#funeral home hadn’t picked her up so mum IS getting to see her. she desperately wanted to say goodbye so I hope that helps

[lucielovekj]

.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Surprise Pt. 2 | Soap x Reader

Summary: The boys are slowly settling into your apartment, looking for the terrorist group they’re hunting down, while memories begin resurfacing for Simon.

Word Count: ~ 3.8k

Warnings: Mentions of death, toxic relationship, toxic family, abusive dad, panic attack/ptsd episodes, guns, violence, prob terribly inaccurate to anything military (I’m trying my hardest ok😭)

A/N: this part is mainly for worldbuilding, I’m alr working on part 3 but felt like y’all might want a little update, lmk what you want to see, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

It was safe to say that Ghost and Price had a long conversation that night.

“How much does she know?”

The captain had asked, hat hanging over his head before he picked it off between two fingers, setting it on the bedside table in a guest room. The two available rooms were split with Gaz and Price in one, and Ghost and Soap in the other.

Simon thought for a solid moment. He hadn’t told you anything, other than he was going to the military. He’d stayed over at your place maybe once before, years earlier, and all he’d told you was that he had a mission, an important one, something he couldn’t tell you about. To keep you safe.

It wasn’t a lie. At first, you’d been angry that he wouldn’t tell you, but something must’ve clicked at 15 because that was when you stopped questioning it altogether. Then again, at that point, he’d rarely texted you or called you at all. It had been years since physical words were exchanged at this point.

He felt bad about it, but with the last words exchanged between the two of you…it made regret and grief flare up in him all over again.

~

You were pacing. Back and forth, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you burnt a trail in the carpet with how frenzied you looked. Shock, grief, anger, and pure disbelief mixed all into one, your body language reflecting as much.

He hadn’t even taken his mask off yet, leaning against the wall behind him in the home his mother had grown up in. The home he’d grown up in. A home you’d visited before, only because of the court-deemed custody that your father somehow got.

“You didn’t come to the funeral.”

His harsh voice finally rang out, and your pacing stopped. You turned to look at him, defensiveness automatically rendering itself in your expression. Always so easy to read. If only you were like that now.

“I couldn’t make it in time. You know that, Simon.”

You said, and his temper flared. Every single lesson he’d had drilled into him in his military-deemed anger management classes went out of the window at that. At how you defended yourself, even when he knew you could’ve made it on time for that funeral. Or at least he thought you could’ve.

“Really? Or did you know about this, huh?”

He accused, anger building in his tone as he pushed off the wall, stalking closer to you, now pacing in his own slower, more predatory manner. Your eyes widened at his accusation.

“You think I was plotting to kill your mum? The fuck is wrong with you?”

Simon knew it was outrageous, there was no way in hell you would’ve done it. Not when you’d known her, even if only for a little bit. But Ghost….Ghost had been betrayed too many times. He was desperate for any answer, any way to get rid of you so he didn’t have to deal with any reminder of his mother, or Tommy, or his little nephew that had been so painfully young.

Maybe you didn’t understand, but if he made himself believe this…then you wouldn’t be around him anymore, and he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone killing you like they had everyone else around him.

“What about Tommy? Or Joseph? Didn’t make it to theirs either, did you.”

“Simon, I came as soon as I could, you know that. I was in that camp for a month, there was nothing I could-“

“That’s convenient, isn’t it.”

He said drily, stalking closer, hand moving to the hilt of his gun. You didn’t notice, probably because you had no military training or anything of the sort. If he wanted to kill you right now, make you disappear, he could. Easily, too. He could already think of how he’d do it, the silencer on his gun covering the sound as he would shoot you, once in the head, twice in the heart, then he would take you down into the sewers, and you’d disappear-

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Your voice, slightly scared now, and your body language showing just how intimidated and panicked you were, was wobbly at best. Tears welled in your eyes as you opened the door to leave out of the front, your car, a black jeep you weren’t old enough to drive yet, but did anyway thanks to the fake ID you’d made, parked in the rocky driveway.

He snatched your arm up, yanking you back into the room as he pressed you against the wall he’d previously been leaning on. He leaned close, breath coming through the fabric of his baklava and speaking softly, like the old Simon would, to you in your ear.

“I wouldn’t blame you, you know.” He began.

“He was your dad, he was all you had, wasn’t he? Maybe you were jealous, or angry about what happened to him. What I did to him.”

He almost whispered to you, as if it was some forbidden knowledge. Your small body was stiff against the wall, unconsciously leaning away from him. You were terrified. He could feel it.

“You’re insane. Completely fuckin’ insane.”

You said, trying to squirm away, and he let you gain an inch of room, only to force you another inch against the wall. One more and your breathing would be strained if you could breathe at that.

“I’ll let you off, but if I find out you had anything to do with this, with her…”

He didn’t get to finish the rest before you struggled free, and you made it to your car quicker than ever before, and drove off, not caring about any speed limits or anything.

~

“Simon? You here?”

Price’s voice snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in, and he gave a little grunt in response. Shaking himself out of it, he tried to remember what the captain’s question had been. Something about what you knew.

“The bare minimum.”

“Good. She seems like a good kid, keep her outta this.”

Simon didn’t mention the fact that you had already faced minor charges multiple times, some for breaking and entering or assault and battery, most of which were dismissed by a judge he suspected was paid off. Or the fact that you’d used a fake ID for your car for multiple years. He would know, considering he’d asked Gaz to find you multiple times. You weren’t an easy one to find, almost as if you’d tried to wipe yourself off the grid before turning back on it.

You weren’t a good kid by any means, but by your age, he’d probably been killing people already, so he supposed there were worse things to be doing.

“Roger that.”

Price gave a small nod of confirmation, clapping him on the shoulder as he went to walk to the room that he was sharing with Gaz.

“Get some rest, Simon. We’ll get directions from Laswell tomorrow. Don’t stress over it.”

Despite himself, Simon gave a little nod.

If only he was stressing over things as simple as terrorists and covert warfare.

~

Soap, surprisingly enough, woke up first. It was around 5:30 AM when he did, and Simon was still fast asleep on the bed beside him.

“Scuse me, Lt.”

He mumbled while sliding out of the bed, and walking to where he thought the kitchen probably was, and after wandering around, he found one small dim light on in the general kitchen area. You were standing in the kitchen, wrapping some sort of spandex-looking bandage material around your left knee. The type to help support it, in the case of an injury.

You were wearing a pair of blank shorts that didn’t go nearly far enough down your thighs, and what looked like an old jersey, with a faded number ‘14’ on it. Your right knee had a knee pad on, your left knee pad laying on the table. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was braided.

You both just stared at each other for a minute, before he grinned and obnoxiously whistled.

“Lookin’ good, lass. Where ya headed?”

He asked, already watching the gears turn in your head as you tried to decode his thick accent. Surprisingly, it didn’t take you nearly as long as he thought it would. Usually, new people had to take a few seconds, but you responded almost immediately.

“Practice.”

You replied bluntly, either not a morning person, or just not a talker. By the blank look on your face, he was just assuming you were also a heartless bastard like Ghost. But even Simon Riley had his tells, and he was sure you did too.

“What the hell’ve they got you practicing for at 5 in the mornin’?” He asked, and you looked at him for a moment, as if trying to see if what he’d said was a joke. As if he was stupid. He was not stupid.

“Volleyball. I’m on the team. Got a scholarship.”

His brows raised at that. Another blunt answer. You really were Simon’s sister, weren’t you? And to get a scholarship in volleyball…he hadn’t even known you’d gone to a private school, let alone the fact that you played sports.

I mean, sure, he’d sort of assumed you might based on your muscular thighs and arms he was entranced by, or the sheer unmoving look you always had, barely changing. Volleyball girls always had nice asses though, and you weren’t an exception, that was for sure.

You were either telepathic or had seen him staring because, with a simple snap of your fingers, he had flinched out of his daze.

“Eyes up here, MacTavish.”

You said in a mildly annoyed tone, and he gave you a slightly pouty look.

“Can’t blame me for looking at it when it’s right there, now can you?”

You had only given him another annoyed glance, before slinging a bag over your shoulder and walking out. He didn’t fail to notice the way you checked the peephole before walking out. Or how your eyes darted to the windows consistently, or the nearest available exit.

He didn’t blame you, living alone as a girl in this end of town, you had to be cautious.

~

They had been at this all day.

Laswell had radioed them in earlier, probably around noon after they’d raided your pantry, which only really had bread in various forms in it. Your fridge wasn’t much better, only cheap lunch meats, lettuce, tomatoes, and a few miscellaneous vegetables and fruits.

Since then, they’d been on the hunt for any suspicious characters, any sign of the terrorist group that had gotten away. It had taken a bit of travel, but a few miles out, they’d passed a van, white, with four burly shadowy figures in the darkened windows. Windows too dark to even be legal.

“Armed men, four of ‘em, cap.”

Soap had said, and Price had only given a nod, taking a U-turn to trail the vehicle. It wasn’t every day you would see any military men driving in a white van with tinted windows.

It had only escalated from there.

The van had stopped near an old alleyway with no people around, failing to notice T141, who were now all trailing on foot. They’d left the car behind with Gaz, despite his protests. They needed someone able to drive, and Soap was needed to disable any possible bombs. They were dealing with terrorists here.

Slowly crawling up the building to the right of the alleyway, Ghost let his gun peek down into it through some crumbling brick on the sides of the roof’s edge.

“We droppin’ em’?”

He asked quietly over the radio, and Price, on the building roof opposite of him, replied.

“Not yet. If we can get one alive, we’ll want ‘im for interrogation. Three of ‘em on my count.”

Soap, to the left of Ghost, nodded mainly to himself, his gun focusing on the man closest to a trash can, Price on the man to the right of him, and Ghost to the man leading the other two. The fourth was lingering behind a bit, examining the surroundings. Paranoid.

“Gaz, start bringing in our exfil.”

“Got it, Captain.”

“On your mark, Sergeant.”

With that, the first relatively silent shot went off, and two more followed until all that was left was the one man, who immediately took cover and jumped through the open window of the nearly abandoned building Price was on the roof of.

“Shit. Get him.”

Price’s voice cursed over the radio, and Gaz driving the car came into view only moments later, as Ghost and Soap hopped down from the roof of the building, taking the same route as the escaped terrorist through the building, and clearing it one floor at a time.

Hours later, it felt like they’d searched the whole damn city and come up with absolutely nothing. Whoever they’d missed had disappeared completely, and possibly contacted outside forces of their presence. They had to be careful with this.

“We headin’ back?” Soap asked, and Price replied.

“Affirmative. I’ll let Laswell know what happened.”

And so they headed back to the apartment, only to find you completely not there. Gaz got there first, gun still in hand as he cleared the apartment. Just in case.

“Clear.” He radioed over,

The rest of the boys filed in after that, taking the time to take showers, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice their bloodstained clothes. It was only after they had all changed into casual clothes that Soap remembered about you.

“Anyone know where the girl is?”

Gaz seemed to stir at that, immediately on his feet, when Ghost pushed him back down into the chair he was sitting in at the dinner table.

“She’s at school, lads.” His rough voice spoke, and Gaz and Soap both made an “ohhhh” sound at the answer. It was obvious, but they hadn’t gone to school in…a long time, and you were almost an adult now, so they tended to forget about that.

“Where does she go?” Price asked, taking a sip of his cup of water. Ghost shrugged.

“Some private school, said she got a scholarship for volleyball or somethin’,” Soap added, and Ghost shot a tiny glare at him. The fact that a random Scottish man knew more about you than Simon Riley, your technical brother, wasn’t making him too happy. Soap only gave him a cheeky grin in return.

“You seem to know an awful lot about her, Soap.”

Kyle then spoke up, carefully eying Simon and Johnnie. Even as Simon huffed out of his nose, taking a sip of water. His lips were chapped, Gaz noticed. Soap gave a little shrug, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Just curious about ‘er is all. We are living in her house, after all.” He answered, and Price stood up, mumbling something about a smoke break while walking across the kitchen to reach the balcony, where he smoked. The first time he’d tried to smoke inside, you’d grabbed it straight from his fingers, and thrown it into the sink before running cold water over it.

It took him a minute to realize that had only been yesterday night.

The week went by quickly, and the boys slowly got used to your schedule. More like they just started fitting into the routine you had, really. Having four random military men inside of your house wasn’t easy, especially when they kept leaving the toilet seat up in the bathroom in the hallway.

“Couldn’t just put the seat down, could they..”

You mumbled to yourself late into the night, slamming the seat down as hard as you could without breaking it. Every time they left it up, you made sure to put it down hard, making enough noise to wake them up. Distantly, you could’ve sworn you heard Johnny’s laughter from the room he was in with Simon, before a low “Shut it.” and a “Roger that, Lt.” was faintly audible.

You had practice almost every night, even some on weekends, which made sense considering you were the team captain for the junior varsity of your school. Once you became a Senior next year, you’d probably get team captain of the full varsity team. A big responsibility, but one you seemed to enjoy, even when some days you would come home, lock yourself in your room, and fall straight asleep without eating anything.

Where they went every day, you never asked. Didn’t want to.

One night, Price walked into the kitchen, where you kept a washer and dryer for the clothes as well, tucked into the room where it wasn’t easily noticed, and saw you pouring hydrogen peroxide on some bloodstains in their clothes. It was strong, stronger than anything you could legally get from a pharmacy, he could tell that much.

Your eyes both met, and you didn’t waver from his stare, and he didn’t from yours.

“You aren’t going to ask questions?” He asked, voice a deep rumble. Your eyes shifted away at that, back to the clothes. As if hiding whatever gleamed within them, the knowledge you had, or what you’d seen. What you knew they did every day.

“Better for all of us if I don’t.”

You’d replied simply, voice still relatively neutral, the barest amount of a British accent lingering even when you’d spent so many years in America. You almost mumbled it, as if used to speaking quietly. Based on the small fragments he knew of Simon’s past, and his father, one that you both shared, he wasn’t surprised. It would be a hard habit to break.

Whatever had kept you from interacting much with Price must’ve changed after that night, because you showed up more after that. It was late at night, and you looked beat, but he could still see the gears working behind your eyes.

“What is it?” He asked as you walked over to where he was sitting in the bed he and Gaz shared, and sat down next to him on it, showing him a notebook. He recognized what was on it, a court of some sort, a net in the middle, and a rotation of numbers, with all the enemy patterns and numbers on the other side of the net.

“Help.”

You stated simply, and he nodded before you explained to him the basics of volleyball. He only really knew the frequently adjusted rules he’d seen on the Olympics sometimes, so it was a lot of explaining, but after that, the both of you were straight to work on finding a rotation and pattern that would work to beat the team that you’d lost to twice this season.

“If 28 is your hitter, why not move them back row, to move in for the kill?”

“It would leave our defenses entirely open. A tip could lose the point and serve, and when we got the serve back, 14 would be serving. She doesn’t do well with serving under pressure. 28 needs to stay front row as long as possible to block.”

“Got it, so..”

He would admit, you were not stupid, and that was for sure. You knew everyone on your team’s strengths and weaknesses and used them to your advantage. It was almost like looking at a younger, female version of himself. Always taking charge, always thinking ahead.

And Johnny…he was obnoxious.

Always flirting with you in any way he could, making random jokes just to hear your tiny laugh or the snort you usually made instead. He couldn’t help it, even when the rest of the guys were getting sick of hearing him.

But, he had his uses, too.

When the remote would break down? Don’t worry, he only took it entirely apart, replaced and tweaked it so it would work, and put it all back together with his nails as a screwdriver.

When you were in an especially foul mood? His terrible jokes came in handy, not because you were laughing at them, but at how stupid he looked telling these jokes, chest puffed out like a proud bird when he saw you snort or your lips twitch, even though he didn’t know whether you were laughing with him or at him.

Johnny was smarter than you originally thought, as well. Had incredibly complicated math homework, and giving you a serious headache? Somehow, the bastard knew exactly how to do it.

“How do you know that equation.”

“It’s simple, really, I use it all the time for me explosives. Reminds me of the time I and the Lt planted them all over, you should’ve seen-“

“On topic, Johnny.”

“Right, sorry.”

But living with military men did have downsides, more obvious than them leaving the toilet seat up, forgetting to do the dishes when it was their day or the same for laundry, or messing up the guest beds. (Though Gaz never forgot about his responsibilities, even taking the time to make you dinner when you would get home late with what little ingredients you had.)

You were a quiet person, and Gaz had noticed it first. How you rolled on your feet, careful not to make noise, not even noticing how you were doing it. Or the way that unless you were slamming the toilet seat down for the umpteenth time, you took extra care in placing things down gently, not dropping them. It was an odd contrast with your blunt, slightly harsh demeanor that reminded him of Simon.

But it had been Gaz that made you fully remember what these men had gone through when you had been scared shitless because of Soap purposefully sneaking up behind you and scaring you, and accidentally letting out a small scream that was more like a yell. Instinct had kicked in, muscle memory as well, and before his mind even knew whose scream it was, his body was moving.

He’d tackled Soap straight to the floor, hands around his throat.

“The fuck, Kyle-“ Johnny had choked out, and it had been Price who’d snatched Gaz up, restraining his hands against his back while you watched in slight sympathy.

It had taken him only a few seconds to calm back down and figure out what the hell was happening, at which he sighed, giving Soap a regretful look.

“Sorry, don’t know what got into me.” He mumbled, and Johnny only stood up, brushing his knees off, and patted Kyle softly on the back.

“Don’t. I get it.” The Scotsman said, before walking out. When he glanced at you, it was the empathy for him that Kyle found most odd. The fact that you seemed to understand.

It was only weeks later that he understood why you could empathize with him over his actions.

Tags:

@yearninglustfully

@kazuyatokue

@kiwibao

@kurokitty6

[karajaynetoday]

and I can't stop that long forgotten feeling of her | ashton irwin

Here we go again with the emo angst! Thanks so much to everyone who has shared and sent feedback on the other parts. You can read part one here and part two here, and also part four here once you’ve finished with this bit. 

Part three is inspired by Flame Trees (originally by Australian band Cold Chisel in 1984, but I would absolutely recommend listening to the cover by Sarah Blasko which I had on repeat while working on this piece). All of the italics in this piece are lyrics from the song. 

More writing here | send feedback/thoughts/suggestions here

Trigger warning for mentions of death of a family member (non-graphic), a funeral and cremation.

Word count: 2.3k words

(This is a fem reader insert)

Kids out driving Saturday afternoon just pass me by | And I'm just savouring familiar sights

The drive to the church is quiet. Ashton insisted on driving you and your siblings, and despite your protests, he’d gotten his way. You were daydreaming out the window, pondering how everyone else in the world was just getting on with their lives when yours still felt so dark and painful. You’d spent your whole life driving and wandering these streets, and the houses and the trees and the footpaths felt like home. But then again, you’d never lived anywhere else, so where else would you feel like you belonged? 

You glanced over at Ash, who has one hand on the wheel. Does he feel at home here, you wonder? Does his heart feel settled when he drives in from the airport? Does he breathe in the air and breathe out his stress? Does he think of this place often? When he thinks of home, does he think of you? 

You catch yourself staring at Ashton, admiring how he runs one hand through his curls, and quickly returned to staring out your own window and continue your daydream. You’re rehearsing your eulogy in your head, when you feel a gentle hand brush over your own, and Ash slips his fingers between yours over the car’s centre console and gives your hand a squeeze. He’s got that soft smile on his face that you know for a fact can light up a whole room, but there’s a solemness about him today. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes; and you notice the dark circles on his face for the first time. Had you been so lost in yourself that you hadn’t seen how everything was bearing down on everyone around you? But then again, that was just it: everything was bearing down and you couldn’t see how it would stop deepening the gloominess you felt in your soul.  

We share some history, this town and I | And I can't stop that long forgotten feeling of her

Even though you’d rehearsed it in your head and in front of the mirror, stepping up to the podium and staring out at the faces everyone who was gathered to honour your mother’s memory made a lump rise in your throat and tears prick in your eyes. You closed your eyes, breathing deeply, and grasped the hands of your siblings who stood by your side. When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was Ashton, staring back at you with a sympathetic look. He nodded at you, mouthing words of encouragement, and with that you were able to begin.

How sad it was, that she’d been taken so soon. How incredible it was, that she’d raised three children on her own, and always made birthdays and Christmases so special. How funny it was, that she always joked about her funeral being on the warmest winter day. How proud you were, to be her daughter and carry on her memory and her name. 

How sad it was, but how glad you were. To be in this room, and in this town, with so many people that loved her and loved your family like their own. To be able to talk together and laugh together and just remember. 

Oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver | And there's nothing else could set fire to this town

Ashton drove you home again in the gentle silence you’d had on the way there. Your siblings had opted to stay at friends’ houses for the night, wanting a change of scenery and some company to make them feel a bit normal again. You couldn’t blame them; every part of your house reminded you of her. From the cushions on the couch that she’d embroidered, or her favourite mug she always used for her morning cup of coffee, or the little succulents she’d planted in pots and scattered on every windowsill that got full sun at some point during the day. She was everywhere, and it should’ve been comforting, but all you wanted to do was pack it all away and not think about it because surely you couldn’t keep feeling this sad. Not forever.

When Ashton pulled into the driveway, you hesitated before unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Can you.. Do you want to come in? For a cuppa?” You mumbled, not quite meeting Ashton’s eyes, as you leaned forward to grab your bag from the floor of the passenger seat.

“Of course, love. I’m in no rush.”

You busied yourself in the kitchen, filling the kettle and finding two mugs and mulling over your extensive tea bag selection before settling on a chamomile for yourself and a green tea for Ashton, because he’d been telling you about how his yoga instructor back in Los Angeles ensured they all drank a cup of it after each class. You could hear Ash shuffling around in the lounge room, and when you came in with the two cups of tea in your hands, you found him flipping through the stack of vinyl records your mother kept on a bookshelf. 

You settled down onto the couch, resting Ashton’s mug on the coffee table and taking a long sip of your own brew. You chuckled softly, as you noticed his eyes lighting up in excitement as he examined each new vinyl in the stack.

“Dude, have you looked at these?! Alanis Morrissette, Pink Floyd, Soundgarden?! Your mum had fuckin’ sick taste.” Ashton mused happily, reaching over to grasp his cup of tea and raise it to you in a gesture of thanks. 

“Oh, I know. And she knew it, too… keep going, you might find some more things of interest in that pile.” You said softly, a sad smile etched on your face. Eventually, Ash found his own band’s album on vinyl in the stack and he looked up at you, surprised.

“What? As if she wouldn’t add you to the collection. She was so excited when she found out you were releasing things on vinyl.” 

Ash carefully placed all the records back onto the shelf, and sat down next to you on the couch. He stretched out his arm above your shoulders, and you instinctively leaned into his warmth. 

“I know, I always thought of her when we talked about pressing vinyl for the albums, but I just… seeing it in the living room, where we used to blast Cold Chisel and INXS and Silverchair and dance around like idiots til she’d yell it us to go to bed, makes it feel like that was a million years ago, you know?” 

“That’s because it was, Ash. When you’re only 26, ten years ago does feel like a million.” You said quietly, fiddling with the cup in your hands. “You should pick out your favourite records and take them back home with you. She’d like that.”

You can feel Ashton’s gaze on you, and you turn your head to look him in the eye. He looks perplexed. 

“What? Where are you in that great, complicated, genius mind of yours?” You asked, prodding him in the side. He grabs your hand, and kisses it softly. “You said I should take them back home with me. But… I feel at home right now, with you.” Ash whispered, like he was almost afraid of his own words. You felt your heart start to beat faster, and you squeeze his hand tightly. 

“Then stay. At least… stay for tonight. Stay home with me.” You whispered back, and then suddenly Ashton’s lips are on yours and it’s much more heated than a few nights ago out on the couch in Neverland, and you can almost feel the desperate sense of hopelessness in Ashton’s embrace. You let yourself get lost in the warmth and the pleasure and the feeling because it’s the first thing you’ve felt other than sadness and despair in months before you realise that you’re basically straddling Ashton and tugging on his shirt and then suddenly you catch yourself and pull away.

“I’m sorry, I can’t - I can’t do this.” You stutter out, feeling the panic rising in your chest. Almost like he can feel it, Ashton reaches out and runs his arms up and down your sides reassuringly. 

“It’s okay, love. You’re fine. I shouldn’t have done that, I just got a bit caught up. Being here, with you, with the vinyls, after everything… I just need you to know that I lo-”

“NO.” You almost bark, pushing yourself up off the couch and stalking down the hall towards your bedroom.

“Wait, you can’t just -” Ashton began, rushing to catch up with you.

“What, Ashton?! I can’t WHAT?!” You spat, spinning on your heel to face him. “I can’t walk away after you tell me you love me? After you promise me that you won’t leave me? After you tell me I feel like home?!” You wanted to sound harsh and cold, but your voice broke on the last few words. 

You felt your knees buckle underneath you, and you slid down your bedroom door as the angry tears began to fall. Ashton sat quietly beside you, and you could tell he was hesitant to say anything for fear of upsetting you more.

“It’s not fair. You know it’s not.” You sniffled, wiping your face on your sleeve. 

“I know. I never wanted this to happen. Not to us.” Ashton spoke, his voice laced with sadness.

“Can you just… stay, just for tonight? And then in the morning we can be adults and talk about our issues and sort out our lives. I don’t want to guilt-trip you, buuuut my mother DID just die so it’d be bloody wonderful if my best friend could lend me his body heat and maybe whisper some reassuring phrases to me while I sleep.” You tried to lighten the mood, feeling your sadness and anger start to dissipate as Ashton laughed. Honestly, that laugh. What you would do to hear it every day. 

“Of course I can, sunshine. Lead the way.” Ash stood and pulled you to your feet, and you opened your bedroom door and lead him inside. You were both quiet, as you undressed for bed, and still quiet as you pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. But then again, with Ash, you didn’t always need words. You just needed each other. 

Ashton’s arm found your waist and pulled your body into his gently, as he snuggled into your shoulder. You felt your eyes start to droop, and your breathing start to even out in sync with Ashton’s, and you fell into one of the deepest sleeps you’d had in years. 

And I'm happy just to sit here a table with old friends | And see which one of us can tell the biggest lies

The next few days, you began and ended your days like that: peaceful and calm in Ashton’s arms. You’d heard him on the phone early one morning, arguing with someone about rescheduling something-or-other, and you knew that he’d have to leave you soon. But somehow, despite all of the sadness of the past few weeks, you felt better about letting him go than you had all those years ago. Something in the air had changed, and you couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but you just knew that things would be okay.

On Thursday, the funeral home called to say that your mother’s ashes were ready for collection. You managed to drive there yourself without any issues, and it seemed very strange that one of your favourite people were now reduced to small particles in a fancy silver jar-looking-thing, but you collected them nonetheless.

Your mother had grown up about an hour away from where you lived now, and after her diagnosis she talked to you about wanting her ashes scattered in a field in the mountains, so her mortal and immortal souls could join and be at peace in the place where she began her life all those years ago. So the next morning, after a short breakfast, you and your siblings drove up into the Blue Mountains, searching for the perfect place to commemorate the woman you all loved so much. Ashton and his family joined you, driving in convoy, and when you parked up alongside a grassy field where you could see a trickling creek and the sunlight peeking through the old, tall trees, they followed suit and joined you at the fence line on the side of the road. 

One by one, your siblings took turns scattering the ashes, before handing the silver urn to you for the last part. You closed your eyes, and tipped out the urn, whispering under your breath like she was there to hear you. And in that moment, you felt like she was. Because the wind seemed to still, and the sun broke through the clouds, and you were there with those who knew and loved her the most, so of course she would be there too. 

