#just typical lucius things

[goldandglittersblog]

Blaise: If you had to pick any gryffindor to date who would you choose?

Theo: I don't know.

Blaise: Me neither.

Draco: Granger

Blaise:

Theo:

Narcissa:

Lucius:

Voldemort:

White Peacocks from the Malfoy estate:

Crookshanks:

Harry:

Ron:

Draco: IDONTKNOWMENEITHER!!

[ay0nha]

Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds | Lucius Verus Aurelius

SUMMARY: "Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?"

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader (arranged marriage for political reasons)

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, not much, mentions of alcohol, old-timey language, Google-accurate Roman empire things, dancing, arranged marriage, talks of lineage, angsty-ish, quotes from various people like Nina Simone and Octavia Butler sprinkled into dialogue,  etc. 

A/N:  I quickly wrote this in a few days with the amazing help of @astrd00. This is just sort of an introduction to my fic idea so apologies if it's a little boring. Arranged marriage trope sort of colleagues to friends to lovers. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment it really helps me to keep going! More to come, enjoy!

The Latin translates to: a water drop hollows a stone, not by force but by frequent falling.

Everyone clung to the fog of death in the air with stiff fingers, unwilling to let their proof of newly promised freedom go. They celebrated in the streets, disregarding the savagery that occurred only months ago. The public enjoyed the amnesia, looking to Lucius not solely for responsibility but as a new object to place culpability. 

Yet, the heaviness permeated Lucius’ marrow. He hid it well behind the mask of authority. Even a sharp eye would miss the way it restrained him, intentionally ignorant of a flaw in their new leader.

It might have even been seen as a strategic move, a way to humanize the gladiator who seemed to defy the Gods. Strategy outside the arena was new, different from the portrayed brute that dusted his hands with sand. What lay in his palms now was similar to that of a child’s heart, beating rapidly with a not-yet-known burden of life. It was heavy and warm, begging for unwavering loyalty from its possessor. 

Lucius remained delicate with his hold, but the heart wanted more from him. Strength and honor would soon no longer suffice. It needed sustenance worthy of devotion and destruction. His eyes were steady on this phantom heart until those around him required his attention. 

“Emperor—” A magistrate repeated, voice raising enough to tease an echo. The new title sat heavily on Lucius’ shoulders, contorting his body into a position that mimicked Atlas.   “Our suggestion should not be taken lightly, it is for the prosperity of your Rome.”

Scrutiny wasn’t found in his tone or bitterness behind the remark but rather in genuine regard. However, there was an intention behind the ownership of Rome, a hint at the generational promise.  

“The public can wonder, speculate, but they do not see beyond the issue.” He continued, watching the twitch on Lucius’ face. “You may not like the mere thought, but gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed saepe cadendo.” The magistrate paused, his words lingering. “How much longer until Rome is hollow once again?”

“This order is a fallacy.” Lucius finally made contact, eyes surveying those around him. “There is a need for trust, yes. And yet, you ask for deception?” 

“You misunderstand us, Emperor.” Another member of the senate spoke, hoping to alleviate tension. “There would be no deception in this union, only fortification of the reigning; an image for the people to find themselves in.”

 “Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?”

—

You smiled through the wine-fueled chattering of the ceremony, appeasing those who had just witnessed your union, but your focus moved beyond the conversation and revelry.  Above you was a darkened sky that mimicked night. Rain poured down, tempting you to fall prey to its numbing hold. 

The Gods are favoring your union, you were told when the sky opened. Divine intervention.  

But you knew the Gods were fickle, always testing your will against temptation. It was a test sent for you, one that an elaborate wedding and an emperor declaring your shared existence hid well. 

So you ignored the call of the humidity, being dutiful to your new role as empress. People bowed to you and nearly cried at how beautifully you paired with your new counterpart. Even as you sat on the marble throne beside Lucius you couldn’t deny their exactness. 

“Don’t worry, they’ll soon pass out from the wine.” You spoke softly, eyes ahead at your guests as you spoke to your husband. His grip on your hand fidgeted exposing his anxiety.  

Lucius paused, determining if honesty was worthwhile. His self-awareness was enough to remind him how unfamiliar he was with the environment that consumed his senses. 

“It is for them.” You nodded ahead to the crowd. The room was hot from the amount of bodies swirling around.   “Remind yourself of this when their faith falters.”

Lucius looked at you, attention trained on your profile. Even with a soft veil over your features, you were so absolute. 

“I know my purpose here. You are still learning yours.” You continued. “All I ask of you is that when they falter you place your trust in our bond.”

“I will place it where it is due.” There was your gladiator. The defiance comforted you. 

“Those around you are untroubled by that; all they crave is to spit on the fallen. It doesn’t matter if you are one of them, they are quick to turn.” You sharpened. “Be careful; join the sinful and you will be remembered with spite and desperation.”

You spoke of hidden things, of politics that lingered like venom in the bloodstream of the empire. Lucius knew not to mistake your words for ulterior motives. You were direct in your vows to further his image of a new Rome, it was why you were chosen to be by his side. Your mind was clear. You read the room perfectly, unraveling every detail of what was inherited. 

“My legacy does not motivate me,” Lucius stated. His ears attuned to you and you only, enraptured in how deeply you spoke as if it was a common thought. “I will not look to them for fame.” 

“You will, conscious or not. And once you do, you will not be able to look away.” You smiled pitifully as though you knew something he didn’t. “Just as they watched you fight, you misunderstand the impact of what is before you.”

“You believe that little of me?” There was a swirl of censure in his chest despite the small smile pulling at his lips.  

“There is opportunity to win, but that is a fool’s goal—

“To win?” Lucius scoffed. “Even you have been mislead, then. Thinking that there is a conquest waiting to happen.”

“I do not wish to insult you.” Your thumb adjusted against his fingers. It was in your nature to be candid, but at times you placed your frustrations unfairly. You softened. “Your promise of growth will help amend this.”

Lucius wished to pull away from you. He needed to think, to be separated from the feigned festivities adjoined to love. This was love; love created not between two people, but shared by you and him for Rome. 

That was not to say you were birds of a feather. 

Your strengths were found in your experience. Although young, you were no novice to how to hold your chin high while delivering truths to the senate. You learned from your uncle, an official who raised you on the true meaning of government. You were clever. The public viewed you as such. You were of noble status and fit to stand before them. 

What you lacked was a specific connection that Lucius brought to the people. He was one of them, raised humbly, hands worn from the earth’s harvest and war forced upon him. Lucius spoke well to them, building comradery with every way of life. 

“I would never ask you to compromise your beliefs. I know better than to think you’d behave.” You teased at his rebellion, hoping the guard that was up would calm. “Besides, a well-mannered lover is an offense.”

 “We are not lovers.” It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried.

“And we are not enemies.” You were quick, reading between his words to find the insult. 

“My lord!” A raspy voice begged for attention. “My lady!” 

You stood, bowing politely to the affluent man before you. He took advantage of the night; jewels adorned every finger that pulled at the elaborate fabric of his outfit. 

“It is time.” The rasp withered when he lowered to speak to you directly. His arms went wide as if inviting a hug, but he spun skillfully to face the audience. 

“Time?” Lucius looked to you. 

The man boomed over the forgotten rain. ““It is time!” 

Standing, you didn’t release Lucius’ hand. There was resistance on his end, wanting to remain sedentary and silent to wait out the rest of the night. 

“Our dance.” You answered to his wide eyes. Your guests cheered, clearing space. “It is customary to rise together and move as one. It will complete the ceremony.”

He rose at your words, not much of a choice otherwise than to follow. 

The fabric of your dress swam behind you, kissing the floor with each step toward the middle of the marble floor. The dress looked like water cascading down your body, hiding each bend and swell of your body. Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space. 

“May the rain create a river to fertility.” The man held a contagious grin that spread around the room. 

Prosperity and posterity.  This is what they wanted. Lucius alone was not enough. The bloodline was more important than a single figure. It hadn’t needed to be discussed as it was the obvious forethought for your unification. 

The officials of the republic were more concerned about your fecundity and frame than the knowledge you held. It was a typical belief, one that you expected. Your fingers itched to bring your willingness to support the new decree to play and if this was your path to it, so be it.  

You remained clinical at the thought. It was a means to an end rather than something to be meditated on. The way Lucius hardened at the man’s words told a story from another perspective where the political became personal. You did not miss the ring on his pinky that rubbed against a new gold one. 

“Does the great gladiator know how to dance?” Your voice flowed to Lucius only knowing the opportunity rarely presented itself. 

The music shifted from something fast-paced to something more melodic that would encourage you both to move swiftly but attractively. You knew your words would hit a nerve, but it was strategic to motivate Lucius’ hesitant hands. 

“It is a back and forth. A push and pull.” You guided your hand to press against his palm, meeting together as if you were to pray. “Just like the arena, no?”

Lucius’ eyebrows pinched together. Not out of curiosity or frustration. He was genuine in his response. 

“Rarely is a touch this…subdued.” Soft.  

“Shall I spin you in circles, then?” Your painted lips were easier to see now that Lucius was close. He saw as they rose through your veil with the quip. “Disorientate you to the point of submission?”

Your arms weaved behind your back still connected to Lucius’. The dance was simple, one practiced as children. There were very few steps and wistful gestures that even the familiar still enjoyed. 

“Those are my only options? Coercion or blind fealty.” 

It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise. You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset. 

It was odd to see Lucius so close, your memory had failed to cast such a strong light on him. Once overgrown hair had been trimmed to only curl at the nape of his neck. Dirt was cleared from every line of his face.  He was still rugged, but you saw through the exterior to find a boy.  

A boy who had been stripped of child-like wonderment and care. Instead, he held his broad shoulders high and an expression that lingered from his exile. Lucius’ skin perked every time your dress acted as a barrier between the two of you, a warning that whatever you offered had to be earned.  

“I do not ask much of you, Emperor...” You put it simply, knowing your worth and wisdom. You needed to be promised his word that against anything you would be beside each other.  “...so I will not ask again.”

“You are not satisfied with the trust of the marriage alone,” Lucius stated his question like an observation. “You wish I promise myself to you in ways which I may not be able to provide.” 

“Able or willing?” 

Your faces were close, noses mirroring each other as you turned on beat.  You could feel the warmth of your frustration start in your chest, only to spread across your skin as goosebumps.  

“The past and the future press so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” You spoke again before he could answer.  “You must decide where you belong.” 

The music returned to Lucius’ ears. Its melody weighed down your words, letting them settle deeply in his mind. His head spun with thoughts busy on reasoning.  Perhaps he was too guarded for his own good, but he’d gotten himself this far relying only on himself. He had held in a great deal. Often he felt he couldn't speak until the waters overflowed their banks and broke through the dam. 

Those around him garnered support, but this was different. You understood what freedom was; it meant no fear. Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

The music slowed coming to an end. Lucius removed his hands from your body but didn’t venture far. His calloused fingertips followed the seam of your soft veil to meet the laced end. Once there, he gently revealed your true manner. 

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze, it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. What Lucius found was someone gifted. It was a marvel he hadn’t heard of you until you presented yourself as the wise option for him to marry. 

Although you ran in many circles, your name wasn’t whispered among the council. They didn’t believe beauty and wit could fit within the reach of a woman. Yet, here you stood. A new challenge to be accepted. Lucius resisted the urge to swallow quick breaths as if he were going to endure a blow from Viggo. His body agitated in preparation, but looking at you so wholly all he could muster was concession.

 “You have my word.”

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

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The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

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The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

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It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars. 

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

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The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!” 

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

[rainydayathogwarts]

When we were young - Sirius Black

saw a post about Sirius x slytherin!reader's relationship drifting apart from when they were childhood best friends and wanted to add my own thoughts. If anyone finds the author of that blurb, please tag them in the comments! Warnings: SMUT, cheating (r cheats on bf), semi-public sex 2.7k wc

Sirius had immediately stopped speaking to you the second you got sorted into Slytherin, set on building himself a reputation as the odd one out of the family, wanting to break all ties with the Black family. Ties that included you. You're no different, of course. Once you've pieced the puzzle together, noticing how Sirius's gaze always drifts away just as you look his way, you decide not to self-sabotage your relationship with your family, instead going along with their expectations of you. You become close friends with the other Slytherins in your year group, never missing an occasion to flirt with the older boys either. A new lifestyle has been adapted by both of you.

You soon become the type that the younger Slytherin girls aspire to be, strutting down the corridors without a care of what Gryffindors might say, shooting a snarky comment at them if they try causing problems with your friends. Sirius, on the other hand, becomes a typical Gryffindor prankster, set on getting everyone's eyes on him if it's ever possible. He seems particularly keen on targeting your housemates, though you never find yourself being a victim of his pranks.

In the summers, Sirius seems to have disappeared from the mansion, and you find yourself in Regulus' company more than you would have liked, the younger boy constantly going on random tangents. You listen to him as he was once your best friend too, but slowly stop going over when you realise Sirius won't come down to save you, preferring the tight friends you've made in the past few years over Regulus's company. With rich parents who are constantly on business trips, just like yours, your new friends' mansions are often empty, allowing more time spent there.

Sirius notices your absence; he can't hear your voice through the wall of his and Regulus's bedroom, but he pushes the thought to the back of his mind, occupying himself with his best mates, planning new pranks on the man who has you wrapped in his muscular arms. The relationship was unexpected. You'd been with all your friends, sitting on a couch with Narcissa while Barty, Lucius, Avery and Evan played a competitive game of Wizard's chest in teams of two. Evan had done a little triumphant dance, and claimed he wanted to go out for a celebratory smoke. You stretched your legs out in front of you, stating you'd wanted to go for a walk, and one thing led to another.

Sitting in the middle of his parents' giant hedge maze, Evan held his cigarette in one hand, the other cradling your cheek softly, guiding you into a passionate kiss. Feelings had been confessed, and before you knew it, your parents had found out about the relationship, strongly encouraging it to go on. So when the new school year started, you had become the talk of Hogwarts. Sirius hadn't taken the news well, complaints of how different you had become made common appearances in his daily conversations with the other marauders, who started shooting each other concerned looks for their best friend.

Sirius watched with distaste across the courtyard as Evan pressed kisses across your neck, arms wrapped around your waist while you sat in front of him, leaning back into his chest as you carried out casual conversation with Narcissa, who sat across from you. You turned briefly to face Evan, and Sirius perked up, expecting you to scold Evan, or at least shoot him and annoyed look, but instead you leaned further into him, connecting your lips with his, arms wrapping over his shoulders as he pulled you onto his lap. Sirius almost did a double take, his lip curling in disgust as he gathered his things, leaving the courtyard in a hurry.

Sirius had only ever known you as a little girl, disgusted by relationships and kissing, not as a grown woman who had gone past puberty, building relationships of her own, unafraid of her sexual nature. The same went your way too, always averting your gaze when you spotted Sirius making out with a different girl at parties, shoving away the thought that maybe it should have been you instead of whoever she was. You had discovered everything together, until you got to the age of puberty and relationships, splitting down different paths, arguably when you needed each other the most.

The first time you briefly reconnected in almost seven years, Lucius, Avery and Barty had barged into the Great Hall, late for breakfast, their hair dyed bright red, uniforms replaced with Gryffindor jumpers and red trousers - victims of another prank. They trudged up to the Gryffindor table, but before anyone opened their mouth, Evan appeared at the entrance of the Great Hall, having endured the worst of it all.

A collection of gasps was heard and you couldn't help but laughing in shock. His hair and trousers matched in colour, but he also had red stripes drawn on his face, as though he was supporting the Gryffindor quidditch team in a game. Worst of all, his shirt was off, exposing his beautiful abs, but when he turned around, red glitter spelled out "MY GIRLFRIEND HAS THE HOTS FOR LIONS" all over his back.

