauldron properly, and so there'd been a mess of residue potion and Dark magic clinging to the metal. Coincidentally, it had ended up reacting quite badly to the potion that the seventh-years were to work on that day, and the end result was a magnificent explosion that Snape had barely managed to protect himself and the other students from in the nick of time. There'd been no helping Avery who'd been standing right next to the unholy concoction.

 In the aftermath, the explosion had caused bad enough burns to disfigure Avery, but time and Healers would fix most if not all of that. Far more serious had been the potion damage to his body— the liquid had seeped right through his skin and disintegrated the majority of his left ribcage, and then it had gone on to chew even further, straight into his heart and left lung, an insidious venom that had dissolved into his bloodstream and sent him into convulsions that had wrung scream after agonized scream out of him until Pomfrey had deemed it safe enough to knock him out, although even then, his body wouldn't stop seizing from the pain.

 He'd still been alive when he'd been rushed out of the castle. Word has it that he's still alive now in St. Mungo's, except the Healers have no idea how to even begin treating him. Mixing multiple failed attempts at Dark potions, most of which even Avery's own roommates couldn't list all the names of or in which order he'd made them, together with one N.E.W.T.-level potion but in an explosion that had caused the maximum amount of entropy in the magic imbued into it— Merlin himself wouldn't be able to fix it with just a wave of his wand.

 By dinnertime, everybody is talking about it, and the professors have given up trying to stop them.

 (In truth, the outcome probably wouldn't have been quite so serious if Hadrian hadn't added a spell to amplify the toxicity and volatility of the residue in the cauldron, as well as several looping single-use runes to hide the volcanic buildup and also bind the whole thing to Avery alone so that it wouldn't have hurt anyone else even if Snape hadn't reacted in time. Without Hadrian's interference, it would've still exploded sooner or later, but Snape might've seen the danger signs in time to evacuate everyone from the classroom, and even if he didn't, the effects of the potion on Avery probably wouldn't have been so terrible.

 But then, that wouldn't have been enough. After all, lessons like these should stick.

 Avery will live, but he sure won't enjoy it.)

 It's almost ten by the time Hadrian gets back to the Slytherin Dungeon. Snape drops him off at the entrance before sweeping off to his own office in a dramatic billow of irritably flapping robes. He'd been at the Ministry for half the day just to piece together what had happened for them, but as Hadrian had ensured, the Potions master had been cleared of any negligence in the matter. The potion had very obviously shown no signs of exploding - three other experts had verified - and students are expected to take care of their own cauldrons from third-year onwards without the professor having to do weekly checks. Snape had been released by dinnertime, but he'd apparently decided to simply eat in the Ministry cafeteria and return with his student and Babbling, so here they are.

 Except-

 Just before Snape makes to leave, he turns and pins Hadrian with a long appraising look, clinical and penetrating. Hadrian stares back serenely, and maybe the fact that his mind is a steel trap wrapped around a battlefield would be highly suspect to anyone looking in, but he also doesn't feel so much as a brush of Legilimency from Snape whatsoever. The professor really is just looking at him.

 It's a strange new world.

 In the end, Snape doesn't say anything before walking off, and Hadrian is left to blink after him before letting himself into the common room.

 Everything goes eerily silent the moment everyone realizes he's back. Even if he hadn't said anything, someone - let's be real, it's Malfoy - had spread the news of Hadrian taking his Ancient Runes exams early, so pretty much everyone had known where he'd gone today. It was never a secret though so Hadrian hadn't cared, except when he steps into the room, it's very obvious that everybody is focused on him, and just as obvious that nobody is willing to make eye-contact with him.

 The younger students should've already retired for the night. At least everybody still in the common room, studying or playing chess or chatting with each other like any standard evening, are fifth-years and up, so most of these students had probably known - or had been told after the fact - exactly what that curse would've done to Theo Nott that day, and exactly who had been the one to attack him.

 And everybody knows what had happened to Avery today. More specifically, they know that what had happened to him today had been an almost perfect mirror of what he'd wanted to do to Nott one week ago. Nobody here believes in coincidences, and there's only so many people who would've had the motivation to orchestrate the entire accident down to the smallest detail.

 Most of them have known Nott and Zabini for at least a few years. Perhaps they're not on speaking terms, but they'd still been Housemates for a while. Something like this isn't really Nott's style, and while it is Zabini's, neither of them has the ability.

 The only real unknown is Hadrian Evans, and if they still can't put the pieces together at this point, they might as well sell their brains.

 The area by the fireplace, normally always occupied by Avery's group at this time, is empty today. Avery's at St. Mungo's, his roommates are in overnight lockup at the Ministry, and any who aren't but were part of Avery's faction are probably hiding up in their rooms. Nobody else has taken their seats, not even the students who usually do when Avery hasn't claimed it for the day.

 Hadrian walks towards the doorway leading to the boys' dormitory, and no one stops him. It feels like the entire room is holding their breaths. Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves until Hadrian is out of earshot.

 The dorm is likewise very quiet when Hadrian enters. Malfoy's bed curtains are already drawn, as are Crabbe's and Goyle's, but Zabini's are open, and he's lazing against the headboard with a book in his hands while Nott is still at his desk doing homework.

 They both look up as soon as the door swings open. Zabini stays on his bed but Nott even stands up as Hadrian shuts the door behind him. His whole frame is tense with a restless sort of energy, and he's staring at Hadrian with shining eyes. They both are, although in different ways. Zabini looks equal parts ecstatic and hungry, while Nott just looks the kind of deeply confused and deeply grateful that makes Hadrian want to set fire to someone, preferably whoever stitched this very expression into Nott's range of emotions out of the pieces they'd torn from him.

 Nobody says anything right away. Hadrian squints at them as he makes his way to his own bed, feeling vaguely perturbed, because he hadn't truly expected them to not connect what happened to Avery back to him, but he hadn't thought they would be so fixated on it either. Maybe a roundabout tactful thank-you from Nott, an offer of a favour at most. But not… this, whatever this is.

 He laments the fact that these two aren't more stupid when it comes to this sort of thing. Ron would be oblivious. Hermione would be determinedly oblivious. Neville… would actually react a bit like Nott, Ginny would react a lot like Zabini, Luna wouldn't react at all but she'd be extra cuddly for a few days, and gods, Hadrian needs saner friends.

 Not that these two are friends of course.

 He manages to get through a shower, brush his teeth, and climb into a bed before Nott is suddenly at his side, eyes still shining with something Hadrian really doesn't want to put a name to. Thankfully, he doesn't burst into any heartfelt speeches that would probably embarrass everyone within hearing range. Not so thankfully, he honest-to-fucking-Merlin bows, all archaic and meaningful in every way Hadrian has never learned and so doesn't understand, but even he can sense the weight and deference behind every word as Nott murmurs, "All of mine is yours, until the end of days. I would be honoured if you would call me Theo."

 "Jesus fucking Christ," Hadrian mutters, because sometimes wizarding swears just don't have enough oomph to encompass the never-ending circus trainwreck that is his life. He scrubs a hand over his face, peeks at Nott - at Theo - who's still halfway bent over, and of course, it's just his luck that he has no idea how to respond in the proper pureblood way.

 He would've preferred the heartfelt speech.

 "I'm a halfblood, I don't know how to respond appropriately," He says bluntly because he doesn't know what else to do. But he also flicks a Silencing Ward at Malfoy's bed, then at Crabbe's and Goyle's as well because you can never be too careful, and then he leans over and hauls Theo upright and catches his gaze and holds it, "I'll call you Theo if you call me Hadrian. One day, you'll be strong enough to take care of your enemies on your own, and you won't need anyone else to do it for you if you don't want them to, but until then, if all of you is mine, then your enemies are too, so I'll deal with them if it turns out that they still haven't learned after today. That makes us allies from now on though, which means we're equals, and that means you never, ever bow to anyone again. Not me, and not anybody else either. Understand?"

 Theo stares again, wide-eyed and lost and so terribly young, and sometimes, Hadrian wonders what it says about just how messed up the world is when broken kids can be bought so easily.

 Finally, almost dazedly, Theo gives some semblance of a nod.

 "Hadrian," He says, and something about him straightens, grows steel, settles.

 "Hadrian," He repeats and dips his head, not a bow, but respectful all the same, and his eyes are still bright with that unnamed creature, but at least he looks at Hadrian head-on. "Thank you. Goodnight."

 Hadrian sighs and figures that this is about the best he's going to get tonight. Maybe it'll dial back to normal in a few days. "Goodnight, Theo."

 Theo smiles, tiny, crooked, a little awkward. It's the first one Hadrian has ever seen from him, and that at least he can't be upset about.

 They can finally go to sleep though. Theo returns to his own bed, Zabini is still watching them both from his bed like they're his new favourite show, and Hadrian resolutely pretends he doesn't see anything else as he takes down the Silencing Wards before drawing his curtains, rolling over, and promptly making a sincere attempt at smothering himself with a pillow.

 His life.

-0-0-0-

End Notes: Ok wow so this got hella long and I didn't really get to all the stuff anon wanted whoops. Theo just… wouldn't stop thinking lmao, and also this AU has the potential to get so big so I ended up cramming in worldbuilding wherever I could. So unfortunately all you get is sort of a starting snapshot of where this is going and how Hadrian is going to turn out and a shitload of Theo's character. I kind of wanted to do him and Blaise's POV but I could only fit Theo, and I feel like getting Blaise through Theo's POV actually added to his character just as much as a personal POV would've. Anyway, those two are basically blank slates in canon so ofc I would pick them to write lolol.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 10: Scar Tissue]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, discussions of sex, and you don’t get any plot hints this time you just have to read and suffer and yes there will be ANGSTTTTT!!!!

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @bornbetter @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @bearwithegg​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles @elsolario

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You’ve counted the scars on his chest until you know them by heart. There are twelve exactly, which feels significant; it’s the last week of the twelfth month of 1999, it’s the end, it’s the beginning. You read them with your eyes and your fingertips and your lips, these knots of corporal memory that form a constellation, not the shape of a hero—Hercules, Orion, Perseus, Achilles—but the footprints of ghosts.

The Juneau magnet has joined the rest of his collection, places he blew into like a storm and then abandoned, wreckage in his wake, downed trees and snapped powerlines and shingles ripped from roofs, finally at peace in his absence and yet somehow less. There is a jar on top of the refrigerator that already has your half of the money for the San Diego trip squirreled away in it. Aegon puts in a little at a time—a quarter here, a five-dollar bill there—and yet there’s never any doubt that he’s committed to it. It’s the same way he is with you. There are no grand gestures, no expensive gifts or intoxicating declarations. There are only small, feather-light moments as faint as the lines in your palm. You could stack up a million of them and they would never feel heavy. They would never feel like a cage.

Aegon is an open door, and together you are a dream: whispers and guitar strings, tangled sheets and refracted light, snow falling soundlessly beyond frosted windows, fog so thick it erases the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How dare you,” Heather says when you enter Caribou Crossings. It’s Wednesday, December 29th. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by boxes, an island in a sea of Juneau-themed souvenirs. “You float in here on a cloud while I’m sad, single, all alone in the world except for these hideous snow globes.” She holds one aloft for emphasis. “Why would anyone want a snow globe with a salmon in it? A salmon?”

You smile. You smile a lot these days. “Tragic.”

“No pets in need of your medical expertise?”

“Not really. Ms. Larson’s box turtle had a shell fracture, but now I’m free until 2:30.”

“How’s the making Cobainbies going?”

“No babies,” you insist. “Not of any variety.” Aegon as a father, as a husband? The prospect is horrifying. When you’re reminded of this—of the impossibility of a future beyond the next three months—you try to bury it like…well, like a body in a lake; each time it surfaces, you tie another stone around its ankle and sink it back down into the darkness.

“Is that what cracked Trent’s already less-than-impressive brain? You and Aegon?”

“Trent doesn’t know about Aegon. He just thinks we’re taking things slow. Honestly, I tried to break up with him about a week ago and…he got scary.”

Heather puts down the salmon snow globe and looks at you. “What did he do?”

“The same thing he did at the bar the other night. He was like…aggressive. Intimidating. But also apologetic and oblivious. It’s really disorienting. It’s hard for me to figure out if he’s…” What’s the right word? Dangerous. But you’re not sure if you can say that to Heather. “Seriously angry. I don’t want him to go all Stone Cold Steve Austin on Aegon.” Or me.

“That moron,” Heather sighs. “I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to him.”

“Uh, don’t do that.”

“No, it’s fine, I know how to put it in a way he’ll understand.” She stands, hands on her hips. “It’s just…you know…when Trent played football, if he was bored or pissed off he could run around and tackle people and knock them unconscious, and that’s how he learned to deal with things. And now he doesn’t have that anymore. He’s got friends and hobbies and a job, but I don’t think he knows what comes next. That happens to everyone, right? We all wake up one day and realize we’re adults and we’re supposed to have life figured out but we just…don’t. Trent’s a dumbass, and he needs to leave you alone if that’s what you want, and I’ll make it happen. But I don’t think he would ever intentionally hurt somebody.”

“I hope not,” you say softly.

Heather smirks. “So, are you enjoying all the super kinky sex with that Greek boy? Has he bent you into a pretzel fifty different ways? Has he dislocated your hips yet?”

“It’s not really like that,” you tell her. “It’s intense, but it’s…I don’t know. Different.”

The truth dawns on her, sunlight sparkling on waves. “When he leaves, you want to go with him.”

“Yes, but I can’t.”

“Why not? They need vets everywhere.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Look, obviously I don’t want you to leave. I’d be freaking heartbroken. Those four years of vet school were bad enough, and I always knew you were coming back. But if you feel like there’s something else out there that you need to experience…” She gestures vaguely, meaning the world beyond Juneau. “I would want you to have that chance. And then maybe you could end up back here one day knowing that this is really what you need after all.”