And that’s when you knew, that no matter if you stayed in the house with her cushions and her plants and her vinyl records, or if you followed your heart to the other side of the world, that she’d always be with you. Because she was in your heart, and home is where the heart is. 

There's no change, there's no pace | Everything within its place | Just makes it harder to believe that she won't be around

More writing here | send feedback/thoughts/suggestions here

[romioneficfest]

My Gift to the RFF Community

Good Evening/Afternoon/Morning to everyone who has read, commented, reviewed, and most of all created content for this inaugural fest. My Black scaly heart is almost beating normally for all of the excellent works presented for consideration and appreciation.

While the one who inspired this fest didn’t contribute (and ‘tis since RL is a pain in the arse right now for most people!) I’m glad so many did contribute their time and efforts to this fest. 84 total works were submitted, 77 of which are up for voting consideration.

1 more will be published, an unabridged version of one of the fics submitted. The creator trimmed it down to meet fest rules but I promised them I’d post the unabridged version once voting started. 

However, I wish to offer my gift to you, one from a special place in my heart - the old theory of what happens to the man who suddenly has almost everything he wants yet doesn’t need? Does it corrupt him, like the Invisible Man? Or is his character so resolute that it doesn’t affect him in the least?

Thus, I give you this fic, as to how I think it would progress.

Title: Windfall Prompt: Bonus Day  Author: Dragon Rating: K+ Brief Summary: Hermione comes home from work and finds Ron sitting quietly in his office, reading parchment. When he doesn’t hear her, which is odd for him, she goes to investigate. Ron shows her what has his attention.

Content Warning: Indirect mention of minor character death; Hermione giving serious cheek

‘What a bloody long day,’ Hermione kicked off her dress shoes and put down her satchel, appreciating the fluffy carpets under her toes. Dealing with law enforcement misconduct was always a pain. They needed different procedures on Bailiff and Auror interactions.

Broken from her thoughts by the lack of dinner smell, she looked around. Ron wasn’t in the kitchen, preparing dinner like he loved to do. The kids were still at Hogwarts, with another month’s worth of term left before they returned home.

She tossed aside her purse and went to their office, the one he magically and lovingly expanded so they would have room to work without getting underfoot while also appreciating each other’s company. Sure enough, Ron was in there, wearing the half-moon glasses he picked up last year to help with the small print reading he said to her, even if she knew already. It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own sets to wear as well since there were so many documents crossing her desk that had too much fine print to read comfortably after long hours at the office.

‘Ron,’ said Hermione. He hadn’t heard her walk into their home which seemed a bit odd. He hadn’t heard her this time, either.

She walked the five steps to where he was sitting in his comfortable chair and put her hand on his shoulder. He reciprocated and without saying a word, he handed up the three sheets of parchment up to her, saying nary a word.

Hermione scanned the first page and gasped! While she was never close to Aunt Muriel, she was his family and she would treat her with respect, even if she didn’t like her too much, not with how nitpicky she was with the women in the family. Angelina was the only one. Somehow they’d bonded and were fast friends. Hermione couldn’t understand it.

She flipped to the second page, reading the document and as she scanned the page, her eyes widened for every single subsequent line she read. She flipped it to the third before looking down and seeing her husband quite lost in thought.

She went back and re-read it all, making sure she knew and understood what she read. 

‘I’m sorry about Aunt Muriel,’ the bushy-haired witch said. 

‘I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. But even Healers couldn’t help her any longer.’ 

‘She is still family,’ Hermione put her hand back on his shoulder and squeezed. 

‘She wasn’t a favourite of mine, not like you or Dad.’ Ron took the parchment and put it back down on his desk. ‘What are we going to do?’ 

‘That’s up to you, Ron. It’s not like either of us is comfortable attending funerals anymore.’ 

‘Hell no,’ He sighed. ‘I should go. It’s the right thing to do.’ 

‘Why don’t you ask Mum and Dad what they think? If they say you don’t have to, then don’t.’

Tapping on the office window interrupted their conversation. ‘Wonder what else is going to happen today?’ Ron got up and went to the window, letting the small barn owl land on his wrist while sticking a leg out for the small rolled parchment attached. ‘Need a kip or a rasher?’

The owl hooted and Ron put it on the temporary roost where the owl could have a drink of water and a snack. ‘Does this need a reply?’ The owl gave one very long hoot. ‘No? Ok. Stay as long as you need. I’m sure you’re a bit tired.’

He unrolled the parchment and scanned the short note, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘It’s a note from Mum. She said that Aunt Muriel made all of her arrangements and, said there are no services since she said we’d been through enough.’

‘That’s surprising, the way she prattled about everyone coming to visit.’

‘Nah, she meant well, even if she was as cranky as Crookshanks.’

‘Well, he is very old, and so was she.’

The silence grew between the married couple, both lost in their thoughts.

‘We could move to a bigger house,’ he blurt out. ‘I know the kids aren’t home much nowadays and that we’re both still working entirely too much but maybe something closer to Mum and work might make things easier?’

‘Our house is fine, Ron. I’m comfortable here especially since most people don’t know where we live. We decided that issue years ago. While yes, I am well known and so are you, if not in the same ways, we don’t need an enormous country estate to flaunt our prestige.’

‘A holiday, perhaps? It’s been a little while since we were off work and away from here.’

‘We can do that,’ Hermione replied noncommittedly. ‘An extended Holiday might be quite lovely, especially if it is somewhere cold this time of the year.’

‘It’s the middle of winter in Australia right now,’ Ron smiled. Hermione returned it fondly, reflecting on that complex time in their lives when grief and rage along with relief and exploration fueled their time tracking down her parents. ‘You said you wanted to return. We could take the kids with us and let them see some of the sights.’

Hermione hummed noncommittedly.

‘What are you thinking, dear?’

‘Do you remember that memorable night about a week after we arrived in Australia?’

‘Which one? Most of them were memorable while we were in Australia. So you’ll have to remind me.’

‘We were in bed after,’ Hermione blushed, ‘and you said what you would do if you had a ridiculous sum of money. While the reward money from the Order of Merlin presentation was nice,’ she added.

‘It was enough to get you your engagement ring and have some galleons in a Gringott’s account,’ Ron added. ‘I think I remember that night now.’

Hermione ran her fingers through his hair. ‘Do you remember what you said you’d do if you had Malfoy money?’

‘You mean before they were bankrupted funding the coup, left destitute and so desperate for galleons Draco went to work?’ He smiled. ‘That part is a bit fuzzy, but then I do think it was half three when we had that conversation and I was about asleep.’

She smiled. ‘You said if you lucked into a stupid amount of money someday and that if we were comfortable financially, you’d want to help others.’

‘I’ve wanted to help others, Hermione. You know the shite I went through, with a broken wand, robes that were too small, clothes that were so short I showed inches of ankles, and those ghastly dress robes.’

Hermione stood behind her husband, rubbing his shoulders. ‘We’ll see to your parents first.’

‘Mum and Dad always come first,’ Ron said without hesitation.

‘And if they don’t want it or say they don’t? What do you want to do?’

‘Tell Bill to put some in there anyway,’ Ron answered.

‘And if the will has them sorted?’

‘I dunno, maybe a Holiday?’

Hermione was quiet, with Ron turning to look at her. ‘What?’

‘Hear me out on this. What if we took some of that windfall and were able to help kids in your situation so they don’t have to be hampered with a broken wand, or robes that don’t fit or can’t afford the books for the term?’

‘Well, the books have already been seen to. You took care of those issues years ago, once you started working.’

‘True but other supplies weren’t included,’ she added. She lifted the parchment and scanned the document. ‘Reading this as I think I am,’

‘Which you probably are,’ Ron added.

‘If we got with some of the rest of the family and asked them to chip in a little bit, say 10 galleons each, once, and with this, we could fund a Trust for underprivileged students.’ She took the glasses down her nose a touch, looking over the top of them at his befuddled face. ‘Imagine being a first-year student with a hand me down wand, hand me down robes, and tattered books. How much more do you think you’d have done if you’d had a set of nice daily robes, a wand that worked, or books that weren’t held together with sellotape?’

‘I thought there was a bunch of wands they used later for the kids who couldn’t afford one.’

‘And you know the lore better than I do – The wand chooses the Wizard. ‘

‘But there are things we need to do first,’ he added. ‘Like – ‘

‘Love,’ she interrupted, smiling brightly. ‘I don’t know if you realize, but the amount bequeathed is a vast sum.’

‘Vast?’

Hermione smiled. ‘Vast, love. Off the top of my head, and the current conversion rate of 10 pounds to the galleon, I’d say it’s –

’10 British pounds to the galleon? You’re full of it.’ Ron took them back and looked at the parchment. He muttered a few words under his breath, doing his calculations.’ He looked up from the parchment and his eyes were about to water. ‘Holy Fuck. Where the bloody fuck did she get that kind of money?’

‘I’m sure it’s been passed down the Prewett lines and with your Uncles perishing before marrying – ‘

‘That left Mum sole beneficiary – ‘

‘And Mum probably asked for Aunt Muriel to pass it over it to the kids.’

‘I imagine the Goblins liked getting their hands on their portion of the Estate. I get that’s how they afford the upkeep and everything but it’s bloody buggering hard to see them get 25% of the value.’

‘At least it’s not on the Muggle side. Theirs is 40% over a certain value.’

Ron looked back at the paperwork. ‘Well, I at least want to give Mum and Dad a Holiday. They’ve not been anywhere for themselves in yonks.’

‘Oh, I agree. And we can take a small one too. It still leaves us quite a bit to play with, I reckon.’

Ron sighed. ‘Growing up, I always wanted to have galleons in my own vault at Gringott’s. I didn’t like that we had to scramble to pay for things second and third hand, listening to Mum begging us to make something last ‘just one more year’. Ron turned his chair around and gave her a crushing hug, squeezing hard but not enough to make her wince. ‘It hurt, Hermione.’

‘I know and we’re not in that situation. We worked very hard early on, saved our galleons, lived frugally and modestly and here we are. The kids are happy and want for nothing, even if they don’t get all they want. We have some nice things, we travel a bit for pleasure, and we’re comfortable.’

‘It’s hard to let go of that mindset, Hermione.’ Ron looked up at his wife, smiling at her. ‘But if we can keep kids from going through what I did, I think it’ll be a big benefit and a tremendous help down the line.’

Hermione kissed Ron on the forehead. ‘Maybe we could speak with Parvati and Lavender and ask them how much a basic robe costs? It wouldn’t be fancy but something that the kids wouldn’t mind.’

‘What about regular clothes? Aren’t most kids in better shape than we were?’

‘It’s easy enough to pick quality things up at charity shops. Supplies shouldn’t be difficult to acquire as well. I’m sure if we ask McGonagall if there are students in need, she’d let us know.’

‘You think we can do this? You think we can make a difference in a kid’s life?’

Hermione knelt, holding her husband’s face in her hands. ‘How much did you appreciate getting nice robes fifth year and a new broom?’

‘Loved it,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t know for yonks that Harry told the twins to buy me new robes, the git.’

‘But it helped, didn’t it?’

‘I reckon so.’ His face betrayed how he really felt.

‘If you’re worried about people connecting you with what we’re doing we can always put it in another name. We could call it the Muriel Prewett Trust.’

‘She’d go nutters if she knew it was named after her.’

‘So name it after your Uncles? Or Fred? Or Weasley Family Trust?’

An enormous smile broke out on his face. Ron stood, taking his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her deeply, showing her how much her help was appreciated.

‘Esteemed Directors,’ Hermione’s voice boomed in the Wizengamot. She stood in the middle of the floor, splendid in her Tyrian purple robes, a set of gold wands embroidered on the right chest and a Prewitt family heirloom brooch on her left. ‘I wish to broach the last bit of business with you before the term starts.’

‘Go ahead, Solicitor Granger,’ Kingsley’s voice echoed well in the chambers. He smiled, knowing what was about to be discussed.

‘A few months ago, the last of a particular family name from the Sacred 28 passed away from old age. Her heirs, with their blessing,’ Hermione looked up into the stands and saw her husband smiling back at her, ‘have asked to establish a trust for the students of Hogwarts.’

‘The school is properly funded for decades. Why do we require a Trust?’ The elderly wizard she knew all too well spoke first. ‘Hogwarts does not need a trust.’

‘I didn’t say the school, Mr Purifoy,’ she stared back at the old wizard who had previously been Chief Mugwump for the Wizengamot before retiring years prior. ‘I said for the students. The school is well funded. I verified the books before making this appointment.’

‘Go on,’ an elderly witch spoke up. ‘It’s time for afternoon tea.’

‘I promise to hurry, Minister Shafiq.’ Hermione looked around at the old faces and ancient robes. ‘The trust is for the students, for those in need. While many might bristle if it’s considered charity, there are those in need.’

‘No student has ever been turned away from Hogwarts, not in the centuries it’s been open.’

‘I realize that. What I am proposing is that this trust is for those students who arrive at Hogwarts with legitimate needs. How many students arrive at Hogwarts wearing second-hand robes, or a cauldron that explodes the first time they use it because the bottom is too thin? How many have out of date books because that’s all the parents can afford? Minister, we still have a few students coming to us who are the last of the War Orphans. These children have meagre means and no way to catch up with their peers. What I am proposing on behalf of the family is equity, not charity, but investment and philanthropy.’

‘Go on,’ another voice spoke.

‘These students, when they receive their letter for Hogwarts will include in their parchment parcel a letter from the Trust, offering to assist them financially, should they choose. The offering is a set of robes, all necessary supplies, a set of books, and a voucher for Ollivander’s to receive their first wand. Since we don’t recommend children having a duel for a wand, and the number of wands inherited from elders are limited, why not offer these students a head start to their magical education?’

‘That’s ridiculous! Everyone would leap at the chance to have someone else pay for all of their necessities.’

‘You misunderstand me, sir. No one person makes this decision, nor is it made lightly. Why would we make this offer to, say, Draco Malfoy, for his son when they are financially comfortable? These would be pre-screened before they receive their letter.’ She looked around and saw a few heads nodding. ‘It’s not equal treatment, esteemed colleagues, but equity, where those students in need of a hand receive it. While we educate them, we’re also meeting their basic needs and we’re building a better future for our way of life. The funds wouldn’t be thrown around for parties, or fundraising. No, this trust is self-funded by the family in question. And there are ample funds to last for centuries if handled properly.’

‘How many can this help immediately, Solicitor?’ Another voice spoke up.

‘Immediately? Ten students. That accounts for half the starting fund. For every student that doesn’t need assistance, the funds accumulate. Eventually, if properly managed and the one entrusted is bonded to manage the Trust, in 30 years, half the school could be seen to, given current enrollment figures.’

‘Half, you say? That’s a load of rubbish,’ Ewan Purifoy retorted.

‘Rubbish, you say? Since you grew up when being part of a Pureblood family guaranteed your position in society,’ a rumble erupted through the chambers, ‘there are dozens of children starting at Hogwarts who lack a quill or an ink jar. How much return on the investment would we receive to giving those less fortunate children an equal start? How much benefit would Wizarding society receive for these children coming to Hogwarts, not privileged but receiving the tools and supplies they need to prosper? I don’t see you opening your vault, Sir, to afford an opportunity, though you have the means.’

He harrumphed. ‘If the family in question wishes to bankrupt themselves on children who won’t appreciate the generosity of charity, who am I to tell someone how they afford it?’

Hermione bristled. ‘You stood aside when children died. You sneer at as charity is an investment in our way of life’s future. Wasn’t enough magical blood spilt for supposed Pureblood Supremacy? They are our future. You aren’t part of it, Purifoy,’ she pierced him with a hard stare, earning one in return.

A roar erupted.

‘Order,’ Kingsley’s voice boomed. He waited for the room to settle. ‘Motion to proceed on approval of the Fredrick Gideon trust raise their hands.’

Most members raised their hands.

‘Motion to dismiss?’ Two hands went up.

‘Motion is hereby approved. The Fredrick Gideon Trust for Hogwarts students is available as of 8 am tomorrow. Adjourned.’

Immediately Hermione was engulfed by strong arms. “You did it!” Ron spun her around.

“No Love. You did it.” She kissed him.

[songsoomin]

No More Dreams (A)

Word count: 3.5K

This is the story I wrote for the Ateez writing competition and I based some aspects on what I have seen in dramas/films and documentaries but this is just a fiction; I’m not trying to create a stereotype of what all people who are struggling financially go through - this is just what my character’s life is like.

If you are kind enough - or think this is good enough - to like and comment on for the competition I would be so grateful. The link is below and I used Veilduck VPN to get on the website.

Posted: 9th July 2020

http://ateez.kqent.com/bbs/board.php?bo_table=gevent&wr_id=3280

The familiar pain stabbed at Mingi's stomach again as he groaned and rolled over, trying to get some sleep. Hunger was something he was very used to by now but that didn't mean it got any easier with time. It still hurt just as much.

To say that Mingi was poor was an understatement, rather he survived each day not knowing if he would be as lucky the next. Today he'd had some cup noodles from a convenience store but that was it; he was out of money until he could get paid again but at least he had a roof over his head...for now.

Mingi's family had always been poor but it hadn't always been like this. He'd never known his father; all his mother ever said about him was that he ran off whilst she was pregnant so he grew up with just his mother. He still lived in the same semi-basement they always had done; really just a room with a partly enclosed toilet and shower room and a sort of kitchen set up - a sink and tiny fridge with a gas stove burner. The fridge was never really used as Mingi didn't have the luxury to buy fresh food to store; he just bought what he could afford each day so he didn't even keep it plugged in, not wanting to waste the electricity.

His mum got them by doing part-time work day to day; folding pizza boxes, handing out leaflets on the street, that type of thing and, although it didn't pay well they were okay. They couldn't afford lavish food and mostly survived on basic things but they were fed. Mingi went to school and worked as hard as he could hoping to make a better life for them both. He had dreams, he loved aeroplanes and imagined himself working in that field and one day buying a big house for his mum but those dreams ended when she died.

It hadn't escaped Mingi's knowledge that she struggled and that it took it's toll on her mentally and physically. He could see she wasn't well but never imagined the secret she was keeping from him. Cancer. She had found out about it but couldn't afford the treatment she needed. She kept it from him as long as possible so as not to cause him any pain. There was nothing that could be done so she struggled on - no need to burden him with the knowledge. Mingi never knew if this was the right decision or not; he couldn't blame his mum for wanting to spare him the pain that knowledge would bring but the shock of such a sudden decline was no easier in his mind.

His mum had worked herself to the bone to make as much money as possible for him but the cancer was progressing each day and once it spread to her liver she declined rapidly. Mingi would never forget the day he came home to find her obviously in pain and barely able to move. When you see someone everyday it it's easy to miss gradual changes but now he really looked at her he could see what she had become. She was thin and frail and no longer looked like the mother he knew.

"Mum, please let me take you to the hospital!"

"Mingi," his mother rasped out, "nothing can be done now...it's gone too far."

"Why didn't you tell me? We could've done something."

"The treatment is too expensive, Mingi." she reached her frail hand up to cup his face, "Even if we gave up everything, the money we'd save still wouldn't have been enough."

Mingi's mother stopped to catch her breath and he could see what a struggle it was for her.

"I had to try to make sure you'd be okay, I haven't got much money but you'll be fine for a little while."

Over the next few days Mingi watched as his mum faded away while he gave her water and tried to get her to eat. The last thing she had said to him was how proud she was of him and how much she loved him. As she slipped into unconsciousness he whispered,

"Mum, I love you. Please don't leave me."

but he knew this was the last moment they would share together.

He sat on the floor, next to her on their old couch, holding her hand until he fell asleep. When he woke the next morning, she was gone.

He didn't know what to do, who to call. They had no family except each other. He sat in their semi-basement next to her body for a couple of days just frozen with grief and shock until a teacher came by to see why he hadn't been to school. The door was unlocked so she carefully entered to find Mingi sitting against the wall next to the couch, legs bent and arms wrapped around his knees. His mother's lifeless body covered by a blanket. I t was clear hadn't eaten in days so Miss Kim went out to buy him some food while they waited for the police and ambulance to arrive.

They couldn't afford a funeral so his mother's body was taken and dealt with in whatever way they did when someone without money died. Mingi didn't ask what they'd do. Child services came round but he refused to go and, as he was 16, they didn't try to force him. The officer just left her card hoping he would go to them when he ran out of money and promising to check in every now and then. That was the last he saw of them, though.

Mingi realised then that no one really cares about the poor - they can't give them anything in return. He stopped going to school but his teachers never came looking for him, most likely courting the rich parents who could give the school money in return for good grades for their children. He had seen enough of those type of kids at school, never doing any work but passing alltheir classes, nonetheless. Everyone knew it was their parents bribing the school with expensive new books and equipment. Then once they graduate they'd get given a cushy job in their parents' company or with someone their parents know. They would never know what it was like to have a dream and have to work for it.

As far as social services went, Mingi didn't know if they didn't care or if they forgot about him. Maybe there were just too many other children in need. He was fine with that, though; the last thing he wanted was to be placed with some strangers or in an orphanage. He'd rather just be left alone.

Over the next couple of years Mingi barely survived. He picked up some of the jobs his mum had been doing but during the time she had been ill they had found other people to do it and now weren't convinced enough to give work to a teenager on his own. A few had taken pity on him and still sent work but it was sporadic. After he managed to pay the rent and bills he wasn't always left with enough for food. There was certainly no money left to follow his dreams and improve his life. Dreams were too lavish for someone as poor as he was.

As things in the house got worn or broken, he couldn't afford to replace them so he lived with what he had. His thin matress on the floor was old and uncomfortable now and the blankets had holes in them but he did the best he could, layering them in the winter when it was cold and he couldn't afford heating. It was hard to control the damp in the winter, as well. Without heating to dry out the walls, it kept spreading and opening the tiny window to air it out just made it colder so he tried his best to clean the black mould off the walls before it inevitably returned.

Of course, there were always ways to get money but Mingi couldn't bring himself to do them. He had too much pride to beg and too many morals to steal. That didn't stop the gangs from targeting him, though. He lived in a rather shady part of town and the gangs preyed on people in desperate situations so they kept trying to convince him to work for them - running drugs, that kind of thing - but Mingi wasn't a criminal. He wasn't like them and they got angry when he continually refused and often tried a more 'physical' way of convincing him. It was after one of their beatings, as he stumbled back towards his home, that he felt a hand reach out to him,

"Are you okay?" The voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.

"I'm fine." Mingi choked out, trying to pull away from the strangers hand that was holding his arm.

"You don't look fine, you look - Mingi? Is that you?"

Mingi looked to the good samaritan and was surprised to see his childhood best friend staring back at him with an equal measure of shock.

"Mingi! What happened? You disappeared and I never saw you again."

"Jongho?"

"Let me get you home, Min; you're a mess. Where do you live?"

Mingi directed Jongho to his semi-basement and let him help him in and down onto his couch. As Jongho looked around, Mingi couldn't help but feel embarrassed. This was exactly why he had never invited his friend back when they were at school together. He was always so grateful to his mum for how hard she worked to keep them fed and housed but he was still a teenager and didn't want Jongho to see all the pizza boxes and flyers that were a permanent fixture in their home.

"I tried to find you but I never knew where you lived. I wanted to reach out when I heard about your mum but I was too young, I didn't know how to find you." Jongho said with sympathy in his brown eyes.

"I'm sorry." Mingi said in his quiet, deep voice. "Things just...got bad, I guess."

With nothing in Mingi's home to treat his cuts, Jongho told him to wait while he ran to the store for supplies. He came back with food, as well. He didn't want Mingi to feel like he was pitying him but he couldn't ignore how thin he was and how there seemed to be no food in the house.

He put some ramen on and set about tending to his friend's wounds.

"I don't mean to interfere but you don't look like you've been eating well."

"It's fine." Mingi sighed; there was no point being prideful in front of Jongho when he could clearly see he was starving. "You look great, though."

Jongho laughed, "Well, you used to be my bodyguard, remember? You always protected me from the bullies. When you stopped coming to school I had to start defending myself so I began working out. After a while they stopped messing with me."

Jongho made sure Mingi ate and promised to come back again tomorrow. He'd found his lost friend now and he'd missed him so much there was no way he was letting him go again.

The next day Jongho returned as promised. It had been so long since Mingi had had someone to talk to like this, he was quite awkward but Jongho kept the conversation flowing.

"I told my mum I found you."

"I remember your mum, she was always nice." Mingi replied, remembering the times he spent at Jongho's after school.

"She wants you to come over for dinner - says she missed your smile."

"I don't think she'll be seeing much of that." Mingi mumbled, more to himself.

"You'll come, though, right?"

He couldn't refuse Jongho when he looked so hopeful; just as he remembered him.

"Yeah, I'll come."

"Great. Let's go!"

Jongho's family weren't well off but, to Mingi, their house was amazing. Bright and spacious, and so many rooms. It was familiar to him but he'd forgotten quite how nice it was over the years.

"Mingi, sweetheart!" Jongho's mum was such a warm person, enveloping him in a hug as soon as he was in the door. "I've missed you."

Mingi flushed with embarrassment, aware of his disheveled appearance, worn clothes, the bruises on his face and cut on his lip from yesterday's run in.

"It's nice to see you again, Mrs Choi." Mingi said , bowing politely.

"Come and sit down, dear. Tell me how you are."

Mingi sat on the couch chatting with Jongho and his mum but he was sketchy with the details of his life - he really didn't want to be pitied.

What he didn't know was that Mrs Choi could see it all anyway; his emaciated appearance, the way his eyes looked in awe at all the food - even though it was just a modest meal. His clothes were worn and tatty, and his hair looked like he'd been cutting it himself. Mostly she could see he just wasn't the Mingi she remembered Jongho bringing home after school. This Mingi was worn down and defeated. His big, bright smile was gone and it pained her to see him like that.

"Jongho...you didn't tell me it was this bad!" Mrs Choi loudly whispered to her son in the kitchen.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Jongho...look at him. How long has it been since he ate any real food? He's clearly malnourished. He's even been assaulted - what has happened to him?"

Jongho leaned round the doorframe to take a closer look at Mingi; he had obviously noticed he was thin and can't have been eating much but he hadn't really taken in just how bad Mingi looked.

"What do we do?" He asked his mother who had tears in her eyes at seeing the once happy boy in this desperate state.

"I don't know...but I can't watch him suffer like this." Mrs Choi was interupted in her musings by the boy in question.

"Mrs Choi?" Mingi said quietly entering the kitchen.

"Yes, dear?"

"Thank you very much for dinner but I should be going now."

"Oh, you don't have to leave so soon, Mingi."

"It's fine; I don't want to impose any longer. Bye Jongho." Mingi bowed and made his way out of the Choi house.

Jongho and his mum looked helplessly after him,

"I think he may have heard us." Jongho said, sighing.

Mrs Choi didn't sleep well that night; thinking only about how she could help Mingi. She hoped she hadn't hurt his pride with her conversation with Jongho in the kitchen but she had been so shocked at the change in him and had to do something.

Mingi also hadn't slept well - not because of hunger this time, he had eaten more at the Choi household than he would normally get to eat in a week - but because he felt bad for making Mrs Choi worry about him. He had heard her conversation with Jongho and didn't want to have caused her upset; she was too kind a person.

Mingi was folding the pizza boxes when he heard the knock at the door next morning. He wasn't expecting anyone except the pizza company but they weren't collecting until later. He didn't expect the person who was on the other side when he opened the door.

"Mrs Choi? What are you doing here?"

"I hope you don't mind, dear...Jongho told me where you lived. May I come in?"

"Oh...yeah, of course."

As he led Jongho's mother through his tiny basement flat he felt embarrassed for her to see it; pizza boxes, flyers, black mould and the glaring sparseness of it all, devoid of any kind of homeliness. He could see Mrs Choi trying to discreetly look around but she didn't look judgemental, she looked...sad.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Choi, I only have water to offer you."

