#he's her wizard it might be more apt to say

[ruushes]

sleeping arrangements (not sure tara would ever actually deign to sleep in the same 20ft radius as shovel but who can resist those big shiny insectoid black eyes 🥺)

plus:

[speedwalkingtheplanes]

Willow characters as D&D classes and races not because I can't sleep, but because I don't want to write tomorrow's session

Unlike my Percy Jackson version of this post, Willow has pretty clear ties to D&D, especially the 2022 show, so I'm not really going to be changing characters' races for this list. For all intents and purposes, they could be played in the world they're in, rather than adapted into a high-fantasy setting like I did with PJO. That said, I will be taking a couple of liberties with it, and trying to make it at least a little interesting. Same rules as the last one: minimal reflavoring, and no hombrew or unearthed arcana.

Willow Ufgood: Halfling Transmutation Wizard. Yeah, I know that all of the magic-users in the Willow-verse are referred to as sorcerers, but I think there's some nuance between how they use magic, and Willow, despite his intuition, certainly does not find his magic born within him. He doesn't necessarily have a natural gift for it, but rather finds careful study and many of years practice aiding him in becoming the magician he is by the time of the series, not to mention receiving a spellbook at the end of the movie. I struggled for a little while to decide what his subclass is, as we only really see him doing generalist magic. That said, war magic or order of scribes are out, seeing as he isn't a battlemage at all, nor does his spellbook play as important of a role as a scribe's would. So, considering his feats of returning Raziel to her human form, and restoring the Galladoorn warriors, transmutation feels like the most apt option for him.

Madmartigan: Human Swashbuckler Rogue/Battle Master FIghter. I had initially thought Madmartigan would be a champion, but thinking back on his fight against the Nockmaar soldiers, I think it's fair to say that he exemplifies the Art of War qualities that are so prevalent in the subclass. Swashbuckler is much more clear-cut. He nails one-on-one combat, and certainly has the high charisma necessary for the class, not to mention how he aids Franjean in picking the lock on the cage.

Sorsha Tanthalos: Human Hexblade Warlock. We don't see a lot of Sorsha's capabilities, so I'm gonna play flavor far more than mechanics with her. We know that she is a skilled fighter, and we see some of that, but I like the idea that her patron is her mother, and her pact ends after Bavmorda's defeat. She's certainly charismatic enough to trick Madmartigan into letting down his defenses enough to allow her a chance to escape from him, and was seemingly quite the leader in the quest for Elora, so I don't feel that this is too much of a stretch.

Rool/Franjean: Fairy Fey Wanderer Rangers. These two are interesting. I had almost made them gnomes, but I think them being fairies themselves (alongside the other Brownies) makes a bit more sense. They're definitely rangers, what with their affinity with animals, tracking abilities, and association with other fey creatures.

Airk Thaughbaer: Human Crown Paladin. We don't see a lot of Airk, but given that Madmartigan named his son after him, I think it's reasonable to put him on this list. He's kind of the ideal Galladoorn knight, fighting for country and fellow man against the forces of darkness. While I definitely think he's a paladin, other sublcasses might work for him.

Bavmorda: Tiefling Undead Warlock. Bavmorda being a tiefling is really only because she has the name "The Demon Queen." (And yes, I know that tieflings are infernal and not abyssal, but there isn't an abyssal race in D&D, so this is what I've got.) Her class and subclass seem pretty clear-cut. We find out in the series that she had made a pact with the Withered Crone, so she's clearly a warlock, though whether she's undead or undying is up for debate. In all honestly, they really aren't any different, and undead is just better.

General Kael: Human Berzerker Barbarian. Kael's so cool, but we also don't see much in the way of his combat ability. He's certainly very skilled, and he can also take a beating (the man took a sword to the face, and then kept fighting after getting stabbed), not to mention his shouting about "Now you die!" That feels very much like a raging barbarian to me.

Kit Tanthalos: Human Champion Fighter. Champion was my first choice for Kit, but I thought that I should dig deeper for her and kept trying to find something else. I've seen people say that she's a swashbuckler, or a battle master. I've even seem some people say that by the time she has taken the Kymerian Cuirass, she's gained three levels in artificer and become an armorer. And I hate all of that, because it's all too damn much. I think Kit's most important arc as a character is learning that she isn't the invnincible fighter she thought she was, and that her main character syndrome doesn't actually make her the main character. As far as that goes, I came back to champion, because I think the simplest fighter subclass conveys that journey really well.

Airk Thanthalos: Valor Bard/Oathbreaker Paladin. Airk is really interesting to me from a character creation perspective. He's clearly high charisma and low wisdom, and he isn't too shabby with a sword. He could very easily just be a paladin, and the Crone's corruption caused him to be an oathbreaker, but he's just too charming for me to not make him a bard too.

Jade Claymore: Human Samurai Fighter/Devotion Paladin. I've seen a lot of people say that Jade is a battle master, and while I see it, I think Samurai is a significantly more interesting choice for her. She's definitely not an average knight, and we can clearly see her wisdom in her fighting and her decision-making. As for paladin, Graydon aptly points out that her devotion is her driving force on the quest. If it's that important, than I'd say it counts as an oath.

Scorpia: Human Scout Rogue. There isn't a lot to go on for this one, unfortunately. She's clearly well-versed enough in combat to beat Jade, though I'd argue that she's simply a higher level. Being a scout would be beneficial for the forest-swelling Bone Reavers, and we see her have some skill with a throwing knife, which feels much like a roguish quality to me. (Ignore that Airk Thaughbaer also kills someone by throwing a knife.)

Thraxus Boorman: Human Berzerker Barbarian/Swashbuckler Rogue. I figured that Boorman was a barbarian/rogue early on, and was pleased when I saw some other people saying the same thing. I don't think Berzerker really fits him, but the only other non-magical barbarian sublcass is battle rager, and that fits him even less. (Seriously, there needs to be more non-magical barbarian subclasses.) It is possible that he never made it to three levels of barbarian, and just has a one or two level dip. (If i were to optimize him, it'd be two levels. That way reckless attack can be used to proc sneak attack at any opportunity.) I also don't think his rage is purely angry, but instead reflavored into sorrow that is masked with humor. As Madmartigan's squire, it makes sense that they would have the same rogue sublcass, and we definitely see Boorman's charisma shine through the series. Plus, like Madmartigan, he can pick locks. Ish.

Graydon Hastur: Human Lore Bard. Yeah, he's said to be a sorcerer in the show, but the man casts magic with his flute and gives other characters inspiring pep talks. If that doesn't make him a bard, I don't know what does. College of lore because he's very booksmart, and collects dead languages and ancient stories like an old lady collects little spoons.

Elora Danan: Protector Aasimar Divine Soul Sorcerer. And finally, the chosen one herself. I really wanted to make her wild magic, but divine soul unfortunately just makes more sense. I feel that of the sorcerers in the franchise, she's the only one that's actually a sorcerer. We don't know anything about how Raziel's magic works, so there's really no figuring her out, and Cherlindrea is more of an archfey than anything else. Elora, on the other hand, has an inborn aptitude for magic. She still has to practice, and reads Willow's spellbook, but that's more about control than power for her. As the child of the prophecy, and the one destined to defeat evil and unite the lands, it makes sense to me that she would be an aasimar, a divine being imbued with the power of celestials. She also has the chef feat.

There's certain characters that I left out, either because we don't see enough of them for me to properly gauge what they might be, or I think they'd be better with monster stat blocks than character sheets. But maybe I'll revisit this later and figure out characters like Silas, Lilli, and Ballantine. In any case, let me know if you disagree, I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks.

[auburniivenus]

Gale had been nose deep in a tome of his before looking up and clasping it shut with a thud. He laid it precariously upon his lap as he looked up from his seat at the one who approached. "Ah you're speaking of our resident blood sucker, yes?" He animated himself with hands drawn close to his mouth, index fingers pointing down in a mock display of gnashing fangs.

He chuckled to himself. "I can't say I have though I'm sure he's off to find something new to sink his teeth into- Ah pardon the pun. It was intentional." The Wizard smirked before giving a more refined and serious answer. "I wouldn't worry, he always finds his way back by the morning. Ah- forgive my curiosity, was there something you needed him for? Perhaps I could provide some assistance in the meantime. Should you be inclined to it." @altaqua

A   chuckle,   pleasant   and   melodious,   flutters   from   her   lips   into   the   ambient   nimbus,   as   she   reacts   to   his   mention   of   Astarion.   Indeed,   Gale   has   presented   him   with   a   title   most   apt,   encapsulating   his   essence   in   the   veil   of   humor.   "The   blood   sucker,   indeed.   Do   take   care   to   guard   your   neck."   Teases,   her   words   laced   with   a   playful   cadence,   yet   a   note   of   warmth   pervades   her   jest.   Her   eyes,   sparked   with   a   blend   of   mirth   and   curiosity,   then   drifted   to   the   ancient   volume   nestled   within   his   grasp.   She   finds   herself   captivated   by   a   curiosity   most   ardent,   yearning   to   uncover   the   secrets   shrouded   within   its   time-weathered   pages—a   veritable   compendium   of   esoteric   knowledge.

"What   secrets   do   you   unearth   within   its   embrace?"   She   poses   the   question,   her   smile   blossoming   unceasingly   upon   her   lips,   tinted   with   the   soft   hue   of   rose   petals   basking   in   the   tender   glow   of   dawn.   Her   demeanor   shifts,   weaving   a   thread   of   earnestness   into   the   fabric   of   their   conversation.   "I   stand   in   need   of   a   companion   to   aid   in   the   conveyance   of   some   crates.   The   market   today   overflowed   with   the   harvest's   bounty."   Her   tender   digit,   graceful   and   precise,   gestures   towards   the   collection   of   crates   positioned   at   the   field's   entrance,   her   movements   painting   the   air   with   her   decisiveness.   Inoue,   ever   the   guardian   of   her   comrades'   well-being,   is   determined   to   ensure   they   feast   upon   provisions   worthy   of   valorous   hearts,   though   she   acknowledges   Astarion's   unique   predicament,   shadowed   by   his   darker   proclivities.   "Might   you   extend   your   assistance?"   An   inquiry,   soft   yet   imbued   with   the   weight   of   camaraderie.

[valiantdead]

❛ saint of go fuck himself. ❜ that's his apt name, you decide very unseriously, not because pyrrha drags it out of you or influences you into it but because here in the privacy of this battle-torn shuttle you can simply exist in whatever form you come in. keep up a good game in front of most other company, with all this passion and drive and domination in these rough times of war, ( and you're resentful only sometimes of never being allowed anything else, any other state of existence than hardened; other times you're aware that maybe you were born for this, built for it, and not much else ) but when she is your only audience ... you've been known to slip. you've been known to lift your skirt and flash a broader personality.

that's the trouble with knowing people for too long, even exhaustive wizard-hugging dipshits like pyrrha dve.

anyway, it doesn't make you feel better. her lack of total control of the centuries long arm-wrestling match between her and gideon, gideon and her, over the lap you sit in pisses you off. it always has. when you want to interrogate one, the other's there to hump your leg. when you go to reach for the other, he's pressing something sharp or loaded against your neck. they're an inconvenience. they're a mess that spans galaxies.

her hand presses against your lower back. you don't relax ( you're sure you're incapable of that, always have been ) but something somewhere unclenches, for the moment. the barrel of your gun eases down her neck, touches just over her heart. ❛ they're progressing like no one wants to win this fucking war. ❜ it drives you insane. on more than one occasion have you found yourself wildly disappointed in your peers' inability to set aside their differences for the common good, to defeat a common enemy. unjust hope's tactics and suggestions aren't always your favorite, but you've been willing to listen, find yourself even agreeing with a few points; and there are points to be made, resources to be shared, strategies to try. yet you might as well be the only one in the entire operation to think so.

it's strife. it's chaos. there are a lot of heads turning to you, commander and figurehead, yet every time you open a palm to expose a decision there's someone with something smart to say about it, another recount of votes. politics! politics! politics! and only so much of it you can air out in front of this one, with the eager eyes, the practiced i'm listening face. ( her palm's too warm through your clothes. )

❛ he's restless. he wants to get more aggressive, shake things up. i don't disagree, but there's something to be said about how we do it. getting too close can obviously spell disaster. the end of everything. ❜ unless. turn your head to look at her. wonder if she can feel the heaviness of your stare, tap your weapon thoughtfully against her chest. tap. tap. tap. it's your turn to list the things you want now, only you're less inclined to agree that you'll never get them: more weapons. more resources. more advantages.

❛ ─── any leads on where i can find another beast? ❜

❛ a million credits, a new shuttle, one of those nice undergarment sets an old friend used to gripe about, a candle scented like gunpowder... i'm not picky. ❜ she's quick to list off a few things she knows she's never going to get, while wake slides bodily into her lap. it's not a smooth descent: she's aching, somewhere, clearly. this happens. they meet, gideon's done a number on her, wake's done a number on him, and it's pyrrha's turn to pick up the pieces. every once in a while she'll find herself thinking uncharitable thoughts, like the idea that he might give up the reins because he hates the recovery time. he never cared too much about nursing the bruise, but maybe he's softened over the years, just like her.

pyrrha tilts her head. the barrel of the revolver (and of course it's a revolver) rests coolly at some pulse-point, one of some seven trillion nerves. when she swallows she feels the metal jump up, jump down, settle back into the hollow of the tissue. ❛ mm. sounds like gideon. give the man some credit, commander. he's aptly named. ❜ with his blinders on, heart set on a goal, saint of duty, alright.

she's been around john, mercy, augustine. most of the time they talk like gideon isn't even in the room, anymore (not a great sign, if you were to ask pyrrha), but occasionally they'll turn beady (augustine), sharp (mercy), inquiring (john, occasionally) eyes on them and say something like well, duty? and she'll be left to rasp out some answer. often the easiest thing to do is tell them what they want to hear.

the news that it's been months is ——— disappointing? agonizing? she'd had it whittled down to weeks, for a minute there, thought naively that she had the trick figured out. of course it wouldn't be that simple. thought he'd eaten you, wake had said, and it's the long gaps of time between awake and floating at the edge of his subconscious that make her worry he actually has. but he hasn't found her yet (or hasn't wanted to), so she'll take every minute of living that she can get. ❛ if it makes you feel any better, i don't do it on purpose. ❜

wake is in her lap. she'll take it. she raises one hand and presses it to the small of wake's back. it's not to keep her there, because if wake wanted out she'd just pull the trigger and buy herself time between this shuttle in the middle of dead space and the next one, or some port on a thalergy planet, but pyrrha likes the feeling of her hands digging into the small of her back, wrapped up in a nice jacket, thin shirt. if only, she thinks, she could see wake's face.

this close, she can see the chain of her tags: stupid thing for enemies of an empire to wear, dog tags, clear identifiers, but pyrrha's fond of this one for the way it gleams against her skin, metallic under the pale blue lights. she should apologize, for the months, but she gave up on being sorry for anything a long, long time ago. ❛ how much progress have you made? how're things with— what was his name? unjust hope? ❜

[metvmorqhoses]

i have a headcannon that voldemort never really “punishes” bella when she does something wrong, but his punishments to other death eaters are way way worse & so she’s obligated to act as if vold has given her a worse punishment than he actually has. not that she does a lot of things wrong as his “most faithful” though. i’m talking about the occasional slip up like the department of mysteries thing. had that been someone else, he probably would’ve harmed them more, let alone wouldn’t save then from some witch statue holding them down.

this is very true, anon. so true, in fact, i actually consider this much more a canon fact than mere speculation.

sorry if this is very long, but for every thousand of anti-bellamort idiots there must be a very precise bellamort’s defense attorney lol

correct me if i am wrong, but to my knowledge not once in the books a physical punishment coming from voldemort is ever mentioned in relation to bellatrix - and even if, let's be real, after his "rebirth" she became involved in literally the majority of the most crucial errors, the worst happenings ever, that ultimately brought to no less than his very downfall.

and yet, still, she came out of it all not only unscathed, but treated very specially.

even to a lazy reader, this should at least come across as peculiar.

let’s take the primary example of what i am saying, the battle of the department of mysteries.

just freed from azkaban and after being showered in honors and recognition, the first pivotal mission bellatrix was entrusted with was a damning fiasco.

true, it was not entirely her fault, lucius was in fact “in charge” of it, but let’s be real, do you really think voldemort sent his literal general with that malfoy dandy, his pupil, his most trusted and powerful lieutenant, just for company? just as a henchman? as i have always interpreted it, bellatrix was there to keep an eye on lucius, whose silver tongue was famously more apt to political plotting than to field missions.