You shake your head, watching flurries wheel through the frigid wind outside. “My parents would be devastated. I don’t have any siblings, there’s nobody else, there’s just me. And Aegon…” He’s been running for six years and he’ll never stop. “He’s not the type to settle down.”

“Maybe he’ll get the whole alcoholic homeless rockstar thing out of his system and be totally normal by the time he hits thirty,” Heather says hopefully.

You can see it in a flash too sudden to hide from yourself: a house by the beach, white-blond children chasing Sunfyre around the backyard, golden-sun days and hot chocolate at night, cooking in the kitchen together like your parents always do. Aegon wouldn’t even have to work. I could still be a vet and he could take care of the kids and perform in some local rock band once or twice a week...and we could all be happy. You can’t believe that—not for more than a few reckless seconds, anyway—but you need to kill this conversation before it kills you. “Sure, maybe.”

“We should do something fun,” Heather pivots cheerfully. “While Aegon’s still here. While you both are. It’s the start of a new millennium, bitch! If we were characters on Friends or Buffy or whatever, we would be doing something fun and glamorous. We wouldn’t be sitting here in grandma sweaters surrounded by boxes of salmon snow globes.”

You laugh, although you are admittedly partial to grandma sweaters. “What do you want, a New Year’s Eve party? Flutes of champagne, glitter and fireworks? People making out at midnight?”

She grins. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“I could probably make that happen, actually,” you realize. “My parents keep bringing up the idea of having people over. They love any excuse to ply guests with food and rock music. I said I just wanted to watch ABC 2000 Today with them and Aegon.”

“Great! You can still watch ABC 2000 Today, just with thirty of your closest friends.”

“You are well aware that I possess, at the absolute maximum, like four friends.”

“Everyone is friends with everyone on New Year’s Eve. And guess what?”

“What?”

Heather’s face is determined, insolent, fierce. “We’re not going to invite Trent.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“New Year’s Eve?” Aegon echoes doubtfully. You’re curled up on the couch together watching the X-Files, Sunfyre sprawled across your lap, your head on Aegon’s bare chest; he has one hand in your hair, the other holding a rum and Coke. He doses himself with it like morphine, but he is far from drunk. He’s seemed better since he almost drowned. You wonder if it reminded him that alive is something he enjoys being.

“Yeah. My parents are so excited about it. They’re trying to plan a menu, but my dad has literally fifteen different appetizers he wants to make.”

“Sounds like he’s handling retirement well.”

“He likes to stay busy.” You sit up to look at Aegon. The light of the television flickers on his face, but his eyes are glassy and far away. As far as Miami? As far as six years ago? “So? What do you think?”

“About what?”

“The New Year’s Eve party, obviously.”

He shrugs, sips his rum and Coke, licks his lips slowly. Then he comes back to you, a moon growing full again after starving away. “Totally, Appletini. Let’s do it.”

“Yay!” You are shocked by your own enthusiasm; it’s very unlike you. Sunfyre’s tail thumps against the couch in approval. You turn Aegon’s face and kiss him, feeling the strange barely-there smile of his lips on yours. “And Trent won’t even be there, so we don’t have to be subtle about anything. We can hang out together, dance, cuddle, feed each other Swedish meatballs on cute little toothpicks…”

“Sneak up to your bedroom while everyone else is busy watching the countdown in Times Square…”

You giggle, settling against Aegon’s chest again, nestling into him. He’s warm and pliable and fits with you like the interwoven opalescent threads of the Northern Lights. His free hand pulls you closer; the ice cubes in his glass clink. The jar on top of the refrigerator gets fuller each day. “Everything is falling into place. Everything is going to be perfect.”

“Perfect,” Aegon agrees; but you can hear that he’s far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bitch,” Heather gasps when she sees you, awed and incredulous. She’s carrying a massive tray of miniature quiches: smoked salmon, ham and cheddar, crab and tomato. “Bitchhhhh!”

You’re wearing a red dress you bought for a winter formal during vet school and haven’t touched since. You went with a sweet soulful boy from Iowa who you felt absolutely nothing for. He would have made a good husband, you realize now; he would have come home every night and helped the kids with their math homework and spent his weekends fixing fences and grilling steaks. You wonder if people like that are born without any darkness in them, or if they just learn to drain it from their veins like poisoned blood. You wonder if there is some reservoir of malignant self-destruction in everyone just waiting to breach the levees. “I look okay?”

“You look delicious. You look sinfully slutty. I wish I was into women, that’s how good you look.”

“Thanks, Heather.” You have lingerie on to match. You’re red all the way down: satin, lace, blood. You’re even wearing strappy crimson heels. It’s something you can’t stop thinking about: Aegon slipping every layer off of you later. You take the tray of quiches and beckon Heather inside.

The house is decorated—to a truly excessive degree—with balloons, banners, and confetti. Welcome, 2000! one banner reads. We hope the Y2K bug doesn’t destroy civilization! Your mom and dad are frenetically readying appetizers in the kitchen. When they finish each dish, you bring it out to the dining room table: deviled eggs, crab dip and toast points, ham salad sandwiches, stuffed jalapeno peppers, chicken liver mousse crostini, reindeer sausages, bacon-wrapped scallops, Swedish meatballs, homemade Rice Krispies Treats, Tongass Forest Cookies, a towering Baked Alaska. There are chilled bottles of wine, beer, and champagne, beads of condensation snaking down the glass. The ABC 2000 Today special is on tv, but guests are only half-watching. Your dad’s newest Red Hot Chili Peppers album is spinning on the record player; to you, their songs sound like California, or at least what you imagine California to be. The plucky guitar notes of Scar Tissue tiptoe through the house like footsteps in sand.

There are people in the dining room, people in the living room, people huddled in their parkas and smoking cigarettes around the crackling firepit in the backyard. They’re talking about 2000, of course, and the presidential election next year, and the Olympics, and the internet, and their own mundane tribulations: knee replacements, gallbladder removals, hyperactive grandchildren, marriages and divorces. But they’re talking about the Ice Fisher too.

“Who do you think it could be?” you hear Dale asking some of his bowling league buddies on the other side of the living room. They’re all broad, bearded men in flannel and jeans, guzzling beers and weather-beaten by their work as fishermen, loggers, oil riggers. “Ex-military? Some drifter? Someone just not right in the head? You know, I saw this 60 Minutes episode about a brain disease—what was it called, Earl? CTZ? CTE?—and athletes can get it from having concussions all the time. Boxers and football players and such. You think something like that could make someone violent…?”

Heather is working her way through a gargantuan portion of crab dip. Kimmie and Brad are practically mounting each other on your parents’ couch. Beside them, Joyce is grimacing as she tries to lose herself in a fantast novel with a mostly-naked cowboy on the front cover. She only smiles when Rob brings her a plate of appetizers. You’re on your third glass of bubbly, festive champagne. You keep glancing at the front door.

“They have to catch him soon, right?” Kimmie says in between sloppy kisses: loud smacking noises, lots of tongue. “I mean, he’s killed five people. Five! That’s so many!”

Joyce flips a page. “The police called in the FBI. That’s got to lead to a breakthrough soon.”

“I hope so.” Kimmie shudders. “It’s constant now…I worry when I go out to check the mail, when I put gas in my Land Cruiser, when I’m carrying groceries into the house…I feel like he could be anywhere. Like he’s lurking in every shadowy corner just waiting to grab me.”

“I think you’re safe,” Rob says with a smirk, amused but grim. “No one who goes to Ursa Minor gets killed. Have you guys noticed that? None of the victims had ever been to the bar as far as I know. The Ice Fisher must do his stalking in a different part of town.”

“Weird coincidence,” Joyce mutters.

“Guess I need to start going to Ursa Minor,” Brad says, grinning. “I could use some good luck.” Kimmie squeals with laughter as he paws at her, greedy and frivolous. You think: Please don’t leave body fluids on the couch, please don’t leave body fluids on the couch, please don’t leave body fluids on the couch…

“Why are the Bee Gees on tv?” Heather complains. “Who wanted that?”

Kimmie asks you: “Can Brad and I borrow your bedroom?”

“No, Kimmie.”

“Not the bed. Just the room. We’ll put a towel down on the floor.”

“Boundaries, Kimmie,” you plead.

“Fine,” she relents, sulking. Kimmie is wearing a glittery white dress and looks very, very young; her eyes are large and blameless, and her hair is secured in two voluminous pigtails. There’s a rhinestone crown on her head that reads Happy New Year! “Is Aegon on his way?”

“Oh yeah, he’ll be here any minute.” You steal another glimpse of the front door, but there are no consequent knocks. You check the clock on the wall. 10:30 p.m.

“He’s driving?” Heather says around a mouthful of crab dip, thin eyebrows raised. “He never drives.” Because he’s always drinking, she kindly leaves out.

“He told me he wanted to this morning. He’s been picking up extra shifts at work on whatever boats need another man. Holiday pay is double and we’re saving up for a trip to San Diego, you know.” There are polite—skeptical? pitying?—murmurs of agreement. “He didn’t know when he would get off, so he said I should focus on preparing for the party here and he would head over as soon as he had time to shower and walk Sunfyre. Anyway, he was on a boat all day and I was here helping to make deviled eggs until my hands felt like they were going to fall off.”

“Huh. I hope he’s not passed out in a ditch somewhere.”

“He’s not,” you say, a little more harshly than you mean to. He’s been getting better.

There is a knock at the door, and the closest person—Mark Morehouse from the pawn shop—opens it. It’s not Aegon. It’s Trent. He’s carrying a cheesecake the size of a Pekingese.

“Oh no,” Heather breathes. Kimmie, Joyce, and Rob frown down at their drinks.

“Hey, Trent!” Brad says, blithely unaware of the shift in mood.

Trent, wearing a very stately black button-up shirt, matching blazer, and khaki pants, looks around the room. He sees you, mouths wow, and then gives a tentative wave. He doesn’t come anywhere close to you. He puts his cheesecake on the dining room table and then goes to join Gary and Matt by the record player. Your mom and dad soon appear to greet him, resting their hands on his massive shoulders, asking about how his parents are doing and whether he’s had any luck with the Forest Service. Trent tells them that he finally got an interview that’s scheduled for next week. They reply with congratulations, casting you furtive, appraising glances. Did you invite him? Their eyes say. Do you want him here?

“Do you want me to get rid of him?” Heather asks you. “I didn’t tell him about the party, I swear. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Of course she wouldn’t; but Juneau is too small for secrets, that feels more true every day. Heather didn’t need to tell Trent, and neither did your parents. Maybe he heard about it through Matt or Gary, or he eavesdropped on a conversation in the Foodland, or someone mentioned it to his parents and they suggested he go without knowing he wasn’t supposed to be in attendance. However it happened doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Heather’s question reverberates in your skull. Do you want me to get rid of him? “No,” you say. “Not yet, anyway. I don’t want to cause a scene in front of everyone.” Everyone but Aegon, you think, and you wouldn’t call yourself concerned yet but you are growing annoyed, little by little like how a clock ticks towards a new hour.

Joyce sniffs. “Hopefully he stays over there.”

And Trent does keep his distance. Now Dale is congratulating him about his interview. “That’s a great sign, Trent, a really great sign! Getting your foot in the door is the hardest part. I’ll call over and put in a good word for you. I still have a bunch of stuff from when I worked as a park ranger…boots, compasses, trekking poles, snowshoes…I’ll bring a box over for you.”

“Aw, Dale!” Trent appears to be genuinely touched. “Thanks, bro! You’re the best!”

“Sorry, what’s wrong with Trent?” Brad asks, brow crinkled, one arm slung around Kimmie. “Did I miss something?”

“He’s just a little obsessed with our gorgeous crimson hostess,” Heather explains, gesturing to you. “Obsessed in a pushy, idiotic, not-flattering way.”

Rob adds: “And he occasionally turns into the Hulk.”

“Maybe Trent’s the Ice Fisher,” Brad whispers conspiratorially, and then bursts out laughing. Everyone joins him except you. You can’t really blame them. Trent is a local hero: a football star, a reliable employee, the son of a normal and respected family, the wearer of his mane of lustrous hair, the object of countless women’s affection, the man who dragged Aegon out of the channel when he nearly drowned. A few mutilated Taco Bell tables aren’t going to change that. An occasional verbal outburst—and from a former athlete no less, fiery and forceful by necessity and thus swiftly forgiven, like a champion thoroughbred prone to biting—isn’t going to change that.

But they haven’t seen everything I have. They haven’t felt it.

You stand. “I’m going to go call Aegon.”

Upstairs in your bedroom, you assess your reflection in the mirror lined with photographs: the past and the future, friends and family and that magazine cutout of the Ford Mustang convertible barreling down the Pacific Coast Highway. You touch up your hair and makeup, then admire your dress. It occurs to you that almost everyone downstairs is wearing black or white or silver, cold wintery colors, New Year’s colors. You are the only one in red. When you got ready hours ago, you had felt powerful and sensual and elegant. You had imagined disappearing with Aegon into this room just after midnight, his hands skating up your thighs as cheers and toasts rumble through the floor. Now, when you imagine your exclamation-point red dress in a sea of cool, sleek shades of darkness and light, it strikes you as perhaps trying too hard. Desperate, even.

You pick up the phone on your nightstand and dial Aegon’s number. The line is busy.

Who would he be talking to? you wonder, perplexed. Everyone he knows is here.

You can’t drive over to pick him up; not until some of the champagne leaves your system, anyway. And you could never ask someone else to take you. You have no idea what you’ll find when you get there. You hang up the phone and stare down at it for a while.

So this is what it felt like. All those nights when Mom was waiting for Jesse to come home and he never did, all those times they had plans that he forgot. She’d be sitting on the couch or at the dining room table trying not to lose her mind as the hours crept by, and the whole time he’d be off getting wasted somewhere.