"Do you think this is fucking funny!? It doesn't fucking come off!" He yelled, pushing his friends out of the way to loom over the four marauders sat at the Gryffindor table, throwing the red jumper he held at them, causing a clatter of glass cups, and loud laughs. You couldn't help the grin on your face, a hand covering your mouth, trying to silence your giggles. You glanced up to look at the Gryffindor table, and for the first time in years, made solid eye contact with Sirius Black, who in that moment was your best friend again, both of you eleven years old without a care in the world. He smiled at you, looking up at your boyfriend, and though you couldn't hear what he said, when his mouth moved, your boyfriend's head instantly snapped in your direction.

"You think this is funny? Do you have the hots for Gryffindors?" This time you couldn't help the laugh from bubbling in your chest, even as the entire hall went silent. "No baby, you just look amazing in red." You insisted through laughs, not even convincing yourself. He stormed out of the hall, but you didn't bother following him, too busy collecting yourself. Somehow, that had caused you to be late to Slughorn's potion class, earning yourself a detention, despite many others being late to his lesson too.

You swung your feet from where you sat on the high stool in detention, glancing up at Slughorn, who made no move to give you any instructions. The door creaked, and you turned back to see who was entering. A flash of curly black hair and you knew exactly who it was, snapping your head forward again. "Mr. Black! Professor McGonagall told you to be here at 5 sharp! It is now 5:08!" Slughorn exclaimed, walking towards you. "Sit with Ms. L/N, you need to make me a few batches of the cure for boils. You can leave when you've filled up 50 bottles." You couldn't help the annoyed "What!?" that escaped from your mouth at the instructions. "Do you have a problem with that Ms. L/N?" You shook your head at the old man, looking back down at the desk.

The door slammed shut again, a clear sign of the Professor's absence, and you groaned, hitting your head on the desk. "I know exactly how you feel." Your head shot back up at the comment, having forgotten you weren't alone. "Sirius." The boy stared at you with a soft smile and you pursed your lips awkwardly. His name felt familiar coming out of your mouth, but it had been so long since you'd said it last that it felt almost alien at the same time. A long silence filled the room, causing chills to run up your arms.

"Hey, sorry about your boyfriend by the way." He started, making you look up at him. You scoffed, a smile tugging the corners of your lips up "Are you really?" Sirius shook his head, grinning. "No, but you don't seem sorry either." You shrugged, "Well, I need some excitement with him. He's..." You trailed off with a huff, biting your bottom lip, afraid you had said too much to the wrong person. "Someone looks like they're about to break up with their boyfriend." Your eyes went wide, and you shook your head, snapping "You can't say anything Sirius. I'll get to it when I get to it." He made a move of zipping his mouth and throwing a key away, and you sighed.

"Best friends always keep each others' secrets." You scoffed, replying with "What best friends? You haven't been able to look me in the eye since I got sorted into Slytherin. I hung out with Regulus during the Christmas holidays for the first two years of life at Hogwarts." You complained, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why the change all of a sudden?" You remarked, hopping up on the desk, dangling your legs over its side and leaning forward. Sirius stepped closer to you so you were barely a foot away from each other, wiping his palms on his trousers and biting his lip. "Because I-I... Just let me help you break up with him." He begged, looking at you hopefully.

"Sirius, wha-" You gasped when two calloused hands cupped your face, bringing it forwards so that Sirius could kiss you desperately. Your hands came up to Sirius's chest, pushing him away from you. Panting, you observed the boy in front of you, completely bewildered. Sirius stood, a grimace on his face as though he knew this would happen. "You can't just! You can't-" You breathed, hands gripping his jumper, pulling his body back to yours urgently. You pressed your lips back to his the second he was close enough, his arms wrapping around your waist just as Evan had done the day before.

Sirius bit your lip down making you gasp, and slipped his tongue into your mouth, battling with you for dominance. You moaned loudly, hugging him closer to you. Sirius deepened the kiss, hands sliding down your back until he was groping your ass, massaging the fat between his big hands. You went on your tip-toes, trying to get impossibly closer to him, hips grinding into his, causing the both of you to moan loudly, breaking the kiss momentarily. You panted, catching your breath before grabbing both of Sirius's hands and dragging him into the ingredients cupboard to finish your business, desperately grinding against each other until you were hoisted up against the wall, panties falling down to your ankles while Sirius shimmied out of his pants, finally stuffing your tight cunt with his big cock.

Your lips never separated while Sirius fucked you, all the pent up frustration from the last few years being taken out of you in that moment. Your arm slipped under the back of his collar, nails scratching at the sensitive skin on his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. Your orgasm hit you like a wave and you shuddered in Sirius's arms, moaning his name so loudly he had to slap a hand over your mouth to cover your sounds, eyes worriedly glancing at the closed door. After catching your breath, you had pushed Sirius away from you, falling to your knees to finish him off, making doe eyes at him as he gripped your hair, pushing you onto his dick. Sirius's thighs started shaking and he cussed your name out before he was pulling you back up to his level, slamming his lips against yours once more, tasting his own pleasure as he mumbled "Break up with him, break up with him."

That night, when Evan approached you trying to apologise, pressing kisses on your neck while hugging you from the back, his hips grinding against yours, you brushed him off, insisting "It was a dick move Evan. You didn't have to embarrass me in front of the whole school." Even when you knew very well that you were the one who had made fun of your boyfriend, humiliating him when he was just angry with another boy.

You and Sirius continued to meet after that, set on talking things out before things got serious between you, but you couldn't help the stolen kisses and wandering hands, even as Evan waited for you relentlessly in the common room as you had promised. Discovering that the other was still passionate about things you had loved as children brought you closer, as though you were uncovering your best friend all over again. You met the marauders, who instantly loved you, but it was really Lily who took you in, telling you more about herself than Narcissa had ever opened up to you about. You truly found your people, unafraid of what your parents had to say to you, or who pureblooded families thought you should make relations with.

"What the fuck is this?" Spat Evan one night, when you'd all been hanging out in you and Narcissa's dorm. You had been quiet all day, guilt-ridden, trying to figure out a way to finally break things with Evan. Four heads turned to face you and Evan, sat with his arm around your shoulder. The tall boy stood up, walking over to your open closet, and you immediately followed in horror of what he'd found. A red and yellow quidditch jumper laying under a pile of clothes. You'd forgotten it was there, having thrown it in your closet after you and Sirius had gone for a walk by the black lake late at night, giving you his jumper after feeling your cold skin.

Evan gripped the jumper in his hand and you tried cooly playing it off "Oh, that's probably from that prank, when they swapped-" "Don't fuck with me Y/N. Do you have the fucking hots for Gryffindors, is this was that is?" Evan yelled, stepping closer to your threateningly as you shuffled backwards. Narcissa stood up, walking towards you. "Calm it Evan, that's mine." "No it's fucking not!" Evan aggressively pushed you back and you squealed, tripping over your feet and slipping on the carpet, hitting your forehead head on the four poster bed as you fell, blood immediately beginning to drip down your face. Through teary eyes, you could see the four figures of your friends standing up and pulling Evan away from you protectively.

He was dragged out of the room, the door slamming shut behind them and Narcissa immediately crouched by you, bringing you into a tight hug, whispering comforting words into your ear. "I know, I know, it's okay." By the next day, not only had all the students found out what happened, but your parents did too, and everything you had done for seven years to meet the standards of being accepted by Slytherin pureblooded families had gone straight into the trash.

You had gotten an angry letter from your parents by breakfast, and all of Hogwarts witnessed the angry red cut on your face from Evan's outburst. Sides were made, people had opinions. 'It was wrong to cheat; worse to physically hurt someone because you were mad. It was cute that you and Sirius made up, but you should have told Evan. You were friends with the marauders, so everyone who preferred them over the Slytherins automatically liked you but that meant all the Slytherins who didn't personally know you now hated you.'

Sirius had worriedly ran over to you when he saw you in the hallway, bringing you into a hug that had you succumbing to tears in his arms. You weren't welcome back home, you told him, and he apologised for giving you the same reputation he worked so hard to get as the rebel of the family. Months later, when you graduated, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, Pettigrew and Evans all cheered for you because your parents hadn't shown up for their traitorous daughter.

Now, years later, living in your own house facing your best friends' house, you realised that the pain was all worth it because you had a wicked story to tell your children.

[keepmycandleburning]

I've thought a lot about Voldemort's speaking style in order to write dialogue for him. First of all, he typically speaks formally without using contractions. You can see this in the majority of his dialogue. But sometimes when he's teasing someone or joking (the next few examples too), he does use contractions:

Or when he's copying someone:

At the DE meeting in DH ch 1, Voldemort only uses one contraction the entire time, when he's saying this to Bellatrix:

In the graveyard, he seems to be putting on quite the dramatic performance. He has a speaking quirk where he repeatedly asks (mostly rhetorical) questions in a certain style, with a structure of 'is it not?' 'did you not?' 'will you not?' Typically with a name right after: did you not, Wormtail? He's doing this over and over and over in the graveyard scene:

It's so recognizable and so characteristic that I love to make my Voldemort speak this way. It's so him. And it's a fascinating thing because of how affirmation-seeking it is. He doesn't just make his statements, he has to actively draw the other person into it with this provocative questioning where he's almost daring them to disagree with him. Interestingly, in the rest of the series I think he only uses this structure once, to Bellatrix in ch 1 of DH.

Voldemort uses people's names very frequently when he's addressing them. This mirrors how the majority of the Death Eaters use a formal title for Voldemort every single time (or very close) they speak to him. See how frequently he uses Lucius's name here:

The only thing Voldemort ever (in the canon era obv) calls Peter Pettigrew is Wormtail. Voldemort calls most DEs by their last names: Yaxley, Avery, Rookwood, Rowle, Dolohov, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott; and some by their first names: Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, Severus. He is also on consistent first name terms (I mean... not reciprocally) with Bellatrix (and even nickname terms with 'Bella,' something she's only otherwise called by her sister, her brother in law, and her family house-elf), which notably remains consistent even in Voldemort's internal monologue that calls Lucius 'Lucius Malfoy' when the cup is stolen and just 'Malfoy' in the Shrieking Shack—and also note how in the Shrieking Shack Voldemort calls Snape 'Snape' when speaking to Lucius, and that later in the Shack Voldemort's internal monologue calls him 'Snape' even when out loud he's saying Severus. I'm not sure to what degree this is just the writing style of the books but to me it's notable because these sections are from Voldemort's POV.

On the note of names, Voldemort speaks of himself in third person as 'Lord Voldemort,' typically as a fear/power tactic, and also as 'he':

He frequently warns people not to lie to him (and calls them out for lying, like Wormtail in GoF 1 and Lucius in DH 1):

Voldemort tells a lot of jokes, most often at the expense of other people and for his own entertainment or the entertainment of his Death Eaters. He has a teasing, clever sense of humor:

I would have to make a whole post to show all the moments of Voldemort being funny as hell. Maybe I will...

Voldemort is often described as speaking quietly and softly (and the verbs whisper and breathe are used), so much so that multiple times his voice is barely audible (but also see the above quote where his voice remains audible even though it's quiet):

In GoF, he speaks lazily (he's also described as moving lazily, and looking relaxed in the Slughorn memory, and as 'gliding' when he walks). In DH, he screams multiple times to express negative emotions, typically fear. His voice is described as a hiss, and as 'sibilant.' And of course, high and cold and clear. He spoke differently when he was young, and super differently at the orphanage, but that's a whole new post.

Voldemort has distinctive mannerisms. He tilts his head a little to one side:

He holds wands delicately:

He paces, in the graveyard and in the Shrieking Shack. He's often in dim lighting (can his slit pupils see in the dark, like a cat?), and is drawn to be near fire (for warmth?): in the Riddle House, at the Death Eater meeting, in the Forbidden Forest. He laughs and smiles, again often at other people's expense. He's in general a very expressive person, which you can see in his face (so many examples. In his meeting with Dippet he even looks nervous and his face reddens) and eyes (wide with astonishment in the graveyard; pupils contract to thin slits when he's shocked) and nostrils (dilating with excitement lol). And he has this one weird facial expression he does when he's really happy:

When Voldemort was a child, he was tall, thin, and pale with jet-black hair and dark eyes, and looked a lot like his father. He was described as very handsome consistently.

In the scene with Hepzibah Smith (late 1940s or 50s), his hair is a little longer than it was at Hogwarts, and his cheeks are hollowed, but he looks even more handsome. He's pale in a way that makes Hepzibah think he's overworked. And his eyes become red when he's feeling a strong emotion.

In the interview scene with Dumbledore (around 1968), his appearance is drastically different:

Notably here, it's not just his irises that are red, it's his entire eyes.

As Dumbledore says in HBP (unless he's wrong/lying...), Voldemort's appearance is changing because of his repeated Horcrux creation. After this interview, he has around 13 years for his appearance to continue changing; note that at no point of the First War was Voldemort handsome (directly stated in above quote).

I'm running out of image space LOL, but it's really important that in the graveyard, Voldemort directly states that he got his 'old body back':

The potion that revived him gave him his old body. The way he looks in the graveyard is how he looked on Halloween 1981. This is also supported by Voldemort looking this same way in book 1 when possessing Quirrell, by the DEs immediately recognizing him, and by the Ministry workers immediately recognizing him in OotP. Also in the Halloween 1981 flashback, Voldemort's face scares a child, and he's described as having a 'white hand.' His skin is described as 'white' post-resurrection, but only as 'pale' at the DADA interview & earlier, which again implies that by 1981 he looked the way he did in the 90s. Also, at the interview his voice is already 'higher and colder,' which means his voice was a gradual change too.

And the way he looks is:

(Notice how it's the exact same face Harry recognizes.)

In GoF, OotP, and DH, Voldemort is described as:

-tall

-skeletally thin, with a gaunt face (very likely not muscular)

-white skin

-scarlet eyes with vertical slit pupils like a cat (also described as wide, red, bright red, livid, blank, pitiless, gleaming) (remember the whites of his eyes became red too)

-a flat nose with slits for nostrils like a snake

-lipless mouth

-masklike face

-snakelike in appearance, likened to a skull; flattened, serpentine face

-large hands with noticeably, unnaturally long fingers (compared to spiders)

-His eyes gleam in the darkness (GoF) and he's so pale he seems to glow (DH 1 'so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow,' DH 32 'the pallor of him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness').

-He wears black (hooded) robes and black cloaks.

-He is described only once as 'hairless,' and not until DH 1: 'his face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical.' Voldemort is never described as 'bald,' despite the fact that a number of characters are called bald and balding throughout the books (none of which are ever also described as 'hairless'), and notably it's Voldemort's 'face' specifically that's described as hairless, which is odd. He's specifically described as black-hooded in OotP at the Ministry, so I can only assume he's dressed similarly in the graveyard and that's why. IDK why his head situation isn't described at the DADA interview. If you saw one of my author's notes on Keep My Candle Burning, you will know that when I was a child I guess I was either imagining him in the earlier books before I read to DH (or saw the films), or I missed the single word 'hairless' description that's only given once, and I was imagining Voldemort having black hair as he was described in his youth. There's something strange about this and I almost don't know what to make of it. If he's bald, why doesn't it say so clearly, and earlier, and more than once (like how his eyes are described probably a dozen or more times, and his long fingers, and his white skin)? I kind of wonder if this was decided after, like because of the films or something? Lol anyways... enough heresy...

-He's never described as having long fingernails, fangs (LOL), a forked snake tongue (LOL), any unnatural skin things like scales (LOL), or as not wearing shoes. (Other than in the graveyard where he doesn't appear to put shoes on, or underwear...) But you can write him however pleases you

[clockwayswrites]

Cosmas Coffee Break

“Thanks for the excuse to take a break,” Danny said. He had his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, soaking in the warmth.

“I hope you don’t actually need the excuse. I know we try not to work anyone that hard,” Bruce said with a chuckle, though the words were sincere.