voldemort wasn’t trusting lucius with the prophecy that had literally already meant almost death to him once, it would have been madness to. you can say anything about voldemort, but certainly not that he was an idiot.

i actually don’t think he ever trusted lucius at all. lucius had renounced him after his fall and didn’t manage to paint the fact as pragmatically as snape did, the cowardly aftertaste of his betrayal blatant and thoroughly disgusting on voldemort’s tongue. lucius’ status, family name, relations and wealth were just very useful for the movement and likely the only things that kept him in the high ranks of the regime (or alive at all) even before the fiasco, along with his marriage to bellatrix’s sister.

i am positive voldemort was in fact trusting bella to see the prophecy retrieved.

he probably didn’t officially put her in charge because she was still recovering from azkaban and therefore not completely stable or/and already with child (even if i tend to exclude the latter option, since she would have been still entirely too weak for a pregnancy to even take).

still, she was the one with the highest military rank there, not to mention the highest degree of closeness to voldemort, so you can bet she was the one that bore also the highest degree of moral obligation in that delicate situation. and she failed.

knowing voldemort, you would have expected to see killing curses flying left and right. had bellatrix been literally anyone else, she could have easily returned home to a murdered family and a pending death penalty.

instead, you see a voldemort that walks into the ministry of magic. you see a voldemort that, even already knowing the prophecy lost forever, renounces his every advantage and reveals himself once again to the wizarding world, moreover having to fight at the same time his very nemesis (nemesis that the mission should have helped him understand better and therefore defeat), dumbledore (the greatest wizard alive besides him) and soon the entirety of the aurors of britain.

what was exactly the reason that compelled him to enter such a nest of vipers, when he had been unwilling to do so in secrecy and surely in a highest degree of safety before and to retrieve the prophecy himself? to kill harry potter?

the very reason of the mission tells us he wasn’t sure about what to do with his potter dilemma and had therefore decided to have a more cautious, academical approach regarding the matter. he wanted to know the whole prophecy before trying again. he was frustrated and puzzled about harry’s absurd invincibility and insolent luck. do you really think he had decided to go for the hardest battle of his life unprepared and with dumbledore present of all people (whom he didn’t even directly kill afterwards) and possibly hundreds more on the way?

had voldemort suddenly turned from cold strategist to hotheaded kamikaze?

the only plausible answer is that voldemort had purposefully entered the ministry, risking capture and possibly his very life (or at least his newly created body, since at this point the horcruxes are still intact and a secret) and not knowing what exactly was there waiting for him, as a rather valiant rescue attempt and quite an unexpected one too.

bellatrix herself just moments before had laughed at the absurdity of the possibility of voldemort ever entering the place in response to harry’s questioning:

“Get it himself?” shrieked Bellatrix on a cackle of mad laughter. “The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry of Magic, when they are so sweetly ignoring his return? The Dark Lord, reveal himself to the Aurors, when at the moment they are wasting their time on my dear cousin?”

bellatrix herself believed it an impossible and ludicrous thought and yet, less than half an hour later and her life in jeopardy, there voldemort surely appeared.

you could speculate he wanted to save his most valuable, just freed death eaters and then couldn’t, but there’s no evidence of it in the chapter whatsoever. the only evidence points out to the fact he was focused only on saving bellatrix.

this is in fact what lucius tells his hunting party while harry and co are trying to escape the ambush:

Harry put his ear close to the door to listen and heard Lucius Malfoy roar: “Leave Nott, leave him, I say, the Dark Lord will not care for Nott’s injuries as much as losing that prophecy — Jugson, come back here, we need to organize! We’ll split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy, you can kill the others if necessary — Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right — Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead — Macnair and Avery, through here — Rookwood, over there — Mulciber, come with me!”

so, la crème de la crème of his high ranks is there and everyone is positive the only thing that voldemort would care about is the prophecy, even above captures and fatalities.

rabastan and rodolphus are also there and yet he doesn’t go for them.

he appeared when harry told bellatrix the prophecy was gone, specifically when bellatrix began to have a manic fit because of it, alone in the ministry’s atrium with harry.

“Potter, I am going to give you one chance!” shouted Bellatrix. “Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward me now — and I may spare your life!”

“Well, you’re going to have to kill me, because it’s gone!” Harry roared — and as he shouted it, pain seared across his forehead. His scar was on fire again, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite unconnected with his own rage.

“And he knows!” said Harry with a mad laugh to match Bellatrix’s own. “Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it’s gone! He’s not going to be happy with you, is he?”

“What? What do you mean?” she cried, and for the first time there was fear in her voice.

“The prophecy smashed when I was trying to get Neville up the steps! What do you think Voldemort’ll say about that, then?”

His scar seared and burned. . . . The pain of it was making his eyes stream. . . .

“LIAR!” she shrieked, but he could hear the terror behind the anger now. “YOU’VE GOT IT, POTTER, AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — Accio Prophecy! ACCIO PROPHECY !”

Harry laughed again because he knew it would incense her, the pain building in his head so badly he thought his skull might burst. He waved his empty hand from behind the one-eared goblin and withdrew it quickly as she sent another jet of green light flying at him. “Nothing there!” he shouted. “Nothing to summon! It smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your boss that —”

“No!” she screamed. “It isn’t true, you’re lying — MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME —”

“Don’t waste your breath!” yelled Harry, his eyes screwed up against the pain in his scar, now more terrible than ever.

“He can’t hear you from here!”

“Can’t I, Potter?” said a high, cold voice.

specifically, he appears behind bella when she starts to maniacally invoke him, almost as if they had a special mean of communication with each other even from considerable distance.

(here bella is afraid voldemort would punish her and i find the manner of it very interesting, we will come back to it later on)

voldemort was obviously furious the prophecy was lost, but again why risking his own life on top of it? was he perhaps concerned of bella’s mental state now that she knew she had failed and therefore her ability to flee/fight his very nemesis, dumbledore and the aurors?

normally, we would have expected voldemort to stay away and deal with the surviving death eaters later, leaving them to their deserved destiny (as he did with literally everyone else who was there).

instead we have:

“So you smashed my prophecy?” said Voldemort softly, staring at Harry with those pitiless red eyes. “No, Bella, he is not lying. . . . I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind. . . . Months of preparation, months of effort . . . and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again. . . .”

“Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the Animagus Black!” sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself down at Voldemort’s feet as he paced slowly nearer.

“Master, you should know —”

“Be quiet, Bella,” said Voldemort dangerously. “I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling apologies?”

“But Master — he is here — he is below —”

Voldemort paid no attention.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Potter,” he said quietly. “You have irked me too often, for too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!”

even when she literally has just lost his one mean to achieve his every goal of a lifetime, she is “bella”. even when we would expect him to tear her to pieces then and there, he had come to stand between her and harry.

the only reprimand she receives is a scowling “be quiet bella, i shall deal with you in a moment”, as you would speak in public with someone who is very close to you and you are very mad at, who shouldn’t let that closeness slip in public, especially now that she’s making you risk a lot to save her sorry ass.

i find this scene very comic, on top of everything else. voldemort is clearly so done and yet there he is, come to save his sobbing mess nevertheless.

the scene proceeds with dumbledore’s arrival, the duel and bellatrix trapped under the statue. during the duel and just after having trapped bella, we see a really curious exchange:

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?”

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,”

Dumbledore said calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —”

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” snarled Voldemort.

“You are quite wrong,” said Dumbledore, still closing in upon Voldemort and speaking as lightly as though they were discussing the matter over drinks.

(...)

"Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness —”

what is this fate “worse than death”, these “other ways to destroy a man” that dumbledore wants for voldemort? we know how it all ended - with voldemort’s literal death, his very disintegration (after bellatrix’s very own). what was this all about then? this one i’ll let you decide for yourself. it’s certainly peculiar, considered the context.

voldemort doesn’t respond to this, he in fact seems very provoked and sends a killing curse at him.

at the end of the duel he disappears and everyone thinks he fled, bellatrix included, who cries out his name sobbing from under the statue.

he in fact, at that, goes straight to possess harry.

And then Harry’s scar burst open. He knew he was dead: it was pain beyond imagining, pain past endurance —

He was gone from the hall, he was locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that Harry did not know where his body ended and the creature’s began. They were fused together, bound by pain, and there was no escape — And when the creature spoke, it used Harry’s mouth, so that in his agony he felt his jaw move. . . .

“Kill me now, Dumbledore. . . .” Blinded and dying, every part of him screaming for release, Harry felt the creature use him again. . . .

“If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy. . . .”

Let the pain stop, thought Harry.

Let him kill us. . . . End it, Dumbledore. . . . Death is nothing compared to this. . . .

And as Harry’s heart filled with emotion, the creature’s coils loosened, the pain was gone, Harry was lying facedown on the floor, his glasses gone, shivering as though he lay upon ice, not wood. . . .

And there were voices echoing through the hall, more voices than there should have been (...)

“...where’s Voldemort, where — who are all these — what’s —”

The Atrium was full of people. The floor was reflecting emerald- green flames that had burst into life in all the fireplaces along one wall, and a stream of witches and wizards was emerging from them. As Dumbledore pulled him back to his feet, Harry saw the tiny gold statues of the house-elf and the goblin leading a stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge forward.

“He was there!” shouted a scarlet-robed man with a ponytail, who was pointing at a pile of golden rubble on the other side of the hall, where Bellatrix had lain trapped moments before. “I saw him, Mr. Fudge, I swear, it was You-Know-Who, he grabbed a woman and Disapparated!”

“I know, Williamson, I know, I saw him too!”

this passage is ever so interesting to me, because dumbledore’s words appear to have somehow made voldemort “emotional”. they provoked him somehow. he didn’t laugh at them. he linked them to the worst pain imaginable and almost killed harry with it, posing a philosophical dilemma - if such pain is worse than death, if my life is worse than death, why don’t you put this boy out of his misery?

there’s no doubt in my mind “that pain” is voldemort’s pain. a pain intrinsically love-related. voldemort’s problems to accept/understand/feel love are the crux of the saga, his every villainy and pain. it’s so interesting that in this whole scene the train of events and thought have ultimately reached this topic (even in the movie love is mentioned here, harry literally fights the possession telling him he shall never have it).

voldemort was furious with bellatrix, feared for his plans and life and went to save her anyway. he is enraged beyond belief but puts himself between her and harry and dumbledore. while they duel, dumbledore traps bellatrix and lectures him about “other ways to destroy a man” and “worse things than death”. he absolutely hits a nerve. voldemort completely feels what he’s meaning, so much he wants to retaliate and mercilessly - he never wants to be forced to face such things, such emotions. i don’t think he’s trying to kill harry there, he’s trying to prove a point, to make them both understand how it feels to be him, how the whole concept of love feels to him. and the matter is addressed in a scene entirely built around bellatrix. in fact, finally he then grabs her, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves, and flees. he effectively saves her and her only.

to me this whole passage is directly linked to the famous scream at bellatrix’s death, and to the way the events leading to voldemort’s own death unfolded. that scream might very well be that “fate worse than death”. jkr loves parallels and to me this one is perhaps the most beautiful of the series.

this really proves, in my opinion, at what depth their relationship stands, absurdly perhaps much more abysmal on voldemort’s part than on bella’s.

anyways, i took the time to analyze this particular episode because it’s emblematic of their relationship and his way to deal with her disasters.

lucius would carry on his face the signs of this fiasco literally for the rest of the entire series. the malfoys would fall from grace because of it, probably alive only because of bella’s intercession. half of the death eaters who were present at the ministry would end up back in azkaban.

voldemort would end up defeated, furious and destined to die.

bellatrix would come out of it not only physically unscathed, but with voldemort’s child.

even when she again loses the trio at malfoy’s manor (along with the sword), everyone ends up physically tortured but her. she says she fears for her life if voldemort was to know she lost the sword, but it seems more a metaphor than an actual possibility. when the cup is stolen from her vault, he makes her leave the room before murdering everyone in it. she’s not present at dumbledore’s assasination, and that’s because she wasn’t disposable.

i don’t think physical punishments are involved in their relationship, or if they are they are very rare, and i don’t think voldemort’s reactions to her transgressions/wrongdoings are in tune with the way he reacts to everyone else’s.

bella can more than anyone with him and never really loses this status of utter closeness, no matter what she does.

this obviously doesn’t mean that voldemort is a saint with her or that he doesn’t occasionally punish her. this doesn’t mean she isn’t rightfully afraid of him.

yet, the main way i see him actually hurting bella is psychological torture and silent treatment.

and here we come back at what bella was sobbing at the ministry, her desperate “MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME —”.

i don’t think a warrior, a general, a woman who remarkably survived 14 years at azkaban, would ever react this way to the mere fear of physical punishment, no matter how cruciatus curses hurt. i think she would have taken it as stoically as possible. thought she deserved it, even.

no, voldemort’s punishments must be unbearable to her, impossible to even fathom, because they involve falling from his graces, from the closeness she lives for. voldemort can serve bellatrix the cold, silent, disappointed treatment of a mentor and a lover, and have bellatrix literally rotting away because of it.

this is truly the worst thing he can do to her and the thing that had her sobbing and having a fit before harry at the mere idea of it.

this is also somehow confirmed when hermione, transformed in bellatrix, meets a death eater (i don’t remember who he was) before entering the gringott. he wasn’t surprised to see bella, well, alive and physically well, he was surprised to see her out of malfoy manor, where she was supposed to be confined.

so yes, definitely the way voldemort deals with bellatrix regarding punishments is special. everything regarding his way of treating bellatrix is, to be honest.

their relationship is written in such a subtle, beautifully twisted way. i adore it. the only problem is that because of it virtually no one ever connects the dots.

[ahkaraii]

sort too soon (or not enough) [1282 words]

"I don't know why I was sorted into Gryffindor," Poppy sniffed. "I'm nothing but a coward."

"That's a lie and you know it," Minerva said, briskly rubbing Boil-Curing solution onto the mess that was her friend's purulent arm. "Besides, the House Sorting is a load of hogwash."

"What? Surely you don't mean that!"

"I always mean what I say, exactly as I say it." Minerva wrapped the bandage by hand as she spoke, her lips twisted in distaste. "It's ridiculous to categorise children into loosely fitting personality types before their personality has time to fully develop."

"It's not about personality," Poppy said earnestly. "It's temperament, which we're born with. The houses are based on the four Humours--"

"Don't quote Hippocrates at me, Pomfrey, I ate that theory for breakfast and it's almost time for dinner." Minerva patted her friend's arm, now safely ensconced in about half an inch's worth of paste and gauze. "Sanguine Gryffindors, Choleric Slytherins, Melancholic Ravenclaws, and Phlegmatic Hufflepuffs. I read Hogwarts: A History, same as you. As if a person can't be brave and studious and ambitious and loyal all at once! You're all of that and more, Poppy, so don't let one silly schoolyard fight put you down."

Poppy's bottom lip trembled.

"You hear me?" Minerva insisted with her characteristic Scottish accent, shaking her friend's shoulders for emphasis.

"Aye," Poppy said. "I hear you." She mustered up a smile, which Minerva reflected back at her.

"You know, I have often said we Sort too soon."

The two witches startled, badly. "Professor Dumbledore!?"

"The one, and thankfully, only," said the eccentrically dressed Transfiguration teacher with his usual cheery smile. "It is always a treat to hear students so thoughtfully criticise our beloved institution."

As usual, neither of them could tell if he was being ironically genuine or genuinely ironic; it was often the case that he could be both.

"We're, ah-- quite sorry, sir," Poppy said. "Minnie didn't mean any harm by it."

"I am not sorry, Professor," Minerva said bluntly. "It truly is a needlessly reductive system."

Poppy gripped her friend's arm in alarm but Professor Dumbledore merely laughed, delighted. "An apt observation! How, instead, do you propose we should Sort? Or shall we do away with Sorting entirely?"

"Well, I don't know how to fix it," Minerva said stiffly. "But I do know it's far from perfect, sir."

"I quite agree with you," Dumbledore confessed. "It is a heavily flawed method. But, like many of the organisms and organisations that rule our society, it is an inherited burden that we must adapt to, and, if sufficiently dissatisfied, change by well-reasoned increments. To overthrow a system from the start merely because it is flawed without properly proposing a solution is, in essence, an anarchical revolution doomed, I am afraid, to produce more grief than it had at the outset."

Poppy looked overwhelmed, but Minerva looked thoughtful.