"That's okay, Mingi, dear. Water will be fine, thank you."

As Mingi filled a mug with water, Mrs Choi began talking,

"Mingi, I have wrestled all night with how to approach this without offending you or making you feel bad but I don't think there is a way so I'm just going to say it."

He set the mug down on the small table and sat on the floor, wondering what the lady had to say.

"When Jongho came home and told me he'd found you he was so excited but he also told me what had happened when he found you and how you were living." Mrs Choi, paused for a moment before continuing while Mingi sat silently listening.

"Despite what he told me I was very shocked when I saw you myself; I won't pretend to understand how hard it has been but it's clear you've been struggling significantly since your mother passed away and it pains me to think you've suffered all alone."

Mingi watched as Mrs Choi wiped a tear from her cheek, clearly very upset by his situation. Mingi had been used to it for so long now but he couldn't deny it  must be shocking to other people.

"I remember when you used to come home with Jongho after school and you boys would spend hours in his room playing games before joining us for dinner. I was always so fond of you and you were so important to Jongho. When I heard about your mother I wanted to check on you but Jongho said he'd never been to your house and the school wouldn't give me your details. When Jongho said you were no longer coming to school I hoped it meant you'd gone to live with relatives - I never could have imagined you were here all alone, struggling to even eat." Another tear escaped her and she fished a tissue out of her bag.

"Mrs Choi, I appreciate your concern but -"

"Please, let me finish, dear." She cut Mingi off gently. "I can't continue knowing you are living like this. I don't mean that to cause offence and I'm sure your mother would be very proud of how strong you've been but, as a mother myself, I know it would cause her great pain to see you this way."

It was Mingi's turn to cry now that he was reminded of his mother; he would never want her to be hurting over him.

"I thought to help you financially but I just don't feel it's enough. I want you to come home with me - I can't bear to leave you here."

Mingi was stunned. Did he hear her right? She had always been a very kind and caring person but was she really offering him a home?

"Mrs Choi...it's very kind of you but it's too much. I can't impose on your family like that."

"Mingi, do you think anyone of us could sleep at night or enjoy a meal knowing what Jongho's best friend is going through?"

"I've hardly been a good best friend to him; I disappeared without a word." Mingi said ashamed.

"Sweetheart, you went through a situation no young child should have to experience. Jongho understands that - we all do. You didn't see how upset Jongho was to have lost you...he didn't know what to do with himself. When he came home to tell me he found you again, he was just so delighted. He more than anyone wants you to come home; he's missed you so much."

"I really do appreciate it but I wouldn't feel right living off someone else's kindness and I can hardly offer you much in return."

"You can contribute what you can if you want but this isn't a conditional offer, we don't want anything more from you but to be a part of our family. Please, let us help you."

Mingi didn't know what to do. Was there any point letting his pride get in the way of the chance to have a family again? Of being warm and fed.

"Okay, I'll come with you...if you're really sure." He said feeling quite awkward.

"Oh, Mingi, darling, you've made me very happy and Jongho will be delighted."

"I'll work hard to contribute, though, I won't let you do this for nothing."

"Mingi, I used to think of you as another son, just having you around again is more than enough but I understand. Your mother would be so proud of you." She said hugging him tight.

As Mingi settled in to his new room later that night, laying on his soft, cosy bed he thought for the first time in years of what his future might hold instead of whether he would even have one. Maybe it was possible for him to dream again one day.

[thestrongestmagic]

Always in My Heart

Molly was torturing herself; she knew that and yet she couldn’t stop. She had suffered much loss in her life and she had dealt with it, somehow, she had found the strength to carry on and yet this, this was just too much for her to bear. Her children were grown now and they had all left the home and it was just her and Arthur and the silence was deafening. She felt like a ghost, walking through the familiar parts of her home and it was her home. She had changed it, morphed it over the years into a home to be proud of and she was proud of it. This home was where she had raised all of her children and it didn’t feel the same without them all here. Everywhere that she looked there were reminders of Fred, no wonder George didn’t visit when she asked him to. He had asked for her help, packing up Fred’s things but she hadn’t been able to, she had lost her strength, she had been broken. Arthur had helped George where she had failed him. She remembered that day, Bill and Fleur had come to visit with Victoire in order to distract her. Somehow that day was more painful than the funeral had been.

She had been numb for most of the service, tears sliding down her cheeks as she had watched her son interred in the earth beside her brothers. The well-wishers, there had been many of them but they had spoken more to Arthur than to her. Molly ignored the majority of them, except for Harry and Hermione who had wrapped her up in a warm hug. They were part of her family; they had been since the moment she had clapped eyes on them. It was only when most of the attendees had left and it was just her, Arthur and Charlie that she had broken. She had thrown herself on the ground, clawing her hands through the freshly deposited earth, screaming and crying like a mad woman, desperate to reach her son. Arthur had tried to stop her but she had screeched at him. She couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t look at anyone, all she wanted was to reach her Fred and wrap her arms around him, tell him that it would all be okay, that she would always be with him, that he wouldn’t be cold and alone in his grave. She didn’t remember much after that but she knew that she had been sedated and taken away back to the Burrow. The shop had already been closed so they had made the executive decision to hold the wake there and leave Molly in peace, resting at home in the arms of her husband. 

There were many couples whose relationships could not survive the death of a child but Molly and Arthur weren’t one of them. He had held her as she had cried, he had stroked her hair and kissed her and told her every time that it wasn’t her fault and that he would always be there for her. He knew her so well that she didn’t need to speak, he could see her fears and concerns for what they were. She felt guilty. It was her job to love and protect her children and she had failed her son, she should have been there to protect him, to save him and she wasn’t and she carried that guilt with her every day. 

She had woken up that morning, a weariness deep within her bones that was nothing to do with her age. She had known what day it was as soon as she had woken up and she knew that it would require great strength for her to get through this day. Arthur had told her at breakfast that she was to focus on the positives, to focus on it being George’s day. He hadn’t told her not to think of Fred, merely to direct her attention elsewhere. She knew she could do it but there was something she had to do first. He had nodded when she had told him and pressed a kiss to her forehead, going outside to prepare the garden for the party that was being held there later that day. 

Molly had finished her breakfast, eating as much of it as she could. She had vanished the remainders of it, which had been most of the plate. She had lost so much weight due to a lack of appetite that she had to make great adjustments to her clothes. She tried to smile as much as she could but it was a strained smile that rarely reached her eyes. She knew that she had to do this and she had to do this before her children arrived. 

She put her now empty plate in the sink and went upstairs to the bedroom. There was a small box in the bottom of her chest of drawers. She opened the drawer, took out the box and sat in the middle of the bed, legs crossed. Her fingers stroked the intricate wood carvings on the box for a few moments before she opened the lid, reaching in for the letters contained within. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the first letter, her lip wobbling as she read, desperately trying to contain her tears. 

Hey Mols, 

You missed a cracking good night, honestly. You’d have loved it, especially the cake (although it wasn’t as good as your cake, not that I’m hinting at anything you know). It’s really a shame you weren’t there, you could have met Arlene. Gideon won’t say anything to you, he wants to keep this quiet but I think he’s really into her. She might be the one for him. I hope so because I’d love to see him as happy and settled with her as you are with Arthur. 

Stay cool little sister and I will see you on the other side. 

Love, 

Fabian

Even after all the years that had passed between the letter in her hands and the present, feeling the love and vibrancy that had been her brother brought a smile of sadness to her lips. She missed him so much and Gideon. They had been everything to her. She placed the letter down on the bed and reached in for the one beneath it. She took a deep breath before she opened the second letter, knowing what she was letting herself in for. 

Dear Mum, 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I’m sorry I’m not going to be there for your birthday, I am absolutely swamped right now with these accounts, who knew that running a profitable business could be such a pain? I love it really though; George and I are finally making you and Dad proud after all those years of pranks and low OWL results and the complete lack of NEWT’s. 

I promise that I will make this up to you. George and I are going to bring you the biggest cake you’ve ever seen in your life. I promise. 

Love, 

your Freddikins

The letter shook in her hands and she could see her tear drops landing on the bottom of the letter. With her other hand, she picked up Fabian’s letter and held the both of them together. She had named her twins in honour of her brothers and it was when she did this, looked at these letters, that it struck her how much like Fabian and Gideon her Fred and George had been. Fred and Fabian, they even had similar handwriting. She hoped that, wherever her boy was, that he was being looked after and playing pranks with his riotous uncles. There were some days where that was the only thing that brought her comfort. 

Molly folded both the letters back up and pressed a kiss to each of them before sliding them back into the box. She closed the box, held it close to her chest and tipped her head up to ceiling. 

Happy birthday Fred. Mummy loves you.”

[thelifeofkaiblog]

Tomorrow will be a game changer.

•*•*• 16th December 2019 •*•*•

My dad’s mum “Agnes” (85ish) has been emotionally abusive for 50+ years. She had 3 kids: A, B and C. My dad is B and the other two are his sisters (one 2 years older, one 2 years younger). A was her favourite, then C, then Dad. She was deliberately intimidating, very strict, Never happy with him and told him he’d always be useless. A could almost never do anything wrong in her eyes and C got a level of it somewhere between my dad and A.

All 3 had 2 children each. A had “Abbie” (26) and “Aaron” (23). B had me (24) and my brother (21). C had “Carly” (26) and “Celia” (21). Abbie, Aaron and Carly are all joint favourites of Agnes. Then Celia and my brother are next. I’m not even on the board. I don’t know why, but she has always been nasty to me whenever we visited.

She also spoke down to me about my mum and almost tried to make my dad leave her, saying she “trapped” him by getting pregnant with me when they had only known each other for a few months. Even though she had never said she was proud of my dad or even liked him, she still didn’t think my mum was good enough - I think she meant not good enough to be linked to her, rather than not good enough for her son that she didn’t treat very well. I’d say that’s partly why she doesn’t like me, but she has been fine with my brother.

Growing up, we saw her once or twice a year. My dad’s dad “Benny” was nice enough, but her being horrible to me and cold to my mum put us off going. When I was about 12, my Mum stopped going to see them completely, aside from the rare family gathering with A, C and their families. None of my cousins liked me. Aaron and Celia were close, as were Abbie and Carly, but my brother and I were outsiders - though Celia and Aaron were nicer to him than Carly and Abbie were to me. They became bitchy as teenagers and have stayed that way ever since - even my parents find them unpleasant. Celia was lovely, until she hit 15 and started becoming like the other two. Aaron seems to be the only one fairly happy to talk to us when we’re there, though he doesn’t really talk to me.

A is one of those people who puts on a nice exterior, but is quite snobby and looks down on you - like a subtler version of Agnes. C is a bit blunt with her thoughts and feelings, but she’s a pretty nice person. She seems to have a genuine interest in me on the rare occasion we see her, which is refreshing.

Aside from 31st May this year, I hadn’t seen any of them since Benny’s funeral in September 2017. Since I was 13 or 14, my parents gave me a choice whether or not to visit Agnes and Benny because of how Agnes treated me - though my dad was in denial, but my mum wasn’t. She said it’s not fair to force me to go through that every time, even if it was just once or twice a year. Agnes would send birthday and Christmas cards to me, like she would to the others, but she always treated me badly in person and I wasn’t allowed to say anything because it would come back to bite my dad.

On 31st May, I decided to give her a chance, as she was a widow and I was hoping she may have softened a bit with age. I should have known better. She ignored me for the first couple of hours, only talking to my dad and brother - but that was expected and I called my nan (Mum’s mum) to vent and I explained that I’d mentally prepared a speech, just in case she went off on me. My nan told me to try to get through it and stay “invisible”, which was already my plan, so it’s what I did. My nan knows Agnes hasn’t been nice to me, but she didn’t realise how nasty she was - it was mostly denial because my nan tries to ignore the bad in people.

Agnes, my dad, my brother and I went to a pub for lunch. Pub portions are often big. When my brother ate all of his, she said nothing. When my dad left some, she said nothing. When I left a little, she had a dig at me. If I’d have eaten it all, she’d have had a dig at me. I just tried to ignore her. I told my dad in private and he asked if I was sure she’d said something. For once, my brother backed me up and said she did. My dad told me we wouldn’t stay with her much longer, so to try to ignore her.

We got back to her house and she finally started talking to me. She asked about my job. My dad hadn’t given her the heads up that I had to leave my job when my health deteriorated. I sat there like a deer in headlights, not knowing what to say. I looked at my dad, hoping he’d take over, but he didn’t. I explained why I’d had to leave - more frequent chronic pain flare ups and one started up at work (incredibly painful and embarrassing) that lasted on and off for seven days. My doctor wrote me off as indefinitely too ill to work because I was in pain most days, with no pattern, so no reliability for work.

She scoffed and essentially tore into me about how she believes my health problems are all because I’m 7 stone overweight. She didn’t even have to shout it, she was just pushing it on to me. I was gobsmacked and had no idea what say. I looked to my dad and brother, who were both on their phones. I was desperate for one of them to intervene and tell her to shut up. They did nothing. I was being hounded by her about my weight, as though I hadn’t just told her my doctor has signed me off for genuine illnesses and conditions that I’d had for a long time.

I couldn’t hold it in any more. I was holding back tears and I politely, but firmly told her that she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, she was not a doctor and I was tired of her always picking on me. She denied it, but I told her I’d had enough because she’d been doing it my whole life and I wasn’t going to take it any more. I stood up, turned to my dad and asked him why he was letting her do this to me. I asked him for the car keys and said I’d wait in the car until he was ready to leave. She tried to stop me, but I shrugged her off and told her to leave me alone, then I locked myself in the car.

My dad spoke to her in the house and came out to tell me she was bothered that she’d upset me, but he understood. I told him I felt betrayed that he hadn’t said anything to stand up for me. I cried the 2 hour drive home and, when I got home, my mum was really disappointed that my dad hadn’t intervened. It’s been 7 months and Agnes still hasn’t apologised or called to check on me. My dad has seen her a few times since, so she’s had chances, but she’s convinced she’s right. She’s done more damage than she could ever imagine and doesn’t care. I’m expendable.

A few days ago, she sent Christmas money, as usual. I told my dad I don’t feel comfortable accepting it because of everything she’s done. He understood, but said he wouldn’t said it back because it would be rude. I decided to write her a letter explaining why I didn’t want to accept it and that I’d be happy to explain about my health if she promises to be open-minded. I showed it to my parents to get their approval before sending it. The ball will be in her court once it arrives tomorrow. She either apologised and genuinely makes up for it, or I cut her out of my life. I feel more free, now that I’ve sent it. She doesn’t deserve another chance, but I’m giving her one for my dad’s sake. I just hope Agnes or his older sister don’t give him crap about it. I don’t think his younger sister would because she knows what their mum is like, even if she didn’t get it like I have.

This is my letter....

“Dear _______,

I find this letter hard to write because I’m worried it won’t be given a fair chance, but I have something important to say. I truly appreciate the money you have generously sent me for Christmas, but I am reluctant to accept it.

All I have ever wanted from you is acceptance and understanding. I don’t want the last time we speak to be negative, but I also can’t subject myself to any more insensitive judgement. The illnesses and disabilities I have, along with the constant battle for decent medical care, are difficult enough to deal with, without added negativity from anyone else - especially if they don’t know what I’ve been through and haven’t shown an interest in finding out.

I have always wanted to feel unconditionally loved and supported by you, but the nitpicking whenever I visited has made me feel less than compared to (names redacted - my cousins and brother). Its pushed me away.

I know you may not recognise that you have done this, but my parents have two and keeping the peace meant not saying anything about it for years. You also probably didn’t mean any harm, but it has damaged our relationship and how I feel about myself.

I am very grateful for your gift, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting it. Dad has said he can’t return it, but understands why I’m hesitant to receive it.

If you ever wish to try to understand me and my challenges, I am more than happy to try to explain it, but I’d need you to be open to learning about me without judgement or dismissal. It is much more complex than you believe and I hope you can Sunday accept and acknowledge that because I don’t want this to be the end of our relationship, but I won’t let people hurt me anymore.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and a great New Year. Please take care.

Best Wishes,

(My name redacted).

[chuffyfan87]

Temptation. Part A.

Set after Series 3, Episode 5.

-x-

Charlie's eyelids felt heavy and it hurt to move his eyeballs. He tried to focus. His mouth tasted like something had crawled into it and died there. His head was throbbing. How much had he had to drink last night? More to the point, where had he even been last night? Focus, focus! A fragment of a memory resurfaced - the pub! Right, he'd been to the pub with the others from work. Why had he gotten so drunk? A wave of sadness washed over him. Ewart. They'd decided to have their own wake for him after the family had decided they didn't want any of them at the funeral. Ewart's death had affected them all but it had been seeing the broken looks on Duffy and Megan's faces that had spurred him on to organise something. It was hurting his head too much to remember anything more though so he gave up and decided to go back to sleep for a while.

Duffy opened her eyes briefly but shut them again quickly as the tilting of the room made her stomach churn. She tried to focus on her breathing, willing the nausea to settle. She feared her legs wouldn't carry her the few short steps to her bathroom and she really didn't feel like clearing up the mess of vomiting all over her bedsheets. Her head felt like it was about to explode as she rolled over and curled up into the fetal position, clutching her stomach. It was her own fault for mixing her drinks, she knew better than to do that! She risked opening her eyes again and found herself staring at a closed door a few feet away from the bed. What? Her bedroom door was on the other side of the room. Surely she hadn't been so trashed last night that she'd decided to rearrange the furniture in her bedroom on a sudden whim? She attempted to lift her head to see what else she had moved but that turned out to be a very bad idea indeed as almost instantly she felt the vomit begin to rise up her throat. Oh shit! She slumped out of the bed, clutching one hand tightly over her mouth as she crawled along the carpet trying desperately to get her barings before it was too late. Where the hell was everything? She spotted a bin and lunged for it, barely grabbing hold of it and bringing it towards her face in time before she was violently sick.

The sounds of vomiting roused Charlie once again from his drunken slumber. For a brief second he feared he'd vomited in his sleep but then he heard the noise again. It seemed to be coming from the direction of his desk. He slowly pushed himself up to sitting, his head feeling like it could fall off his shoulders at any moment as he did so. He wasn't alone, that was for sure! His companion was turned away from him however so at first her identity was a mystery. He forced his eyes to focus. Whoever she was, her skin was pale and scattered with freckles. She possessed a shapely figure too. If only he could see her face but that was obscured by her red hair and the bin she was vomiting into. Red hair... Oh shit! No! He hadn't, had he?

Turning away from her he got out of bed, wobbling slightly as he bent down to pick up his boxers and put them back on. He also picked up his shirt. He stumbled across the room and lowered himself awkwardly to sit next to her on the floor. He draped his shirt around her as best he could and rubbed her back. She was no longer vomiting but still occasionally retching and hiccuping.

"Shh, its OK. You'll be alright soon." He reassured her softly.

On hearing Charlie's voice, and feeling his hand on her back, several thoughts raced through Duffy's brain all at once. Why was Charlie here? Where was here? How had she gotten wherever here was? What the hell had happened last night? Lowering the bin to the floor she looked up tentatively. He was sat next to her wearing just his boxers. Her brain suddenly registered her own lack of clothing. She felt very self conscious and tried to wrap the shirt around herself. Oh shit! Her mind went blank. What the hell was she going to say to him?

Sensing her discomfort he staggered back to his feet. "I'll go get a flannel so you can... Um... Er..." His words trailed off as he stumbled out the bedroom. As the door closed behind him, Duffy dropped her head into her hands. She felt so embarrassed. How had she let this happen?

Entering the bathroom Charlie closed the door behind him and lent back against it, closing his eyes briefly. He was such an idiot! He should have known better. He was almost 10 years older than her and he was her boss for goodness sake! He had a responsibility to behave properly towards her. Put a few drinks inside him though and all that went straight out the nearest window! A few drinks was all it took for him to be totally unable to resist the charms of his gorgeous, vivacious, headstrong best friend. He sighed, she let few people see the vulnerability that lay behind the facade she presented the world. He'd had to work to gain her trust and when he had he'd discovered something so delicate and precious. He wanted nothing more than to protect her and care for her but she was far too stubborn to allow that. What now though? Had he ruined everything between them as a result of being unable to control his desires for her or would she be willing to give them a chance?

Sighing once more, he grabbed the flannel from the side of the sink and ran it under the tap before squeezing it out and taking it with him back to his room. He was about to walk in when he stopped. What if she wasn't yet dressed again? He took his hand from the handle and knocked on the door. There was a lengthy pause before he heard her voice telling him that he could come back into the room. As he entered he saw that she looked confused.

"Why did you knock? It's your house..."

She was now laid back on the bed, one hand massaging her forehead and the other holding her stomach awkwardly.

"Do you still feel sick?" He queried gently.

"A little," she replied. "But I don't think there's anything left in my stomach to come out."

He handed her the flannel and then crossed the room to grab a t-shirt from one of the drawers. He put it on and then perched on the edge of the bed near to where she was laid. Looking over at her he watched as she wiped her face with the flannel before placing it on the bedside table. It was then that he realised that she was still wearing his shirt, though she had put it on properly and made an attempt to do up the buttons. He didn't understand why she hadn't simply quickly redressed while he was out the room so she could make a quick getaway.

"I think..."

"Look about..."

They both spoke at the same time. She blushed and briefly closed her eyes whilst he cleared his throat awkwardly and spoke again. "Um, I think we need to talk about what happened last night, don't you?"

"Yes..." She replied hesitantly.

"So we went to the pub..."

"I'm so sorry I was late getting there." She interrupted him.

"You were! You never said why though."

She blushed again and bit her lip. "I overslept..."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You usually start work then..."

"I went dress shopping in the morning and I'm not used to being up so much in the day so, well, I had a nap." She shrugged.

"Oh, OK. Well, you looked... Nice..." He mumbled.

She couldn't stop herself from giggling. "Just 'nice'? Well thanks Charlie!" She rolled her eyes at him. Silence descended over them for a few moments until Duffy giggled again. "I can't believe that Kuba insisted we all drink vodka shots!"

"Polish tradition I think he said it was."

"I should have just stuck to wine." She grumbled.

"Well you nicked my whisky at some point too."

"No I didn't! I swear you gave it to me."

"Oh yes, we swapped drinks didn't we? That wine you were drinking was awful!"

She shrugged. "It was the nicest one I could afford."

A sudden thought occurred to Charlie. "I hope Megan is OK. It's all hit her pretty hard."

"You're right. Megan and Ewart were like a proper mum and dad..." Her voice trailed off as she started to sniffle and hiccup.

Charlie reached out his hand towards her but then stopped himself. He began to recall a similar conversation from the previous evening. She'd started to cry as they'd been walking back to her flat. They'd been near his house at the time so he'd suggested they pop over there til she calmed down. He moved his hand back to rest on the bed beside him. He should keep his distance.

"I'm surprised she didn't insist you got a taxi home with her."

"She wanted me to but I was hungry."

He laughed. "Oh yeh, you made me buy you a curry!"

"Did I? Well that explains why my throat burns!"

"I did try and convince you that it might not be the best of ideas but you insisted!"

"Best not tell Megan you let me make myself sick. She'd not be pleased with you!"

"Well to be honest Duffy I wasn't exactly planning on mentioning any of this to Megan..!"

"Um... Yeh... Probably best." She cleared her throat. "So we came here and I ate my curry. Actually I'm pretty sure you ate half of it."

"You started complaining that it was making your stomach hurt coz it was spicy and then, well, you burst into tears again."

"Sorry about that, I'm not normally so..."

"Hey its OK, its been a tough few days for all of us." He gave her a reassuring smile.

"You said pretty much the same thing last night when you gave me a hug." She said tentatively.

He shrugged. "Well, it's true." He looked away. "That was when I... Um... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I shouldn't have... It was wrong of me..." He stammered.

Duffy was deeply hurt by his words. "You didn't mean to kiss me, it was a mistake? Is that what you're saying Charlie?" She replied sharply.

[moonlights-inkwell]

There’s Something Tragic About You.

Summary: You find out that Jason’s dead, and slowly but surely learn to cope before a mugging brings a new vigilante to light in your eyes.

Jason Todd x reader

Word Count: 3,018

[part 1] [part 3]

So... I admit I got a little carried away with this. This chapter wound up longer and a hell of a lot angstier than I originally intended but oh well? 

Title is from Hozier’s From Eden. 

You find out that he's dead at the same time everyone else in your class does when the principal comes in to English class to share the awful news. You hate to admit it to yourself, but as soon as he walks in you know he's there to talk about Jason, but never in a thousand years had you thought that he was going to say that Jason was dead. According to him, Jason had died when a bomb had gone off in the hotel where he had been staying; some freak terror attack. Seemed to come out of nowhere, there was nothing that could have been done, he says in a voice authoritative enough to make you angry but filled with enough condolence for you to wasn't to sob. While everyone else whispers about terrorism and why Jason was all the way in Ethiopia; your head bows, hair falling around your face as you allow the tears to fall. He's gone. No matter how many whispers about him and how weird it was that he was dead would bring him back, no matter how many comments about terrorism, about bombs. He's dead. Jason, your Jason, brilliant Jason. Dead. The only thought that comes to you beyond your comprehension of his death is that whatever deity lives up above you must have a sick sense of humour, as your tear-filled eyes stare down at your copy of The Great Gatsby. Of course. Two dead Jays. The rest of the day is a blur of incomprehensible colours and sounds, while you're caught in a head space somewhere between dazed and haunted. The kids who had once bullied you instead give you a wide berth, even they seem to grasp that right now isn't the right time. No one speaks to you all day, and just the concept of being in the cafeteria makes you want to puke. Eating is a task that seems impossible and besides, there's no one there you want to sit with. Instead, you timidly walk to Jason's locker, unlock it, and stare blankly at the locker, making a mental note of the contents. Your eyes glide across an old red jacket that you hadn't seen in months. You recall making a comment about the jacket and how much you liked it, and in a moment of sudden desperation you grab it and pull it on, revelling in the feeling of being surrounded by something that had once been Jason's. [E/C] Eyes slide across a copy of pride and prejudice, and your fingers gently pick it up before closing the locker quickly. You know theft is wrong, and under normal circumstances you wouldn't have done such a thing, but you can't lose everything of him. You need something to remember him by, and it might be sick, but you need it to cope.

The funeral is unbearable, sitting beside your parents on a hard pew in an icy church in front of the coffin that held the boy who said he'd come home was hell, like a nightmare come true. Before Jason, the only person who you had ever known who had died was your grandmother, and the bracelet she had given you had been passed onto Jason, and like a curse it had taken Jason from you too. You had spent days trying to convince yourself that it was only a fear toxin induced hallucination, that Scarecrow had dropped some sort of bomb of gas over the city, leaving you to deal with the contents of your own mind, but no. Jason is dead. Gone forever, and you're stuck here without him. Your parents hadn't known Jason as anything more than 'that boy who comes over sometimes', but they sit silent besides you, and you're grateful for that. You're sure they don't know what to say beyond useless words of apology, but they're there and that means more than you could ever explain. Other than your family and a few of the teachers who had liked Jason, there is only one person there you even recognise, Bruce Wayne. You'd never said much more than a few words to Bruce while Jason was alive, only his butler who had taken a shine to you, but from the look of utter sadness that Mister Pennyworth had given you onto your way into the church you didn't doubt that Bruce and his butler had felt something like you did. It felt strange to think of Batman as a creature who could mourn, but orphaned Bruce Wayne's son being murdered? That was something you could never comprehend if you lived a hundred lifetimes. There's a boy who looks barely older than 18 or so, surrounded by other people that age, dressed in black with his eyes bloodshot. He looks almost strikingly like an older Jason and you almost call out before it occurs to you after a few seconds that he's Dick Grayson, Bruce's first ward. Jason had once confessed to feeling in the shadow of him, both as a Robin and as Bruce's son, and yet here he is crying for him. You don't approach either after the service or at the grave side. What could you possibly say to them that wouldn't sound trite or all too familiar? What do you say to people who already lost their families and just lost another member of the one they had tried to create for themselves? It feels strange as you stare down at his headstone, fifteen-year-old boys shouldn't be dead and buried. Jason shouldn't be.  