You physically shake your head to chase the vision away.

Aegon is going to be here. He has to be here. He’s been getting better.

“No luck?” Heather asks when you reappear downstairs, trying to sound neutral. You know she’s not actually neutral. You know exactly what she’s thinking.

“I’m sure he’ll be on his way soon.” You plop down on the couch next to Joyce and gaze at the television without really seeing it. You are vaguely aware of the entertainers flitting in and out of the little black box: Neil Diamond, Faith Hill, Enrique Iglesias, Billy Joel, Barry Manilow, NSYNC, Christina Aguilera, Aerosmith. Around you, the party rolls on. You chat less and less and consume only water. You’re losing your appetite, and you want to be able to drive by the time midnight strikes. It’s 11:00, and then 11:15, and then 11:30, and eventually 11:45. More Juneau residents filter in, but none of them are Aegon.

“You okay, ladybug?” your dad asks as he moseys by the couch, and you send him away with a peppy affirmation and a too-wide smile. Your mom tries next, with similar results. They know you aren’t okay, but they can’t say anything about it. Neither can Heather or Kimmie or Joyce. You become a blip on a hectic radar, an island in the South Pacific so small the rest of the world flies over it without even looking down. The house is hot and teeming with bodies: friends and lovers laughing together, touching each other, chatting, kissing lips and throats and cheeks. The living room suddenly feels like it’s on fire, like there’s searing smoke pouring into your lungs. You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom so they’ll leave you alone, and then you squeeze through the crowd and flee out into the backyard, which is blessedly empty. Everyone else has crammed inside to watch the tv as the clock nears midnight. No one wants to miss the ball drop. You couldn’t care less.

You plod through the snow in your ridiculous red heels until you reach the firepit, and you stand there glaring into the blaze with your bare arms wrapped around you. There is light snow falling, but you don’t even feel cold. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out, like you’ve swallowed the same flames that are dancing across your face.

He’s not going to show up, you are certain now. He’s really not going to. And he knew that all along, which is why he didn’t want me to drive him.

You feel furious, you feel ruined, but most of all you just feel stupid. You’ve heard this story before. You were a part of it, you were built by it. And yet somehow you thought you could change the ending.

Wind howls through the evergreen trees, and now you are cold. You clutch yourself tighter, shivering viciously and covered in goosebumps. You’re stuck out here; there are tears spilling down your cheeks, black trails of mascara that will scream to anyone who sees you that you’ve been crying. Crying over Aegon. Crying over some fucking alcoholic loser who stood me up.

Of course, you don’t actually think he’s a loser. That’s the problem. Everyone seems to understand exactly who he is but you.

You hear the back door of the house swing open, and there are heavy footsteps crunching through the snow. You sniffle, trying to wipe the tears from your face with your fingers. You imagine that you’re only making it worse: stained foundation, smudged eyeliner, lip gloss worn away. You expect to see your dad when you turn around, but you don’t. You see Trent.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, and holds out your parka to you from several feet away. “I’m not trying to annoy you. I just saw you run outside and figured you might need this.”

“Did anyone else see me?”

“I don’t think so.”

You grab the parka from him, yank it on, and zip it shut. You sniffle some more, mopping tears from your face. The stars and moon are almost fully obscured by clouds; the only light in the world is fire. After a while, you ask Trent: “What did Heather tell you?”

“She said that you are a mature, responsible, logical person, and that if I want to have any shot with you at all then I have to be the same way. And she was totally right. Losing my temper is immature, being jealous is immature. So now I’m giving you the space that you asked for. I get it now. I’m not going to try to tell you what you want. You’re too smart for that. You have to decide what you want for yourself.”

I’ve already decided, and I chose wrong. I chose so, so, disastrously wrong. “I appreciate that, Trent,” you say in a hoarse whisper.

He turns around to go back inside, then hesitates. “Look, I’m glad that you and Aegon are friends now. He’s not a bad guy. But he’s…I mean, he’s a mess, you know? And he’s always going to be a mess. And you can’t expect him to not be a mess. I’m sorry if he ruined something for you tonight. I know your family has sort of temporarily adopted him, and I know you like to fix things. But sometimes there are no bolts to tighten or nails to hammer in. Sometimes people just are who they are.”

You consider Trent, a mirage of bitter cold and firelight. He shrugs, offers a sheepish half-smile, flips his hair, and then retreats inside the house. Minutes later, as you try to choke back sobs under blind stars, you hear cheers and applause when the new millennium arrives.

As car doors slam and guests rummage through piles of coats, you slip mostly unnoticed into the kitchen. You pour yourself a full glass of water, drink all of it, and then make for your purse where your Jeep keys are stashed. You are intercepted in the dining room by your parents and Heather. You try to hide your face, but there’s no point. You are as clear as glass under the yellowish artificial light.

“Oh, ladybug, are you okay?” Your mom engulfs you in a warm, comforting hug that is also constraining. I have to try to find Aegon. I have to confront him. Not who I want him to be, but who he really is.

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll be back in like a half hour, and then I’ll help you clean up the house.”

“The house!” your dad bellows, barking out a laugh of disbelief. “We aren’t worried about the house! What can we do, ladybug? Is there anything we can do?”

“No, really, I can handle it.”

“You can’t go anywhere alone,” Heather says. “It’s dark, it’s super late.” The other fact hangs in the air like snowflakes. The Ice Fisher might be out there somewhere, just waiting to snatch you off the sidewalk and sink you into a lake.

“It’s just across town, it’s a ten-minute drive, it’s not a big deal.”

“You can’t go out alone,” your dad insists, looking gratefully at Heather. Your mom nods along. “I’m sorry, but if something happened to you, we’d never be able to forgive ourselves.”

“I’ll go,” Heather says. “I think I’ve had too much champaign to drive, but I can ride along and walk you inside.”

“That’s completely unnecessary. I have my bear mace.”

“Then I’ll wait in the Jeep!” Heather throws up her hands, exasperated. “Look, bitch, one way or another someone is going with you. I’ll make sure you get up to his apartment—that’s where you’re going, right? I think we all know that’s where you’re going—and then I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait five minutes, I’ll wait five hours, I really don’t care how long it takes but there is no fucking way you’re driving off into the night alone.”

You aren’t leaving this house without a chaperone. That’s pretty obvious. Aegon doesn’t care where I am or who I’m with. He didn’t even care enough to call and say he wouldn’t be here. “Fine. Okay. But we’re leaving right now.”

You grab your purse and Heather follows you out to the Jeep, struggling to keep up. “I would not have guessed you could move so efficiently in heels,” she puffs, climbing into the passenger’s seat. You tear out of the driveway, tires chomping on salt and ice and snow. Heather tries to make conversation. You don’t quite ignore her; it’s more like you don’t hear her at all. You hear the wind and the snow and the blood rushing in your ears. You hear the shrieking hollowness left by what could have been.

You park under the streetlight outside Aegon’s apartment building, murky luminescence flooding the cabin of your Jeep. Heather sees the inky tears on your face…and she sees the rage too: raw, brutal, razor-sharp rage. “Well, Jesus Christ, don’t kill him or anything.”

You don’t reply. You venture out into the savage cold, your heels leaving deep punctures in the ice-coated snow like stab wounds.

Upstairs, Aegon’s apartment door is locked. You can’t hear anything on the other side. And as you rattle the key he gave you into the jagged slit of the knob, you feel a dark premonition sinking in: a pebble through waves, a body into the depths. There is an instinctual warning that hums from your skin all the way down to your bone marrow.

There is no coming back from this moment. It’s like balancing on a ledge. There is something terrible here that I will never be able to unsee, to undiscover.

What is it? What the hell is it? That Aegon’s drunk? Would that really be so out of character, so inconceivable?

Maybe he’s with another woman. Maybe he’s already left Juneau. Maybe he’s dead.

You open the door; and in the silent florescent light of the kitchen, the first thing you notice is that the jar on top of the refrigerator is gone. Then you spot it: it’s open and sideways on the countertop, and it’s empty. Sunfyre lies on the kitchen’s tile floor with his scarred muzzle resting on his paws. He whimpers, large dark eyes troubled.

“Aegon?” you say. You step inside, your red heels clicking on the scuffed wood. You close the door behind you. Your eyes scan the dimly-lit room—guitar, bed, lifeless television, phone he left off the hook, couch—until you find him. He is a pale, crumpled figure on the floor. “Aegon?!”

You rush to him, dropping to your knees so hard you bruise them. He groans when you roll him over onto his back, so he’s not dead. He’s half-dressed: red leather pants, combat boots, gold chain necklace, no shirt. When you lift your hand from him, blood stains your palm.

“What—?”

And then you see the stripe of maroon dripping down from the crook of his left elbow. There’s a bloodied needle on the floor beside him, a lighter, a spoon. There’s a small transparent baggie half-filled with white powder.

Aegon blinks at you through his tangled hair, pulling himself upright with great effort. Everything about him is heavy, hazy, like trying to run through water. He doesn’t seem aware of the blood. It’s in his hair, you realize; and there’s a smear on his neck, a splattering on his bare chest. “What are you so dressed up for?”

You can’t answer him. You’re so full of horror and rage that if you open your mouth you might start screaming and never stop.

“Oh,” Aegon remembers listlessly. “Party.”

“I watched the door all night like an idiot, like some desperate little kid”—waiting for their father to come home—“and the whole time you were here shooting up.”

He gazes at you, but from a distance, like he’s looking up from the bottom of the ocean and you’re the shadow of a ship. His voice is slow and muddled. “Yeah.”

“And I guess that’s where all the money went. The money for the San Diego trip.”

“Yeah.”

“How fucking dare you,” you hiss. You grab the baggie off the floor.

Aegon’s hand darts out and closes around your wrist. “No—!”

You rip your arm away from him. “This is heroin, right?” You catch a fistful of his hair and yank his head back so you can check his eyes. Aegon flinches and yelps, but he doesn’t struggle. His eyes are bloodshot, his pupils pinpricks in an ocean of deep blue. “How fucking dare you,” you say again. “How fucking dare you.”

You take the baggie to the kitchen sink, shove it down into the drain, turn on the garbage disposal. You run water down the drain until any trace of it is gone. When you return to Aegon, he’s watching you with those dazed, other-world eyes. He’s still slumped over on the floor; he doesn’t seem to be able to stand. He keeps trying to and flopping over.

“If you’re so mad then hit me,” he says. “Just hit me. Just fucking hit me.”

“Why did you have to come here?” you ask, wrenching the question out of you like extracting a molar or a bullet. Fresh tears brim in your eyes; embers kindle in your throat. You think of how hundreds of years ago doctors believed that you could bleed a patient to rid them of poison or disease, and you wonder how much of yourself you would have to spill into a bowl to forget Aegon. You wonder if your mom has ever forgotten a single thing about Jesse: his voice, his fingertips, the way his hair fell across his face. “If you were just going to make me want something that was never possible, if you were just going to show me what it felt like to be real and then take it away, what was the point? What was the goddamn point? Why did you have to come here and ruin my life?”

“You didn’t like your life before I showed up and you won’t like it when I’m gone.”

“I hate you,” you choke out.

Aegon’s jaw falls open. He can’t believe you said it. Neither can you.

“I want you to leave,” you tell him. “Tomorrow when you sober up I want you to pack your things and get on a plane and leave Juneau like you left everywhere else. I don’t want to know where you go next. I don’t want to know anything about you. I never want to see you again.”

“No.” You can’t tell if it’s defiance or denial or confusion. You don’t stay to argue with him.

You go to the apartment door, open it, and call to Sunfyre: “Come on, buddy.” He rockets off the tiles and trots over, tail wagging cautiously.

“Hey, hey, you can’t take my dog!” Aegon shouts, dragging himself towards you. His hands and knees thump against the wooden floor.

“Yes I can. You can’t be trusted with him. You don’t deserve him.”

“Please don’t,” Aegon whispers huskily. “Don’t take him away. Please.”

You twist his apartment key off your keyring and pitch it at him. It strikes his shoulder and ricochets off, clattering across the floor. He looks at it, not understanding. It’s a dead language, it’s an ancient rune he can’t read. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. “Goodbye, Aegon.”

You slam the door, fly down the building staircase, break into the cold all-consuming darkness with Sunfyre on your heels like a shadow made of gold.

[neiptune]

Hihi! ☺️ For your event: "i’d drive away before i let you go" w/ Sanemi (or Giyuu) + mutual pining trope. 🤍 Preferably a happy ending (implied or obvious), but I'll survive if you mix in some angst. 😆

Thanks so much for hosting another event — super excited to read what you write !! 😍

tomioka giyuu x I'd drive away before I let you go

request a character + prompt here :)

“D’you believe in soulmates?”

All you’re actively looking at is the night sky, a dark blanket sprayed with tiny lights blinking back at you. Still, you’re sure he’s turned his head to look at your side profile with furrowed brows and a skeptical expression, the same one he had when you had first interrupted your stroll and begged him to just lie down for a little while.

“I don’t”

You snort, not at all surprised.

“Okay. What d’you think is the closest thing, then?”

“The closest thing to what?”

“That kinda love” you give in at last, turn your head to find his navy gaze already on you “if you don’t believe in soulmates, what d’you believe in?”

Giyuu lets a beat pass, comfortable silence settling over the both of you and the empty park, sounds that belong to the city feeling miles away as he slowly blinks, focused on your features for a second too long.

“Dread”

You huff out a laugh so genuine it almost, almost has his lips curling into a soft smile.

“Dread? Care to expand on that?”

Giyuu knows he’s not generally regarded as particularly perceptive but maybe you’re not so bright yourself, he thinks. Expand? Does he need to? Isn’t it obvious?