"Change by well-reasoned increments," she echoed. "Like one does in Transfiguration?"

Dumbledore beamed. "Quite so! Five points to Gryffindor for a marvellous association."

"You're planning on making Minnie a Prefect one day, aren't you?" Poppy said shrewdly.

Dumbledore's smile turned into something more mischievous. "Oh, but who can say what the future holds? On that note, my Inner Eye says you two should soon be in the Great Hall for dinner. My Outer Nose smells something like pot roast. Off you go!"

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," the two girls chimed, and walked off arm-in-arm. He watched them go with a twinkle in his eye; it was, contrary to popular belief, not a charm-- he had inherited it from his mother who had Selkie blood down her maternal line. It gave his iris its characteristic, reflective sheen; though he did, on occasion, spell it more or less noticeable.

"Renouncing revolutionary action merely because one of it's byproducts is momentary grief," said a high, cold voice, "when maintaining an unacceptable status quo is guaranteed misery -- how un-Gryffindor-like of you, Professor."

"I wouldn't call it miserable," Dumbledore said, tilting his head slightly upward to meet Tom Riddle's, who was casually lounging on the rafters.

"No, of course you wouldn't." Tom neatly slid off the sloping beam, blurring into his cloak like a gust of black wind, reconfiguring on the ground without a single hair out of place. "Such is the mark of your privilege. Sir."

“That was an impressive piece of magic,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the slight. “A shadow-step instead of proper apparition. Did a vampire teach you this, Tom?”

Pride always brought out the boy’s knee-jerk honesty. “It’s my own invention,” he said stiffly.

“Remarkable,” Dumbledore said. “Just like how bats and birds came to have wings through different means, it appears you have converged upon a similar method of flight.”

"You insult me,” Tom said coldly.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore said. “I am sorry if you took it as such. I, myself, fancy a fire-step--” he demonstrated by flickering to the left in a flash of phoenix-flame, emerging unruffled behind Tom’s blind spot, to the boy’s momentary but quickly snuffled alarm.

“It is not subtle,” Tom said.

“Well, no. I am, after all, a Gryffindor,” Dumbledore said, with a quirk of his lips.

“But you use it like a Slytherin,” Tom said shrewdly.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly to a side. A backhanded compliment?

“Do we Sort too soon,” Tom Riddle asked, softly. “Or not enough?”

“Oh?” There was no more twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, now. "Would you do away with our Sorting system, then, Mister Riddle?" 

"I might refine it," Tom said idly. He met Dumbledore's eyes with the casual defiance of a confident Occlumens. "Though, of course, I am no Grindelwald to dismantle it entirely."

"Gellert Grindelwald would not dismantle it," Dumbledore said quietly. "He would Sort upon birth, before choice is an option." He paused. "Such is his rhetoric."

"I suppose that's a future we all have to look forward to," Tom said drolly. "Seeing as he's winning the war. They say he soon will make an attempt at our shores, and our Ministry will accept him with open arms.”

"Grindelwald will not invade England," Dumbledore said calmly. "Not while I live."

"Is that what you tell yourself? His muggles have already dropped bombs on me! On wizard folk!" Tom's face twisted abruptly with his rage. “His acolytes pervade the Ministry. The children of his followers openly walk our halls. I don't need a bloody Inner Eye to see he doesn't need to touch England to change it—he already has.”

"Grindelwald will not win England," Dumbledore repeated, coldly, "so long as I live."

“How? You while away your time debating rhetoric with children!” Tom seemed, for a moment, desperate. “Don’t you get it? If you don’t fight now, then he has already won. You cannot kill an idea, Professor Dumbledore, until you kill everyone that thinks it.”

“Murder is hardly ever the answer, Mister Riddle,” Dumbledore said crisply. “And you would do well to remember that. Now I would advise you to walk back to your dormitory. Curfew approaches, and I shall not overlook your nighttime wanderings this time.”

Tom Riddle’s handsome face distorted with a passing sneer before it became smooth. “Yes, sir,” he said, in a tone edging on mockery.

Albus Dumbledore watched him go, and, for a brief moment, felt as if he was watching another boy go. The darkness swiftly followed him-- when Tom rounded the corner and disappeared, a flash of fire briefly licked Albus’ beard as his phoenix appeared upon his shoulder, driving away all nearby shadows. Fawkes crooned softly, having been summoned by his human’s sadness.

“Alas, my dear Fawkes,” Albus murmured. “It appears we missed dinner yet again.”

[douxie-casperan]

How close were you and Morgana before she turned on Camelot? Did she ever teach you magic that Merlin refused to teach? Did you guys ever just sit and talk trash about Merlin together?

“Lady Morgana is... an odd one to talk about, if I’m honest. It sometimes hard to reconcile who she was with who she became even after watching the speed run of it happen when I knew it would happen.”

Douxie seems to be lost in thought after that, his gaze lowered and hand tracing where the bracelet would be had he be wearing it right now with uncertainty. He takes a deep breath before finally answering.

“I was like this annoying kid brother to her a lot of the time I won’t lie, less of an upstart more I had my ignorance about the “done thing” in Camelot high society and the incessant need to know things while still spending a lot of my younger years skittish of doing something wrong and being left to the mercy of the King. I really didn’t know how I was supposed to approach somebody who was also an apprentice of Master Merlin while being part of the Royal Family I guess? I messed up a lot with the best intentions despite trying to keep under the radar.”

The hand finally moves when he looks up, putting one on hip while the other gestures with his words.

“When I was a little older, clumsy as heck mind but at least much less likely to be a disaster her direction, she would occasionally catch me when studying or pass me in the halls and ask how I was doing if Merlin wasn’t there for any arguments to start up again. She did at least sound genuinely interested beyond the gossip doing the rounds about me? Never told me anything was up to personally other than commenting how she was experimenting with new methods of her own shadowmancy skills which with hindsight was probably for the best. What little tidbits she came me though or pointing things out to me were always full of a passion for learning, being better and less uh restrictively structured? Than what I was used to. It was nice being able to interact like that, nowhere nearly being an equal don’t get me wrong!  But it was like the difference between being talked at and being talked to and I lived for those little scraps where I wasn’t treated like some street kid recruited for endless chores. She was another wizard I really could look up to and was taking time out of her day when she coulda been doing a thousand other things. She was always a lot better with emotions than he was and while I’d never trade Archie for the world she somehow seemed to know when what I really needed on those worst possible days was somebody outside us two to say things would be okay and hold  me while I got everything out my system.” He lets out a wistful sigh, there is a distinctly melancholic tinge to his voice now.

“... As things got more strained with the King however, I rarely seemed to see her when she wasn’t storming from yet another fight with him or about Master Merlin’s constant backing. She kept on this smile for the public but I could recognise it for how much she was really hurting inside and that’s about when she started to close off more and more, even the occasional chats in the library became beyond scarce. With the benefit of hindsight and seeing it for myself, nobody was in her corner, not truly so, and I too oblivious to the politics in the shadow of Master Merlin to even realise it until it exploded in everyone’s face. I couldn’t have done anything but sometimes I wish that maybe if I was a little older I might have been able to help her as much as she did me.”

Then on the second chance despite that slim chance of getting the siblings to reconcile, everything failed so miserably that he found losing her again somehow hurt far more than the original from how it felt like he’d condemned her to die at the hands of the King. 

It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life.

How apt.

[dalleyan]

Destiny (1st chapter of new LoTR story posted, 11-4-20)

All her life, the prophecy had shadowed everything she did.  Now that she was of age, and the world seemed to be ending, was it possible the Istar had been mistaken?  Complete in 8 chapters.

 Destiny

 Prologue   (3002 III)

In the year 2999 of the Third Age, Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his wife Sirrin had a little girl born into their family.  Both rejoiced at this special gift since all their previous children had been male, and the entire family doted on the infant.  When the child was a precocious three years of age, the family went to visit their kin in Minas Tirith.  Imrahil’s sister, Finduilas, had been married to the Steward Denethor, but died many years past.  While Imrahil did not share a close relationship with his brother-in-law, he was quite fond of his two nephews.

Both young men had turned out well, despite the death of their mother when they were but children, and Imrahil was eager to see them before duty made it more difficult.  Boromir was already deeply engaged in military matters, having a natural bent for it, even at but twenty-four seasons.  Faramir, too, was learning the ways of war, though he was a more reluctant pupil.  His was a gentler, more temperate nature, and though he knew the evil of Mordor made his participation essential, he did not revel in death or destruction, even of an enemy.

The family arrived on an overcast autumn day, but as the boat pulled into the Harlond, the sun finally came out.  The warmth and brightness of it lifted their spirits, despite the gloom of being so near Mordor.  Carriages were quickly secured to transfer the family to the city, and Lothiriel was all eyes, staring from the window at the great city looming up the side of the mountain.  Her brothers had been here before, and were far more interested in the horses, the soldiers much in evidence and planning their activities in the White City.

The family had a townhouse situated on the Sixth Level, on the North side. Word had been sent on ahead to ready the house for their arrival, and so they were met with bustling servants who quickly saw to their needs and soon had them settled in their rooms.

Less than an hour later, a knock sounded at the door, and Faramir stood eagerly on the doorstep.  Sirrin, who had been talking with servants to arrange the household, looked up and smiled warmly.  “Faramir!” she called to him, as the doorman stepped aside to admit him.  “How good to see you again!

He hurried forward, reaching for her hand to kiss it, but she drew him into an embrace.  “None of that formality, Nephew!  Oh, how you have grown!  It seems ages since I have seen you and Boromir.  He is well, as are you?”

Faramir grinned boyishly at her and nodded.  “We both are.  He is with the garrison at Osgiliath at present, but will return day after tomorrow. I sent word of your visit and he is eager to meet his newest cousin!” 

A thunder of feet just then drew their attention, and said new cousin raced down the stairs as fast as she could safely manage.  At the sight of the tall man with her mother, however, she skidded to a halt and stood silently staring.  Sirrin held out a hand to her, signaling her forward.  “Come and meet your cousin Faramir, dearest.”

Shyly, Lothiriel drew nearer, edging close to her mother and seizing her hand for reassurance, somewhat hiding behind her skirts.

“Say hello, Lothiriel,” her mother instructed, but the child turned and buried her face in her mother’s skirt without speaking.

Faramir smiled as he knelt down to put himself more on Lothiriel’s level. “It is a very great pleasure to meet you, Lothiriel.  I have been eager to do so ever since hearing of your birth.  And such a pretty name, too.  Do you know what it means?”

Unable to resist her curiosity, the little girl peeked out at him and shook her head.  Sitting down on the floor, Faramir unwrapped a parcel he had been carrying and drew forth a circle made of flowers braided together.  “It means ‘flower-garlanded maiden’, and on my way here I stopped and bought some flowers for your hair.  Shall I put them on you?”

With a toothy grin, she finally drew near him and lisped excitedly, “Yes, please!”

He smiled at the politeness, even from one so young.  Manners were greatly stressed in Imrahil’s house, though as Sirrin had demonstrated, once they were completely ingrained there were times when they might be set aside for familiarity.

The little girl quickly warmed to her cousin after that, and he very nearly regretted his success in winning her over for she attached herself to his side almost as a leech.  Her constant press for his attention made it difficult to greet his other relatives, but it was accomplished around the little girl’s prancing and twirling to show off the adornment of flowers he had given her.

The three boys adored and admired their older cousins, greatly impressed by their military activities and wanting to hear all about them.  Boromir was more apt to speak at length on such matters, but Faramir tended to give only cursory responses before shifting the conversation to more genteel subjects.  Even so, he told the lads enough to almost satisify them.

Faramir joined the family for a late dinner, before all made their way to the Citadel and an afternoon audience with Steward Denethor.  Health and circumstances had prevented Sirrin and Lothiriel coming to the White City since the little girl’s birth, so this would be Denethor’s first time meeting his niece.  Privately, Faramir thought his father little interested in the child other than random thoughts of how she might be useful to him when she was older and could form an advantageous marriage, but the Steward well knew how to preserve important connections.  Not only was Imrahil of Dol Amroth related to him through marriage, but he was also prince over the largest fief in Gondor.  It would not do to slight such a man and his family, however tedious it might be dealing with them.

Once the meal was ended, the family walked up through the streets to the highest level.  Lothiriel was trying to skip on ahead, gazing raptly around her at all the new and wondrous sights, but Faramir had a firm grasp on her hand and kept her from straying far.

Just as they neared the tunnel that would take them to the gate, a familiar figure was seen talking to one of the guards. 

“Mithrandir!  Come meet my niece, Lothiriel!” Faramir eagerly called to the wizard.

Slowly the old man turned to eye them, before coming to join them and gaze upon the child looking up at him with wide-eyed wonder.  “Lothiriel, is it?”  He fell silent for several long moments and no one spoke.  Finally he murmured, “An appropriate name as it happens, for one day she will be garlanded with a crown rather than flowers.  One day she will wed a king.”

 continue reading on AO3:

              https://archiveofourown.org/works/27393160/chapters/66948316

[ofmythsandmadness]

i need a favour - four.

PART FOUR - and so, the truth starts to come out (just a little). or, someone starts to realise that what she’s feeling is a little more than just nerves about this fake relationship - that she might be a bit more invested than she ever would have thought.

WORD COUNT - 2819. A/N -  This is a mess of a chapter, sorry folks. I’m not great at this. My gay ass is really just trying to make this work for y’all and truly, it shows. If you want to be added to the taglist, just ask and let me know. As well, if I missed you, just shoot a heads up.

SHE EAGERLY ACCEPTED THE CUP, only to hissing and hurry to place it down. However, she waved off Vanya’s immediate ‘I’m sorry’s’ with a sheepish grin. “It’s fine, I’m good. See?” She waved her slightly reddened fingers to prove her point - which the girl did not really buy, but at least seemed somewhat mollified.

After daring to test another sip - and regretting it immediately after - Y/N turned her attention back to the other woman, sitting across from her. They were around the same height, and yet every time Vanya always looked so much smaller, like a child in an adult’s body who’s too lost in this cruel world to properly function yet.

Far too apt for a vague thought, she bitterly rebutted herself.

“Sorry for stopping by like this,” she started, readjusting herself against the couch cushions. “I just wanted to pass on my well wishes and I saw the posters for the orchestra, figured I should pass on the good will in person.”

Vanya smiled softly. “It’s no problem. And thanks, yeah...yeah, the kids have been working hard.”

By the kids, she meant a small collection of junior students who she had begun to teach after the apocalypse situation. She still nursed a myriad of trauma around performing herself, but she had been encouraged (by both Y/N and her therapist, as well as her siblings when they were about) to not give up on something she loved. And so, she took up teaching again, but went about it with the hopes of creating a mini group of performers of her own. Y/N could tell it was not the same as performing herself, but at least it was something. As she worked on both herself and her strange abilities, it would be enough.

“I hope I can still crash the party? I don’t know much about classical music, but I have gotten quite good at pretending like I know more than I do. Diego’s nonsense helps with that.”

The other girl’s smile bloomed a little, at that. “Is he playing plus one to that, too?”

“Huh - oh, yeah, well...I don’t know,” she stuttered, stumbling over every word like it was from a whole new language. “Haven’t asked, but you know, no matter what the guy says he likes kids. Maybe he can uh, put...put the knives away for the night. Or something.”

“He doesn’t have to-”

“-no, of course he’d-”

“-it’s not his scene, and he’s a busy guy,” Vanya rushed, “you don’t have to feel bad. It was just a joke.”

Normally, Y/N would know that. In fact, she would be so quick to catch any joyful points in their conversations that she would overplay her reactions, laugh a bit too hard and like, slap her knee or something stupid like that. But that time, the reference had gone right over her head and then slapped her right in the back, enough to make her fall over and collapse. She was doing her best to get up and rebuild that hole in her wall again, but it was difficult and she could feel herself coming undone by every passing second.

As if sensing her panic - or maybe just seeing it as it was displayed on her face - Vanya moved forward and gently touched her hand. “I didn’t mean to start anything, or - or say something wrong.”

“Oh. No. NO, you did nothing wrong.”

“But-”

“-sorry, I just lost my train of thought and along with it went my brain, I guess.” Y/N was back to smiling, but it was fake as shit and both of them knew it. “What were we talking about?”

“Hey...is ev-what’s wrong, Y/N?”

She knew Vanya was only trying to be nice - and genuinely nice, as sign by her changing the bland ‘are you okay’ to a real question. She also knew that she had dug herself into a really, really deep hole and it was going to take a whole shit tonne of climbing to get out of it. And this time, she was not sure a smack on the lips was going to solve the issue.