“Don’t worry, Lucius would be on me if I wasn’t getting enough rest. He’s done it before and I’m sure that he’ll do it again,” Danny said with a smile. “I am pushing it just a little right now, but I really am behind with parental leave Lucius made me take.”

“Parental leave?” Bruce asked, surprised despite himself. While all the Wayne Enterprises employees went through a background check, Bruce tried to stay out of digging deeper into them. In Danny’s case, Lucius trusted Danny and that was enough for Bruce. Lucius was reliable like that.

And would have Bruce’s head if he chased off his favorite employee by snooping.

Still, Bruce couldn’t help but notice the things he did and Danny wore no jewelry beyond a WE smart watch. The only bends in his fingers were from overuse of a pencil and a rather old break typical of teenage sports or antics.

Danny ducked his head bashfully and for some reason Bruce felt just a little disappointed.

“I adopted recently and very, very suddenly,” Danny said as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I think that maybe might be why Lucius actually kicked us out to go get coffee. One kid is overwhelming enough, I don’t know you did it several times.”

“That bad?”

“What? No, Cos is wonderful. I don’t regret my decision for a moment,” Danny corrected quickly. “I just… it really changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Bruce said, perhaps a little wistfully. “When Dick, my oldest, first came to live with us— well, let’s just say I was very lucky to have Alfred around to keep setting me straight because I had no damn clue what to do with a very active, very charismatic, and very traumatized boy suddenly being my responsibility.”

[maxdibert]

hi! i saw in one of your posts you wrote about how Sirius Black had no reason to bully Snape and i thought about it…..i mean doesn't his hatred seem too personal? we have Lupin who has no contact with Snape after book 3 but Sirius goes crazy when Snape is around and they are alone so he can attack him (kitchen scene in book 5). and he knows so much about him: who he hung out with at school, his relationship with Lucius; at the same time he doesn't know about the mark, about how Severus was the one who brought the prophecy to voldemort that led to Lily and James death. and yes he is stuck at age 21 but even then they graduated school and as he says they never heard of Snape in those years. It seems a bit odd: don't bullies usually try to downplay their role in what they did to the victim, or even try to make it look like nothing happened? And he and Remus try to do that with Harry, but at the same time he seems incredibly proud and pleased with himself when he talks about the prank. One moment confused me when I was reading book 3: when Sirius has Peter at gunpoint with his wand, he is extremely focused on him. He doesn't take his eyes off him, because it was for this moment, the act of revenge, that he escaped from prison. As far as I remember, Harry describes it as "nothing could distract him at that moment" or something like that. But as soon as Remus even mentions Snape, Sirius' attention suddenly switches: he turns away from Peter and asks about him again. Or when he watches Snape during the OWL exams??? Especially when Rowling describes his reaction after the exam, when he sees him under the tree, as the reaction of a dog to a rabbit. He seems so obsessed and like something happened between them that really got to him. Or he's just as intolerant of half-bloods as his family. I completely agree with you that Sirius bullied Snape simply because James did it and he found it funny. But his hatred seems excessive, he has no reason to hate Snape so much. James has his excuse about Lily, but Sirius has none of that. But he still tries to kill him and it doesn't really matter hides, lol. I've read an opinion that he hates him because of his unrequited feelings for James, where Severus is the reason James even noticed Lily, which I don't really agree with, to be honest. Sorry, it got too long, ahaha. What I want to ask is: do you have any thoughts on this?

Well, the explanation for his relationships at school is quite simple because Sirius doesn’t leave home until he’s 16. Considering that his brother goes to Slytherin and that Narcissa is his cousin, it’s not strange to deduce that Snape’s name, along with other Slytherin students, probably came up at some family dinner/lunch/meeting. Like, talking about who in Regulus and Sirius’ year might have ‘potential,’ for example. It seems coherent to me that, considering Sirius’ environment until he leaves to live with the Potters, he’d be aware of certain things.

Leaving that aside, let’s talk about Sirius Black, because I think in recent years the Marauders fandom has ruined this character, and he’s actually a character with a lot of depth. Or at least more than many others in the saga.

(This is gonna ne so fucking long lol)

Sirius is a posh kid. He’s a posh kid who is embarrassed about being posh and feels guilty about it. He’s the typical rich kid from a conservative family who’s had issues with his mom (in this case) and his way of getting back at everything he felt was missing from his childhood is to vehemently oppose everything he thinks she represents. And the funniest part is that (as is often the case) his problem with his mom is that they both have a terrible character, which is why they clash. Because Sirius has the kind of terrible character that is incompatible with anyone else who has the same terrible character. But despite everything, he’s still a posh kid. Because he comes from an aristocratic family and was raised with those values of superiority. Because he’s never had to fend for himself (he leaves home but goes to another rich family, the Potters, and on top of that, his uncle Alphard leaves him his entire inheritance, so he has plenty of money) and he has always enjoyed the privilege of his surname, his blood status, and the fact that he’s (according to Rowling) super handsome. In other words, Sirius belongs to the ruling class and behaves with the same arrogance, entitlement, and lack of empathy that is typical of that class. No matter how much he tries to deny it and distance himself from it, he can only do so on a superficial level (Muggle posters, being a Gryffindor, enchanting a Muggle motorcycle) because when it comes down to it, he has no idea how to deconstruct himself, nor is he interested in giving up or losing his privileges, because he’s quite comfortable with them. He’s like the typical aristocratic kid from an Opus Dei family who thinks he’s better than everyone around him because he votes for the left and has been to four protests, but at the end of the day, he still lives a bourgeois life and doesn’t understand the root of social problems.

That said, let’s move on to James.

I think James was everything Sirius wanted to be. No, not be, I think James had everything Sirius wanted to have: loving parents, a family that wasn’t involved in a cult, a pleasant environment that allowed him to do whatever he wanted instead of being constrained by traditions and social norms, liberal and progressive ideals… James had the life Sirius had always wanted, but with one key detail: he was also rich and from an old, prestigious family. This is super important because when Sirius chooses his rebellion partner, he doesn’t pick some random Muggle-born, or a half-blood, or someone from the middle or lower class. Sirius chooses as his best friend someone who embodies everything he wants to be/have, but who at the same time belongs to his same social stratum, both economically and in blood status. Sirius chooses a future Gryffindor rebel with very different ideas from his family, but ironically he chooses like anyone from his family would: someone with money, status, and power. And I find this super amusing because it’s so coherent with his character. I mean, if Sirius were a real person, he would’ve done the same thing because guys like him are like that: the kings of cognitive dissonance and double standards.

Sirius always wanted James’ validation, or at least that’s how I see it. I think for him, feeling that James approved of what he did was a way to legitimize himself as someone different from his family. James represented the “progressive” social elite that Sirius aspired to by rejecting the traditional values imposed on him. So, unconsciously, he understood that if he did everything James wanted, and I’ll go further, everything he thought James would like, then he would distance himself from that Black image and gain validation as something entirely opposite. The problem is that Sirius, unlike James, was raised in an environment where ethical and moral values were very different, and where it was clearly established that certain people were “the other,” an “other” sociologically understood as the idea that some humans are inherently less than others. And although Sirius consciously rejected this idea, unconsciously he had been raised with it. Therefore, consciously, he didn’t reject people based on their blood status because he could identify that as something his family would do, and family = bad. But unconsciously, he was conditioned to see other people as non-people, and this is where Severus comes into play.

James dislikes Severus because he sees him as an obstacle/threat/nuisance in his crush on Lily. By default, and because of that constant need for validation from James, Sirius also focuses on him as a hostile element. And if he’s hostile to James, who in a way is his moral compass, then that guy must be trash because, of course, it’s obvious. But not only that, this guy is also a half-blood and poor, so poor he wears old clothes. And on top of that, he’s ugly. And not very masculine. So he has all the elements for Sirius, the aristocrat raised in luxury under the premise that he’s better than others because of his origins, to see him as “the other” and exercise all his power and privilege to oppress him without remorse, because for him, it’s justified. Justified unconsciously by the education he received, and consciously because if James hates him, there must be a good reason to hate him, so everything is justified. If we add to that the fact that Severus desires everything Sirius has always tried to reject: more social status, more recognition, power, belonging to Slytherin, rubbing shoulders with important wizards, forgetting the Muggle world he grew up in… well, we have a molotov cocktail for him to make Severus’ life unbearable. And Severus is an easy target for someone like school-age Sirius Black: he has no friends, no surname, no parents to protect him, and no stable socio-economic situation. Sirius can project all his frustrations onto him without any consequences. He can completely dehumanize him and stop seeing him as a person. He can behave like a Black.

I think the Prank is a good example to see the difference in upbringing between Sirius and James. Both are bullies, both are abusers, both have zero remorse when it comes to using their status and power to make life impossible for those they believe deserve it. But James was raised in an environment where he knows that actions have consequences, that you can’t cross “certain lines,” such as murder, for example. Sirius was taught the opposite—he was raised to think that the life of “the other” holds no value, and that is something that in his story with Severus goes too far. James understands that death is something serious and can bring terrible consequences, while Sirius does not. For the Black family, death is nothing if there is a reason for the person to die, and Sirius has his own reasons for playing with Severus’ life the way Bellatrix would play with the life of any Muggle-born.

(This is something I really like as well—the way Sirius and Bellatrix are fundamentally alike, and how little that’s discussed. But I’ll leave that for another time, otherwise I won’t finish.)

I don’t think it’s a matter of Sirius being obsessed with Snape, but rather that, for all the reasons I’ve explained, he uses Severus as a catalyst for his repressed anger and that sadism he inherited from his family. He can’t channel it toward anyone else because that would lead to absolute rejection from James. Since James hates and despises Severus, he’s never going to question Sirius for channeling all his pent-up rage on him, so it’s a free pass. If he had reached that level of sadism with someone who didn’t provoke the same level of animosity in James as Severus did, he would have risked confronting his biggest fear: that James would see him as a Black, not as Sirius. Losing his validation as the black sheep to become just another one of them. So he focuses on Severus because it’s a safe bet.

Moving on to their relationship during the book canon…

We don’t really see a proper confrontation until the fifth book. I mean, in the third, it shows that Sirius still sees Severus as “other” by dragging him along while unconsciously banging his head. In the fourth, there’s that scene where Dumbledore forces them to shake hands, and it’s clear they still hate each other. But it’s not until the fifth book that we get a real confrontation, where Sirius loses his temper. I think this has a lot to do with (drumroll) once again that cognitive dissonance between what Sirius always wanted to be and what he actually is, especially given the role he plays on the chessboard at that point in the story.

Sirius did everything he could to distance himself from his family, and the climax of that was joining the Order of the Phoenix and actively fighting against that same family, several members of whom were “soldiers” for the opposite side. Sirius is finally achieving what he wants—to be a hero. To stop being part of the elite dark villains and instead be part of the heroic elite. The noble of high birth who fights valiantly for the good of the realm, just as James was destined to be. It’s the climax, the absolute fulfillment of his adolescent desire. But then he’s thrown into Azkaban, and when he gets out, he finds that the poor, weird kid addicted to dark arts, who sucked up to future dark wizards, who hung out with purists and even joined the “bad side”—the side of Sirius’ family, the villains—is now the most important member of the Order. He’s none other than Dumbledore’s right hand. He’s a double agent risking his neck every day and has more responsibility than anyone else. That kid Sirius called Snivellus for being a crybaby has more guts and more endurance than most people. The one who always wanted to be part of the elite Sirius hated is now the one playing them all, making them look like idiots. The one who looked frail and effeminate turns out to be more “manly.” And that hurts. That hurts a lot. You go to prison, and when you get out, the person you didn’t even consider a person not only ranks above you, but is playing in a league you can’t aspire to. And the best part is, Sirius can’t fully accept it because he’s still Sirius—a classist, privileged aristocrat incapable of accepting that (as is only logical) the poor working-class kid turned out to be far more useful than him in both politics and war.

To me, it’s poetic justice.

[myers-meadow]

Lucius Malfoy x fem! reader: That which isn't taught in books

Title: That which isn't taught in books

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x female librarian reader

Summary: Draco complains about you, the Hogwarts librarian, to his father. This results in the beautiful Lucius Malfoy paying you an unexpected visit. He is rather taken with you, and he shows you things you can't simply learn from books: your place.

Warnings: smut, blowjob, cum, spit, vaginal fingering, degradation, rough kissing, use of 'slut', praise, gloves, Lucius is Lucius and a that's a warning on it's own, consent isn't discussed but reader is into it, manhandling, (suspected) cheating, hair pulling (assumed reader has hair that can be pulled).

Wordcount: 3699

Dividers by by animated-glitter-graphics-n-more and delishlydelightfuldividers.

“Miss __, you must to lend me this book. I need it for class.” Draco Malfoy ordered, pointing to the book on top of the stack on your right.  Third years aren’t typically allowed to borrow advanced books on dark magic, so it wasn’t on the shelves for him to take with a reason.

“No,” you simply replied, removing book from the stack and sending it to the topmost shelf with a wave of your wand. “That’s a restricted book and you need a permission slip from the headmaster before borrowing it.”

Draco scoffed. “I know you let Granger use the library outside the allowed hours.”

How could the damned kid know about that? What a menace.

“The book is still restricted.”

“Do you know who my family is?” Draco said, tapping the desk impatiently.

“Yes, I know your parents quite well. We are old friends, in fact,” you said, which was a lie. The Malfoys are well-known, and you’ve run into them before. Unpleasant was the best word for it, and you were glad the moment you didn’t have to deal with them anymore. Narcissa was alright, perfectly poised and therefore polite – but still raised rich and pureblood. Lucius, on the other hand, gave you nightmares that night. Even worse that you woke up wet between your thighs.

Draco scoffed, sending you a nasty look. “We will see about that, miss __.”

You sighed as he turned around and marched away.

It was later that week that the Hogwarts library had a surprise visit from a tall, white-haired man that reminded you so very much of the pest that was Draco Malfoy.

“So this is where the students are expected to borrow their books from,” said the cold voice, heavy with poorly veiled contempt. “Hogwarts seems to spend their funds… otherwise.”

“Good evening, sir,” you started, tone flat. “Have you come here to take a look around? I assure you our collection is larger than it seems here at the front desk.”

He raised an eyebrow, only now looking at you. “Miss __,” and even that alone sounds like he chastised you, “I’ve come here because of what my son told me of your behaviour. You pick on him and single him out, while the rest of the students are allowed to break school rules at will.”

Your shoulders tensed. So he was really here because of that small ordeal. And above all, it pissed you off that he didn’t even feel the need to introduce himself properly. Of course you knew who he was, but that he expected you to still remember him was infuriating.

“I see. Then you should be pleased to know that I don’t allow any student to break the rules, which includes your son. I do not play favourites.”

An amused smile played at the corner of his lip. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.” Your tone remained flat. Despite that, it was difficult not to let your eyes wander. Gods, did he dress up this fancy just to give you a stern talking to? He was delicious. With the snake tie pin mirroring the glittering of his cold gaze, the full three piece suit that wouldn’t look out of place at a funeral, and the leather gloves he wore even though he had to cross half the castle to get here.

You continued, taking a deep breath to steel yourself – he noticed, his gaze flickering to your chest. “You may be under the impression, Mr. Malfoy, that professors of this school are easily pressured by empty threats, to give your son a leniency that I refuse to show him. This visit won’t change that, so I’d suggest you save yourself the time.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking down at you past his nose. You were glad for the library desk separating the two of you, or you’d back away from him like a scared animal.

“I do not appreciate your tone,” he said, each word perfectly measured, low and menacing. Your adrenaline spiked, and your knees trembled. He leaned forward, and you fought the urge to take a step back. Even just that thought, of backing of, of yielding to him, he must’ve seen it cross your face, and smirked in response, clearly enjoying the hold he had on you.