“When you have someone in your life and they slowly become part of yourself, too. When they know every aspect of you, are happy to put up with your worst and make you feel lucky to be around to put up with their worst in turn. So much that just the idea of losing them is dreadful. You know, paralyzing anxiety n’all that”

It’s interesting that you can’t cast your eyes way from his, even more that your gaze flickers to his lips for a second. Giyuu seems to not only know what being in love feels like, he also seems to have experienced the all-encompassing kind of love firsthand. It’s cruel, that you’re surprised. It’s even worse, feeling small pangs of resentment stinging in your throat and lungs all of a sudden. It’s unfair. So what if he’s had a love like that and has never told you? It’s not like he has some kind of unspoken obligation.

“Sounds to me like you do believe in soulmates” it’s pathetic, the way you turn away from him to focus on the sky once again. You’re barely able to discern the stars in the first place, city lights be damned, but you have trained your gaze long enough to know what to look for.

Memories of humid summer nights, gentle hands setting up a telescope indoors to guide you through how everything works before taking it out into the night make their way back to you. The moon, the very first celestial object you got to find by yourself, so close and a quarter million miles away at once, just like Giyuu. Patient explanations and gentle pleas to take your time to explore each impact crater and the lunar seas, formed billions of years ago. A summer spent waiting on a familiar balcony until jupiter would rise, bright and imposing with its cloud belts, nothing more than dusky tan bands in the eyepiece you were glued to.

The north star, or Polaris, is pretty consistent in its positon and always helps you navigate the sky more easily. The evening is crisp enough for you to find it right away: Orion with its belt, a little cluster of stars you’ve learned to recognize as the Pleiades sparkling on its upper right. Seven divine sisters, Pleione’s daughters. He’s taught you all that.

“You don’t need to believe in fate or destiny for someone to be special. Sometimes you just get lucky” Giyuu sits up in your peripheral, arms resting on his knees as he peers up at the sky.

You need luck. And you need timing.

“Have you ever gotten that lucky?” it’s not casual at all, the way you almost whisper the question. He’s tempted to glance at you: ever the attentive observer, always able to read every crease of your forehead and subtle furrow of brows.

He resists the temptation.

“Yeah” he mumbles and you wish you could swallow the words to ease the painful squeeze of your stomach.

“The kind of love you’d drop everything for? Quit jobs, change cities, take planes, get a driver’s license?” it’s childish, the way you insist, but you can’t help it and the way he just shrugs is honestly infuriating.    

“Guess so”

Fine, that’s it.

You stand up abruptly and not so gently pat your jeans clean of any grass remains, shooting him an offended glare you make sure he doesn’t miss by faintly kicking his shoe with your own. Giyuu glances up at you, currently towering over him with a frown that has gigantic question marks floating right above his head.

“Guess you’d really ditch everything, huh? Even me. Let’s go, before I change my mind about buying you that ice cream” you grumble, barely resisting the urge to flick his stupid forehead before turning around and marching in the opposite direction with a pace fast enough to underline your annoyance but controlled enough not to actually leave him behind.

Giyuu cocks his head as he watches you walk away, confused and not entirely sure about what's just happened. His eyes are still fixed on your back as he sighs in frustration.

“Yeah, I’d ditch everything” he mutters to himself “I’d drive away before I let you go. You’re the only thing keeping me here, anyway”

Idiot.

Who cares about timing? He's already been lucky enough, no need to be fucking greedy.

“Giyuu, what the hell? Are you coming or not?”

Yeah, he'll tell you. Maybe over ice cream.

[piraterefrigerator]

you seem to be posting a lot of pjo posts, so if ouat was in the percy jackson universe, do you have any headcannons for that? what would be your au if you had to write pjo!ouat? (tempted to say NO big three gods (zeus, poseidon or hades) as parents allowed apart from for emma bevause it can link to her role as the saviour 👀)

Okay, so, I want to start this off by saying I've never read pjo, watched the musical or anything. That's me interacting with @fairytalepsuedonym who has read the books and such. They've dragged me into this fandom and I'm happy to be here but I don't know everything yet, so I won't give specific ouat characters specific pjo characters but I will do like a parent anylization thingy using my greek mythology knowledge (fairytalepsuedonym please correct me if I say something stupid)

Killian is a Dionysus kid. I'll fight someone on that. An article on Dionysus states, "Dionysus is known for having something of a dual personality: He brings joy, ecstasy and merriment, but also delivers brutal and blinding rage". Dionysus is the god of wine-making, orchards and fruit, vegetation, fertility, festivity, insanity, ritual madness, religious ecstasy, and theatre. So yeah, Killian is a Dionysus kid (see also; one of my favorite songs, The Cult Of Dionysus by The Orion Experience)

Milah is an Apollo kid. Apollo is the god of archery, music and dance, truth and prophecy, healing and diseases, the sun and light, and poetry. Tell me Milah isn't an Apollo kid.

While making Emma the child of a big god would be easy and would make sense, that's not what I'm doing. Emma is an Ares kid. This may not support her savioring as well as some other options would but as the god of war and courage, I think Ares is perfect.

Unfortunately that's all I've got at the moment, but this was fun, thanks for the ask!!

[pierrai]

Hi hi hi!! I'm a huge fan of Orion, and sometimes when I let my mind wander, I think about how far someone like him would be willing to go for his partner hehe... To what extent would they be able to humiliate him and do things to him until he'd refuse?

I must apologise to the Alastor FWB anon... I know they are eagerly looking forward to their request, but I've been having some writing block regarding their request, and I feel I should at least work on something whilst I wait for it to pass! What better character to write for than his beloved older brother! Anyway, I hope you enjoy, anon!

Character: Orion Catesby Word Count: 1914 Scenario: Orion and his boundaries regarding his partner Warnings: NSFW, possibly unhealthy dynamic (?)

Orion

Raised in a noble family of high importance and being the eldest son of said family at that, pride and decorum are values instilled into Orion since childhood. Although his own pride isn't something he values as much as some other more stuck-up nobles, it's something Orion at least recognises as important to his station, and so even as a partner, he tries his best to stick within regular conventions.

From a distant outsiders perspective, being Orion's partner may appear the same as being his colleague or a mere passing acquaintance. Only those who know him better would be able to see the subtle signs that hint at a closer relationship. Then of course, only behind closed doors is where Orion will be open to more forward gestures of affection.

Considering his status in society and the rigorous marital standards he must meet, doubtless his relationship with you is of a more elicit nature. There's no chance he'd naturally end up matching with someone dirty-minded after his parent's vetting process. You would've simply appeared suddenly like a force of nature he's unable to properly comprehend nor control. His life of rule-following has made him occasionally yearn for something different, and you're that something different.

His status has made him good at commanding others on what to do, and equally has left him susceptible to someone like you who's more forward with their desires and will keep pushing and pushing him until he's unable to resist any longer. Though Orion will try to follow along with his family's expectations till the end of his days, it's not impossible to have him do otherwise, and once the dam has sprung a leak, it's only a matter of time before it also bursts.

Getting into a relationship wouldn't have been easy to begin with. You'd have to wear him down until he'd finally admit his feelings and wear him down even more for him to act on them. Even the very thought of having a relationship not approved by his mother and father makes him uneasy, but if his desire for you trump that unease, he'll slowly edge himself towards this new and exciting way of life he can live aside you.

Orion is contradictory in that he'll disapprove of the sort of person his brother is, having barely a shred of self-respect when it came to his chastity, tell you over and over that this isn't the sort of thing he should be doing with anyone—he's to inherit his father's title, take over his family estate—yet he'll continue going along with your relationship all the same.

The acts between the two of you will have to be small at first; Orion is the type of man to believe even something as tame as hand-holding should be kept out of sight of peering eyes, regardless of whether he enjoys it or not. You'll likely be initiating yourself, only to be met with discouraging glares and his best attempts to dissuade you by distracting you with other matters or mentioning the many of which he must attend to.

In the after hours when Orion is winding down from a long day of work is when he is more easily tempted. When he's relaxed and nursing a glass of gin, perfectly able to be preyed on by someone like you who's oh-so-eager to go further. Who is he to deny you? You're the one he's fallen for.

A night of lustful kisses, ardent touches and eventually the penultimate act itself would have Orion waking up the next morning with a deep sense of regret. His time with you would be his first time, and whilst you regard it casually, lovingly, almost as if it's something you're pleased about, he'll be fronting a mopishly frustrating silent treatment to you while he ruminates in his self-reproach. The expectations he has for himself are something he holds in high regard, so it'll take some more coaxing for him to open up again.

But of course, he will with a partner like you. Once he's tasted sweetness, he won't want to go back to not having it. Over time, he'll be more and more easily persuaded into lewd acts and nights of passion. He'll call you insatiable for having such an unbelievably greedy appetite for something so dirty, all comments he makes as he lets you paw at him through his clothes and go much, much further than just touching. He may not be as insatiable as he claims you are, but the way he lets you go about your business with him is enough proof for you to know there's definitely some hunger behind his words.

Such acts are to be kept strictly in private and strictly by the book. You being the dominant partner in the relationship is already a glaring point of shame for Orion, so if you were to push him any further, he'll refuse you, or at the very least try. Sex is fine (a statement he wouldn't want to even think, let alone say aloud) but anything else is new to him. New, exciting, and all the more terrifying for it.

Orion will say he doesn't like being demeaned, but if he were entirely truthful, he would at least say he doesn't hate it. There's something comforting about letting someone else have complete control of him, and he's always been good at following orders, so why not yours? Within time, you may be able to ask him to pleasure you instead of the other way around—have him on his knees with his head between your legs, using only his mouth to make you feel good. Joke about putting him on a leash and collar so you can tug at him whenever he's not doing a good enough job, and he'll glare at you with his mouth full.

More demeaning acts are ones he'll only allow occasionally. If he did things like that too often, he'd probably never get any work done. His shift in demeanour had probably been, for a short while at least, noticeable to his family and some servants. With his life with you and his normal life as a noble lord clashing together, sometimes it was difficult for him to keep up the front he usually held together well, especially when you visited him at work.

But humans adapt, and so would he. Though he'd feel largely fine, he'd find it disturbing how his nightlife differs so much from his day-to-day, and how accepting he's become of it. Over time, he'd probably end up letting you push him more than he should. It shouldn't be enjoyable, but it is.

He's probably never going to be the type to dress up for you. Not in any extreme way. He won't ever want to wear clothes not meant for his gender, nor ones not meant for his title, but that doesn't mean he can never dress up at all.

The outfit he wears for his fencing practice is quite figure-hugging, something that Orion has never paused to think about as that's simply how it's meant to be to do its job. You've already seen his body underneath all of his clothes, but why not taint this item of clothing for him too?

In such a tight suit, all of his assets are perfectly on show—why not make mention of that to him if you happen upon him training alone one day? Orion dislikes when his two worlds cross over, so this is a way of easily perturbing him. The next time he dons the outfit he'd only seen as practical before, he'll be able to think of nothing but the way you'd ogled him in it.

It's the same for any suit he has to wear for formal parties. Ones he keeps specially for important occasions. He can only hope you don't end up finding out about those. The last thing he needs is to be coaxed into some perverse roleplay, with you playing the guest and him the party host, honour-bound to your every whim.

And speaking of control, one thing he'll be more likely to go along with is restraints. With a stature like his, it's obvious he'd be able to overpower many, yourself included, but Orion isn't physically confrontational at all outside of a fencing arena, so if you surprise him by suddenly cuffing his wrists to a bedpost, he's not going to break free. He'll simply give you a cautious look as if asking what on earth you're up to this time, only voicing his concerns and doing nothing else. After that, you're mostly free to take him however you see fit.

The times Orion will protest the most will be when you dare to initiate something with him in public. It wouldn't matter whether there's only one person around to see or a whole ballroom, the idea that you'd endanger the two of you would shock him into stunned silence sudden enough he'd almost let you get away with more. In Orion's mind, it's already bad enough he lets you go so far in private, but doing even the slightest thing in public is a boundary he wants to stay far, far away from.

But like most things with Orion, you can get away with more over time. In the beginning, if your hands would wander whilst the two of you are in the presence of others, he'll brush them aside or simply grab them out of sight to keep you from doing anything else. He'll certainly chastise you afterwards, perhaps more harshly than usual, and insist over and over that you don't do something like that again, but when have you ever listened?

Give it enough time, and he'll become so exasperated by your lack of will to give up and just let your hands wander for once, see how far you'll really be willing to take things without him intervening at all. Or well, see how far he can manage to let you go before he once again bottles out and shoots you a pleading look to please, please stop.

Though you'll never get away with much when others are a stone's throw away, working Orion up enough so that it's just that much easier to ruin him later when they two of you are alone is just as much fun. Try as he might to give you the silent treatment once again, he's in too deep to say no, and your touch feels to good to deny after all that teasing.

Perhaps if you try hard enough, you can even get him to go the full mile somewhere that isn't his bedroom. How about his office, where anyone could pass by at any time and hear the lewd noises you're forcing out of him? How about the library amongst some of the more hidden aisles of shelves, where the librarian could catch the two of you at any time should he moan just a little too loudly? How about the empty hallway of his manor during a party his family is hosting, where a stray guest could happen by and catch the first-in-line at the mercy of someone like you?

Convincing him would definitely be difficult—if you must do this now, why can't you both just move somewhere else? Simply let his protests fall on deaf ears like you always have, and eventually even Orion might let it slide. Not often, but once, twice, perhaps more after that...

[senorabond]

"Merry Fic-Mas" December Prompts 1. Starry Night - A Lost Hollow Drabble

I've never done any kind of prompt list or monthly challenge with fandom, so I decided to give this a shot to help me get into the holiday spirit! This is also my first time writing Joel, so we'll see how it goes! (Be brave, Bondy. Be brave.)