“Would you believe me if I say I’m all good?” Y/N tried weakly, only to sign and slump into the couch when her head shook no. “Alright. Uh...you got anything stronger than coffee? This is a douzy.”

“I think I can handle it. Considering...everything.”

She laughed bitterly from between her friend’s couch cushions, then attempting to smother herself between them. It did not work, but it was nice to hide her face for a quick moment. “This might just be more surprising then everything else, Vannie...believe me.”

Vanya came back quickly with the glasses, and Y/N hesitated none to gulp the drink down regardless of the burn. After that, she struggled through the entire story, the ups and downs and even the stupid little anecdotes shared between her and Diego just to make it seem a bit funnier than it was - like it was just a fun game and not her love life being through around and about like nuts. But honestly recounting it back just made it sound even more dismal and humiliating and plain-out weirder. More than it already was to her.

Vanya was silent throughout it all, simply nodding along and letting her speak without pause. She supposed that was a good thing, she was grateful there was no need to stop - mostly because if she did, she might just never speak again.

Y/N finished it off with a sigh and a wry smile, raising her glass to her lips in an attempt to get the last drops out, sans manners and any grace. “That’s that,” she grumbled. “That’s...that’s that.”

And all Vanya said to that, was a quiet, monotone, rather emotionless, “oh.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Oh? That’s it?”

“Well - I don’t - I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just unexpected,” she offered up. When the only response was a quirk of her eyebrows, Vanya moved to explain. “I just thought...you two really had just gone for it. Like we had always teased you two about.”

Her cheeks bloomed with colour, forcing Y/N to duck her head and hide the flush. Not that it did much good, the splotchy red was much too eager to show her embarrassment then appease her. “No. ‘Fraid not. We’re just friends...who are now pretending to be sleeping with each other.”

“But why?”

She shrugged haplessly. “He wanted a break from everyone dogging him about being single, I guess...and I didn’t have anything better to do. I figure do ‘im a favour, he does one back, we’re even - except I didn’t really think it’d be this...big.” As in, she did not imagine kissing him. In front of his entire family, sans Five and their dear old dead daddy.

And also, actually fucking enjoying it.

“And technically, we’re not supposed to say a word to anyone, it’s on the list - but man, I just, I just need to talk to someone about this.” She gratefully accepted the second drink, swallowing it down in three hearty gulps. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I mean, I agreed to this, right? And it’s my fault for thinking this could be a walk in the park. I just thought...I don’t know what I thought. I guess I didn’t.”

Vanya smiled a little at that, and finally moved, walking around her coffee table to take a seat beside Y/N. She took the other’s hand in hers, squeezing ever so lightly. “It’ll be okay. It’s only a couple months, right?”

“I guess, but I feel like I’m already screwing it all up. I mean, it’s been like a week and a half? And I’ve already made a fool in front of everyone, and kissed him - and then blurted out the secret to someone! I mean, I might as well propose to him and then tell him our entire friendship is a lie, too!”

Despite herself, Vanya grinned, finding the humour in Y/N’s words, despite the panic on her face. She squeezed her hand a little tighter. “You’ll be okay.”

“How do you know that, though?”

“Because,” she replied slowly, “you told someone, but just one. And I’m not going to say a word to him. Okay?”

“Okay…”

“...and you didn’t make a fool out of yourself, really. You guys were cute. And everyone believed it, mostly because they’ve all secretly wanted you two to get together for years. I mean, since the moment they first heard your name leave Diego’s lips, Allison was making wedding invitations and Klaus was coming up with the worst moments to drop hints about you. I’m surprised you never caught them,” Vanya finished, lip curling a little at the memories.

Y/N knew enough about the siblings’ thoughts about her and Diego. It was unavoidable and for the most part she was fine with them conspiring. It was only when the mention of Diego came up, when one of them said something alluding to the fact that maybe he talked about her a little more than mere friends...that maybe there was a whole lot she did not know about.

Just as she was going to ask Vanya what she was referring to, the other girl cut her off. “And the kiss, like you said it was nothing. You had to do it, and it didn’t mean anything. So you’re still okay.”

And at that, she felt all the blood that had flooded her face drain right out, leaving her pale and panicked next to her close friend. And just like before, there was no hiding her expression or the plain out anxiety attack raging underneath her skin.

It did not take a wizard, to figure out what had caused it.

“Oh, Y/N-”

“-I don’t know, it just-”

“-Y/N...”

Y/N slumped back and covered her face with the cushion, groaning loudly into the fabric. “Shit.”

||

WHEN HE CAME BY THAT NIGHT, she was cold. 

Polite, and caring as always - but cold in her actions, in her few-word replies, in the way she shied away from any near-touch possibly laid upon her skin.

It was not intentional, at least not at the start. She was a mess most of the afternoon and early evening, but then as the sun fell and the hours crept away faster and faster, she felt herself close off. Even from herself. Like she had rebuilt that wall but it had been built too high and too close, so everything was left out of her heart. Not enough so it could not hurt, not so she could not feel waves of guilt every time she did something stand-offish - but enough to make it continue.

She knew he felt it too, but neither said a thing on it. For that, she was grateful. It was easier to move in silence then have to stop and think about the storm in her head. Mostly? Because if she did let her guard down maybe even a second, she might collapse entirely. And no one could have that.

“Here. Take these.”

His only response was a grunt and a nod, fingers barely brushing hers to take the small pills. She pushed back her worries and maintained the same blank expression, watching as he dry-swallowed the Advil. When he was done, she pushed off the coffee table.

“Need anything else?”

“No.”

“Okay. Shower, there’s some of your shit in the dryer now you can change into. Come in when you’re done.”

“I’ll just-”

“-you’re not goin’ anywhere,” she barked. For a moment, she softened, considering a sweeter tone and more reason than shouting orders. But quickly that idea shrivelled up. “It’s late. You need rest. You’re already here anyways.”

“I’m not-”

“-Diego, please.”

He finally left the couch. She heard him moving behind her, but dared not turn to look his way. Instead, her eyes remained train forward, frozen on the window he had come through Watching, tracing the frame, paralysed in replaying all the instances in which she had stood there before. 

“What did I do?”

Her eyes clenched shut, squeezing with all her might; gone was the window, replaced only by darkness. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” A slight pause, then: “sorry.”

“There’s more than that, isn’t there?” Slow, stumbling steps in the shallow dark walked her way. They remained a distance away - and yet she felt like he was right there. “I did something.”

“No.”

“Bullshit. You’re upset - at me.” There was bitter humour in his voice then. “I’ve known you too long to believe any of your lies.”

When Y/N opened her eyes again, they watered and struggled to even make out the shadows, finding the night still pressing into her skull. Digging its claws in, trying to wrench out all her fears and emotions and the shit she had buried deep deep deep within. Offer up her heart on a silver platter and leave her dead in the process.

She smiled ever so slightly. In the words of Cher fucking Horowitz, ‘as if’. No weepy confessions to be made that night.

Instead, she turned and made her lips turn up more, into a more believable grin. “I’m sorry. It’s been - it’s been a long week, feels like everything’s hitting me. I didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

“I-I know-”

“-it’s okay,” she murmured, voice hitching at his slight stutter. “It’s fine. Seriously, Diego, I just need to sleep this off. And uh, so do you.”

Diego sighed, hesitating as he thought over his words before pushing forward. “Why do you put up with me, do all this?”

“I’m not doing much.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“Sleep is overrated, you and I both know that.”

“Come on.”

“I’m being serious!”

“You’re exhausted, Y/N.”

She shrugged lightly. “Maybe. But I’d rather sacrifice an hour or two if - if it means I know you’re alright.”

Those words not the words that she had originally planned on saying. But they came out anyways, and hung heavily in the air, a wall of tension that left both sides unsure of what came next.

Before he could try and pry, ask about those softly spoken words, about the way her voice cracked a little at the end, she spoke. “I’m your girlfriend, Diego, can you blame me for caring about you getting home safe or not? I mean, I can’t have the love of my life dead in a fuckin’ alley somewhere.”

At that, she just smiled and turned, hurrying off to her room. She heard him speak, but it was too soft to pick up, and so she discarded it with the rest of the conversation. Just let herself sink into the blankets once more and shut her eyes, begging for sleep even when her brain was more awake than ever. Like she could sleep, after this. She never did.

Y/N listened instead as he moved around, shuffling into the bathroom and starting up the shower. He was brief, only a few moments before the water turned off and he was back to quietly rustling around. Soon enough, maybe ten minutes or so and he was in the doorway of her bedroom.

She shut her eyes and pretended to be already asleep, just as she always did. Let him feel safe within the darkness, moving to the other side and slipping under the covers. He laid still and at the edge, as always, still as anything so as not to overstep any boundaries. Sometimes, she smiled at that - other times, she longed for him to roll over and move close to her, put his arms around her and-

-with a start, Y/N realised that the silence had been broken by him. He had sighed, followed by a soft sniffle. She dared not move even a muscle, frozen against her pillow as Diego groaned once more and adjusted his pillow. 

And just when she thought it was over, he spoke. Just three words, soft as a breath. If it were not for the heavy silence, she would not have caught it, but he might as well had shouted it in that instant.

“You fucking idiot.”

Y/N dared to breathe, soft and slow, attempting to play asleep. But even if she wasn’t pulling it off, she was not sure if he even heard, so wrapped up in his own thoughts. 

Not for the first time, she longed to roll over and touch him, reassure him she was there with him. Ask what was on his mind, and if their thoughts paralleled in any way or form. But like always, they remained on opposite ends, too eager to maintain a friendship to overstep. She remained still and staring out into the darkness, listening to her exhales matching with his own shallow breaths.

Neither of them would sleep much, that night.

TAGLIST -  @asexualmarauder​ @thatshellfiredean​ @the-bird-suit​  @rangotangomango​ @fandomsandmore394​ @thatkidofwarandpeace​ @antoouu @soul-of-a-traveller​ @yall-wildin-like-siriusly​ @artsyle​

[writerbyaccident]

An Enchanted Cage: Part Two (Yandere Draco MalfoyxReader)

Request: Oh my God please continue the yandere draco fic

Part One Part Three

           Standing beside the creek, you chewed your bottom lip anxiously. Regardless of the days that had passed since the beginning of the summer, you still worried that Draco wouldn’t show. Despite his promise to meet you there that afternoon, you couldn’t help but remember how he once promised much the same thing, only to leave you waiting for four years. And as glad as you were to have your old friend back in your life, there was still a part of you—the hyper-alert, defensive part—that was afraid of it happening again.

           In all honesty though, that wasn’t the only reason for the slightly uneasy pit your stomach. You were hardly a fool, after all, it was fairly obvious that there was something that Draco wasn’t telling you. Some reason why you hadn’t seen him in four years, that he always spoke so vaguely about his school, that he rarely ever mentioned his family. Looking back, you recalled him being somewhat odd when he was younger too, off-handedly mentioning things that you either knew were impossible or didn’t recognize at all. You had always figured that he was just playing make-believe back then, and perhaps he had been, seeing how he never brought up those things nowadays. But he still wore those—really, you didn’t know what else to call them—those robes. That, plus Draco’s vagueness these days, made you wonder at times if he might be a part of a cult. As much as you wondered though, you didn’t pry, knowing that if Draco wanted to tell you, he would. But when you finally spotted him walking towards the creek, you still had to wonder.

           Picking up his pace, Draco grinned once he saw you. Seeing you, being with you, never failed to lift his spirits, a fact that he taken deliberate care to explain to both if his parents. Truly, talking to them about you had scared Draco like almost nothing else, but it was more than worth it if it meant he would no longer have to keep his distance from you. Besides, he reminded himself, you were surely terrified nearly all of the time, constantly surrounded by feral, vicious Muggles without an ounce of magic to defend yourself with. It truly boggled Draco’s mind, how you managed to survive all those years without a wizard like him to protect you, almost as much as it amazed him that Muggles could ever produce a creature as exquisite and miraculous as you. That was why it had been necessary to tell his family about you, Draco simply refused to let you be hurt and tainted by the lower rungs of your kind.

           “Hello,” Draco greeted you when he finally reached the creek. “I was wondering if you might be up for a change in scenery today.” Curious, you furrowed your brow and smiled slightly.

           “Depends on what the new scenery will be, I suppose.”

           “My mother would like you to join us for tea is all.” Shocked by this sudden development, you scrutinized your friend’s face for any sign of a joke. But as carefully as you looked, you saw nothing but honest eagerness in Draco’s eyes.

           “You mean, right now?” you asked anxiously.

           “Yes,” Draco snickered, “right now.” Glancing back in the direction of your grandparents’ house, you considered his offer. You knew very little about Draco’s family, neither of your grandparents having ever seen their mysterious neighbors. This invitation was rather sudden, and if you went, your grandparents might worry. On the other hand though, you had told them that you would be visiting with your friend Draco this afternoon, and nothing said you would have to stay long if things went poorly. But what truly settled the matter for you was the clear excitement in Draco’s eyes. After so long of wondering about his family and his life, he was finally opening up to you. If you rejected his offer, he might not do so again.

           “Alright, then,” you told him. “Lead the way.” Reaching across the creek, Draco took your hand in his to help you cross it without slipping. When the two of you started walking though, he refused to let go of it, his grip firm but gentle. Technically, Draco did this for practical reasons, seeing as you needed to be touching him to get through the wards. But truthfully, he would have taken the opportunity even if that hadn’t been the case. Even after passing through the wards, squeezing your hand softly when you subconsciously shivered at the sensation, Draco continued holding it. He couldn’t remember precisely, but he knew that the last time he must have touched you was when you two were children. Since reuniting with you, he hadn’t found the proper opportunity. So now that he had, Draco was determined to prolong it as much as he could. He couldn’t help it, your skin was just so warm, so soft. And now that you were with him, he could ensure that they stayed that way.

           Leading you into the lavish manor, Draco looked back to find you staring at his home in awe. It was rather intimidating, to be sure, what with its sheer size and clear opulence, but he knew that you would grow used to it soon enough. As you passed through the hallways, you took in the dark tapestries and intricate paintings, shaking your head when you thought you saw one of them move. Your shoes clacked on the gray marble floor, the sound echoing around you. Finally, after walking through countless corridors and walking by countless doors, the two of you reached the parlor. Turning towards you, Draco looked you over hurriedly, wanting you to make the best first impression possible. Without hesitating, he neatened your hair and adjusted your dress, only taking a brief moment to relish the feeling of his hands running over your body.

           “Um—” you began to say, unsure of why exactly Draco had felt comfortable touching you like that, as if you were a doll he was prettying up. Draco simply held up a hand to cut you off though, not in the right mood to make an excuse. Anyway, he really didn’t need to make any excuses to you, especially not anymore. You may not have been aware of it yet, but you belonged to him, and that meant he could as he pleased with you. And so, eager for this next step to begin, Draco opened the door.

           Venturing into the parlor behind Draco, your eyes went to his parents immediately. They were both blonde like their son, with the same refined and slightly bored air that came from growing up with immeasurable privilege. They also, you noted with interest, wore the same type of black robes over their clothes. Both of them were sipping their tea quietly as they looked you over.

           “Well,” his mother began, “I can see that you were being truthful, Draco, she is a pretty little thing.” Relieved by his mother’s assessment, Draco smiled and gave a small nod, then looking to his father for his verdict.

           “I suppose,” his father drawled,  “that your purebred analogy was rather apt. She almost looks civilized.” Eyes widening in offense, you opened your mouth to speak before being cut off by Draco’s mother.

           “And once you bathe her and dress her in some proper clothes, I imagine the result will be even better.”

           “Excuse me,” you sputtered, half hoping this was some poorly thought out joke. “What the hell are you people talking about?” Lucius’s eyes slid over to you at that comment, his eyebrows lifting and his lip curling.

           “It seems as though she was not entirely able to escape the barbaric nature of her kind though,” Lucius said haughtily.

           “She’s merely confused, Father, she still doesn’t know what’s going on,” Draco explained patiently. “She’s grown up her whole life surrounded by Muggles, she simply doesn’t know any better.”

           “What are—”

           “Even so, Draco, you will have to instruct her well then. I will not have our fellows thinking us too weak to even train our pets.”

           “Yes, Father.”

           “Pet?! Would someone,” you seethed, “care to explain what is going on?” Frowning at your question, Draco wondered how best to explain things to you. What he was about to tell you would end up changing everything you had thought you’d known about the world, after all. It needed to be done delicately. But before he had the chance to begin, Narcissa interrupted, perhaps hoping to spare her son the discomfort.

