#anyway that could be used as an explanation for his increased stupidity. that brain damage is progressively making him dumber.

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4390 Chapter: 17/? Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

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Chapter 17

Of course, because nothing else had gone right for the entire duration of this stupid mission, they were still several miles out when Tobirama felt the approach of multiple chakra signatures he recognized as the ones that had ambushed them several days before. Even before he took the time to inform Izuna of what was happening he turned and bolted in a different direction. Neither of them were in any condition to put up a proper fight quite yet and if Izuna’s leg took any more damage Tobirama feared he might lose the limb entirely.

For a mile or two it seemed like they’d turned aside just in time to escape unwanted notice and after a quick explanation hissed over his shoulder Izuna agreed that they might actually make it out of this without any further trouble. They were both proven wrong almost as soon as they reached that rare agreement. As if to mock them for getting along in even that small respect the signatures Tobirama was mentally tracking took a sharp turn and began heading in their direction at high speed, clearly with a single purpose in mind.

“Hang on tight,” Tobirama murmured. As he had tried to impart on many of the younglings he’d taught over the years, there was no shame in retreat if it was the only option with any chance of keeping you alive.

Unfortunately his body was still too tired to reach the same levels of speed he was so infamous for. No matter how hard he pushed his legs the squad behind them was catching up and Tobirama wanted to grind his teeth with frustration when Izuna reported their pursuers were now in visual range, still several miles out from the city. With safety just barely out of reach he stopped and put his back to the biggest tree he could find to gently slide his mission partner to the ground. Fighting with Izuna still clinging to his shoulders could only lead to both of them getting killed; better to play the defensive role with a miniscule chance of success rather than basically throwing them both headfirst in to their own graves.

“Well look here,” the woman in front cooed mockingly as they all stopped a dozen feet away. “Two birds fluttering around in a cage. Time to die little birdies.”

“You aren’t half as intimidating as you think you are,” Tobirama informed her coolly.

“And you’re not half as dead as – shut up! Laugh it up, Senju, while you’ve got the chance!”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes as all four opponents facing him came forward in a close knit formation, quite stupid for anyone who knew of his abilities in battle. Flexing the fingers on both hands and already studying the patterns of their movements, watching for an opening to steal a weapon for his own, he tutted as though to reprimand a child for misspeaking.

“You should really research your targets a bit better. I am a married Uchiha now and you would do well to remember that,” he scolded them. The same woman scoffed as her associates stopped in a tight bunch just behind her.

“Why, what are you going to do, roast us with a little flame now that you’re an Uchiha?”

Since he was a professional shinobi Tobirama didn’t see any reason to give her the satisfaction of a warning but yes. That was absolutely what he had planned to do.

Digging deep in to the mostly empty well of his chakra he pulled at the scraps and edges of energy he couldn’t really spare but was prepared to use anyway and brought one hand up in front of his lips. The woman had no time to scream when he breathed a tongue of flame in her face. Her skin melted and the clearing was immediately filled with the scent of burning hair, increased by the two others behind her that also got caught in the blast. Tobirama staggered and nearly collapsed after expelling so much of what little chakra he had managed to recover but forced himself to stay standing. After all the effort he had gone to just to keep Izuna alive he was hardly going to fall over and let him die so easily now. Unfortunately his bit of fast thinking left him unable to reach for the only big defense they had left. The Raijin no Ken lay sealed neatly in his arm but without the chakra to wield it or even to activate the seal it was little more than a pretty tattoo mocking him in black ink. For now the only weapon he had was his own body, finely honed yet nearly empty of all energy.

With one opponent down and two frantically trying to put out the fires on their heads that left only one very angry man to come at Tobirama in an insultingly sloppy frontal assault, not a single thought for his weakened state or how easy it would be to take him out from afar. Not that Tobirama was all that upset at having a chance to defend himself with tired arms that felt like lead as he forced them to lift and block each blow with very little finesse.

It was more dumb luck than anything else that knocked the kunai out of his opponent’s hand, a poorly executed swing that he managed to intercept at just the right angle to hit a nerve ending and jar the man’s hand, sending the blade spinning down in to open space. Tobirama snatched it out of midair on sheer instinct and jamming it in to the side of the neck exposed to him was nothing more than a natural extension of such a movement. He was almost surprised when he found himself the one left standing but there wasn’t much time to contemplate his victory, not when the other two had finally gotten themselves sorted out and were both coming towards him with matching expressions of angered pain.