A group of Hufflepuffs entered the library, giggling to themselves, until they saw the standoff you were in. “Let’s just come again later,” one suggested, and they left quickly, whispering to each other. You nodded at them, and moved your gaze back to the imposing man in front of you. From this close, you could smell the perfume he wore. Something warm like sandalwood mixed with citrus. Fuck, he was insanely attractive. Touching him would feel like the most luxurious velvet.

“I suggest,” he leaned in even closer over the desk, you felt the warmth of his breath fan your face, “that from now on, you make sure you assist in Draco’s education and let him borrow whatever books he wants.”

“If he has the right permission slip from the headmaster, Draco can borrow any book he likes. Without it, he can’t.” You could barely focus on his words with how close he was. “If you knew the book in question, you’d agree with my approach and be glad that I didn’t have a conversation about Draco’s interest of late.”

“And what book may that be, miss?”

“Forbidden hexes and curses. And he’s practiced some too, already. One may think he’s… a bit too interested in the Dark Arts.” You clacked your tongue and pushed yourself off of the desk, trying to clear your head. “It wasn’t a beginner’s book either.”

Lucius quirked an eyebrow and looked you up and down. “Perhaps we should discuss this matter somewhere more… private.”

His velvety voice made your insides flip in nervous anticipation, which you attempted to calm with little success. So, that approached worked. The value purebloods place on image was such an easy win, but it felt good to hear his tone soften.

“My office is there.”

He moved around the desk and went first, waiting for you to move around him and open the door for him. Once inside, he shut and locked the door, and with a quick wave of his wand, the blinds shut themselves. His small smirk as he looked at you then was nothing short of predatory.

“Draco told me so much about you,” his voice was even more hypnotising than before, and he knew the effect he had on you as you breathed in sharply. He walked around you slowly, taking you in completely. Surely this was another intimidation technique of his, so you force yourself to stand your ground.

“He has?” you echo, not seeing the point of it, but wanting to delay the threats and the fight – and that deliciously wrong feeling of anticipation was building steadily inside your lower belly.

“The librarian,” his voice was smooth as silk, “who is so attractive that it keeps the students from their studies. A Slytherin, but surprisingly, you don’t know who or what is good for you.”

It sounds like he’s insulting you again. He stood still right in front of you, a finger coming to rest on your cheek. The contempt has returned to his expression, along with something else.

“You dress… well. Draco said you looked inappropriate, but he is just a boy. He gets silly ideas too quickly.” Lucius’ voice has softened considerably. The way you looked up at him made you feel like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing whether to fight, flight or fawn – and the result is that you did nothing.

“Your concern for my appearance is noted, sir,” you managed to say. “Is that why you really came all this way? To make sure your son’s librarian dresses appropriately?”

A small chuckle broke the silence. “I must admit, you are more alluring than he said you were. Perhaps we can solve this disagreement in a more pleasurable manner. If you can learn your place, that is.”

You stared at him. The gloved finger tapping your cheek moved to your lips, slipping between them. The smell of the leather was strong and made your head swim.

“Or should I make it clearer for you? On your knees.” His condescending tone was unlike anything you’ve heard before: alluring, yet cruel. The velvet softness of his voice contrasted with the way he looked down at you past his nose. Such a regal face…

When you didn’t immediately obey, he pushed you down by your shoulders. The floor was cold even through the fabric of your skirt. The tip of his cane tapped your cheek lightly, but it was threat enough.

You gulped. Looking up at him from this angle was a sight to see, his amused expression, the smell of him, the texture of his glove in your hair were as intimidating as they were arousing.

“What’s the matter? I’m sure a big girl like you knows what to do.” His leather clad hand tugged open his belt and ripped open the buttons without a second of hesitation. His eyes glinted darkly with lust. Only when he tugged his cock free from his underwear, did you look away from his eyes. He was gorgeous, pulsing, rigid, the head flushed with blood, with just one teardrop of precum at the slit. Doubting your actions, you reached a hand up to grip him. Warm. Thick, too.

“Are you just going to sit there? Open.”

You obeyed, instinctively, and he groaned lowly as he slid his cock in your waiting mouth. Wetting the underside of his cock with your tongue, you teased the bit of skin just under the head, making it bounce against the roof of your mouth. His breaths came sharply, slowly turning to soft sounds of pleasure. He slid in and out as you sucked him, moving your lips along his shaft. Clearly he held back in showing just how good you made him feel – and your determination grew. You teased the head with vigour, and before you could settle on a rhythm, he forced himself in deep. Gagging and trying to swallow around him, he groaned, and the sound went straight to your core. Shifting your thighs together to relieve the throbbing ache wasn’t close to enough. Lucius set a punishing pace for himself, deep and fast. In and out, and his length grew wetter and wetter with saliva and precum.

“What a pretty girl you are,” praised Lucius, in between hissed breaths and stifled groans. He held your head back by the hair then, and pulled your lips from his cock.

“You were made for this. Know just how to please your superior.”

A cruel gleam shone in his eye as he looked down on you, and he rubbed his cock over your face, coating it in your spit. His words rang true in a way that made you whimper pathetically. The humiliation burned. You broke out in a heated sweat, but the terrible empty throbbing of your cunt was enough for you to stay put. He pulls your head back on his cock, immediately pushing into your throat again.

“Just like that, sweetheart,” he groans. The satisfied sadism in his expression has you dripping. “What great things even you can accomplish if you receive the right guidance.”

His ‘guidance’ came in the form of an insistent hand fisted in your hair as he fucked your face, without any care for your comfort. Now that his length was wet and slimy, it went in easier, but it still made you gag. You tried your best to hollow your cheeks, wanting to prove to him how good you could be. A small part of you, at the back of your mind, was disgusted by your actions and more so by how easily Lucius exploited your submissive streak. Yet, when you glanced up and saw the pleasure etched into his face, that voice quieted down. He looked sinfully good from this angle, and you enjoyed it through tearful eyes as he pushed at your gag reflex once again. In, out, slower, feeling the drag of your tongue on the underside of his cock, and moaning filth behind clenched teeth. Then, having enough of your tongue, his pace increased, pushing into your deeper and without mercy.

Eventually he let out a satisfied groan, and he pulled out from your mouth, drool spilling onto your blouse, and he stroked himself to completion, groaning harshly as he came. Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted your face. You gasped at how unexpected of and end it was, face burning at how degrading it was to sit there and take it, stunned at the audacity of this man. It may be true that you craved this from the moment you first met him, but that didn’t change that it made you feel both disgusting and desired like nothing else could.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, filthy girl?” His gloved hand twisted in your hair, angling your face so he could admire you. “You will leave this as it is. Merlin, you enjoy this, don’t you? Made such a mess of yourself. Filthy fucking slut.”

His words came through gritted teeth, and you feel the strength he’s holding back as he forced you to stand by your hair. You yelped. The cum left a nasty pulling sensation on the skin as it started to dry. You felt used, so used, and his disgust showed clearly on his face. Nevertheless, he pulled you close, forcing your head to his and he kissed you, with open mouth against your cum covered lips. Without a care that his cum smeared his face as well as yours, and the bitter aftertaste that it left in his mouth, he devoured you hungrily.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice rough. You obeyed. The moan he let out as he pressed his lips to yours again was the most lewd sound you’d ever heard. Your tongues entwined, the taste of his seed mingling with saliva. It was gross, but in the best way. You made him like this, was the thought that shot through your mind, you made him gross and lose control. And you did all of that just by being you.

Teeth clashed and you winced, but he barely seemed to notice. He was so rough, so uncoordinated, yet it was the hottest thing you ever felt. Spirals and sparks of heat radiated in your belly. The hand in your hair let go, to great relief, and wrapped around your throat instead. The kiss grew fiercer still. He consumed you. All of you. His teeth tugged at your lips, nipping harshly enough for small stings of pain, but they were soothed over with the warmth of his tongue. His nose pressed against your face with how far he leant into you, how harshly he pulled your face against his.

This hunger was a world away from his earlier disgust.

When he let go, his pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, passionate and heated. He wiped the cum from his nose and lips, and licked it from his gloved fingers. Your eyes fluttered just at the sight of him. And it was you who caused this, who brought out this side of him, all dishevelled, messy, stained… All for you.

“It seems you do know your place well, dear librarian. How about a reward, then? Do you think you deserve one?”

All you could do was nod.

He pushed you back until your ass hit your desk, and he lifted you up until you were seated. “Legs wide. Good girl.” He spread your thighs as he stood between them. His gloved fingers dragged over the sensitive skin of your innermost thigh. You were positively throbbing. Have you ever felt arousal this strong while completely untouched? You hated him for it.

“Please, Mr. Malfoy,” you whimpered, already growing impatient.

Tugging at the cotton of your panties, he said, not a question, but an order: “Why don’t you take those off for me.”

You stumbled to comply. Before you could say anything, he silenced you by sliding two fingers in your mouth, and you wet them without being prompted to. The leather tasted like his cum, bitter. The texture was pleasant on your tongue. He hummed, pleased, as he slid his fingers out.

“Who knew you’d be such a quick student? But then again, they do say librarians have a wide variety of knowledge.” And his finger found your clit. “How’s that?”

You whined sharply as he increased the pressure, but didn’t move his fingers, still depriving me of the friction I craved.

“Or rather here?” and he slid his fingers to your slit, dipping in, before moving back up, bringing the slick with them. “Aren’t you a wet little slut.”

His middle finger slid in to the knuckle, with embarrassing ease. You moaned softly, brow furrowing. It felt right. So right. So perfect. This is what you were made for, for such a feeling, of being filled, of being used by a man as beautiful as Lucius Malfoy. Your eyes locked and your heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his stare.

“What a sensitive young woman you are,” he said, voice soft, yet with a darkness to it. “No one’s touched you this good before. And no one will, after.”

He pulled his finger almost out, then pushed it back in, setting himself a slow and deep rhythm, curling it deep inside. Each time he hit that spot inside, your gasps and moans became a little higher, a little more desperate. You clung onto his shoulders, and he leaned so close your noses touched.

“You look quite beautiful like this… Who knew it would be this fun to put a librarian in her place?” it almost seemed he talked to himself moreso than to you. One finger became two, but his pace remained the same. Steady, in, out, in, curling, out. The drag of his gloves made it even better, and when you looked down, they were wet and creamy from how wet you were. You whimpered as he followed your line of sight, and slammed back in harder. And harder. Now that his pace was steadily increasing, so were the sensations, growing hotter quick. He tipped you over the edge and you nearly screeched – but he kept going, the orgasm prolonging itself until you reached a second high, so high it was painful - and he moaned along with you, slowing but not pulling out. When he finally stilled, both of your breaths were sharp, as though you’d just ran up five flights of stairs. He kissed you again, messily, as he pumped in and out just a few more times, enjoying the twitches of your aftershocks.

“What a good girl,” he purred, and he pulled out. The feeling of emptiness was jarring and you clenched around nothing. His fingers slipped past your lips, and you sucked them clean obediently. “What a good girl,” he repeated, with emphasis and a fond undertone. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

Even after coming down from the orgasm, the hazy feeling stayed, making your head swim as you looked at the man in front of you. He kissed you again, and it was borderline uncomfortable with the drying cum still on your face. He was softer, a wet kiss, he was savouring you.

“I dearly hope this isn’t the last I’ll see of you, my sweet librarian,” he said, and before he left, with a wave of his wand, he grabbed your panties and left with a last, lingering look over his shoulder. “Although I expect you to behave from now on.”

Before you went to sleep that night, you replayed what happened over and over again, and despite the unsatisfiable desire, there was also anger. This man has a wife! You were livid. How could he do this? Not even the degradation – but that you let yourself be treated like that by a man who has a wife!

The next day, during your lunchbreak, the largest bouquet of roses you had ever seen was delivered to the library. There must’ve been more flowers in it than in the entire flower shop in Hogsmeade. The ridiculous arrangement sat on the desk, crowding over all the books. The delivery witch had you sign for them, but refused to tell you who they were from. You shook your head, as you sank down on your chair, staring at them. You didn’t have a vase big enough.

While you were preparing and cutting the stems, you found a note. ‘L. M.’ Was all it said and it filled you with annoyance.

Lucius. Your eyes shot fire at the mention of his name. How dare he play this off in this way. What a condescending gesture, to buy you roses just to stake some sort of claim on you. To remind you of what the two of you did the day before, to keep you in line. Resolutely, you throw the note in the paper bin. Perhaps you should send him a note too, and tell him to save those roses for his wife.

Now what? This many wouldn’t even fit in any garbage bin - not without attracting a horrible amount of attention. Perfectly pristine flowers thrown away would cause enough drama, more than keeping them would. So you, sigh, and continue trimming the stems, getting your anger out with each snip. There was enough to set a few flowers in small vases, or mugs, when those ran out, on each table in the library. The anger had faded by the time it was done, and you looked out over the suddenly very colourful library. Who will water them each morning? You’d never get around to your actual job like this.

What was left of the encounter, was that nagging feeling, of being special. Special enough to have watched such a powerful man as Lucius Malfoy become undone. You smiled softly as you stacked several returned books in your arms. Perhaps this wasn’t over yet.

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.4

Chapter Four: No Man Is An Island, There's Shipwrecks And Sirens

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, 

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N:  Well, shit, this is probably one of the more difficult chapters I’ve ever had to write. Why is it, that directors look at Pedro Pascal and go, “Hrm, let’s murder his character!” LIKE HELLO??? LET HIM LIVE???? Anyways, I know it’s a short chapter, but we’re halfway through the movie so wish me luck writing the rest of this! T^T

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: hunter by Paris Paloma

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TRAINING GROUND, COLOSSEUM — DAY

As a healer, you’re no stranger to witnessing pain and cruelty, though it never gets easier. Especially not here, in the heart of Rome's unforgiving Colosseum, where strength is tested, and humanity is often discarded.  

The midday sun bore down on the training ground, casting long, harsh shadows over the gladiators. Your eyes fixed on Lucius—Hanno, as they called him now—pulling his oars under the relentless gaze of Viggo. The overseer loomed, his figure dark and menacing against the brightness, as though the sun itself shied away from illuminating his cruelty.  

Lucius, despite the strain visible in every muscle of his body, offered a smirk sharp enough to cut through the tension. “We will not get far like this,” he quipped, his defiance a flicker of hope against the grinding despair around him.  

Viggo’s response was swift. He raised his hand, silencing the rowers with a mere gesture. The command came like the crack of a whip: “Just him.”  

You watched, your heart sinking, as Lucius was left alone to man the colossal oar. The weight of three men now fell upon him, and the sound of the grinding logs echoed through the dust-heavy air. Yet even as Viggo reveled in his cruelty, the other gladiators exchanged glances—silent, simmering solidarity with Lucius.  

Viggo, sensing the shift, barked another order. “Take them away. Leave him here.”  

As the others were herded off, you stood frozen, the healer's instinct to intervene warring with the dangerous knowledge of your limits. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as Lucius labored alone, the weight of his chains mirrored in the ache in your chest.  

Ever since losing your parents, grief had become an unwelcome but constant companion. It arrived in waves—sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming. This moment, watching Lucius endure, felt like another tide rolling in.  

But you had learned one thing from grief: it demanded preparation. You turned, making your way toward Ravi under the guise of rearranging your supplies. Bending low, you whispered, “Gather the rebels. Quietly. Every ally who dares to dream of a better Rome. If Marcus’ plan falters, we must be ready.”  

Ravi gave a nearly imperceptible nod, his expression one of grim understanding.  

TRAINING GROUND, COLOSSEUM — NIGHT  

The scorching heat of the day had given way to a quiet, stifling night, the kind where every shadow seemed to hold its breath. The training ground was eerily still, the only sounds the faint rustle of the wind and the distant hum of the city.  

Lucius lay slumped over the oars, his body unmoving save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The chains binding him to the machine glinted faintly in the moonlight, a cruel reminder of his captivity.  