           “You are to be Draco’s pet,” she told you matter-of-factly, with the tone of someone explaining something simple to a child.

           “No, I’m not,” you scoffed in reply, wondering just who these people thought they were. “I’m a person.”

           “No,” Lucius responded coldly, “you are a Muggle.”

           “And that is?” Sighing quietly at the way things were going, Draco turned to you.

           “A Muggle is someone without magic, someone who isn’t a witch or a wizard.”

           “So, what you’re trying to tell me is that you and your family…”

           “Are magic, yes.” A small laugh escaping your lips, you waited for a moment for Draco to crack a grin and tell you how ridiculous your face looked. But when he continued staring at you with that serious look in his eyes, you started to edge your way towards the door. Well, you thought to yourself with distant hysteria, it seemed that your worries of Draco belonging to a cult weren’t unfounded. However, once you had your back to the door and twisted the handle with all of your strength, you found it locked. Looking back at the Malfoys, you saw none of them had moved from their positions. Draco was still standing in the same spot, gazing at you with slight disappointment, while his parents were still seated in their armchairs. The only significant change you could spot, was the intricately carved stick now in Lucius’s hand, pointed right at the doorknob.            “You people are crazy,” you shrieked.

           “I know that this is a lot for you to understand,” Draco said gently, approaching you slowly, “but you don’t have anything to be worried about anymore. I will be taking care of you from now on, and I can take far better care of you than any Muggle can.”

           “Are you kidding me? I’m not staying here with you! I’m not your fucking pet!” As Draco continued to walk towards you, your heart thundering in your chest, you raised a hand to strike him.

           “Incarcerous!”

           Suddenly, thick ropes and cords appeared out of nowhere, wrapping around you tightly. Falling to the ground, you saw Draco’s mother had stood from her chair, pointing her own wand at you.

           “I think you ought to take her to her room,” Narcissa said stiffly. Nodding, Draco gathered you into his arms. He left the room with you secure in his grip, taking you through the corridors again.

           “Well,” he murmured into your ear. “That could have gone much better. I meant what I said back there. I’m going to take care of you, far better than any Muggle ever could. You aren’t like the rest of them—you’re not. I had to get you away from them before they tried to ruin you. And now that you’re finally here where you’re meant to be—with me—you will be my perfect little pet.”

Please consider supporting me at my Ko-Fi account

[monstersandmaw]

Hello folks! Welcome to June! And on the very first day of the month, I bring you this offering. You said in a poll that you were interested in the vampire WIP, so here it is. Although it says WIP, each part has been extensively edited. The story as a whole is a work in progress though, and some elements may change as it develops, although it's all mapped out and I know where it's going. It's written up to Chapter Six, and is sitting at a total of 23,000 words, so it's not going to be a small project!  You said you wanted more multi-chapters, so here it is! (I won't neglect the other ones though, I promise! Winter Solstice's next chapter is also ready to go, and is in the posting queue too!)

Now, this one is set in Skyrim - but wait! Don't stop reading now if you're not a Skyrim person!!! It's not following the events of the game, and only features a few characters from the vampire-themed DLC, Dawnguard. You don't need to know about Skyrim to enjoy it, I hope.

It centres on Kjartan, a pureblood vampire (rare) who has lived a cloistered life at the dour Castle Volkihar, located on a remote island in the northern sea of Skryim. His father, Lord Harkon, is a sadistic and obsessive vampire lord, who until just before the start of this story, had been hell-bent on bringing an ancient prophecy to pass that would darken the sun, and therefore increase his vampiric powers. In the game, I think he wants to wipe out the sun entirely, which is stupid because the humans couldn't grow crops, and the vampires would also starve without humans. I removed that element from this story becaues it's dumb af. Without spoiling what's to come, Kjartan was not treated well at the castle, and after his much older sister, Serana, returned to stop Lord Harkon's dumb plan (accompanied by the dragonborn and the anti-vampire faction, the Dawnguard), he left with her to travel Skyrim and learn how to stand on his own two feet a bit better.

Serana took him to various locations in the north of Skyrim, and discovered that he has some magical talents other than his innate vampire abilities, though he's not particularly strong. She suggested he go to the College of Winterhold, an ancient bastion of learning and scholarship, as much to socialise him as to teach him to use his magic, while she continued south to keep working with the Dawnguard.

It is at this point that we pick up Kjartan's story. I am aware that not everyone will be familiar with the lore of Skyrim, so I have tried to weave it into the worldbuilding side of the story without infodumping on you, or making you have to look stuff up.

I really hope you enjoy it - this one has come to be a real favourite of mine, with socially awkward, emotionally repressed Kjartan, and outgoing and outspoken Nora, his first friend at the college...

Any questions, please feel free to ask in the comments or on Tumblr or Discord. Otherwise, here's 3140 words of Kjartan's POV for Chapter One. It will be alternating every chapter between Kjartan and Nora. (Kjartan is pronounced with the 'j' soft, like 'kyar-tan').

Kjartan

“Your talents are… ‘adequate’ enough to gain entry to the college, but you’re hardly the strongest mage we’ve ever considered,” Faralda said condescendingly as his conjured light faded and the residual magicka in the air sputtered out. The high elven gate keeper of the college still looked like she’d swallowed something bitter though, and she continued to stare at him.

“Thank you,” he said, still standing in ankle-deep snow outside the small barbican gate of the College of Winterhold. Beyond, the leaping expanse of the ancient, crumbling stone bridge stretched away into the blizzard, partly masking the millennia-old college building behind, perched on its promontory like the lone survivor of a shipwreck. With half the town of Winterhold now sitting in the sea below the cliffs, it felt somehow apt to think of the venerable old complex of buildings that way. Of course, most of the inhabitants of the town wished the college had gone down to lie with the rest of the rubble, but that wasn’t his concern. He was here for the college, not the town.

“Ordinarily, that rather underwhelming display would have been just about enough to get you admitted to the college,” the mage went on, “But there’s very obviously something else about you which will need discussing with the Master Wizard before I can even let you set foot on the bridge, let alone into the college.”

Meekly, he bowed his head, his long black hair sliding forward to hide a handsome, if extremely pale and drawn face. He’d been waiting for that. “I understand.”

With a soft huff, Faralda nodded and ushered him into a tiny stone chamber in the gatehouse that had room for no more than a fireplace, a battered old table, two chairs, and a round window the size of a porthole. There she left him sitting with his hands in his lap, and his dark gold eyes burning. As she left and slammed the door behind her, he caught her muttering and he held his breath.

The wait for someone to appear was not as long as he’d thought it might be. Apparently it wouldn’t take hours of arguing amongst themselves. The woman who strode into the squat, stone chamber forty minutes later was short but still very much imposing, power washing off her like a font of pure magicka. She wore traditional belted mage robes that crackled with all sorts of enchantments, and her stern expression fixed itself instantly on him the moment she entered the room.  

“Kjartan Volkihar, is it?” she said in a gravelly alto voice as she stood in the open doorway, letting all the snow flurry in from outside. The single candle on the table guttered instantly and left nothing but the soft glow of his eyes and the weak light from the window to his left. It was clear that she was not impressed or even intimidated - if her steady heartbeat was anything to go by - and that she knew of his family’s reputation. “A vampire. And a pureblood, nonetheless.”

There was little point denying it. He couldn’t hide with illusion magic from someone as powerful as Mirabelle Ervine, or change his unnatural eyes with their entirely black sclera and red-gold irises, glowing even in strong sunlight. Illusion spells might work on the everyday peasant, but to those two mages here in the dimly lit room, his eyes must have shone like the recently extinguished candle flame.  

“Well, it’s not entirely without precedent, you’ll be pleased to hear, but I need to know you can control yourself,” she said, and before either Kjartan or Faralda could have prepared for or prevented it, she had drawn a little belt knife from its sheath at her waist and nicked her inner wrist. Blood welled up, bright and hot and ferrous, and his eyes went immediately to it. Thirst clamped at his tongue and throat and his canines throbbed in his gums, but he never moved so much as a muscle in his body.  

The slow drip - loud as hammer blows to the vampire - of falling drops onto the stone was the only sound in the room for almost a minute, time stretching. He wrenched his eyes from the crimson liquid after only a few heartbeats, and fixed her with his careful gaze instead, and all the while she glowered at him, wrist bleeding, daring him to react. Finally with a flick of her other hand, warm, golden light sparkled at the cut, the skin stitching itself back together, and in an instant the damage was healed.  

“Apologies for such theatrics,” she said, voice clipped and professional as she entered the room and closed the door. While she spoke, she began to pace. “I had to make sure of your reactions and control, and warning you would have spoiled the test.”

Read the whole thing right now, as well as all the Mermay 2020 posts (five in total, including extra artwork) and a surprise, nsfw ‘ghost lover’ story, plus everything that’s been posted already on Patreon!

[sistersblack]

Since you posted other recs do you have any Lucissa fics to recommend? Thanks!

i do!! gonna cut it because it got kinda long but here’s a few. some of them are more gen than shippy, but still

Play And Make Good Cheer by GMTH (4k, e) - It's never a good thing when Lucius gets bored, but at least this time he won't get them written out of the will.

A Common Phenomenon by floweringjudas (2k, e) - There are stitches being dropped in Ottery St. Catchpole and Godric's Hollow and Mould on the Wold simultaneous to these, there are the same muffled curses, the same hitched breaths near at least four hearths this evening.

Show Me the World As It Was Again by mazily (5k, t) - Severus is half-dead. Perhaps more than half. "Less than fully corporeal," Narcissa says.

Weight of a Constellation by diabolica (3k, t) - In the autumn of 1979, Narcissa Malfoy has a lot on her plate. And then the unexpected happens.

Vocabulary by Musyc (2k, e) - Lucius Malfoy was an apt pupil, especially with hands-on lessons, and his wife can attest to his skill.

Family Matters (Series) by TheMightyFlynn, WIP.

Precautions Before a Duty Dinner by lysanatt (2k, m) - The wizarding world is not the same after the war. Unpleasant tasks and chores have to be done - once more appearance is more important than honesty for the Malfoys. Luckily, Lucius knows how to make a duty dinner much more pleasant.

Two Can Keep A Secret (If One of Them is Dead) by Writcraft (5k, e) - After an attack on the Manor leaves Narcissa dead, a grieving Lucius Malfoy uses dark magic to recreate her exact image and likeness.

How to Manage a Malfoy by Chthonia (2k, t) - "It seems to be common knowledge that I persuaded Lucius not to send Draco to Durmstrang. Actually, that's not quite true - Draco was always going to attend Hogwarts. All I did was remind Lucius of that..."

Glass People In Stone Houses by HenryMercury (5k, e) - Lucius asks in absentia, with an elegant black gift box and no card.

also, like a year or so ago i started bookmarking everything i read, regardless of if i liked it or not, so you can always check out my lucissa bookmarks on ao3 in case there’s something there you might like.

[yadds]

Tony Reappears - Pt 2

The follow-up to my previous post looking at what would happen if Tony appeared out of nowhere to be found by Peter, who’s still haunted by Beck’s reality bending.

In which Tony is in bad shape and Peter helps, Strange snarks, and Pepper gives him the kick in the pants he needs.

This is now Part 2 of what is looking to be turning into a slow-burn starker, y’all. Just a heads up, it’s still Pepperony for now since it’s pretty much canon compliant through Endgame.

__________________________________________

Peter was at his side before he could blink, hands hovering, unsure, before cradling Tony’s face briefly, eyes darting across his features as he catalogued every detail. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I-is it really you?”

Tony just nodded wearily, letting out a soft huff as Peter’s hands slid back through Tony’s hair, touching the gray at his temples reverently. Seriously, if he wasn’t already about to pass out he’d probably be reeling from the emotional whiplash of seeing Peter transform back into the gentle, wholesome boy he remembered.

When Peter seemed to be content to simply stare, followed by flitting, fleeting touches, Tony cleared his throat before croaking, “Hands?”

Peter’s brow scrunched in confusion before realization dawned, cheeks flushing. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh my gosh. Of course. Um, here, one second,” he muttered, fumbling with something on his web shooters before producing a vial of clear liquid that he poured carefully over the webbing on Tony’s hands.

“This is normally something I use in aerosol form from my web shooters, but it can make a mess and it makes everything ironically sticky, so I figure you might not appreciate a potential full-body spray. I’m still working out the kinks - It’s surprisingly rare that I ever need to prematurely dissolve my webbing,” Peter explained, voice high and quick like he was nervous.

“I seem to remember designing a solution for that specific problem - in fact, I think it was the first thing I did when I got back to my lab with remnants of your spider juice still stuck to my hands after our first meeting,” Tony said. Or at least he tried to, but his mouth just wouldn’t cooperate. It came out more like; “I...solution already...lab...spider juice,” with incoherent mumbling in between.

But Peter, bright, wonderful Peter, got the gist and grinned, small and guarded but genuine. “Yeah, of course you did Mr. Stark,” he assured as he pulled Tony’s hands away from the wall and set them gently on the floor next to him. “You thought of everything for my suits! But I’m always tinkering with the web fluid design so I’m also having to change the dissolving solution.”

How long has it been? Tony finally thought to wonder.

Peter sat back on his haunches, still staring wonderingly at Tony. Tony couldn’t blame him - if he had the energy, he’d probably be doing the same thing. He had invented time travel, primarily to bring back one Peter Parker, to remedy his worst failure. Of course, saving the rest of the world was motivation as well, but that was mostly an afterthought. And other than a quick, heartfelt hug on a battlefield at the end of the world, he never got the chance to acknowledge that he had actually succeeded.

But now that his life wasn’t in immediate danger, his pounding headache and burning throat were clamoring for attention again. Right. A glass of damn water, that’s how this started.

Tony’s head listed to the side, staring forlornly at the fridge. It was only about two feet away, but it might as well have been two thousand miles.

Peter followed his gaze and, noticing the shattered glass on the floor, quickly realized what Tony was wanting. “You want some water, Mr. Stark?”

Tony nodded gratefully. When Peter returned a minute later, he tried to lift his hands to grab the cup, but couldn’t get them to do more than twitch. After hovering awkwardly for about thirty seconds, Peter hesitantly lifted the glass to Tony’s mouth, tilting it carefully so that the water trickled slowly past his lips.

When that first drop of cool, clean water touched his tongue, Tony’s breath hitched and his eyes stung, overwhelmed by the relief of it. But after only three swallows, he felt the liquid fall heavily into his completely empty stomach and he clamped his lips shut tight. Peter’s intent, watchful gaze and quick reflexes ensured that he noticed almost immediately and righted the glass, pulling it away. Now that Tony could feel the moisture on his face from the slight dribble that escaped his mouth, he realized how agonizingly dry his skin felt, stretched taut and paper thin. His heart was racing, chest heaving, the thirty seconds of interrupted breathing it took to have his precious drink apparently too much after everything else.

He glanced back up at Peter to see his face creased with concern, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. He could definitely make out the ‘Are you okay?’ forming on Peter’s lips.

He tried to respond. To reassure him that he was fine, he just needed to rest, but spots were blooming behind his eyes, slowly taking up his field of vision as his heart rate continued to increase. Uh oh. He was pretty familiar with the way an overstressed heart felt and this was suspiciously similar. He felt Peter’s hands press firmly on his chest and saw his name frantically falling from his mouth before his eyes rolled back and everything faded away.

.

When he awoke, he blinked blearily, eyes sluggishly tracking around the room he was in. Off-puttingly white, machines beeping quietly in the background, and people in scrubs off to the side. A hospital. Which was probably apt, considering he felt like he’d been starved to death only to be thrown in front of a train and lit on fire. He also took note of the comfortable mattress and tastefully low lighting. So he was probably in one of his own facilities.

“Mr. Stark! You’re awake!” Tony startled at the exclamation to his right, not aware that anyone was there. He turned his head to see Peter, the wizard standing aloofly behind him.

“What happened?” Tony asked scratchily, hand coming up to rub absently at his throat. Peter leapt to his side to bring a cup of water with a straw to him, only letting him take a few sips this time before pulling it away. Tony gave him a quick smile in thanks.

“Well I was hoping you’d be able to tell us,” Strange said dryly.

“I meant my health at the moment, which I thought you might have a better idea of than I since you’re actually a doctor, as you’re so fond of reminding me,” Tony responded, finding the remote and levering his bed up to sit up slightly, feeling much more human than the last time he’d been awake.