The sound of the alarm makes your eyes slip open, arm reaches out almost automatically to grab your phone and turn it off, bones cracking while you roll onto your back and check the screen for any new messages. Eyes squinting from the sudden bright light in the otherwise dimly lit room, you sigh softly and rake your fingers through your hair, a text from your mum hoping that you're safe and happy. You let out a quiet groan before shuffling to your feet, making a mental note for yourself to call her when you're more awake while padding into the kitchen as you crack your back, then turn on the radio as you begin to wake up at the sound of other voices. You curse at the sound of the news, almost sure that you had left it on the music station last night. The news, especially in Gotham was never good; there was a reason you don't read the Gazette (other than the fact that it's a rag). Fingers enclose around a box of cereal as the radio anchor talks about a crime scene in a warehouse near the docks, pouring the brightly coloured pebbles into a bowl while she talks about a duffel bag filled with decapitated heads. Somewhere in your sleep dazed mind reminds you that you should be disgusted by the waste of life, but the rest of you reminds you that this is Gotham. If you weren't willing to be surrounded with murder and crime you should have moved to Metropolis or Coast City for college, but you were still here, and you wonder if that says more about you than the city that you're willing to stay there. Your mum had wanted you to either go to a new city for college or live at home with her, but while you couldn't bring yourself to leave Gotham the prospect of living with your parents sounds hellish. You sit on the counter, eating tiredly as you half listen to an interview with Commissioner Gordon caught somewhere between too hungry to stop eating and too tired to get up and turn it off. Mumbling bitterly under your breath about how Gordon and his cops aren't going to do shit and how they never do shit, because they just leave all the hard work for Batman and each new Robin, you force yourself off the counter and off to get a shower and get dressed for work.   The walk to work is short, but Gotham is cold enough even in spring for you to feel uncomfortable during the walk. It's freezing, a hard blow of the wind making your coat billow around your thighs, and the only positive you can think of is that it isn't raining but as if someone above had been listening, a small droplet of water hits the tip of your nose, and then your forehead. Fuck. Of course. You let out a quiet groan and begin jogging, weaving in and out of other pedestrians and then cars as you bolt across the road. There's always a strange sort of discomfort that comes from living in Gotham, probably a result of it's wet and cold environment and the fact that it's close enough to an Asylum for its inmates to break out and live amongst you before attacking, but today's discomfort comes from something different than the usual. You turn your head to try to gage just what it is exactly as it hits you, it feels like being watched. Turning your head back to see what's in front of you, you try to ignore the feeling before turning on your heel to see if you can work out whether that feeling is right, but Gotham streets are so packed you could be stalked all the way from your apartment and have no clue. That thought makes your stomach drop quickly and because of that you can't help but feel relieved at the sight of the familiar red neon lettering on top of the diner.   Pauli's has hardly changed since you were in high school, still old looking and homely, with the red and white checked metal tables and peeling vinyl on the seats of the booths, spacious and claustrophobic in a way that makes you sad, but every single time you enter it's with a smile and today is no exception. The fifties aesthetic was one that you understood the appeal of without ever really being into under usual circumstances, but Pauli's was different for you, with the hand-drawn posters and bright colours. Hooking your jacket up on your usual peg by the door, you let yourself smile at one of the other waitresses (an older woman who had taken you happily and willingly under her wing after remembering you coming in near daily during your school days) and tie your apron around your waist. Working in Pauli's while you're in college had seemed almost obvious, like something destined to be: maybe it was a subconscious thing where you felt the need to come back to atone for the date that never happened, or just to return to something familiar in a city that looks more and more alien to you with every other day. The old diner meant more to you than you would have confessed; with its familiar slightly greasy smell and its regular customers and it helps on the long shifts after classes, when people who you see almost daily smile up at you while you fill up their coffee or take their orders, asking to make sure that you're okay. Gotham might have spent a lifetime making you harder than you would have been anywhere else; but the people, hardened in the same ways that you were, had done a pretty good job of reminding you that normal, everyday people were still good... and sometimes, after looking up at the flicking TV over the counter while it showed reports of costumed criminals, you need reminding. You often find your eyes glancing to your old booth, and then to the old black and white tiles around it, when shifts get slow in between intermittent glances to the clock on the wall surrounded by bright red neon letters, COFFEE. You pick up a pot of coffee, and turn around, noticing when a cop lifts a hand to indicate that he either needed a refill or wanted to order, you clench your jaw before sighing and forcing a smile and then walk over.   When you finally leave work the rain has stopped but the cold has increased fourfold as if to compensate for it, and your candy-coloured uniform barely does anything to keep you warm even with your jacket. It's almost unbearable, even with your hands shoved into your pockets, and that overwhelming feeling of someone watching you is back full throttle. The bright orange fluorescent lights overhead mean that at least you know that the way home isn't entirely dark, but it feels more like a clinical sort of light, the orange not the same warm colour as the street lights in other cities instead seeming cold. Gotham in daylight is like walking through any big city, but at night the city became something more... something darker. A labyrinth of winding streets, all smog filled and cold, with monsters hiding around every corner. All at once you're struck with an understanding why your mother always said that you shouldn't be out in the city after dark. You try to swallow that insecurity and slip down into an alley, your usual shortcut home, and finally start to relax at the familiarity. It's short-lived. Walking slowing, you hear more than one set of footsteps coming from behind you and you begin cursing under your breath, and before you can even begin to speed up you feel the sharp chill of a blade against your neck.   "Give us all you got." The man hisses into your ear, breath hot and predatory against your skin and you can't even begin to disguise the cringe that overcomes you. You know that you should be terrified but all that you can think is that his breath is gross. Two more men walk around the two of you, and leer down at you as your hand slides into the pocket of your coat, but then scowl as you reveal the contents to them; a coffee-shop loyalty card, a dollar fifty in change and four hair ties. You're a poor college student; you don't know why anyone would choose to mug you, there's nothing that you could possibly give to them that they would want. No watch, no jewellery, no phone, no wallet to hand over. You almost smile at the fact that you forgot your phone until it dawns on you that you have no way of calling for help and not getting your throat slashed for the attempt. Shit. Eyes flitting around the alley way, you try to make out if there is a way for you to escape, but to no avail as one of the two men surges closer to make sure that you weren't holding out on them. His hand scrabbles around in the empty pocket before grabbing at your thigh through the thin fabric, causing you to let out a loud yelp of anger while his face leans in closer to yours. Your mouth opens for you to tell him to get his hand off you but all that comes out is a loud scream as a bullet flies through the side of his head, sending a mess of blood and liquefied brain splattering onto the dirty ground. The man who had been holding onto you suddenly throws you to the ground beside the body, your hand barely missing the blood, as he and his one remaining accomplice run off.   The orange light from the streetlight makes the blood look almost black, like some sort of tar that was making its way closer and closer to you with every second. You shuffle backwards quickly, slicing your hand open in the scrabble to get away from the gore, only to slam against something warm and hard. Legs, you realise as you turn your head. Leaning over you is a man, tall and broad, clad in leather and a helmet that glints crimson even with the darkness and streetlights. The smell of gunpowder radiates from him; from the still smoking gun at his side.   "You always get the attention of dangerous pricks?" The voice that comes from the helmeted man is heavily modulated, sounding more like the sort of robots that you'd find in a Sci-fi B-movie crossed over with static and buzzing and it would be almost funny if it wasn't for the gun clenched in his hand and the fact he had just murdered someone in front of you. You assumed the modulation was there for a reason similar to the reason why Batman deepened his voice on patrol, being a Vigilante in Gotham was dangerous enough: but one who had no problem with killing? That meant that more than one type of person would be looking for him and a voice works as a means of finding a person. But hell, in Gotham it could just mean that the man in front of you actually was some sort of cyborg; like Arnie in Terminator, or like RoboCop. You stare up at him from your place on the floor, silent and scared witless, eyes flitting from the lifeless mask and the gun. "...Well?"   "...No?" You ask rather than state while getting to your feet, holding your injured hand awkwardly before shoving it into your pocket."...You just killed-"   "Put down." Was the mechanical response, as if talking about a rabid animal rather than a human being (albeit a scummy one), and that makes you step back quickly. "...You're welcome [Y/N]." Blinking rapidly, a droplet of rain hits your jaw, then another on your shoulder, then the top of your head, before the downpour begins once more. Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your forehead, and you let out a shaking sigh. You turn on heel from the helmeted man then run home as fast as your legs can carry you. It's only once you're home-with every door and window locked, sat on your couch in an old t-shirt and sweat pants while drying your hair with a towel, that you're suddenly struck with a question as you place a bandaid onto the palm of your hand.

How did he know your name?  

@hyp-oh-critical

[hpcc-advent-calendar]

Dear Mum

By @ijustwalkintomordor

5K words, G rated

Albus isn’t looking forward to returning to Hogwarts for his third year, but he is looking forward to seeing his excitable, bubbly best friend. What he finds on the train is very different from the Scorpius he’s used to, and Albus decides to do everything he can to protect Scorpius while he grieves his mother’s death.

*

“I thought you’d send an owl…” Albus says, feeling more and more lost by the second. After leaving his father in a huff he’d been looking forward to having a laugh with Scorpius – his best friend is usually full of bad jokes and exaggerated tales coming back from the summer. Albus is convinced he stores them up when they’re apart just to let them pour out on the train ride to Hogwarts, and he would have been grateful for it today, but the Scorpius he’s found… well, it’s not the one he was expecting.

“I couldn’t work out what to say,” Scorpius mutters, hunched over in his seat. He’s good at making himself small. Albus knows this. It comes in handy on nights they don’t get priority seating in the common room, or when they have to study in the dorm, huddled up on one of their beds because the common room was too loud and the library too full of bullies.

Now it’s not useful. Now it’s painful for Albus to see. Scorpius isn’t hunched over a book or taking up as little space as possible just because he can. Scorpius is collapsing in on himself, his arms tight around his waist like he’s coming apart at the seams and trying to hold himself together.

Albus sinks into the seat across from him. “And now I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” Scorpius mutters.

Albus searches for the right thing – something to help Scorpius hold himself together in some way. ‘I’m sorry’ is useless. Scorpius knows Albus is sorry. Everyone is sorry when a child loses their mother. Albus doesn’t have any sweets to offer him – that’s Scorpius’ territory and he’s come to trust his friend’s ability to curate their Hogwarts Express snacks. He wracks his brain but comes up empty.

Full of flies and bits of fluff indeed, Albus thinks bitterly.

“Is there anything…?” Albus asks. He’d happily take some instruction – a list of things his friend needs. Things he can do or get to help, but he knows it isn’t that simple.

Scorpius looks up at him for the first time, and Albus takes in the state of his face – paler than normal with deep dark circles under his eyes that nearly look like bruises. Albus supposes this must feel like getting punched.

“Come to the funeral?” Scorpius asks. He doesn’t look hopeful. He looks desperate.

“Of course,” Albus says quickly, nearly offended that Scorpius even feels he has to ask.

“And be my good friend.”

Albus doesn’t feel like he’s a very good friend right now. He feels particularly rotten instead. How long ago had this happened? How long has Scorpius been grieving with only his father at his side? It must have been a couple days at least if Draco was willing to let him leave. But even then… Scorpius shouldn’t be here.

“Anything,” Albus says. “When did…”

He doesn’t want to finish the question. Scorpius knows what it is anyway and starts picking at a loose thread on the seat cushion. Their designated compartment is the most damaged on the train, which assures them privacy on each journey to and from the castle. Albus has always simultaneously hated the Hogwarts Express and harboured a soft spot for it. Hogwarts sometimes feels like a prison and he dreads returning all summer – at least at home he can escape the gaggle of Gryffindors he lives with by locking himself in his bedroom – but the Hogwarts Express is also where he met Scorpius, and Hogwarts is the only place he gets to see his best friend. 

“Thursday afternoon,” Scorpius says. It’s Sunday now and Albus isn’t sure if he’s glad Scorpius had at least a couple days to adjust or if he’s upset Scorpius hadn’t sent an owl in such a considerable amount of time. Albus’ mum would have certainly let him take some Floo powder to get to the Malfoy Manor. She might have even delivered him herself.

“Oh,” is all Albus knows to say. He wracks his brain for an indication of what to do. He’s been around grief so rarely, and normally he’d be grateful that his entire family is alive and healthy, but right now he’s at a disadvantage. He’s never watched anyone comfort someone who’s lost a parent or anyone close. He doesn’t know what to do.

Scorpius looks down again, his hair hanging in his eyes. It’s limp like he’s gone a day too long without washing it, which is a sure indicator that Scorpius isn’t handling this well at all. Albus has joked more than once that his middle name should be hygiene instead of Hyperion.

Albus, feeling quite lame and useless, gets up from his seat and slowly moves over to sit next to Scorpius. He wonders what his dad would do if Ron was sitting beside him, looking like he was about to cry. Would he hug him? Probably, but Albus has never seen Scorpius hug anyone aside from his mum, and Albus doesn’t think he wants to remind Scorpius of that right now. He’s at a loss now and he wouldn’t know what to do if Scorpius really did start crying…

Albus does the only thing he knows to do. It always works when Scorpius is anxious about things at Hogwarts, and he hopes it applies to grief too. 

“Aunt Hermione was over last night,” Albus lies. “She was talking with mum and dad and something came up about the Goblins and wand legislation and the Goblin Rebellion of 16-something. I was too afraid to ask her why it mattered…”

“Why it mattered?” Scorpius asks, looking at Albus from under his hair. His arms loosen around his waist. “Albus, the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 is one of the most important events in goblin-wizard relations and the development of the wizarding court system as we know it today.”

“Right,” Albus says. He knew all of this, of course. He’d written the end of his History of Magic homework earlier in the week. He leans back in his seat, arranging his face into the most disinterested and lazy expression he has. “But I just don’t see how it’s important now.”

“How it’s important now?” Scorpius is truly insulted now. He sits up, staring at Albus with wide, red eyes that are painful to look at, but Albus does anyway. “Albus Severus, you really need to read the chapter in A History of Magic. Bathilda Bagshot has a wonderfully concise chapter – you could catch up in no time.”

“I forgot my copy,” Albus gambles. There’s a good chance Scorpius has the book in his bag instead of his trunk. It’s his favourite and he usually keeps it on-hand when he’s upset. “Mum’s already sending it. I left it on my desk.”

Scorpius sighs and what little bit of posture he’s regained falls away as he slumps over, this time in irritation with Albus, but Albus is certain it’s better than thinking of his mum’s body back at the Manor, awaiting burial. Scorpius dutifully gets up and starts rummaging in his bag on the floor for something, and Albus is pleased to find his prediction is accurate. Still, he has one more question before he devotes himself wholly to distracting Scorpius.

“Before you start lecturing me,” Albus says, as if this hadn’t been his plan, “why did you come back so soon? McGonagall would have given you time.”

Scorpius’ hand pauses over the barely-visible spine of History of Magic. He’s bent down and since he hasn’t put his robes on yet, he’s in just his jumper. Albus is dismayed to find he can count individual vertebrae on Scorpius’ back as he moves. Clearly, he’s lost some weight. The summer wasn’t kind. 

“My dad has his parents,” Scorpius said. “I’ve never really gotten along with my grandfather, as you know. Instead of staying there, I…”

Scorpius trails off and stands, uselessly attempting to smooth down his jumper. He clutches his leather-bound copy of History of Magic to his chest as one would hold a teddy bear.

“Well, I wanted to come back here where I could be with my only friend. At least for a bit. I sort of…” He trails off and fidgets with the frayed corner of the well-worn book and looks down. “I sort of insisted. Fought him on it.”

Albus isn’t sure if he’s happy to hear that or if it adds more pressure. Regardless, he takes a breath and stares at Scorpius’ overly-pale face for a moment before patting the empty seat beside him. They both know Albus is just trying to distract him – it’s painfully obvious – but Scorpius takes a seat anyway and gives Albus a grateful smile.

—

Albus has never spent a lot of energy appreciating Hogwarts. He grew up hearing tales of its grandeur and the castle didn’t have many surprises for him when he arrived. Scorpius, however, found that the school met all his expectations perfectly upon arrival, much to his delight. He’d been ecstatic to return in their second year, and Albus hoped as they walked towards the carriages that the sight of the turrets and towers would brighten Scorpius’ spirits.

He’d forgotten, of course, about the Thestrals.

Scorpius is chattering on about their lessons this year – the things he hopes they’ll be learning. He’s so wrapped up in what he was saying that Albus realises what’s going to happen before it happens. One of the carriages, already full of students, is pulling away, pulled by an invisible being, and Albus freezes, remembering his father’s tale of the first time he’d seen the Thestrals. Albus still isn’t able to see them, as he’s been lucky enough to avoid seeing someone die thus far, but Scorpius… 

“Hey!” Albus says, jumping in front of Scorpius. “I’ve got an idea!“ 

"Oh, no,” Scorpius says automatically. “Albus, I don’t really have the energy for any of your ideas,” he says, drawing air quotes around the last word. In doing so his bag slips from his shoulder and he awkwardly scrambles to catch it, giving Albus the opportunity to wheel him around back toward the train.

 "It’s a good idea,“ Albus says. "A safe idea. Not like sitting on the edge of the Owlery.”

Scorpius shudders at the memory and follows Albus against the heavy current of students heading towards the castle. Albus doesn’t have to look hard to locate his mark once they get to the train – Hagrid towers over a slew of excited first years.

“What are you doing, Albus?” Scorpius mutters, hunched over a bit as they approach the crowd. Albus places both hands on Scorpius’ shoulders as they reach the back of it and straightens his friend’s collar. Scorpius Malfoy is never disheveled – ever – and he doesn’t want to give anyone extra reason to stare at him.

“Can you stay here? For just a moment?” Albus asks. One of the first years has stopped and is staring at them, and Albus isn’t sure which one of them is of more interest.

Scorpius carefully eyes the little girl and she scurries off, afraid. He sighs.

“Sure.”

Albus hates to leave him but knows it’s only for a moment. He pushes his way through the crowd – carefully at first and then without care. His best friend is far more important than the comfort of some snot-nosed first years, he decides, and doesn’t stop until he gets to Hagrid. 

He calls up to his dad’s friend. Albus has never minded Hagrid – he’s always been very nice to the Potters and always brings fun presents, even if they are a little weird. Better than Uncle Neville’s, at least (he wanted birthday gifts, not amateur herbology projects). 

“Hagrid!” Albus yells, but the giant is too busy corralling first years.

“Firs’ years!” he bellows. “Firs’ years, this way!”

Albus stands on his toes and looks at Scorpius, who’s already got his arms wrapped back around himself. Now that he’s not aware he’s being observed, his eyes are shifting back and forth warily. He’s vulnerable and exposed – something Albus needs to remedy quickly.

He grabs a fistful of Hagrid’s robes and tugs at them. When Hagrid doesn’t respond, he yanks harder, knocking a few sausages loose from his pocket. Hagrid turns and looks down at him, a grin growing beneath his wild gray beard. He’s an overgrown, ruddy Santa Claus and if he can give Albus what he needs right now, he promises he’ll ask for nothing at Christmas.

“Albus!” Hagrid cries. “Good ter see yeh, but ’m ‘fraid now’s not the time. 'Bout ter get these firs’ years off-”

“Hagrid, I need your help!” Albus says loudly and motions for Hagrid to bend over. He’s taller than the first years, but not nearly tall enough to have a somewhat private conversation with an eight and a half foot man. Hagrid frowns and bends down, and Albus gets as close to him as he can.

“Can Scorpius and I go across on the boats?”

“Al, yeh know I can’ do tha’,” Hagrid says.

“Hagrid, he loves Hogwarts,” Albus says, bordering on whining. “And his mum died a few days ago, and the Thestrals… please?”

Hagrid pulls back and looks at Albus’ face, and Albus uses the only trick he has available. He stares up at Hagrid desperately with his wide green eyes, hoping he looks enough like his father in that moment to pull it off. It’s something he rarely hopes for.

Hagrid’s face softens beneath the tangle of wild hair and he looks at Scorpius. Albus see’s he’s taken to hugging his copy of History of Magic again and is tracing his finger over the raised logo on the book.

“Alrigh’,” Hagrid says. “Yeh can ride in the boat with me.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Albus says quickly, and much to his own surprise hugs Hagrid’s arm, as it’s the closest thing he can reach. He runs off before Hagrid can say anything else, and by the time he reaches Scorpius again Hagrid has started leading the first years down toward the shore where the boats are docked.

“What was all that about?” Scorpius asks, glum.

“I don’t like the carriages. Do you?” Albus asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s really not fair that we only get to see Hogwarts from the lake once. Fortunately, I’m a Potter.”

“You convinced him to let us take the boats?” Scorpius asks. Albus nods, and is so relieved when Scorpius’ mouth twitches into a bit of a smile. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Albus,” Scorpius says.

“Of course I did,” Albus says. He slings his arm around Scorpius’ shoulders and ushers him along behind the first years. “Besides – if we’d stayed at the carriages we would have wound up with Polly Chapman.”

It’s telling that Scorpius doesn’t use this opportunity to bring up his undying love for Rose Granger-Weasley and the fact that he hasn’t seen her yet. They make their way down to the water and wait until Hagrid has all the first years situated in their boats, and Albus watches as Scorpius tucks his book away for safekeeping.

 "All righ’ you two,“ Hagrid says when only the three of them are left. He points to the large boat at the center of the line and Albus and Scorpius move towards it. They step into the mud and Albus is pleased to see Scorpius grimace at the sinking sensation. It means his Malfoy Neatness Sensibility is still fully intact.

Albus climbs in first and takes Scorpius’ bag from him, since he seems a bit imbalanced. Scorpius even lets him assist his transfer into the boat, taking Albus’ hand for stability. He sits down on the bench at Albus’ side, staring blankly ahead into the darkness of the lake and mutters 'thanks’ as Hagrid climbs in behind them.

At once, all the boats start to move. They glide into the glassy surface of the lake with ease, cutting into the water and creating ripples. Their view of the trees is unobscured, as Hagrid’s boat leads the others. Albus can only see a couple more in his periphery.

"Fun, right?” Albus says, hopeful. He looks at Scorpius’ pale face as he stares out across the water. The sun set about a half hour ago and they’re lit by the warm glow of the boat’s lantern. It does a little for Scorpius’ complexion, but nothing at all could mitigate the miserable expression on his face.

Albus looks over his shoulder at Hagrid, seeking help from the only adult around who might know what to do. But Hagrid is looking at Scorpius with pity and just shakes his head at Albus, shrugging his great shoulders. He’s got nothing to offer. 

Albus stays quiet for a few more minutes until they round a hill that juts into the water. The castle comes into view in one fabulous moment.

The first time they did this it was drizzling and the moon was obscured by clouds. Tonight it’s clear enough that Albus could count the windows on each of the towers if he’d had the time. The Great Hall is a glowing beacon ahead of them, and its reflection in the still water magnifies the light. 

Albus looks at Scorpius. There’s a small, sad smile on his face. His eyes are soft as he looks up at the castle, sniffling a little bit as he does so. Albus doesn’t say anything as Scorpius wipes a bit of moisture from under his eyes.

“It still gives me tingles,” Scorpius says. “The castle, I mean. Seeing it for the first time after summer.”

“Geek,” Albus says affectionately.

“Yeah,” Scorpius laughs. “I know you don’t like it here, but…”

“But you do,” Albus supplies. Scorpius nods, his mouth curving into a small frown. 

“Mum liked it here too,” he says weakly. “She was afraid when she was a kid that she wouldn’t get to come. My grandparents… they were afraid it would take years off her life, or that a simple accident would…”

He swallows hard, his eyes still glued to the castle as it slowly draws nearer. “She said she loved the food the most. Mum always loved sweets, and here she could have as much dessert as she wanted.”

“We should have one of everything tonight, then,” Albus says. “For her.”

Scorpius looks at him, and Albus isn’t surprised at all to see tears running down his cheeks. He’d have been more surprised if he wasn’t crying.

“Your sugar tolerance isn’t as high as mine,” Scorpius says. “You can’t keep up.”

It takes a second for Albus to process that Scorpius is joking, but when he does, his first real grin of the day breaks across his face and it makes Scorpius smile a bit too. Just a bit.

“Thanks, Albus,” Scorpius says, and it’s so sincere that Albus doesn’t know what to say. He wants so badly to comfort Scorpius – to make something feel better and he hopes he’s done it, at least a little. Albus just nods and looks back up at the castle with Scorpius, and tries his best to stay sturdy and still when Scorpius leans into his side as though he can’t support his own weight anymore.

—

The feast is exceptional, and Albus is so glad to see that the kitchens have sent up some of everything for dessert. The small sting of Lily being sorted into Gryffindor is overshadowed by the misery on Scorpius’ face, and Albus wholly devotes himself to the dessert mission. He’s even foregone his usual second helping of mashed potatoes to leave room for some treacle tart and pumpkin pie, which Scorpius serves him with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

By the time they’ve had some of everything and start making their way toward the Slytherin dungeon, Albus is feeling well and truly awful. Scorpius is bemoaning that last bit of fudge, saying that it was the final square that did him in, but Albus is pretty sure the damage was done with his second slice of pie and the extra fruit tart he ate. 

The first years are divided into two groups in the common room – those who are excited to be in Slytherin and those who think Sorting Hat has made a most grievous error. Albus asked James last year if this happened in Gryffindor and he said no, so Albus is sure it’s a Slytherin-only phenomenon. The room is covered with students catching up and meeting for the first time. The Great Hall is large enough that the number of students isn’t overwhelming, but the common room is packed, and Albus doesn’t really want to be a part of it. 

“Do you want to go to the dorm?” Albus asks. He looks at Scorpius for the first time since they’ve entered and finds him white as a sheet, his eyes darting from face to face and cluster to cluster. He’s overcome and it shows. Albus places a careful hand above his elbow and guides Scorpius towards the dorms. 

Scorpius is pliant and follows along easily. Albus doesn’t let go until they reach the passage to the dorms, but Scorpius stays beside him, his eyes blank as he stares ahead.

“Common room is busy,” Scorpius mutters.

“It’s too loud,” Albus says. He wouldn’t contradict him even if he had wanted to stay out there. “Too many people.”

“I really just want to go to bed,” Scorpius says. There’s a bit of shame lingering in his voice and on his face, and Albus looks at him as he pushes the door to their dorm open.

“I don’t blame you,” Albus says. “It’s been a long day.”

Scorpius gives a noncommittal hum and tosses his bag onto his bed before flopping down onto the mattress. It’s dramatic, but not wholly unwarranted. Albus sighs and rubs his face, wishing (not for the first time) that his best friend came with an instruction manual.

And that’s when he sees it.

Scorpius’ trunk is situated at the foot of the bed, and on the front of it, painted in bright, blocky red letters is “Scorpius H. Voldemort.”

It’s not inventive. It’s actually rather stupid, and Albus knows it’s not the name calling that bothers Scorpius so much – it’s the implication that his mother went to bed with the Dark Lord, and today is not the day for Scorpius to have to think about that.

Albus’ thumb works over the seed markings along the handle of his wand as he draws it from the pocket of his robes. A cleaning spell and some stain-cleaning potion should do it – the paint doesn’t look like it’s enchanted – but he needs to get Scorpius out of the room.