You and Ravi approached cautiously, your footsteps muffled by the dirt. Ravi was the first to break the silence, his voice low but warm, meant to soothe rather than startle. “Ah! Ah! It’s just vinegar, my friend,” he murmured as Lucius stirred awake with a sharp intake of breath, his hand instinctively clutching at his wrist. “There will be no more opium for you.”  

Lucius blinked, his gaze flitting between you and Ravi as understanding slowly dawned. The tension in his shoulders eased, though the exhaustion in his eyes remained heavy, almost unbearable to witness.  

Ravi clicked his tongue, settling himself beside Lucius with an air of practiced calm. “There’s plenty of pain waiting for you in the next life, my friend. You don’t have to be so greedy for it in this one.”  

Lucius let out a short laugh, but even that cost him. He winced as his ribs protested, slumping back against the oars. “Are you a free man, Ravi?” he asked, his voice tinged with irony.  

Ravi chuckled, though the sound carried a note of bitterness. “Free. Huh. I am,” he said, his tone contemplative. “I laid down my sword and swore I’d never pick it up again.”  

As you set down a few vials beside your seat, you couldn’t help but smile faintly at Ravi’s words. Lucius turned his gaze to you then, his eyes sharper now despite his weariness. “And you?” he asked, your name slipping from his lips like a question he’d pondered long before this moment. “Are you free, my lady?”  

His question hit deeper than you expected. Your jaw clenched, the ache spreading to your temples as you fought the instinctive bitterness in your tone. “A free woman of Rome is unheard of,” you replied, your voice low but steady. “If so, this freedom tastes like ashes. This is who we are—a product of war.”  

Lucius’s eyes lingered on you, searching for something unspoken in your answer. Then he shifted his attention, addressing you both. “And yet you remain in this hell? Where was your home before?”  

Ravi spoke first, his voice calm but tinged with longing. “Varanasi,” he said simply, shrugging as if that one word carried the weight of an entire world.  

You worked silently, pouring a tincture over Lucius’s knuckles. He winced, his sharp intake of breath breaking the stillness. As you tended to him, Ravi continued, his voice softening. “I wish I could — I met a woman.”  

Lucius gave a dry laugh, his lips curling despite his pain. “Always a woman.”  

Ravi smiled faintly, the memory brightening his face. “From Londinium, in Britannia. Our boys speak only Latin now. My daughter’s eyes are as blue as yours. We are Romans, through and through.”  

Lucius smiled at that, a wistful expression passing over his face. He gazed off into the distance, his voice soft as he said, “I grew up hearing stories at my grandfather’s knee. He used to talk about the dream that was Rome.”  

You leaned in slightly, your voice quiet, almost reverent. “And what was this dream?”  

Lucius’s smile turned fond, his words carrying the weight of something fragile, something precious. “A Rome where all would live under fair law. Where everyone would be protected. A Rome for the senate… a Rome of hope.” He paused, then added, almost to himself, “It was so delicate, you could only whisper it. Say it too loud, and it would vanish.”  

Ravi muttered under his breath, a flicker of admiration in his tone. “Your grandfather sounds like a dangerous man.”  

Lucius chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with pain. He met Ravi’s gaze, the exhaustion giving way to determination. “The odds are against you,” Ravi said, his voice serious.  

Lucius smirked, his spirit unbroken. “The odds are always against me. Don’t worry, old man.”  

Ravi clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he stood. “You must rest. Your men will need you to lead them tomorrow.”  

You packed your vials in silence, your fingers lingering on the edge of Lucius’s hand for the briefest moment before pulling away. “Take care,” you said softly, your voice carrying all the unspoken worry and hope you couldn’t put into words.  

Lucius nodded, his eyes lingering on you as you and Ravi turned to leave. The night swallowed your footsteps, leaving him alone once more under the watchful gaze of the moon.

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY  

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, its light glinting off the azure water that now filled the Colosseum floor. The transformation of the Arena into a vast, shimmering sea was nothing short of breathtaking. Sculpted stone heads lining the walls spouted streams of water, feeding the artificial ocean below, while the scent of salt and damp stone hung in the air.  

You stood alongside Ravi in the shadows of the grandstands, both of you tense and watchful. The Master of Ceremonies’ voice boomed over the amphitheater, amplified by the natural acoustics, “Today we re-live the Battle of Salamis! The Trojans versus the Persians!”  

The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices blending with the pounding of war drums and the triumphant blare of trumpets. Two ships, one from the North gate and the other from the South, emerged into view. The Roman vessel, manned by Centurions dressed in gleaming Athenian garb, glided gracefully through the water. Opposite them, the “Barbarian” ship teetered under its mismatched crew of gladiators.  

From her place in the Royal Box, Lucilla leaned forward, her sharp gaze scanning the ranks of the so-called Barbarians. You followed her line of sight, your heart in your throat. Every gladiator bore the same garb, making them indistinguishable, but you knew who she sought.  

Your breath hitched as the Roman ship unleashed its first volley of flaming arrows. They arced through the air like fiery serpents, their impacts devastating. The sails of the Barbarian ship caught fire, flames licking hungrily at the rigging. The gladiators scrambled, raising shields against the onslaught, but the damage was done.  

“Look at them,” Ravi murmured beside you, his voice tight. “Fighting tooth and nail for survival while the crowd drinks and cheers.”  

You barely heard him, your attention fixed on the unfolding chaos. Lucius was at the helm of the Barbarian ship, his jaw set in determination. Under his command, the crew moved like a singular force, cutting the burning rigging loose and tossing it into the water. Below, tiger sharks circled like phantoms, their sleek bodies slicing through the blue in search of prey.  

“He’s going to ram them,” you whispered, your nails digging into the railing.  

Lucius steered his vessel with unflinching precision. At the last moment, instead of colliding head-on, he veered sharply alongside the Roman ship, splintering their oars with a sickening crunch. The Barbarian ship swung around, grappling hooks flying as the gladiators pulled the two vessels together.  

And then chaos erupted.  

The battle was a storm of clashing swords and cries of pain. Lucius led the charge, every inch the commander he had been born to be. He moved through the melee with calculated ferocity, cutting down his enemies with swift, precise strikes. You couldn't take your eyes off him, your heart pounding with every close call.  

Amid the chaos, a Roman archer fell, his loaded crossbow skittering across the deck. Lucius’s sharp eyes landed on it, but as he moved to claim it, a Centurion tackled him, nearly dragging them both into the water. Lucius grabbed the rail, holding on for dear life as the Centurion slipped, his leg plunging into the water below. A tiger shark struck with terrifying speed, dragging the soldier down in a swirl of blood.  

The water churned red as the sharks, drawn by the carnage, slammed against the hulls in a frenzy. The crowd roared, drunk on the spectacle of blood and death.  

Lucius pulled himself back aboard, his movements frantic yet purposeful. His men had seized control of the Roman ship, but there was no time to celebrate. Smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood filled the air as the two vessels began drifting dangerously close to the Royal Box.  

And then you saw it—the loaded crossbow, still lying on the deck.  

Lucius moved fast, his eyes narrowing against the haze. He picked up the weapon, turning it toward the Royal Box. Your heart stopped as his aim shifted, the crossbow trained on a figure emerging from the smoke—General Acacius.  

“No,” you whispered, the word caught in your throat.  

Before you could cry out, Lucilla stepped into view, her presence obscuring Acacius. Lucius hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes met hers, recognition flickering in his gaze.  

And then the arrow released.  

The crowd gasped collectively as the bolt sailed through the air, narrowly missing Lucilla. It struck the gilded post of Geta’s throne, quivering there like a harbinger of doom.  

Geta shot to his feet, his face twisted in rage. “Praetorians! Where are the Praetorians?!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury.  

Caracalla squealed in terror, clutching at his robes as the guards swarmed in to shield the Emperors. Lucilla, however, remained frozen, her face pale as she stared down at the deck of the Barbarian ship.  

“Lucilla!” Acacius’s voice cut through the chaos as he grabbed her arm, trying to pull her away.  

But she didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on Lucius, and you could see the guilt settling over her like a shroud.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers and boos as the Master of Ceremonies, clearly shaken, declared, “In the name of the Emperors! Victory has been declared to Hanno!”  

The crowd roared, their frenzied cheers and applause rising like a deafening tide, echoing off the Colosseum’s ancient walls. On the deck of the Barbarian ship, Lucius stood motionless, the crossbow slipping from his hands to clatter against the damp wood. His expression was a mask of stoic calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm raging within him.  

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your chest heaving as the adrenaline drained from your body. The railing beneath your hands was slick with sweat, and you forced yourself to loosen your white-knuckled grip.  

Beside you, Ravi shook his head, his brow furrowed with deep concern. “Oh gods have mercy,” he muttered, his voice a fragile thread against the roar of the crowd’s drunken jubilation.  

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze fixed on Lucius as he stood on the deck of the Barbarian ship. His shoulders were stiff, his chin lifted in a defiance that made your heart ache. From this distance, you couldn’t see his expression clearly, but you didn’t need to. The tension radiating from him was unmistakable. Your chest tightened painfully, a familiar ache settling low in your stomach—a forewarning, a visceral instinct honed by years of navigating Rome’s treacherous politics.  

The crowd’s cheers and jeers blurred into white noise as you turned to Ravi, your voice low but resolute. “We must prepare. Immediately.”  

Ravi’s head snapped toward you, his dark eyes wide with disbelief. “Prepare? Now? For what? This could mean the end for him—or for all of us.”  

You stepped back into the shadows, your movements deliberate despite the thunderous rhythm of your heartbeat. “If Macrinus knows... if he even suspects...” Your words faltered, the unspoken weight of what could follow hanging heavy in the air.  

Ravi’s jaw tightened, his usual humor replaced by grim understanding. “Do you think Macrinus will act?”  

You swallowed the bitterness rising in your throat and nodded. “Yes.”  

Ravi hesitated before asking, “What of Lucilla and your beloved Acacius?”  

Your breath caught at the mention of Acacius, but you quickly steadied yourself, masking the fleeting crack in your composure. “There is a plan for tonight,” you said softly. “I trust Acacius and offer prayers to the gods that all will unfold as intended. But still...” Your voice faltered, dropping to a near-whisper, heavy with unspoken fears. “I cannot silence the thought that something may yet go awry.”

Ravi’s expression softened as he took a step closer. “I understand... but what of you?”  

“What?” you asked, confused by the shift in his tone.  

“They could kill you!” Ravi’s voice rose, tinged with genuine fear.  

You turned your gaze toward the Royal Box, where the twin Emperors had lounged in decadent arrogance, and narrowed your eyes. “If I was easy to kill, they would have done it already.”  

Ravi sighed, his hands flexing at his sides. “You’re brave to a fault. Just... don’t let it be your undoing.”  

You didn’t answer, your attention already shifting back to Lucius as he stepped forward, his silhouette sharp against the golden glow of the torches. The ache in your chest deepened, but there was no time for hesitation.  

THRAEX MANSION — DAY

The air in the corridor was suffocating, the shadows thick as you crept silently along the edge of the room. Your palms pressed against the cold stone pillar, and your breath hitched as you heard the rumble of a carriage pulling to a halt outside.  

The door to the mansion creaked open, and Macrinus stepped inside with a swagger that made your stomach churn. Viggo followed close behind, a shadow to his master’s menace. Macrinus scanned the lavish room with the casual arrogance of someone who already considered it his.  

“What are you doing here?” Thraex stammered, stepping forward with a nervous bow. His pale face and trembling hands betrayed his fear.  

Macrinus sneered. “This house is mine now. Your debt is over ten thousand denarii.”  

Thraex’s lips parted in a desperate attempt to argue. “I have other things. Cattle. Art.”  

Macrinus let out a sharp laugh, his grin wolfish. “You offer me beef and paint? Oh, Thraex.”  

The desperation in Thraex’s voice was palpable. “Slaves then. Or... what do you want?”  

Macrinus tilted his head, feigning surprise. “What do I want?” He toyed with the words, each syllable dripping with mockery. “Well, there is... I could... there might always be... you could…” He paused, his grin widening. “Truth.”  

Your heart sank, a sickening dread twisting in your stomach.  

Thraex blinked rapidly, uncomprehending.  

“Nothing happens in Rome without Thraex’s knowledge,” Macrinus continued smoothly, his tone turning sinister. “You have the Senate’s trust. You have Lucilla’s trust.”  

Thraex visibly faltered. “You wish my loyalty?”  

“I wish your house,” Macrinus said, his eyes gleaming. “It is a nice house. But I will take only your loyalty if that loyalty has worth.”  

The silence that followed was deafening.  

Finally, Thraex’s shoulders slumped, his voice trembling. “I have heard of a... plot. To dethrone the Emperors. But the plan has been... delayed. A gladiator is to be rescued from the arena. Tonight. I know not why—”  

Macrinus’s smile was slow and cruel, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. “I know why. And I know who.”  

Your breath caught, panic surging through you.  

Macrinus turned sharply, signaling Viggo to follow, and they exited the mansion with the same arrogance they’d entered.  

You didn’t wait for them to disappear completely. Heart pounding, you slipped through the shadows and out the back, your mind racing. Every step you took echoed the single thought that now consumed you.  

You had to warn them. You had to warn him.

THE COLOSSEUM — NIGHT

The Colosseum loomed in the moonlight, its ancient stones shrouded in darkness. Faint torchlight flickered from the guards stationed outside the main gate, their silhouettes rigid against the eerie stillness of the empty streets. A stray dog sniffed along the gutter, and a beggar pleaded with a soldier, his voice hoarse with desperation.  

"Move along," the guard barked, his tone merciless. When the beggar hesitated, the soldier lashed out with his spear shaft, sending the man sprawling into the dirt.  

The sharp hiss of an arrow sliced through the quiet. A heartbeat later, the guard collapsed, clutching at his throat, blood bubbling through his fingers as he crumpled to the ground.  

From the shadows, a dozen cloaked figures emerged like wraiths, their movements fluid and silent. The leader stepped over the fallen guard without hesitation, gesturing for the others to follow. They disappeared into the Colosseum's labyrinthine tunnels, leaving behind only the faint echo of their footsteps.  

Inside, the corridors were a maze of flickering shadows and ancient stone. Arrows whispered through the air, finding their marks in unsuspecting guards. Silent blades cut through flesh, spilling lifeblood onto the cold floors. The mission was executed with precision—swift, methodical, and deadly.  

You hurried through the tunnels, heart pounding in your chest as the muffled sounds of combat reached your ears. The smell of blood and damp stone thickened the air. Turning a corner, you froze, your stomach sinking.  

A hundred Praetorians flooded the chamber, their polished armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. They outnumbered Acacius’s elite unit ten to one. Above, archers lined the high platforms, their bows drawn taut, ready to rain death on those below.  

The chaos erupted in a blur of steel and blood. Arrows flew, striking their targets with deadly precision. Acacius’s men fell one by one, their cloaked forms crumpling to the ground. Your breath hitched as the last of them collapsed, leaving a single figure standing amidst the carnage.  

Acacius.  

His hood had fallen back, revealing his face—stone-set, jaw clenched, eyes burning with defiance. His chest heaved, his sword slick with blood, as he stared down the Praetorians who surrounded him.  

You stepped forward, intent on reaching him, when a rough hand seized your arm. A cold blade pressed against your throat, and you froze.  

“Don’t move,” the Praetorian hissed, his grip tightening painfully.  

Acacius’s gaze snapped to you, his expression twisting into something feral. “Let her go!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. “She has nothing to do with this!”  

The sword bit into your skin just enough to sting, and you winced, swallowing back the sharp cry that threatened to escape. Acacius’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword, his body coiled with tension.  

"Nothing to do with this?" The Praetorian sneered, dragging you a step closer. "She's here, isn’t she? Seems she has everything to do with this."  

You met Acacius’s gaze, your eyes pleading yet resolute. “Don’t—” you began, your voice trembling.  