Strange stared at him impassively for a long moment before replying. “Of course. Well your vitals are stable now. Your main ailments are malnutrition and dehydration extreme enough to bring you to the brink of organ failure, which has been aided by the IV fluids and nutrients you’ve been receiving for the three days you’ve been unconscious. You’ll be on a strict diet for a while before you’re ready to eat normally.”

“Spectacular,” Tony sniped. At least he’d regained enough energy to maintain his flippant attitude. Priorities. “Don’t worry Doc, I know the drill. Been there, done that. Would have gotten the t-shirt, but they were fresh out. You know the saying. Whatever. Point is, that’s a pretty standard medical issue. A little above your pay grade these days isn’t it?”

“I was simply answering your question, Stark. That’s not why I’m here.”

When silence followed that statement, Tony gestured in his direction. “Do you need an engraved invitation to finish that thought? A drumroll? Some dramatic mood lighting?”

The smothered laugh from Peter’s direction was a pleasant counterpoint to the irritated pursing of lips from Dr. Strange.

“I would have thought it would be pretty clear. You reappeared unexpectedly after being dead for 3 years. I’m here to figure out what’s going on and make sure you haven’t completely torn a hole in the fabric of the universe, as I’m sure you would at the first possible opportunity.”

“And to make sure you’re really okay, you know, mind, body, soul and all that,” Peter chimed in.

“Yes. You do appear to actually be alive, by the way, considering near organ failure affected you as it would anyone else. Further tests will need to be done to determine if everything else is ‘normal’,” Strange explained.

“Mmhmm,” Tony hummed with a dismissive nod. He was choosing to work very hard at not thinking about the fact that he’d pulled some kind of resurrection act. He didn’t know how he was back, if he was still himself, how long he would be here or anything. And he was choosing to live in blissful ignorance at this point. That was a problem for future Tony. If there would be one. Who knows? He could disappear tomorrow.

“So you really don’t remember anything?” Strange pushed.

Tony glared at him. “Whoops, you caught me, Merlin. I’m purposely keeping a whole host of information all to myself so that I can remain under constant surveillance and suspicion. Because that’s how I get my jollies. No. I remember dying - which, not super fun, let me tell you - then nothing, until I suddenly showed up here. Or there. Am I still at the Compound? Where am I?”

“Yeah, you’re at the Avengers medbay on the Compound campus,” Peter answered helpfully.

“Well there you go. Consider me interrogated,” Tony intoned.

Strange was opening his mouth, probably to continue his inane, insulting questioning, but Tony cut him off as he saw the door to his room open. “Pepper, Honey, light of my life!” he called, holding his arms out in her direction.

Pepper stopped right inside the doorway, hand falling heavily on the wall beside her as she stared at Tony with wide eyes that were quickly filling with tears, chin quivering. “Tony,” she whispered.

“The one and only. Come on Doll, don’t leave me hanging here,” he joked, hoping the desperation that was creeping into his chest wasn’t apparent in his voice.

Pepper finally moved, stumbling to a stop at Tony’s bedside and collapsing to the side of the bed to gather him in her arms. Tony let out a heavy, ragged sigh. Yes. This is what he’d needed, her warmth seeping into his skin like a toasty towel fresh out of the dryer.

After a moment, he looked around and frowned. “Where’s the munchkin?”

Pepper pulled back, looking uncomfortable but not averting her gaze. “Tony. We don’t know yet what’s going on - are you really back? For how long? Are you completely stable? It didn’t seem right to bring Morgan into this until we knew for sure.”

“Right, yes, of course,” he murmured, heart seizing in his chest again. It all made sense and objectively, he agreed. She was still so young - to involve her now when he could possibly be gone in another five minutes would just be devastating.

But subjectively, it was fucking ripping him to shreds. His daughter, his baby girl. Even if he was only here for five seconds, he’d want to spend them holding her tight. But that was selfish. She’d probably moved on by now, made some kind of peace with his death. He didn’t want to ruin her world all over again. And what if he wasn’t safe? What if he suddenly went berserk? What if he was some radioactive mutant or some crazy shit like that? No, this was the right decision. Didn’t mean it wasn’t low key killing him all over again though.

Suddenly he was a lot more motivated to face everything and get it all figured out. Guess he’d have to actually cooperate with fucking Dumbledore. Wonderful.

__________________________________________

Part 3 - Tony comes back with more than he bargained for

[yaxleyemerson]

❝It tastes so bitter. The truth’s a killer, but I cant leave it alone.❞ EMERSON YAXLEY looks a lot like that muggle, AVAN JOGIA, right? Only 28  years old, that RAVENCLAW alumnus works as a LAWYER and is sided with the WRAITHS. HE  identifies as MALE  and is a PUREBLOOD. [ 47, 28, THE VENGEFUL. ]

Death TW/Murder TW for mentions in the intro

Emerson was born exactly seven minutes after his twin sister Elianna. There was magic in that-the power behind the number seven magnifying their twin bond from the very beginning. The Yaxley’s were not an overly social or influential family. They had remained largely neutral during the last two conflicts within the wizarding world, and had come out of both of them largely unscratched. It didn’t make them many friends, seen too frequently as fencewalkers, but the few families that the twins socialized with prior to going to Hogwarts were those of respectable, pureblood names. Emerson didn’t mind it, not really, not when he had Elianna to spend time with growing up. He never felt lonely, never particularly felt the need for more even once they went to school. 

Not much changed when they started Hogwarts. Elianna was sorted first, and Emerson wasn’t surprised when they hat called Ravenclaw for her. He kept his nerves hidden when he had the hat placed on his head, silently hoping to follow his sister. He did, and he was happy to have his closest friend near to him. He made other friends over the years, but Emerson had never been the social twin, and was content to largely focus on his studies.

It wasn’t until after Emerson had finished becoming a lawyer that things began to shift. His parents started talking of marriage for him and his sister, and  they would never outright say it was a betrothal, but when Emerson proposed to Valentina, it wasn’t due to any love between them. They were friendly enough, in those early stages of their courtship, but it wasn’t until recently that there was any level of closeness to them. He thinks it might have to do with his joining the Wraiths, something he wouldn’t have considered until the unspeakable happened. There was a level of understanding between them now, this secret no longer having her keep him at arm’s length. It wasn’t love, not really, but it was at least friendship, someone to lean on as he struggled to deal with the unexpected loss of Elianna. 

It was Orion who told Emerson what had happened. That Elianna had been working for the Wraiths, spying on the Order to bring knowledge of their movements back to the Wraiths when she was caught. Her disappearance was because the Order chose to kill her for her betrayal. Emerson lost it when he heard, already deep in mourning for his sister, his twin, his best friend that he didn’t stop to question what Orion was saying. Emerson swore vengeance on those that took Elianna away from him, and he joined the Wraiths in order to do so. 

He chose Mortifer as his codename after careful consideration. Death bringer was what he was trying to be, and it felt apt to  name himself after his goals. It kept him grounded, reminded him why he was fighting. Emerson was never the type to get his hands dirty, and he likely would never have moved from his neutral position had Elianna lived, content enough with knowing his place in the world and not feeling a need to prove it. But he couldn’t let Elianna die in vain. He would avenge her death and further the cause she had given her life for. It wasn’t much, not when she was gone, but it was all he could do to honor her.

He hasn’t taken a rune yet, not sure which one would work best for his needs. He’s working on it now, thinking of the best way to maximize his abilities to do what needs to be done. There’s no lines he won’t cross to right the wrong that is Elianna’s death

Emerson puts little stock in the prophecy, his focus less on the conflict overall and more on his personal vendetta. He hasn’t given his own role in it much thought, hadn’t considered what line might refer to him, and he doesn’t particularly want to know. Eventually, when the truth of Elianna’s death comes to light, that it wasn’t the Order that killed her, that Orion twisted the truth and destroyed his sister’s legacy to recruit him to the Wraiths, he might regret this ignorance. The vengeful  will one day realize that they are the villain in their story – not the hero – and the aftermath will be catastrophic once they finally see themselves for who they truly are. A warning, that he was wrong, that he’s the one dishonoring Elianna’s memory, that she would never condone the actions he’s taking, one he could have heeded if only he wasn’t so focused on revenge.

[pandemonshq]

Welcome, Nicky, please grab your stake on your way to your tumblr to play Draco Malfoy here at Pandemons. I think it’s no surprise to you that we adore your Draco: the marriage of convenience that still highlights the importance of family that every “good” Malfoy has, the Vampire Hunting, the fact that he’s still himself after all these years. ..

And, of course, your request for Alexander Skarsgård --present Fc and Austin Butler--past FC have been accepted.

Nicky’s application is being posted early due to her work on the game to get it up and running, and the relevance of Draco to the larger game plot. While Nicky is not a mod, her assistance made this game possible.

Out of Character Information

Name: Nicky Preferred Pronouns: she/her Age: over thirty O_o Timezone: EST Activity Level: Medium. I co-admin and participate in another roleplay, so depending on what is going on there in conjunction with the regular inconveniences of real life I may not have time to post responses every day, but I have absolutely no concerns that I will struggle to meet and indeed should regularly exceed the minimum requirement. I usually find Draco quite easy to write!

In Character Information

Character's Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy Bloodstatus: pure-blood Birthday: June 5, 1980

Gender and Sexuality: Transgender male, panromantic sex-positive asexual

Gender: 

Draco was six when he informed his parents that he was going to grow-up to be a wizard like daddy, not a witch like mummy. It took them a little time to be certain that their child really understood and meant what he was saying, but once they were convinced, his parents sprang into action to support their son: Lucius didn’t just contact the Daily Prophet to have an adjustment to Draco’s birth announcement printed, he took out a full-page ad. Narcissa sat her little boy down and poured-over lists of constellations with him to find what his new name would be (not that it took Draco long to select his -- “I can be a dragon? I want that one!”). They threw-away and purchased an entire new wardrobe for him (although it had never been the ribbons to which Draco had objected) and anyone who wasn’t quick enough to adjust to Draco’s new name got a painful hex for their lethargy (including Abraxas, once). It wasn’t so much acceptance that Draco got from his parents as adoration -- in all aspects. He was perfect; he could do no wrong. 

It wasn’t until he arrived at Hogwarts that Draco discovered that not everyone saw him through such idealized spectacles -- nor thought gender was as simple and straightforward a thing as the contents of a cauldron. For Draco, gender might as well have been synonymous with genitals, and swallowing a weekly dose of potion was all it took for him to go from girl to boy. The matter was closed...only it wasn’t. There were some people who thought the subject had far more nuance than that (one of the few subject on which he didn’t need losing a war to improve, at least) and then there were those who thought it had far less; who thought that there was no such thing as change. For the most part, they seemed to have come by those ideas from Muggle sources, which made both them and their words easy to dismiss -- mostly. Even a boy with as much blistering self-confidence (arrogance) as Draco is apt to find adolescence an uncertain, confusing time, and he was no exception; some barbs hurt even when you’re certain you don’t care. Having his dueling prowess questioned, his fashion-choices derided, his Quidditch skills discounted…all the things that, to Draco, meant masculinity. Not that witches couldn’t be great duelists or Quidditch players or fashion-plates, too; but Draco’s ideas of how to be a man were all modeled on his father. So to excel at “being a wizard” meant, for him, excelling at all the things at which Lucius excelled. (He was also always rather touchy about his name. He’d picked it himself, after all. It was the best name. His mother had said so!)

These days, Draco is far too used to simply being taken for a wizard to fret; it’s not as though he regularly goes around socializing with backwards-Muggle-thinkers, is it? (Not that all Mudb--Muggle-borns are backwards-thinkers! Some of them have done quite well at getting over their upbringing, and are quite indistinguishable from other wix now! He’s not bigoted anymore, you know!) He no longer focuses on mimicking his father in order to be a “proper” wizard -- in part because he’s grown more comfortable with himself as he grew-up, in part because exposure to the world beyond the immediate circle of his parents taught him that there’s more than one way to be a wizard, in part because an ex-Death Eater has more difficult things with which to grapple...and in part because the pedestal on which Lucius once stood in his son’s eyes has sagged a bit. Now instead of trying to trace anyone else’s footsteps, Draco is simply himself -- and learning to live with that was hard because of his choices and his mistakes, not his gender. Having anyone question his masculinity now on the basis that he takes a periodic dose of the Attisgalli Corrective Draught to maintain a physical form that suits his inner self would be less outrageous than baffling.

*NOTE: Draco is likely to express things about gender in outdated terminology because of his unfamiliarity with the Muggle world. However if this would make anyone uncomfortable please let me know (on-anon is fine!) because I will happily compromise a fiddly little bit of world building for the sake of my fellow players’ comfort!

Sexuality: 

Perhaps the one area in which Draco actually disappointed his father: he’s just not interested in sex. He doesn’t have anything against it; it’s just not something that motivates him, not something he thinks about unless someone else brings it up first. (Sort of like beets. He has no objection to eating them, and sometimes they can be genuinely delicious, but he’s never gone out of his way for a serving of beets.) That disinterest is what killed his relationship with Pansy (well, that and the fact that Draco had no idea they were dating in Pansy’s mind!) because all her offers and innuendos passed right over his head; he tends to take physical affection on face value and flirtation registers to him as simple banter. Lucius “blames” himself, lamenting that it was his distraction and absence at a crucial stage of his son’s development that left Draco’s “interests stunted.” Draco doesn’t understand the fuss; he’s perfectly happy the way he is and, frankly, given the vast drop in social popularity that the Malfoys faced after the war, it’s probably just as well that his interests are “stunted” because his prospects certainly were.

Former Hogwarts House: Slytherin -- sorted nearly the second the hat touched his head because of course he was, he was Draco Lucius Malfoy, last heir to both the Malfoy and Black families, and the scion of two of the purest lines in all of magical Britain and absolutely guaranteed to do great things!

Infection:

( No. Although I think it would be a fun potential plot to have him be infected either temporarily or permanently later! Actually I feel like “temporary infections” should be a regular effect of his vampire slaying efforts, since he’s likely to be exposed through that! )

Faceclaim: Alexander Skarsgård--present. Austin Butler--past.

Short HeadCanon Topics (please provide at least one paragraph per topic)

Occupation (title and one paragraph explanation): 

None...technically. Malfoys don’t need jobs, after all, so it should surprise no one that Draco hasn’t got one -- and it’s not as though he’s in a position where he can dabble in politics the way his father (and his father, and his father) did, is he? No, Draco has no job, only hobbies...

Or some might say, obsessions. One, actually: vampires. Draco Malfoy is a vampire hunter, possibly the first proper vampire hunter in over a hundred years. There hadn’t been a need for any in ages; vampires and wix had learned to co-exist long ago. Vampires had never really been accepted as ordinary people -- but they’d been fashionably exotic creatures, not scorned like half-giants or distrusted like goblins. The Malfoys in particular had been happy to socialize with (and take the money of) vampires, particularly back in the day; after Voldemort’s firstrise it became less acceptable for pure-blood wix to associate with any groups of non-wix unless they were serving the Dark Lord as well -- and vampires never did. Even as werewolves let themselves be courted and giants agreed to be bought, vampires kept their distance. So the Malfoys drifted away from them...

Until now. Until Astoria’s infection.

At first, Draco’s sole focus was in curing her -- and he hasn’t abandoned that hope. But as time passed and all his best efforts came to naught, those hopes have dwindled to a sort of cold, shriveled desperation. He still brews-up the occasional draught; still pieces-together scraps of old spells in hopes that something, some day, will save her...but that’s not his sole focus any longer. For a long time after the war, none of the Malfoys looked beyond the gates of the manor to the world outside -- but Scorpius is out there, now. He’s attending Hogwarts, moving through the world. Someday he’s going to grow-up and want to find a place for himself beyond the manor’s walls -- and like Lucius before him, Draco is determined to make that world as safe as possible for his child. Unlike Lucius, it’s not the tenuous (and perhaps somewhat exaggerated) threat of Muggles that Draco hopes to stem: it’s vampires, and the ever-increasing rate of infection among the magical world.

For a long time, he’s been fighting this quiet war alone in the dark. Who was he going to turn to for help, after all? Certainly not the Ministry of Magic! If Draco Malfoy walked in their doors talking about the dangers of a group of non-wix, he’d be lucky to just be ushered-away with a lecture on prejudice! No, he’s had to do this by himself -- but maybe not for much longer? Maybe things have finally gotten bad enough for someone else to notice...but will they want Draco’s help, expert though he has become on the subject? Maybe it’s still better for him to go this alone.