I'm using this prompt list to get me started. I'll preface this by saying I've been working on a TLOU AU idea for a few months now, and am also using this list to help me explore that world a bit more. Leave it to me to go into this thinking I'd write a 500-word drabble and come out with a 2k-word un-beta'd scene.

To set the scene: Locust Hollow (aka Lost Hollow) is another community similar to Jackson, but set in an abandoned coal-mining town in Appalachia.

Rating: Teen??

Pairing: Joel x gn!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

STARRY NIGHT

If there’s one thing you can appreciate about the world post-Outbreak, it’s the night sky. Before that fateful day, you were used to seeing maybe a few dozen stars on a good night. Now, the lack of light pollution and smog reveals what was hidden from view most of your life. 

The first time you were far enough away from the QZ, and awake enough after that day’s exhausting trek, the stars went blurry. You were stunned to find tears in your eyes. Thousands of stars glittered across the inky heavens. It was magical and surreal, the closest you’d ever felt to what you would call a religious experience. 

Ever since that first night, you could spend hours lying on your back just staring up. On a clear summer’s night, you can even see the Milky Way – something you had only ever seen in pictures. You had no idea how to find the constellations, or what their names were beyond Orion and the Big Dipper. The North Star was easy enough to find...or was that Venus? 

The stars became a solace to you during the more difficult times establishing Locust Hollow. When out on your rounds, you would make a mental note of cleared areas where the trees and mountains wouldn’t obstruct your view. One time you found an old water tower that was tempting to climb, but a mere breeze made it creak ominously. You’re way too old now to be that stupid. 

This year, you planned to sneak away on the longest night of the year and stay awake as long as you could. Or at least until you get too cold. You'd only have a lantern to light your way through the woods to the clearing you picked out weeks ago.

You found yourself getting a bit giddy in the days counting down to the Winter Solstice, like a little kid the week before Christmas. You made checklists of what to bring and started laying everything out: what you would wear, your warmest sleeping bag, extra blankets, a thermos for tea, hip flask for whiskey, and baked potatoes to keep in your pockets. Making a fire would only ruin the darkness, so you'll need something for warmth. 

The sky was nearly cloudless, except for the thin sliver of moon left in the sky. You would have preferred there to be a new moon tonight, but you’ll take what you can get. The wind blows through the bare oaks and birch trees, making the limbs creak in the stillness. The season's first snowfall lay in a blanket several inches thick across the forest floor. Fortunately, you know your way through this patch of woods like it’s the back of your hand. 

It’s tempting to look up at the sky before reaching your destination, but the suspense makes the reveal that much sweeter. You charged up the lantern's solar-powered battery and a backup within the last few days, so you have plenty of light if you need it. You keep the light low enough that you won’t blind yourself to anything outside its meager swath of illumination reflecting off the snow. 

Finally, an hour into your hike, you arrive at the clearing. The rocky cliffs jut out over the river below, offering a wide ledge for you to lay down on and gaze up rather comfortably. You turn off your lantern and close your eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness more quickly. Counting to thirty, you open your eyes and look up at the sky. 

The wait has been worth it. The heavens glitter above you, like moonlight sparkling on the ocean. 

Tearing your eyes away for a moment, you start to unpack your gear, first laying down the waterproof tarp you borrowed from Joel's construction site, then rolling out your sleeping bag. As you lay back on the sleeping bag, smiling to yourself, you're grateful for the extra potatoes stuffed in your pockets. The rock made for a great stargazing spot, but it leeched cold up through the layers of tarp and sleeping bag within seconds.

A branch snaps in the trees off to your right, too loud to be a small critter out for a nighttime hunt. You lay still, slowly reaching for the knife sheathed on your thigh. Once it's gripped tightly in your hand, you sit up slowly, knife at the ready. Another branch snaps and a man walks into the clearing, hands raised. You swear under your breath. 

Unbeknownst to you, Joel had seen you making your preparations carefully. He didn't know what you were doing, but figured it must be important for you to act so cagey about it. Before four o'clock that afternoon, when the sun was just setting behind the mountains, he spied you stashing your pack in the wood shed. After dinner, he saw you say your goodnights to the people at your table and leave the mess hall quietly. On the way out, he curiously watched you take a couple of baked potatoes out of the serving dish and wrap them in handkerchiefs, then stuff them in your pockets. He simply had to follow you.

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

"I could ask you the same question." 

"I should throw this at you for following me,” you threaten emptily, gesturing with the large knife in your hand.

"You can't blame me for wonderin' what you were up to. You've been actin' strange all week." He lowers his arms and walks towards you, mindful of the ledge. 

"Since you're so nosy, I came here to look at the stars." 

Joel doesn't respond, except to furrow his brow. Then he looks up, and lets out a breath slowly. "Wow...that sure is pretty." 

You harumph a bit at that, resheathing your knife. 

"'M sorry. For interruptin' your peace and quiet," Joel says softly. He gestures over his shoulder, "I guess I'll head back, leave you to it." The broad-shouldered man looks at you sheepishly and turns around.

"You'll never make it back without a lantern." He waves a hand dismissively. 

"I'll be fine. Got a flashlight." He clicks it on, slipping it through the loop in his pack's strap and begins walking back the way you'd come. He stumbles after a few steps, the flashlight’s bulb too weak and diffuse to do any good. "Sonuvabitch..." he mumbles.

You sigh, and resign yourself to having company for the night. "C'mon, sit with me.” You pat the ground next to you. “Enjoy the stars for a while. We'll walk back together with the lantern." 

"You don't mind?" 

"Do I have a choice? 'S not like I'm gonna let you walk off into the dark and break your neck. Ellie would kill me." Joel grunts in agreement. 

You stand up and unzip your sleeping bag, laying it out flat so both of you can fit on top of it. Joel takes out his tattered sleeping bag, which you layer with the extra blanket you packed. The two of you lay down between the layers, the night too cold to let the awkwardness of the moment get in the way. 

You appreciate that Joel doesn’t have to fill silence with meaningless small talk. As you lay there next to the man, the warmth from your bodies starts to make you quite cozy. After a few more minutes, he adjusts himself, grunting slightly under his breath. You remember he has a bad back, and wonder if that's what's bothering him. 

"You okay?" Your question comes out in a whisper, the atmosphere hushed and intimate.

"Unh...yeah. 'M fine." He's obviously not fine, and you roll your eyes. The man is as stubborn as a mule. Joel adjusts himself again with another quiet grunt.

Remembering the potatoes in your pockets, you pull them out and nudge him. "Roll over."

He looks at you like you're crazy, but does as you say. "'Kay, now lay back."

You placed the potatoes so they'd be under the small of his back, right where you've seen him hold his hands and massage whenever he thought nobody was watching. He lays down and gasps a bit, adjusts himself, then lets out a sigh. 

"Better?"

"Yeah...thank you." He sounds a bit surprised, but soon his body begins to relax. 

Within moments, Joel’s breaths start to come more evenly and you realize he's fallen asleep. Turning your head, you look at him and see the deep grooves around his eyes and forehead have eased. This has to be the least grumpy you've ever seen the older man. 

Every few seconds, his fingers and legs twitch, and you wonder if he's dreaming. Those creases between his eyebrows furrow and before you can stop yourself, you roll over so your body is facing him and smooth a hand over his gray hair. He stills, breaths coming even again, and the muscle twitches stop. You keep stroking his hair away from his brow, then run a hand gently down his cheek and thread your fingers through the coarse scruff of his beard. Angling your head, you look back up at the stars and take a deep breath. You can smell pine needles, and a mixture of citrus and musk that must belong to Joel. 

Enticed, you lean closer and take another hesitant sniff. 

"Do I smell that bad?" Joel asks, his voice a gravelly whisper. You jump, thankful for the darkness that will conceal your blush. 

"No, you-uh... you actually spell pretty good." Joel cracks an eye open and peers at you. 

"So you do." He might be smiling, but it's hidden by his beard. The only way you can tell is the way the lines at the corners of his eyes tilt up. 

"Joel..." His eyes are open, watching the sky. 

"Hm?" 

"Why did you follow me?"

He sighs wearily, and you imagine Ellie is probably very familiar with the sound.

"I guess... I was worried about ya – a bit. Bein' off on your own in the cold. Anythin' could happen when it's this dark."

"Joel."

He turns to look at you, and you lean in, lightly brushing your lips across his. He looks at you blankly, and you think you messed up for a second before he's pressing his lips to yours more firmly. Then he's rolling over so your bodies are facing each other, pressed close and and tight. 

Joel’s large hand cups your face, the calluses on his fingers catching a bit in your hair, his beard rasping across your cheek. You wrap your free arm around his broad back under his jacket, the worn flannel soft against your skin. Joel groans as your legs entwine and tangle together. 

Your breaths come out puffing out in steam, mingling together in the cold air. Joel's mouth trails down the column of your neck, his hot tongue flicking across your pulse point until you gasp his name into his shoulder. With a growl, he pulls your leg over his waist and holds you tightly, rolling onto his back. He lets out a grunt, half pained, half in surprise. 

"Joel! Are you okay?" You sit up, straddling his waist, trying not to move while you wait for his response. You hope you haven't hurt him.

"Those damn potatoes got cold." 

You sputter out a laugh, then cover your mouth, shaking with mirth. “I thought I’d hurt you!”

Joel chuckles a bit at his own expense, then runs his hands up each of your thighs until they rest on your hips. “It’d take a lot more than that to hurt me, darlin’.” 

“Good.” You lean over and begin kissing him again. 

To your surprise, he rolls you onto your back, adjusting the sleeping bag and blanket to cover both your bodies. His large form above you is entirely in shadow now, the night sky ablaze behind him.

“Just keep lookin’ at the stars, darlin’.” 

Sighing, you relax into Joel’s arms, knowing he’ll make you see stars of your own soon enough.

[affableboar-zero]

So for anyone genuinely following me for Guns for Hire stuff (which, btw, love you /p) I want to briefly explain some stuff I talked about and explained but not really in detail: Corruption.

So in the context of the story, Corruption is the most common name for what happens after someone consumes too much Dragon's Breath. It's slow acting and Corruption only spreads when they drink Dragon's Breath. It spreads faster if the person who's drinking Dragon's Breath is injured, dying, or ill, as their system is much more vulnerable to the potion. The potion, depending on the amount consumed or the intensity of it, can turn someone into what is known as an Ender; a giant black and purple beast that can teleport and read minds, while also being extremely strong, but they're also vulnerable to water. No one in Guns for Hire really knows about the mind reading stuff except for a few characters, namely Xornoth, Orion, Sausage, fWhip, Pearl and a few other characters that haven't been mentioned much. Obviously Xornoth turned because he had been consuming it to stop the spread of the Wither and this is why Sausage and Solidarity wanted it as well. If Sausage hadn't been cured by The Watchers and if Solidarity hadn't been brought back to life by Pearl, they would have still been suffering from the effects of the potion. Pixl, the way I see it, had consumed one of the biggest doses of Dragon's Breath, plus he was already pretty hurt. His body reacted strongly but even the potion wasn't enough to save him because of how early in the testing phase it was.

Enders are basically seen as a sort of creature in The Undercity. A sort of pest people just try and avoid because Enders don't normally attack unless provoked. While much isn't know to people who aren't Enders, it all starts making sense once you are one.

One of the ideas I had was to explore what happens with Oli in an unreleased but planned sequel (I ended up just loosing motivation on it, plus there were so many parts to it I'd have to write, it just felt very overwhelming lol I will be happy to answer some questions on it tho :D), as his role is very tied to the role of Enders. Essentially, as he was looking for Joel in the Undercity, he would have been kidnapped and experimented on, and would have turned into a combination of an Ender and a Human. He would have the abilities and characteristics of an Ender, while still maintaining a semi-human form, having more metal control over himself than an actual Ender. It was a pretty interesting concept that I might talk about later, but you would have found out that Enders can communicate with someone known to them as "The Orb" which claimed to be a God of this world and Enders had ascended high enough to speak with them. The big twist would have been the voice was actually a Watcher.

So yeah! Corruption is caused by Dragon's Breath, but can take years to actually fully turn someone into an Ender and Enders are connected to the Watchers. I'm tempted to write Oli's point of view, because it's such an interesting storyline and it would have explored a bit of what happened after the end but idk. Maybe one day

Some pictures of Xornoth and Oli! Just so you get a feel of what Corruption actually does to someone :))

[dochaes]

@moonwoken​​ said: 🍒  +  hatilead     // 🍒  +  vortexparadox //  🍒  +  lcsthearts  // 🍒  +  highschccldropout  // 🍒  +  thekingsparty

send  me  🍒  +  a  url  and  i  will  write  some  positivity  for  them    /    ACCEPTING ↷

🍒  +  @hatilead​​ mani makes me question whether they’re a real human being because no offense but why are you so talented? so kind? so interesting as a person? her writing is so superior that despite us having chatted a lot ooc, i get sweaty writing for them because?? you do that when you get to write with someone whose writing you look up to, yeah? i do, anyway. i legitimately broke my own “i don’t wanna interact with harry potter muses” rule for mani back when she first followed me on another blog on gilderoy, right now even i don’t know the canon of the majority of their muses yet. yet. i’m very excited for interactions, and ooc chats about muses, and and. it’s rarer to connect with writers when you don’t really share fandoms, you feel me? but i’m genuinely happy to always see mani on my dash, both ic and ooc, and i love our ooc chats, the kindness, the videos of her cat she sends me, the amount of candles they’ve lit for me & my spouse in order to send good vibes, and the times she’s trusted me enough to share something more personal - i feel privileged to have them as a friend and a writing partner (now that we finally are writing, ahoy).