“Enough!” Acacius barked, cutting you off. His voice cracked under the weight of his fury and despair. “I’ll do whatever you want—just let her go!”  

The Praetorian chuckled darkly, his blade still at your throat. “Surrendering so easily, Acacius? I expected more from the great General.”  

“Your fight is with me,” Acacius growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Not her. If you harm her, I swear by the gods—”  

But he faltered, his voice breaking. This wasn’t a battlefield where he could dictate the terms. This was a trap, and he had walked right into it. And now you were paying the price.  

You locked eyes with him, and in that moment, words weren’t necessary. The anguish in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent promise lingering between you: no matter what happened, you would not abandon each other.  

“Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft yet steady. “Don’t let them win. Not like this.”  

The Praetorian’s grip on you tightened, but Acacius took a deliberate step forward, his sword lowering slightly. His voice was raw when he spoke again, barely louder than a whisper. “Please,” he said, his plea directed to the man holding you. “Let her go. I’ll give you whatever you want. My life for hers.”  

Time hung heavy in the air, each second dragging like chains across stone. The Praetorian hesitated, the indecision etched on his face like cracks in brittle armor, and the tension pressed down like the oppressive heat of a forge.  

In that fraught moment, a glimmer sparked in Acacius’s eyes—a fragile ember of hope, flickering against the darkness. You held onto it with every ounce of strength you had, even as the blade at your throat remained an unyielding promise of how swiftly that ember could be snuffed out.  

[iamnmbr3]

Draco's Motivations in the Book 7 Room of Requirement Confrontation

I just reread the Fiendfyre sequence and based on a close reading Draco's motivations and actions are a lot more complex and sympathetic than I remembered. Not to mention, once again, here there be drarry.

First, the context:

After the incident at Malfoy Manor, we know from Harry's psychic connection to Voldemort and from the Carrows' overheard discussion that Voldemort's wrath was exceptionally terrible. The Malfoy family became virtual prisoners in their own homes for months and were subjected to especially brutal (even by Voldemort's standards) torture that was also likely quite protracted. Lucius has visible marks on him months later - which, given what we know about magic in that world, really speaks to the level of what has been going on. While he probably got the worst of it, it's certain that none of his family members escaped unscathed. After their other failings they have at this point probably permanently fallen out of favor and have nothing but a (likely short) life of misery to look forward to.

Draco bears a lot of responsibility for this state of affairs since it was he who chose not to identify Harry. This likely adds to his sense of conflict as his conscience tells him one thing and everything he has ever been taught tells him something else. He presumably feels responsible for the suffering his family (we know from book 6 that he does genuinely care about them) has to endure.

Not to mention that he himself is suffering along with them. It would be unsurprising therefore if he felt tempted to "rectify" his earlier moment of what he probably perceived as weakness and made a last ditch attempt to save his parents' (and his own) lives and prestige. While Harry has been taught that love and mercy are noble and valuable impulses, Draco has not. In his world love and mercy are called weakness.

Quite possibly as he suffered and faced death alongside his family, part of him must have felt ashamed of the impulses that led to his choices when Harry was a prisoner at the Manor. Everything he has been taught tells him that Voldemort's victory is inevitable and that his moment of shameful weakness has accomplished nothing except to fail his own family and condemn them (and himself) to a likely short life filled with suffering.

At most what we see in the Room of Requirement is a replay of what we saw on the Astronomy Tower - where Draco is deeply conflicted and when confronted with the reality of violence in support of Voldemort cannot go through with it even under tremendous pressure and even though his failure to carry out these acts of violence will inflict danger and suffering on himself and his loved ones.

But, is that even what actually happens? In my opinion, the answer is "no."

The scene in question:

If we actually look at the text it's not even clear that's what's going on at all. Draco's motives are ambiguous at best here. The scene starts when Harry is stretching out his hand to take the diadem. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle come up behind him and he is completely unaware of them. Draco then announces their presence, alerting Harry that he is being watched. He could've very easy simply stunned Harry or attempted to put the Imperius Curse on him (or killed him) while his back was turned. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead he talks, thereby ruining the element of surprise.

And that's not typical of Draco at all when he actually wants to attack Harry. He's never beaten Harry in a face-to-face confrontation. (In fact, the last time he tried - in 6th year - he almost ended up dead.) The two times he has managed to incapacitate Harry - when he petrified him on the train in 6th year and when he hid and caught Harry for Umbridge with a tripping jinx in 5th year - he did so by using the element of surprise to his advantage.

Given that Draco knows that Harry is a very formidable opponent (AND that Harry's friends are nearby) if he truly simply wanted to capture or kill him, announcing his presence is the last thing he would ever do. Then he says "That's my wand you're holding." He still doesn't cast any spells - not even to try to disarm Harry. He also doesn't say he wants to hand him over to Voldemort. He doesn't even tell Harry to drop his own wand, attempt to take him prisoner, or even threaten him.

It is Crabbe, not Draco who says "We're gonna be rewarded...We decided to bring you to 'im." Draco doesn't say anything about his own intentions other than that he wants his wand back - and we certainly know that even in 6th year he didn't trust Crabbe and Goyle, much less now, and thus is unlikely to speak openly in front of them. 

At this point Ron comes to investigate and Crabbe tries to use magic to cause a mountain of debris to fall on Ron and crush him. Harry counters the spell and Draco then grabs Crabbe's arm when he tries to repeat the spell. He gives as his justification the need to avoid the diadem being crushed but since we know he doesn't trust Crabbe it's likely this isn't truthful. Especially since Voldemort has not said anything about wanting the diadem (and even if it wasn't a Horcrux it likely wouldn't be damaged in any case).

Crabbe points out this very thing and Draco argues with him at which point Crabbe says "Who cares what you think? I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished." So arguably he was not even including Draco in the "We" he imagined would be rewarded. Crabbe then tries to use Crucio on Harry.

Draco then again intervenes and tries to stop him. 

"STOP" Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing through the enormous room. "The Dark Lord wants him alive--"  

He doesn't even just say it. He shouts. We rarely see Draco shout. He is someone who generally keeps his deeper emotions hidden - it's why he's so naturally gifted at Occlumency to the point that he is powerful enough at a young age to lie to both Snape and Voldemort.

What he says here doesn't really even make sense because Goyle isn't even trying to kill Harry; he's just trying to hurt him. However Draco is so distressed by this that he actually starts yelling, something we NEVER see him do at ANY other point in the book. "The Dark Lord wants him alive" is also exactly what Snape says to Bellatrix as they flee in book 6, and we know that Snape's real intent was to protect Harry with a believable excuse. It's the only thing Draco could reasonably say in that moment as a justification. 

Crabbe (rather sensibly) points out that 1) he didn't even try to kill Harry and 2) Voldemort ultimately wants Harry dead so it probably doesn't matter that much. This makes perfect sense. And yet Draco is inordinately concerned with preventing harm to Harry & Co rather than with taking any action to capture or even disarm any of them.

Clearly he did not expect to lose control of Crabbe and Goyle like this and as a result is now losing control of the situation (and himself). (Unlike Harry, Draco is more of a planner and is not as good at reacting in the moment.) Also the possibility that Harry could be killed seems to drive him nearly to the point of hysteria - rather like how Ron reacted to Hermione being in mortal peril at the Manor. This is not just a general aversion to killing. This is something more. He finds the idea of Harry dying truly unbearable. (I don't need my ships to be canon; this one just happens to be.)

At this point they start fighting and Draco loses Narcissa's wand. Wandless, he STILL tries to intervene. Crabbe and Goyle are both aiming their wands at Harry and Draco once again starts yelling -  "Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" and is obviously in significant distress and is not at all happy with what is going on. 

After that the Fiendfyre gets loose and the rest of the scene goes down without much dialogue.

At NO POINT does Draco 1) actually say he wants to hand Harry to Voldemort OR  2) attempt to attack Harry or Ron or Hermione at all OR 3) use his Dark Mark to call Voldemort OR 4) tell anyone he's seen Harry after they get out of the Room of Requirement - even in a later scene when he's been cornered by a Death Eater who is considering killing him he doesn't reveal this information even though that probably would've proven his loyalty or at the very least distracted the Death Eater.

Conclusions about Draco's motivations:

So, where does that leave us? What went down there and what was Draco trying to do?

We really have 3 options.

Option 1: Draco tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort in order to save himself and his family, got cold feet and couldn't really go through with it, and then lost control of the situation due to Crabbe and Goyle's changing loyalties. 

Verdict: Possible but unlikely given the remarkably bad job he does of it and how inconsistent his approach is with his usual MO. Even if we assume his heart wasn't in it you'd think he'd at least have got as far as disarming Harry before announcing his presence. Especially since Harry almost killed him last time they fought (and Draco probably doesn't know Harry didn't know what the Sectum Sempra curse would do.)

And if his heart WAS in it then then this makes even less sense since he not only didn't attack Harry while his back was turned but also didn't call Voldemort or even inform anyone that he'd seen Harry. 

Option 2:  Draco wanted to get himself captured in a way that looked convincing so that he could take the chance Dumbledore offered in 6th year, only it went quite badly wrong.

Verdict: This would be an interesting possibility but I think it's also unlikely as it's simply too risky. He doesn't know Harry was there on the astronomy tower or that Harry would make the same offer. His family would also likely be murdered if Voldemort realized this had happened.  

Option 3: Draco wanted to cut a deal in order to improve his family's situation without actually handing Harry over - perhaps he hoped for some kind of exchange where he could get his wand back and bring Voldemort the diadem as some kind of consolation prize - but overestimated his control over his cronies and lost control of the situation. 

Verdict: I actually think this works best given his behavior during the scene. He initiates a conversation because he wants information about what and where the diadem is (and what value it would have to Voldemort) and because he wants to make some offer along the lines of 'give me my wand and the diadem and we'll let you go.' This could get him what he wants and help his family without actually harming anyone.

Also it hedges his bets a bit because if Harry wins he will owe Draco. The problem of course is that Crabbe and Goyle aren't happy to just take orders anymore and have their own goals. At that point, instead of caving and going along with what Crabbe and Goyle want to do instead, Draco actually tries to intervene, albeit in a way that doesn't actually expose him as questioning Voldemort.  

Draco made his choice at the Manor. If he wanted to hand Harry over he would have. But he couldn't. He cares about him too much. But he also feels tremendous guilt and fear over the price he and his family are still paying for that decision. This is his attempt to try to fix things - to try to find a middle ground between the conflicting imperatives that are tearing him apart. The reality though, as he shortly discovers, is that there is no middle ground. And when he sees that, once again he chooses Harry.

[almmoon006]

Period comfort headcanons (Voldemort's wife reader)

Tw: no; he's kinda far from canon character, I just needed his care really.

• Voldemort is far from the usual understanding of comfort, after all, from early childhood he was left to himself and did not feel the care, love, or even kindness of others. He's not even sure he's capable of love himself, considering he was conceived under a love potion. But when it came to you, it seemed like everything was different.

• You were the wife of the Dark Lord, and every time the Death Eaters wondered how it happened that such a beautiful and powerful witch was bound by magical bonds with the darkest wizard of the century. They didn't know that you remembered him as Tom when he was working after Hogwarts. And even if they had, they wouldn't have believed it, after all, you looked much younger than your years because of the peculiarities of your kind.

• He wasn't sure what he loved. No, it was like a desire to possess, an obsession, which is more typical of this dark wizard. But at the same time, he could be attentive and gentle to you when his mind was not filled with a red veil, and another unforgivable curse was not trembling at the end of the wand. He had a soft spot for you, damn Merlin. But it was a strangely pleasant feeling.

• You were the only one who was able to calm his frequent seizures and you didn't seem to be repelled by his snake-like appearance.

• Therefore, he was extremely angry at such moments of weakness. He was mad at you because, damn it, you (like other women damn it) have this Muggle thing, for himself that he couldn't completely rid you of those damn days, for the whole world that was always against you and him.

• He knew very little about female physiology. Of course, they didn't talk about this at the magic school, but he often saw and heard the older girls talking about something like this when he was a little boy at the orphanage. He also often asked Narcissa for advice, with whom you had such a good relationship.

• It was unpleasant to watch you lying on your big bed and squirming from another convulsion. He felt a chill all over his skin while your face writhed in discomfort like a damn Cruciatus. And it would be better if it really was a spell. At least the dark wizard would know what to do.

• Every month, he forced Snape to brew a potion to reduce pain and a potion to restore strength. Tom saw how pale and depressed you were during your period, so he often used some artifacts to try to improve your well-being.

• Nagini has always been the main outlet. The girl really loved you very much and accepted you as an equal to her master. She seemed to understand you as a woman during your period and was always there for you. The snake wrapped around your body, pressing on all the right places to ease the pain. Her cold, scaly skin felt good against your hot one. The big body was a pleasant weight on them from your stomach, gently pressing and reducing the pain. And the soft hissing soothed and lulled you to sleep.

• You used to sit at the table in the meeting room exactly on the right side, close to the Dark Lord. During your period, you spent all your time in the bedroom, and it was terribly unnerving. If on normal days you were the only one who had at least some control over the magician's anger, then when you weren't around, all the Death Eaters felt a tight tension in the room and were afraid to say too much, so as not to attract the wrath of their master. Voldemort wouldn't admit to being bored, no. No, he's not worried. It was just that your presence made everything bearable.

• He spoiled you. Any whim of yours, as on any other day, in principle, was instantly fulfilled. Voldemort brought you various sweets and delicious dishes just to make you feel better.

• Anyone who made you cry was instantly put under severe Cruciatus. It doesn't matter if something else upset you, and Lucius or Barty just happened to be there, they shouldn't have caused his wife any discomfort.

• You were the only person whose tears made Voldemort feel bad. That's why he tried to treat you kindly and tenderly, because he knew how painful you were feeling these days. Your tears made his heart (which he still had) contract painfully. He just pulled you into his arms and gently stroked your hair, soothing you and rocking you to sleep.

• He bought more and more blankets, fluffy blankets and soft pillows to make you feel comfortable and calm. Plush toys, hot water bottles, small trinkets. He even considered buying you a cat, but decided against it, deciding that sweet Nagini is doing a good job of this role.

• During your period, he tried to get off work as early as possible. A quick shower so that your sensitive nose won't be bothered by the persistent smell of blood, and clean, loose clothes. He would lie down on your bed and pull you as close as possible, wrapping you in a cocoon of his own hands and blankets. Nagini curled up on the other side, gently wrapping around your waist and habitually reducing the pain in your stomach. Voldemort gently stroked your hair, allowing you to snuggle against his chest and inhale his soothing, soap-scented scent.

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Trick or treat!! 🍬

i'm late by several days, but you get a treat(?) it depends on if you think my writing is a treat 😂 that was a bold thing for me to claim--

-

“Oh no,” Pansy Parkinson bemoaned with a disdain she only saved for two things in this world. One: a new Witch Weekly fashion trend that simply wouldn’t do. And two: Harry Potter.

Considering there was no trashy magazine spread out on her lap, Tom could only presume Potter was within eye line. So, subtle as a herd of hippogriffs, Tom turned to see if he could also spot Potter in the courtyard. And after merely a moment of careful searching, lo and behold, there he was.

Standing beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree, Potter held his Firebolt casually across his shoulders. Of course, he was surrounded by his typical Gryffindor entourage—and given their propensity for boisterously annoying laughter and chatter—Tom was surprised to see they were all sitting relaxed and quiet. No wonder he hadn’t heard them long before now.  

Potter’s head was tilted back as though he were admiring the warm afternoon sun through the tree’s dense leaves. And with the way the shadows and light were casting flickering patterns on the smooth plains of his face, Tom was ready to believe that. What an idyllic little picture the boy wonder was presenting. Disgusting.