Marital Status/Ships: 

(tl;dr - Draco loves Astoria but they aren’t together like that and fidelity isn’t a requirement of their marriage anyway; someone else would have to make the first several dozen moves before he would notice being flirted at, though! READ MORE)

Married to Astoria Greengrass. One might think it would be difficult for a lesbian witch to be married to a panro-ace wizard, but their marriage was never about romance. Yes, Draco very much considers Astoria someone he loves -- but what kind of love? Even he wouldn’t be able to answer that question, especially not these days. Astoria’s current state of vampiric infection makes her...strange. The guilt of not being able to cure her eats away at him too, and affects his every interaction with her. He’s an expert potioneer; why can’t he fix this? She’s his wife, why can’t he save her? His parents managed to keep each other (more or less) safe throughout two wars and a volatile Dark Lord; how could he be so inferior as to be unable to save his spouse from some stupid infection? An infection over which his mother initially wanted Astoria banished from the home, incidentally -- marking one of the few times when Draco has actually vehemently disagreed with Narcissa Malfoy. (One of the others was when he took the Dark Mark; he hopes that this doesn’t turn out like that but sometimes on the worst days, he wonders if his mother was right and keeping Astoria at home is dangerous -- possibly for their son!?) But infected or not, unclean or not, Draco knows he will always love Astoria.

That doesn’t mean he’s sleeping with her, though -- or that he wouldn’t sleep with someone else. Fidelity was never considered an integral part of a successful marriage in his social circles; indeed, a couple that spends so much time in one another’s beds as his parents do is the oddity rather than the norm. (Not that the two of them, especially Lucius, haven’t visited a number of other beds in their time, sometimes apart and sometimes together -- but Draco never found it nearly as entertaining as some of his friends back at Hogwarts did to talk about that.) A dalliance or even a love affair -- or a dozen -- on either his part or Astoria’s wouldn’t impact how Draco thinks about his wife or their marriage at all. Why would it? If he wasn’t something of a social pariah, he probably would have had a dozen little affairs by now -- but it’s not like he cares enough to miss the lack either (only even thinks about it when his father starts lamenting Draco’s lack of interesting experiences). It’s just the sort of thing one expects, that’s all. Of course, these days Draco’s a bit preoccupied, and hunting down vampires doesn’t leave a lot of time for dalliances...but if that leaves his bed a bit cold, it’s not something he’s ever noticed. 

MultiParagraph or Multi Point Topics

Family: 

Nothing matters more to Draco. Growing up, he idolized his parents and thought them perfect; his father was Draco’s model for idealized wizarding masculinity and Draco was determined to follow in his footsteps in every way. Even now, having been brought (quite painfully) face-to-face with their flaws and failings, he still adores and admires them. Not only did they always dote on him (maybe more than they should have) but during the war they proved over and over that they were each of them willing to die for his sake without hesitation -- something that was more than enough to erase any potential resentment he might have felt at having been forced into such misery by their choices. Yes, these days he knows that there are things they were wrong about -- but he still trusts their judgement in most areas, still values their opinion. Still loves them. They made it through a war together on the strength of that love; in these dark days, he still draws comfort from it.

The most important person in Draco’s life today isn’t his parents, though, or even his wife; it’s Scorpius, his precious son and only child. Growing-up in a house with four doting adults and little in the way of child companions meant that Scorpius’s childhood was never lonely but also did little to prepare him for peer socialization. He was always precociously clever; these days he qualifies as an unabashed swot and a distinct introvert. While he has the customary Malfoy sharp silver tongue, he substitutes defensive insecurity for swagger and brittle pride for arrogance. His recent appointment to Chaser on his house team has helped him build a few tentative bridges to his housemates, but his closest friends remain fellow Slytherin Albus Potter and Albus’s cousin, Rose Granger-Weasley. They aren’t the friends that Draco would have chosen for his son, but he has come to appreciate them deeply for the support and affection they offer Scorpius. (Even if Draco still tries to have as little to do with their families as possible.) 

Draco’s affection for his son was always torn in two directions: wanting to give him anything and everything that would make him happy, and wanting to raise Scorpius to be a better person than he ever was himself. The latter did result in more than a few lectures (much more than a few) but that didn’t mean Draco wasn’t still an indulgent parent and Scorpius did indeed receive just about anything he ever asked for, materially. Draco would give his son everything he wanted, if he could -- but even his best efforts can’t cure Scorpius’s mother.

Scorpius was only four when Astoria was infected; when Astoria changed. Sometimes she still seems like herself (less and less each year, though -- or is that just in Draco’s head?) and they can all pretend that everything is fine; others...well. Draco has explained to Scorpius many times that the things his mother thinks she sees aren’t real. (Probably.) That he shouldn’t listen to them, worry about them. And Scorpius says he understands...but Scorpius was four and she’s his mum. While he doesn’t tell his father, he secretly believes every word that comes from his mother’s mouth. He thinks of her less as a Seer and more of a prophet, different from everyone else’s mother yes -- but special-different, not worse. He doesn’t talk about those thoughts to anyone, even Albus and Rose (maybe it would be better if he did; maybe someone could explain things to him better now that he’s older) but instead he nods seriously at all his father’s admonishments and his grandparents’ words of caution...and then goes and listens to his mother anyway.

It probably won’t lead to disaster. His mother would never hurt him, after all -- never tell him anything she’s seen that might lead him to do something dangerous. Not on purpose, anyway.

Childhood/Hogwarts: 

(I’m going to go short on this part because A: I’ve rambled far more than I should have elsewhere and B: we know a lot of this from the books already, so if there’s any part of this I can get away with truncating to compensate for the rest, it’s this!)

Draco was a bully and a bigot and a brat; there’s no denying this. He was spoiled absolutely rotten, and it showed. He also genuinely loved his parents, and they loved him back, although perhaps not always in the most healthy of ways (see: aforementioned spoiling). He had a very good childhood, although school wasn’t as great as he’d expected -- for one thing, stupid Harry Potter didn’t want to be his friend even though he was clearly the coolest person in the whole castle, and for another this horrible Mudblood kept outscoring him in everything. (Potter even managed to out-cheat him at Quidditch every time!) But otherwise, everything was more or less okay -- until the Dark Lord came back, and it all fell apart. Draco went from being a pampered little prince to sobbing in the loo with only a dead girl for company; his two best friends stopped believing in him; Harry Potter nearly killed him; he nearly killed a lot of other people; and then when his favorite teacher finally got appointed headmaster it still didn’t make things better. In the end, despite all of Draco’s efforts he really accomplished nothing. He didn’t decide the outcome of the war; all he did was lose a friend and somehow make it out alive with his parents by the skin of their collective teeth, forgotten and ignored by everyone around them. In the end, he came to nothing and had to count himself lucky for it.

Post Hogwarts: (TW: brief mention of self harm, addiction! Also mentions of other characters that may-or-may-not be considered “game canon” based on discussion with whomever eventually comes to play said characters!) 

Draco knows he’s luckier than he deserves, him and his parents. By rights, all three of them should probably be in Azkaban...but they aren’t. The trials they faced at the end of the war were long, grueling, and humiliating (crying in front of the entire Wizengamot is not an experience that Draco recommends to anyone) and the worst part was that Draco spent the entire process certain that he was going to Azkaban; he only made the effort of testifying with as much honesty and detail as he did because he hoped that his mother, the only one of them not to take the Dark Mark, might be spared incarceration if both he and his father told all they knew. His parents were doing the same thing, largely in hopes of sparing their son from Azkaban -- but fortunately for the Malfoys, what they knew far outweighed what they’d actually done...mostly because they hadn’t actually accomplished much. (If Lucius’s crimes from the first war had been included, things might have gone differently…) Draco failed at just about everything he tried, Lucius had spent most of the war either locked-away or wandless at the Dark Lord’s side, and Narcissa had been “protected” from having to take much action by the combination of her husband’s shame and her sister’s enthusiasm. And then, of course, there was Harry Potter -- surprising witness for the defense. There was no love lost between Draco and his very first enemy, but Harry nonetheless spoke-up for the Malfoys: Narcissa had lied to the Dark Lord, Draco had kept quiet when he recognized them, and Harry had seen through Voldemort’s own eyes that they had not been willing servants -- not by the end, anyway. Somehow, all of that had been enough to spare them…

At least from prison. Public opinion was another matter, so the Malfoys murmured their gratitude, paid their fines, and slunk away behind the walls of their mournful manor, all three of them -- and the house -- much reduced in pride and splendor. Draco spent the next few years wallowing in guilt and nightmares, repeatedly failing to carve the Dark Mark out of his arm, and worrying his parents. Highlights include: a short but bitter confrontation with Gregory Goyle at Vincent Crabbe’s tombstone (not that there was a body to bury, but tradition had to be maintained), a bewildering letter from Pansy regretfully breaking-up with him for the sake of her own future chances (had they been dating?), and a lengthy addiction to Dreamless Sleep Potion (he hadn’t even known you could get addicted to Dreamless Sleep, let alone that repeated doses made it toxic! At least he learned something interesting about potions in the process…). The last thing anyone expected was a wedding to brighten things up, but then again people -- Draco included --  had always underestimated Astoria Greengrass.

Draco, in fact, barely knew who she was -- just the little sister of one of Pansy’s friends whom he knew dimly from school. She certainly made an impression, though, going from introduction to proposal in less than five minutes. It wasn’t romance she was pitching, of course, but a more traditional sort of marriage -- an arrangement of convenience. Draco needed an heir to the family line, she wanted the comforts of wealth and the resources to pursue her interests somewhere no one would bother her (and with access to the right kind of supplies and resources, so she could avoid repeating her Aunt Pandora’s unfortunate fate). The Malfoys needed a dose of respectability, and the Greengrasses were solid middle class pure-bloods who had never been accused of more than peripheral brushes with the Dark Arts. They both stood to gain -- and outliers like Draco’s parents notwithstanding, wasn’t that what all successful marriages were really based on? Certainly in the world in which Draco had been socialized, they were; his parents had always been viewed with bemused confusion for how deeply besotted they were with one another. Marrying Astoria wasn’t an act of passion or romance -- but it made sense. What didn’t make sense to Draco was how easy it was to fall into friendship with the stubborn witch -- but he wasn’t going to complain.

He was happy, which wasn’t something he’d ever expected to feel again after the age of sixteen. And they had a son. Scorpius was the best thing that ever happened to Draco, far better than he deserved -- but he wasn’t going to complain about that, either. One of the many painful lessons he’d learned over the course of his lifetime of mistakes was how to be happy with what he had, and he couldn’t imagine anything better than Scorpius anyway. It wasn’t the sort of “perfect life” he’d anticipated when he was young and foolish -- but it was good.

Until it wasn’t. When Astoria’s magical tinkering left her infected with vampirism ten years ago, the happy illusion of a happily-ever-after fell apart. Draco dove into research, trying to brew a cure -- but nothing worked. He dug deeper, delving into all the family’s information on their pre-Voldemort vampiric connections and then branching-out, calling in the few family favors people were still willing to (or too scared not to) repay and exploring every shabby shop that dealt with the Dark Arts that he could find. He didn’t discover a cure; he did discover that Astoria wasn’t the only recent case of vampiric infection.

Current: 

Draco Malfoy never set out to save anyone but his own family. Unfortunately for Draco’s selfish nature, one of the things he’s learned over the last ten years is that the only way to save Astoria may involve sticking his neck out for other people, too. (Or maybe that’s just the excuse he gives himself. Maybe his pursuit of the vampires who are infecting his world, his home, is more about vengeance than salvation at this point.) That dosen’t mean it’s something that comes naturally to him, or something he likes.

Case in point: he hasn’t bothered to try and convince the wider Wizarding World that they ought to be worried, proactive -- because frankly if he did, who would listen? No, better to keep it to himself because that way at least no one is trying to stop him. Not that such a quest can be a solitary pursuit: one needs resources, information, occasionally even “allies” of a sort (mostly the sort that can be bought with money and favors, not loyalty). Fortunately Draco still has money and the one thing the Malfoy name can still buy aside from gold is favors and connections with those who walk the edges of the Dark Arts (and lower). Not that most of those favors or connections are as open-armed as they once were (turning your back on a Dark Lord and helping to testify against all your old friends so they go to prison while you go free doesn’t do much to endear oneself to anyone) but Draco doesn’t really care if people are grudging or reluctant or downright insulting so long as they do or give him what he needs. This mission isn’t about saving his reputation or restoring the family name; those wistful daydreams evaporated ten years ago. Now he doesn’t even waste time on the hope that Scorpius may be able to redeem their name enough to make a future for himself that isn’t overshadowed by the family’s past; these days, just keeping things from falling apart further is all he can ask.

Of course, he’s doing more than just sitting at home trying to hold his family together. Yes, he spends as much as he can with them -- his son, especially, although that happens less these days now that Scorpius is off at school for months at a time -- but he’s got his mission, too, which can keep him out of the house for days at a time (especially now that Scorpius is at Hogwarts, although with his parents living in the other wing of the manor even when Scorpius was young and Astoria was having a particularly bad day he didn’t have to worry about leaving them alone). There’s nowhere Draco won’t go in his pursuit both of the horrible creatures that are spreading this infection and the knowledge he seeks to cure it -- although it’s certainly easier to get around Knockturn Alley than the halls of the Ministry of Magic, for a Malfoy! He hesitates to involve his son, but on rare occasion he may even ask Scorpius to check something for him in the Hogwarts library, but doing so leaves him sickened at the thought that someone might see and wonder why so he ignores that resource perhaps more often than he should. There’s nothing else he won’t do in his quest, however...even knowing that he ought to be more prudent. It would be awful if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were to turn suspicious eyes on him, after all -- but he can’t just do nothing, can he?

And maybe, deep down, there’s part of him who still thinks he can get away with it. After all, no matter how repentant he is -- how much he’s changed, how much the way the world views him has changed -- he is still, at heart, Draco Malfoy.

Plots:

#1. The Potters and the Weasleys -- and everyone else whom Draco called “enemy” (or “blood-traitor” or “filthy mudblood” etc) for his entire childhood. Where do they stand now? What happens when they have to work together? When they have to take his word for the things he knows, the expertise he’s accumulated? When he’s the one who knows how to save somebody, not them? When he’s the one fighting the “forces of darkness” while they sat back in ignorant safety as the world quietly shattered around them? Will they be practical about it, will they trust him? Will they be gracious or stubborn, convinced that there are some Marks that can’t be washed away? Will he be an ass? (Almost definitely -- but to what level?)  There’s likely been very little interaction between Draco and most of these people over the last twenty years -- but does that mean the mental scars have softened? How much infected blood does it take to clear away all the blood under the bridge that’s flowed between all of them? I’m looking forward to Draco having to face all the people he’s been avoiding -- and for them to have to (or refuse to) face the fact that this time, he might be on the right side...or is he? In a world where vampirism is becoming more and more common, at what point does a vampire hunter stop being a protector and start becoming the monster? Is Draco once again going to find himself -- this time with the best of intentions -- labeled the bad guy?

#2. Luna Lovegood. She’s more than just “another member of the D.A.” to Draco; she’s the girl who was locked-up in the cellar of his home for months, the girl he was forced more than once to torture. He never thought much about Loony Lovegood before then (she was easy to make fun of, sure, and he’d do so if the opportunity walked in front of him, but she wasn’t someone he was interested enough in to go out of his way to bully her -- he had better targets for that!) but she’s featured regularly in his guilty nightmares ever since. The fact that he later married her cousin just made things more convoluted -- although thankfully the Greengrasses and the Lovegoods had never really had anything to do with one another… Basically: I would love to explore some kind of dynamic with Draco and Luna! Has he been successfully avoiding her since 1998? Did Astoria invite her estranged family to the wedding? Do they run into each other in the shops sometimes -- Draco trying to turn invisible, Luna waving politely? Maybe he tried to apologize once and Luna made him squirm by shrugging it off -- oh well it’s not like you wanted to do it, is it? I could tell that quite well, you’re not a very good liar are you? Anyway, why would I blame you for what Voldemort made you do to me? That doesn’t seem sensible at all...why are you making that face? Have you swallowed a wrackspurt? -- and now every time he sees her, he tries to run the other way out of fears that she’ll be nice. Or maybe she’s not nice. Luna doesn’t seem the grudge-holding sort...but if anything were going to teach her how, surely the Cruciatus Curse would do it! Maybe she doesn’t wave; maybe she scowls until he slithers away, cringing in impotent repentance. Maybe he even tried investing in The Quibbler -- paying to restore the damage the Death Eaters and Hermione had done to the printing press and her father’s home -- as recompense, and Luna threw the money back in his face...or maybe he now, quite unintentionally, owns a “share” of The Quibbler. Something that Pansy and Blaise would probably never stop laughing about if they knew… I don’t know, there are so many options for what direction to take things with the two of them! I’d love to explore ANY.