“Scorp?”

Scorpius responds with a pained moan from his bed.

“Don’t you think a shower would help you feel better?”

He gives another pained groan as he rolls onto his side, hugging his pillow.

“I read something over the summer,” Albus lies. “On the Muggle internet. It said that when you’ve had too much sugar a hot shower or bath can aid in digestion.”

“Why on earth would you have read that?”

“Because you do this at least three times a year,” Albus replies. “That’s why. I knew you’d need it.”

Scorpius struggles into a sitting position, his hand on his stomach as it grumbles angrily at him. Even Albus’ isn’t doing that, but he supposes the stress Scorpius is under is having hidden effects as well.

“Albus Severus,” Scorpius says. “That’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Albus grumbles. He shuffles over and sits atop the defaced trunk, letting his robes fan out so they cover the writing. He disguises the action by plucking the copy of History of Magic from Scorpius’ nearby bag and opens it to a random page.

He hears telltale sounds of Scorpius rummaging in the wardrobe for pyjamas – the House Elves always put the clothes away first – and a few seconds later Scorpius appears in front of him. The green glow from the lake gives him a sickly look – it usually does but tonight it’s pronounced, and the circles under his eyes look deep and painful.

“Nice relaxing shower,” Albus urges. “Make your stomach feel better.”

Scorpius just nods and heads towards the bathroom, dragging his feet. He opens the door and the bright light of the bathroom leaks into the dorm room, and Albus hopes Scorpius doesn’t look back because he doesn’t think he’s entirely covered the red paint.

Fortunately, Scorpius is too weary to do anything like that. He just kicks the door closed behind himself, his feet heavy and his arms dangling at his sides.

Albus slams the book shut and throws it back on the bed as soon as he hears the water start running. He swings into action, crouching in front of Scorpius’ otherwise pristine trunk – it must be new – and examines the damage. The paint is nearly dry and is barely tacky to the touch. He hopes it will come off easily. He grabs his wand and casts a few Scourgifies across the canvas. For nearly five minutes he siphons off the paint, concentrating as hard as he can until only a faint, unreadable shadow remains.

For that, he needs his mum’s help.

Albus dives over to his bed and opens his trunk. He rummages around, throwing things onto the floor indiscriminately. His quills stop ink bottles from rolling away and he tosses his scarf up onto his bed. He digs until he finds it – a small bag with a few potions in it with a note tied around the drawstring-

For emergencies.

Love you,

Mum

Tears well in Albus’ eyes unexpectedly. He’s never gotten on well with his dad, but his mum… she always seemed to understand him, or understood that she didn’t and listened when he needed her to. It takes him a second to connect why he’s feeling such overwhelming gratitude – gratitude so strong it’s crippling.

His mum is alive and well. She’s at home now, probably cleaning up from supper or sitting on the sofa with a book wrapped in her worn bathrobe that Albus and Lily bought for her at Christmas at least five years ago. He imagines her now, wrapped in the soft pink cotton, smiling as she turns a page, accepting a glass of wine from Harry as he joins her, and Albus instantly wishes he were at home where he could hug her and tell her he loves her.

He doesn’t have time for that, though. He looks at the vials inside – one for stomach upsets, one for sleep, and one for stains. He grabs the right one and looks around for a cloth. If he goes into the bathroom to grab one, Scorpius will start chatting and he won’t be able to finish the job, so Albus grabs the nearest thing he can and heads back over.

He splashes the clear potion onto the green and grey stipes of his scarf and starts rubbing it on the trunk. The potion isn’t meant for knit – the fibers of the scarf start to discolor – but Albus doesn’t care. He’s got a few galleons stowed at the bottom of his trunk for emergencies like this one. He can order another one from the school.

Sometimes, he thinks as he desperately rubs the potion into the 'V’, sacrifices must be made.

He’s nearly satisfied with his work when he hears the water shut off in the bathroom. Albus scrambles for his wand and siphons off the excess moisture and casts lumos to check his work. There’s not a mark on the trunk and he grins, satisfied. He throws his ruined scarf under his bed, corks the vial of stain potion, and tosses it back into his trunk. With only a minute left, he haphazardly tosses his things back into the trunk and has just barely thrown himself down onto his own bed when Scorpius emerges in blue striped pajamas, drying his hair.

“Feel better?” Albus asks.

Scorpius sniffs as he pulls the bathroom door closed. He’s been crying. Albus would regret sending him off for a few minutes of solitude if he didn’t know seeing the trunk would be worse. Besides… sometimes it’s better to let it out.

“A bit,” Scorpius confesses as he sits on his bed. “Stomach still hurts, though.”

“Well, you can’t have everything,” Albus half-teases, and Scorpius gives him a weary smile that’s barely visible in the low light of the room.

“I think I’m going to sleep now,” Scorpius says weakly, as if asking if that’s okay. Albus sits up and looks at him. They face one another, and Albus grips the edge of his bed, trying to keep his own swirling emotions at bay because this isn’t about him at all. He doesn’t have a right to feel grateful that his mom is alive, guilty because he’s grateful, sad because he didn’t get the fun Scorpius he’s used to, or desperate because he wants to make his friend feel better. He doesn’t have a right to those things, and decides that the best course of action is to just help Scorpius feel like things can be normal again someday.

“Okay,” Albus says. “But if you can’t sleep or something in the middle of the night, wake me up?”

Scorpius gives a weak nod, and Albus knows he won’t do it even if he can’t sleep.

“I have some Sleeping Draught,” Albus offers. “If you need it.”

“Dad gave me some,” Scorpius says. “But… thanks.”

“It’s okay if you need mine. Mum made me take it with me-”

“No, Albus,” Scorpius interrupts, but his voice is kind. He looks up at Albus and stares directly into his eyes. It’s so sincere that Albus can’t do anything but stare back. Much like he’s been the rest of the day, Albus is at a loss for what to say or do.

“Thank you,” Scorpius says earnestly, and Albus knows he means for more than the potion offer. Albus gives him a weak nod, and watches as Scorpius tugs the hangings around his bed, leaving only a bit open between them like they always do, just in case. 

Albus watches him through the curtains as he settles in, curling around his pillow. He can barely hear the ruckus from the common room from here and he knows it’s early. Their dorm mates won’t even be considering bed for at least another hour. The last thing he wants to do is disturb Scorpius if he can get some rest, so Albus waits until he hears Scorpius’ breathing level out before digging in his bag and succumbing to some of his own anxiety.

He draws out a bit of parchment and an envelope, and settles it atop a book. After casting lumos, he stares down at the blank page. He doesn’t know what to say, but knows he needs to figure it out now if he wants the letter to go out in the morning post. He grabs a Muggle pen (a gift from Aunt Hermione) and starts to write.

Dear mum,

I love you.

[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/crown-expect-season-3/

'The Crown:' What to expect in Season 3

If you're a fan of Netflix's The Crown, you've already binged your way through Season 2's ten episodes and are hungry for more. Queen Elizabeth

Long before casting Colman, series creator Peter Morgan insinuated that casting an older actress as Elizabeth would bring a new perspective to the character. “What’s so beautiful about Claire is her youth,” he told Variety ahead of the first season. “You can’t ask someone to act middle-aged. Someone has to bring their own fatigue to it. The feelings we all have as 50-year-olds are different than the feelings we all have as 30-year-olds. That informs everything we do.”

Colman—who previously played Elizabeth’s mother, the Queen Mum, in 2012’s Hyde Park on Hudson—has said that she’s already spoken to Foy, who has given her some advice. “She said I’ll have a lovely time, everyone on it is amazing; the voice coaching is impeccable,” Colman told the BBC. “They were all amazing, so I’m just full of fear because you don’t want to be the one who screws it up. She’s lovely and she said I can call her anytime . . . I’m basically going to re-watch every episode and copy her.”

The Time Frame

The Crown will pick up in the 1970s, according to two production members. Producer Suzanne Mackie confirmed as much over the weekend, revealing that audiences “start meeting Camilla Parker Bowles in Season 3.” Charles met Parker Bowles, then Camilla Shand, at a polo match in 1971 and dated her until leaving for the Royal Navy in 1973.

The Crown’s history consultant, Robert Lacey, confirmed the timeline in a separate interview. “We’re now writing Season 3. And in Season 3, without giving anything away—it’s on the record, it’s history—we’ll see the breakup of this extraordinary marriage between Margaret and Snowdon,” he told Town & Country,referencing Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon’s 1976 separation and 1978 divorce. “This season, you see how it starts, and what a strange character, a brilliant character Snowdon was.”

The first season chronicled eight years, while the second season spanned seven, suggesting that the third could possibly span from about 1971 to 1979. According to Variety, “early production” on the third season was underway in October. It is unclear whether The Crown will be able to fast-track the season in time for another December season debut in 2018.

Margaret Drama

Series M.V.P. Princess Margaret will continue to deliver during this particularly juicy period of her personal history. Though both Margaret and Lord Snowdon, who married in 1960, were rumored to have had affairs during the first 10 years of their marriage, the royal marriage is said to have really begun crumbling in 1973, when Margaret, then 43, met and fell for Roddy Llewellyn, the 25-year-old son of Olympic gold medal-winning show jumper Sir Harry Llewellyn.

A snapshot of the relationship, and the state of Margaret’s marriage at the time, per The Telegraph:

So well did they get on, the princess invited [Llewellyn] to be her guest at Les Jolies Eaux, her home on Mustique. But during their first year the relationship proved too much for Llewellyn, who went off traveling in an attempt to “find himself.” The princess was distressed. Her husband was by now in a relationship with his assistant, Lucy Lindsay Hogg, who was to become his second wife. She had asked him to move out, but he had not. Now her young lover had disappeared. At the height of her distress, and unable to sleep, she took a handful of Mogadon tablets and anxious staff found they were unable to wake her. Friends have always denied that it was an attempt at suicide. She would later explain: “I was so exhausted because of everything that all I wanted to do was sleep . . . and I did, right through to the following afternoon.”

Alas, when Margaret and Llewellyn reunited, she was a little too lax with her beau. In February 1976, a tabloid published a photo of the still-married Margaret and the much younger Llewellyn in swimsuits on Mustique—causing a truly royal scandal. The photo also drove Snowdon, a serial philanderer himself, to his breaking point. When an aide alerted Margaret by phone of Snowdon’s willingness to officially divorce, the princess is said to have responded, “Thank you, Nigel. I think that’s the best news you’ve ever given me.”

Actress Vanessa Kirby, who currently plays Margaret, told media outlets that she is heartsick she can’t play the royal through this period of her life: “I was so desperate to do further on . . . because it’s going to be so fun [to enact] when their marriage starts to break down. You see the beginnings of that in Episode 10. I kept saying to [series creator Peter Morgan], ‘Can’t you put in an episode where Margaret and Tony have a big row, and she throws a plate at his head?’ I’m so envious of the actress who gets to do it.”

Prince Philip

Matt Smith, who currently plays Philip, gave Seth Meyers a clue about the actor who will succeed him. “I don’t want to speculate too much, but . . . he’s brilliant, if it’s the person I think it might be,” Smith said. “And he’s incredibly handsome as well. I’ve morphed into someone far better-looking than I.”

Potential Story Lines from the 70s

The 70s are remembered for being particularly grim for England—economic decline, picket lines, and because of the 1972 miners’ strike, a power crisis resulting in a state of emergency. Per the BBC, “In many ways [the decade] marked a reckoning for a country that had been too complacent for too long, basking in the sunshine of post-war affluence, and indifferent to the fact that our foreign competitors had not only caught up with us—they were leaving us behind.”

By the end of the decade, Queen Elizabeth was particularly worried about the crown’s seeming lack of significance to Canada. During a visit to Buckingham Palace in 1977, the controversial Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau, in an infamous story retold by the Global News, “was walking behind the Queen en route to dinner when he executed a pirouette, apparently an expression of disdain for the pomp and circumstance of the monarchy.”

In 1979, a former curator of the Queen’s art collection was unmasked as a Soviet spy. The same year, Philip’s uncle Lord Mountbatten was assassinated by the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

In family news, the former King Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor, died in 1972. The Duchess of Windsor, better remembered as Wallis Simpson, who was not entirely welcomed by the royal family when she lured her husband off the throne, stayed at Buckingham Palace ahead of the duke’s funeral—a visit which we pray will be chronicled in The Crown’s next season.

But there were happy times that will make for incredible television too, like the 1973 wedding of Elizabeth’s daughter, Princess Anne. In 1976, Elizabeth opened the Montreal Olympics, and, in 1977, she celebrated her Silver Jubilee with festivities marking her 25-year reign. In 1979, Margaret Thatcher became Britain’s first woman prime minister—a milestone which seems perfectly suited for a season finale.

Prince Charles

From 1971 to 1976, Charles served in the Royal Navy and took his great-uncle Lord Mountbatten’s well-documented advice to “sow his wild oats and have as many affairs as he can before settling down.” In 1975, Charles gave an interview stating, “I’ve fallen in love with all sorts of girls, and I fully intend to go on doing so.”

He met his future wife Camilla in 1971 at a polo match in Windsor, where she reminded the prince of the affair between her ancestor, Alice Keppel, and his, King Edward VII. “My great-grandmother and your great-great-grandfather were lovers,” she joked. “So how about it?” In 1973, while Charles was in the navy, Camilla accepted a marriage proposal from Andrew Parker Bowles.

Princess Diana

When media outlets spoke to Peter Morgan this summer, the series creator said that he still hadn’t sorted out the Princess Diana story line.

“The Diana stuff . . . I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do with her if I ever get that far,” Morgan admitted. “I’ve mapped out what might be a third season. If she were to be introduced, it’d probably have to wait until the fourth.”

It is worth noting, however, that Charles first met Diana in 1977 when he visited her family’s home for a pheasant shoot. Diana was just 16, and Charles was dating her older sister Lady Sarah at the time—so maybe there is the possibility of a cameo.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

[my-fanfic-soul]

Harry-- I Want You to Love Me

The sound of wailing pierced through the peaceful quiet of my morning coffee. It was 4 AM and I had barely slept at all, mine and Harry’s daughter keeping me up through the night.  She would sleep for thirty minutes, wake up crying and wanting to party for an hour and a half, and the cycle would start all over again.  She was two months old and I knew that we weren’t anywhere near out of the woods when it came to her being a night owl who doesn’t want to sleep.

Just a few minutes ago I had heard the muffled sound of her starting to kick up a fuss when she woke up and realized she was alone.  Frustrated tears had started to leak out of my eyes from my seat at the kitchen counter.  I hadn’t even bothered going back to sleep after the last wake up call, but I had desperately wanted my one cup of coffee for the day, something I couldn’t have if I was about to have to feed her again.

Harry, who had woken up with me the last time she had cried, had seen the look on my face and instantly jumped to open the fridge, pulling out a container filled with precious milk I had been pumping since she came home from the hospital.  We had only used a little bit of it, but we knew she’d take a bottle.  “Lemme take this one,” Harry offered as he started up hot water to warm it up.  “You enjoy your coffee, I’ll take the baby.” 

I had nearly cried with relief as he made his way through the house to pick her up, and then she had started screaming.  For several minutes, I listened to her cry and cry and I could tell through the baby monitor next to me that Harry was doing his damndest to soothe her, but nothing was working.  After a few minutes of trying to calm her down, he came into the kitchen with an apologetic look on his face and a screaming baby in his arms.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m supposed to be giving you a break,” he said as he walked past me and towards the pot where he had the bottle warming up, our daughter’s face screwed up in her efforts to make her discomfort known.  “She must be hungrier than I thought.  She just won’t calm down.”

I reached my arms out to take her from him.  “Give her here, I can hold her while you get her bottle ready.”

He shook his head with determination.  “No, I’m supposed to be letting you rest for a few minutes.  I told you that I have her.”

“Harry, you’re giving my boobs a rest,” I reminded him.  “I’m not going to get much rest if she’s screaming in the same room as me.  I just can’t feed her right now.”  With a sigh, he handed her over to me and I got her settled in my arms, cooing to her about how Styles women just know when they’re hungry and don’t like to wait.

Almost immediately she calmed down, snuggling into my chest in that way that only a tiny baby can.  Harry stared at me with a mixture of awe and hurt.  “How did you get her to calm down so fast?” he asked, nonplussed by the sudden change of demeanor in our daughter.

I shrugged, “Apparently she just really wanted to rest on my boobs, I guess.  I’ll give her back to you when you’re ready to feed her.” 

But when I tried to hand her back to her daddy, she started crying again and only calmed down when I had her securely back in my arms.  I tried again to hand her to Harry and even with him cooing to her and trying to give her the bottle, nothing was working.  I eventually had to take her back and give her the bottle myself.  I could tell that Harry was hurt, but I didn’t know what to say to make him feel better other than, “It’s probably just a one-time fluke, don’t worry about it.  Thanks for trying.”

It wasn’t a one-time thing, though.  It was only our first taste of her preference for me that we were truly aware that it was her mama she wanted, and not her daddy.  In the past we had chalked it up to her just preferring to breastfeed, hating having her diaper changed, and seeking the boob when she wanted comfort.  But even as she became less reliant on me, she still preferred her mommy over her daddy.

When she was four months old, I handed her to Harry so I could wash some dishes and she had looked him straight in the eye and her lip started trembling.  “I think our daughter hates me,” he said dejectedly a few minutes later when he had to hand her back to me, her tears stopping immediately.

“She doesn’t hate you,” I tried to assure him.  “Baby’s just… get really reliant on their mom’s, so that’s who they want.  She’ll grow out of it, I promise.”

He didn’t seem convinced.  Every time she cried when I handed her to him or she refused to fall asleep for him, even if she wasn’t crying, Harry took it to heart.  Every time her smile dropped when she realized he had bent over to making baby noises at her, too, he looked like a beaten man and I can’t say that I blame him.

“How am I supposed to be a good husband or father if my own kid hates me and you have to do all the work?” he asked one night as I rocked her to sleep at two in the morning.  My reassurances that I wouldn’t dream of doing this parenting thing with anyone else went on deaf ears.

It was messing with his self-confidence, I knew it was.  I tried everything I could to fix it, but it’s not like I can explain to a baby that she has to be nice to her daddy.  That he’s a good man who loves her and that she shouldn’t scream when I leave her alone in a room with him.  I couldn’t even convince him that it wasn’t a problem with him either.  She cries when I leave her alone in a room, period.  She’s a very attention driven child, and her main focus is her mom.

But, somehow, this has convinced Harry he’s bad with children, despite every past experience with babies proving otherwise.  He even told me one night that it would probably be better if he went on tour all the time because then she wouldn’t cry every time he walked in a room.  Even words of encouragement and stories of personal experience from his numerous dad friends; veterans who had children long before him, couldn’t bring him any comfort.

It was straining on our relationship, too.  By the time she was eight months old he would just not walk into a room if she was in there, for fear of her crying.  Which meant that the only time we were together was when she was asleep and that arrangement just wasn’t working for me.  He cooked and cleaned between the maid services dropping by, so he was helping around the house, but I missed my husband.

“If she never sees you, how is she supposed to get used to you?” I asked one night during a scathing argument.  I hate fighting with Harry, I really do, but I was at my wits end.

Silent anger was bubbling under the surface of his skin, I knew it was.  How could it not when he felt useless as a husband, father, and human being?  “I don’t particularly enjoy my own daughter crying every time she sees me.  Excuse me if I try to avoid that at all costs.”

“She’s getting old enough to start understanding that you’re her daddy,” I retorted.  “Play games with her, sing her favorite songs, she’ll come around eventually.”

“How am I supposed to sing to her if she can’t hear me through her screaming?”

Around her first birthday, things had calmed down a little bit, but they still weren’t perfect.  As long as I was around, she’d let him play with her and sing to her, and sometimes he could even monitor her eating while I cleaned up the kitchen.  She still wouldn’t sleep for him, though.  If he tried to hold her while I was in the room, she’d reach for me and fuss until I took her and if he tried to take her out of the room, she’d cry.

“What am I doing wrong?” I heard him ask his mum over the phone right now and I nearly burst into tears.  The truth was, he wasn’t doing anything wrong; which meant there was no way to fix it.

When she was fifteen months old, desperation led me to leave the two of them at home alone.  A good friend of mine from school had passed away unexpectedly and I was going to the funeral; not really the best place for an exploring baby.  She didn’t cry with Harry just for him being Harry anymore.  He could do all of her meal times with her, he was in charge of bath time, and he could even walk her around the house without her crying for mommy, but she still preferred me.  I was still the only one that could get her to sleep and I was the one she ran to when something scared her, if she found something cool she wanted to show off, or if she just wanted a snuggle.

Harry was still hurt by her blatant parental preference, and I knew he was jealous, but he was happier with how things were and our relationship was improving once again.  We were hoping that me being gone would mean that she would be willing to let Daddy do all the things Mommy normally did and she wouldn’t be so emotional about it all.

When I got home that night, he was sitting on the couch, his head bent backwards over the cushions, and our daughter asleep in his arms.  A grin spread across my face as I put down my bag.  This was the first time since she was a newborn that he had been able to hold her while she slept when she wasn’t sick.

Harry opened his eyes and looked at me blearily.  “Don’t get too excited,” he mumbled.  “She cried for twenty minutes when you left, and then calmed down until after dinner.  Then she was inconsolable.  She finally cried herself too tired to stay up and I can’t move her to put her in her crib because she’ll wake up and start crying again.”

My heart sank and I leaned over to plant a kiss on his forehead.  “At least it was a little bit of progress.”

A few months later, Harry was on tour.  He had been gone for three weeks and I was really missing my husband and co-parent, so I packed the two of us a weekend bag and flew out to surprise Harry.  The entire plane ride I was telling our daughter about how excited Daddy was going to be to see her, and that he was who we were going to see.  She was, naturally, being a squirm worm because that’s what 19 month olds do on airplanes, but she was intrigued by the pictures of him on my phone, anyway.

When the plane landed, she looked at me, pointed towards the front of the plane, and asked, “Daddy?”

“Yep, we’re going to see Daddy.”

I didn’t think much of it.  She had been saying Daddy for a few months now, but it hadn’t changed the fact she was definitely a Mommy’s girl.  I wasn’t even sure at that point if she understood what was going on, that she could even comprehend that the giant metal bird we flew in took us across countries and to where Daddy was currently staying.

It took us another hour to get off the plane, get our luggage, get in the rent car, and get to the venue where Harry was currently rehearsing for tonight’s gig, but every few minutes she’d point and ask, “Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweet pea.  We’re working on getting to Daddy.”

At the venue I tried to carry her inside on my hip, but she kept squirming and trying to get loose.  I finally had to compromise by letting Miss Independent march inside on her own two feet (while holding my hand, of course).  She followed his manager with such determination you’d think she knew exactly where she was going, too.  When the doors opened into the rehearsal room, the noise stopped, and I saw Harry look up, a grin splitting his face as he took in the welcome sight of both of us.

But it was both of us that got the real shock.

As soon as she saw Harry, our daughter let out an ear splitting squeal that was far from the screams she used to give us when Harry got close to her.  “Daddy!” she yelled, pulled out of my grasp, and ran full tilt at Harry.

I could see surprise on Harry’s face as he dropped to his knee and let his daughter attach herself to him in the biggest hug I had ever seen her give anyone.  “Hey, sweet pea,” he cooed and I heard his voice breaking.  He kissed the top of her head and cuddled her in tightly against him.  “Did you come to surprise Daddy?”  He looked up at me with big, round eyes with tears sliding down his cheek, which made me realize that I was crying, too.  She had never instigated hugs or kisses with Harry before.  She had given them to me before, and even given them to Harry upon request, but had never given them to Harry unprompted.

It was like we had gotten a completely different child out of nowhere and Harry and I were both in a state of shock all day.  She was attached to his hip and barely paid me any mind at all.  She let him take her on a tour of the venue and played on his guitars.  She even let him introduce her to his band and techs, something she would have previously wanted the comfort of Mommy to do.  That night, Harry even took some time to go to the hotel with us before his gig so he could put her to bed.

It was the first time Harry had ever gotten her to sleep that she hadn’t exhausted herself from crying or being sick.

Once she was down, we stepped out into the hallway and Harry crushed me into a hug against him, and I could feel him crying again.  “I told you she’d come around eventually,” I whispered and realized I was crying again, too.  “I told you she loved you, she just had a funny way of showing it.”

“I feel like a dad, like a good dad, for the first time since she was born,” he whispered back and my heart somehow managed to feel ridiculously full and shattered all at the same time.  “I’ve always been her daddy, I’ve always loved being her daddy, but today was the first time that I got to be the father I’ve always wanted to be.”  He kissed me hard and said, “I’m not just the sperm donor or the guy that does chores anymore.  I’m her daddy.”

It was the happiest I had ever seen him.

Master List

[journeyofdd]

Well, here I am again.  Will it ever end?

It’s been a while since I last posted, and I'm so fucking frustrated that I'm still in the same place, a suicidal recovering alcoholic with borderline personality disorder.  I just feel like such a fuck up.  I’ve been in Pinelodge psychiatric clinic for over four weeks... I originally came in for a three day stay for my monthly top up for transcranial magnetic stimulation to treat my depression and anxiety, and then my stay was extended for a medication change of my antidepressants and a reduction in my sedative meds as I’d been sleeping my days and nights away for months and not really living.  I started to go downhill really fast when my doctor was weaning me off my antidepressants and putting me on a new one and my thoughts just got darker and darker.  I was crying out for help and telling anyone who would listen, my doctor, the psych nurses, but I still managed to get out to the shops and buy a box cutter before they realised how bad I was and cancelled my leave privileges.  In the next few days the nurses removed all of the cords from my room so that I couldn’t hang myself, and one afternoon they found me unresponsive for some unknown reason - I hadn’t taken anything or hurt myself, they just couldn’t wake me for twenty minutes or so.  In the time that I was out of it, the nurses searched my room and found the box cutter and confiscated it.  Just as well because I had a serious plan to use it that night.  I had it all planned out - around midnight after the nurses had done their hourly rounds I was going to lock myself in the bathroom and slash both of my wrists as  deep as I could.  I wanted nothing more than to die.  I wasn’t thinking of my loved ones, the people I would hurt, and have hurt before in my last suicide attempt nine years ago.  I was just in so much pain, emotional agony, that all I wanted to do was die.  I haven’t felt that way in a long time.  I don’t think I had ever wanted it that much, just to end it all.  Well once my box cutter was gone, I was absolutely desperate.  I couldn’t deal with what was going on inside my head, and I just wanted it to stop and be peaceful.  The nurses deemed me to be at such high risk that I had to be accompanied to go downstairs and have a cigarette in case I walked out the front door into traffic - another way that I was planning to either hurt myself or end my life.  I was on fifteen minute obs and having meals in my room, and they sent up my lunch and dinner to my room, plates, cutlery and all... Then I had an idea.  I had to send back my dinner plate, and the knife and fork were useless, but I kept the saucer.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill myself with a broken saucer, but I was sure as hell going to hurt myself as badly as I could.  I locked myself in the bathroom and put the saucer inside a towel and broke it quietly into jagged pieces and just started cutting my wrists.  It was such a relief to see that blood trickling down my wrists.  It was such a release and relief.  The problem was that I didn’t hide it well enough and when the nurse came in to check on me she told me how well I was doing, and how proud she was of me.  I told her that I wasn’t doing well at all and fessed up and showed her my wrists.  Gee, did the shit hit the fan then.  As they dressed my pathetic attempt at self harm, they called the nurse in charge and I don't know who called my psychiatrist at 9pm on a Saturday night, who came in and was less than thrilled with me and basically told me that as this was a private, voluntary, psychiatric clinic, it was not high dependency for people in my state and under the mental health act he was committing me to Dandenong hospital psychiatric, where it was high dependency, you couldn’t even get out of the unit.  So I spent two mind numbing nights there, the first time I had ever been in a public psychiatric unit.  It wasn't as scary as I thought it would be, but I was probably the most unwell person there.  On Monday morning the nurses told me that the psychiatrist wanted to see me, and I assumed that it was the public psych, but when I walked into the room it was Pat, my private psychiatrist, to my great surprise.  We had a talk,well he talked, I mostly listened and cried.  He said that he would admit me back to Pinelodge again if I made a deal with him that I wouldn’t harm myself again, otherwise he would no longer be my treating psychiatrist.  I agreed.  Two hours later I was back at Pinelodge, having my threshold done for left sided transracial magnetic stimulation which is meant to help me more with my depression and anxiety.  I have been doing that for two weeks now and still have at least another week’s worth of treatment to go. The problem is I'm still feeling the same, constantly thinking of self harm and suicide, but I made a deal with my doctor that I wouldn’t self harm again, so I haven’t.  I am just so scared that when I go home I'll be in the same state and I will follow through my plans and hurt myself, or worse, leaving my Mum to find me and break her heart.  I even have a plan of how and where I would do it.  Totally selfish.  I wouldn’t even be allowed a Catholic funeral if I committed suicide, technically, but then again times have changes and I would hope that the priest understands mental illness and would look the other way.  I’ve even got my funeral songs picked out (see below on my songs links).  Another thing that is bothering me is that due to my feelings and actions I haven’t been to church in four weeks, because I feel that by self harming I have sinned and that if I went to church I couldn’t take communion, and that just makes me more upset.  The nurses here this morning asked me if I was going to church today and I broke down and fessed up, and they told me to organise the pastoral areas here to organise a Catholic priest to come in to hear my confession.  My doctor saw me yesterday and I tried to tell him how I was feeling, and he said that he thought that I was doing better, which totally shut me down - I thought, well if he thinks I'm doing better, just put on a brave face and go with it, but I can’t do that, it’s just too dangerous, I need to make him understand the truth.  My medications are still being adjusted, my antipsychotics have been decreased, then increased, then one of them changed and I’m starting on a higher dose this morning.  Will it ever change?  I just don’t see a happy ending in sight, I am in such a dark place.  Will I ever be well?  Will I ever be loved?  Will I ever be normal? I guess this is all one big, public cry for help, but I just don’t know how to do it on my own anymore, and part of the problem is that I don’t want to.  Friends, what do I do?  How do I come out the other die?  I know that even though I am in such a dark place, I want to come out the other side.  I want to get better.  I want some sense of normalcy.  Even though I do now, I don’t ultimately want to die at my own hand.  It’s so selfish and hurtful.  I just don’t know what to do.  I don’t know how to climb out of this hole.  I don’t know how too get better, and at the moment, sadly, I don’t even want to.  