“Seriously,” Pansy continued, “we can’t have a moment to ourselves? Where do they get off sitting that close to us? It’s like they’re trying to give me a migraine—everyone knows the colour red makes me nauseous from the hours of ten to eight!”

Tom thought that was a bit dramatic. However, he could agree with the overall sentiment: must Potter and his little groupies be everywhere?

Draco coughed, poorly concealing a laugh, and Theo sighed softly, shaking his head behind the book he was reading. “Here’s a radical thought: Don’t look at them,” Theo sarcastically suggested and pointedly turned to the next page.

“Come now, Theo,” Draco smiled. Something wicked and mischievous built in his tone, “Can you blame her? That is the Harry Potter. That is the Boy-Who-Lived, Ender of Grindelwald, Hero of the Wizarding World, known Dark Lord Defeater—“

Theo slammed his book shut and hissed, “Can you just get on to bloody punchline already?”

“—And close personal associate of Pansy’s long-time infatuation: Hermione Granger.”

Pansy spluttered, seemingly appalled but turning slowly the colour she proclaimed to hate so very much. “I DO NOT—“

“Oh please,” Draco rolled his eyes, “at least you aren’t as bad as Tom.”

Tom, who had been listening with a close ear and had half an eye on his fellow Slytherins, was still mostly distracted by the annoying way Potter seemed to be enjoying this perfectly fine afternoon. And how the light reflected off Potter’s eyes, making them glow like the polar night sky Professor Sinistra had shown them several classes ago. And how, even half put together in his quidditch uniform, Potter looked far too comfortable in his skin—really, no one should be that at ease wearing those tight-fitted trousers. Tom hates him.

Draco leant forward, ready to wave a hand over Tom’s face. “I mean, look at him. He’s not even listening to us,” but as Draco stretched his hand near enough, Tom grabbed his wrist. 

“And what,” Tom asked voice low and words slow, his eyes turned to meet Draco’s head-on, “do you mean by that, Malfoy?”

Draco flinched back, but because he was literally caught in Tom’s grasp, there wasn’t much space regained. “Well - I mean - surely you’ve - I thought -“ Draco stuttered.

Theo graciously decided to step in, “What this idiot is trying to say is: we know you like him.”

Like him? 

“Like who?” Tom asked, perplexed. Like Draco? Theo had said it well enough; the boy is an idiot. His older brother Lucius was helpful to a point, and his father Abraxas showed some promise in Tom’s carefully laid plans. Still, overall, the only reason Tom bothered to associate with Draco was his well-known and depressingly well-respected name. The Malfoys carried far too much weight in the upper echelons of wizarding society. So it would be foolish not to capitalise on the Malfoys’ most glaring weakness: their beloved youngest child.

Pansy searched Tom’s face, bewildered, and said, “You’re kidding?”

“Oh. Wow, no, he’s quite serious.” Theo’s brows crept high up his forehead, and he whistled, “I never thought I’d see the day our very own Tom Riddle was daft about someone. And blind to it, too? This must be one of the rarest magical phenomena ever witnessed.” 

Tom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Draco cleared his throat and carefully twisted his wrist from left to right until he could easily slip free in Tom’s distracted state. “As I was saying, you’re worse than Pansy. She at least bullies Granger to the point of loud confrontations,” —Pansy murmured a disgruntled ‘quiet, you’— “but you don’t even talk to Potter. You just make gaga eyes at him from a distance.”

Tom blinked once. Gaga eyes? Him? At Potter? “I do no such thing. That’s ridiculous.”

Pansy scoffed, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Pot meet kettle,” Theo sighed. “Tom, at first we thought it was part of your 15-year plan, or whatever you keep calling it, to be the youngest Minister in history. After all, Potter is a good political match, and he’s Magical Britain’s sweet summer child. If you were to capture his affection and work your way through the ministry, even your darker leanings would get a pass because ‘how could our darling saviour romantically involve himself with a dark, evil, and immoral wizard?’”

Pansy and Draco both nod their heads sagely. 

Theo continues, “But when you never tried to speak with Potter, ask him out to Hogsmeade weekends, or even just offer to study with him, we realised you actually may simply like him. No strings attached.”

Tom was blindsided, and he was never blindsided. How did these three fools jump to this conclusion? Sure, Potter wasn’t unattractive, and, fine, Tom could admit that Potter’s family background coupled with his new found status was appealing and a good match for his political schemes, and, with a wand to his head, maybe he could acquiesce that Potter did have a magical aptitude that possibly rivalled Tom’s own, and, again, those damn trousers…

Oh Merlin. Was he crushing on Harry Potter?

Tom’s face scrunched up in disgust. 

“Ah - I think he’s just sorted it out,” Theo nodded. He stood up and dusted off his robes. “Well, my work here is done. See you all in Charms.”

Pansy and Draco both watched, horrified, as Theo ambled away. He walked towards the group of lounging Gryffindors and even offered them a small smile and a wave, which was more than he had ever offered to anyone in his own house. 

Tom swore he could feel his eye twitch when Potter caught sight of Theo and, with that ridiculous natural charm of his, waved back and grinned like they‘d always been good friends.

-

(to be continued...?)

[lilbeanz]

hello beanz, hope you're doing well! do you have any useless worldbuilding headcanons or jodt facts which are utterly useless or very mildly useful to the plot?

Hello lovely💗 I'm doing well, and I hope the same for you!

And gah! This is such a good ask! Definitely a thinker, too 🤭

The Useful Headcanons:

• The Wizarding World is called the Wixen World because fuck the patriarchy. (And yes, I realise both "wizard" and "witch" can be perceived as gender neutral, but typically, wizards are male, and witches are female (ugh👎))

• There are more magical schools than just eLEvEn, because as a wise man once said:

Take it from Hermione and Draco in GS,ch4:

“There’s around fifty in all of Europe,” Hermione began.

“Another fifty in Asia,” Draco carried on.

“Several in the Americas.”

“A handful of smaller schools scattered across the Pacific Islands.”

“And near a hundred in Africa.”

• Generally, wix are not homophobic, transphobic, or racist. Their prejudice problems revolve around blood and magical creatures.

Historically speaking, the Victorian era really fucked up Muggle society. And, yes, there was homophobic/racist ideology pre-Victorian era (1600s - 1700s), but by then, the magic and muggle world was already at odds with each other (Statute of Secrecy was eatablished in 1692) -- why would purebloods concern themselves with such trivial Muggle bigotry?

• Which leads me to my next worldbuilding point; Paganism. Traditional witchcraft and its influences on both the Wixen and Muggle worlds. Pureblood families are known to celebrate the Wheel of the Year -- equinoxes and solstices etc... Paganism existed before the statute and still exists into the Muggle world of course, which is how Muggles have wicca and the craft. Why Wiccan Muggles gather at Stone Henge for the summer solstice and all sorts. It just makes sense 🤌✨️

• Wolfstar. That's it. That's the whole bullet point. Just. Wolfstar.

• In Pureblood society, there is an unspoken hierarchy. The Malfoys' circle consisted of the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Notts (and other notable Death Eater names), as well as the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, and many other blood purist sympathisers.

Draco grew up with Greg, Vince, Pansy, Daphne, and Theo. The coming war will surely test the strength of childhood bonds...

• The divide between Draco and his father means Draco is becoming his own person as opposed to following in his father's footsteps. Draco finds himself striving to be a little more like his mother, and a lot more like himself.

The fire of rebellion flourishes inside him, but how far can he go before the flames grow out of his control?

The Not So Useful & Sort of Silly Headcanons:

• Crabbe and Goyle are not as thick as some people (*cough* Harry *cough*) perceive. Vince is a Transfiguration whizz-kid & Greg enjoys art.

• Pansy Parkinson falls in love very easily, but also very quickly moves onto her next meal -- ah, her next fixation.

• Mad-Eye Moody enjoyed a very relaxed year of his retirement from 1994 to 1995, with absolutely no home intrusions or attacks from dark wix.

• Lucius Malfoy has an unhealthy obsession with white peacocks. Especially his prized darling, Bartholomew Armand Malfoy the Third.

• Dobby has a cupboard specifically for storing all of his socks at Hogwarts.

• Professor Burbage had a groovy flower-power phase in the 70s.

• Harry sometimes finds himself talking to Draco's embroidered portrait on the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

• Erik, Nikolaj, and Katrina embark on a journey across America after graduating from Durmstrang. In their travels, they may discover many things...

I'm sure there's more! But here's what I can think of off the top of my head! 🥰💕

[getatushh]

geta is a bottom, source: me

idgaf abt anything and i do not know about lot of stuff but if there is ONE SINGLE THING I KNOW is that geta is obviously a bottom, a sub, an omega, an uke (pls that irked me sm) or whatever thing you would call the man that takes another dude wickiedickie and i stand for that.

i got into a discussion when someone called caracalla a bottom because of "him sleeping with men" while geta wasnt, lets not judge based upon if they are openly gay or secretly gay because geta is trapped in a damn glass closet LOL and if we were to judge base off of that then i could say geta wants to be a woman only because he used makeup, lmao, like, it has no sense fr.

back to the point, yes, he is only seen with woman, yes, he is a kinda tall man, yes, he is not your typical thin anorexic, half hinch tall, hyper femenine, shy bottom with a soft voice, so what?

he is fiercy and petty, has a loud mouth, his ego reaches the sky and has crazy hysteric vibes that i personally think, would bring men weak to their knees and HE IS AN EMPEROR, you can't expect an emperor to be gentle and submissive just because he is the bottom of a relationship, so the point of "geta being the top because he is tall and dominant" (the same with the "caracalla is a bottom because he lays with men and is smaller in height and weight") its totally invalid lol, can yall not SEE the way this man treats his twin brother, embracing him with a soft, tender, motherly touch to calm his outbursts? The way he is almost clinical about all of his decisions no matter how crazy they seem or the way he always looked like he was glowing, brilliant and pretty under his dramatic makeup? That is an omega right there.

Plus, you can't make him stand next to men like Marcus Acacius, Lucius or even the Caracalla himself if we are being a little too much freaky and weird, look at all of them and think "yes, geta is a top" lol, you simply cant. He just gives that vibes.

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: HP Daddy Knows Best (Part 2)

HP Daddy Knows Best Fest 2024:

Home & Away by EastWindmlk - T, WIP - While attempting to recover her parent's memory, Hermione discovers something that turns her life upside down. She is pregnant. The father? Draco Malfoy. Knowing the pandemonium that awaits at home, she decides to stay and continue her life without magic and the complications of wizarding Britain still reshaping itself and the relentless quill of Rita Skeeter. The only way she sees how is to vanish completely. Which works flawlessly, until fate decided that one Draco Malfoy should stumble onto her path once more.

Your Husband, Draco Malfoy by acapulcogold - E, one-shot - When Hermione wakes up with no recollection of the past few years of her life, it’s up to Draco, her husband, to help fill in the missing pieces. Just not too many. [Warning: Rape/Non-Con]

Happy Birthday, Scorpius by SunnyWhileItRains - E, WIP - Hermione and Draco have been sucessfullly co-parenting their child for 10 years, but what happens when he overhears a conversation he shouldn't have in Hermione's kitchen during their son's birthday party.

Wight, Wine, and White-blonde by ViridianRynn - E, WIP - Hermione's life is in a state of flux: feeling unfulfilled, she's changing careers and swapping her London flat for a cottage in the Codswolds. To celebrate these changes, Hermione takes a week-long vacation on the Isle of Wight. Things take an unexpected turn when she runs into Draco Malfoy and his son on a muggle ferry. When he helps her out of a bind with her itinerary, she finds herself staying in his summer home for the week- his only request being nightly conversation. This isn't the vacation that she expected, but it might just be the vacation she needed...

Your Wife Calls Me Daddy Too by Etoile_Nabeerie - E, one-shot - Hermione Granger only has a few months left to carry the Malfoy heir before their marriage is annulled. No matter how much they try, every month brings forth a new wave of disappointment. After months of potions and heirlooms, Lucius Malfoy decides to step in. Caught between two daddies, she can only hope for one outcome: to keep her family. [Side Pairing: Hermione x Lucius]

i could never define all that you are to me by llcooljones - E, one-shot - They were two sides of the same coin, puzzle pieces that fit only each other. Whoever had written that Greek myth on the origins of humans — four legs, four arms, a head with two faces, a whole, split in half by Zeus, punished, spending the rest of their lives seeking their matching half, a whole — they had written it of Hermione and Draco. OR, Draco comes home from a work trip to find his wife has broken the rules.

We'll Figure It Out by Ohmorefina - M, 2 chapters - Hermione and Draco have entered the battlefield again – only this time, they're on the same side. Their opponents are clever, creative and downright manipulative. They'll have to trust in each other and hope that when logic and reason fail – as it often does where children are concerned – bribery, pleading and empty threats will be enough to aid them as they face the eternal conflict of parenthood. Or A typical Saturday in the Granger-Malfoy household. Or Hermione and Draco are tired but doing their best. Their kids don't give a flying fu–fudge. Life goes on.

Scorpius Malfoy’s Guide to Being a Menace by Jellylegswriter - G, WIP - After a blissful first year of being stay-at-home parents to young Scorpius Malfoy, Hermione Granger has decided to head back to work! Join her husband Draco on his first full day of being a solo stay-at-home dad. Unfortunately for Draco, Scorpius doesn't plan to let him have a peaceful time. Then, a visit to the Grandparents where Narcissa is all too eager to leave Lucius alone with young Scorpius. Essentially just two chapters of Scorpius Malfoy torturing the Malfoy men.

A Very Merry Daddy Knows Best 2024:

Hark! A Herald Angel's Wings by makingTime - M, one-shot - The first time Draco Malfoy picks his son up from the school’s nativity rehearsal, Hermione expects she’s in trouble. She hasn’t seen him in 10 years and clearly, much has changed. Now, they’re both divorced, their five-year-olds are best friends and, though she prides herself on being unflappable, her good sense seems about to fly South for the winter… Back at Malfoy Manor, the Master has brought half the grounds in with him, but with the Christmas party coming, that’s the last of Gammy’s worries. He does wish Master Draco would stop behaving so oddly, but then again, if there was anything Gammy was accustomed to, from his many long years as Personal Elf to the Master of the Malfoy Household–it was oddities…

Bah Humbang by Ohmorefina - E, one-shot - Hermione Granger has become a miser with her time and affection – success her only measure of happiness in the last two decades. But, when a twist of fate gives her the opportunity to see where her life is headed…will she be able to undo the damage before it's too late? A Christmas (New Years) Carol...but make it Malfoy. [Hermione x Lucius/Hermione x Scorpius]

mine by riddikulus_puff - E, one-shot - “You’ll behave for me, won’t you baby?” Draco played with her curls, before roughly grabbing her neck and forcing her attention on him. He stared at her, his eyes darkening in mere seconds as he waited for an answer from his little girl. “Answer me.” “I’ll behave.” Hermione whimpered. “Do you promise me?” He commanded, his grip on her curls tightening.

A Joyous Conspirator by Zeebee3 - E, one-shot - “So this…ensures fealty?” she guessed. “To make sure neither party strays, so that the intended bloodlines merge appropriately?” Malfoy glanced to the side, jaw working again. “Close. But not exactly.” A cursed object that was used during traditional, forced marriages to encourage the production of an heir. Ah. So, something to do with the act directly, rather than simply facilitating the act. A joyous conspirator. And then it clicked. Latin’s version of French’s a little death. “Oh,” she blurted. --- Or, where Professors Draco and Hermione touch a cursed object and trap themselves in a Hogwarts cupboard.

His Mother's Eyes by vannminner - E, one-shot - Draco comes home to discover the women in his life plotting behind his back. Fortunately for him, their schemes work in his favor. 'Tis the season for surprises, after all.