🍒  +  @vortexparadox​​ lexi has so much love for so many characters & a talent to writing them all! specifically on this blog, i love that they are giving attention to several less popular characters from doctor who. like, i’m into classic and eu who and i didn’t even know all of these muses, and alas, now i am into even more eu who just because? wanted to learn more about, say, josie! all thanks to lexi’s portrayal! they are immensely awesome ooc as well. one of the few people i feel like i can fully trust with more sensitive private things, and also someone who i don’t feel the need to be scared i’m gonna lose when i have long stretches of time where i feel so overwhelmed by social interaction i just don’t talk ooc to anybody. that’s genuinely rare.

🍒  +  @lcsthearts​ alex, what a bean. i think you’re the only person i’ve seen consistently writing eileen and magda, and look, listen, pals, less popular supernatural muses, who are well loved by her. didn’t we meet with me sending an awkward anon to your cas praising you with like “i’d follow you but i want to respect your duplicates rules” and you just point blank told me it was totally ok to follow you anyway? alex has been around & been a joy for years, and i admire her ability to write from such different fandoms so flawlessly!

🍒  +  @highschccldropout​ you can’t talk about alex without talking about hope! you two go together, ok... i think hope was among the first people to follow me on cas in 2018, totally new fandom, a year hiatus from tumblr rp and all. i don’t often keep following blogs i don’t interact with, but i think we actually didn’t interact for about a year? she’s just special enough that i wanted to keep her on my dash anyway. glad i did else i would’ve missed out writing with a highly talented dean mun! even though we don’t talk very often, i couldn’t imagine not having hope around on tumblr and also discord/twitter ooc.

🍒  +  @thekingsparty​ melli, i had to check if we follow each other on this blog omfg. melli was also one of the first people who followed me back in 2018 when i came back to tumblr rp after over a year and into a new fandom, on castiel! i very much adore her and cannot imagine not adoring her. her portrayal of crowley is next level supreme. i’m lucky every time we get a chance to write! we also don’t always talk much, but i consider her a friend, absolutely so. i don’t feel comfortable around many people, especially when i suck at starting conversations for months on end, but i feel comfortable around her. one of the least judgemental people here, and just very dear to me. also, actual literal crowley. i admire that she’s had her crowley muse for such a long time, too, and the amount of love and care she puts in her writing.

[anika-ann]

On Va Voir, Ma Chérie - sneak peek

Pairing: Professor Steve Rogers x reader (Attached universe) WC: 480 Warnings: Prof Steve and French?

You stared at the book you had thrown onto your soon-to-be marital bed with dismay. You had taken two years of French in high-school as an elective and hadn’t really bothered with it since. There was no way you could read this damn book, so you resigned yourself to reading it with a translator – for about 80% of words. You hadn’t made it past the first few pages, already wanting to tear your hair out. So you tossed the offending object on the bed.

And now you decided to follow suit, plunging into the cushions headfirst, your whine muffled by the soft fabric.

It was how Steve found you an eternity later as you debated yourself whether it wouldn’t be better to play hooky tomorrow.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down next to you, gentle hand caressing your back.

“No one to greet a tired man home?” he chuckled softly, eliciting a hum of sorry from you as you didn’t bother to move an inch – as much as you loved Steve. He was already touching you, there was no reason to make any more effort. More so when a kiss landed in your hair. “Long day?”

You hummed noncommittally. Yeah, it was gonna be with this hellish book.

“Chatterton?” Steve read the title questioningly, causing your breathing to hitch in surprise.

Oh god. It sounded French when he said it.

You rolled over in a lightning speed, staring at him in awe; he reciprocated with a quizzical gaze, eyebrows raised.

“Picking up le français, huh?”

“You speak French,” you blurted out with your heart having leapt to your throat. You sat up abruptly, visibly startling him. “How the hell didn’t  I know you speak French? We’re about to get married this summer!”

“That we are,” he murmured a smile spreading on his lips with a teasing edge. “Which is why I believe I deserve a welcome home…?”

You leaned in swiftly, pressing a brief kiss to his lips.

“Hi professor. Welcome home. You speak baguette?”

Steve burst out laughing, his hand clutching at your shoulder, keeping you close, puling you into kiss you without haste. He was smiling as his lips caressed yours, a courting dance tempting you to forget all about some silly book.

“Hey babygirl. I’m pretty sure it came up but must have slipped your mind. It’s been a while, I don’t really practise much these days. I’m pretty rusty,” he shrugged, almost sheepish.

Right. You wouldn’t have it, excitement rising in your chest along with hope. Alright, maybe Steve had mentioned it before. But it must have been in passing and without you having time to investigate it at the moment.

You let your fingers run along his beard, catching on his chin to draw him in for one more kiss, earning an approving hum.

“Didn’t sound rusty. I believe I need your help, professor...”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

I give credit for “speaking baguette” to @bucky-murdock-moans as she was the first person I heard it from. Also, this is compeltely @darkness-is-mystery​’s fault.

That and this is very self-indulgent. I could have started on reading the book from my lit class. OR I could write about it ✨😂

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Tagging: @annathesillyfriend @thehumanistsdiary @donutloverxo @chase-your-dreams-away @bucky-murdock-moans @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @lady-elena-adeline @weebid @callmeaspen @gloryekaterina @natdrunk @mickey-henry @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula @patzammit @mysterioh @the-soot-sprite @captainson-of-coul @aubreeskailynn @wonderlandmind4  @thisartemisnevermisses  @marvel-madnesss, @rainbowkisses31, @marvelous-capsicle, @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater, @jessyballet​  @rqmanoff​ @justile​

[wallyaxiom]

𝚆𝙰𝙻𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴: 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝚂

hey besties it’s me coming to do the waltmeme thing. I couldn’t just pick one character to call my favorite. it also felt unfair to do that as well when there’s so many amazing characters here. so grab a snack, put on your favorite tangled song in my honor and buckle up as i go through the list of my fave characters here at walt each person plays. present gen only. sorry to my next gen faves. maybe one day i’ll write a list for you. or not. i’ll keep you on your toes. 

𝕔𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕒 𝕛𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕣

cassandra is a character i love so much. tangled is a movie that means everything to me. kiara is the person who understands my tangled feels. the way you play cassandra...like how you said i have a grasp on reagan, you have such a perfect grasp on who cassandra is as a character. her voice is so clear. you understand who the character is and have transformed her into something more than what was given in the bio i wrote and also in the show that’s used for inspo. she’s a spectacular character and i love her so much. it’s an honor to be one half of elssandra but also cassunzel. she’s such an amazing character. you should be so proud of what you’ve brought to life, kiara.

𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕞𝕔𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕖𝕟

listen i told you every day how much i love monty. i literally scream it to you in your living room sometimes. i’ve seen every iteration of monty but i think this one is my favorite. i didn’t even know lightning’s real name was montgomery that was all you. so much of yourself is in monty. it reminds me of myself with wally and i think that’s the biggest reason why i love monty is because he’s bits and pieces of you and i love you very much. as much as i love cocky era lightning i love dad lightning even more. i wish i had a dad like him i’m not gonna lie but we’re not gonna unpack that on the man lmfao. i’m glad i’m more enveloped in his story now because he’s such a good character dude. like such a good written and played character. he’s second in my heart to sulley but is inching closer to number one by the day. 

𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕠 𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕝𝕚

fran !!! my bestie !!! my fave !!! i would die for them !!! like bee, i love talking to you about fran and all the tomfoolery they get into. you’ve played them for so long and each time you transform them into something better than the last. they age like a fine wine. in the past almost two years i’ve been able to be part of their story more & i’m so happy for that opportunity. you’ve put so much love, care and devotion into fran. you’ve added so much to their story. like they’re so fleshed out, how does your beautiful brain come up with all this backstory ??? lemme know i need some of those brain cells. they’re amazing. you’re amazing. i want fran to buy me and island and make me pasta but i’ll just them do that for caspian the favorite child. 

𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕓𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕨

hands down i had to put orion my future father in law. i’ve had the honor of watching you develop orion into something incredible over these past six years. ( holy cow !!! six ??? insane. ily ). he was a big bad, misunderstood boy and you’ve humanized orion. you’ve brought life into him and created such a beautifully crafted character. he has a heart now. perhaps a tiny one but it’s there. the backstory you’ve created for him and the future he has - all stunning and wonderful. i love this man. he deserves so much after the shit he’s been through. i’ve had the privilege of being in his orbit for a bit when i played logan. I still get to watch him and enjoy the light chaos he brings. i’m ready for the new era of casino owner orion and what trouble he’ll bring now. 

𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕘𝕘𝕪 𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕤

the boy !!! the legend !!! i love shaggy so much. first of all, the future you planned for him. how dare you ?? do you like to see me cry ?? is that it ??? i’m glad he hit his happy arc now because WOW. pain. shaggy is just a nice guy, man. he’s so nice to everyone he meets. i want to be friends with shaggy and scoob. i love mystery inc. i can’t imagine anyone else playing shaggy but you. to me, you are him. he’s the heart of the group. it’s not mystery inc without him. therefore, you’re the heart also. it’s not the same without you. 

𝕤𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕘𝕦𝕖

i could easily write an essay about how i love all your characters and how you play them all so well but i had to give this spot to sadie. the teagues are my og loves. every time i see sadie the part of my brain where logan resides lights up. she’s such a good character. she’s a little devil and it’s exactly what we need. we need someone to stir up the pot and throw eggs at kids. sadie is a product of her environment. she’s so tough and had to be so young. no one her age should have to grow up so fast the way she did. i would like to wrap sadie in a blanket give her some coco with bat marshmallows and tell her to take a break. hug her. maybe give her some therapy to. i love her. you’ve brought her to life in such an amazing way. i hope her brothers join her soon so we can have that sibling goodness. 

𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕒 𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕥𝕒

i was tempted to put ian here because ian lightfoot is joel and we already know how much i love al and wendy but i decided to show the og love so i put nala. from the get go you knew who nala was going to be and where you wanted to go with her. you always bring so much to your characters. you develop them in ways that amazes me each time. go bestie go you’re so talented. i love how devoted she. how fierce she is but also the vulnerability you bring to her. she was thrown into a world at a young age fighting a war she wasn’t meant to and THAT’S a lot on someone. and we see that. i love the way you play her and i’m so happy you decided to take her up. sorry you have to deal with simba tho. pour one out. 

𝕘𝕖𝕠𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕩𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙

everyone and their grandmother knows the oliver and co cast means everything to me. i’m so glad that you decided to join them ! you’re a wonderful addition. i love miss george. she’s fabulous in every sense of the word. sharpay evans is shaking in her lil boots. i just love divas. i love them. i am one. she’s perfect. and we know that’s not easy for her. i know your beautiful mind works wonders so i know there’s a lot of growing that georgette will be going through in the future and i’m excited for it. prayer circle for a jenny and oliver. 

𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕓𝕚𝕟𝕩

when you auditioned for thackery you already had an idea of where you wanted to take him and how you wanted to add to his character while staying true to the bio. that is the kind of stuff i like to see. this man has seen some shit and also has been through some shit. i do hope one day his soul can be at ease. he needs a long cat nap. you care a lot for thackery and it’s lovely to see. he may be a hamilton hoe but we have to respect the drip & love him for it anyways. 

𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕪 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣

timmy boy deserves a hug. a hug and a nice space movie to take the edge off. you always put so much of your heart and yourself into your characters. you care so much for them and that’s evident in buzz. he’s goofy, he’s cool and he’s just so wonderful. i’m excited to see where buzz will go from here and how he’ll develop over time. i’m hoping some happiness. maybe some resolution with woodrow just to spice things up. that metal arm is still cool too. 

𝕕𝕒𝕡𝕙𝕟𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕜𝕖

hey bestie !!! wow !!! daphne ??? gives me so much pain. I am so glad to be going on this angst journey of mystery inc and fred/daph with you. your love for her and the gang makes my heart so happy. i will happily spend hours talking about them and sending tiktoks to each other that remind us of them. you went beyond the assignment. you were just born to play daphne. you write her so well and understand her past the bio, past the inspirations of the live actions and mystery inc. you get her. you see her. she’s in good hands. i’m ready for all the pain she’s about to cause me. 

𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕝𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖

i love penelope. i really do. i am penelope’s number one stan. it was discussed before but it’s so easy to play miss piggy as unlikeable since she is such a brash character but you bring so much light and love to penny. it’s hard not to be in love with her and want her to succeed in everything she does. she’s the miss piggy we all grew up with but she’s also special because you’ve added your own personal touches to her. she’s an amazing character. i would punch anyone who’s wronged penelope. i’m excited for the layers to start peeling back and we see more of penny - especially her badass ways. i just love the way you play her and i love penelope hainline okay. i lovoe divas as stated above what can i say. 

𝕒𝕦𝕣𝕠𝕣𝕒 𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕥

ANNIE !!!! WOW AURORA ??? genuinely she is the love of my life. I love her so, so much. she’s so sweet and wonderful and deserve to be tucked in ??? read a bed time story ??? and not be cursed ??? why’d i do that. she deserves the world and so do you. in the short amount of time you’ve had her you’ve added so much depth to her story. which is not always easy the first few months you have a character but you’ve put in a lot of love into aurora already. you understood the assignment and & went beyond.  i’m so excited to see where she goes on her journey and what will happen when he hopefully get a maleficent one day. also is it an aurora shoutout without me saying philip loves her ??? bc he does. 

[mariekavanagh]

Why do you think Orion or Regulus didn’t have a portrait at GP? Do you think either of them had one elsewhere? I always wonder why only Walburga had one

The portrait is an interesting thing, and one which people have differing views on. 

I think what we need to first remember is that Walburga’s portrait’s main purpose in the books was comedy. The image of this mad, raving screaming portrait was not supposed to be something particularly dwelled upon (looking at you, people who use the portrait’s shouting as “proof Sirius was abused at home”), merely to be a slightly comedic example of the pureblood values Sirius abandoned. Realistically, it would make sense for a grand aristo family such as the Blacks to have had formal portraits painted either individually or as a family, but from a story-telling perspective, it wasn’t needed for there to be any other than Walburga’s. Also I doubt Walburga could stand the sight of portraits of her dead husband and son so probably would have destroyed them in a fit of mournful rage and then immediately regretted it. For the sake of fanfic, I could be tempted to decide that more recent Black family portraits are kept on display at some other residence, where their immediate relatives aren’t creeped out by seeing them on the wall at Grimmauld Place every day.