Holding his defensive stance had never been as crucial as it was in that moment, knowing that an ally lay behind him immobilized and unable to defend themselves. Tobirama forced his arms to lift and fall, redirecting the weapons seeking his already tired flesh, forced his legs to shift and sway as he utilized every obscure taijutsu trick in his arsenal just to stay alive. Out here in the middle of the forest so far from home he knew that no help was coming and he would either have to see them out of this situation himself or fall here and allow Izuna to follow after.

Clearly his only option was to pray for a miracle.

And, incredibly, a miracle is what he got – two of them, in fact. The first miracle came when one of the men attacking him lost their footing and gave him the perfect opening to jam his stolen kunai straight between the second and third ribs, losing his own weapon when it got stuck in a bone but catching the sword that dropped from a spasming hand. With the new blade he had a longer reach and managed to drive the single remaining opponent back while the one he had just stabbed fell to one side and bled out of the forest floor. Something that felt a great deal like hope began to swell in Tobirama’s chest as it looked like he might actually make it out of this alive.

His second miracle was more of a convenient tragedy than anything else but he was so tired already that it was hard for him to tell the difference anymore. Izuna’s warning shout was so much of a surprise that Tobirama stupidly reacted to that rather than the man rushing him from the front and yet in a stroke of luck he still managed to bring his sword up at such an angle that when his opponent ran him through he returned the favor leaving them chest to chest, each with a blade in their stomach.

They stood locked together and all Tobirama could concentrate on was the surge of adrenaline finally kicking his brain in to gear, the world around him standing out in crystal clarity. He was about to die. Already injured and at the end of his rope he didn’t exactly have much blood left to lose and now here he was with a sword in his gut and his weight rocking forward to balance himself on the man that had put it there. The plan he came up with was stupid and reckless and he knew that the moment he came up with it. He also knew that there wasn’t much time to think of other options.

When he pushed himself away from the man dying in front of him he fell close to where Izuna lay screeching and cursing him six kinds of a fool. Ignoring the vicious swearing in his ear, Tobirama did his best to ignore the searing pain as he lifted the pouch he’d just stolen from a stranger’s belt.

Every shinobi carried a medical kit of some kind on them even when they carried little else but weapons. Their lives were danger and blood. Anyone who couldn’t keep that blood inside wasn’t likely to make it back home. His own had been all used up and discarded already but here was a freshly stocked kit delivered oh so kindly right in to his hands and there was only one item inside he was interested in.

“I’m about to do something really stupid,” he choked out. Struggling to get himself in to a sitting position, Izuna gave him a wild-eyed look.

“You just did about fifteen other stupid things! What the hell! You don’t let people stab you, that’s battle lesson number one!”

Tobirama ignored him as he started in to really a good rant, tossing the kit aside once he had what he wanted and popping the cap off a small clear vial. His hands were already shaking enough to encourage several of the little pills inside to roll out on to his palm. Before Izuna could protest he had shoved them all in his mouth and crunched down.

“What the hell were those!?”

“Chakra pills.”

“You just–! With that many you’ll overdose!”

“Maybe.” Tobirama swallowed the powdery mess dry, wrinkling his nose against the bitter taste. “Shut up for two seconds and listen. This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to take us back to the capital city because it’s closer and I’m less likely to blow out most of my chakra pathways getting us there. You’re going to scream bloody murder and get us to a hospital. If I’m lucky maybe you can get me there fast enough that I don’t die.”

Izuna spluttered with rage while Tobirama closed his eyes, feeling the unnatural surge of energy boiling uncomfortably under his skin, bubbling like a pot about to overflow and filling him up until he could almost understand what a volcanic eruption felt like in the moments just before the explosion.

“You’re insane!” Izuna told him. “And what the hell do you mean you’re going to take us in to the city? We’re still miles away!”

“Let me introduce you to my new favorite jutsu,” Tobirama murmured.