[torestoreamends]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Fic: Letting Go

14.3k words, T rated

When Albus is killed in the fight against Delphi, Scorpius is determined to find a way to bring his best friend back. He’s read about the Resurrection Stone, which Harry took with him into the forest on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts. If he can find it, it’ll be as if Albus was never dead at all... 

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a long time, and have only just worked up the courage to do it. @autumn-of-ilvermorny‘s fic rec list, and the discovery that I hadn’t yet written any Scorbus dark angst, was the final inspiration. I don’t expect this to be many people’s cup of tea, but if you do read it, I hope I’ve done the subject justice and told a good story. 

Thanks to the amazing @bounding-heart and @abradystrix for betaing. 

(Rated T for major character death and very brief contemplation of suicide)

*

Albus is on fire with fear and adrenaline. His heart pounds, and he's never been so determined about anything in his life. He kneels beside the grate and stares grimly down at it. "I can fit through. I can help him." He glances up at the others. "I-I'll open the doors and let you out." 

His mum crouches behind him and grasps his arm. "You shouldn't do it. It's too dangerous. Your- your father is a very capable wizard and an excellent Auror," she swallows, like she's taking a second to try and convince herself. "He can handle himself." 

Draco nods. "I agree. We should find another way to get the doors open. Maybe Bombarda, or-"

"She's disarmed him," Albus interrupts, looking right into his mum's eyes. "But I can crawl through, get him a wand, and we can all fight together. I promise I can do this." His hands are shaking and he doesn't feel nearly as confident as he sounds.

"And what if she curses you?" His mum asks, running her hands over his shoulders, holding onto him, holding him back.

"Then I'll have died fighting her," he says with a shaky smile. He throws his arms round his mum and hugs her tight. "I love you, Mum." 

She grips him. "Don't do this. You don't have to-"

"We'll find another way," Draco says, striding over to the door and putting all his weight on it. "Scorpius, help me." Scorpius hesitates, seeming torn, then he rushes across to help his dad. 

Albus watches him go, then slips from his mum's arms and swings his feet into the hole. She grasps hold of his shoulder. 

"Albus, stay here. Don't go through. There are other ways."

"But I want to, Mum," he argues. "I'll be fine." 

She shakes her head. "No, come and help us with the door." She takes hold of Albus's hand and pulls him up. He goes with her reluctantly, but stares back at the dark hole in the floor. As much as Delphi terrifies him, the fact they're fighting her is his fault, and he wants to help defeat her. He needs to help his dad, because if anything happens to him...

"Do you think we could saw through the doors?" Draco asks, glancing round at them.

"I wish I could remember that fancy lock-picking spell George is always going on about," Ginny says, letting go of Albus and dragging her hands through her hair as she paces up and down. 

"Maybe we can unscrew the hinges?" Scorpius suggests, chewing his fingernails. 

Albus listens to them only vaguely. He can't take his eyes off the open grate. Maybe if he made a run for it... Then his mum wouldn't be able to stop him. Whatever they do, they need to do it fast. They don't have long.

His hands shaking and his heart thuds in his chest. His mum doesn't want him to do this, but- He glances around to check that Ginny and Draco are focused on the door, then starts walking purposefully back to the grate. If he runs his footsteps will give him away. 

Scorpius is watching him. He only realises it when he sits down on the edge of the grate and sees his best friend open his mouth to say something. He puts a finger to his lips to tell Scorpius to keep quiet, and Scorpius swallows and shoots him a desperate look. Albus gives him thumbs up and a shaky smile. 

Scorpius shakes his head. "Albus," he says, like he can't help himself. He takes several steps forward, and as he does, Ginny and Draco both turn round. 

"Albus, don't!" Ginny cries, rushing toward him, but Albus doesn't waste another second. He snatches up the two wands and slithers through the hole. 

His mum's hands grab at him, catching at his hoodie and his hair, but he ducks underneath and starts crawling, not looking back. It's dusty and dirty down here. It smells musty and a bit damp. The air is thick and it's difficult to breathe, especially as he crawls along and stirs up more dust motes. From somewhere overhead he can hear Delphi's voice, high and cold.

"The question is whether it's worth my time to kill you, knowing that as soon as I stop my father, your destruction will be assured... How to decide? Oh, I'm bored. I'll kill you." 

There's an almighty crash from up above, and Albus throws himself through the dark space. The grate in the nave is overhead now, candlelight streaming down through the wrought iron curlicues. He rushes to his feet and throws it open, just as Delphi begins to scream, "Avada-"

"Dad!" Albus shouts, pulling himself up.

Harry looks at him, wild eyed. "Albus! No!" 

Delphi laughs, and Albus looks up at her, transfixed by the terrifying aura of power around her. She's in her element, playing with them, and he doesn't know where to go or what to do. 

"Two of you," she crows, utterly gleeful. "Choices, choices. I think I'll kill..." Her wand moves slowly between them, and Albus readies himself to duck behind the bench or dive at his dad. "The boy first. Avada Kedavra."

There's a flash of green light, and Albus is thrown sideways as a solid body hits him and barrels him out of the way. His dad scrambles off him, to his feet, grabbing one of the wands from his hand and pointing it at Delphi. 

"You think you're stronger than me?" She asks, incredulous, mocking, enjoying every second of this.

"No, I'm not," Harry says, sending a bolt of fire at her, forcing her to dodge. "But we are." 

Albus gets to his feet. "Alohomora!" He shouts, pointing his wand at the door where his mum and Scorpius and Draco are waiting. It springs open, and he turns to the other door. "Aloho-"

"Avada Kedavra," Delphi snarls. 

A flash of green. A rush of wind. And then-

---

Scorpius walks his fingers along the leather spines of the books. It's the morning of the 7th of November and he's never been happier to be back in the library. The week has been pure hell. A day in St Mungo's for shock and to look for any after-effects of the torture, then going home and trying to talk to his dad, followed by the funeral and everything that went along with it... And his mind had been racing the whole time. Running at a thousand miles an hour, too fast for him to keep up, a whirl of ideas and theories and things to try out. 

And now he's finally free. Free and in his natural habitat. Ready to sort things out. 

He picks out his favourite copy of The Boy Who Lived: Tales of a Year on the Run, and throws himself into a seat, already flicking through the pages to the final few chapters. There should be something in here about it, about the night of the battle, but if there isn't he can turn to countless other books that he knows for sure will give him the answers he needs.

He's just found the page he needs when someone sits opposite him, and he glances up. 

Rose. Looking deadly serious. Worried, even. There's none of the usual shine in her eyes, but Scorpius is used to that by now. It's always been this way. When you lose someone it's like all the lights go out for a while, but he's used to losing people. He knows what it feels like, and he knows what he can do about it.

"Hello, Rose," he says, looking back down at his book and starting to scan the words. 

"You're in the library," she says. 

"Very observant," he replies, not glancing up. "Was it all the books that gave it away by any chance?"

Rose sighs and shuffles forward in her chair. "Why are you in the library? I know you don't have any homework. But here you are, reading about-" she peers at the front of his book. "Harry." 

"I'm looking for answers," Scorpius says. He snaps the book shut. It's useless, glazing over some of the most important points of the battle, and all the bits he cares about.

He bounces to his feet and picks out The Battle of Hogwarts: An In Depth and Essential Guide to the Last Stand Against He Who Must Not Be Named. 

"Answers to what?" Rose asks. "Scorpius..." She pauses, and he can feel her looking at him. "Don't you think you should, I don't know, give it a few days? Before you go rushing around? He was your best friend, and-"

Scorpius looks up from his book, staring up at the shelves and taking a deep breath, frustration coursing through him already. "If you're trying to tell me how to grieve, then-"

"I'm not!" Rose says. She gets to her feet and walks up to him, blocking him in against the book case. "I'm just worried about you, Scorpius. And I think my aunt and uncle are worried about you too. I mean, you don't look-" she gestures to him, and he looks down at himself.

His shirt is untucked, and somehow he's managed to button it unevenly without noticing. He notices that his hair is a mess too. He can feel it all tangled and sticking up, and realises he must look a mess. Quickly he flattens it down, then he spins around and press himself against the book case to get away from her. "Well you don't need to worry, okay? There's nothing to worry about." He looks at her. "You can't just suddenly pretend to care about me. I know you don't, and you never have, so I think you should leave me alone." 

Rose takes a step back, but she doesn't leave. She folds her arms and holds her ground. "I cared about him. And he cared about you, so now I'm going to care about you too. And I won't go away until I know you're not going to do something stupid, so..." She lifts her chin and digs her heels in. "Why are you in the library?" 

Scorpius eyes her for a moment. "I don't trust you not to tell anyone." 

Rose unfolds her arms. "Were you always this frustrating? Or did you learn that from Albus?"

Scorpius flinches at the name, and looks down at his book. "I probably learned it from him. And I'm not telling you anything if you're just going to run off and tell someone."

Rose seems to think for a long few seconds, mind whirring, weighing up whether it's better to know and not tell, or to simply not know. "Fine," she says finally. "I promise, cross my heart, that I won't tell anyone."

Scorpius points the book at her. "Good answer." He turns back to the shelves and pulls out a very thin book, Into the Forest. "What do you know about the Resurrection Stone." 

Rose shakes her head. "No. Scorpius, you can't do that. I'll tell-"

Scorpius whirls round. "You promised you wouldn't tell." 

She stares at him, eyes wide, fear bright in them. "But I didn't know-" 

Scorpius points the book at her, and feels a thousand things welling up inside him. His own fear, the loss, the desperation, the hope. He needs this. It's a chance to get Albus back. In the absence of Time-Turners, this is the last resort. "You promised. You... You promised." 

Rose shakes her head very slowly.

"Please," Scorpius says. The only thing keeping it all at bay has been this one single thought. Without this he has no Albus. He has nothing.

Rose swallows. "...Fine. I-I won't tell, but... well, isn't it lost? It's somewhere in the forest, but people have looked. No one's ever found anything even remotely like it." She takes the book from Scorpius and opens it up. "Harry dropped it. He didn't mean for anyone to find it, and the forest is enormous. Where would you even start looking?" 

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Scorpius says. He leans his shoulder against the bookcase and studies its contents. "There must be a way to work out the route he took. I know someone worked out which clearing the encounter took place in. I just can't remember which book it's in. Did you know it's possible to have read too many books? I didn't realise until now." He bends down and starts picking out books, stacking them up in his arms. "But it's fine. I'll just have to read until I find it." 

"You're really not okay, are you?" Rose says, frowning at him.

"No," Scorpius says. He looks up at her and grins broadly. "But I will be." 

 On Sunday night he's sitting cross-legged in the middle of Albus's bed, wearing Albus's Christmas jumper from last year. It still smells of him, and when Scorpius is wearing it he can imagine Albus has just gone out to the bathroom or something, and will be back any second, ready to pounce on him and tickle him until he's sobbing from laughter and no longer able to breathe. 

All the hangings are open, his new wand is lit, spreading a pale glow across the emerald sheets, and the book lies in his lap. It's the middle of the night and he's exhausted. His eyes keep blurring and flickering shut, but he can't stop reading. Albus wouldn't stop if this were the other way round.

He rubs his eyes and it feels like he's scrubbing sand into them, but that doesn't stop him. He reaches for another Jelly Slug to give him energy, and presses on. 

‘There remains much speculation about Harry Potter's journey into the forest that night. It is widely known that he set off towards the end of the one hour ceasefire, and that he took with him the fabled Resurrection Stone, a powerful magical object thought to be one of the Deathly Hallows, believed to bring back loved ones who have died. 

Previously it has not been clear precisely where his encounter with He Who Must Not Be Named took place, but recent searches of the forest have uncovered evidence to suggest that-’

Scorpius nearly drops the book in excitement. He flails around, manages to grab it before he loses the page, and brings it closer to his face, staring at the words, determined to memorise every single one of them. And when he turns the page there's a diagram of the forest, laying out some approximate routes, and pointing out Harry's destination. 

He claps a hand over his mouth to hold back a squeak of joy. This is it. This is his answer. He's found where to start looking. Now he can search the forest, find the stone, and bring Albus back. 

He marks the page in his book, snatches his wand up, and leaps out of bed. Everyone else in the dorm is fast asleep behind their hangings, so he tiptoes across to get his slippers and dressing gown, skittering over the creaky floorboards so they barely make a sound. He throws his Slytherin scarf on over the top of his pyjamas, dressing gown, and Albus's jumper, and races to the door. 

The castle is still and peaceful. It's the middle of the night, well after curfew, so everyone is asleep. Every step, every breath, seems to disturb the night. If Scorpius wasn't buzzing with adrenaline and excitement he'd be terrified. Shadows pool at the bases of statues and suits of armour, and in the corners of long corridors, held back from dominating the castle by the pale shafts of moonlight that slant in through the windows, and the white light from his wand, which he's holding aloft.

The front doors open at his touch. They creak, the sound echoing off the marble and whinstone, and he stops dead, heart pounding in his chest. Thankfully there's no one other than himself around to hear. The noise fades, and Scorpius sucks his stomach in and wriggles through the crack he's made between the door and the frame. He doesn't want to wait around any longer.

The grounds look very different at night. Mist swirls across the lawn, and walking through it feels like wading through water. It's icy cold, the ground is solid with frost, and overhead the midnight blue sky is unbroken by clouds. There's a full moon up there, an unblinking eye staring down at him as he darts from shadow to shadow across the grass towards the forest. 

When he looks back at the castle there aren't any lights on. Every single one of the thousands of windows is dark. The walls seem to glow though, the pale grey stone picking up the moonlight and reflecting it, amplifying it, like the school is a beacon, like it's calling him home. Except it isn't home anymore, because the person who made it feel like home, who was his only family there, is gone. 

As Scorpius draws level with the lake he lowers his wand and studies the diagram in the book. It seems like Harry entered the forest on a path somewhere near Hagrid's cabin. It shouldn't be too difficult to find. It's not far from the place where Scorpius likes to go and watch the Thestrals sometimes. When Albus comes back he'll be able to see them too; they both saw Craig die. Maybe they can watch them together. 

Scorpius smiles at the thought. Sometimes good can come from the most awful things in life, and that will be one of them. He can already imagine Albus stealing meat from the kitchens and going up to feed them. When the little foal comes and tries to nuzzle his pockets for more food he'll laugh, and the corners of his eyes will crinkle up as he smiles. It'll be beautiful. 

Given new determination by the thought, Scorpius sets off running. His slippers come loose on his feet and he kicks them off. There aren't too many stones or sharp twigs here, just grass and moss, and a few fallen leaves. He can put them on again when he reaches the path into the forest. 

As he approaches Hagrid's cabin he realises that although the curtains are shut, there are lights on inside. Fang is barking, and he hears Hagrid telling him to quiet down. He ducks down and crouches his way round the edge of the bare pumpkin patch. The enormous pumpkins which had been growing there were all carved up for the Halloween feast, although that had ended up being cancelled. All that's left now are frosty mud and roots and leaves. 

It's a relief to leave the pumpkin patch behind without having been noticed. Scorpius keeps low as he darts into the trees, then relaxes as the shadows cover him. This is his bit of the forest, the place he comes on his own and reads. He's safe here, and he knows it well.

His feet are starting to ache from walking barefoot, but there's no reason to run anymore so he slides his slippers back on. Now he's well hidden and the terror of being seen fades away, he realises just how cold it is. He's shivering, and he wishes he'd brought gloves. The best he can do is wrap his thin dressing gown tighter around his body and pull the sleeves of Albus's jumper down over his hands. He hugs himself and rubs his shoulders for warmth as he keeps walking. 

There's a dry stone wall that marks the edge of the Centaur land. This is where the Thestrals congregate, but there are none out tonight. Scorpius has never crossed this wall alone before, but he's going to have to now. The path is just beyond it, and a little thing like trespassing isn't about to stop him. 

He lets himself through the rickety wooden gate and sets off down the path. The mist is thicker here, and he can barely see his feet. Tree roots twist and grab at him as he passes, and he stumbles a few times. Once he ends up sprawling on the path and grazing his hand. Each time he picks himself back up and keeps plodding along. He knows he's making too much noise, and he can feel the eyes of every creature in the forest on him, but he doesn't much care. 

The path gets thinner and twistier. The forest gets darker. The trees close in and grab at his hair and clothes. He almost loses one of his slippers. He grips his wand tighter and holds it higher, trying to see up ahead. The stars are barely visible through the thick canopy overhead now. He's hopelessly lost, and all he can do is keep walking and pray. Pray that he's going the right way and will get there soon. 

The path starts to descend, and his heart beats faster. He's going down into a hollow, the hollow he's read about in so many books. The one where the Acromantula nest used to be. The one which is rumoured to be where Harry Potter was killed. 

Scorpius lowers his wand and looks around. The glare of his wandlight glitters as it falls on the last remnants of what was once an enormous network of webs. There are barely any cobwebs left now, after years of decay, and thankfully there's not a spider in sight.

Scorpius turns round on the spot, light dancing across gnarled tree roots, mossy bits of rock, the black mulch of decaying leaves. 

"Accio Resurrection Stone," he whispers, barely audible, like a whisper of breeze through the branches overhead. 

Nothing happens. He takes a step forward and raises his voice.

"Accio Resurrection Stone."

Still nothing, but it must be here somewhere.

He tucks the book into his pocket and starts sweeping the ground. "Accio Stone. Accio Resurrection Stone. Accio. Accio. Accio." It becomes a desperate gabble, and he starts crawling, running his hands across the ground, searching and searching and searching. 

And as he turns, his foot connects with something small, the size of a large pebble, and it skitters and bounces across the hollow, black surface catching in the light. 

Heart pounding in his mouth, blood rushing through his ears, he scrambles across the ground, and finds it among a pile of old bones. 

He picks it up. It's cold to the touch, but it's the right shape. The right size. A black, moss free stone, bright, faceted. There's a carving on the top face, of a triangle and a circle, and there's a long crack down the middle where Professor Dumbledore had destroyed the Horcrux that once lived inside it. 

This is it. This is it this is it this is it. The Resurrection Stone. He's found it. He's done what no one else has ever done. No one since Harry Potter himself has held this stone, and now it's Scorpius's. Now it's going to bring Albus back. 

He turns the stone over in his fingers. Once. Twice. Three times. He holds his breath. The forest is perfectly still. 

Then he senses it rather than hears it. A stirring behind him. Leaves rustling like someone is there. He whirls around. 

There, standing between two trees, is Albus. Eyes bright green. Black hair a mess. Wearing a blue gilet, a blue striped hoodie, a blue t-shirt, dark jeans. Every detail of him the same as it had been a week ago when he was lost, but now he's found. Scorpius has found him. 

"Albus," Scorpius breathes. 

"Hi," Albus says, and grins.

 "It's been hell," Scorpius says, hugging the pillow to his chest and looking at Albus. "This whole week has been awful."

"What happened?" Albus asks, leaning back against his headboard and watching Scorpius intently. His face is bright in the wand light. His eyes sparkle like jewels. Scorpius almost can't breathe because he's Albus, and he's here. He looks even better than Scorpius had remembered, and there's so much intensity in that unblinking gaze that Scorpius can barely handle it. 

He shakes his head and looks down at Albus's blankets. "After you-" He picks at a crease in the fabric and takes a breath. "Well, I-I didn't see what happened really. I know your dad was... He wouldn't let go of you. And someone, I don't know who, maybe all of them, killed Delphi. This curse, it sort of shattered her. And then we all left, we brought you home, and I went with my dad. We didn't talk much, you know, sometimes it's difficult to know where to start. I-I spent a couple of days in hospital, then I got a new wand, and there was- the funeral..." 

"They've already had my funeral?" Albus asks, leaning forward, curious. 

Scorpius nods. "Yes. On Friday." He rubs a bit of dry mud off the side of his slipper. "I don't really know what to tell you. I hated every second of it. It just made me more determined to get you back. And you're here now, so maybe we shouldn't talk about it."

"Scorpius," Albus says, giving him a look. "If you'd died wouldn't you want me to tell you about your funeral?" 

Scorpius meets his eyes. "Every detail." 

"Exactly," he says, eyes bright. "Go on then. Who was there? What was it like? Did anyone cry? Did you cry?"

Scorpius looks away. "I don't cry at funerals. But your family... Your dad, he- He misses you." 

"Good," Albus says, a sudden sharp, vindictive edge to his voice that makes Scorpius snap up and stare at him. 

"What did you-"

Albus lifts his chin. "I said it's good. Now he knows how Amos Diggory must have felt." 

"You can't say something like that," Scorpius breathes, gaping at him.

Albus shrugs. "I'm dead. I can say anything I want. Anyway." He shifts and crosses his legs. "Tell me about you. Did you miss me? Did you say anything at the funeral? Did you- Oh, did you leave any sweets or anything at my grave?" He grins as he says it, and a chill passes through Scorpius's whole body. There's something about that grin. It doesn't quite make Albus's face shine the way it should. The way it did before.

Scorpius ducks his head and tries not to think about that. Of course Albus will be different. He's died and come back. Maybe it'll just take him time to get back to normal. 

"Of course I missed you," Scorpius says, pulling the sleeves of Albus's jumper down over his hands. The wool cushions the stone which still rests in his palm, holding it in place. "You're my best friend, Albus. But I... I didn't do anything at the funeral. I didn't know what to do. I was thinking most of the time, actually. Because I knew you could come back. I knew I could get you back. And here you are." 

Albus looks around at the warm, emerald green space they're sharing behind his hangings. "Here I am." His figure shimmers slightly as he moves, blinking into intangibility for a moment. Scorpius grips the stone tight and tries to forget that he saw anything.

 Scorpius's neck aches. He groans and rolls over on Albus's bed. It must be morning because he can hear his dorm mates chatting as they get ready for school. He'd completely forgotten to set an alarm or anything, he'd forgotten school existed if he's being perfectly honest. The idea of getting up and getting dressed and going to lessons alone feels so weird. But then again, he's not alone.

He sits bolt upright, rubs his eyes, and looks around. Albus is gone. The sheets don't even look like they've been disturbed. It's as if he were never there at all. There are only two signs that last night was real: the pillow Scorpius had been hugging, which is now halfway down the bed, and the perfectly polished black stone, which gleams in the light spilling through a crack in the hangings. 

Scorpius picks the stone up, takes a breath, closes his eyes, and lets it turn over three times in his palm. 

"Good morning, Scorpius." 

He nearly collapses with relief at the sound of Albus's voice. He opens his eyes and grins up at his best friend, who is sitting cross-legged up by the bedhead again. 

"Morning, Albus," he says, cheerfully. "For a second I thought you'd disappeared." 

"I did disappear," Albus says, smiling. "I think, and correct me if I'm wrong, you have to be holding the Stone for me to be here." 

Scorpius looks down at the stone in his hand for a moment, then he lets it fall onto the bed. Albus disappears. As quickly as he can, Scorpius picks the stone back up and turns it over again. Albus blinks back into existence, grinning.

"You're not wrong," Scorpius says. 

"Apparently not. Well that's useful to know! You'll just have to keep holding on to me, won't you?"

Scorpius squeezes the little stone tightly in his hand. "I will." He gets up and draws the hangings back. All his dorm mates have, thankfully, left now. He and Albus are alone. "Want to come to breakfast with me, Albus? I wasn't looking forward to facing the Great Hall alone. I've avoided it so far, but I know people are going to stare. It'll be nice to have someone with me for moral support." He picks his robes up from the floor, and Albus hops off the bed. He's already wearing his robes, though he hadn't been a few seconds ago. 

"Of course I'll come. Monday is bacon day." 

Scorpius grins. "Your favourite." 

 When Albus pauses in the doorway to the Great Hall, Scorpius accidentally walks through him. He hadn't realised Albus wasn't solid. He's like a ghost or something, only he doesn't feel quite so cold. In fact he doesn't feel like anything much at all. 

"Are these for me?" Albus asks, unperturbed, gazing up at the black drapes, which line the roof of the hall where the house banners would normally be.

Scorpius shakes himself, tries to forget that his best friend is apparently no longer a physical being, and nods. "For you and Craig. They put them up when they cancelled the Halloween feast, apparently. I think they're keeping them up until the, um, the memorial next week." 

Albus stares at him incredulously. "Hogwarts is having a memorial? For me? Possibly the most disappointing student for a generation? I thought I already had a funeral anyway."

"This is just a school thing I think," Scorpius says. "For the students. And you weren't- You're not disappointing, Albus. You're brilliant. You saved the world." 

Albus snorts. "Yeah, but not very well. When you did it you managed not to die." 

"People think you're a hero," Scorpius says, setting off for the Slytherin table. "You showed everyone who Delphi was, you came up with the idea to send the message to your dad, you tried to help him and you- you died unlocking the doors so we could get to her. You saved us, Albus. Your- you made made it possible." Scorpius sits down and hugs his robes around himself. 

Albus sits opposite him, in his usual seat. "At least it wasn't you she killed. And at least it wasn't Dad. People would miss him an awful lot more than me." 

Scorpius starts helping himself to toast. "People missed you an awful lot as well. Your brother and sister still haven't come back to school yet. Rose is upset."