For Regulus to have had a portrait up in Grimmauld Place wouldn’t have worked with the story. One could argue that a portrait of Regulus would spend it’s days endlessly calling for someone to find and destroy the horcrux locket - with Kreacher constantly sobbing underneath it that he’s trying his best. This would disrupt the story flow during Order of the Phoenix. Orion is hardly mentioned at all in the books, so I can’t see how it would affect the story, but it’s more the fact that with Walburga’s portrait already creating the desired affect, it wasn’t needed for there to be one of him. 

The only idea I can think of behind the portrait is the idea that Walburga perhaps wanted to try and leaving something, anything, behind when she was a lonely old widow in Grimmauld Place. Her house and family crumbling around her, no son and heir, no legacy. Perhaps it was some desperate attempt to leave any sort of mark behind her, any sort of acknowledgement of her life and presence, before she followed her husband and son to the grave. 

I’ve always thought of the magical portraits as reflecting only certain aspects of a person. Perhaps the mood and nature of the portrait version of the person is primarily influenced by the person’s mood and nature as it is painted (if painted from life, at least), which would explain why Walburga’s portrait is nothing but misery and anger. Misery and anger about the state of her family, and her failure to continue the success of the Black family. A portrait painted when she was younger might express far more of a dignified, pleased, smug manner. But as the aged matriarch of a failing dynasty with no legacy to leave behind, there is nothing left to be smug about. Only anger and frustration at the state of the family she once took such pride in being at the top of. 

And now I’ve made myself sad. Walburga Black is so misunderstood. if people took the time to see her viewpoint from an angle more sympathetic than just “mad raving dark witch”, they’d realise she really is a very tragic figure. She lost so much; her husband, her youngest son and all but lost her elder son. She died alone with no one but her house elf. And so many people are content to write her off as a 2D villain. 

[merigreenleaf]

Here's an update on Camp NaNo for the first week. (I meant to do these more frequently, but hey, an update is an update lol.) I've been doing at least a tiny bit of brainstorming each day for the first draft of Flashover (book two). Having a general outline above my desk definitely helps! My goal by the end of the month is to have as close to a full outline as I can get. I'm also trying to write at least a few scenes so I can get words flowing again. It's been literal years since I wrote new story words! Today I wrote part of a scene and it was simultaneously frustrating and wonderful. Wonderful in that I did it. The writing itself is cringe worthy. But I'm letting the tap flow again and that's what's important, or so @elliot-orion keeps reminding me.

The three notebooks are the ones I'm using today. The blue one is a mini binder so I'm using that to organize general series and character notes. The book takes place in two realities (the main one and a parallel reality that had recently split from the main one) so I figured it would be easier to keep the scenes separated into two notebooks. Ya know, rather than than try to figure out weeks or months from now which Dray scene goes where.

Speaking of Dray, I wasn't sure what notebooks to use. I'd been putting off using the sequin ones because they remind me of bad memories of when I got them, but none of the other notebooks I have called to me. Dray got all pouty and was like "it's my damn book, if you don't use the red sequin notebook, I'm not going to talk to you." Tempting, but I really do need them as the main dork. That left me with dark blue, teal, or purple for the other half of the book. Ametrine chimed in that he's a POV in the one reality and he'd really really like the purple sparkles. Dray is already rubbing off on Ame. I'm doomed. Ame, I'm begging you, please take after literally any of your other parents.

[written-on-the-trees]

Strawberry Necklace Part 8 - Yungblud Fan Fiction

Word Count: 1925 words.

Warnings: None, for this part. Smut, fem-dom, and prostitution for the whole story.

Summary: Nova explains to her sister about her relationship with Dom...but it turns out Stella isn’t the only one who’s interested.

Where else can you find this:  Ao3  |  Wattpad

Part Seven  |  Part Nine

"So...strawberry necklace boy."

 "Hi Stella. Yes, I'm well, thank you. I got you a latte - no, no, there's no need to thank me." Nova replied blithely, ignoring every unspoken question she'd just been asked and smirking at her sister, who was glaring at her from the chair she'd just dropped into.

 "Nova!" Stella whined: "Stop it! You got a boyfriend, and you're trying to talk to me about coffee. Seriously!"

   Nova just laughed.

 Stella glared and bunched up a napkin and threw it at her hand, but that only made Nova laugh harder at her sister's annoyance.

 It was tempting to keep annoying Stella by evading her questions - both because it was amusing and because talking about Dom was going to be awkward as hell - but her sister would probably move onto throwing heavier objects at some point, and Nova didn't want to get kicked out of another coffee shop. So instead of being a bitch, she shrugged and gestured for Stella to ask her questions.

   Of course, Stella already had a whole load of them - which she had apparently written in her notes app, if the way she started reading off of her phone was any indication: "Right, firstly...is he still treating you right?"

 "Stella, it's been two days since we decided to see each other outside of work - "

 "It's important!" Stella insisted.

 "Yeah...Yeah, he's still treating me right." Nova smiled softly. Because even if it had just been two days, so far everything had been good. Better than good, in fact.

   Stella nodded, apparently satisfied by what was probably a ridiculously sappy expression on Nova's face.

 It was hard not to look a bit sappy; Dom might have left last night, after getting his own text messages about who the hell was on his Instagram story and demands to explain himself from his housemates, but that didn't mean he hadn't made his presence felt this morning. She'd woken up to a really cute text message, and a delivery man knocking on her door to hand over a bouquet of all different kinds of pink flowers.

 Maybe it was just the honeymoon period, but that didn't stop her from feeling like he was amazing.

   "Good. Secondly, are you two dating now? Just seeing each other? Engaged? Planning to elope to Vegas next week? Where are you at? Am I going to be an auntie soon?"

   Nova choked on the sip of tea she'd just taken.

   "Jesus Christ Stella!" she spluttered: "Dating! We are dating! There are absolutely no plans for marriage or children at this point."

 "You sure?"

 "Yes!"

 Stella smirked: "Because I know you have a tendency to announce things via Dom's Instagram..."

 Nova glared and jabbed a finger at her sister: "Fuck off, it happened once."

 Little shit that she was, Stella just laughed: "Speaking off announcing things, have you told anyone else yet?"

 "I didn't mean to tell you. Fucking Sinead and her fucking Instagram." Nova sighed half-heartedly, bearing no actual ill-will to either her niece of her social media: "But no, I haven't told anyone - honestly I only plan on even telling mum, dad, and Orion because I don't want Dom thinking they won't approve of him."

   It was entirely true.

 Nova's relationship with her parents and younger brother was...strained at best. Her parents might be former hippies, but they were judgemental pricks, and Orion had some sort of youngest-child-and-only-boy inferiority complex that meant he was always looking for ways to prove he was 'better' than Nova and Stella. In truth, they probably wouldn't approve of her seeing Dom, but that disapproval would be focused on her, not him; because that was what they did. Disapproved of her.

 She got it; no-one really wanted a dominatrix for a daughter, but it had started getting old around five years ago, and by now she was completely over it. She knew her parents loved her, but they just didn't approve, and though they certainly weren’t afraid to show that, Nova didn't really care anymore. It was old news, as far as she was concerned, and Stella knew all of that, so she was quick to move on to her next question, because there was simply nothing else there to cover.

   "Speaking of family, Sinead thinks you're literally the coolest person in the family now." Stella rolled her eyes: "She's not shut up talking to me about how cool you are because you're dating this famous rockstar, and now she's somehow got Ciara and Finn on board, so you're going to be very popular this Christmas."

 Amused by Stella obviously being put out by her daughter's favouritism, Nova smirked: "I mean, I was already the coolest person in the family, but it's nice to finally have it recognised."

 "Go fuck yourself." Stella responded casually, taking a sip of her latte: "They've all been keeping it really secret, but are you and Dom keeping it a quiet? Sinead's really nervous about letting it slip if she shouldn't."

 "We haven't really spoken about it. From what I can tell, he's never been hugely obvious when he's dating someone, but he doesn't go to many lengths to hide it either. He seemed more worried by my family not liking us dating than anyone else, but for now..."

 Stella nodded in understanding: "Sinead and Ciara can keep it quiet a bit longer. I'm not entirely sure Finn actually knows who Yungblud is, or even if it's the same person that you're dating, so there's no risk there."

   Nova wouldn't lie and say that she was relieved that the girls wouldn't say anything yet. She didn't want to fuck anything up for Dom, which meant she'd have to take his lead on whether anything went further than their families.

 In any case, it might not be a problem. If they tried dating and it didn't work, then it was probably better that it wasn't widely known that they'd been together at all. Dom wouldn't need the questions, and Nova wouldn't need the attention - it would be much better not to have the whole world know about them if there wasn't actually a them. Besides, she wasn't trying to be flippant, Nova had other things on her mind than Dom's Instagram followers.

 She was thinking of quitting her job.

 It wasn't because of Dom...she was just getting tired of being a dominatrix. She'd been doing it since she was twenty-one - not to mention the two years she'd worked in a brothel before that - and she was thirty-two now. It was boring. She was bored of her clients - with the exception of Dom, of course - she was bored of her lack of a real social life, and she was bored of the constant effort to try and look like she was in her early twenties because looks were a huge part of attracting and keeping clients.

 To put it simply...she was bored out of her mind. If she was being honest with herself, she'd admit that she had been for a while, but now she was dating someone - with the intention that the dating would turn into a relationship - Nova was wondering if it was time to move on. The only thing that was stopping her was...not knowing what she was going to do if she did pack it all in.

 Unfortunately, there was no easy answer to that. And so she wasn't going to dwell on it while she was having coffee with Stella.

 Instead, they carried on speaking about Dom, for a little while. Stella was insistent on getting the chance to meet him, but Nova warned her that it wasn't going to be for a while. She wanted to see if they made it past a month yet - if they did, then she would think about him and Stella meeting, since Stella lived so close. About the rest of the family, Nova wasn't sure, but she was sure that she wasn't in any rush for him to meet them, so that was fine for now. After that the conversation turned to a few other bits and pieces, before Stella had to leave to get Finn from school.

 Nova made sure to hug her sister tightly, a silent thank you for so open to Dom being a part of Nova's life, while still wanting to make sure he was good for her, before both of them left together, walking to the tube station together before going to their separate platforms. Nova had every intention of just going back to her flat and making the most of having no clients today, knowing she had and appointment with one of her less preferred customers tomorrow, when a text message from an unsaved number dropped down from the top of her phone screen, interrupting the news article she was reading while waiting for the train.

 An unsaved number, not an unknown one.

   What the fuck does she want?

   The text message itself was uselessly vague - messages from Nova's 'boss' always were. The old woman didn't like to put anything even potentially incriminating in writing. If she had something to say about business, she'd say it over the phone or (as she preferred) in person.

 And it seemed she had something to say.

   Meet me at your house. Five o'clock.

   Nova cursed internally.

 Helen Birch was a woman of few words, but somehow she always managed to make every single one of them feel like they were weighted down with lead. Maybe it was from years of experience, both as a dominatrix and a madam (although she would never admit to being the latter), or maybe it was just her personality, but either way it made reading her texts feel like being threatened...although in this case, it was potentially because Nova was being threatened. Not explicitly, of course, but nothing good ever came from such blunt commands from Helen.

 Sighing, Nova slid her phone into her handbag and boarded the train that had just opened its doors in front of her.

 The way she saw it, she now had two choices.

 One, ignore the message. It would piss Helen off, and likely only invite more arsey text messages. Helen didn't actually employ Nova - that would suggest there were contracts and paperwork and physical evidence - but did own the house Nova rented to work in, and she also took a cut of some of the money Nova got from some clients, if those clients were direct to Nova from her. And over the years she had sent Nova a lot of clients. She'd really helped Nova find her feet as a dominatrix, providing not just clients but also good advice and help when Nova needed it.

 Basically, it would be really rude to go with choice one.

 Choice two, however, was doing what Helen told her. And that...that set a bad precedent. Helen wasn't her boss, and Nova didn't have to go when Helen called. If Helen wanted to tell Nova something, she could ask Nova if she could meet like a normal person. Nova didn't want to give in and make Helen think that she could command Nova to do as she wished, whenever she wished.

 But if she didn't go with choice two, she'd have to wait longer to find out what Helen wanted. And more than anything else, Nova wanted to know why she was being summoned to her workplace.

   Looks like I'll be going to work after all.

    Whatever happened...it should at least be interesting.

[straight-outta-hobbiton]

Seven Harry Potter Fic Recs from a Quarantined Hobbit:

Since I’m stuck inside and desperately avoiding my own writing projects, I figured I would post a mini rec list of a few of my favorite fics and kill some time doing that. These fics are pretty much the bar I set for myself whenever I try to write anything, they’re that kind of good. They’re my go-to fics pretty much any time I want to get sucked in— even though I’ve read them a dozen times each, I still read to the end, every time. That’s how much I love them.

In alphabetical order, here’s my list of Harry Potter must-reads:

Again and Again, by Athey: Harry Potter has been living in a steady time loop starting from his birth and ending whenever he dies. In this particular life, he decides to try something new. It’s an older fic— I had it emailed to me by a friend in my junior year of high school from ff.net (though it’s also available on ao3 now), and it has a lot of little things that make me nostalgic for my early days of fandom, tropewise. Tag for Slytherin!Harry, Competence Porn, and Actual Porn, too.