Just before it felt like the excess chakra might burn him up he slapped a hand down on Izuna’s arm and reached for the seal he had placed on the contact they met with before this whole fiasco began. The world blurred around them for less than a second and when it solidified again they were in the center of the bright seething mass of chakra that had been calling to him like a beacon of safety since they crawled out from underneath that blasted tree. Clearly he had been right in identifying their poorly disguised contact as the Daimyo’s personal assistant; he would know those disgustingly over-embellished ceilings anywhere.

A wheeze escaped him before he could say anything but that was fine. Someone nearby was screaming and even through the high-pitched ringing in his ears it sounded enough like Izuna to assure him that things were all going according to his slapdash plan. The rushing massive intake and output of chakra left him feeling hollowed out as though someone had scraped at his insides with a jagged rusty spoon and he was all too grateful for the darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision.

Whether he lived or died now depended on how quickly others reacted to save him but that was out of his hands now as he had known it would be. Tobirama wasn’t sure if he closed his eyes or if his body was failing him. All he knew was the fading until all the world was silent for a blissful moment. And then he was gone, pulled under the tide.

-

A flash of sound, distant, distorted as though underwater. It called to him. Tobirama considered answering for a brief moment. Then it was gone and he slept again.

-

Light. The rosy backs of his own eyelids with sunlight pooled warm over his body. Someone was touching him. He wanted to tell them to stop but his limbs were just so heavy. It was easier to let the darkness rise and lose himself again.

-

“-bury you under a fucking mountain or something, I swear. I’d say throw your body in a river but you’d probably like that. Freak. With your water and your teleporting and your stupid self-sacrificing. Aniki is never going to let me live this down. You better wake the fuck up or I swear-”

Izuna’s voice continued to drone on but Tobirama had already lost his grip and gone back to sleep.

-

The world was quiet when he finally woke completely. The insides of his eyelids were dark enough he thought he might have come to in the middle of the night until he cracked them open with a great deal of effort to see that curtains had been drawn across the window beside his bed. By the luxurious décor he guessed himself to be in the palace still but that seemed less important than staring up in to the empty space above him and coming to terms with the fact that he was still alive. Against all odds he had survived.

Several parts of his body protested when he struggled his way upright but since it was less of a screaming muscle situation and more of a sulking grumble he ignored it easily enough, too curious and brimming with an unexpected amount of energy. The room around him looked like the usual sort of apartment important guests might be given by the daimyo, which probably meant that he had been tended to by a private doctor while he was unconscious. One corner of the room had an ornate dresser decorated in such a way that it nearly disappeared in to the wall designs. Several of the drawers were opened, clothing spilling out from each of them, and on top he recognized the shredded remains of his own shirt. He wondered why they had kept such rags.

Only a few minutes of blissful silence had passed before he picked up the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallways and set his sights on the door, waiting patiently until it opened to reveal Izuna with his eyes already in the middle of a disgusted roll.

“Pompous idiots,” he was muttering to himself.

“You are not a fan of the upper class, I take it.” Tobirama allowed himself a tiny smirk when his question made Izuna jump.

“Holy shit. About time you woke up! Fuck, you sure took your time. If you had slept another couple of days I was about to send a letter for your brother to come take a look at you himself since clearly these ‘high class’ physicians have no idea what they’re doing.”

Tobirama blinked and then shuddered. “I am infinitely grateful that you did not resort to that.”

“What, don’t want big brother to see you being a big weak baby?” Izuna asked in a mocking tone.

“On the contrary, I would rather no one else attend me if it’s necessary. But to call him all the way to the capital because you can’t wake me up? He would be inconsolable and by the time I woke up the entire city would have been drowned in tears. If possible I would rather not deal with that.”

He tried to get a better look at the shadows coming through the curtain to determine the time while Izuna mulled that over. Eventually his companion twisted his mouth in a wry expression and nodded slowly; he’d clearly had enough interactions with Hashirama by now to understand. Other than Mito there weren’t many people who had the patience to deal with so many wild emotions swinging back and forth at a moment’s notice.

“Don’t move,” he commanded. “I’ll go drag that useless physician back here so he can clear you to leave. And don’t you dare tell me you don’t feel like leaving because I am very prepared to drag you with me. It’s been days. I want to go home.”

“Exactly how long have I been unconscious?” Tobirama asked.

“Half a week. So sit down, shut up, and if you move I will beat you back in to a coma.”

“That sounds counterproductive.”