"And you," Albus says, pointing across the table at him. "You missed me so much you had to find a way to bring me back. Because clearly you've learned nothing from any of our adventures. Weren't you paying attention to all the proof that bringing people back from the dead is a bad idea?" 

Scorpius's cheeks heat. "This isn't a Time-Turner, Albus. I'm not changing things, I'm just-"

"Meddling," Albus says, smirking. 

"You should be grateful," Scorpius mutters. "Without me you wouldn't be here." 

"I know," Albus says. "I am painfully aware." 

Scorpius avoids his eyes for a minute, methodically spreading marmalade onto his slices of toast. 

"Maybe we should talk about something else," Albus says finally, sounding slightly awkward. "Tell me about... Your new wand. What is it? Did you go to Ollivander's? Did your dad take you? I thought he didn't feel comfortable there."

Scorpius grins and draws his wand from his bag. He's glad to move on from the talk of death. This is far easier, this useless but excitable chatter. This is what he and Albus have always been best at, and finally, finally, it feels like he has his real best friend back again.

As he gives an enthusiastic speech about the qualities of his new fir wand, he doesn't notice people nearby staring at him, or pointedly looking away and bowing their heads. 

 Lessons, Scorpius quickly discovers, just get in the way of spending time with Albus. His favourite thing about Hogwarts always used to be learning things. Having knowledge poured into his brain for him to digest, and coming out feeling smarter and stronger. But somehow learning is far less satisfying without having someone to do it with. He can't have Albus with him during lessons. He needs both hands for practicing wandwork or taking notes or potion making, and anyway, one of the teachers might spot the stone and ask about it, and it isn't something Scorpius wants to have to explain. 

So instead of being glad to be back at school, he's constantly fidgeting, mind elsewhere, and rather than hanging back to ask questions or discuss ideas with the teachers after each lesson, he's the first one out of the room, dashing off to somewhere, anywhere, where he can summon Albus back to him. 

The truth is, he feels lost without Albus. He's never been at Hogwarts without Albus, and he doesn't know how to do it. Classes feel dull without Albus's complaints, or muttered sarcastic comments, or entertaining little doodles. The halls feel empty without him stomping along in a bad mood, or going on and on about his latest wild plan for mayhem. Whenever Albus isn't there, Scorpius feels incomplete, and he's rapidly becoming obsessed with both him and the Resurrection Stone.

On Tuesday afternoon he sits in History of Magic and lets the stone roll backwards and forwards in his palm under the desk. It's so smooth and cool, and he enjoys the hard edges, and the irregular way it falls from face to face. He has no idea what Professor Binns is talking about. All he can think about is the conversation he'd been having with Albus at lunchtime. 

They'd been reminiscing about their train ride to school in second year, when Albus had snuck up to James's carriage and thrown a Dungbomb inside. It's one of the fondest memories of both their lives, and the hour they'd spent talking about it had been golden and happy, and Albus's laughter had been achingly beautiful. Scorpius needs to get back and hear him laugh again. He needs it like he needs air, and his chest feels tight just thinking about it. 

When the bell rings he doesn't wait to be dismissed. He grabs his stuff and sprints down to the dorm, feverishly turning the stone over three times as he goes. Albus appears from nowhere beside him, keeping pace with him. 

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" 

Scorpius grins, and looks at Albus, and it's like the world finds purpose again. Like the sun comes out. "To see you. Class just finished and I couldn't wait another second." 

"Wasn't it History of Magic?" Albus asks. He leans in close to Scorpius, teasing. "Isn't that your favourite subject?" 

"Of course it is, but if I hang around I get less time with you. You forget, Albus. I can't just sit in class and chat to you anymore. I have to maximise my spare time, to give you as much of my attention as I possibly can." 

Albus shifts sideways to walk right beside Scorpius. If he were really there, they'd be pressed together. Albus would be warm and solid. But he isn't. He's a ghost, or a shadow, or something. Scorpius moves away a couple of inches. 

"I'm flattered," Albus says. "But do you really want your grades to suffer on my behalf? You have a future to think about Scorpius. All these big dreams. Big, ambitious, Slytherin dreams." He turns round as he says it, walking backwards so he can look Scorpius in the eye. "Anyway, you love homework." 

Scorpius grasps the strap on his bag. "You're right. I do love homework. But... Things have changed. Maybe this is just temporary, but... There are more important things now." He looks at Albus and sees that his expression has gone all serious. The bright smile has faded, and his lips are a tight, concerned line. 

"I have some Pepper Imps," Scorpius says quickly, looking away, trying not to think about the fact that Albus is worried about him. "Down in the dorm. We can sit and eat them, tell some more stories. If you're really keen I'll even explain McGonagall's Transfiguration homework to you." 

"You can eat the Pepper Imps," Albus says, but he doesn't seem to hate the idea too much, because he doesn't argue. He turns and keeps walking for a moment, then pauses in his stride, frowning at a windowsill down the corridor. "Isn't that your dad's owl?" 

Scorpius walks up beside him and sees the familiar eagle owl perched there, feathers ruffled like she's incredibly proud of herself. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks, approaching her.

She holds her leg out and hoots at him. 

"Yes, I know you're delivering a letter, but-" He unties the envelope and flips it over to find his dad's neat script, marking him out as the recipient. As he slits the envelope over he makes sure to keep the stone carefully pressed against his palm. He doesn't want to drop it and lose Albus now. 

He feels a flutter of wind as Albus moves up to look over his shoulder while he reads the short letter.

Scorpius, 

I hope things are well at school, or at least as well as they can be. 

Professor McGonagall wrote to me to say you seemed a little distracted in lessons yesterday, which of course I understand completely. If you'd find it easier to be at home for a few more days you'd be welcome here. I don't want to force you into anything, and I know you're capable of making your own decisions, but I just wanted you to know that the option is open.

I also wanted to invite you for dinner tomorrow night. The last week or so has been exceptionally difficult for both of us, and there are a lot of things I'd like to talk to you about that haven't seemed appropriate to discuss before. It's been a long time since we just had dinner together. How would you feel about that? 

I look forward to the possibility of seeing you tomorrow. 

Much love,

Your father 

Scorpius stares down at the words. His dad wants to have dinner with him, spend time with him, something they haven't done in years. It will eat into his time with Albus, but... 

"This was what you wanted," Albus says quietly. "Wasn't it? To talk to your dad..." He glances up at Scorpius. "You should go. Go and talk to him. I want you to."

"But then I won't-" Scorpius starts, but Albus gives him a fierce, blazing look. 

"This is what I wanted too. To sort things out with my dad. I never got the chance, Scorpius, but you have it right here. Please. Tell him how brave you were, like you wanted to." 

The parchment crumples in Scorpius's hands as he tightens his grip on it, trying to keep his emotions at bay. "It's not fair," Scorpius murmurs, voice tight and strained. "That you don't get to sort it all out. I'm sorry." 

"Stop it," Albus chides, firm but gentle. "Honestly, don't think about me. Think about you." 

Scorpius looks down at the stone in his hand. "I could give this to your dad. I could let him borrow it, and you could talk. He could say sorry. Then you wouldn't have to-"

"Scorpius," Albus says. "Don't. Just do this. I know you want to."

Scorpius takes a deep breath and looks down at his dad's writing. Finally he nods. "Okay." 

 The dining room is silent apart from the chink of cutlery. Scorpius is playing with his food. It looks good, and he's hungry, and the smell is amazing, but he can't bring himself to eat. He feels like he's all tied up in knots, stomach and chest tight, wound up. He doesn't have a voice either. Every time he thinks of something to say, the idea of getting it out seems too difficult, so he sits in silence and doesn't eat, and wishes things were different than this. 

Draco is the one who breaks the silence. He clears his throat and sets his knife and fork down. "How have your lessons been so far this week? Are you studying anything interesting?" 

Scorpius swallows. "Professor McGonagall was showing us switching spells. Guinea pigs into guinea fowl and back again. My new wand's quite good for Transfiguration." 

"Didn't you have History of Magic yesterday?" Draco asks. "What are you talking about at the moment?" 

Scorpius chases a pea round his plate with his fork. "The 1332 troll rebellion. A load of Muggles and some wizards were trampled and bashed with clubs at a dinner party in Northumberland." He's aware that his voice sounds dull and uninterested, but he can't bring himself to care about trolls now. Not when the stone is weighing down his pocket, and Albus is so close but- 

Wait. There is no stone in his pocket. 

He drops his fork with a clatter and pats the pocket, then shoves his fingers inside and digs around. Nothing. Just fabric and a slightly sticky old Pepper Imp. 

Panic floods through him, rooting him there. All of a sudden he can't breathe. The knots in his chest have tightened to breaking point, and his hands have started shaking. There's nothing he can focus on beyond the fact that it's gone. Gone gone gone, and it could be anywhere. In the Floo network, on the floor at school, somewhere in the kitchen, under his chair... 

"I wonder when you'll study the 18th century Alchemy Renaissance," Draco muses, spearing a bit of lamb with his fork. "I'm not sure Professor Binns will do it justice, but I think you'd find it-" 

Scorpius jumps to his feet. "I need to go to the bathroom," he says, keeping his voice as calm as he possibly can when every word expends a bit of air he can't get back, and his heart is pounding hard enough to hurt, and the walls of the room feel like they're collapsing in on him. "I'll be back in a minute."

Draco frowns at him. "Are you alright? You don't look-"

"Fine," Scorpius says, already halfway to the door. "Fine." 

He pushes the door open and rushes out into the hall. It's cooler out here, which is good. He feels very hot all of a sudden, like his cheeks are on fire. It's almost enough to make him feel sick, but he pushes the nausea aside and hurries along. Somewhere at the end this corridor is the foyer. His coat is there. He might have left the stone in his coat. It's his best chance. 

Keep calm. Keep walking. Keep breathing. Find the stone.

He clenches his hands into fists to stop them shaking, and rushes headlong in the direction he thinks he should be going. Tears are blurring his vision and his brain is focused only on how empty his pocket feels, how Albus might be gone forever, how he might be alone now, really alone. 

Autopilot gets him down the hall, and he suddenly finds himself facing his dad's long, black, woollen cloak. He shoves it aside. It falls off the hook, and he tries to hang it back up, hands trembling. It takes him several goes before it stays. This time when he holds it aside he's more careful, but not that much more. The desperation to find his coat and find the stone is overwhelming.

He fumbles through his pockets one by one, rummaging and patting, checking and rechecking. His fingers are shaking and the panic is growing every time he finds nothing but fabric and empty air. Just as he's beginning to feel completely breathless and on the verge of full blown terror, he puts his hand into the final pocket and feels cool, smooth stone under his fingers. He snatches at it, picks it out, and as he looks down at it relief floods into every corner of his being. 

His knees give way and he stumbles back, collapsing onto the bottom step of the big flight of stairs. He curls up against the banister and cradles the stone against his chest. Tears choke him. His throat burns and his chest aches, and he struggles to snatch in gasps of air. Somehow, now he knows the stone is safe, the terror of it being lost is crashing in on him. What would he do without it? Without Albus? How would he survive? 

But it's okay. It's here. He's found it. Albus is here. 

He rests his forehead against the cool metal supports that hold up the wooden banister rails, and closes his eyes. His whole body is shaking with sobs now. It's too hard to hold himself together, so he doesn't. He still can't breathe. He feels like he's drowning in tears, suffocated by Albus's absence. If only he could summon Albus to him now, but he can't. Not here. This isn't something his dad needs to have any inkling of. 

He tries to slow his breathing, but the snatches of air he draws in aren't enough, and anything he gets seems to catch in his throat. He feels light headed. The world is closing in around him, and he feels weirdly floaty and disoriented. The staircase feels like it's sloping and spinning beneath him, and he grips whatever he can to try and hold himself steady. His heart is beating so hard and fast he thinks he might be dying. What if he dies out here and his dad doesn't find him for hours? What if-

"Scorpius." 

Swift footsteps rush from somewhere nearby, and he feels warm, solid arms fold around his shoulders, drawing him in. Fingers trail through his hair, and he gasps and gulps for air. 

"You're safe," Draco murmurs. "I'm here. Just... Try to breathe." 

Scorpius tries. It takes several minutes before he stops feeling like he's about to drop dead on the spot. His breathing evens out and his heart slows. Eventually he realises he's shivering in his dad's arms, dripping with tears and snot, a total mess. But the stone is still clutched safely in his hand. 

"Sorry," he mumbles. once he's recovered enough to speak.

"Don't apologise," his dad says, letting him struggle upright, but keeping a hand on his back the whole time. "I can only imagine... It was exceptionally difficult when we lost your mother. I know you relied on Albus for a long time, and now he's-" 

Scorpius shakes his head. "Please don't say it." It isn't true. Albus is still here. He has the stone right here in his hand. Albus is with him.

Draco bows his head. "This must be awful for you. I hope I haven't forced you into doing too much too soon. Going back to school this week, I didn't know if that was-"

"I wanted to go," Scorpius says. He draws in a shaky breath and starts wiping his face on his sleeve, before his dad summons a tissue from thin air and hands it to him. He looks at it for a moment, then takes it and mops himself up. "I like school. I didn't want to sit around anymore."

"But this, just now. The pressure on you, to be strong, and brave. You don't have to-"

Scorpius flies to his feet before he realises what he's doing. He feels very hot and his chest is tightening again. "I'm okay. This isn't- it's not about... About Albus. I was just being stupid." 

Draco gets to his feet, one hand on the banister, grey eyes heavy with concern. "None of this is stupid. You've just lost your-"

"I haven't lost him!" Scorpius shouts. He doesn't know where it comes from, but the words tear out of him, leaving him feeling slightly stunned. He swallows. "I want to go back to school," he murmurs. "I have Charms in the morning. We're doing Summoning Charms. They might come up in our O.W.L. I don't want to miss them." 

Draco nods. He draws himself up straight. "Very well. But if there's anything I can-"

"There's nothing," Scorpius says. "I'd just like some Floo powder." 

Fifteen minutes later, Scorpius collapses onto the rug in the Slytherin Common Room. He feels sick and exhausted, and like the heart has been ripped out of him, empty of all energy and emotion. He drags himself up to bed and falls asleep on top of his covers, hangings open, all the lights on, still wearing his ash stained school uniform. 

 Scorpius bursts through the door into the church, borrowed wand raised, ready to fight. Albus is kneeling on the ground a few feet away, Harry standing beside him, protecting him. Delphi is flying over the scene, grinning, deflecting spells and retaliating with her own. 

Among the chaos, Albus turns his wand to the other door, the one Hermione and Ron are hiding behind, and he starts to shout, "Aloho-"

"Avada Kedavra," Delphi snarls.

Scorpius doesn't see the spell, doesn't see it hit. He doesn't even notice where it's aimed. Delphi has been throwing spells everywhere.

But then he hears the howl of agony behind him, and ice floods through his veins. 

He turns and there is Albus, lying still on the floor. He could be asleep except his eyes are open, and Harry is curled over him, gripping him and screaming. Albus's face is frozen in a perpetual glare of determination. Those eyes are so green, so piercing, but for the first time ever they're dull and empty of fire. 

There's another sound behind him, a gasp that's quiet, but somehow cuts through all the noise. 

"No," Ginny breathes. "Albus..." Then suddenly she's ablaze with anger and pain, like all the fight in Albus has flooded into her. "You dare hurt my son?" She roars, as she turns her wand on Delphi and starts duelling to the death. 

Meanwhile Scorpius collapses to his knees and takes Albus's hand. Harry's trembling body is in the way but he doesn't care. He doesn't believe it. Albus isn't dead. He isn't gone. He can't just leave. He can't. He can't. 

Fire and ice rages across the nave of the tiny church, but it's nothing to Scorpius, because Albus is still lying there, still not responding, still playing this cruel joke, and Scorpius's world is shattering like glass around him, and he's falling and falling and falling and-

 Scorpius wakes in pitch black, fear clawing at his heart. For a second he has no idea where he is. His face is wet and his mouth is dry. He scrabbles around for his wand but doesn't find it. Instead he finds the reassuring facets of the Resurrection Stone. 

He turns it over three times and the sheets rustle. Albus sits there, a faint glow emanating from him. 

Scorpius wants to throw his arms round Albus, to cling to him, reassure himself that Albus is really solid, really there. But Albus isn't solid. He isn't there. Not like he used to be. So all Scorpius can do is bury his face in his hands and let the tears flow. 

"What's wrong?" Albus asks, shuffling closer. "Did it not go well with your dad?" 

Scorpius sniffs and wipes his eyes with his fingers. "What? With my-? Oh." He scrubs his sleeve across his face and takes a breath. "Well... I thought I lost the stone, so I panicked and he found me crying on the stairs. Then I told him you weren't dead and came back here. So not particularly well, no. And now I'm having nightmares about you dying and I can't even hug you, because-" 

"Because I am dead," Albus says, looking at him. 

Scorpius looks up at him. "But you're here," he says, a hint of desperation in his voice. "I can see you, I can talk to you. How are you here if you're dead?"

"You're being stupid," Albus says bluntly. "You can see ghosts, and they're dead. You can talk to portraits, and they're dead. You talk to the portraits downstairs all the time. I'm just like that. I'm gone, Scorpius."

Scorpius stares at him, stunned. "How can you say something like that about yourself?" 

Albus shrugs. "Because you know it's true." He crosses his legs. "I thought you were supposed to be the logical one. You know, the smart one. I thought you were supposed to think more clearly than this. I'm the mad, impulsive one who tries to bring back dead people."

"Saving Cedric seemed like a good idea at the time," Scorpius says, crossing his arms. "It wasn't so stupid. It might have worked. It was a nice thing to do." He wants Albus to give in. He wants to stop talking about this. He doesn't have the energy. He still feels so tired, and overwhelmed, and the dream is still fresh in his mind.

Albus smiles and leans closer to him. Conceding is never something he's been good at. "It also created a world where Voldemort was alive, and then it got me killed."

Scorpius looks away from him, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Are you going to continue being difficult, or are you done now?" 

"In an absurd turn of events, I think I'm going to carry on being your voice of reason, actually." Albus folds his arms, jaw set. "Don't do this to yourself, Scorpius. You know how to let go. You've done it before."

"Maybe I only managed that because of you," Scorpius shoots at him, exhaustion and sadness flaring up into irritation. 

"Maybe," Albus agrees, "but you still did it. We both know you can do it again." He eyes the stone in Scorpius's hand, and Scorpius knows that if he could he'd be trying to wrestle it away from him. 

"Can I?" Scorpius asks, tightening his grip on the small, smooth rock, his final connection to Albus. 

Albus nods, very serious. "I think so." 

 Scorpius tries. He tries really hard over the next couple of days to stop thinking about the stone, to stop checking on it every few minutes. He tries to pay attention in lessons, to ask his normal questions, to stay behind and talk to the teachers. He tries to get points for Slytherin with spectacular answers and spell work, but everything he does turns out flat. 

He can't get his Summoning Charm to work at all for Flitwick. Whenever he tries to show McGonagall a Switching Spell nothing happens. He doesn't have the heart or the energy to do his homework. He just sits in the library and stares at his closed books for an hour or two before giving up.

And whenever he thinks about the fact that he's trying to move on, that he's trying to let Albus die, he feels like he's about throw up, or burst into tears. Those are the times when he gives in and grabs the stone and just holds it. 

In his spare time, behind his closed hangings at night, or locked in an empty classroom during break or lunchtime, he still summons Albus to him, but he doesn't like doing it. Albus is quieter now, more melancholy. He doesn't seem to want to be there. He's either very quiet, with only the occasional tight smile, or he tries to persuade Scorpius to let him go. On Friday after class they get into an argument so heated that Scorpius throws the stone across the room and collapses onto the ground sobbing, Albus's final words still ringing in his ears.

"Let me go, Scorpius. Either let me go, or come with me, but I don't want to be here anymore." 

Come with me. 

It wasn't something Scorpius had even considered before. The idea of giving up, of following Albus to wherever he is now. Heaven, hell, the great beyond... 

He could do it. He could go with Albus. He might even see his mum again if he did that... But the thing is, Scorpius likes being alive. He likes fighting and struggling and learning and loving. He likes being in the world. And he doesn't want to leave his dad. 

Joining Albus isn't what he wants. He wants Albus to join him. To come back and be fully alive and exactly who he was before. The same small, grumpy, smart boy who'd sat on Bathilda Bagshot's doorstep, with snow in his hair and jack o'lantern candlelight dancing in his eyes, and come up with a plan to save the world. The same boy who'd stood on top of the Hogwarts Express, alight with adrenaline, and asked the Trolley Witch her name. The same ruffled, sleepy boy who'd groaned and dragged himself upright in bed when Scorpius had wanted to talk about the world where Voldemort had ruled. That's what Scorpius wants more than anything, but maybe... Maybe that Albus is gone forever. Maybe Albus, Scorpius's best friend, doesn't exist anymore. 

Scorpius doesn't want to keep hurting him. He doesn't want to keep dragging Albus back into this world over and over again if it's going to make him miserable. But he also can't face Albus just stopping. Without the stone Albus is just a bit of bare earth with a blackthorn sapling growing out of it. He can't lose Albus forever. He can't. He doesn't know how to. 

Apparently grieving isn't something you can be good at. Scorpius had thought he'd had plenty of practice. When his mum died it had been horrible, but he'd expected it to be an experience he could rely on, that would shape him and make him stronger, make him able to deal with whatever life or death threw at him next. But he doesn't feel strong now. He feels lost and broken, and he wants his best friend back. Because losing Albus isn't anything like losing Astoria. Somehow, incredibly, it feels even worse. 

Scorpius loses track of how long he stays sitting on the cold stone floor of the disused Charms classroom, hugging his knees and staring across at the little black stone, which sits on the other side of the room and reflects the flickering firelight. The sun is setting when he finally drags himself stiffly off the floor and goes down for dinner. The blood red light floods the room, sparkling on each facet of the stone, bathing Scorpius in some of the last warmth of Autumn. He picks the stone up, forces himself to eat something beneath the darkening sky reflected in the Great Hall ceiling, then goes and tries to do some homework. 

The stone sits on the desk beside his books while he works. He's writing a Potions essay, exactly the kind of thing Albus would have loved. It's all about theories surrounding the use of knotgrass in healing draughts. They would have argued about it for hours, squabbling and laughing, making fun of each other's work. Albus probably would have hated Scorpius's ideas about knotgrass and fluxweed being used as a counterbalance. 

"But they don't oppose each other, Scorpius. The fluxweed is there to make things more susceptible to change. It's there for catalytic reasons. The knotgrass is what does the work. You can't say it's a counterbalance when that's blatantly untrue." 

Scorpius smiles to himself and scratches the sentence out, because of course Albus would have been right. He was always better at Potions. 

As he thinks about Albus muttering to himself, poring over books, arguing with the theories in them, the first hot tear rolls down his cheek and splatters on his parchment, blotching the ink. Scorpius taps his wand on the essay, casts Impervius, and tries to keep writing, but after five minutes the parchment is wet with fallen tears. They gather in puddles, and trickle across the page, like rain falling onto glass. Every few seconds Scorpius brushes them away, sniffs, and keeps going, but the tears won't stop. After ten minutes he can't see anymore.

His vision blurs, and he gives up, burying his face in his hands and letting the tears fall. 

The common room is full of people but he can't bring himself to care. They all already know the truth, the truth which Scorpius is only just beginning to understand now, that Albus is dead and won't come back, and that Scorpius is heartbroken by it. 

No one comes and tries to talk to him. He doesn't think anyone is staring at him either, and he's grateful for that. This is probably what they all expected from him, blatant and unrestrained grief. 

It takes nearly half an hour before he's completely wrung dry. He has a headache, his face feels raw, and despite the Impervius, his Potions essay is a wreck. All his remaining energy goes into packing up his books and parchment, and when he's done, he picks up his bag and the stone and goes upstairs. 

He finally knows what he has to do and how he's going to do it. Of course, thought and action are two completely different things, but he has to try. Tomorrow is Saturday, the day of the memorial. He's going to go and he's going to say goodbye to Albus, then he's going to take the stone and he's going to get rid of it. He could visit Albus's grave and leave it there. Or maybe he could bury it... He'd destroy it, but it's an ancient magical artefact and he could never forgive himself for that.

He will do this. He can do this. He can let Albus go and he can move on. He can. 

He puts the little black stone on his bedside table and looks at it. Maybe he should summon Albus here now and tell him what the plan is... Would he be proud? Would he think it's a good idea? What if he meant what he said earlier, about Scorpius coming with him? What if he'd prefer that? Scorpius doesn't want to fight with Albus again, not now. Not when it's been such an exhausting day and tomorrow is going to be hell. They can talk tomorrow. And Scorpius will say goodbye. 

 It's a beautiful morning. The forest is a conflagration of burnished gold and orange, ruffled by the breeze. The last warm rays of sun fall in long streams across the frozen ground, lighting the swirling silver mist. Grass and moss and grey stone are coated with a fine layer of silver frost that makes the morning shimmer. Across the grounds, a couple of ordinary deer graze by the edge of the forest, breath steaming in the frigid air, serene passage sending the mist into eddies and spirals. 

The whole school is gathered on the edge of lake, standing in lines and looking out at the iron grey waters. Somewhere under the waves is the Slytherin dungeon, where both Craig and Albus once lived and laughed and worked and wasted away hours. Not too far away is the big beech tree where Albus and Scorpius would sit in the summer and study. It's already almost bare of leaves, but today a little robin is perched in the lower branches, singing his heart out. 

Scorpius stands at the back of the ranks of students. Over the crowd he can see James and Lily at the front. They look almost lost without their parents, and without their brother, like they suddenly don't quite know what to do with themselves. Scorpius could have been there with them, but he'd rather hide away here. It means he can escape quickly at the end without having to hear everyone's sympathies. It means that if all the words and tributes get too much he can slip away without anyone noticing. 

It's difficult to hear what's happening from this far away. Professor McGonagall's magically magnified voice bounces and echoes, and dissipates over the grounds before it reaches him, but he catches a few words. 

"Ambition and courage" "heroic" "died fighting" "too young" "more to give" 

"We must remember and honour them," she says, as the wind changes direction, blowing in across the lake, carrying her voice further over the crowd. "They both died for something which is so important. They died fighting to preserve the world we live in, and we cannot let their sacrifice go to waste. 

"I don't expect any of you to lay down your lives like this. This is a terrible, tragic loss. But I hope these two boys can be an example to us all. That when it comes to a choice between what is right, and what is easy, that we can find the courage to defend our family, our friends, our school, and our lives. That we can stand up and make difficult decisions, and push ourselves beyond what we would have thought ourselves capable of. Because there are some things in the world that are worth fighting and giving everything for. 

"Remember Craig Bowker and Albus Severus Potter. Remember their bravery, their cunning, ambition, and resourcefulness. And most importantly, remember their love."

Scorpius puts a hand in his pocket and holds onto the stone as he listens. He wonders what Albus would have thought of all this. Of the speeches, and the lines of students. He probably would have liked it being by the lake. He always liked the lake. And it's a nice day for it, he would have appreciated that. This is a good day to say goodbye. 

 At the end of the ceremony, Scorpius is the first to head back to the castle. Everyone else stays and mills around, but he rushes off. He can see Rose eyeing him across the crowd, but he does his best not to look at her. He doesn't have time to talk. There's something he needs to do. 

It's not easy to get to Albus's grave alone. He takes the Floo to a wizarding pub on the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole, and spills out onto the carpet in a dark back room. He lets himself out through a side door and starts hiking across the fields. 