C’est La Vie, by Cywscross: In a similar vein, this particular iteration of Harry Potter is tempted by Fate (lol) into something like a second chance, returning to the age of fourteen in a parallel universe where Harry Potter isn’t the Boy-Who-Lived. One of my favorite OCs of all time is in this fic— the amazing Orion Black, son of Wolfstar— and honestly, I’ve rarely seen such excellent depictions of burgeoning inter-House unity as it’s done here. Tag for Hufflepuff!Harry, Time Travel (sorta), and more Competence Porn.

D.S.S Requirement, by Esama: Let me just start by saying this is a Stargate Crossover, but it’s so good you literally don’t need to know anything about Stargate. The idea is simple: there is the Room of Requirement, some Muggleborns with an interest in sci-fi, and an accidental discovery that intrinsically changes the culture of the DA. It’s not so much about plot as it is a character study. You’re watching a group of children and teenagers— most of whom are generally uneducated in Muggle sciences and the concept of science fiction— as they adapt new and interesting ideas to their lives and futures. It’s technically a two-part series (so far, fingers crossed), with the second part focusing more on how the DA begins to affect the outside world, but the focus is mainly on this simple question: what would a bunch of clever, rebellious, magical children do if they found a spaceship? Tag for DA Shenanigans, Space Race, and Slice of Life Under Umbridge.

Harveste, by haru-chan: This is the first of a series based on a somewhat eldritch interpretation of the Addams Family. It’s a crossover, but the author basically takes all the best parts of the nineties movies and fleshes them out to a wonderfully campy, macabre degree, so feel free to have less than a surface level understanding of Addams Family lore, if that. Harry is discovered at the age of five by Mr. and Mrs. Addams, who promptly adopt him and take him away to their magical home in America, where he’s raised as the middle brother between Pugsley and Wednesday. It’s got a darker tone to its humor, but it’s as funny as it is ridiculous, and incredibly satisfying if you’re into just-desserts. Tag for Slytherin!Harry, Blood Magic, and Nineties Goth-Comedy.

Never Grow A Wishbone, by ShanaStoryteller: First things first: it’s still ongoing. Every update is like a present in my email inbox, because truly, it is the best post-Hogwarts fic I have ever fucking read. The world-building is like if George RR Martin took breaths between blurbs, just enough to get you fascinated without overshadowing the main plot. Draco is the main character, and your following him and all his knowledge of the Wizarding World (as opposed to Harry’s canonical, general obliviousness) as he takes on a new challenge in life— a teaching position at Hogwarts alongside Harry and Hermione in the post-Wizarding War World. You get a really interesting look into the complexities of magical politics and its purpose within their world, as well as a deeper look into contemporary Magical history and its affects on their modern world. All the questions that ruined so much of canon Harry Potter for me are answered in this fic, and on top of that, she’s doing what I’ve been struggling to do for like, five years, which is talk about where all the goddamn Muggles fit in. Also! It’s Drarry, but when they’re grownups and can work their shit out, so it’s extra good. Tag for Court Drama, McGonagall Knows Best, and Professor!AU.

One Hundred and Sixty Nine, by Soupy_George: This is a Hermione-centric time travel fic, and the pairing is Sirius/Hermione (a rarepair for many reasons, but beautifully done here). This is a universe where the war was Bad and Long, and the Golden Trio came out of it more battered than they should have. Hermione, in a desperate attempt to fix the lives of her best friends, does some hardcore illegal Time Turner magic and lands 169 days before Voldemort’s attack on the Potters in 1981. Her plan is pretty straightforward: get the Horcruxes and kill Voldemort before he makes inside the house on Godric’s Hollow. After making contact with the Order, she sets her plan into motion with the help of Sirius, Remus, a young Moody, and a consistently secretive but overall well-meaning Dumbledore. Tag for Time Travel, Subtle Punk Rock, and Slow Burn.

Secrets, by Vorabiza: I have loved this fic since my sophomore year of high school. I found it in the time of fandom-specific fic sites, that’s how long it’s been, and honestly it’s one of the best re-writes (or maybe book seven predictions) I’ve ever read. It’s another Drarry, and it’s a kid!fic, which is a particular weak spot of mine, focusing on the summer before Harry’s seventh year and the aftermath of Dumbledore’s death. It really digs into the what it means to be Sorted into the House you’re Sorted into, and the psychological and cultural implications that Magical society has put on that Sorting. There are spy games, secret-keeping, and a really well-done crowning of Harry as the young man who’s going to lead the war effort in the wake of Dumbledore. Tag for Babies, Not As Big A Dick As Canon Severus Snape, and Family Feels.

Most of these are longish reads, but I figure so many of us have time on our hands right now that might otherwise be spent worrying, so fuck it! Indulge the Harry Potter fan you have living inside of you. Read some good fic.

[nicodemusprewett]

❝ I know I shouldn’t do it, I just do it, and what you think’s got nothing to do with it. Before you were born, I was already sinning. It’s not because the light here is brighter and it’s not that I’m evil, I just don’t like to pretend. ❞ NICODEMUS PREWETT looks a lot like that muggle, LORENZO ZURZOLO, right? Only a SEVENTH YEAR student, that GRYFFINDOR student is sided with the WRAITHS. HE identifies as a CIS MAN and is a PUREBLOOD. [ BEE/BEATRICE, SHE/HER, 22, EST ]

hello !!!!!! i’m bee !!!!!!! i LOVE exclamation points, if you couldn’t tell !!!! i’m super duper stoked to be writing nico. he’s kind of the worst !!! i promise i’m a lot nicer than he is !!! and i also have memes !!!!! if you hit me with a like, i’ll come plot with you !!! also pls bear with me on this intro. there’s no rhyme or reason to it.

aesthetic: silk ties. tweed blazers. crystal glasses. lies that flow from lips like honey. a not-yet-crowned king. the glint of white teeth behind a feral smile. naive rage. a powerful glare. pressed shirts. expensive cologne. cigarette smoke clinging to your clothes, your skin. a need for fine things. lush champagne. a flair for the dramatic. a storming temper. unlimited grandiosity. chaos-touched. perfect but rotten. a disregard for consequence. boyish charm.

rambly bits: ( mentions of child abuse )

— godless hubris

how do you know yourself ? all too well. you know you are sure, you know you are just. there is nothing wrong with you — in fact, you are probably as close to perfection as a wizard could get, and you truly believe that. your blood is pure, you are beautiful, you are capable. you have no flaws ( — none that see the light of day, or that others know of ) and that’s remarkable. you are sure you are going to be known in perpetuity. your name will be next to the greatest the wizarding world has seen. where can you go from here ? only up.

— righteous fury

is your fury yours ? or did you learn it ? orion lestrange gave you attention, and to get more, you listened to what he said. you gleaned his anger until it tasted like your own. suddenly, there was no good or evil, wrong or right. it was simple: what the wraiths said went. you are not one to question something that will bring you recognition, something that will bring you power. you will do what needs to be done to ensure the wraiths ( rather, and deep down you know it isn’t and has never been done for the wraiths, but rather for yourself ).

— hapless melancholia

you remember seeing the weasleys in diagon alley once when you were young. you made a careless remark that one of the children looked quite a bit like yourself. your father gripped your chin in his fingers and made for sure certain that you knew you were nothing like them. you thought little of them again until you saw them on the platform to leave to hogwarts. there were joyous shouts and gleeful exclamations. there were multiple kisses and tight hugs — unexpectedly, your heart ached. you thought you would get over it. you thought you would grow up and grow out of these … childish longings. instead, time went on, these feelings grew stronger. you would wake up, your chest heavy, feeling a desperation for something you couldn’t buy — you wanted to be loved. you wanted soft words and softer touches. you deserved those things, didn’t you ? if those ruddy weasleys had it, why couldn’t you ? this grief over lack of affection all too often turns to anger. you shake and you snap so easily — really, it should be no wonder why no one loves you.

— dark souls, ( dark ? ) dreams

nature and nurture are curious things. your nature ensured that you crave love, but your nurturing ( — rather, your lack thereof ) ensured that you were cruel and callous. your father was a nasty man, harsh and severe, and you learned from him how to be the same. after all, your ploys for attention included acting like him the best you could. you copied his mannerisms, his way of speech. it never did catch you his fondness, but it did warp you into someone unkind and severe. despite being dark, your dreams are lighter than you are in the day. there is love and there is warmth, and things are gentle and soft. but when you wake, you scoff. you’re not sure if you are angry that a part of you is so weak, or if you are angry that you don’t have these nice things.

— bitter glory

heavy lies the head that wears a crown. that won’t be the case with you. you will wear it with ease when you are finally king, you will not be stifled. you have one goal: to be king. what will you do to get it ? anything. you will give up your chances of being loved, you will rid yourself of the chains of being loyal to anyone else. if that causes you ache, this loss, so be it. some things are worth more than others.

wraiths:

— there is something so satisfying about being in charge of all the student wraiths. it’s a taste, more like a tease, of the power he could have once he is out of school. it feels so right, so fitting. but part of the draw to the wraiths had been orion. nicodemus had hoped ( had prayed ) that the man would be something more than his parents had been, something more than anyone in his life had been. it didn’t happen, though. orion offered him power, and the taste of it melted into his tongue sweetly, and that’s what is keeping him involved. tl;dr: are the wraiths right ? who is he to say. is he going to keep with them for the time being because he’s a power-hungry baby megalomaniac ? yes, one hundred perfect.

— his code name is viticomus, meaning adorned or crowned with vine-leaves.

— he has a rune because selling your soul at the ripe age of sixteen ( maybe seventeen, tba ?? ) was totally a good idea for him ! one of the best he’s ever had ! it’s for occlumency and it’s on the nape of his neck under his hair.

prophecy:

— the final betrayer. what does that mean ? nicodemus has wondered but he refuses to say anything certain to anyone. there are seemingly countless people he could betray. orion. his prewett relatives. himself. it leaves a strange taste in his mouth, wondering  what it could mean. he doesn’t suppose he wouldn’t betray orion — for all the man had taught him, nicodemus still didn’t have the thing he wanted most — and should circumstances be right, it would be a hard choice. and the prewetts ? it could be argued that he’s already betrayed them, taking the label and beliefs of wraiths. but the last option worries him the most. it would be so easy. give up the things he wants, subject himself to a life that isn’t quite fulfilling.

plot arc:

— nicodemus knows that power is the key to adoration. now at the top of the wraiths, or at the very least, of the students ( maybe some of the adults, or at least in his mind, he is ), the lust for more is nearly palpable. he doesn’t just want it — he needs it. if he isn’t to get it, what has it all been for then ? he cannot wait for the respect, he cannot wait until his name strikes feeling into the heart of those who hear it. only then, will he be satisfied ( —or so he thinks ).

more rambles, less structure:

— can i just say: the duality of man ??? the lust for power, the need for love. these things typically don’t play together. for those who want power, they sacrifice love because the respect and fear they command replace it. sometimes being loving doesn’t command power. nico ( a note: no one calls him nico. it’s too informal, it’s too plebian, but for my sake while writing this intro, i will call him nico ) doesn’t quite understand this. he wants to be on top ( a need for a crown is overwhelming, and he’s only just begun tasting what kinghood is like, glints of power in his hands ) but he also wants to be loved. but does he know what love is ? probably not. he knows it’s in how you care for another person, a feeling that wells up in your chest, but i’m not sure he really knows how to love someone. he knows what it is to want and to lust, but love ? he’s never had it ! he wouldn’t know love if it smacked him in the face ! my poor emotionally-stunted, morally-skewed boy ! ( also i will acknowledge: the wraiths ? bad. nico ? Bad. not good people. not people you should aspire to be ! )

— and let’s talk about the weasleys ! what does he feel when he see them ? anger. jealousy. sadness. he could have been like them, if things were different. he could have known them. he could have been loved by them. and yet, none of those things are true. they’re practically all strangers, but he feels so much around them. for the most part, he hides it, behind snide words and an upturned nose. there is no getting close to them — first, he doesn’t know how to mend years of cruel behavior, but two, what if they turned him away ? for nico, feeling his own hurt and resentment as is is much better than risking getting hurt more.

— onion headlines that give me nicodemus vibes: “ i am the product of a single-nanny household ” “ wealthy teen nearly experiences consequence ” “ somebody should make a movie about my life ” “ i am lost in my own mansion ” “ report: income inequality most apparent during fifth-grade classmate’s birthday party ”

thoughts, few details:

— his parents hate each other and cheated on one another all the time as he grew up. are they a good example of a healthy relationship ? definitely not.

— he’s a scorpio. moody bitch.

— charms his hair brown now that he’s older to look less like a weasley, but can’t be bothered about the maintenance until someone points out he’s looking a little ruddy. the freckles, though ? he charmed them once and he ended up with like a thousand more and he won’t tempt fate again.

— would probably choke if someone liked him. probably ??? would think they’re lying.

— voldemort ? had good methods of control and fear-mongering. could nico be a better leader ? he believes so.

— his parents only had a kid out of obligation and not love. can we imagine the complex that gives a kid ? 

— his parents supported voldemort back in the day. they still believed in pureblooded ideals, though, and nico grew up hearing them. this meant that the wraiths weren’t telling him anything he didn’t know when he was readying to join them. 

— a note on this: orion tempted him with the allure of family. not pureblooded mania, not the scorn for anyone not entirely witch or wizard, but with family. they were both blacks, slight distance between them both, and blood together was a powerful thing. he had hoped this meant affection — he would have been over the moon at the smallest of fondness —  but it seemed ( like voldemort himself —  orion would be enthused at the comparison ) the older man was incapable of such.

— nico’s view of love DOES NOT equal real love. he’s dumb and wouldn’t know love if it hit him in the face.

 — he thinks he should be loved. like, thinks people should be bowing at his feet, kissing his shoes.  he thinks he’s more than deserving of it. how could he not be ?

— his full name is nicodemus vaughn prewett. he’s named after a dead relative. wizards love that.