Izuna ignored him, spinning on one heel to exit the door he had just come through. His footsteps echoed just a little more loudly as he stomped down the hallway. In direct contradiction to what he’d been told, Tobirama swung his legs out from under the heavy blankets and stood up from the bed as soon as he was alone. If the doctors here were really that useless then he might as well evaluate himself before anyone else could bungle it. He had picked up enough things from Hashirama over the years that he knew the warning signs of underlying conditions someone with just a smidgeon more pride than him would have ignored.

Thankfully, however, the only thing underlying on his person were the clean undergarments he very much did not wish to know how he had gotten in to. Clearly someone had dressed him a little too intimately while he’d been unconscious. Definitely not something he would include in his tale when he recounted the events of the mission to his husband.

Even if Madara wasn’t going to touch him there he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else do so. The Senju were raised to take their marriage vows quite seriously.

Careful movements and slow stretches gave him a good idea of how well his body had recovered and a quick internal scan told him that his chakra levels were back up to where they should be. None of the bones he had suspected of being broken seemed to be causing any pain, most of the bruises from their mission were fading gradually to yellow, and all of the places where he hadn’t had enough thread to sew himself up after he’d done the same for Izuna were all healing well despite that. Overall the only thing that wasn’t top notch was his belly but even that seemed to have gotten some sort of professional attention. Perhaps Izuna’s poor review of the physician had been a little exaggerated.

He had his chance to find out soon enough when the door opened once again to admit Izuna, who immediately looked pissy to see him out of bed, and a portly man in his middle years with well-oiled facial hair and clothing that had clearly been gifted to him. No medicinal professions Tobirama knew of paid enough for the finery this man was wearing. Yet his expression was kindly and his voice soft as he urged his patient back towards the bed for a proper examination.

The questions he asked felt endless but Tobirama could at least see the purpose behind each one, which was all that kept his patience in check until finally he was allowed to stand again and resettle his shirt to hide the bandages around his middle.

“I recommend light physical activities until the wound has completely healed. The stitches will need to be removed by a doctor in your own village but they must remain at least until the flesh is able to stay closed without them.” He smiled as he packed up the instruments he had used for his exam. “Remember to stay hydrated as well. Many people underestimate how important it is to drink water and eat properly during a time of healing. Give your body the tools and in return it will build you strong again.”

“My thanks, doctor. I will remember.”

“You are both free to go then, so long as your journey will not be strenuous. I know how you shinobi types enjoy hopping between the trees as you do but I would strongly recommend against it.” He tutted disapprovingly and Tobirama couldn’t help but smile.

With a respectful bow as low as he could manage with an injured stomach, he thanked the man again and then cast about the room with a questioning look as soon as he was alone with his mission partner. “I’m not walking home in pajamas. You look like you’ve got some nice new clothes and the daimyo is many things but he isn’t stingy. Where’s mine?”

Izuna grumbled but stomped over to one of the open dresser drawers and pulled out a small pile of fabric to throw in Tobirama’s face.

As Tobirama dressed he listened to Izuna recounting how the Daimyo reacted to the knowledge that his niece had indeed betrayed him, colluding with those who opposed him to plan a coup with the intent that she might take his place ruling over Hi no Kuni. Like a true politician he had allowed nothing to show on his face but, according to Izuna, there was no hiding the pain in his eyes. All things considered Tobirama couldn’t say he would do any better in the face of such heart breaking news as the betrayal of his own beloved kin.

Once he was dressed they attempted to present themselves to the Daimyo but were told that he was much too busy dealing with the consequences of the news they had survived to bring him and so they slipped quietly out of the palace without delay. Both of them chafed at the slower speed of walking as soon as they stepped foot outside the city borders. Izuna eyed a horse-drawn cart when it passed them by, a textile merchant on his way back from market, and although Tobirama could hear the longing sigh he said nothing. All the bumps in the road would probably hurt his belly more than leaping about through the trees would; if he didn’t want to tear out his stitches they were better off taking the slowest route.

“Kami this is going to take forever,” Izuna whined after they had walked for a half hour and covered less than half the distance they should have.

“If you complain the whole time it will certain feel that way,” Tobirama muttered under his breath.

“Can’t you just flash us home the same way you flashed us in to the city?”