The cemetery is out in the middle of the countryside, a few miles away. It's a beautiful spot, especially when the sun is shining like it is today, but it's remote, and the walk isn't easy. Scorpius follows a track that skirts round several muddy fields, crosses a stream, a couple of stiles, and winds through a wood. There's a bite to the air, and frost keeps the ground from being too squashy under foot, but the exercise warms Scorpius up, and by the time he's reached the low stone wall and rusted iron kissing gate that mark the entrance to the cemetery he's sweating slightly and breathing hard. 

Albus's tree is near the middle of the plot, surrounded by low, fieldstone graves, and growths of wild flowers. It's wild out here, a bit windswept. They're in a valley surrounded by trees and fields and hills. The village is just visible in the distance, and Scorpius can see the Burrow and the Potter House standing out on their own at the edge. It's so quiet and peaceful. Scorpius thinks that if you had to be buried anywhere, this wouldn't be a bad place for it. 

He stops in front of Albus's little blackthorn sapling and takes the stone out. He turns it over three times in his hand and waits.

It takes a moment before Albus appears, but then he flickers into being, standing next to his tree. He looks around for a moment, then turns to Scorpius. 

"Where are we?"

Scorpius wipes his nose on his sleeve, then gestures to where Albus is standing. "That's your grave. Your wand was snapped, but your mum and dad still wanted you to have a tree, so they planted one.

Albus looks around again. For a moment he says nothing, and Scorpius wonders if he's speechless. He runs a hand down the trunk of the tree, then glances out at the view. "That's my house. You can see my house from here." 

Scorpius nods. "Yes, you can." 

Albus smiles. "It's quite nice. You know, as graveyards go." He looks at Scorpius. "Why are we here?" 

Scorpius swallows and takes a breath. "I thought about what you said. About how I should let you go. A-and I decided you're right-"

"I usually am," Albus says, grinning.

"Yes, well... I-I'm going to leave the stone here. And then I won't touch it again. I just wanted to... To say goodbye first." 

"Oh," Albus says, grin fading. 

"Yes," Scorpius says. He shuffles his feet on the ground. "I know you don't want to be here, and you shouldn't be. You're- you're dead, and I'm going to have to accept that. I want to accept that. And I want to let you go. I don't want this-" he gestures to Albus's form, which is flickering slightly in the sunlight, "to be the only way I can remember you. I think you deserve better than that." 

Albus digs his hands into his pockets and looks down at his feet. "Thank you." 

"You're my best friend, Albus. You'll always be my best friend, and..." He fiddles with the cuffs of his coat. "And I'll miss you. But I think I'd rather miss you than keep making you miserable." 

Albus steps away from the tree and walks toward Scorpius. He stops a few feet away, and reaches out, like he wants to take Scorpius's hand. "You're my best friend too. I wish-" he shakes his head. "I wish it had ended differently. But you'll be okay. I hope you have a really good life, Scorpius. I hope we see each other again someday, but not for a long time." He smiles, and Scorpius thinks if he sees the glint of a pearlescent tear in his eye.

Scorpius swallows and looks away. "Don't do that. You're making it worse." 

Albus gives a slightly snuffly laugh. "Sorry." 

"It's alright..." Scorpius looks down at the stone in his hand. He should drop it or throw it away, but he can't. Now it's there he can't bring himself to put it down. He's never going to be able to. He isn't strong enough. He's too scared. A world without Albus isn't a world he wants to face. But he has to. He has to.

 "Albus," he murmurs. "How do I do this?" 

"I don't know," Albus says, also looking at the stone. "Just.. Be brave." 

Scorpius nods, and summons every ounce of courage he has. "Goodbye, Albus." 

And as Albus steps forward, arms outstretched, like he's ready to wrap Scorpius in one final, tight hug, Scorpius turns his hand over and the stone falls to the ground. Albus is blown away in the wind, and Scorpius stands completely alone in the chilly graveyard. 

For a moment he stares down at the stone, then he steps over it and goes and sits with his back to the thin trunk of Albus's tree. It's freezing cold, and he shivers and draws his limbs in tight. He hugs his knees to his chest, buries his face in them, and closes his eyes. It would be sensible to leave, but he doesn't want to. He can say goodbye, but he's not walking away. He's never going to do that. 

Time melts away. He and the tree are buffeted by a cold, gusty wind. Somewhere overhead the sun starts to set. The sky turns dusky blue and pink and purple. Thin clouds scud across the darkening sky. The moon comes out and the stars start to shine, and it gets colder and colder. 

Scorpius shivers and curls up tighter. Hunger gnaws at his stomach. At Hogwarts they'll be serving dinner. He should start walking so he can get back to school, but that would mean getting up. That would mean leaving. And he's not ready. He wants to stay with Albus forever. He wants to sit here among the grass and the flowers and the stones, and keep Albus company. 

His breath starts to mist the air. His hands are aching with cold, and he can't stop shivering. He thinks about casting a Warming Charm on himself, but his fingers are too stiff and numb to draw his wand. He reaches down and tries to rub his toes through his shoes, wanting to bring some life back into them so he can leave when it gets really cold, but his fingers are clumsy and won't quite work properly. And just when he's wondering if he's stayed too long, if he's frozen in place and will never get up again, he hears voices at the edge of the graveyard. Familiar voices. 

"Harry, it's freezing up here. You should have brought your other cloak." 

"It's fine, Gin. We're not planning to stay long anyway, are we? I just want to light it up and check it's tidy, and- There's someone there." 

Scorpius lifts his head and sees the pair of them silhouetted against the darkening, turquoise horizon. They're holding hands, and they're both staring at him through the darkness. Then, Ginny draws her wand.

"Lumos." 

Silver light flares through the cemetery, and she gasps. Scorpius turns his head away, covering his eyes against the glare. He feels a bit disoriented, like he can't entirely comprehend they're there.

"Scorpius," Harry says, sounding surprised. "What are you doing here? Are you-" 

"He's freezing," Ginny says. Scorpius hears her feet rustling through the grass, then he feels warm hands on his shoulders. "Harry, call Draco." She kneels down in front of Scorpius, and he looks at her. 

"I'm okay," he says, voice soft. He feels exhausted. "I just wanted to sit with him for a bit." 

"I know," Ginny says gently. "I understand. I'm going to cast a Warming Charm over you, okay?" She starts pulling off her cloak, and wrapping it round his shoulders, and he tries to protest that she'll get cold, but she ignores him. 

Over her shoulder a flickering silver light is visible, and Scorpius can hear Harry muttering to himself. 

"Come on. Stupid charm. When I need it, it won't- Expecto Patronum. Merlin, will you work? I need you. Expecto Patronum." This time the silver light erupts through the cemetery, nearly blinding Scorpius. "Take this message to Draco Malfoy: we're at Albus's grave, Scorpius is here, come as quickly as you can." 

The light disappears as fast as it had come, and then Scorpius feels warmth flooding over him. Ginny's charm. It seeps into his bones. He's never felt so warm and content in his life. His toes and fingers tingle with it, and he closes his eyes and relaxes. It's so glorious, this warmth, and he never wants it to fade. 

"Thanks," he whispers. 

"Okay," Ginny says, and her fingers brush through his hair. "It's okay." 

"I came to say goodbye," Scorpius says. "After the memorial, I wanted to- and then I didn't want to leave him."

Ginny nods, and when Scorpius looks up he can see tears sparkling in her eyes as the wandlight floods her face. "I know. I know."

"He's dead," Scorpius murmurs. He doesn't know why, but all of a sudden he needs to say it out loud to someone, because he hasn't yet, and Ginny feels like someone he can say it to. "He's gone. He's-"

Ginny hugs him. "Yes," she says. "Yes, but it's alright. You're safe, that's the important thing now. Your dad's coming." 

Scorpius clings to her, arms stiff and tired, and he buries his face in her shoulder, and he thinks he might be crying. 

 Hours later, Scorpius is curled up on the sofa by the fire in the Manor library. There are several blankets wrapped round him, and another Warming Charm enfolds him like a bubble. A mug of cocoa steams on the coffee table in front of him. He stills feels slightly shivery, but his fingers and toes seem to have just about returned to their normal state. He hadn't really realised how cold he was until people started trying to warm him up. 

The door opens, and he looks round to see his dad walk in. 

"How are you feeling now?" Draco asks. 

Scorpius gathers the blanket tighter under his chin. "Better." 

His dad nods. "That's good." He pauses in the doorway for a moment, then walks across and perches on the edge of the couch. Scorpius curls his feet up to give him room to sit down properly. 

"I didn't know..." Draco starts, then stops. He twists his fingers in his lap and looks at Scorpius. "I didn't know you wanted to visit him. You could have asked, and I would have taken you. Any time you wanted." 

Scorpius curls his knees up tighter and rests his head on the sofa arm so he doesn't have to look at his dad. "I didn't mean to stay. I lost track of time. Once I got there I didn't want to leave him. But I was going to go back to school... eventually. I wouldn't have stayed out all night." 

"How did you even get there?" Draco asks. "It's in the middle of nowhere." 

"After the memorial," Scorpius says, picking at his blanket. "I Floo'd to that pub in Ottery St Catchpole, and then I walked."

"You walked?" Draco asks, incredulous. "You walked all that way? And then you stayed. And if Harry and Ginny hadn't found you when they did-" he breaks off, shaking his head. "Why didn't you tell anyone you were going? Why didn't you tell me?" 

Scorpius stares down at the tartan pattern on the blanket. Over the last couple of hours while he's been sitting here, while his dad has been fussing over him, while he's been taken care of and warmed up, he's been thinking. Albus had been right with what he'd said a few days ago. Scorpius wants to talk to his dad again, to sort things out, and if there's anyone who can help him get through this, then it's Draco. He needs his dad. 

"I-I..." He swallows, then looks up. "I found the Resurrection Stone, Dad," he says. "The stone that Harry took into the forest, when he was about to die. I thought I could use it to bring Albus back. And I did use it, and he did come back, sort of. But he wasn't the same. He was a-a shadow or something. He wasn't himself. So I decided I should get rid of the stone and stop using it, and today after the memorial, I went to the grave on my own so I... So I could say goodbye to him." 

Draco stares at him, stunned. "You found the Resurrection Stone? But I thought it was lost..." 

"I worked out where it was," Scorpius mutters. "I thought it was the only way to get Albus back. But... But there was no way to get him back. And then after I said goodbye to him I didn't want to leave. So I stayed. And lost track of the time." 

Draco blinks several times. He seems lost for words.

Scorpius sits up. "Dad, I'm not going to try and get him back again. I'm going to let him go now. I think it's better that way. And I want..." He swallows. "I want you to help me." He plucks at the blankets and tries to summon up his courage. "In Godric's Hollow, when you hugged me... I liked that. And there were so many things I wanted to talk to you about, that maybe I would have told you if things had turned out differently. And I still want to talk to you and... And fix things with you. And I can't help but think that maybe... maybe this is a good place to start?" 

Scorpius looks at his dad, feeling a little shy all of a sudden. "I think you can help me. Because you lost Mum, and she was your best friend. You loved her. And now I've lost Albus, and he was my best friend, and I loved him. We could talk. About this. I-I think I want to." He ducks his head and tucks a bit of hair behind his ear. His fingers are still a bit shaky, but at least they're warm now. 

Draco considers him for a moment. "Are you comfortable? You look squashed."

Scorpius frowns. His knees are aching a bit from being so tightly curled up. Cautiously he relaxes a bit, letting his toes almost but not quite brush the edge of his dad's cushion. 

"Come here," Draco says, and he pats his knee. "Put them on me. Just this once." 

Scorpius blinks in surprise, then grins and slithers down on the sofa, putting his feet in his dad's lap.

"They're freezing," Draco says, tucking the blanket tighter round them. "You should be more careful with yourself." 

Scorpius smiles sheepishly. "Sorry." 

"I'll let you off for today." He rubs Scorpius's feet through the blanket, working some warmth back into them. "You know, sometimes I like to think about my favourite memories of your mother. It hurts, but sometimes it helps."

"Does it?" Scorpius asks. 

Draco nods, and glances at him. "What's your favourite memory of him? Of Albus?" 

"The first time I met him on the Hogwarts Express," Scorpius says, need needing even a second to think.

"I'd like to hear about it," Draco says. "If you don't mind telling me." 

Scorpius shakes his head. "No. Okay!" He rolls over so he can look at his dad, and he starts telling him about the journey. About how Albus had come into the carriage. About the conversation with Rose. About how Albus had asked about his sweets. About how they'd eaten Pepper Imps together for the whole journey, and they'd talked about everything, from how nervous they were, to how excited Scorpius was for their first History of Magic lesson. 

And after that they talk about Scorpius's favourite things about Albus, the things he wants to remember about him. His smile. How he'd always been happy to talk in the middle of the night. How they'd always been there for each other when one of them was sad or scared or upset. How Albus had always been so stubborn and determined. How amazed Scorpius had been when he'd actually jumped off the top of the train. How Albus had terrible taste in books and music, and was terrible at Gobstones but brilliant at Wizard's Chess. How he hadn't always been a very good listener, but he was great at cheering Scorpius up. 

Then they talk a bit about Astoria, and a little about Godric's Hollow, and after that Scorpius starts to feel genuinely exhausted, so they sit there quietly for a bit, while his eyes flutter open and closed. 

"Do you want the last of your cocoa?" Draco asks at some point

"Mmm?" Scorpius asks, dragging his eyes open. "Oh. I don't know." He thinks about it for a bit, falling asleep and awake again several times, before finally deciding that yes. He does want it. 

It takes a considerable effort to drag himself upright, but it's worth it. The cocoa, although now a bit cold, is rich and creamy, and really good. He drains it all in one go, then puts the mug down and curls up against his dad's side. Draco slips an arm round his shoulders. 

"I think you should go to bed," he says, ruffling Scorpius's hair. 

"I like it here," Scorpius mumbles. 

Draco laughs. "I know, but you'd like your bed more. Come on. Up you get." 

They stumble to their feet, and Draco helps Scorpius along the corridor to his room. He tucks Scorpius into bed like he used to when Scorpius was much younger, and he sits there and strokes Scorpius's hair, while the stars Astoria once painted on the ceiling wheel and dance and glow above them. 

"I'm going to leave you to sleep," Draco says finally. "I'll be down the hall if you need me." 

"Okay," Scorpius murmurs.

His dad doesn't move. He just keeps sitting there and running his fingers through his hair. "Are you okay?" He asks, after several more minutes. 

Scorpius opens his eyes and looks up at his dad. "No," he mumbles. "But I will be." 

His dad nods, leans down and kisses him on the forehead. "Goodnight. I love you." 

Scorpius smiles and buries his face in his pillow. He feels exceptionally warm all of a sudden, and he can't help but think that Albus would be happy for him. "Love you too."

Draco gives his hair one last ruffle, then gets up and leaves the room. The door closes behind him, and Scorpius is left in the dark. He sinks gradually into sleep, and as he does he can't help but start to believe that eventually things will be okay. 

[kelliehighet]

Photos and My Stories.

Here are the photos and all of my responses to them (matched by numbers.)

Whilst engaging in the writing process for this task I found that for the most part there is no a direct visual relationship between the image and what I wrote about it. I looked at the photo and something in it would trigger a memory or feeling, that would sometimes then trigger another memory or feeling, and then I would take this and further explore the fictional possibilities of it. Some of the responses are are completely auto biographical, some are partly based off events that happened in my life, and others are completely fictional. However, none of them appear as ‘obvious’ responses to the imagery, which I think is due to that process.

1. Things never felt that heavy when we were younger. It was traditional for us to raid her step Mums’ wardrobe. The aim was to take the black satin dresses, throw on the ugly fur coats, slip into the slutty red heals, and then stumble around waving our hands in a way that demanded presence. We! Are! So! Important! Then we’d tear the room apart to find her credit card and use it to order Thai food. But we hated tofu. So we’d walk to the local shops and buy hot chips with chicken salt. Talking about our weird science teacher and her brother’s new fascination with reptiles.

­­2. Yesterday I caught mum all teary eyed because some snails had destroyed her basil plant.  She’d hosted a dinner party the night before, so she plucked them from the garden and placed them into plastic water bottles filled with leftover champagne. I’m not sure if the light looks sort of enchanting because that’s how summer works, or if I’m just drowning in the bubbles.

3. I had just finished my usual three-hour shift at the bakery after school. Instead of throwing out the left over pastries I’d asked mum to drive me to the hospital so I could give them to you. Some nurse was trying to poison the mash potato. You were uncharacteristically grumpy and ranting about something that was wrong with the TV. I checked my phone excessively, time was going so slow, you were really agitating me, old people are annoying, I was tired, wanted to get home; it’s not my fault, how was I meant to know, according the odds you should’ve already died six months ago.

7. It was a Saturday. We were fourteen years old and desperately wishing to be older. So I stole whisky from my parent’s basement and mixed it with pink lemonade. We had matching purple pajama pants that were covered in little cartoon cows. I bought three-dollar glitter eyeliner; we drew love hearts on our cheeks and it stained my skin blue. I was glad it was a Sunday because I wouldn’t be seen in public like that. Mum spent twenty minutes brushing my hair after I threw up in the toilet. It was bright pink. We’d poured a lot of raspberries into the blender making cocktails.

8. Tomorrow I’ll wake up all disorientated in the backset of my car. And I’ll think, shit, my neck is going to hurt for weeks. Hopefully it’ll be early enough to make it home before anyone wakes up. I can get changed, clean my teeth, and straighten my hair. Mum will tell me I look pretty. Then I’ll arrive early to my lecture, and I’ll sit with that girl, and we’ll chat about that cute guy. For lunch I’ll have rice cakes because my stomach will still feel queasy. Life will continue, no matter how I change it.

12. Life is beautiful. That’s what you’d always tell people. “It’s my 21st birthday.” You were verging on eighty, but wanting to make the pretty waitress laugh. Mum was so sad that you hadn’t told anyone sooner. Like what the fuck. You thought roast duck in Prague would make up for this? Paying for the whole family to frolic around Europe was a pretty sick cover up. I suppose dancing with a champagne glass in your hand meant forever young. But at your funeral I cried talking about the seaweed in your garden that you’d stolen from the beach. We don’t go on holidays in summer anymore.  ­­

13. Mums’ new boyfriend was always around. Like a little yapping dog that seemed sweet until it nipped at your finger. Whenever they broke up he’d buy my sister and I things to make her feel guilty. One time it was a rice cooker. I ate a lot of brown rice those days because someone had told me it was healthier than pasta.

15. After my best friend and I turned nineteen she met some guy in a coffee shop. He was a barista with stylish black hair who’d chased her all the way to the car park holding a Lush bag she’d accidentally left at her table.  They went on a date to the zoo and then he got to know her better than I did. A few days ago we went to see a movie together.  Afterwards we talked about the unseasonal wind, how good dark chocolate tastes with peanut butter, what courses we were taking at university, and then I drove her home. She messaged me a week later; it was a picture of her dog rolling around in the sun. I suppose it’s nice having someone around who cares so much.

16. My chin was red and painful by the time I got home. He’d taken me to the lake so we could hang out; his stubble had given me a pimple. I wondered how long it would take to pick all of the twigs out of my scarf, and I needed to wash those jeans before my sister noticed they were missing. Hopefully nobody had heard the sound of his car in our driveway. My skin felt foreign. I wanted his mark to make me happy, but instead I changed into an old Power Puff Girl shirt and curled up in a little ball on my bed. I didn’t cry. He waited four days to text me. By then it had gone.

17. It’s okay, because sometimes, in certain moments, everything seems so wonderful.  I’m laughing, I have friends, boys will kiss my neck, and we’re all so cool. The other day I spilt tea on the kitchen bench. My heart was beating sort of fast, it was 6:00pm, my stomach had been churning all day, it’s March; I just hate the change in light. Then I sat on the couch in my dressing gown and spent four hours staring out the window. I couldn’t say what was there because I don’t remember looking. To be honest I never think of you at all.

18. It was completely expected. That’s what stung. “I think you should just find somebody else.” I knew there was so much wrong with us, but it felt unfair that something so desirable was capable of disappearing that fast. So at brunch I told Mum’s friends that he was smart, played soccer, drove a red car, and had nice arms.  Then I drank four cups of tea and stabbed my scone incessantly with a fork. I threw up afterwards because the diary in the cream had made me queasy. He didn’t break my heart. I did. Using everything unsaid he’d left behind.

19. I was sitting on her bed trying to blend out the dry patches of foundation that clung to my skin. We had to look good that night. She needed to: Get. It. Over. With. A few weeks back this gorgeous boy had driven her to his family house all the way in Adelaide, then he’d ignored her after discovering she was a virgin who didn’t want to rush things. She’d only talked about guys to me since. My eye shadow was navy blue and sparkly. We mixed vodka with Red Bull and twirled around the living room listening to songs on spotify. I stood staring at the lights when she left me in the club. He’d told me I was beautiful yesterday so it didn’t matter that I was alone.

[askyfullofcolour-blog]

I'm lost

It's been awhile and I think everything is catching up. I had 12 deaths last year, a breakup, lost my mental health support system, had a car accident, 3 friend break downs and absolutely lost who I was. I decided to distance myself from a whole heap of people and realised that Katie and Mylie were the only friends that I really had time for, apart from work and the ones on the Sunshine Coast and Brisbane who I would see when I go down. This year I thought would be different, my support worker business for kids with special needs was booming and so many parents wanted me to look after their kids. I couldn't keep up. I had dreams of starting an organisation and I had dreams of being someone. Someone to make a difference. That's all I wanted. January I got news another friend took his life, my client lost her battle with cancer and I started working for a very stressful client. February came, I was attacked in a dv situation at work and spiralled down hill. The attack took me back to my relationship with Mia and I couldn't remember everything that happened in the attack. I packed up the mother and 4 kids and brought them to my house. I couldn't take my uniform off, I couldn't stop being in work mode because I literally bought work home. The next week my favourite teacher died. The teacher who believed in me, gave me straight A's even if I didn't do the work, offered to help me to buy a car, learn to drive, anything I needed. One who believed in me. Between him, Gabby and Margaret I graduated. I don't know what I would have done with out him. He didn't deserve what happened. He deserves so much more, but to hear him say 'ohana' in his eulogy, I knew he was talking to me. Kim moved up from nsw and moved in with me for a few weeks before venturing off into her own place. Now she doesn't speak to me. Awfully fun. March was the funeral for Glassock, my 23rd and being fired from difficult dv client. I ended up in hospital a few times, I got really sick and lost 11kg in a matter of days. I was accused of child abuse and my name was spread to clients and future clients causing me to lose $1200 per fortnight in wages. I was given a letter of eviction from my real estate to move after I breached them for neglect. 6 days to move just wasn't fair. But between my partner at the time, great friends and great clients I did it. Still waiting for the $5000 reimbursement to come soon. Thank god. I started seeing Kris and from day dot knew it wasn't right but I so desperately needed something to keep me together because I knew death anniversaries were coming up, I refused to grieve over Glassock, Rhys or Patricia. Kris smoked a lot of pot, was unemployed, 36, emotionally unstable, was known by police and had had no care of stealing. Everything that should have deterred me but didn't. What's new? Kris was a Dom, taught me a lot about being a sub and a lot that I, looking back in now know I shouldn't have had to deal with. I swore I'd never be in another abusive relationship and I was. I swore I would never be with someone who cheated on me and I was. I did it all over again. Forgave, put up with and even helped her get her 'fix' which was something I never thought I'd do. I had to have her leave my apartment after I had her in recording that she would bash me and then rape me. I had to leave as I was scared of what would happen if I stayed. Good work cass, you can pick them. Not dealing of everything that happened in the last month I cried over her leaving and even tried getting back with her. Drove down to see her and realised I could leave and detach myself. She was still in love with her ex and I was drowning myself, let alone have someone pushing me down further. April came and I'd been with 3 new clients now for some time. We took on the contract for the pub and Katie and I soon started doing it 3 times a week. I like it. I took on a new client with a non verbal non hearing almost 3 year old and absolutely fell in love with the parents. The father works away from home, mother part time work but both an amazing sense of humour. Little one has seizures and I really wasn't ready when the first one happened. No first aid, no cpr prepares you for that. In march going into April I made a friend in Canada. I professional Dom, someone who was incredibly funny, understanding and had a degree in psychology. We talked for hours every day. Lost sleep so I could stay up and talk. Anyone who knows me knows I struggle with bpd and one thing that comes with that is I can't figure out feelings when I make a new friend. Is it just friendship or is it more than that. I've had it with every single person I get close to. We both discovered we had feelings for each other, both planned visits, had goals. Crystal was another image of me who understood and loved everything I did. Too good to be true? Correct. Yep found out yesterday she's engaged to be married to someone she told me she had ended things with a while before. Who did she blame? Me. I didn't understand, I don't listen, I don't care. Yep no worries mate. I've been the other woman before and I won't do that. Middle of April I decided to message Jane and call off my law suit. I decided that I was hurting too much and that law suit was causing a lot of that pain. I needed to let that go and explain that the memories I had were great and I couldn't continue. I received a message I in a million years didn't expect. 2 days after I was booked into see my psychologist, I hadn't seen her in 2 years, I had so many things that I needed to see her about. Medical, deaths, personal. I saw my doctor, had 4 needles, blood tests, booked for ct, ultra sounds, biopsies and was referred to a neurologist and neurosurgeon and booked in to see a specialist to talk about options for a hysterectomy. I drove down to my psychologist mentally preparing myself, I hadn't slept the night before and I was exhausted. Kris was begging me to stay and that day just was shit. I walked into my psychologists office and had a frog in my throat. I wanted to run, I needed this though. I told the receptionist that I was here to see Jen. To which she replied 'I'm so sorry, she's sick today' 3.5 hours driving down to see her, making sure I had the $180 to see her. She wasn't available. I didn't think. I got in my car with tears streaming down my face. I drove to pc. 8% on my phone, that didn't matter. I climbed over the fence and sat on the edge. The edge of the cliff face hoping the wind would be enough to make me fall. My legs were jelly and wouldn't move. I sat there with my eyes closed just hearing the waves crash against the rocks below. I so wanted to be off that ledge, I wanted to go home. I don't know how I got off that ledge. I don't know how I got back in my car. I don't know how I got back in my apartment. Because I so badly wanted to be in the arms of everyone who had left. I had rebooked my doctors, psychologist and specialist appointment and I just needed to get through until then. May came around. I hate this month, everything about it. 19th was Daniels anniversary, 20th would have been a year for Mia and I being together, 26th is peters anniversary, 30th is Kendall's birthday. Then going into June 6th is 12 months since Maddie died, 7th is mums bitthday, 9th nanas, 11th, 2.5 years since hope died and 13th kirsti's birthday. So many important dates and so much I just don't wanna deal with. I managed to fracture my coccyx with no idea how. My work slipped and I just wasn't able to bring in as much as I need to. Mother's Day I came down with the death flu that with my period the worst it's ever been, nerve pain and a fractured coccyx was the worst timing. I'm still sick. I continued to work through but I was always exhausted but lucky I had understanding clients and pushed through. I'm lost. I don't understand death, I don't understand how I thought finding my family would mean my whole life would change, I thought that I would fix everything. I know that I have to see my psychologist and grasp this but I'm lost. I literally sat crying on Daniels anniversary saying to Katie I only want to talk to Jane. Crystal spat chips. It's not because I'm In love with Jane but she went through a lot with me. Her and Kyron understood how my brain worked. I'm sick of the nightmares, the flashbacks, the pain. I never thought I'd self harm as hard as I have again. Burning my legs with acid, pouring acid on cuts. They're not deep but enough to hurt when acid is poured on an open wound. When did this all go so wrong?. When did this get this bad? I need to get back on top of things. Really really need to get back. Otherwise I will end up dead and I haven't made up my mind of if that's what I want. Hoping I can get some sleep with no nightmares with trunks. I'm out.