#3: Infection. This one’s more just for “me” but I love the idea of still-rather-bigoted Draco Malfoy having to cope not just with the fact that his wife has been infected with vampirism (something he mostly did with a lot of denial and cognitive dissonance tbh) but himself, too. In his “career” as a vampire hunter, he must have encountered a few instances of contamination -- nothing permanent, nothing where the blood went both ways -- but temporary infections? Oh, certainly! I expect the first time absolutely tore him to shreds, emotionally. He’s Draco Malfoy. He’s the purest of the pure. How could he be infected? Inconceivable, insupportable! He’d never recover, never be the same -- only he did recover. And then what choice did he have but to keep going? Each time, I think he’s more sickened by the facts than he is by the symptoms themselves; by the fact that he’s been tainted by something impure. And each time he picks himself back up after and keeps going -- but eventually the toll is going to tell. (Either that, or he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that all blood-purity is nonsense, not just the idea that Muggle-borns have “lesser” magic.) Whether this breaks him down or builds him up better, I’m interested to explore this painful process of involuntary self-discovery!

Other:

Attisgalli Corrective Draught -- a gender reassignment potion designed for use by the entire Potterverse fandom. Offered here both as extra detail on what potion Draco takes, and for anyone else who might want to make use of it either as-is or as inspiration for their own creations!

+Fashion Headcanon: The featureless black school robes and ubiquitous pointed hats were a blessing to Draco, although he didn’t realize it at first; he’d grown-up used to his father’s flamboyant style of dress, and the dullness of the Hogwarts student body was wearying...until he started to realize that there were some wix who didn’t think it suitable for a wizard to dress like that. His father didn’t, wouldn’t have, cared; Draco found it a more troubling perspective. (Of course broad-shouldered, boisterous, assigned-male-at-birth Lucius’s masculinity had never been doubted by anyone; even those who despised him or dismissed him as a vain and foppish fool never thought he wasn’t a wizard.) The plain black robes were easier...safer. They didn’t require any thought; didn’t have room for any self-expression that might make a statement. On the one hand, Draco wanted to swagger into a room like his father would have, peacock feathers trailing from his shoulders and glittering gemstones in his hair, grinning in arrogant superiority...but on the other, he didn’t want to be teased for being too girly. (Not after discovering that that was a thing some people said about things.) His fourth year at school was the hardest: starting your very first day of classes by being turned into a ferret and humiliated in front of half the student body would have shaken anyone’s confidence. The fact that things were unsettled at home didn’t help; his father was more distracted than Draco had ever seen him before, and mother was little better, both of them fretting over the impending return of the Dark Lord and trying (and succeeding, then) to keep their son from thinking that would be anything but a good thing. Maybe if Draco had been more open with his parents about his emotional struggles...but he was at a stage of trying to seem grown-up. To prove they didn’t need to baby him anymore. (To prove that he was ready to help the Dark Lord, too.) So he kept quiet...and had them send him a different, plainer set of dress robes for the Yule Ball instead of the flamboyant, Lucius-approved concoction of dripping blue silk and pearl beading that he’d meant to wear initially. Draco felt safer in the plain (but impeccable!) black -- a feeling that never went away. Even today he prefers understated elegance, dark colors that don’t draw the eye; prefers clothing that is protective in its coverage -- high collars and tall boots (the sole concession he makes to modern fashions is to allow the skirts of his robes to sometimes lift enough to show calves and even knees, albeit always suitably clad in hose or tights or trousers; he’s not a barbarian) and of course: long sleeves. No one outside the family has seen past Draco’s wrists in over twenty years and, if Draco has his way, no one ever will.

[wunderlass]

Heart-Shaped Box

For RIPRoswell Day Three: grief, joy, remembrance, acceptance. 

We don’t see Halloween celebrated in season one, but the timing of the finale suggests we’ve passed it by somewhere along the way, probably in the six weeks that passes between episodes eight and nine. It’s implied that Liz and Max haven’t seen each other much, if it at all, during those six weeks. For the purposes of this story, I’m going to act like they did cross paths a handful of times while Liz worked on a cure for Isobel.

Thanks, as always, to @maxortecho for her beta skills. All Spanish errors are mine. Anything Max gets wrong about the traditions are a clueless white girl taking advantage of having a clueless white boy to write about.

For A. 13 years. You picked an apt day to die. No altar, no roadside memorial, but a candle for you tonight.

A cluster of aliens swarms down the street, heading for the patrol car and quickly surrounding it. There’s no escaping them now.

Max slumps back against the headrest and heaves out a weary sigh. Cam is still inside Beam Me Up and they aren’t going anywhere until the kids have finished trick or treating down this road. 

Aliens. All of them: ET, Yoda, Buzz Lightyear, a bizarrely adorable xenomorph, and an entire galaxy’s worth of Star Trek characters. It’s a beloved Roswell tradition at Halloween, and one he’s always hated.

One of the kids, a preteen in a generic little green man mask, is jiggling the handle of the car. Max grabs the bucket of candy and rolls down the window to distribute it out to the delighted mass.

They’ve moved on by the time Cam saunters out of the coffee shop, and he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence. She hands him his tea and stares after the motley crew. 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. There’s nobody in sheets pretending to be ghosts. No little witches on broomsticks. Every last one an alien.”

“There are always some rebels,” Max replies.

“Oh yeah?”

“Isobel always had to be a princess. The closest compromise she could reach with my parents was Princess Leia.”

“Is she even an alien?”

“As far as Iz was concerned, she was from a galaxy far, far away, so she couldn’t be human.” It was hard logic for their mother to argue with, especially not when Isobel argued it so decisively. Almost as if his sister was identifying with the idea.

“And you?”

“Me? I wanted to be Harry Potter.” He ducks his head, grinning to himself as he remembers his yearning for a pair of spectacles. He’d practiced drawing a lightning scar on his forehead with his mother’s eyeliner.

Cam laughs. “Figures.”

“Yeah. But my mom insisted I had to keep up the tradition, so she put me in an old bathrobe and sent me as a Jedi instead. I didn’t have the right hair to be Luke Skywalker though.”

That hadn’t been so bad, out of the options. He’d never had to go as a murderous alien, or the little green man, a reminder of his origins and the loss of his people in the crash. His costume had sent Max down a rabbit hole, watching the movies and then discovering all the tie-in novels, marveling at the powers the Jedi had and wondering if they came from the same galaxy. Max didn’t have powers, not yet, just his bond with Isobel, but Jedi powers seemed like a cool trade-off to being an alien. Maybe even better than being a wizard.

Until he got his powers and then it wasn’t cool at all.

“That sounds on your level of nerdery,” Cam says. “And your mom was right, Jedi is cooler than Harry Potter.”

“Hard disagree. If I wasn’t in uniform, I’d be in my wizard robes right now.”

It’s not true. He hasn’t put on a costume since childhood, and this night of all nights isn’t one he observes with any merriment anymore. Instead, it’s a countdown until midnight. That’s the only holiday—holy day in the traditional sense—that he honors these days.

That’s private though. For after their shift is over, under the cover of darkness. When he can head to the cemetery gates.

~

The cemetery is quiet and still, its gates locked early to keep out any teenagers who might decide it’d be a special kind of thrill to run riot through it tonight. Max has nudged the patrol in this direction several times in their circuits of the city, and Cam was far from suspicious: given Sheriff Valenti’s stern warnings to keep their eyes on it, it made good business sense.

Max left Cam at her door half an hour ago and made his way here instead of heading to his own home. This is the tenth year of his tradition, but the first time he’s visited Rosa’s grave since Liz returned to town. Not since that night he caught Liz herself here after midnight. He doesn’t want to intrude on her, not when he’s promised her space, not when she has every right to her grief and he has no right to her time.

It must have been harder for her to clear the gates—for him, it’s an easy spring and drop onto the path on the other side, flashlight clutched between his teeth. The gates really don’t serve much of a deterrent to anyone, teenagers or drifters alike, but the place is silent around him. Silent as the grave.

He knows he can come up with a better metaphor than that.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not here to write. Tonight he is here to remember, to honor Rosa in ways her family no longer risk publicly. Using the beam from the flashlight, he picks his way through the rows of graves until he finds her. Shoved in a back corner, the grass a little long around here, like even the caretakers don’t want to do right by her. The gravestone is thankfully free of graffiti—he brought stuff to clean it off if he needed to. Instead, from his rucksack he gets out what he’s here to bring.

He’s sure he does this all wrong. It’s not his tradition, and he doesn’t know anyone he can ask for more information, except for Liz. Then she’d know, she’d have to know, and he’s not sure if she’d understand. He isn’t doing this for atonement. He’s simply doing it to keep the memory of a girl who died far too young alive, in his own fumbled way. 

Besides, he’s been doing it so long he’s kind of made his own traditions, and it would feel weird to change them now. Even if it was to correct himself.

The first thing out of the rucksack is the bouquet of marigolds. They’re a little crushed and wilted after a day in his locker at the station, but they’re vibrant against the night. He lays them in front of the stone, and though the grass almost swallows them, their orange glow refuses to be diminished.

Next comes the pan de muerto he picked up earlier in the day. They’re only wrapped in a little paper bag, so he’s sure the only thing consuming them year after year are rats, but it was in the list when he Googled all those years ago. He doesn’t even know if Rosa liked them. He’s not even sure if he likes them: after all this time, he’s never been able to bring himself to try one. They’re too associated with the girl he’s offering them to, and the thought of swallowing them chokes him, guilt rising like bile.

Third, he pulls out the cardboard cup to put next to the bread. He had to quit leaving thermoses out here, knowing they were only getting broken or stolen. This is the cheaper, more environmentally friendly option. Others might have brought a bottle of tequila, but he cannot in good conscience leave that for Rosa. Instead he brings her tea: good tea, his favorite, now cold but still aromatic.

And lastly, his calavera literaria.

It’s not in Spanish. It has no humor to it, because that’s never been his strong suit, and to joke with her or about her is too intimate for a girl he barely knew. But the little poem he writes for her every year is the best he can do, a small exchange of his soul for hers. This, he tucks down into the grass, hoping it will be rotten long before the grass is cut or anyone comes to the grave.

He doesn’t say a word. He can never find the words when he’s here, not like he can when he has a pen in his hand and the entire year to think of what to say to her next. The hundred ways he can apologize and it never be enough, never fix what happened. Rosa would probably laugh if she got a chance to read these poems, like she did when she read his letter to Liz. Laugh, shove him away, remind him he’s a stupid boy. And he wouldn’t stop her.

His ritual complete, Max wends his way back to the gates. The wind rustles through the grass, and he almost wishes he could hear it whispering to him, the sound taking on a voice. What words would it say to him? Forgiveness? Not likely. 

But the wind is just the wind. This is just a field on the edge of the desert, where the people of this town plant their bones and pretend their loved ones are here when they visit. The dead are just the dead, and there’s no changing that.

~

The cruel irony of this night is that to get home from the cemetery, he must drive along the road where he staged the crash with his siblings. He has learned to avert his eyes when he passes by—if he does, instead of taking the long way around, but that’s not feasible at this time of night. He’s in that state of exhaustion where he’s becoming wired up again, and that makes him a dangerous driver. It’s not much of an issue on roads as quiet as these, but he needs to get home and find ways of subduing himself.

Instead he grips the wheel and tries to keep his gaze off to one side, away from the three memorial crosses wedged into the roadside dirt. All he needs to be aware of are headlights, ahead or behind, otherwise he can drive half in a trance and he’s only a danger to himself.

Just this once, there are headlights. And they aren’t on the road. They’re stationary, at the side of the road.

He’s alert enough not to slam the brakes, instead allowing his Jeep to roll to a stop near the lights. His eyes adjust to make out the scene through his window, and he swallows.

A car is parked beside the memorial, engine off but lights on. A car he recognizes.

He should keep driving, but it looks weird now he’s slowed down. In fact, she’s turned to look at him, her brow wrinkled in question, her stance alert, tense. She’s expecting trouble.

He rolls down the window to show who he is, to prove she’s in no danger.

“Liz,” he says over the rumble of his engine. He’s not seen her in a few weeks, not since Isobel went into the pod. She’s a sight for sore eyes, but one he tries not to look at too intensely, averting his eyes into the shadows around her. It’s like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse. It’s like trying not to look at god. It will be painful afterwards, but it might just be worth the pain.

She smiles, but it’s tense. Things are still weird between them. Things will likely always be weird between them, and he knows better than to hope for different. She deserves her anger.

He knows better than to ask her what she’s doing here, especially given that she’s clutching her own garland of marigolds. Rosa’s makeshift cross is upright, a sorry rarity.

Max wonders if Liz has ever built an ofrenda for her sister. It seems unlikely, given what he knows of her scattered adulthood and the emotional ties she’d cut with Rosa.

There’s nothing to say. So he says the first stupid thing that comes into his head. “You’re not in costume.”

Her breath hitches and her fingers tighten around the flower stems.

“Sorry. That’s--”

“I don’t really celebrate Halloween,” she says. “Not since Rosa…it doesn’t feel right.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. The awkwardness lies heavily between them, a veil he cannot breach. But where he shrinks into silence, Liz seeks to escape it.

“She always did the most elaborate costumes,” she says. “She only learned to sew so she could make her own costumes, and she’d paint my face for Día de los Muertos. I loved them so much, I always insisted she painted my face for Halloween too, even though she told me it was silly, that everyone in town dresses as aliens so we had to as well.” It’s the word aliens that brings her back to the awkwardness, her voice trailing off as she finishes the sentence.

“I remember,” Max says fondly. “Rosa with her face painted silver, but you with floral patterns all over your skin.”

“Papi always goes overboard at Halloween, and we hated it. We thought it was so cheesy. It was one of Rosa’s earliest acts of rebellion—she wanted to be a bruja. Or Selena.”

Liz is smiling, though sadness tugs at the corners of her mouth. She shakes her head, looking away from him, her gaze tracing the road he has just driven down.

“Where are you coming from at this time of night?” she asks, and the question is so unexpected that he stills, glad her stare hasn’t returned to him. She always can see him. Through him.

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you,” she says, and it’s almost teasing. “There’s nothing much that way. Nothing except…” She pauses and looks back at the roadside cross “...Rosa.”

“I laid flowers on her grave.” The words are out before he can stem their flow.

Once again, she takes him by surprise. “That’s you?”

“I didn’t know anybody ever noticed,” he replies.

She nods. “My father goes on Día de los Muertos. It’s safer that day than any other day—the other girls weren’t Mexican, their families don’t visit that day. Only the other Mexican families do, and they look after papi.”

Max resists the urge to cringe until he folds into himself. To think that Arturo might have read his poems…

“He said somebody was visiting her grave,” she continues. “But he thought it was maybe a boyfriend of hers. Certainly no gringo.” She smiles again, and this time it’s teasing, light. “Though this does explain why you’ve been wasting the pan de muerto. You’re supposed to eat it, not give a whole bag to the local rodent population.”

He takes a deep breath. “I know…I know this doesn’t—”

But she silences him with a shake of her head. “Not tonight.”

She turns her back to him, crouching to place the marigolds underneath the wooden cross. For a moment he thinks this is a dismissal, but when her hands are free she turns back to him.

“Come on, pull over. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

It takes a few moments for him to get context. She crosses to her car, reaches into the passenger seat, and brings out a little white cake box. He knows what’s in it. Shame and bile rise in unison.

The only thing he can do is follow her instructions, pulling to the side of the road and turning his engine off to give himself a moment to collect himself.

Then she’s at his window with the lid open on the box, the sugar crystals on the pan de muerto sparkling in the stark brightness of the twin headlamps. He doesn’t smile, but takes the offering reverently.

It’s soft in his hand, softer still between his teeth. Sweet, delicate, a hint of anise. This isn’t what his guilt tastes like.

Liz closes the lid, watching him as he chews. She doesn’t say anything, and for the first time he notices the lack of anger in her expression. He never thought she’d look at him without a hint of fury, but either she’s cloaking it well or she’s forgotten it in this moment. He grasps the moment, commits it to his memory for when her anger returns.

He doesn’t choke on the first bite, or the next, or the next. Maybe he won’t choke on it after all.