Tobirama wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never had occasion to test my range with that jutsu and I’m not sure it would be the smartest idea to do so when I am already recovering from an injury.”

“You mean I might get rid of you faster? Damn. You should do it.”

“How very thoughtful of you to be so concerned for my wellbeing.” Now it was his own turn to sigh. “Unfortunately you’re just going to have to exercise your patience. Either that or you can go on ahead and explain to our fathers why you chose to abandon your assigned mission partner despite being well aware of his delicate health.”

Izuna gnashed his teeth together. “The only thing delicate about you is your sensibilities.”

“Ooh. Ouch. Someone get me some ice for that burn.”

“Hey fuck you!”

“I would rather you not.”

“Ew! Not with a ten foot pole! I hate you so much, Senju.”

Tobirama’s first instinct was to snap back that he was, in fact, an Uchiha now. Instead he turned his head to snicker at the trees lining both sides of the road they were walking on. He was more than aware that laughing would only rile Izuna up a little more but after everything he had gone through over the past few days he was pretty sure he’d earned the right to a bit of entertainment.

As predicted, it did feel like it took forever to make their way back to the village. In fact it took them two full days when they could have covered the same distance in less than twenty-four hours if they were travelling at full speed. The closer they got the more Izuna almost seemed to vibrate with energy until finally they were close enough for even someone without Tobirama’s sensing abilities to feel the roiling mass of chakra signatures that was Konohagakure. Just being close enough to feel their loved ones nearby, healthy and calm as the evening grew later, was enough to draw almost all the tension from their bodies.

Closing his eyes and trusting his feet to carry on along the path, Tobirama passed over Touka and Hashirama and Mito, took a moment to identify Kagami and several members of his birth clan who had carved out a soft spot in his heart, before turning his attention to the burning star that was Madara. In the middle of the Uchiha district where they had made their home his chakra smoldered with the specific banked ember feeling of someone sleepy and ready for bed.

Hopefully he hadn’t been too worried to have his brother and husband both coming back from their mission a week or more after they were expected to. Tobirama supposed he would find out soon enough. Whether Madara would be angry or snippy or even disappointed in them for making such a mess of things, Tobirama was still looking forward to seeing the man.

He had missed his husband.

[inversionrp-blog]

seventh year | hufflepuff | muggleborn | he/his

about:

perhaps as a result of his rough upbringing, walden’s default is to use their fists rather than their wand. they have a reputation of being a rather dumb brute, and walden’s overheard people saying that they were stuck in hufflepuff because they were simply too dumb for any other house - pureblood supremacists love to say walden is a prime example of why mugglebornsshouldn’t be allowed in hogwarts. perhaps they’re not necessarily booksmart, but walden’s hands can do anything, whether it’s beating someone senseless, brewing a rare potion, or nursing a wounded magical creature back to health. few understand the gentleness underneath the tough exterior, but those within walden’s inner circle are genuinely loved.

biography:

(tw: depression, suicide, child abuse, bullying)

Patrick and Ayida Macnair name their son Walden for Henry David Thoreau’s book. It was how they met after all, Patrick at a small café re-reading the book at the same time that Ayida, a University student, tried to scratch out an essay for the book.

Serendipity, they both thought, and later each of them would discover that this did not equal happiness.

The name, the boy himself, is a desperate grab at their already strained marriage. Anyone will tell you a child cannot save a marriage. And Walden is no miracle. He’s sickly at birth, struggles just to survive that first month, but he does somehow. He does somehow.

Everything is a struggle for the Macnairs. Patrick Macnair loses his contract with his publisher, after failing to write a second book. Ayida’s job as a paralegal, just barely enough to support them, leaves her exhausted and stressed. Walden is kicked out of public school nine months into his very first year. The administrators call it for Walden’s benefit but the result is the same. They say he needs a special school, which is code for the other kids complaining he’s creepy, for the odd things that happen around Walden.

There is no school special enough for Walden though; Patrick and Ayida know this already. No matter the impossibility, there is no other word for the things five-year-old Walden does than magic. Unfortunately, magic does not equal miracle. When Ayida says magic it sounds like danger, like the tone people have when they talk about the health effects of cigarettes. When Patrick says magic it sounds like wonder and possibilities. Patrick’s first and only novel was about a beautiful and adventurous sci-fi world though.