Santa Always Comes by Dizzle00, Sophiesstreet - E, one-shot - “Look at her, Draco. Our witch is looking a bit peckish.” “Do you need us, love?” their blond husband purrs to Hermione, kissing up her neck. “Hungry for more?” “I need both of you,” she whimpers, her petulance from the day before all gone; now she is only sweetness, back on Santa’s nice list--beautiful, golden, and ready to beg. They’ll give her anything she wants. Or In which Draco’s daddy will hear about this, but not the daddy you’d expect. [Draco x Hermione x Blaise]

The Draco Malfoy Affair by Wanderingfair - E, one-shot - She started her day hoping to apprehend a criminal, and now, well now, she’s feeling slightly dumbfounded by the way this tableau of domesticity is affecting her. There is so much she is actively trying to process; she doesn’t realize she’s stepped too far out into the road. She’s nearly in the middle of it, watching Draco Malfoy embrace his son. He puts the boy down, noticing her presence in the street. “Hello, Granger.” All she can say back is, “Hello.” OR Hermione Granger is the Head Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries. While investigating the disappearance of a priceless artefact she encounters her prime suspect: Draco Malfoy.

The Delivery Clause by ThornedHuntress - E, one-shot - Draco Malfoy needed many things from her. His coffee. The financial reports from Shanghai. A swift kick up the arse—though he hadn’t asked for that one, specifically. But there was one more thing he'd need for Christmas and, god help her, Hermione was going to deliver. ~~~ “Draco.” “What?” he muttered, an intense, distant look of focus on his expression, his hips never ceasing. “If you want to get me pregnant, you are going to have to at least attempt to enjoy this at some point.”

Feels Like Home by charingfae - E, one-shot - When Hermione has nowhere to go for the holidays, her very hot, competent, single employer graciously takes her in. As a nanny, she's used to taking care of people. But when Draco offers to take care of her for a change, she doesn't resist. --- Draco stretched languidly in his chair. “I was a terror of a child, if you can believe it.” She drew her hand to her mouth in a faux gasp. “No!” “You’re not allowed to be cruel to me, it’s Christmas.” “You’d rather I be nice to you? But that’s so boring.” He ran his tongue along his lip, his eyes darkening. “Believe me, it’s not.”

Daddy, Chill by So_scarlett_maroon - E, one-shot - When Draco is forced to spend his Christmas in Russia watching over Hermione and the rest of the International Magical Cooperation Team, he's already annoyed. When he then gets locked on the roof of the Russian Ministry in the bitter cold, he has totally lost his chill. But when Hermione Granger is the one who finds him, his Christmas just might start looking up.

A Dove Coos in the Night by Serpent_Sortia - E, one-shot - His fingers were long, graceful, and elegant, as he reached out to graze lightly up and down her cheek, “You’re not going to be lonely any longer Miss Granger,” his words came out as a soft caress, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake as he continued with quiet steel in his tone, “A Malfoy man takes care of what’s his. Tell me, little dove, do you want to be ours?” — When a homesick Hermione Granger reluctantly agrees to attend the Malfoys' inaugural Christmas Eve Ball, she’s expecting awkward small talk and overpriced champagne. Hermione is about to learn that at Malfoy Manor, Christmas isn’t about giving—it’s about taking. And taking turns. [Draco x Hermione x Lucius] [WARNINGS: Rape/Non-Con]

Peas and the Pitfalls of Parenthood by LoreChic - M, one-shot - Amidst the snowy charm of a magical Christmas, Draco and Hermione navigate the chaos of new parenthood with humour, love, and a few sleepless nights. As Hermione battles postpartum struggles, Draco’s unwavering devotion reminds her that even in their messiest moments, their family is pure magic.

The Season of Giving by TheMaryScribbler - E, one-shot - New parents Draco and Hermione escape to a holiday themed live sex show and discover they would rather be onstage than in the audience.

All I want for Christmas is five fucking minutes by malfoyesque - E, one-shot - “Hermione—” he said, breathily. “I thought you said not in the office?” “I said I wouldn’t fuck you in my office.” She tilted her head back, brushing her lips against his to meet him in a soft kiss. “But you may have noticed, we’re actually in yours.” His breath shuddered hard across her lips, his hands falling to the sides of her skirt as he gripped her hard. “Do you mean it?” he whispered, barely-held-back kisses planting across her lips. “Because if you’re teasing me…” Hermione grinned, blushing as she watched him begin to unravel at the idea. “I’m your present, Draco,” she whispered into his lips. “Unwrap me.” --- Under usual dating circumstances, she would have fucked him by now. There are two circumstances getting in the way; one in each of their houses. His son and her daughter. But the office Secret Santa exchange has delivered her an opportunity to change things. And now, Hermione can get Draco what he really wants for Christmas.

Amorvita by Becca_Rae - E, one-shot - Hermione Granger has been Scorpius Malfoy’s tutor for the last year, frequently visiting Malfoy Manor to guide the bright young boy through his studies. On the day of the Malfoy family’s annual holiday party, Hermione plans to leave just as the festivities are about to begin, but Scorpius has other ideas. Determined to convince her to stay, Scorpius enlists his mischievous charm and the help of his Aunt Pansy, culminating in a situation where Hermione somehow ends up perched on Draco Malfoy’s lap.

Frostbitten and Smitten by feistyferret - E, one-shot - Draco fucking hates being cold. ~ • ~ With a grunt, Draco wrapped his arms around himself, tugging his heavy cloak even closer, and muttered as he adjusted his scarf. “Blasted manor… draughty corridors… might as well be living in a damn icebox,” he grumbled, his voice low, laced with irritation. He tightened the thick scarf around his neck, pulling it up to cover his chin, his breath a faint puff of fog against the crisp winter air

This fest is ongoing.

[keepmycandleburning]

Who are the Lestrange brothers?

The first time we see them is at their trial. Rodolphus and Rabastan are mentioned together three times in the series; the two times they're mentioned by name, Rodolphus is mentioned first. Therefore, since there's no other way to make a guess, I might guess that Rodolphus is the first man mentioned in the trial scene and Rabastan is the second.

Neither of them get much of a physical description: Harry doesn't note their hair color, their skin color, or any defining facial features, even though he does note these for Bellatrix and Barty (and before either of them start speaking, so it's not that).

Harry sees them again in the newspaper when they escape from Azkaban, and again he does not give them any physical description, or even really seem to notice them at all. Same with their photos that are on the shops at Hogsmeade. They're at the Department of Mysteries, but Harry doesn't recognize them and/or bother to note who they are.

Rodolphus is of much more interest to me than Rabastan because of his relationship with Bellatrix, so I'm just going to talk about him but you can apply certain things to Rabastan too.

The trial is the only time in the entire series that Bellatrix verbally acknowledges Rodolphus's existence, when she refers to the four of them as 'we' and 'us,' and implies that Rodolphus (and Rabastan and Barty) is in Voldemort's high favor and that Voldemort will rescue all of them together:

Bellatrix does not mention Rodolphus when she's in Spinner's End, nor do either of the other characters—on the contrary, she spends much of the chapter talking about Voldemort. Rodolphus doesn't come up any of the times Narcissa mentions her own husband (like being angry at Bellatrix for blaming Lucius), he doesn't come up when Bellatrix speaks of her hypothetical sons (and she says if I had sons, as if Rodolphus doesn't even exist), Snape doesn't bring up Rodolphus's imprisonment or failure at the DoM to mock Bellatrix. Narcissa defends Lucius, references her helplessness with Lucius in Azkaban, references Lucius's opinions to convince Snape to help her; Bellatrix does not reference Rodolphus once. Lucius's name is mentioned eight times in this chapter; not once do any of the characters even allude to Bellatrix being married. Rodolphus is treated by all three characters like he does not exist.

The combination of Bellatrix not even acknowledging Rodolphus's existence, and then proceeding to, presumably in front of Rodolphus both times, tell another man he is her highest pleasure and speak to him as if to a lover, is really telling of how she sees Rodolphus. Does Bellatrix not mention Rodolphus perhaps because she's just really private, or just not an affectionate person? No, because of how she interacts with Voldemort.

Rodolphus is not mentioned at the Death Eater meeting in The Dark Lord Ascending. I hadn't thought about this until I saw Lady_Escapist write about it on AO3, but Tonks is also Rodolphus's niece, yet Voldemort ignores him completely like he's not there. I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa... AND RODOLPHUS! And Rodolphus failed to get the prophecy; Voldemort would have every reason to mock and humiliate him too. But he doesn't. Or, perhaps, does he, when he responds to Bellatrix's initial statement? Maybe, but I don't see how that would excuse him from the Tonks comment. It doesn't seem to me like Voldemort is interested in humiliating Rodolphus, which makes me think the 'no higher pleasure' exchange is not something that would offend Rodolphus.

We know Rodolphus is at the Battle of the Seven Potters, since Tonks mentions him:

He was fighting alongside Bellatrix, the same as in the Department of Mysteries. It seems they typically work together, since Lucius automatically pairs them together, and then they work together in a second unrelated situation where Lucius is not in charge. One could conclude from this that Rodolphus is a very strong duelist—Bellatrix would not do this otherwise (ie out of obligation), since we see that she does not seem to consider them a unit outside of DE work. It could also be that he is weaker, and the DEs get assigned with one strong fighter in each pair/group. But since Voldemort speaks very highly of 'the Lestranges' in the graveyard, and Rodolphus had a high ranking place in the DE circle (more below), I would guess that it's the former, and he's a very competent DE.

I've seen some people interpret that 1. Rodolphus intentionally took a curse for Bellatrix, and 2. that the quote below is about Rodolphus. There's no evidence for either of these, I don't think. But either is plausible, if you like to believe it—the second one less so, since we know that Tonks identifies Rodolphus by name when she speaks of him. Also given that the Death Eaters were consistently stopping to save each other when they fell off their brooms, getting Stunned is not necessarily a sign of an injury. These read to me like two different people.

It's of note that Rodolphus doesn't directly appear anywhere in the Deathly Hallows. He's not one of the DEs at the cafe, at Xenophilius Lovegood's; he's not the one who almost catches them going to Gringotts; he doesn't get named or described at the Battle of Hogwarts. He doesn't have a presence in Harry's life.

Similarly, he doesn't have a presence in the lives of the other Death Eaters or Voldemort. When the trio is captured at Malfoy Manor, Rodolphus does not seem to be there, even though we know his wife lives there. Maybe they don't live together, or maybe Rodolphus doesn't go insert himself into situations he's not part of and was simply somewhere else in the house, or maybe he was just not home. Who knows.

At Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix refers to 'my vault.' We learn later from Griphook—and from the goblin that comes to speak to Voldemort—that it's actually 'the Lestranges' vault.' Again, Bellatrix speaks as if her husband does not exist.

If Rodolphus is present when Voldemort finds out the cup was stolen, he doesn't note him. In fact, he doesn't seem to think he had anything to do with it:

A grave mistake to trust Bellatrix and Malfoy... AND RODOLPHUS!

Voldemort only speaks of Rodolphus once, in the graveyard:

He speaks of him positively, in terms of both past and future. Again, Rodolphus has a high rank in the DE circle; the Lestranges are right next to Lucius. Well I guess this is just my interpretation, but it seems like Wormtail gets placed at the very end of the circle (back beside Lucius) and then Lucius is by Bellatrix, I just think it makes sense that this is a ranking system. It may not be. The fact that it's specified in what order they're standing clues to me that there's a reason for it.

Anyway, Voldemort speaks positively about Rodolphus the one time he speaks of him. Rodolphus has—perhaps indirectly, but nonetheless—been entrusted with a horcrux. Voldemort breaks Rodolphus out of Azkaban twice (and the first time Rodolphus is broken out, Voldemort feels the happiest he's been in 14 years—I don't read these as related, as I read this being about Bellatrix, just a note because technically it could be). Voldemort does not mock Rodolphus at the DE meeting, he does not blame him when the cup is stolen. Their relationship feels somewhere on the spectrum of 'Voldemort likes Rodolphus a lot' to 'Voldemort considers Rodolphus irrelevant and forgets he exists.'

How does Rodolphus feel about Voldemort? He tortures the Longbottoms for information; he goes to Azkaban quietly and willingly. Voldemort—a very powerful Legilimens—leaves the cup in Rodolphus's access throughout the entirety of Deathly Hallows. He trusts him. I conclude from this that Rodolphus is not offended at how Bellatrix interacts with Voldemort, or at whatever relationship they have. Perhaps he simply doesn't have a relationship with Bellatrix that would provoke him to be offended; perhaps he is even proud of having a close relation be so close to Voldemort and feels it brings him honor.

The combination of this and that Bellatrix doesn't seem to consider them a unit leads me to guess that Bellatrix and Rodolphus don't function as a partnership outside of DE work.

This is supported by the fact that Bellatrix refers to her 'family' only once in the series (though she does acknowledge individual blood relations like Narcissa and Sirius), in The Dark Lord Ascending ('our family's house'), and this is not about Rodolphus, just the Malfoys (and, it indirectly ropes Voldemort sort of into this category by his presence there). If Bellatrix considers Rodolphus her family, we never see her acknowledge it.

However, they probably have ongoing, established, and stable trust and respect between them, considering they choose to fight together against people who are trying to kill them (Tonks). I see no evidence of bad blood, but rather a positive professional relationship, and likely separate personal lives (whether somewhat or entirely). Whether or not they are friends is ambiguous.

Compare this also to the established and stable trust that Voldemort has for Rodolphus. Rodolphus is a noble and trustworthy person who is unwavering in his loyalty to his wife (she allows him in a position where he may have to defend her life) and to his master.

There are a number of explanations for all these things, anything from Rodolphus is so madly in love with Bellatrix (who barely remembers he exists) that nothing else matters, to Rodolphus being so loyal to Voldemort that whatever Voldemort and Bellatrix are doing doesn't matter in comparison, or they were never a romantic couple, or many other things. Rodolphus can be reasonably written in fics in many many different ways.

In summary, Rodolphus (and Rabastan, as applies):

-was loyal enough to Voldemort in the First War to seek him out after his disappearance (Who among the Lestranges and Barty, if anyone, knew about the horcrux(es)? Did Rodolphus know, as Bellatrix seems to at Malfoy Manor? If so, a huge sign that Voldemort trusts him very much), and to go to Azkaban quietly and without protest. He is spoken about positively but minimally by Voldemort, and is ranked highly among the DEs.

-is a competent enough duelist to fight with Bellatrix multiple times, though not at the level of Bellatrix, as he doesn't avoid capture or injury.

-has a quiet, missable presence; has no real physical features or mannerisms of great note beyond being thickset and blank, or thin and nervous; doesn't speak or make himself noticeable; doesn't appear in any direct action (though this is partly just coincidence that Harry doesn't run into him in the DoM or somewhere in DH, because clearly he is present and an active DE).

-is not offended by the way Bellatrix speaks and acts with Voldemort, even when it's in front of him and public.

When I've written Rodolphus, I characterize him as calm, quiet, and having a very high tolerance for unpleasantness (as we see at his trial) and low reactivity. He simultaneously keeps himself a bit in the background while still being a high ranking Death Eater. There's something interesting about the combination of these character traits with someone who has tortured multiple people until they lost their minds. I write him as having a pretty much entirely positive relationship with Voldemort, but being less relevant in each other's lives than much of the rest of the DE inner circle are to each other. And I write Rodolphus and Bellatrix as having a good relationship, but not being romantically involved.

I characterize Rabastan mostly based on the description of being thinner and more nervous-looking than his brother, because there's not much to work with. But similarly to Rodolphus, Rabastan keeps himself a little out of the action, and has substantially less of a relationship with Voldemort than DEs like Bellatrix or Lucius do—and yet, he still has so much faith in Voldemort that he wants to find him when he disappears even at great personal cost. Despite being visibly nervous at his trial, he keeps himself together, and he rises quietly from his chair to go to Azkaban.

For a character we never really see, Rodolphus in particular really does have a lot of information on him in the series, you just have to look for it.