In any case, Patrick, still out of a job, takes over teaching Walden. He teaches him math and reading, an arduous process, and to appreciate beauty. They go to museums, the zoo, watch documentaries; it’s the education kids would kill for.  Some days this works and others it doesn’t. On the days it does, Walden actually grasps some of the concepts his dad teaches him and he says things like,

“There’s this C.S. Lewis quote I read ages ago, ‘If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.’ Now this was meant to be a quote about religion but my family wasn’t religious and I always took it to mean that there was something more out there than ordinary, droll life. Something like what I read in all my books. And you, Walden are proof. Proof that there is more.”

The bad days Walden can’t focus, can’t understand what his dad is saying. He punches the walls in frustration and his dad backs off, gives him space. He says,

“It’s okay, Walden. You just have so much inside you. It has to come out somehow. That’s just how we passionate people are. We’ll find a way for you to channel that energy.”

There are other bad days too that have nothing at all to do with Walden because struggling is still synonymous with the Macnair family. Walden’s mother always gets home late from work, after Walden’s been put to bed. He lays awake in his bed and listens as his mother screams at his dad, occasionally, he hears something breaking too. Walden knows that this means his dad isn’t right; he didn’t inherit his dad’s passion but his mother’s anger, her bitterness at the world.

Worse are the days his dad doesn’t get up out of bed, can’t seem to. He’s sick even if nothing appears physically wrong with him. Walden sits on the floor of his dad’s dim, musty bedroom and reads stiltedly to him. He learns as these days increase in frequency how to cook well enough to feed the both of them, even if his dad only picks at his food. Nonsensically, his dad apologizes over and over to him but he doesn’t mind; he loves his dad entirely, no exceptions.

Anyone will tell you that love cannot save people.

On a Saturday in October, eight-year-old Walden finds out what his dad was really apologizing for. His mother, off work for the weekend, takes Walden to the park. He’s too pale, too quiet, too isolated for a young boy. When they get back, Walden runs up to his dad’s room to return to his vigil, the armchair beside his dad’s bed. Patrick Macnair is not in bed though for the first time in days. His lifeless body hangs from a rope carefully tied around the ceiling fan.

It’s impossible not to find out the name for his dad’s sickness, not when all the neighbors whisper about it, his mother, the strangers at the funeral. Depression. Understanding, for Walden, is still years away and he never asks. Not about whether, like anger and passion, depression can be inherited. Not about why Walden wasn’t enough to keep his dad. Not about the note his dad left.

“Here, words betray me. They will never be enough to explain. I love you, my son.”

Actually, he doesn’t have many questions about the note. Of the entire awful mess, the note is the one part that makes sense. Words, Walden knows, are not enough. Actions always say more.

His mother’s actions, for instance, scream. Before the month is out, everything belonging to his dad is gone and there is a man from his mother’s work living with them. His mother says Andrew will be a good male influence on him. Clearly, she means the opposite. Andrew is loud and aggressive. He screams at the TV during soccer games, banging his fist on the side table, and he calls Walden things like pansy, little fucker, brain damaged. A black eye here and a sprained wrist there; it’s all in the name of teaching him to be tougher, to fight back.

They send him to a school for delinquents. Walden, being new and almost entirely silent, would have become a target of the other boys anyway. But the son of a cop that came to the house when his dad died is in the grade above his. By the first week, depending on who you talk to, Walden watched his father kill himself or encouraged him to do it or was too stupid for his father to deal with anymore. A gang of the boys take great pleasure in attacking him anywhere they can-a punch to the gut in halls, a bloody nose in the bathroom, dislocated shoulder in gym.

They’re the stupid ones though; they don’t know how to recognize a venomous snake when they see one.

As it turns out, fighting back is not what Walden needs to learn. He just needs a worthy place to direct the pool of violence and anger that lives within him. There is a reason the other primary kids, all those years ago, called him creepy. They’d seen it. He was the boy who’d punch the wall in frustration until his knuckles bled because he had to kill the urge to hit his dad instead. The boy who imagined plucking the wings off butterflies. But soft things do not deserve violence when there are plenty of other nasty people like Walden who do deserve it.

The first time Walden sets himself free, it’s because the same four that usually terrorize him have set their sights on a small asthmatic boy. He breaks one’s nose, another’s rib, gives one a split lip, and delivers a series of livid bruises. They don’t blame it on him; he’s earned his place now. They call him psycho instead and give him a wide berth in the halls.

At night, he still goes home to his now stepfather who takes great pleasure in keeping him humble. Walden may be shit at reading and math but he’s smart in the ways that matter. He knows that to raise his fists against his stepfather would be a death sentence. He’s already courting death most days as it is. The last time he rolled his eyes in that house he had to wear a scarf for three weeks to hide the gruesome ring of bruises around his neck.

In a different world, Walden might’ve tried using his special abilities, the magic, but the truth is Walden hardly ever thinks about the things he’d done as a child. It is unreliable and it has never saved anyone ever. Not him, not his father.

No miracles here.

The irony, of course, of this is just as the memory of magic fades to all but nothing in his mind, a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry arrives. His mother for whatever reason decides to agree to send him there. She tells her new husband only that it’s a boarding school and makes one of the Hogwarts professors take him to get all the supplies he needs.

All Walden can think of throughout the entire process is how very much he wishes his dad could see it all. He’s still thinking that when he sits in front of the massive dining hall, an oversized hat on his head, speaking to him.

Walden and the hat sit for a long period. Later, they will say it’s because the hat was trying to see if the mudblood even belonged at Hogwarts at all. In truth, the two are trying to place him. He’s brave but not in the ways Gryffindors appreciate. Though he is a survivor and cunning enough, Slytherin is not safe for obvious reasons and he’s hardly ambitious. But he’s not the first person that hasn’t fit perfectly into his house, rarely is someone perfectly suited.

The hat is in the process of explaining Slytherin when it catches a wayward thought about the boy’s father. The sorting hat backtracks. Hufflepuff wasn’t even in the running, not with the pool of undirected rage the hat immediately encountered in Walden’s head. But. The boy is loyal, to a disturbing degree. He knows hard work better than most people. He can be so, so kind and gentle when presented the opportunity and buried deep within him is a yearning for family. All of the traits are there, in fact, obscured and twisted but the boy is undeniably Hufflepuff.

“I know where you belong but it will be a struggle for you. Your house-they aren’t like you. At best, they’ll see you as the fox in the henhouse. And the others, they will say it’s because you belonged nowhere.”

Walden snorts bitterly, unsurprised. To belong anywhere was too much to ask of the world for a boy like him. He’ll survive, just as he always has. Somehow.

“Hufflepuff!”

plots.

 family-I’d love to do a plot involving Walden doing something to his stepfather. Cursing him or something. I think it would be a good way to explore the darker parts of Walden and I feel like it’s something he definitely would have thought of.

 career-Since Walden is a seventh year, he needs be thinking of jobs. I ruled anything out that wasn’t hands on, obviously. And I was thinking maybe even having him go into a muggle job, mechanic or something like that. But actually, I think becoming a wandmaker apprentice might be an interesting choice. It’s hands on, requires delicate work, and keeps him entrenched in the magical world.

  romance-I’d love to have a relationship plot with someone for Walden. It’d be angsty, messy fun. Maybe with either of his friend connections, if they’re interested. Maybe a forbidden romance with a pureblood that should really not be interested in walden. A slightly toxic relationship. Bloody lip kisses. Or something slightly softer where they’d both just do anything to protect the other.

war- I’m not sure about this yet. I think independently walden would want to stay out of this as much as possible. But I feel that also depends on his connections if someone he cared about such as Lucius became further embroiled in war Walden of course would stand by him.

suggested connections.

benjy fenwick: one of walden’s closest friends, who they feel a strong kinship with. whenever benjy’s jokes go too far and retaliation comes, walden always protects their wisecracking friend. benjy is one of their own, and walden would do anything for them. bertha jorkins: many of the rumors surrounding walden are a direct result of bertha, something that walden hasn’t realized yet. walden continues to confide in bertha and treat them as a friend, not realizing the consequences. lucius malfoy: when walden first met lucius, they immediately disliked the ravenclaw, their obvious money and air of superiority. however, they’ve slowly developed an odd sort of friendship, both suffering from fear of the future and expectations of others.

walden is portrayed by dudley o’shaughnessy and is closed.